Text
The Shaper of Minds and its possible consequences for a certain character
I have finally joined the rest of the internet in losing my mind over a D&D Podcast - in my case, the wonderful Dan Jones & Dragons. With Episode 26 due to stream on Dan’s Twitch this week, I really want to talk about some of the stuff that came up across the just-finished Gala sessions because the fallout from that has the potential to be incredibly fraught.
THE SHAPER OF MINDS
The relic the Flower Crowns were going after this mission – The Shaper of Minds – is a potentially fascinating narrative device that might as well have been lab-engineered to be my exact brand of personal nightmare fuel. It’s a small, ornate brass key that can alter any part of the target’s mental faculties/thoughts/memories at will should the wielder touch it to any part of their victim’s skin.
Now, on one hand, there are a heap of interesting (and even benevolent) applications for a tool like that. It could instantly grant access to skills, languages and knowledge that would otherwise take a person years of study to learn. It could be used to sort through and resolve memories that had been faded by time, muddied by trauma or forcibly supressed by magical/medical means. But on the other…
As described and used in campaign so far, the primary function of the Mindshaper is to alter memories (and the attendant personality) with the target having no awareness that their mind has been changed. It’s basically gaslighting on steroids, except that where a gaslighting victim still retains their original recollection – and has to be manipulated by their abuser into doubting their own perceptions and instead accepting the alternate telling of events (a cognitive dissonance that can eventually lead the person to recognise the manipulation) – the Shaper of Minds entirely replaces the original recollection of events with the version the wielder wants their victim to perceive. There is no internal conflict between accounts, no inconsistencies that could alert the victim that someone has broken into their head and rewritten their perceived reality. The person they reshape you to be is the person you believe you always were. And all it takes is a single touch.
That is a brand of existential horror that had me on edge all throughout Session 24 (basically from the moment it was implied the key was in play). Reality may be objective, but each individual person’s internal reality is governed by their perception – their memories – of the events in their life, no matter how incomplete, biased or otherwise skewed that personal perspective may have been. You have value just by being you because you are not replaceable, but the thing that makes you unique is, in large part, the sum total of those inimitably specific personal memories. No-one else will perceive the world in exactly the same way you do, and even a few minor changes to just a few of those perceptions can flow on to massive differences in ideals, values, priorities and future choices. In that regard, the use of the Mindshaper Key isn’t so much an alteration as an obliteration of the victim’s former self and replacement with someone new; even if that new stranger is largely indistinguishable from the original. And, again, all it takes is a single touch.
[Sidenote: This made Mister Wick an especially effective antagonist to wield the key, since his Galas functionally trap even targets who are aware of the threat within the rules of high-society behavioural expectations. Otherwise-innocuous actions like a handshake or private conversation suddenly become incredibly dangerous, while being nigh-impossible for the Flower Crowns to extract themselves from without committing an atrocious faux pas and potentially tipping Wick off. Perfectly designed stage for a psychological horror-thriller encounter.]
Which of course, brings us to a certain character who fell victim to the key in Episode 24… [put under the cut for spoiler reasons]
MORENTHAL
This poor Drow, he can never catch a break…
Morenthal may not have been the most mechanically dangerous party member to fall victim to Mister Wick’s manipulations although, given that the key was revealed to let its wielder read existing memories during the alteration, and that all of the Flower Crowns were fully briefed on the locations and nature of the Eversteel artefacts, him getting a hand on any of them could have been very bad plot-wise but from a character point of view I think he’s the one who the key’s effects had the potential to be most personally devastating for.
The way things ended up playing out across Session 25 was precisely the nightmare scenario Gamb was fretting about out of game: Mister Wick forcibly implanted Morenthal’s mind with false memories of being his lifelong trusted confidant and supporter, then – before the Flower Crowns could reverse the key’s effect – Morenthal discovered that Mister Wick had been killed in combat with Coil and Preston, leading to the Party having to physically restrain him so they could use the key to undo the damage, thus confronting Morenthal with the realisation that not only was everything he thought he knew about Jonathan a lie, but in actuality Jonathan had committed possibly the most invasive violation he’d ever been subjected to in order to forcibly make Morenthal into one of his loyal tools. That level of emotional and mental whiplash would be rough on any character, but for Morenthal it’s particularly brutal because…
Based on what’s been revealed in-game so far, the core of his character is that Morenthal is an abused child. This most-clearly came up in his conversation with Gelnek in Session 14; he was a child who grew up with nothing, raised by the Bloodletter Mercenaries as a tool instead of a person, and taught to see faces only as targets – with him also mentioning to Hobson in that their “combat training” involved being relentlessly beaten down until he learned to fight back. During his Session 21 visit with the Nightmother, he openly admits that “nowhere feels safe”. From that it’s pretty clear to read that Morenthal has never felt unconditionally loved, safe or respected around other mortals.
(This also helps contextualise why he’s so devoted to the Nightmother. From what little we have seen of his visits to her, Iris is a fond “adult” figure, who does not threaten, does not judge, asks nothing of him aside from his company, and cares equally for all the souls that pass through her domain. For a child “growing up with nothing” but violence, that would have been everything.)
But then, enter Jonathan fucking Wick. And now, just for a short while, Morenthal has all these “memories” of Jonathan being there to confide in, encourage him and support his escape from the Bloodletters. Suddenly he believes someone was there for him and, while the memories might be fake, the feelings of unconditional safety they would have brought were very real. Little wonder that he started acting like a Trilby-level naive goober around Mister Wick to the point of accidentally snitching on the rest of the group. Only, then it turns out to be a lie and those memories are gone.
For me, I think one of the worst things Morenthal might end up dealing with in the aftermath of having his memory fixed isn’t the specific feeling of personal betrayal or the potential shame at having been caught: it’s the realisation that he was always alone. That there was no mortal on the outside who cared or came for him when he needed them – just him and the distant fondness of a Divine. That would be awful beyond words, and yet the Flower Crowns were forced to inadvertently inflict it upon him in order to restore his mind. No wonder he wouldn’t look any of them in the eye before the session closed.
Worse still, the nature of the key makes it incredibly hard not only to trust others, but to trust your own mind. The players and audience above-table know that Morenthal is back to experiencing and remembering reality as it happened, but the question could very well linger for him, bringing with it a hefty dose of paranoia. Sure, Morenthal correctly remembers that Coil is a straightforward, loyal person who wouldn’t be tempted to tamper with his mind beyond undoing Jonathan’s manipulations… but he “remembered” that about Mister Wick too, and wouldn’t that be a beneficial thing for the Party to have him think? To Morenthal, people were already Not Safe™, but now the one person he ever believed might be had actually violated him worse than anyone else in order to force and abuse that trust. How is he supposed to trust anyone if he can’t trust the authenticity of his own recollections. (I get the feeling that Morenthal probably isn't going to be capable of relaxing until the Shaper of Minds is confirmed to either be locked back safely in the Vaults of Eversteel or fully removed from the Mortal Plane by Six).
It makes it really tragic that all of this came directly on the back of Episode 23, where Gamb revealed during the above-table break chat that - even if Morenthal didn’t recognise why – he unconsciously trusted Trilby and Gelnek enough to jump off the airship without checking that his rope was secure, because deep-down he knew they would catch him. To go from that high-point to the whiplash of him first thinking the Flower Crowns had killed the only person he was ever “safe” with, then them inadvertently subjecting him to the most painful realisation he could ever experience and potentially leaving him wondering whether he can even trust his feelings about them is absolutely gutting.
I think the thing that scares me most about how the aftermath could potentially play out is another trait that Gamb and Dan have established for Morenthal: he's a flight-risk. He shies away from letting people get close and, if he feels unsafe enough, he runs. It’s already been mentioned/implied that he’s considered fleeing the group at multiple different points across the sessions. And with him likely not feeling safe even in inside his own mind right now, that risk is probably at an all-time high. The poor lad is staring down the barrel of a potentially-impending multi-level emotional crisis, where a lifetime of instincts will probably be urging him to run hard and fast because People Are Not Safe™.
And the thing is, that instinct isn’t a good one for him either. Morenthal might have gotten by on his own “just living to be” up until Filgrove, but that feels a lot more like surviving out of necessity than having an actual life. It’s pretty obvious that he pushes people away as a defence mechanism: if you don’t care about anyone then you can’t be hurt by them or have those people used against you. But if you don’t let yourself care and feel things, you’re not really living. The truly tragic part of his running being a potential foreseeable outcome is that the Flower Crowns are good for Morenthal. (I doubt Morenthal realises it and can’t speak to Gamb’s above-table thought process but it’s interesting that one potential interpretation of Morenthal’s cynical, faux-apathetic, “stinky” behaviour is that of a former abused child quietly testing the boundaries of whether he’s allowed to exist in a way that’s inconvenient for others, to which the answer from the Party has largely been yes provided he isn’t actively encouraging Trilby to get himself killed, or killing people without explaining himself). He survived alone before because that was all he knew, but I get the feeling he wouldn’t do so well if he tried to go it solo again after being with people (he’s already confessed that the idea of Feyli being gone makes him miss her). That’s not a road to walk on his best day, let alone with his current headspace and tendency towards self-destructive choices.
It reminds me a lot of this article:
“Still, it’s easier for us to keep blaming ourselves because it’s preferable to facing the unthinkable: the fact that our parents don’t love us. … Most people would rather do anything than accept this as the truth. Not only is it painful; it’s humiliating.”
So yeah, suffice to say I am incredibly concerned about how Morenthal’s arc is going to play out over the next session(s). Here’s hoping that Gelnek and/or Coil have enough emotional savvy to keep an eye out, and enough patience to stick to him even if he lashes out in attempt to drive them off. Even if it all works out okay, I get the feeling that this one’s going to be ugly.
Can’t wait to see how everyone chooses to play it ❤️🩹
#The Shaper of Minds#An artefact that is absolutely fascinating and whose implications make me PHYSICALLY NAUSEOUS if I contemplate them too much#(So now I must share that nausea with you all)#Session 26 is going to be so rough for the poor guy I feel anxious just thinking about it#I am CONCERNED FOR THE LAD#there is a nonzero chance that he could walk away from the best thing that's ever happened to him and that terrifies me#Also just to say: this is NOT me trying to enforce a certain reading of events or backseat game how Gamb and the cast should play things#I'm just indulgently speculating because I have a personal interest in trauma recovery and character analysis is my great love#child abuse discussed cw#gaslighting discussed cw#existential horror#Dan Jones and Dragons#DJ&D#The Flower Crowns of E'lythia#A Party to Forget#DJ&D Meta#DJ&D Spoilers#Morenthal#Morenthal (Wolfsbane)#Character analysis#(Also for anyone unfamiliar with this campaign: Yes. The villain of this arc WAS named Jon Wick. DJ&D is great)#3WD
15 notes
·
View notes
Text
So what kind of a dad is q!Phil anyways?
So, Phil getting Tallulah and Chayanne to wear armour and learn how to fight. Also Bad doing this with Dapper, and the Brazilians trying to do this with Richas, and the french with Pomme, but when it gets discussed, it's mostly focusing on Phil because of the contrast of Wilbur not wanting his kids to have to fight. There's some really fun discussion that comes up with that!
And the interesting thing is that when we're trying to pull up other cultural touchpoints to compare phil-and-fighting-and-the-kids to, a lot of the other characters have very specific vibes, so to speak. I was in a discussion the other day where someone compared Phil in this with the dad in Supernatural, and him getting his sons to follow him on hunts. Cause he's a dad training his kids to fight, right? From a very young age? However, I don't think this is a perfect comparison, and I wanted to share the one that comes to mind for me, despite the fact that it deals with some pretty dark topics. This whole post deals with some dark topics, you might want to check the tags, just so you know.
Anyways, I never watched Supernatural, so I didn't do much more than think emoji in the moment when this comparison came up. But I checked in with friends who have watched it, and I think Phil QSMP and John Winchester Supernatural are acting from some pretty different places. John Supernatural is teaching his kids to fight because they have a duty and a lineage and have to help save the world, but at the same time there's this tragedy there that implies that he's so focused on his duty as a hunter that he's not seeing that maybe you don't need the kids for that. They could start when they were older—or maybe they could not start this! He essentially conscripts them into a battle that shapes the course of their lives, as little warriors, and they never have a choice in it. And he's not above using them as bait, because they're warriors, right? The battle is so important? They want to be involved, they want this (of course they want this, you're their dad, and they believe you that this is important). He's a true believer.
Whereas Phil is faced with a world that actively and constantly wants to kill his kids, and he's trying to train them to defend themselves. He's trying to say that there's danger out there, you take care of yourself, I'm going to put myself on the line for you, but if I fail, if I'm not there, you won't be defenseless if it comes down to it. I have had my beef with fics that take on this topic, in fact, because I've seen people write Phil as using his kids as bait to get to the codes or forgetting his kids in his code battle, and that's not how I interpret the character motivattion and actions. For me, the way I see it, Phil is always thinking of how best to defend the eggs, and everything else is in service to this. He's a man with anxiety on an island that wants to kill his kids, not a warrior in an epic battle.
Does this mean that the eggs are gonna grow up and go to therapy about their childhood full of danger? Hell yeah they wll. This is not an ideal childhood. But— and this is the crucial thing— they're going to grow up. Same with Dapper, same with Richas, same with Pomme— living your life under constant need to teleport out to safety is bad, objectively, but when the alternative is living in the moment until you die, I think the teleporting out is better, actually.
And the comparison that comes to mind for me, because of my personal experience, is not examples in media of parents training their kids to fight, but examples in media or in real life of parents dealing with serious and or terminal illness in kids. Cause that's what my family did. And boy is there resonance there.
I don't know of any parent of a kid with cancer who likes putting their kid through treatment. Chemotherapy sucks, radiation sucks, surgery sucks, immunotherapy sucks, none of this is good. I have seen this tear up parents (and siblings) inside. But it's better than letting their kids DIE, isn't it? And before you say well, obviously everyone is on the same page when it comes to things like chemotherapy, I have *seen* people go out there and post at cancer families about how they can't believe they're putting poison in their children's bodies when they should just eat better, etc. (This take reminds me strongly of the "she shoudln't wear armour cause she shouldn't have to fight" take about Tallulah.) Serious illness in kids forces you into terrible situations, but the only saving grace is that they're better than the alternative, you hope.
The only thing that makes me go ehhhhh maybe with Phil and the Mr Supernatural is him letting Chayanne fight, but Chayanne is a kid being hunted whose sister (also being hunted) is disabled, and this happens whether or not Chayanne is involved, and he wants to try and defend her so bad. I don't think saying "let her die if necessary, don't intervene" is going to be a conversation that ends up with less trauma, if you know what I mean. That is simply a situation that has no real win conditions out of it. At least this way he feels like he has some control? (Note: this is a bad situation, there's no getting around it.)
QSMP is so often a story about forces beyond our control trying to destroy us, and while Supernatural and its ilk also has that tone, within Supernatural there's at least a population that doesn't have to be part of the battle, so opting into the battle becomes on some level a choice, and involving children in that is also a choice, one that you can hold up to the standards of allowing children to have a childhood and go "is this ethical". On Quesadilla island, there's literally no opting out of this fight. There are malevolent forces that are directly trying to destroy you, destroy your children, and the question of allowing children to have a childhood has been effectively taken out of your hands. You simply have to do the best with the situation you have, and have a birthday party while keeping the armour on. And this reminds me much more strongly of situations like childhood cancer, than it does of cases in media of people concripting their children into battle.
In both cases children are trying to fight malevolent entities that want them dead, as pushed to fight by their parents, but boy, at least to me, the tone is pretty different. I think the question of "is it self defense or did you choose to be here" is pretty important.
#cw child death#cw cancer#cw childhood cancer#cw child abuse#discourse#qsmp#philza#fandom meta#bad dad phil discussion
147 notes
·
View notes
Text
A slightly unhinged ramble-rant on Chairman Rose and how people are missing the entire point of SWSH.
Like, I keep seeing it pop up--like a fucking rank smell you only detect if you’re in a certain place when the wind is blowing in the certain direction--but man does it not bewilder me. Like, these guys who post tags like ‘Chairman Rose is a bad guy but is not a BAD guy’ or ‘I kind of agreed with Chairman Rose’ are just. Are you high?? Did you entirely miss the point of his character?? Did you completely miss the main plot of SWSH?
I’m going to be talking about some heavy shit (including non-sexual child grooming and non-sexual child predation), so I’m gonna put the rest under a read more, let me just say that the theme of SWSH is the relationship between adults and children on their Pokemon journeys, the responsibilities adults have towards children, and what happens when that relationship is abused.
First off, before I get some know-it-all coming at me about how there’s no evidence that Rose is a child predator or a groomer, let me just say there is. Is he a Chris Hansen ‘take a seat for me’ groomer?? No, he’s not, because child grooming is not purely a sexual thing.
Per a very informative article:
“Grooming can be sexual, romantic, financial or for criminal or terrorism purposes, and can target both children and adults. The common aspect is that a perpetrator manipulates a victim by building trust and rapport. The key to grooming is a power dynamic within the relationship: age, gender, physical strength, economic status or another factor.”
Now, with that out of the way, I’m not going to go into shit that’s super obvious to anyone with eyes, but Rose is a serial child groomer. Like, his most obvious victim is Leon, and it’s really wild that people can’t see it?? Like, Leon obviously comes from a fucked-up home situation with a mother who’s absent and neglectful at best (and the people who don’t seem to realize this REALLY confuse me). Like, he has canonically raised his little brother in a house with three adults that could have done the job for him, and the anime literally stated that he was so busy raising Hop and taking care of household chores that he could barely interact with other kids. He was endorsed by Chairman Rose at an age that is implied to be at least two years younger than the average Gym Challenger, and--per the sub of the PokeAni--Rose literally raised him from the moment he became Champion.
(Where was Leon and Hop’s mother during this, you ask? Obviously being terrible at home, since despite Leon being run ragged for all of his life and rarely being home, he still somehow raised his little brother. Let that sink in.)
So Leon has spent his entire life being moulded into Rose’s delusion of the Hero of Galar for the sole purpose of sacrificing himself to defeat Eternatus to stave off an energy crisis that will happen in a millennium and probably would be averted with solar power. THE SUB IN THE POKEANI LITEARLLY HAS ROSE TELLING LEON THAT HE HAS GROOMED HIM FOR THE EXACT PURPOSE OF TAMING ETERNATUS. I’M NOT MAKING THIS UP. I WILL PROVIDE SCREENSHOTS IF ASKED.
Does he know Leon may likely fucking die in the attempt? He sure does, because he’s already started to work on grooming Leon’s replacements! In the game, Bede is a trainer who came from a neglectful home situation who was noticed by the Chairman and given his endorsement for the Gym Challenge wait hold on that sounds really familiar.
Really, REALLY familiar.
Rose’s ploy with taking away Bede’s gym challenger endorsement after Bede literally did what he asked him to was a clear manipulation tactic, and if it hadn’t been for Opal intervening (and she ABSOLUTELY has Rose’s number and you can’t convince me otherwise), the tactic likely would have worked, because Bede would have done anything to get his endorsement back.
(Also Oleana is absolutely the fall girl set up to look like an obstructive villain while Rose can maintain his veneer of innocence. That’s a topic for another day tho.)
AND THEN. in the anime, he flat out tries to do this with Ash. AND IN THE GAME, HE TRIES TO DO THIS WITH THE MC, LIKE BEDE IS HIS PLAN B AND THE PC IS HIS PLAN C. However, the only child Rose has regular chances to interact with who DOES NOT get the manipulation treatment is Hop. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the Chairman always tries to pull shit with you when Hop isn’t around, and the two times he DOES interact with Hop are at the very end of the game where Leon’s been forced into trying to stop the apocalypse and after the Opening Ceremony.
What’s different about the Opening Ceremony, though? LEON IS STANDING RIGHT OVER ROSE’S SHOULDER SMILING STEPFORDLY. Which brings me to my next point: why Rose pulls his end game bullshit.
Leon is now in his early 20s, so he has obviously started to ask for his own agency and say no to things. He has also obviously realized that he does NOT want Rose around his brother, which is why he is fucking looming over Rose’s shoulder when he meets Hop and why Rose almost seems to deliberately avoid Hop for the rest of the game. Rose knows that if he so much as messes with Hop, Leon is going to absolutely turn on him, and he’s already become obstinate enough to be a problem. Rose is losing control of Leon, which is why he’s grooming his potential replacements.
It’s also why Rose LITERALLY HOLDS LEON HOSTAGE IN A TOWER. Like, I am amazed that people haven’t seemed to realize that Hop and the MC were ABSOLUTELY rescuing Leon from a hostage situation. Leon had been on top of the tower with Rose for HOURS at that point, and given Oleana’s personal fucking army and how much Leon clearly did not want to be up there, it’s obvious that there wasn’t a way he could easily extricate himself from the situation. What you do hear from his meeting with Rose sounds a lot like a guy trying to say no while also trying to de-escalate a volatile situation: almost like a victim to their abuser oh wait.
(Oleana also says that the reason she wants to defeat you and Hop is to break Leon’s spirit so he won’t have the strength to say no to the Chairman anymore. Like, that’s literally in game. It’s dialogue.)
So yeah. You’re rescuing a prince from a tower who’s being held hostage by an evil king trying to use the prince’s special power for nefarious purposes. This game is full of fairy tale metaphors. Like, a ton.
When you and Hop show up, you basically force Rose to let Leon go so as to not look like a complete fucking monster or cause a scandal, and Leon basically very politely tells Rose to ‘fuck off’ when he leaves.
So Rose--this narcissistic, megalomaniacal child groomer, who’s basically been shut down by the lynch pin of his plan--does the absolute most rational thing and RELEASES THE APOCALYPSE DEMON OUT OF SPITE. He literally says on a screen in front of Galar that oh no, his releasing Eternatus and causing the Second Darkest Day is actually all LEON’S fault for being so unreasonable and unrealistic. It’s manipulation. It’s emotional abuse. It’s Rose punishing his victim for saying no. It’s Rose throwing a tantrum because Leon told him to wait another week before doing something about something that would happen in a millennium.
Bede made a fool of Rose doing exactly what Rose and Oleana wanted him to do, so he punished him. Leon said no, so he punished him, and punished all of Galar while he was at it. He’s not doing shit for the good of Galar. He’s doing it for himself.
See, the game’s story exists to debate the relationship between adults and children in the Pokemon world. For generation after generation of games, children as young as ten have gone out in the big wide world with nothing but their starter and a Pokedex, and the adults they have met have never had any poor intentions towards them specifically. Yes, there’s all the evil teams and blah blah blah, but they weren’t targeting you, the child MC. You were just caught up in their messes. SWSH is the first game to show that no, there are adults who will try to take advantage of you because you are a child, and there are good adults who will try to protect you.
Opal protects Bede. Leon protects you and Hop. Leon has obviously gotten old enough to realize that what Rose did to him was wrong, and he tries so fucking hard through the whole game to protect you and his little brother from his boss’s machinations and all the bad shit happening in the world. I know people bitch about being ‘railroaded’ and not allowed to participate in the ‘plot’ until the end, but that’s the point. The good adults are trying to protect the children from the bad adults trying to harm them, and the children intervene only when the adults die trying to save them. Children should be allowed to adventures and have fun, but they should also be protected and shielded from shit that can harm them and shit they’re not old enough to understand, and this game--for better or for worse--is trying to strike that balance.
One last, very important thing. Leon’s life had been micromanaged and controlled from the moment he became Champion by Chairman Rose. He had to become all things to Galar--its fucking policeman, it’s regional hero, it’s unbeatable symbol of perfection, it’s hero, and--almost--its messiah--and when the MC becomes a Champion? He doesn’t hesitate to become Chairman, and he tells you--the new Champion--that your job is to explore and have fun. He doesn’t ask you to do sponsorship deals. He lets you do matches and tournaments at your own leisure. He calls you politely to ask if you want to do the Galarian Star Tournament. He doesn’t even know your PHONE NUMBER and I think about that a lot.
The game is about the responsibilities adults have towards children. It’s about how you don’t have to be the main character to be the hero. It’s about how you can’t and shouldn’t do everything alone. It’s about how child predation and abuse don’t have to be obvious or ‘traditional’ to be real and a threat. Finally, as Leon demonstrates so poignantly, it’s about breaking the cycle of abuse.
And THAT’S why SWSH is one of the best stories--if not THE best--that the Pokegames have ever told, regardless of its faults and the National Dex and a berry tree looking a little weird.
#swsh#pkmn swsh#pkmn sword and shield#champion leon#chairman rose#gym leader bede#pokemon trainer hop#oleana#pokemon sword and shield#pokeani#gym leader opal#tw: discussion of child abuse#cw: discussion of child abuse#tw: discussion of child grooming#cw: discussion of child grooming#tw: discussion of kidnapping#cw: discussion of kidnapping#(plz don't let the tags scare you away lol)#give the pokeani the shit it deserves for how it treated the swsh storyline and the galar gang#but the one thing it did right was showing rose for the abusive predatory narcissist he is without beating around the bush#leon#pokemon leon#pokemon hop#sword and shield#galar region#galar#pokemon
243 notes
·
View notes
Text
One popular fanon hc (cw child abuse) I greatly dislike is that Walburga (and sometimes Orion) used the cruciatus curse on Sirius (and sometimes Regulus). A curse so screwed up, it drives people to insanity. And yet...Sirius is sane. In fact he went to prison notorious for making one lose their mind and yet he still is sane..... Not saying for people to not use it but it's not sufficiently backable given what we know of in canon. So it does fall into fanon/extreme headcanon and a sirius having experienced that would be ooc (out of character) because it would scar him immensely.
Some think it's canon. (Funny how they use that from supposed canon yet dismiss everything else and act as if marauders fandom was build from nothing....) but it's not. (I also have a whole opinion on Black family using curses in general to punish their kids but that's separate.)
21 notes
·
View notes
Text
Pair O' Geten Asks
Congrats on your newly discovered Geten Appreciation, anon! I too like Geten a lot and feel that he, like the rest of the MLA, was Robbed. He really would have made an interesting foil to Dabi and I have only conspiracy theories about Editor Meddling to explain why we didn’t get that. The Rei-like appearance? The opposed power set? The father figure to whom he’s incredibly loyal? The focus on a powerful quirk as more important than anything? Come on; why write all that if it’s only going to matter for one (1) fight that doesn’t even come to a conclusive end and before we even have a bunch of concrete information on Dabi’s childhood relationship with his father?
Also, Geten and Dabi trying to run a regiment together would have been hilarious and it is but one of many things we were cheated out of seeing by that bedamned three-month timeskip on the villain side.
As well, Geten’s interesting to me for the same reason that Mustard is: they’re the only two young villains for whom we just don’t get much angle on student parallels, rescue arcs, and/or sympathetic portrayals. Geten at least has far clearer motivations than Mustard, but it’s really frustrating to see the both of them basically written out of the story when they both seem far too young to be deemed Not Worth Saving. (I mean, I obviously don’t think anyone should be declared off-limits for saving no matter how old or how far gone they are, but it’s particularly egregious when it comes to the younger villains.)
As to his loyalty to Re-Destro, I'll fold some discussion of that into my answer to this other ask, answered below the jump:
(CW: discussions of child abuse and cult dynamics)
Ohhhhh my god, anon. Thank you for coming to me with this so I can assure you that, yes, Re-Destro absolutely does have genuine affection for Geten and his intentions absolutely do not come from a place of malice.
The thing with the way people headcanon RD and Geten’s relationship is, I think, pretty straightforward: Toxic Blorbo Anxiety. Modern fandom, especially on tumblr, has really co-opted a lot of social justice rhetoric to make what once would have been dead-ass basic character/ship flame wars sound more justified and meaningful; as a consequence, altogether too many people have this idea that one’s taste in fiction (characters, relationships, themes, whatever) is a direct measure of one’s moral character. Ergo, it’s no longer okay to just like a character with significant flaws—you have to find some kind of reason why that character’s flaws aren’t actually their fault.
People who hate Geten have zero problems writing him off as a toxic ableist eugenicist. People who like Geten—well, some people are perfectly capable of liking Geten while acknowledging that he’s a violent little shit who espouses quirk supremacist ideals that go considerably farther than the ideals professed by anyone else around him, even the people higher up the chain of command. For the “my taste in characters mirrors my moral character” folks, however, liking Geten means an immediate need to find a likely character to offload all of Geten’s moral failings onto.
Re-Destro is the only character for whom Geten has any demonstrated feelings whatsoever; this makes him the only available scapegoat.
And it’s ridiculous! It is pulled literally out of thin air. As you said, the databook is explicit that Re-Destro gave Geten “lots of affection,” but you see echoes of it in the canon as well. There’s the flashback Geten has to RD smiling and patting him on the shoulders and entrusting him with an Important Task, as well as the implication that Geten cares about RD so much that Re-Destro burning himself caused Geten’s quirk evolution. Re-Destro himself gets this beat, indicating trust and high regard, just after Giran gets sassy with him about the MLA losing their number advantage to the Sad Man’s Parade:
Yes, absolutely, Geten is fucked up from being raised in a cult. Re-Destro was raised in the very same cult, however, and with a lot more fuckery about his ancestors and identity loaded down on him to boot. Geten at least can just be Geten, you know? The very best version of Geten that he knows how to be!
Of course, an ideal version of Geten would, among other changes, probably be going to school. Now, Geten’s schooling is not RD’s responsibility—so far as we know, he isn’t Geten’s actual legal guardian. Nonetheless, I’m sure he could make Geten do it if he really wanted to press the issue, and it’s no credit to him that he hasn’t.
Still, before I condemn RD for that, I’d want to know what RD’s own schooling situation was, or what the MLA approach is to school in general. One of the things that defines cults, after all, is limiting members’ access to outside information, which is why they’re all such proponents for homeschooling. I would be shocked if Re-Destro himself wasn’t homeschooled for at least his younger years, and therefore lacks a full frame of reference for why that’s a problem.
Speaking of RD’s frame of reference for things, and getting back to your actual question about ReDadstro, while I don’t read RD and Geten’s relationship as explicitly having familial vibes, I do think they’re close enough that a lot of people in-universe probably look at them and wonder. The main reason for that is that, well, look at Re-Destro’s whole scenario! He’s the scion of Yotsubashi Chikara, a blood-descendant of the leader of the original Meta Liberation Army, and, oh, does the story never let him or us forget it. His authority over the group is entirely rooted in that ancestry; he and they all believe that it must be Destro, no one else, who brings Liberation to Japan.
That all being the case, then, why on earth doesn’t Re-Destro have any kids?
Seriously, the guy’s got to be over 40, and if the lineage is that important—and it is; Skeptic says explicitly that he wants to recruit Twice so that the MLA never has to fear a repeat of Destro’s loss—why hasn’t RD secured the bloodline for the future yet? Even if he’s fairly confident in his and his followers’ ability to ring the bells of liberation in his lifetime, you’d think some contingency plans would be in order!
I also think it’s fairly telling that a guy whose authority is so rooted in family doesn’t seem to have any of his own—not just kids, but siblings, a spouse, parents, grandparents, anybody. While it could simply be a function of his limited screen time, we have at least some idea of what the family situation is for most of the other major villains. AFO, Shigaraki and the rest of the League, Gentle Criminal, Overhaul—for all of them, we can point to at least one thing and say, “That’s the situation,” even if it’s as simple as e.g. the implication of Spinner becoming a hikikomori or Overhaul being an orphan. It seems to me that if there was a family line in charge of the MLA, we would have seen at least one other member at some point. That we never do[1] suggests pretty strongly that Re-Destro is the only Yotsubashi around at the current time.
My headcanon, then, is that Re-Destro, a man so psychologically burdened by the needs of being the Great Destro’s successor that he saw an omni-nihilist like Shigaraki as freedom delivered on divine wings, doesn’t have children because he doesn’t want them. Or, more accurately, because whether or not he, Yotsubashi Rikiya, might want children, he’s unwilling to have them so long as there’s any chance his burden could become theirs.
And thus we get to Geten. If Rikiya might have wanted children in other circumstance, it’s not so surprising that he’d have a streak of paternal instinct that came out with Geten, especially when Geten was younger. Here’s someone who’s powerful but never going to be in any danger of inheriting all of Rikiya’s burdens, someone whose loyalty is to Rikiya personally, rather than to Destro’s blood.[2] Of course Rikiya’s fond of him! He’s not entirely free when he’s around Geten, but at the very least, Geten transparently doesn’t care about the MLA’s glorious history.
I have to think that everyone around them Feels Some Sorta Way about this, especially those shadowy figures we saw telling young Rikiya all about his “inheritance,” but the downside of raising a six-year-old to be the supreme leader of your underground army is that there’s only so much open pushback you can offer once the six-year-old turns forty. If RD wants to maintain a close relationship with Geten, there’s not really anyone who can put their foot down about it beyond a certain amount of pointed-but-respectful questioning.
As for what Geten thinks of this state of affairs, the way I conceive of them, Geten is painfully aware that Re-Destro is heavily burdened, and Geten wants to relieve as much of that burden as he can. However, one of the reasons RD might find Geten comparatively relaxing is that Geten doesn’t occupy a specific place in the MLA’s organizational structure. That might be because Geten lacks the temperament for leadership, but it might also be because RD likes that Geten is a bit sideways of the power structure that defines so much of the rest of Rikiya’s life. Geten’s closeness to the Grand Commander might be enviable to others in the MLA, but it doesn’t seem to come with any particular authority; Geten probably wishes that RD would give him more to do![3]
Hence, I assume, his single-minded fervor about living up to Re-Destro’s trust and eliminating the people in Re-Destro’s way and so forth. If it’s somewhat rare for Re-Destro to give Geten actual tasks to fulfill, all the more reason for Geten to pounce so vigorously on what opportunities do arise.
In summary, while Re-Destro and Geten’s relationship has some pretty huge red flags in it—the lack of schooling, the way RD being Geten’s patron rather than giving him a real position keeps Geten dependent on RD’s favor, the way Geten is singled out as having this relationship with RD, the disconnect between the values they extol— in the context they live in, I think it’s pretty wholesome! That is, they’re both pretty fucked up by the cult upbringing, in ways neither of them is fully capable of even recognizing, but I think they both mean well by each other, and their lives are stabler and happier for each other's presences than if they were still both MLA but weren't aquainted.
Could it be better? Sure! But there’s a nigh-unbridgeable canyon between, “Based on what we know about the characters’ circumstances, this relationship has some concerning elements,” and, “Re-Destro is physically abusive, thinks Geten is only valuable as a weapon, and has groomed Geten himself to believe that.”
The far side of that canyon must be in Narnia, because stepping through a magic doorway to another world where BNHA is a completely different story is the only way anyone’s going to be able to produce canon evidence for the Re-Destro As Abusive Groomer claim. As Shigaraki and All For One prove, however, there’s no villain in this story that can’t be rendered more cloyingly, simplistically sympathetic by cramming a bunch of physical abuse into fanfic where none exists canonically.
Thanks for the asks, anons! Please go forth and continue loving Geten freely. And Re-Destro also, because god knows he needs more love.
---
[1] The closest we get is the family portraits the League find in the obviously-intended-to-be-Re-Destro’s-summer-home they ransack in the live drama reading from that LOV stage event back in 2021. No word on whether Horikoshi had any input whatsoever on that script, however.
[2] The tell here is the consistency of Geten’s motivations. He never connects Re-Destro’s authority to Destro Classic like Skeptic and Trumpet do, nor does his loyalty change to Shigaraki post-Deika as you might expect if quirk supremacy were really the only thing Geten used to measure worth.
[3] It’s very telling that when we’re being introduced to the heads of the MLA, getting their real names and day jobs, Geten isn’t included in the lineup; he remains an unnamed parka troll with bad table manners. He does get a proper rank in the PLF, of course, but by that point Re-Destro has ceded control to Shigaraki, so RD no longer has to worry so much about how he defines or doesn’t define the relationship or what people might think of it.
#bnha#geten#yotsubashi rikiya#re-destro#meta liberation army#bnha fandom critical#cw: child abuse#(discussed)#honestly when you've seen one fandomized take on a Bad Dad you've seen them all#as if the author is afraid that if Bad Dad isn't shown beating his kids every day then the reader might not figure out he's abusive#or the assumption that being bad in one way means he must be bad in all the other ways too#e.g. the fics where Shimura Kotarou is not merely violent but also homophobic#save me#and also spare me#salt in the tags#stillness answers
68 notes
·
View notes
Note
🌧️
🌧- For a heavy, emotional secret
Shit-- spills rest of drink down front- oh fuck me.
I ruined a man's life by letting him touch me. His name was Isiah Foley.
He was the worst man imaginable. Corrupt. ADA during the Klass administration. He was on the payroll for the Ibanescu Family. Human trafficking. He knew-
He knew they were trafficking kids out of East.
It wasn't my plan originally, it was an interrogation- at the stupid mayoral unveiling, but- Isiah was loose-lipped, and warm-handed, and I've- he wasn't my first man. Not by a longshot. It was in my first few months back in Gotham.
I've been on my knees, mouth open for worse monsters and it was so beautifully easy and they were kids. And he opened his mouth and told me everything I needed to know. I interrogated him.
But they caught us. Clothes half-fallen off. Saliva smeared around our lips. His bitemarks on my throat. Touching me.
My reputation- it recovered. Brucie Wayne is just a little easier and a little more open legged than people expected- my reputation survived because my reputation was more of that. His didn't. He lost his job. Angered the mob he worked for. Wife divorced him.
He put a gun in his mouth six months later.
He was a monster. He knew. A man touched me and he died.
#cw: homophobia#cw: queerphobia#cw: discussions of human trafficking#cw: implications of child abuse#cw: suicide#cw: suggestive#about blog#ooc. this is QUITE a bit heavier#ooc. stay safe.
6 notes
·
View notes
Text
If Nightstar got her own comic storyline, I hope DC explores transgenerational trauma with her.
⚠️ Content warning for parental abuse
Section 1: Her Parents and Gramps
Koriand’r was sold into slavery (some versions she was sold as a child), was experimented on, and is often taken advantaged of due to her kindness.
Dick witnessed both of his parents die, he became a vigilante when he was 10, was physical/mentally/emotionally abused by his adopted father, and he watched Blüdhaven explode.
Bruce watched his parents die, failed to save his son from dying, and struggles with his mental health to the point where all of his relationships have fallen apart at least once.
I’d go on with each member of the Batfam but that would take all day. I picked these three because I feel like these three had the most influence on Mar’i (not to say there wasn’t anyone else who influenced her)
With how these events affected these characters and their relationships, it makes me wonder how it would affect their relationship with Mar’i.
We actually saw Mar’i struggle with her fear of death because of her family’s history with death. Perhaps this could be something to start with.
A trait she shares with Bruce and Dick is obsessive perfectionism because all three of them feel burdened with the task to save everyone. This has resulted in most of Bruce’s relationships to deteriorate, and in Dicks perfectionism. Poor Mar’i would most likely pick up something similar in her life.
Section 2: Breaking the Cycle
Something that isn’t talked about much is how Bruce’s abuse affected Dick and his overall family. If you don’t believe me when I say Bruce abused Dick…
(Unfortunately, Dick isn’t his only victim and Bruce also engages in other types of abuse. Not to mention there are more examples of Bruce hitting Dick and being an overall messy parent and putting Dick through parentification)
Seeing how Bruce’s abuse affected Dick, it makes me wonder how it would affect Mar’i and how he would hurt her. Would he put her through a similar parentification he put Dick through? Or would he do something else
Since Mar’i has some of her moms’ influence, it makes me wonder if she’d put her foot down and confront Bruce about all the terrible stuff she did to the batfam instead of excusing his behavior and blaming herself.
I think she’d be the type to tell Bruce:
“This is why your family doesn’t want to be around you. It’s not because you’re this loner who ended up getting stuck with a bunch of kids against your will, it’s because you’re an emotionally immature coward who takes your pain out on others. How is it you can figure out the biggest mysteries in the world, but you can’t figure out why 10 year olds aren’t good replacements for your parents or therapy!”
I just hope Mar’i breaks the cycle of abuse and perfectionism.
After all, one of Mar’is main motifs (the star) can represent the past, hope for the future, optimism, goals, and our ancestors.
If you have any more suggestions, please let me know.
#nightstar#nightwing#starfire#dickkory#mar’i grayson#batfam#Batman#Bruce Wayne#dick Grayson#koriand'r#kory anders#mar'i grayson#I wish more people would discuss Bruce’s pervasive pattern of abuse and how it affected his kids#because his abuse wasn’t just a one time thing that a bad writer did; it’s a pattern that’s affected how his kids act and cope with tragedy#I also wish there was more discussion on how Kori was affected by her past#and how she’s a true icon for being able to stand up for herself even when she’s scared#what I’m saying is I think there’s a lot of potential for an elseworld comic to explore the dynamic of these four#cw child abuse#side note: imagine what would happen if Batman laid a finger on Mari#that would be terrible for Bruce
66 notes
·
View notes
Text
ibara; origin,
[yes, I'm entirely overhauling her backstory. don't look at me]
Ibara Shiozaki was born to Maria and Kanabo Shiozaki on September 8th, 2198. Her father was a retired hero, and her mother was a doctor who specialized in mitigating negative quirk impacts on the body of their users. This was born from her own quirk-- Manchineel, which, similar to Ibara's, replaced her hair with foliage-- but this foliage excreted a painful sap she had no natural defense to and required constant medical care and dosages of an herbicide that rendered the plant underdeveloped.
At the point in the pregnancy when they realized Ibara was going to share a similar mutation, Maria made the decision to stop taking the medication in order to avoid it spreading to the developing fetus. Ibara was born with a healthy seed coat, but Maria would die about six months later due to health complications from both her quirk and the lingering impact of a difficult pregnancy and birth.
Kanabo came out of retirement to support his new child. However, the reason for his early retirement (age 30) had been damage to his heart and lungs, which would lead to a more severe cardiac failure when Ibara was around five years old, rendering him unable to work and, as time would reveal, unable to take care of a young child, due to long-lasting neurological and functional issues. He would be placed in long-term hospital care, and Ibara would be placed with another relative-- her mother's sister, Mei Fujita, a quirk specialist doctor similar to her sister, although with a focus on clinical practice. They would live together for about three years before Mei realized she was in no position to take care of a child, emotionally or career-wise, often resulting in Ibara being left alone for long periods of time, a schedule too inconsistent to keep up with school, and undue stress on both of them.
At age 8, Ibara would be placed in a religious child care institution, in line with the wishes of her father, who wanted her to grow up with the faith. Her aunt, from then on, would remain as a frequent visitor (as frequent as she could be, anyways) and as a personal physician for Ibara, due to the nature of her quirk and worry that it may develop into something similar to Manchineel. Her father writes often, but the two rarely get to visit, due to the strict rules around leaving institution grounds for the both of them. That being said, Ibara loves them both very much.
The institution itself housed around 40 children at any given time, of varying ages, maintained by a convent of nuns and other clergy, and with an associated school. Staffing was stretched thin most of the time, and physical discipline was actively utilized in response to what was seen as poor behavior. Ibara threw herself into the faith intensely, which only made her the target of her peers.
Ibara loves her father and aunt very much. She knows, too, that they love her, and that she is very lucky to still have contact with them. But for most of her life, she has wondered if things would be different if she were a less difficult child, and if one day, she would be able to reunite with them if she just behaved well enough. Even her work to get into U.A. and become a hero is, in part, motivated by wanting to make them proud, and to prove that she is, in fact, a good person, to both them and herself.
#A LOST LAMB DESCENDS://IBARA HC#cw for non graphic discussion of child neglect + institutional abuse
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
We'll Take Our World By Storm Chapter 3
Harry Potter | 2021 | 9,191 | Ao3 | Previous | Masterlist | Next
I hope that was fun. I certainly found it so. But for all these are children that are and will be important, I need to take you back to where we were before: Number Ten, Magnolia Crescent, Nineteen-Ninety-One. It’s around three in the afternoon by now, which sadly means that summer school is out.
“I’ll go without you!” Harry threatens from the bottom of the stairs.
“You’ll wait two minutes for me to finish this braid,” Fay snaps back. She’s in the upstairs bathroom, doing exactly that. She has one half of her hair braided from her neck down and then tied up into a loop, and is braiding the other half down her front.
Harry sighs at the ceiling, and then jogs up the stairs. “Are you sure-“
“I don’t need help,” Fay says tightly. Her next two folds are jerky, and then she takes a breath and the pattern evens out. She reaches the end, and glances over at Harry. “Can you hand me the pins?”
Harry grabs a few bobby-pins and hands them to her one by one. Fay pins up the second braid, giving the effect of having a droopy bow made of hair tied at her neck. Harry sets the rest of the pins on the counter, and then hands Fay her bag. It’s an old messenger bag Vivian made when Fay started Primary School, based off Vivian’s own bag from Before. It has a lot of pockets for organization, and Regulus enchanted it not long after. Fay slings it over her shoulder, and gives him a look.
“You have your card?”
“Of course,” Harry pulls it out of his pocket and shows it off. Fay grins. She doesn’t check for hers, although she’s sure it’s in her bag. If it isn’t, Harry will let her check out books on his.
Fay pounds down the stairs, darting past Harry to get to the bottom first. He gives a shout and follows, stumbling to a stop when he finds Vivian at the door. “Hi, Aunt Vivian.”
“Leaving for real this time?” She teases. Vivian looks a lot like Fay, but her eyes are darker- brown, not silver. And Vivian doesn’t put in the work to keep her hair up beyond ponytails.
Fay sticks out her tongue, bow-braids flopping around with her wide movements. “Yep! When do you want us back?”
“Dinner time,” Vivian says. “Latest.”
Harry gives a lazy two-finger salute, and Fay nods once. She’s been careful about that for years, and even when home time isn’t dinner time, they all refuse to be late without letting someone know - it’s why, despite being eleven, Fay has a flip phone in the pocket of her bag. Together, they aren’t in as much danger.
“I’ve been called in for something, but Ian and Caspian are still here.” Vivian kisses their foreheads.
“Got it,” Fay says. All three leave the house at the same time, after the siblings call up goodbyes to Caspian and he discorporates to come swirl around them in a misty approximation of a hug.
The two of them start walking east, waving to Vivian as she drives away. “I’m so glad we got your supplies when we got mine.”
Harry snorts. “You’re just afraid of the celebrity rush.”
“And for good reason,” Fay says with a scoff. “Ugh. Can you imagine the uproar?”
Harry can, actually. It makes him giggle, a little wistful but mostly anxious and amused. “We’d play hide ‘n seek the entire trip.”
“Ooh we should do that the next time we go!”
Harry grins, apprehension forgotten. “We should! Make it a family day out, you know?”
“Yes!”
“Although Delphi isn’t allowed to shift.”
“No, she should be,” Fay counters quickly, voice rising in her excitement. “And glamours should be allowed too. Remember how excited she’s been about finally getting into Ancient Runes for that project her and her friends are doing? And if we were actually avoiding someone, we’d use everything in our arsenal. Then we could try to pick people out using mannerisms and magic sense instead of our eyes!”
“Fay, you’re a genius!”
Fay grins and flicks her head back, causing her bow to bounce. “Well, I did grow up with you.”
“Guess you had to catch up sometime.” Harry smirks. Fay splutters and then sticks her tongue out. “Race you to the library!” Harry takes off after sticking his tongue out in return.
“Hey!” Fay yells, rushing after him.
They stop running after a few minutes, and walk the rest of the mile and a half. Despite that, when they reach the building, Harry holds the door open for Fay and sticks his tongue out when he says he won. Fay makes a face, but ends up laughing.
They spend an hour in the library, with Harry hunting down books and reading the first chapters of one while Fay works on the 200 piece puzzle in the entryway. Afterwards, the siblings decide to go to the park. Now, in their neighborhood, there are two parks, because it’s actually two neighborhoods with an access road between them. Magnolia Crescent is on the western side, and Privet Drive on the eastern. Sadly, the Library is also located to the east, about a mile and a half from the house.
I suppose you wouldn’t know why them having to walk around Privet Drive is so terrible. We’ll get there. The point is, to go to park, Harry and Fay could either go to the eastern one, which is directly accessible from Wisteria Way, the access road that leads into a third neighborhood to the south. The highway is northwards. Or, they could walk back into Magnolia Crescent all the way, past their house, and down a set of houses towards the western park.
They go to the eastern one, today.
Harry finds a tree to read under, and Fay goes to swing. There’s another group of kids at the park, who drag Fay into a game of Groundies within minutes.
"Is the paper-legend good?"
Harry looks down at his visitor, and smiles. The little, still unnamed constrictor reaches her neck to lay her head across Harry's thigh. "Yes." He picks a blade of grass and puts it in his page, before flicking back to the start of the story.
"What's it about?"
"I'm not sure yet," Harry says. "It's called To Kill A Mockingbird."
"Will you read it to me?"
"Of course. Get comfy." Harry gives her a moment as he puts on his reading voice, something he learned in a household of storytellers. Even with the voice, he doesn’t read in english. He’s talking to a snake, so he translates to snake as he reads. It’s a skill not many have. "When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow. When it healed, and his fears of never being able to play football were assuaged-" here, the snake tapped Harry's arm twice with her tail, their signal for her having a question. "he was seldom self-conscious about his injury. His left arm was somewhat shorter than his right; when he stood or walked, the back of his hand was at right angles to his body, his thumb parallel to his thigh. He couldn't have cared less, so long as he could pass and punt." Harry tapped where he stopped once, and then looked at the snake. "Question?"
"What's football?"
"It's a game where we use our feet-" he gestures at his own "-to kick around a ball and score. Although I think this book is from America, where they call rugby football."
"Why?"
"I don't know," Harry says drily. "Americans don't think like proper snakes enough to clearly name things. They call football soccer. But you play the game by using your feet and a ball! Football!"
"Like family-den," the little snake says sagely. Snakes don't bother with complex names- things are what they are. Harry is Speaker-Who-Reads and sometimes Speaker-Who-Reads-Human-Script if a snake wants to take the time. He was Wrong-Death-Cheater before, and some new snakes still call him that or Greater-Death-Cheater. Fay is Little-Death-Cheater, but before that she was Misspeaking-Hatchling. Adrian is Sun-Human-Nestfather, and Regulus Snake-Charmer or Large-Nestfather. (Sometimes he's Beastspeaking Human Hatchling Of Protector Predator Without Fur, but that's a proper society title among snakes). Caspian is Broken-Magic-Hatchling-Of-Snake-Charmer, or Night-Mist. Sometimes the names change, because the people do too.
"Yes," Harry agrees.
"Hey look, it's the Freak!"
"Blubber-venom," the little snake hisses. Harry looks up, jaw clenched.
A pudgy, white eleven year old with two chins and blonde hair is standing above him, grinning maliciously. Considering he's an eleven year old — and they can only hold so much maliciousness in their bodies — this is impressive.
Of course, this is also Dudley Vernon Dursley, Harry’s maternal cousin, who was raised by 'perfectly normal' people with an abnormal hate for anything not in their worldview, so… Maybe it isn't that surprising.
"When I got my name changed," Harry says drily, carefully closing the book as his snake friend retreats, "I'm very sure there wasn't an F anywhere in it."
Dudley makes a face. His parents don't particularly care if he's intelligent, and puzzles were discontinued after his second tantrum over them.
It's his friend Piers Polkiss who understands Harry's comeback instead, and snarls. "Freaks don't get to pick their nicknames, Freak."
"Does the same rule apply to rats, Polkiss?" By this time, Harry has stood up, leaving his book on the ground with his snake and Fay's shoulder bag.
"You sound crazy when you hiss like that," Dursley says like an insult.
"And you sound like an idiot anytime you open your mouth."
Across the park, Fay finds her way down the stairs to open her eyes and make a face at Jess, who is climbing back onto the main playground floor from her position hanging outside the railing. Fay isn't tall enough to reach up and grab Jess' ankle. Michael, over at the swings, freezes, and then starts creeping back towards the main equipment. Fay sees him and starts towards him and the edge of the playground. "Groundies!"
Michael groans, and Fay is about to run back to the playground when she spots Harry surrounded by her three least favorite neighbors. "On T!" Fay calls, abandoning the game in favor of supporting her brother.
“Two Ten Groundies!” Michael calls, turning to the kids still playing.
"Shut your mouth!" Dursley snarls as Fay comes up beside them.
"What, scared he'll show everyone how much smarter he is?"
Dudley skitters back from her, moments after Piers and Malcolm. Fay rolls her eyes, and shifts her shoulders so she’s ready to punch him.
“No one asked for your opinion!” Malcolm snaps. Dudley is the leader, but he’s scared of magic while Piers is the Bugs Meany to Fay’s Sally Kimball.
She’s still proud of that one, despite all three parental units giving matching lectures of “I get why you did it but it was still wrong, and next time don’t break your thumb.” ...Then again, maybe that’s why she’s still proud of it. “I doubt Harry asked for yours either, but here we are.”
“If I wanted advice on good life decisions I’d just do the opposite of whatever you’d say,” Harry says, matching her tone. “But then again, to do that I’d have to listen to you in the first place.” Dudley growls. Harry clenches his fists but rolls his eyes. Fay taps her hand to his right before he folds his arms up to give off a decent unimpressed vibe. “Go read a book, Dursley. Or plant a tree, if you think you can do that without killing it. Make up for all the air you’re using.” Harry wants to say ‘the air you’re wasting,’ but he was raised properly and there are boundaries.
“I’ll tell mum you were being freakish in the park!” Dudley threatens.
This, after seven years outside of Petunia Dursley nee Evans’ custody, is a useless threat. “So? She can’t do anything about it.”
Later, this gang will be the type to throw punches, but for now Dudley tries to shove Harry into the tree, and when Harry catches himself and Fay throws herself at Dudley, he screams and runs off. Piers follows, although Malcolm stays to sneer. “Careful Dunbar, next year we can arrest you for assault.”
“I’d love to see that,” Fay threatens in return, swaying back to her feet. “Especially when you always start it. Maybe we’ll share a cellblock.”
He sneers again but flounces off. Harry breathes out sharply, and Fay lets him grab her hand. He sits down and groans, pulling Fay with him. She lands beside him, but flops sideways onto his stomach quickly.
“I dislike that human,” the little constrictor says, poking her nose out from under Fay’s bag.
“Me too,” Fay hisses. The constrictor starts climbing Fay’s face, and the girl lets her.
“Hello Little-Death-Cheater.”
“Hello,” Fay says, much of the hate leaving her tone. “Have you chosen a name yet?”
“No,” she admits, pulling her tail up so she can curl on top of Fay’s chest. The constrictor doesn’t care which chest she’s on, the heartbeat is the same. “I want my speaker name to mean smart-wise-knowing-advice-old-has-seen-much.”
“Athena? She’s the Greek goddess of wisdom, war strategy, and I think something else,” Harry offers. “Or Thoth, the Egyptian god of knowledge.”
“I’ll consider them,” the constrictor says.
Harry picks his book back up and opens it. “I’m gonna start again.”
“Okay,” Fay says. She listens to a few paragraphs before the jitters start, and she gets up to go join back in on the game.
“Are you trying to be a wrecking ball?” Caspian asks, watching Ian push his lego creation with all of his insignificant upper body strength.
“No,” Ian says, eager to explain the story he is creating with blocks and dolls. “Bad guys knock down! Fire-fight fix!”
“Ah,” Caspian says in his best sagely voice. He’s been dealing with little kids since he was nine, and is luckily still good at it. “Which ones are the bad guys?” Ian waves the two dolls in his hands. “And the good guys?” Ian sets down one of his dolls to point at three other dolls sitting on the ground. “I see. A good team.”
Ian grins and turns back to his game. Caspian looks down at his sketchpad and turns away from the page of eye practice. The dolls’ designs are rather basic, but he can work with them. Caspian starts by sketching a collapsing building. Later, he’ll adapt designs for the heroes and villains and add them to the scene, but for now he works on his perspectives.
Fay and Harry head home around five thirty. Most of their conversation over the short walk is light and random, led by Fay’s wandering focus and Harry egging her on.
There’s one part though, that isn’t.
“I hate him,” Fay says, glaring holes in Dudley’s back as he and his gang wait to cross the highway. Fay and Harry aren’t going to take the intersection, because Wisteria Way is a barely used road and really, they’d just waste time if they went north to the intersection and then back south towards Magnolia Crescent. “Sometimes I wish I could-” Fay’s mouth shuts with an angry clack.
“If you say stab him, I’ll have to inform you that assault is still illegal,” Harry snarks. He loves his sister, and he doesn’t like his ‘cousin’, but Harry ignores them as much as he can, which is a lot more than Fay does. It’s not until Fay’s wide, extraneous movements stop in the middle of the road that Harry remembers. “Too soon?” he asks softly, taking a step back so he’s not leaving Fay behind.
“No,” Fay says. Her voice is high, but her tone and expression are flat. Her fists are clenched. “It’s been four years. That’s plenty of time.” She sounds dead. Robotic, maybe, but mostly drained of emotion. As the Narrator, I can tell you that Fay is actually very upset. She’s already got ADHD, but the rushing in her ears isn’t that. Neither are her clenched fists, or the sudden ghost aches in her chest. No, that would be called PTSD.
“You don’t have to rush through trauma recovery, Fay,” Harry says gently. “Or ignore it altogether. You certainly shouldn’t.” He’s treating her like a spooked animal, which is an accurate description. She’s a spooked fox right now.
“You’re not my therapist.”
“You don’t have a therapist.”
“I’m fine,” Fay snaps, voice rising with the force she’s trying to put into the phrase. She starts walking again, faster now than before.
“It’s okay if you’re not.”
“You are,” Fay says bitterly.
Harry scowls, keeping up easily. “That’s not the same thing and you know it.” He clenches his jaw before he can keep getting upset, and takes a breath instead. “And anyway, you’re wrong. I don’t think any of us are okay with what happened to you. You don’t have to pretend to be.”
“I want to be!” Fay snaps, desperation coming through her tone at last. It gives her an air of life that she’d cut off minutes ago, especially when she turns to speak instead of staring straight ahead. “Papa doesn’t talk about as many cases anymore, I still can’t go to the basement, and I just want to be normal again!”
Harry scoffs. He sounds derisive, but he’s hiding empathy. “Normal? Like the Perfectly Normal Dursleys? Like how it would be normal for a Black to be in Azkaban? Boring and casual?” Harry swallows his next scathing remark, because he’s trying to help Fay, not hurt her, and a guilt trip would hurt.
“No! Yes!” She takes a deep breath and exhales harshly. “I just don’t want to worry,” she says softly. “I don’t want to freeze up and I don’t want any of you to have to watch your words around me.”
Harry shrugs, and steps sideways to bump shoulders. “Like that’s any different from the rest of us,” he drawls. Fay laughs once, despite herself.
“Fine, I’m normal for our household. Happy?”
“Only if you are.”
Fay closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Yeah. I will be. I have to be.” She opens her eyes and makes a face, her next thought slipping in and grabbing hold. “Ew. I’m never going to get a quiet moment at Hogwarts.”
“You could go to Slytherin. People expect them to be creepy.”
This time, Fay scoffs. “No thanks. Ambition? Eh, maybe. But cunning and the ability to live by word games? I’ll trip over my tongue way too much.”
Harry shrugs. “If you say so.”
“Besides, I thought you were going to Hufflepuff?”
“Well yeah,” Harry says as if it’s obvious. “But the Sett is in the basement and the Den in the dungeons, so we’d be close. Certainly closer than if you go to your tower house.”
Fay shrugs. “We’ll see.” This time she shoulder-checks him.
I remember talking about the cores of the houses, but here is something you must remember: Few things stay the way they were intended. A civil rights group can become a terrorist gang. A refuge can become a prison or an exclusive area. Protests can turn into mass violence. Houses made for the sake of sitting like-minded children under certain teachers can become cliques. A treaty for peace can lead to inability to properly prosecute criminals. A shelter for lost animals can become their final home.
Ambition became bigotry and cunning became manipulation. Daring became recklessness and Boldness became stubbornness. Kindness became weak-wills and acceptance became naivety. Curiosity became showing off and interest became strictness.
Red became Heroes, Green became Villains, Yellow became Afterthoughts and Blue became Tools.
These are not what the houses should be.
Thankfully, these are not quite what the graveyard siblings mean.
“Would it help to try looser hairstyles?”
Fay shakes her head. “No. I think- the hair thing is mine. Sure, the start was… that. But I like doing it. Even if no one else understands.”
“Alright,” Harry acquiesces easily. He knows his sister, but at their hearts, technically, they’re different people. Hearts really isn’t the right word here. Cores, perhaps? Yes, I think so. Fay and Harry are different people at their cores, and so Harry trusts Fay to choose what she thinks is best. Usually.
They are children. They can, have, and will make mistakes.
Thankfully, this isn’t one of them. Harry was correct earlier when he said recovery can’t be rushed, and this is him refusing to rush Fay’s.
After a few steps, Fay starts talking quietly again. “Do you think Dad would get me a knife?”
“Probably,” Harry says softly. He doesn’t waste much time before finishing what he’s thinking - like I said, he only trusts her most of the time. “He’d also probably enchant it so you can’t use it on yourself.”
“I wouldn’t!” Fay snaps, turning to glare. Her bow-braids flop with the movement. Harry raises an eyebrow at her, and neither trip on Number Seven’s driveway rock collection. Fay’s indignation drops, and she averts her eyes. “I know you can’t carve scars away.”
“Good,” Harry replies, tone as quiet as hers had been. They reach number nine not long after, and Harry waits until they’re crossing the road to continue. “I bet if you asked, Delphi would build you a glamour for while we’re at school.”
“I’m not planning on wearing anything low cut,” Fay says, blunt and honest. She doesn’t rub her chest, but she does link each of her hands around the opposite wrist.
Earlier, I told you about Harry’s physical scars. What they looked like, where they were, even if they weren’t visible. What I didn’t tell you is that his are far from the only scars among the residents of Ten Magnolia Drive. Vivian has a line across her right forearm and a bullet wound in her left leg. Regulus is missing his left arm from mid-upper-arm down, and you can find small scratches on most places of his body if you bother to look close enough. Reg is pale as all get-out, so his blend in the most. Caspian can discorporate on command or whenever he’s overwhelmed. Adrian’s scars are definitely the most benign, a mass of scar tissue on his leg from a sharp rock in highschool, and a deep line across his thumb from a scalpel slipping in college. And Fay’s is a twisting, ragged mess of scars across her ribcage, with a slash sideways on her stomach and the only straight line running from her bellybutton to the dip between her clavicles. The top of that one is the only one visible in most clothes.
“Okay,” Harry says. “If you change your mind, I’m sure she could use the incentive.”
“Okay.” Fay opens the front door with a flourish. “Cas! We’re home!”
While life as a whole is interesting, nothing else relevant happens until much later. Noctua the Greater Sooty Owl reaches the Dunbar-Black residence around one in the morning of July twenty-fifth. This may seem an odd time to you, but please think back to the owl lore I imparted upon you after the beginnings. Owls, especially properly bonded owls such as Noctua, will appear when convenient. In this case, that means she returns home at one A.M., entering through an upstairs window, to a child whose night took a nosedive.
Not that you can tell from the window there’s a child in the room. It’s the lone room on its side of the hallway, and instead of a teenager splayed despondently on the bed, there’s a roiling black miasma that covers the comforter and drips down to cover most of the floor.
This is, as I said, Caspian’s scar. He lives with a parasite chewing on his magic, unable to use it to the extent of an average wix, let alone his siblings. Sometimes he can’t pull together into a solid human being, though usually, he can shift on command. But this type of magic, the magic that runs through Regulus, Harry, Fay and Caspian’s viens? The type that fuels Delphi and Dora and Alicia? This is an emotional magic. Some wix gain renown for being able to control magic without a wand. Some people call this wandless, which is a Snake Name if I’ve ever heard one. In children, it’s called accidental.
In reality, it’s just wild. Structured magic is made with wands and rituals. It’s reliable, recreatable... the most scientific type of magic there is. Wild magic is made with movements, feelings and wishes. Both are good with the opportunity to be bad. Both can be learned through hard work. Wix can have affinities for either, and if they don’t like it they can learn the other.
Caspian will never learn structured magic, but he’s learnt enough wild magic to stop the parasite from killing him, as it would most others.
...I seem to have gone on a tangent. You should get used to it.
The point of explaining magic to you readers, whom I doubt have any of your own, is to explain that Caspian is simultaneously tied more and less to his magic than others you meet will be. A bad day for most can mean a few windows or cups shattering, maybe a small explosion. For Caspian, it means physicality takes more work than he has energy.
When Noctua enters the house, slipping through the open window with grace and a whirring, whistling noise that sounds like a bomb being dropped, Caspian shudders. It takes a few minutes, during which Noctua makes herself comfortable on the bedpost, for Caspian to pull himself together.
“Hey Nocts,” he says softly.
Noctua cheeps and moves to his shoulder. She does this for two reasons- the second is to make the letters more accessible. The first is so she can preen him. Caspian may be her owlet’s nestling, but he is her owlet too. Human connections can influence owl claims, but only if the owl allows it. If you believe Noctua is the type to allow it, you are severely mistaken and may be reading too fast. This is an owl who bonded herself to a wizard, instead of the other way around.
Noctua preens his dark hair as Caspian takes the letters off her foot and sorts through them.
There's one to Vivian from Amelia, and then three half-pages. One for Caspian, one for Vivian and Adrian, and one for Harry and Fay. These are from Regulus.
Caspian takes his, because he doesn't need to read his family's, and because Regulus has always been the best for calming him down. Vivian has always been the worst at it, just for the record.
Caspian,
Hey kiddo. Amy says you guys have been worrying. Don't let Viv and Rian psyche you out, I know what I’m doing.
Besides- nothing here is going to take off my other arm.
I might have just found a lead; yes, I know, I say that often, but I am usually right. Stay safe, don’t let the kids cause too many problems. I will be home in time for the dinner with Bones’, so I’ll see you soon.
I love you, Caspian.
Regulus Artcurus Black, Heir of The Most No-
-Regulus. <3
Caspian grins, a little wry and a lot sad, as he reads. It’s all good news, but what he really wants is for his dad to sit against the wall and tell him a story while he falls apart and pieces himself back together.
Anyone else in the household would do it, Harry had even offered before he went to bed, but they never have the same energy Regulus does.
Noctua keeps preening, telling him about her day in short cheeps and chirps, telling him about how well Regulus looks and how nice the old lady was. It doesn’t do much, mostly because Caspian doesn’t speak owl.
If Noctua absolutely needs to tell a story using words, it’s best for her to go find a snake to translate, since the wix in her home all speak parseltongue, which is the official wizarding name for snake language. Well, to be fair, Regulus speaks a couple magical beast-based languages, but he is a terrible translator. He’s too formal.
Caspian appreciates the effort anyway, and reaches up to try and pet Noctua’s back. His control slips halfway through, so instead he merely blows mist through her feathers, but she understands.
Caspian lays back and lets himself melt. Noctua cheeps again and picks at the mist where his shoulder used to be, before taking off with another high-pitched whistle. She narrowly pivots at the ceiling, and then dives towards the windowsill. She lands on it primly and turns her head the required three-hundred-and-sixty degrees to stare at Caspian. She cheeps again.
Caspian’s miasma tightens, not enough to form a human, but to form something humanoid, whose head-cloud tilts. Noctua chirps — quietly, because it’s dark and she’s smart — and then takes off out the window.
Caspian loses shape again and follows her.
It’s interesting, readers, how intelligent animals are. There’s a story I know, not related to this one, where a Guinea Pig reacted to her human-child’s distress. There are stories of dogs checking for breathing, and cats giving headbutts instead of hugs. There are military animals and there are therapy animals. Animals are not humans, but they can be intelligent despite that. Sometimes more than humans, sometimes less. This is one such scenario.
Noctua has spent seven years living in this household, and nine years taking care of Regulus. She knows how to help her owlets and nestlings.
Since she does not have the vocal range to tell Caspian stories, she’ll take him flying until it takes more effort to remain mist on the wind than it does to be solid.
Regulus Black does return around nine the same morning, but before that I have to take you back to another country. Remember Scotland and the castle? Yes, I need you back there.
This is Hogwarts Castle. You'll know well of its existence by now. And you have heard of, if not seen, Minerva McGonagall's existence.
She is a teacher, the head of Gryffindor house, and deputy headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Old and Scottish, her face is lined but her hair is still black. Wixen age much slower; Minerva is sixty-five, and only her wrinkles give it away.
Inside the castle, Minerva has woken up, dressed herself in smart green robes, eaten breakfast, and set up to check letters and build attendance lists.
...I mentioned that yesterday was The Calm Before The Storm.
Today, The Storm Is Brewing.
Minerva lays out the letters and adds the seven names in alphabetical order to the longer parchment she already has. She cross references this with two other lists, one from the Book of Names and one with annotations for MCPS. Unlike many other stories, when she comes upon Harry and Connor’s acceptance letters, she isn’t surprised at all. This isn’t because she’s part of a conspiracy to dispose of Harry, or because she’s a seer, but rather because she is Minerva McGonagall, one of the few reasonable and functional adults these kids will have access to. Which, I’ll admit, is a convoluted way of saying she works with Magical Child Protective Services and has already met Harry in the years since the Godric’s Hollow disaster.
Minerva finishes, and then because Lily Evans and James Potter were some of her favorite students, she writes a letter of her own.
Dear Lily and James;
I am looking forward to teaching your boys. Please make sure they both know I expect excellence; a few years among muggles cannot dampen magical prowess and I will be disappointed if he pretends it does.
Sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts
It's not a long letter. Not one sent with the intent to cause panic. Not one sent to show off that Minerva knows more than the Potters. It's just a short, friendly missive to former students and teammates. She doesn’t remember that the Potters don’t know, or even know that herself. She’s not the MCPS Department Head. Her letter is meant to be teasing and friendly, not ominous enough to shatter family bonds.
Minerva takes it out of her office, down a few floors, and then to the outer tower that houses the owlery. She sends it with an unbonded school owl, and doesn't think any more on it.
On her way back to the castle she runs into Rubeus Hagrid, the Groundskeeper. He has bowtruckles - twig creatures - in his hair, which is bushy and long and grows into his brown beard.
"Good mornin' ‘Nerva!"
"Good morning, Rubeus," Minerva says, slowing her walk. "How are the Acromantula hatchlings?"
Rubeus Hagrid, whom I will be calling Rubeus despite most calling him Hagrid, grins, wide and bright. He towers nearly three feet over Minerva, who is herself five feet and nine inches tall. "They're coming along great! Largest set of survivors so far. Aragog is so proud." It's a project from when they were in school together, nearly fifty years ago. Minerva and Rubeus were Gryffindors, although she was a few years ahead of him. Aragog is the first of their Acromantulas, and the leader of this group.
"Oh do pass on my congratulations," Minerva says lightly. "And Mosag is doing well?"
"Laying eggs doesn't do much to 'er," Rubeus says. "Biggest issue is that she's getting old. I think they'll just have to dote on grandkids next year." Mosag is, of course, Aragog’s mate. Luckily they don’t breed like black widows.
Minerva, who has a few grandchildren of her own, understands the sentiment. "They’ll get more freedom that way, not having to deal with as many tantrums.”
Rubeus hums. “They’ll all be living together, though.”
"I suppose that's true." Minerva changes direction, so instead of going to the castle she was going towards the hut on the grounds. This is where Rubeus lives, and has since he stopped being a student. "Do you think you'll have time for another visit this month?"
"Ah course!" Rubeus says cheerily. "Any idea what time works best for 'em?"
Minerva purses her lips. "I think he'll be another of the bad ones," she admits. "Probably a Slytherin or Hufflepuff."
"Pink and blue for the cake, then?"
Minerva smiles, glancing over at her friend. "Yes. Perhaps some orange or silver too."
"I'll make sure they're good and ready," he promises.
“Thank you. Do you want Regulus’ notes before you go, or compare after?” “I think only triggers first,” Rubeus says, as usual. He has long since grown out of letting others do his thinking for him, especially when it comes to children.
Connor Potter is eating a late breakfast when the Hogwarts owl knocks on the window. Obviously, this confuses him. He already has his Hogwarts letter.
This isn’t an official letter, as I hope you guessed.
Lily picks the letter up and opens it, leaning on the kitchen counter as she reads.
Now. You don't know everything that's happened. I do, but I'm a Narrator and therefore get special privileges. What I'm trying to say here, is that while Lily has some information you don't, you also have some information she doesn't.
Such as knowing Harry's general health status and residence.
Right about now is when Lily realizes that Harry has magic.
You're welcome.
[Cathy-]
[Sally, I’m working.]
Lily does not do too well with this information. Not because she doesn't want him to be, but rather because it means she has missed many events she didn't need to, and that her sister has been lying for years.
"Mum?" Connor asks, watching as Lily's face goes pale, the hand holding the letter beginning to shake. "What happened?"
Connor feels usease growing, although for a different reason than Lily's. His dad is an auror, and there's always the chance of something going wrong. This is where his thoughts go, instead.
Lily shakes her head loosely, only peripherally noticing her older son. "It's- there's- McGonagall said-" she takes a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. "I need to go."
Connor lunges away from the table and wraps a hand around his mom's wrist before she can apparate.
Apparition in the Wizarding world is not a term used to refer to spectres, but rather a method of transportation. Among whom I believe you readers are, the concept is easier explained as personal teleportation.
Lily twists on her heel, dragging Connor with her as she pops out of their home in Somerset and over to Surrey, which is just southwest of London.
"Mum, what happened?!"
“It’s your brother,” Lily says breathlessly.
Connor freezes for a moment as Lily keeps walking down the street. “Hadrian?”
“Yeah,” Lily agrees.
Lily knows this neighborhood. She has been here four times before, once ten years ago, twice seven years ago, once three years ago, and doesn’t stumble as she walks through the area towards Number Four, Privet Drive. Connor doesn’t know the area, but he follows Lily as she storms through the place.
“What’s- you don’t usually get letters.” Connor’s voice is small and unusually anxious. “It’s normally feelings, right?”
“Yes,” Lily agrees. “It’s-” she sighs. “I don’t think he’s in danger, Connor.”
“What was the letter?”
“He’s been accepted at Hogwarts.”
It takes a couple of minutes for Connor to parse through to what that sentence means and why it's causing panic, in which they reach the house in question. Privet Drive doesn’t contrast Magnolia Crescent much, but it does have its differences. One of which is that instead of being full of people who personalize their cookie-cutter houses, Privet Drive Residents would rather match. The street is full of brown townhouses that share walls with each other’s garages, instead of the white and black singular houses found across Wisteria Way.
“Oh,” Connor says numbly. Hogwarts accepts magicals only, and as I said, often the prestigious ones. He looks at his mum as she knocks. “Does that mean I can meet him?” Connor's voice is as faint as Lily’s when he asks.
“Yes, you should,” Lily agrees. She knocks again, less sharp and more forceful, pounding.
Connor feels some mix of elation and lingering nervousness, although now it doesn’t carry as apocalyptic of a feel. He’s heard of Hadrian, seen baby pictures from before Lily and James sent him away. Connor can’t remember ever hearing Hadrian’s voice, though, because he hasn’t. Hadrian hadn’t learned to speak fully before they were separated. Connor is glad his mum cleared it up though- it’s much less taxing to be anxious about a new person than it is to be anxious about one you already know dying.
The door opens and then slams in their faces.
Lily frowns and raps again, harder.
Inside, Vernon Dursley fumes. He, like his son, is extremely obese, and more bad tempered than he is heavy. “Pet! Your freak of a sister is here!”
Petunia Dursley skitters out of the kitchen, eyes wide. Her thoughts all carry to the tune of ‘What did the freak boy do now?’ Petunia is blonde, like her son and husband, although hers is dirty enough to almost be brown. Her neck is long, and her face narrow: it’s a sharp contrast indeed, for Petunia is underweight and tightly controlled where her family is obese and impulsively emotional. “I’ve got it. Take Dudders out the back.” This order comes for a few reasons, one is that she doesn’t want her precious son to be exposed to magic, and the second is because her son would be the first to expose their lies.
When Petunia opens the door, she smiles tightly. “Honestly Lily, you’re such a worrywart.”
“You didn’t tell me!” Lily snaps, in no mood for niceties.
“Excuse me?” Petunia asks, panic shooting through her. There are rather a lot of things she hasn’t told her sister.
“Where is my son?” Lily says instead, pushing her way inside the quaint home. Connor follows, and he cases the place first, looking for signs of his little brother. The issue is he doesn’t see any. All the picture frames, of which there are a lot, only include the Dursleys and family on Vernon’s side. Connor doesn’t know these people, but he knows his brother will have dark skin, even if he dyed his hair as he grew up.
There are no pictures that fit that description.
Lily notices the same thing faster, when she looks around a minute later.
“He’s- out at friends,” Petunia says shakily. “Why?”
Lily turns a glare on her. “Hogwarts just owled me,” she says venomously. “Hadrian is magical. So where is my son?”
“You gave him away!” Petunia snaps back. “He’s not yours anymore.”
“I thought he would live better without being teased by magic!” Lily snaps. “You were always jealous, Tuney, don’t try to deny it.”
“So you’d rather give us a blight on our household?”
As the sisters keep fighting, Connor looks around more. There are video games, but they’re all either in poor shape or very new. There’s trash on the floor and the couch looks overused. He slips away and into the kitchen, which is pristine apart from the half-eaten snacks on the table. The cupboard under the stairs has locks, which Connor finds weird, because they’re old, but they obviously lock on the outside and are opened with a key from inside. They look like a terrible child-proofing technique. He’s pretty sure muggles know better.
“I visited! Why didn’t you just tell me then?”
“It was more worth it to keep the kid and get the money,” Petunia sneers behind him.
Connor makes a face at her greed, as it reminds him of some of his least favorite society adults. He sneaks up the stairs next, which isn’t any more helpful than the downstairs. There are four bedrooms, one which is full of, forgive my language, trash and crap. Unbeknownst to Connor, this is Dudley’s second bedroom, where he keeps all of his unnecessary possessions that cannot fit in his main bedroom. Connor moves on. The next is Dudley’s main bedroom, which is a mess but includes clothes and a bed. Then he finds the master bedroom, and the guest room.
Connor very quickly realizes either his brother is a terrible slob, or isn’t living here. The prospect causes fresh terror to rise in his gut. If Hadrian isn’t here, where is he?
Connor takes the stairs back down two at a time, and pauses to look at his mum and aunt.
“You make no sense!” Lily spits. “Vernon is always bragging about how much he makes; you should have just sent Hadrian back!”
“I couldn’t!” Petunia snarls.
“Whyever not?” Lily rolls her eyes as she scoffs.
“I killed him!” Petunia shrieks.
I killed him.
The words echo around the house.
Connor trips on the last step.
Lily takes a breath, eyes wide, breathing shallow, ears ringing.
It doesn’t change what she heard.
Despite appearances, or assumptions I may have given you earlier, Lily Potter loves her children. She can, has, and will die for them. It’s obvious, then, that hearing this is wounding.
Another breath, wherein Petunia covers her mouth in horror and Lily nearly shuts down. She would have, grief overpowering anger, if Connor hadn’t gasped. The sound yanks Lily out of her spiral, and she turns away from her sister and to her son. Her bright eyes are wet as she reaches out and drags him to her. Her mind is reeling. Every time she visited, pulled by panic, pain, and a bond she still doesn’t understand, Petunia insisted that Hadrian had no magic. Petunia refused to let Lily ever see Hadrian.
She very sharply regrets ever listening to Petunia’s demands, even on their logical days.
It makes some sense that Hadrian is dead, and yet makes none at all. Lily has felt him. She needs more information, to find out how and why her rituals failed, she needs- Lily needs to mourn and think and- something doesn’t add up here.
It will, reader, but not yet.
She drops a kiss on Connor’s crown, trying to comfort him while reassuring herself that at least one of her children is definitely alive. After a moment, her thoughts return to Petunia. She is not discussing infanticide with the victim’s brother in the room. “I think there’s a park down the road,” she whispers into his hair. “Go over there, I’ll-” she pauses when her voice cracks, and presses her wand into his hand. “-pick you up later. After I figure this out.” And she will, eventually. Lily prays that this will be like the time before, even as she knows the chances are terribly low.
Petunia should hope she gave Lily's son a proper funeral.
Connor gives her back her wand, flashing his own, which he snuck into his pocket before breakfast.
Lily nods and then stands up, turning to look at her sister. It’s not quite a glare, but it is heavy with betrayal and intent to receive answers. The unnaturally bright color only thickens the atmosphere. That storm I mentioned?
It’s here.
Connor takes a step towards the door when she lets go. He’s not crying yet, just breathing heavily, but that will happen later, once it sinks in. See, Connor has heard of his brother. When his parents are feeling nostalgic, or when the Weasley twins do something ridiculous, Hadrian is mentioned occasionally. But most often? Most often, which luckily wasn’t all that often, Connor heard about his brother during late nights or dark days in the basement, when his mom wrote runes and chanted and probably broke the law - sometimes she would talk about him. But Connor has never considered him actually dying. Getting hurt, sure. Glowing eyes and flowing blood had given that impression plenty when he was young. But he has never considered death as a possibility.
Connor closes the front door behind him, and stays there for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut. The tears have started now, and then his aunt is talking again, and he can't make out the words but he doesn't like the tone. He clenches his fists and starts walking down the unfamiliar road, completely lost within minutes.
Now, earlier that day, around nine o’clock I’d say, Adrian Dunbar floos into Amelia Bones’ office within the Ministry of Magic. Floo travel is… well it’s not hard to explain the action but I consider the name disingenuous: it’s derived from the Flue Chamber in a fireplace, which is the inside of a chimney. Nominally it makes sense, however floo travel works by sucking the traveler down into the flames, not up like a Santa Claus ripoff. The Floo Network is a series of magical fireplaces across the world, and since they are imbued with magic when they’re built, one does not need a magical core to travel among them.
“Good morning,” Amelia says warmly as he stumbles out of her person-sized fireplace. Adrian has not mastered magical travel, even this many years later. It could be due to his lack of magical core, or he could simply not have the best equilibrium. Personally, I advocate the latter, because even wixen aren’t perfect- indeed, many stumble whilst they travel.
“Good morning, Amelia,” Adrian says, grinning. He has a bag of medical basics thrown over his shoulder, and his hair is tied behind his head per the usual.
“You remember how to get there?”
“Yep.” By which he means ‘Probably, so long as the hallways don’t move.’ It’s a valid concern in magical buildings - his own house does it.
“Good luck, then,” Amelia bids, opening her office door. “Lift’s on the east side today.”
“Of course it is.” Adrian rolls his eyes. He’s not sure why magic is allergic to being coherent. “Can I use the floo again for lunch?”
“Certainly.” Amelia doesn’t add a clause about not messing with her stuff, because Adrian isn’t the type. “I might not be here though.”
“Alright.” Adrian bids her farewell and heads into the hallway and bullpen, crossing to the lift. He waves to James Potter on the way, who grins back since his hands are busy trying to wrangle on the red overobe that is his department’s uniform. They're not friends, but they're both friend ly enough to smile at strangers in the mornings. James doesn’t know Adrian, he barely sees Adrian and has no reason to note his existence beyond the Sunshine Person he sees every now and then. Adrian does know James, most people do for some reason or other, but Adrian knows him because Regulus had a dart board with his face for six months. It was taken down after Reg got custody of Harry. Adrian doesn’t really care about James’ existence - people change, gossip is rampant, and he’s never had to interact with the man personally. He is also unaware of Noctua’s vendetta, but to be fair not even Regulus knows about Noctua’s vendetta. That is simply a Noctua thing.
Otherwise, nothing important happens as he delves into the bowels of the Ministry, down the lift and through ill-lit hallways towards a spinning entryway. The Department of Mysteries, where he's working today, is a giant circle, magically enhanced to connect everyone inside to everything inside.
Adrian has to stop and stare when he leaves the circular entryway and enters the Death Chamber.
The next room is… heavy. That's the first word to come to mind. As Heavy as the hospital when his kid was dying or his morgue when it’s full. Heavy like an unsolved murder, or a fresh crime scene. Like Vivian’s tone when talking about her family. Like the little notebook no one wants to open. Heavy like a funeral, like a memorial, like the sudden, crushing reminder of how terrible humankind can be.
Heavy like its namesake.
“What room are you looking for?” The comment rips him out of his thoughts. Adrian jumps, turning quickly to the speaker. She’s got Black Family silver eyes, but it takes Adrian a minute to recognize them between the different shape and the darker skin tone. Her black hair is dry and messy, bundled on top of her head. Her green earrings are the only color visible around the grey shroud that qualifies as an Unspeakable Uniform.
“Entropy, inside the Death Room.”
She nods, a sort of bobbling movement that reminds Adrian of the teenagers he’s raised. She’s young. “That’s this way, Itzcalli’s in there today.” She starts walking around the large, odd room, and Adrian follows. He’s never been inside this area of the Ministry of Magic, which I forgot to explain, but is a government building hidden under London proper and sprawls beyond physical capabilities. They only got clearance to let him look at bodies from magical cases two years ago, and those few are usually delivered to the muggle building. This is a special case, including a decomposition spell that could only be slowed by bringing the bodies here.
Adrian noticed as soon as he walked through the door to this department why the spell was halted. The entire room feels like a graveyard, something mournful and heavy that presses upon him. Morgues have a similar feeling, but this is stronger, somehow. It looks like a stone stadium, bigger than his house that slants down to a podium and an archway with a black veil, the thin fabric being blown by wind Adrian can’t properly feel.
He stays very far away from that one, for more reasons than the overwhelming anxiety that rears in his chest when he looks at it for too long.
"How do they design the departments?"
She turns around, walking backwards around the high bench. "It's a circle," she says, gesturing. "So Entropy is the room between Time and Death, and Grief connects me to Love. I have rooms for Thought and Space too, but they don't connect physically. Limerence connects Love and Thought, and Dimension bridges Thought and Space. On the other side is Travel, which connects Space back to Time."
"There were twelve doors, though?"
She grins. "And only five of those connect. If Entropy could be accessed straight from the entry, you wouldn't be here." She sounds exceedingly smug.
Adrian nodded, admitting her point. They reach another pathway up and down the stadium, and the Unspeakable turns upwards. “I’m guessing the other rooms are classified?”
“Yep. Some of them do loop in here though, and if you take that door-” she points at the next pathway over, directly opposite the door he entered through. “You’ll find yourself in Thought, and the one beside it loops into Space.”
Adrian huffs exasperatedly. “Magical blueprints must be murder to read.”
His guide laughs, even as she turns away to enter the right doorway. “Unspeakable Medina,” she calls, still smothering laughter. “Doctor Dunbar is here, from the DMLE.”
“I’m not actually from the DMLE,” Adrian cuts in a little awkwardly, but the humor from before keeps him going. He has worked with wixen enough to not be exceedingly anxious, but had he not already made a friend he would be much more nervous. Not all wixen are open to working with muggles - it’s a concept that’s caused Regulus much stress, especially as he can’t shadow Adrian everywhere as he can with Vivian.
...Not sure if I’ve mentioned it yet, but that’s what non-magical people are called, muggles; they’re generally never told about magic, and less likely to work with it. Of course, being told does not necessarily equate to knowing that magic is real, but that’s a rather large debate for another time.
Adrian spares a moment to wonder how she knew his name, before remembering that the Ministry gives out name tags to visitors. His today says Dr. Dunbar, DMLE investigation, which is probably why his guide assumed that was where he was from. Sadly, proper Ministry workers don't do the same, so he can't use that to learn her name.
"Hello." He says, catching up to his friend and waving towards the next witch.
The Unspeakable looks up from the papers on the dissection table to smile at him. She too is shrouded in grey, but she has bright yellow ribbons tied through her hair and dark brown eyes. Itzcalli Medina is Hispanic, compassionate, and tired. The Death room isn't her usual area of expertise - out of the five 'workshops' in the Department of Mysteries Itzcalli usually works in Love. She, like many Unspeakables, is willing to work with many types of magic, and has worked before with Adrian's guide to find connections between life, love, and those who escape death.
"Morning," she greets. "You're the muggle contact?"
"Yes," Adrian says, not missing how his guide's eyes widen as she does a double take. "Adrian Dunbar." She doesn’t seem upset, just curious.
“Be careful who you give your name to,” she says, tone a little sharp but- she’s not adverse to Adrian being here, she’s worried about him.
Adrian glances back at her, working through the possible insult to find the advice buried in it, and he smiles wryly. “Telling and giving are different things.”
Both Unspeakables relax at this. His friend smiles wryly in return, and then turns to Itzcalli. “You don’t need me here, right?”
“Nah,” Itzcalli shakes her head. “They assigned us Devon for this one.”
Adrian’s guide makes a face. “Good luck with that.” She steps back and waves lightly. “It was nice meeting you, Doctor Dunbar. See you at lunch, Calli.”
“You as well.” Adrian waves.
“You better!” Itzcalli calls after her as she descends the stadium steps again. Itzcalli turns back to Adrian. Merely looking at her exhausted smile makes his body ache, but he’s inordinately excited. Guessing by Itzcalli’s lack of movement, though, he’ll have to wait to start.
“Which room is hers?” Adrian asks to fill the time.
Itzcalli hums, following Adrian’s pointing. “She works in the Death Chamber. Her desk is by the veil.” Itzcalli shivers. “I went to pick her up in person once, and it was terrible. Now I just send her a Patronus when I need her.”
“It is… heavy, around here,” Adrian agrees, looking around the Entropy room.
Itzcalli smiles without humor. “Death is heavy, Doctor Dunbar.”
Adrian pretends he believes her without exception. “Of course it is.”
Itzcalli blows nonexistent hair out of her eyes. “C’mon, we have an extra pair of robes somewhere here that you can use.”
“I brought scrubs.”
Itzcalli gives him a look. “I know what those are because I’m muggleborn,” she says steadfastly, “So trust me when I say that Unspeakable robes are way better. For one thing, they absorb curses.”
“Do you get cursed often around here?”
Itzcalli laughs, back to him as she walks the length of the combined office-morgue-and-mini-department. “Way more than you think. Most of it comes off objects we’re studying, but there have been inter-department murder attempts.”
Adrian does a double take. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish,” Itzcalli says fervently, looking back over her shoulder to make a face. “The aurors can’t even do much about it because the point of Unspeakables is we can only discuss work in the Department.”
“Is that going to affect me too?”
Itzcalli pauses, and looks back at him from her position- climbing a wall? He’s not sure what she’s up to. Neither am I, honestly. “Good question. The Unspeakable oaths bind to a magical core, but you don’t have one - unless you do, and it’s just too small to use?” she hums. “I’m going to look into that sometime.” She drops from the ceiling, a silver robe thrown over her arm. “Ta-da! Enchanted against Time Sand, Light and Dark Curses, Compulsions, Portkeys, Blood, and more!”
Adrian shrugs it on with a smile. “I appreciate it.”
Itzcalli gives him a searching look. “You’ve dealt with nonhumans before, haven’t you?” Adrian shrugs a vague yes, and Itzcalli drops the subject. “Anyway. Devon’s late, which is a little surprising because he’s a pedantic jerk but then again he’s working with me, so.” She rolls her eyes, but the annoyance is quickly buried under a smile that promises chaos. “Wanna get a headstart on the case?”
“Sure. Where are the bodies?” Adrian’s grin doesn’t quite match, but he is excited.
“Right-” Itzcalli spins, the yellow in her hair contrasting the dark decor. She stops for a second to orient in an unusual room, and then points. “this way!” Adrian laughs a little and follows her towards the opposite wall, which now that he looks is made of cold lockers.
The labels on the lockers are parchment, and the cabinets are some pale stone that steals light. Everything here seems old, and as Adrian reads the tags he sees it’s not just a feeling. “How old is this Department?” Adrian asks, not looking away from the tag. M. E. Warren, 1943. That was before he was born.
“As old as the Ministry itself.”
Itzcalli and Adrian jump at the new voice. There’s a man with dark skin, light eyes, and dreadlocks leaning against the doorframe from Time’s side of the room. He has a necklace featuring the rune Dagaz over his robes, the silver only visible because it shines. Lighting in the department comes from enchanted sconces set along the ceiling - considering how large the main Death Chamber is, it's no wonder the lighting matches the atmosphere.
“Morning, Devon.”
“Medina,” he returns, his smile obviously fake. Adrian takes a moment to brood about being in the middle of two fighting wixen, and then he shrugs. Adrian’s here for science, and he’ll deal with the people in the middle. He knows Itzcalli isn’t bad, and Devon might not be either.
"You're the muggle?" Isaac Devon asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Adrian Dunbar," he offers the name without a hand.
Devon's smile is slight and hard, but he moves on anyway, pushing off the wall to point out the right locker. "The body's over here."
Itzcalli is already standing at the locker in question, and she re-
Okay, seriously? This is important information, but I'm sensing rather a lot of disinterest. Why?
Oh.
...is that the problem? I suppose I did leave you in an emotionally charged moment earlier, but I am trying to get through all the important bits.
You don’t care. Alright, my apologies. I’ll take you back. We were with Connor, right? Yes, we were. He’s walking through the neighborhood cluster that contains Magnolia Crescent, Privet Drive, and Wisteria Way. And he’s crying, because- well if you forgot why he’s crying I do have to wonder how many of these words you’re actually reading.
Now, it takes Connor a little while to find a park, turning corners and crossing roads as he tangles himself deeper into the suburban jungle. Despite getting terribly lost, he does find the park, so it’s probably okay.
Oh, who is he kidding?
Nothing about this is ‘okay.’
Connor has heard of his brother, but it’s always been assumed that Hadrian was alive, just somewhere else. He had assumed there was a chance, you know? If he spent enough time in the muggle world, if he asked the right questions, he could see his brother. They could go out for lunch someday. He had never been prepared for this. How could he have?
Hadrian was sent away for safety reasons - although really they should have kept him longer to ensure he didn’t end up like Caspian - and Connor grew up watching Lily work to ensure he stayed safe, far away from their painfully-in-the-spotlight family. Connor thought Hadrian was safe. He had been told Hadrian was safe.
How could this have come from that? How could he- do you understand how terrible it is, to hear of the death of someone you could have been close to, without any idea of when you lost that chance? How he died? Why he was killed?
Although, Connor supposes as he crumples under a large willow, that there is no ‘why’ good enough to justify killing anyone, especially a child. Connor hides his face in his knees, but he can’t disguise his shaking breath. How could his Aunt do that? And then lie, maybe for years?
How could she live with the guilt?
“Hey,” someone says, and the words are accompanied by the sounds of someone sitting down beside him.
Connor is… really, really not in the mood for strangers today.
“Are you okay?”
It’s… not the question Connor expects to be asked, but he accepts it anyway. He doesn’t look up, but he shakes his head.
“Do you wanna talk about it?”
To a stranger? No, he doesn’t. Connor shakes his head again.
“Okay.”
Beside him is the subject of his thoughts. Harry leans back on his hands, ankles crossed as he gives his companion some quiet company. Ian is happily in a sandbox, and Harry lets his eyes wander to him instead.
The Magnolia Crescent park is nearly deserted today, so Harry noticed the moment the other kid arrived. Harry hasn't figured out who he’s sitting beside yet, but to be fair neither has Connor.
What Harry has figured out is that the newcomer is crying, and even if he won't talk about it, Harry has found that most of his resident family enjoys commiseration or someone else telling a story while they cry.
In his family, it’s usually a story; after a few minutes of commiseration, Harry begins to speak. “Ian’s new too,” he starts, still mostly watching the toddler even as he glances at Connor. He's never seen Connor before, but he knows most of the neighborhood kids by face if not name. “We’re not sure how long he’ll be staying; my aunt was going to look into it today, actually.”
Connor does look up then, because until now he hadn’t noticed the park’s third occupant. He finds Ian quickly, and then buries his head again.
“We don’t usually get our hopes up for permanent placements,” Harry explains. “I think we’ve had four, outside of Fay, Cas, and I, since I joined. Although I guess Fay isn’t really a permanent placement, since she’s a bio kid.” He shrugs. “The foster system is a mess of semantics.”
Connor snorts. He didn’t see any other kids, so he has no idea who his companion is talking about, but most of his attention is drawn by ‘foster system’. This isn’t something Connor knows, considering he’s ten and has never needed that type of knowledge.
“Foster system?” Connor asks, unknowingly the first words he ever says to his little brother.
“Yep!” Harry says. “I’ve lived here nearly all my life, but I was in Privet Drive for the first few years, up ‘till I was four. Then someone actually noticed that the aunt and uncle weren’t fit for custody and my other uncle took me in instead. Uncle Reg’s a certified foster parent, which is how he got custody in the first place. Now I live here with him, Cas, and the Dunbars.”
“Huh,” Connor says, parsing through the information. He still doesn’t know what most of it means. Harry stops talking, sensing Connor’s focus waning. “What do foster parents do?”
“Foster parents take in other people’s kids, sometimes as part of a family arrangement, and sometimes so that kids with bad families can be somewhere safe. It’s not a perfect system,” Harry looks up at the trees. “But it’s got a good heart.”
Connor snorts. An imperfect system with a good heart sounds like society, he thinks.
“Sounds useful,” he says instead. “How do they find out who has bad families?” The question is pointed, but not because he’s really mad at his companion. He’s wishing someone had used it to save his brother. He hasn’t yet realized they did.
“Reports of suspicious behaviours,” Harry says. “That’s where it tends to go wrong. The clever ones can fool investigators.”
Connor hums, and Harry lets silence reign as Connor’s thoughts chase each other around his head. Connor wipes his tears and sets his head on his knees, instead of in them. “Why did you come over here?”
Harry doesn’t look down, watching leaves move instead. “I don’t like letting people cry alone.”
It’s a nicer answer than Connor had been expecting. He dreads the day he’ll have to personally deal with good liars; up till now, other children have often admitted eventually that they were sent by parents. “Oh.”
Harry doesn’t respond.
Connor looks over and his heart skips a beat. Harry’s marked cheek is on the right side, which is away from Connor, but the resemblance is there anyway, especially because Connor has been thinking about it recently. “What’s your name?” he asks, not noticing how his voice has gone light and teary suddenly.
Harry’s head snaps over at the tone change, and Connor gets to watch as Harry recognizes him in return. Harry’s eyes, a dark green that doesn’t match their mother’s but could have once, widen, and he blinks once.
“Harry Potter,” Harry says, composure slipping. “Er- Hadrian; both are true. You’re-?”
“Connor,” Connor says.
They take a moment, both of them, to examine the other and compare to themselves. Harry’s hair is longer, but it’s tied into a bun that reminds Connor of someone from his dad’s school photos. Connor’s is short and wild, not an afro but something of the same effect. They each got one parent’s eyes. Connor finds his eyes drawn again to the lightning scar, the one he’s only seen once, in a final family photo before they split. He thought it was black from infection then. It’s still black though, so he assumes his hypothesis was wrong.
“Your scar never healed,” Connor finds himself saying absently, reaching up until his fingers nearly brush it. He doesn't, though, too scared he'll vanish the apparition.
“Neither did yours,” Harry responds, staring at the oddly pink mark. He doesn't reach out. This isn’t quite as weird for him as it is for Connor, because Harry occasionally reads the newspapers, and Connor has occasionally been in them.
“Curse marks don’t,” Connor shrugs. “I-” he gestures helplessly, chest tight even as the rest of him feels oddly floaty. “I thought yours would have.”
Harry shrugs in return, a little awkwardly but his voice is falsely casual when he speaks. “Some things just have to leave a mark, I guess.”
The twins are quiet, eyes intent.
"How are you here?" Connor asks, in the same breath Harry begins.
"What are you doing here?"
"You first," Connor says.
Harry acquiesces. "Like I said, I live here. Why are you here?"
Connor is quiet, feeling his heart climb up into his throat at the reminder.
"Connor?" Harry asks, picking up on the sudden dropping mood.
Connor searches Harry's face again, a little desperately, and then he closes his eyes, because he can't say this to Harry's face. "We came to visit my aunt," Connor says, trying to line up the facts in front of him. It doesn’t work. "Mum and I were supposed to pick up my little brother."
Harry watches the pain on Connor's face and hides a wince. "Did they say he didn't want to come with you?"
"No. They said he's dead."
"Petunia said what?" He spits, and Connor jolts, eyes snapping open, because the vitriol is so removed from the tranquil atmosphere that it sets his heart racing again.
He watches his enraged brother, and thinks of the row from earlier. He swallows. "I don't think she meant to tell mum. She sort of yelled it as they were fighting."
Harry buries his face in his hands. "Oh, I despise her."
Connor watches. Things are, again, not adding up. Or… not again. They have yet to make sense to Connor. "How are you not dead?"
Harry peeks around his fingers, unwilling to spit out the entire story; "It's… a long story."
"Sounds like our lives," Connor says with a snort.
Harry has to agree to that. It really does. "Do you know what resuscitation is?"
"No," Connor admits. He feels a bit like an idiot, having to ask so many questions, even though he shouldn't. Growing up is about learning the world, and he and Harry grew up differently.
"When a heart stops, or a person dies, it's possible to restart the heart if someone does it right. And if you keep blood flowing, then there's not as much damage when the healers actually wake them up. At least, that's how it was explained to me. Not sure what gets damaged, because you still have to heal, but-" Harry shrugs, dropping his hands from their earlier gesticulating.
"They can just- bring you back to life?"
"Yes but no? It only works if you do it right away."
Connor hums. "Someone brought you back."
"I came back," Harry confirms. "Any other questions?"
Connor stares hungrily instead of answering. He can't think of any right now, but he feels a question bubbling under his ribs, more than one maybe, unformed but yearning.
Harry lets him, but his own focus is on how improbable this is. He had… planned, in a sense, how he was going to go about dealing with the issue of having a twin brother when they met at Hogwarts, with differing plans based on their house layouts.
This meeting nicely crashes through those plans, chews up the rubble, and makes soup.
And that is assuming this isn't a particularly creative and clever plot to kidnap him or get information, but Harry is ten and doesn't think that highly of himself.
"Not yet," Connor finally admits.
"Ri!" Ian shrieks, making his presence known again in the sandbox. "House!"
Harry glances away from Connor to see what Ian means. He shifts, and smiles when he notices the mounds. "It's a very nice house, Ian."
Ian grins and goes back to building.
“Who’s that?” Connor asks.
“Ian,” Harry answers. “He’s been here two days.”
Connor hums.
The silence stretches, and Connor hates it. Harry can’t see his discomfort, but he can tell anyway. He prepares to stand and kill it, but Connor speaks first.
“How did you-“ He sighs, looking at the sky. “Are you sure you’re okay? She can’t hurt you again?” She can’t kill you again, Connor doesn’t say.
“Yes,” Harry promises, settling down and threading his fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. “Never again.”
Connor watches, and then nods. “Good.”
Harry smiles weakly, but this conversation makes him uncomfortable and now that he has his brother he wants to think of something else.
Connor eyes him as he falls silent, and kind of wants to pry, but this is the first time he remembers meeting his brother, ever, and he knows most people don’t spill their guts right away. He’s not going to mention his random childhood coma or other drama, and he’s not even sure he wants to hear the story behind Harry’s short death. It’s terrifying enough as a concept.
The silence reigns until Harry comes up with a question, random as it is. “This is weird. How do I know you’re even the real Connor Potter?”
Connor snorts, because while many people have asked in awe if he was ‘really Connor Potter?!’ they’ve never needed confirmation. The scar on his forehead has always been enough. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Harry doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have a set caper that would require this, and he doesn’t feel like it’s needed, either. Harry shrugs instead, because he already said it. “I’ll figure it out,” he says languidly.
Connor raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. And how do I know you’re the real Hadrian Potter?” He… hasn’t considered this possibility yet, but since Harry suggested it, Connor feels paranoia clinging to his skull.
Harry shrugs. “I’m alive?” Connor snorts, but he quiets down quickly. Harry looks at him, concern and worry climbing his chest. He meant it as a joke, something instinctual that brought livelihood back to their dead conversation. Not to actually worry Connor. “Here,” he pulls his library card out of his pocket. “I haven’t kept my school IDs with me,” he admits, “But it counts, I think.”
Connor looks at the card like he doesn’t know what to do with it. He doesn’t, for a moment, and then Connor recognizes enough pieces of the design to realize what it is. “Oh! I don’t have mine,” Connor admits. “We don’t go often.”
“I go all the time.”
“Cool.” Connor shrugs. “Is there a good one around here?”
“Yeah,” Harry says. “There’s not a true magical section, but it’s got a lot of good fantasy-fiction.”
“Cool.”
"What's your favorite book?" Harry asks before the awkwardness can take over.
Connor stops to think. "I'd go with the Big Friendly Giant, probably. Yours?"
"Alice In Wonderland by Lewis Caroll."
Connor squints. "Isn't that an adult book?"
Harry snorts, but he acquiesces too. "I needed help reading it the first few times," he admits. "But I know what most of the words mean now, and it's a fantastic universe. Lots of wordplay."
“Yeah? Like what?”
And then Harry is smiling, excitement unhindered, as he explains his favorite parts and the metaphors that took him the longest to get. Connor watches, and he thinks honestly that this is what Ron means when he talks about Ginny's love for espionage. It's something Ron and Connor are terrible at (they've tried), but it makes her happy. Connor's been in such situations a few times, watching as the Weasleys or Neville start talking about things he doesn't understand or follow but they're passionate about.
This is four times better.
"I think it would be fun to make an amusement park themed after it," Harry says, winding down. "Or just enchant a teakettle or something for smoke signals."
"The shrinking and growth potions sound fun," Connor says. "We could sneak around mouseholes." Ginny would love it, he thinks. And Fred and George should never be allowed to touch it. The Yellow and Blue duo are menaces.
"Or snake dens," Harry grins. Somewhere to their left doors slam and someone starts yelling about not being late. Harry looks over.
Connor knows this won't last, but he wants it to. He watches Harry's awareness shift and mourns it, just a little. "You like snakes?" He asks, just to draw Harry back.
"Yes!"
Connor grins. "Me too. Dad took me to meet an Occamy once, she was the rudest snake I'd ever met, but her feathers were so pretty! Not quite the color of the sky, more of a green-blue gemstone, or pool water."
"Whoah."
Connor grins, both at the reaction and the memory. "What's your favorite snake?"
"Mostly I know garters, but there was a random cobra who'd come to hang out a few years ago. I'm not sure what happened to her."
Connor flops backwards, turning to look at Ian. The toddler looks nothing like him or Harry. What had Harry said earlier? Foster care?
"Who do you live with now?"
Harry looks over, but stays sitting up. "Uncle Regulus, Aunt Vivian, and Uncle Adrian."
Connor… has no idea who any of those are. He tries to place the tree he's under instead. "You mentioned kids too, earlier?" It’s not an aspen, but it could be oak or willow.
"Yeah, there's also Fay and Caspian. And Ian, now."
Connor blinks, and then snorts. “Okay so,” he holds up his hand to count them out. “Your name is Hadrian, his name is Ian, and you live with people named Caspian, Vivian, and Adrian?”
“Yes,” Harry says around a laugh at Connor’s tone.
Connor actually laughs then. He loves this. The apprehension from earlier has long since vanished, he's comfy, and he's learning about his brother. “Was the matching on purpose?”
“I don’t think so,” Harry grins. “They didn’t name Fay Favian.”
Connor snorts. “Is Fay a nickname?”
“Short for Faith."
He nods. “I wonder if there are any nicknames for Connor?”
“Lily and James only call you Connor?”
“Not even close,” Connor shakes his head. “But none of their nicknames are short for my name.”
“What nicknames do they use?”
“Sweetheart, Bucktooth,” Connor pauses before adding the last one. "Sometimes Their Little Immortal." There are others, but even out of the ones in the vein, perhaps especially from their number, few stick.
Contrary to his worries, Harry laughs. "Cute."
"What about you? Any embarrassing nicknames?"
"None of your nicknames are embarrassing."
"Bucktooth is terribly embarrassing," Connor corrects him, opening his mouth to show off his teeth. It's embarrassing in a good way, though. "What do they call you?"
"Harry, mostly. Aunt Vivian is Viv, Adrian is Rian, we call Caspian Cas, you know Fay’s, and then there’s Uncle Reg.” Harry shrugs. “Otherwise they’re all jokes like Casper or Changeling.” He’s leaving out the ones he doesn’t like. Squirtle is the first to come to mind. Later there will be Hades.
“Changeling?”
“Legend says the fae used to steal human babies and leave other fae in their place.”
“Creepy,” Connor says bluntly. Harry shrugs.
“It’s not too bad if they steal from the right house.”
Connor frowns up at him, but doesn't contest it. The way Harry said it… There was something there Connor doesn’t get yet, and he isn’t going to start an argument he’ll lose.
“Think Con would work as a nickname?”
Connor shrugs. “Why not? It does the job.”
“You’re discussing names without me?”
Connor jumps as the snake appears in the grass beside his head. Harry doesn’t. Connor smiles slightly and greets her at the same time Harry does.
She raises her head to greet them in return. “Hello, Greater-Death-Cheater-” Harry makes a face at the title. Connor wonders why- it’s fitting, which makes it a good one. “Who is your companion?”
“This is my clutchmate, Connor.”
“No proper name yet?”
“Actually yes,” Connor says, looking at the little boa. He shifts so he can sit up. “I’m Night-Dandelion.”
Harry giggles. Connor shoves him blindly, which doesn't stop the laughter.
The brown snake seems to judge the name, before doing an approximation of a shrug. “There’s been worse.”
Harry buries his head in his hands. “Please don’t insult him."
“What’s your name?” Connor asks before he can explode from the emotional flux his little brother defending him causes.
The snake puffs up. “It is under deliberation and has yet to be picked,” she says, as sagely as a baby boa constrictor can be. She turns to Harry. “If your clutchmate and nestmates are half speakers, why do Sun-Human-Nestfather, Unhatched-Mother, and Night-Mist not speak as well?”
“I have no idea.”
“Mum and dad are speakers too,” Connor says. “It's fun when we’re out, dad will make fun of people, and mum and I see who can go the longest without laughing.”
Harry grins sideways at him. “Have you been caught?”
Parseltongue is weird in Harry’s family. He hadn't considered whether or not his blood relations would share the skill. Fay and Regulus do, although he can't remember if Caspian can too. Caspian’s skills are unreliable.
“A couple times,” Connor admits sheepishly. “Still fun though.”
"Did you bring your book?" The snake asks, cavalierly changing the subject. The twins let it happen.
Harry shakes his head. "I did, but I'm not reading right now."
"Your book?" Connor asks.
"Speaker-who-reads."
"I read to them," Harry explains, because as nice as the boa is, titles don’t explain everything.
"Why?"
"It's a good way to practice, and it's fun. Plus, snakes are a bit like kids. They're funner to talk to when you know what they're talking about or have a topic in common."
Connor 'huh's. He's never thought about that. "I thought snakes were inherently smart."
"We are," the boa says, flicking her tail imperiously. Harry squints, wondering if she's the cobra reincarnated. It's an eerily reminiscent gesture. "But even smart creatures can learn better, night-flower."
"...not… my name," Connor says, but he doesn't expect it to make a difference. Snakes can be stubborn.
"Coin?"
Connor blinks at Harry. Did he miss something? "What?"
"Still trying to think of nicknames," Harry explains. "Not a good one?"
"No idea," Connor says. Harry looks at Ian again. Ian's still in the sandbox, though now he's laying down.
"Is he making sand angels?"
"What's a sand angel?"
"Snow angel but sand."
Connor doesn’t recognize that phrase either, so he assumes it’s a muggle thing. Godric’s Hollow is a mixed community in name only; this muggle neighborhood is more inclusively mixed than Godric’s Hollow. There have been enough incidents without obliviators visiting that everyone here knows about magic to some degree - and technically, Regulus hasn’t broken the Statute of Secrecy. Loopholes are a clever man’s best friend.
Godric’s Hollow just hides magicals among the muggles, giving the impression that there’s a bunch of Elitists trying (and failing, depending on who you ask) to rough it. The separation is noticeable, and honestly a little pitiful. There’s keeping a secret, and then there’s segregation.
I find one more tolerable than the other.
Connor pushes himself up, deciding to go see. He’s learning loads on this expedition to the muggle world, wizarding home nearby or not. “Can we go see?”
"Sure," Harry agrees, moving to stand up too. They head over, and yeah, Ian’s waving his arms and legs in the sand. Harry smiles, and it is still the best thing Connor’s seen. He thought he’d seen it all when Harry was talking about Alice in Wonderland, and he was wrong. “You having fun?” He asks, leaning over Ian’s head. He looks so proud, so fond, that Connor finds himself mirroring the expression.
“Yeah!” Ian calls happily. “Join!”
Harry looks at the sandbox, which is… really just the entire playground box. “Alright.” He sits down and looks up, pausing for a moment to just look at his brother, who’s looking at him like he hung the sun. “You coming?” It makes something in his chest tighten because he hasn’t done anything to deserve that look, but at the same time- Harry’s not happy that he had no chance to plan, but he is very happy he got to meet Connor.
Connor looks down at his brother, who has yellow sand peppering his dark hair already, and shrugs. “Sure.” He doesn’t flop bonelessly like Harry did, instead sitting down gingerly. The smile falls from his face as he does. He’s not a fan of sand. It’s itchy.
It’s even later when Harry poses his next question- well, not his next one. Children are fickle and their minds wander, but this is perhaps the next one whose answer I deem important. “…Newspapers say you still live in Godric’s Hollow?”
“Yeah.” Connor hums. There are clouds moving quickly across the sky, but Connor can’t feel a breeze. “Do you… remember?” The question is hesitant, low.
“Not that one,” Harry says without missing a beat. Despite his speed, he matches the mood. “You?”
“Not much.” Connor shakes his head and then regrets it. Sand is gross, and now it’s all over his neck and in his hair. He remembers a lot, considering he was younger than two. “Lots of lights.”
Harry closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t remember that day. He doesn’t remember the attack on Potter Cottage. He remembers other injuries, he remembers Number 4, Number 10, and Number 8. He remembers an aching neck, a pinched back, and a searing shoulder. He doesn’t remember the bright lights Connor does.
Connor doesn’t respond for a few minutes. “This is so weird.”
“Which part?”
“I’m meeting you!” Connor throws his hands up, eyes bright. They flop back into his sand angel’s sleeves a moment later. “I always thought… it wouldn’t happen until I was an adult.”
“Oh,” Harry says. “I forgot… you thought I was a squib, right?”
“Yeah,” Connor agrees. “Were you planning on meeting me?”
“Yeah,” Harry looks over at his big brother, a tendril of apprehension building but he stamps it down. They’ve done great so far. “I wasn’t sure if you knew I existed. We’d talked about a couple different ways you could react.”
Connor hums. He hates it when he does that, imagines all the ways something could go right and then all the ways they could go wrong. It’s annoying and usually only manages to upset him. It’s why he tries to listen to his impulses first. “I’m glad we met.” Connor doesn’t think the words say enough.
“Me too.”
Harry’s words don’t seem to either, but Connor can hope. He keeps his face seeking the sun, but glances sidelong at Harry. Harry’s looking at him, expression almost as fond as when he talks to Ian, even if there’s more hope than assurance. This is okay, he decides. This is better than okay, really, it’s good. Connor looks back at the clouds and breathes, feeling the knot of emotions in his chest slide over each other and loosen.
This is good. He’s okay. Harry’s okay, too, which is so much better than Connor expected a few hours ago. Lily will come find him, and he can explain, and they can meet the foster parents, and Connor will have a brother again.
He doesn’t remember the first time, no, but this was just like making a friend, and he knows he’s okay with that, wants it even.
#Harry Potter#WBWL#Cathy The Narrator#Not (our parents') children#NOPC#WTOWBS#Jaymeow writes#Crossposting Spam#Connor Potter#harry potter au#Timothy The Narrator#Lily Potter#Vivian Dunbar#Adrian Dunbar#Dudley Dursley#Fay dunbar#Faith Dunbar-Black#cw: implied child death#implied infancide#we are children of empty graves#discussions of self harm#discussion of abuse#Petunia Dursley
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
My Thoughts on Virginia Woolf's 'A Room of One's Own'
I had a lot of thoughts so it only seemed fitting to write them all out here. I want to start out by saying that I am not here to discuss if this was a "good book" or a book that's "worth reading" as I believe that there is something worth reading in most books (those that aren't know who they are).
Additionally, Woolf is worth reading in a way that can be different depending on who you are. There's an offering of the thought process of a woman from almost 100 years ago, there's statements and thoughts on the role of women both in and out of writing and how it can be expressed, there's some thoughts on capitalism that I will be getting more into later on for several reasons. There are also quotes if you are one of those people who love slapping some words on an "aesthetic" background without checking if it was actually said or not. All of this to say, Woolf is a strong speaker with a very clear voice that is delightful to read, regardless of how much I am agreeing with whatever she is saying at any given moment. Now, with that out of the way we can get into the actual contents of this book (essay really, but as I don't have a recorded version given as it was made in 1928 this will have to do). I will be discussing each of the six sections seperately before concluding with my final thoughts at the end.
We open up with Woolf's background thoughts in order to get us into her mind as she ponders over how to answer the question of "women and fiction". Woolf promises to take us through the memorable days along her journey to find an answer and she does shortly after, setting the scene around us with her October stroll at Oxford. I find that some of the bits that I liked most throughout this happened when she went through her day as she possesses a great ability to place everyone into the moment as her, showing us what she was thinking or feeling at any given moment even if it's based upon recollection. There's the start of a discussion on the Great War having affected the very nature of writing and love, something that she circles back to later on. This is an interesting thing to note as I do believe that the war had a hand in the way modern humanity thinks given how we would likely all be very different people if there had never been any sort of conflict on this scale in the public's eye. She goes on to mention that she believes modern poets have it harder, given how they have to describe things as they are without any nostalgia as a backbone of sorts. This is an interesting thought, and one I wish she would have continued when mentioning and critiquing modern women's writing to writing that had been done in the past.
It is this chapter that lays the foundation for Woolf's talk of money, specifically money as a necessity for writing. Woolf starts out in an agreeable manner, discussing how having had access to funds in order to build establishments furthering of women's education there would have been more educated women (a shocker, I know). This grows to be warped into an ugly statement declaring the poor and working class as incapable of being geniuses or of writing great works. This is not only incorrect for multiple reasons, but feels inherently reprehensable with it's decree that people who have had to work in their lives cannot go on to be a genius as they are somehow "tainted" by having had to face this particular hardship. This is exceptionally fascinating given how until 1928 Woolf herself had been working odd jobs in order to have enough money. It is worth mentioning that Woolf herself was at this point she was living comfortably due to receiving 500 pounds a year for life due to the passing of her aunt. Funny how insignificant others' problems seem when you no longer have to face them. While there are some intersting things brought to light about women's limited abilities to do things without men during the 1920's, I cannot help but remain clouded by the beliefs on class that linger here and persist throughout her essay. Regardless, I read on.
Section two brings us to the British Museum and a look at how men perceive the minds of women. It's noted how much men tend to write on women, as they're perceived as interesting for one reason or another. There are differing thoughts on women as written by different male authors, but there is always a hint (or more) of hostility, at least in the examples shown to us by Woolf. After a period of time Woolf is overcome and creates a charicature of all of the writers and their thoughts on women that she names "Professor von X". She creates a picture of him, a picture of all that she finds hideous and disgraceful. He has personal trouble with women, she decides, and decides to take it out in his writing. She notes that anger fueled her but is briefly puzzled as to where anger would have emerged from. She realizes that her anger is fueled from feeling inferior, from having Professor von X declare women as lesser than men in all aspects.
She continues on by stating that the reason that all of these men are writing about women as they are is due to their anger from feeling as though women could eventually become superior to men, or, at the very least, equal. It's not so much the fear of inferiority that Woolf believes is the root of this in men, but rather the need for superiority. A drive to uphold and conform to the patriarchy due to the benefits that it holds for man. In picking up the paper she is hit with just how much of society is based upon the man. There may be women present in the actions, but they always remain in comparison to the men and due to the men. Woolf looks into a possible world where there had not been the patriarchy, noting both the goods and bads that would have happened through the changes. This does make sense, as most of the things that we have now would have been impacted by this change, causing us to not have Superman (an example used by Woolf) but also to not have had Fascist leaders such as Mussolini. She then further ponders a future with women doing the same jobs that men do leading, humorously, to a passing thought that women will be dying so young that they will be as rare as seeing an airplane pass overhead. Overall, this is by far my favorite bit. I think we get to see some of the best analysis from Woolf and it feels the most memorable for the right reasons. I have some responsibility to note that this high favoritism is in part due to it not containing any of her discouraging thoughts on the working class, something that stuck with me as much if not more than some of the other thoughts present.
Section three brings us into a look as to just why it was that women were not writing in the Elizibethan age, not even less frequently than men were. This topic gets covered more in part four, as we depart to look into how there are no records of the common woman from this time or before. It's true, historians were men and chose to focus on themselves, including women as minor notes when they seemed absolutely neccessary to the records (with the first mention being the accepted practice of "wife-beating"). It's noted, however, that women in fiction seem full of life, of personality. This draws us an interesting comparison. In fiction women were goddesses, connivers, and adventurers. In real life they were presented as nothing more than property, as something you could hit if it disobeyed. Women did not have enough rights at this point to have BEEN able to write. It wouldn't have just been difficult, but impossible, for a middle class woman to have penned sonnets at this time. They had no time to do it, and there would have been no reception short of physical violence and shunning.
It also here that we are introduced to Shakespeare's sister, Judith, a woman created by Woolf in order to illustrate how genius would have been squandered during the Elizabethan era. She was, of course, well off (how ever could she have been a creative genius otherwise) but was unable to receive an education due to being a woman. So while her brother was off studying, learning, and reading, she would have been forbidden from doing such. She remained at home until her father told her to marry, whereafter she complained and was beat. She continues on living a life of tragedy until eventually, pregnant with child, she kills herself with none of her work ever being published, dying a failed writer and an undiscovered genius buried at a cross-roads.
Judith is an interesting figure, but there is something that I believe is worth mentioning about her, that being that she is, quite obviously, a character of historic fiction. We very clearly have no way to know what Shakespeare's sister would have been like or what she would have been like had she existed after all. This is a fair theory, if not a touch melodramatic. Judith is additionally another figure from wealth, which again works for Woolf's theory about genius in comparison to class. However, Judith is not real and analyzing the choice as a figure of wealth would be pointless given as how her wealth is as theoretical as she is. Judith remains as a thought, a possible glimpse into what could have been with Shakespeare's forgotten sister.
Section four gives us a look into some writing by women of the past, both examples by women from immense wealth as those were the only ones who had their work stand through the test of time. We are first shown Lady Winchilsea, a woman who's very soul cries with her anguish over what is expected for women, of what she knows she can never truly excell in. Here we learn another view of Woolf's about who cannot write, something almost ironic for an essay with the ending message encouraging all women (granted they aren't poor, I suppose) to write; you cannot be full of rage and a genius of a writer. A good writer must have their mind "freed". Woolf writes that Winchilsea could be a poet, or that she has the makings for it but her anger is holding her back. I'm sure I don't need to remind you all that some of the greatest and most expressive poetry comes from wells of deep emotion. We are later shown Margaret of Newcastle, a woman who is also too angry in the eyes of Woolf. Indeed, whenever she praises a woman for writing exclusively it is with the notion that that woman has a clear head and is not clouded with anger or feelings due to her hatred for where her place in the patriarchy has left her. Is the role of the woman then to be docile? To only write in a way indicitive of a clear mind, a mind that doesn't wish for a better existance? Had Woolf not mentioned that men wrote angry earlier? Is it then that men had their right to be angry under the patriarchy but women were expected to not feel, a belief upheld by Woolf herself? An intersting train of thought to follow, but I am unsure if this is one that was intended upon. To her credit, Woolf does note that she believes Shakespeare wrote with a completely clear head, and that he was much better for this. He is the only male writer that she notes as doing this though.
We depart from this examination and move on to the more broad fact that women had had to hide their writing for fear of what people would have done had they been found out. Jane Austen's name is brought up frequently throughout this essay, nonesomuch as it is right now where there's a brief bit of thinking into how Pride and Prejudice may have been if it did not have to remain hidden, written a page at a time. From there we go into another thing that happens frequently in this latter half of her essay, that being the critique and comparison of women against women. Woolf goes back and forth between seeing this writing as an evolution chain and being frustrated when the writing doesn't appear to "hold up" to a previous novel (especially anything by Jane Austen). This is especially true through her discussion and thoughts on Charlotte Brontë, wherein she writes that she'd have been a better writer if she received more money throughout the year as well as shame her for selling copyright of her novels for money. We pivot from that, though, and discuss how women's writing may have been affected had they been allowed to explore life more freely and how men's may have been affected had they not. This leads into a discussion of how in getting distracted by life happening outside Charlotte Brontë allowed anger to sneak in and mess up her work. This leads into a discussion that carries forward about how sex affects the written style of novels as well as how and why they are written.
Woolf argues that if throughout anything written by a woman it is clear that she holds an anger towards men, it will come across and make the work seem lesser and distracted. This leads back to what she believes about emotion in writing but also leads you to wonder how she expects women to feel about their treatment. Woolf believes that it's harder for women to write because they have no guidelines to follow. Most of who are considered "the great writers" are men, and Woolf believes that in order for women to succeed as writers they have to write as women, meaning that they can't immitate what they have learned from their readings. Woolf believes that Charlotte Brontë was held back by her insistance on using a men's prose that wasn't befitting of her whereas Jane Austen invented a new sentence structure that was fitting of women. This does lead one to wonder what exactly it is about a sentence that makes it "clumsy" for a woman to use it but perfectly natural for a man. Is it the word choice? The quality? Or is there something beyond that that Woolf believes in? This allows to go into her discussion on current (for her time) woman writers and how they are reinventing writing to be in the style of women.
As mentioned before, section five is about books written by women about women, which leads us to Woolf's analysis of Life's Adventure by Mary Carmichael. Woolf begins her reading by expecting it to contain the same level of quality that she views from Austen as a means of proving that there has been improvement and influence from writers then and writers now. She is, of course, disappointed when she finds it to be different from Austen's writing. Woolf mentions tonal inconcistancies and a feeling of being jostled around. This all changes when we get to a line that stops her.
The line in question reads "Chloe liked Olivia". This is something shocking about this to her (possibly because later she informs us that she believes all women inherently dislike other women). The reason she happens upon is that this is the first time she has read a story in which two women didn't dislike and distrust each other. There is comfort in this, in that fiction can move in a direction where two women can like each other, can share a lab. We then lean into how fiction could look if men existed only as lovers to women, to fufil the role that women had been made to have for several years. She theorizes that several works of Shakespeare would cease to be had this been the case. Unfortunately, after this Woolf ceases to have praise for Carmichael and goes back to her belief in the inferiority of her writing as compared to others. For she believes that Carmichael could go on to be a great writer but not only would it require more money but also a lot more time. Woolf adresses that her comparisons of Carmichael to Austen are pretty unfair given how they write different things but I suppose not enough to take any of it back. It's noted that she's not a genius, she does not have a gift. She is just a writer with "certain advantages that greater women did not". This, of course, has to finish out with the statement that Carmichael would be a poet, just in another hundred years. There is a large issue of bashing other writers based on the one you happen to prefer in this chapter, and one that sours the taste of the writing in my eyes. How can you sit and encourage people to write when you inform them that they will never be geniuses, or never even good? True, for some this will push them to be better but will they ever be good enough in the eyes of Woolf? This is something for me to sit on as we reach the ending.
At last we reach section six. Here will be my shortest actual section summary as I will instead be focusing on tying it together with what else has been read throughout this essay. The one important thing that I have to bring up throughout this is Woolf's concept of the "androgynous mind".
The Androgynous Mind is a belief that in order to be a truly great writer one has to be aware of both the male and female aspects of themselves. This is interesting to note because earlier Woolf had discussed the concept of gendered sentances in writing. Luckily for the sake of her argument, she goes on to make amends about what it is that this means. It's not about fully being aware of both, but rather of being able to forget your own sex and just wright.
We close out with her message informing the class she is speaking at (for that's what this entire thing was for) that they need to write. Both so she has something to read but also for the future of women writers. To write anything they can think of no matter how long it's revered for and who pushes against them. Which is a really inspiring message but one that leaves me wondering which essay Woolf thought she was writing. Throughout the entirety of this we see very little but comparisons and allusions to a question of whether women that she deems "bad at writing" should be able to write in the first place.
Not to mention the final topic that I've been putting off delving fully into. This, of course, is the role of class in Woolf's views on the value of a writer. It's threaded so deeply in her essay that I cannot look at her writing without it, which is unfortunate as it heavily taints what could have been some very strong points. I mentioned that we close the book with a positive message to a future generation of women. I must confess, however, that this is not actually what happens right after the discussion of androgynous minds. No, before that we must discuss the role of possessions in wealth in her topic that she herself brings up. Woolf mentions that no matter how metaphorical one can deem them, there is always money at the heart of her essay with it being one half of her solution for women becoming great writers (the other half being a room of their own, hence the title). Not only this, but we are informed of the money left to Woolf being her saving grace several points throughout, with her viewing it as more important than women's sufferage. She continues this paragraph with reciting an entire paragraph about how there actually are not as many poor writers as you may think there are and the one there was died young. In this paragraph contains a statement that there is as much of a chance of a poor person being a great poet then there is a dog being one. Already, this is facetious as they just listed a singular great poor poet but I will suspend this for the sake of the discussion. Not only can there be poor poets more easily then there can be dog poets but in putting this statement before an empowering message about ANYONE writing poetry you have to wonder who exactly is everyone. Woolf's beliefs not only about writing but about the poor lend into a narrative wherein all poor people cannot ever hope to be good writers because they are struggling, struggle makes you miserable and discontent, and unsatisfied writers cannot write. I should hope i do not have to explain why this is incorrect.
With that, I have shared the large majority of my thoughts on this essay that has already taken up quite a deal of my time for being a short read (a little over 100 pages). While there are some very good statements on the patriarchy and how it's influence leads to a lesser development of the ability to persue creative passions in women the rampant capitalism and discrediting of the working class' work is something that you cannot sidestep just for the good points she makes periodically. Again, I still believe this essay is worth reading, but I have to come away from it disagree with the central theme. It doesn't take money for genius, it takes a talent, a craft. The rich just get more of a chance to be discovered and improve due to their abilities. Ignoring creations by poor women is not getting you any closer to women and fiction, as those struggling more than you are also women. All in all, a book I will most likely not reread
#cw: brief suicide mentions#cw: brief child abuse#book discussion#long post#book review#virginia woolf
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
All of the 8 Passengers/Ruby Franke stuff that’s finally coming out is bringing back a lot of unwanted feelings and memories. It’s also caused some parts of me to surface that have deep repressed trauma that’s still inaccessible.
Other parts of me have been having flashbacks, but amnesia barriers are difficult to work around so I only know bits and pieces. It’s really difficult trying to console littles when they’re experiencing emotional flashbacks because it’s never apparent that’s what’s going on until later. They don’t understand what’s going on and I don’t know enough about the inner workings of my system to be able to contact them if they’re not present. I do think there’s another part who looks after the littles though, but I haven’t met them yet—I just know they exist and can feel them if any of the littles are nearby.
I have a lot I want to unload and start to unpack in therapy, but I never know who’s going to be around or up front when it comes time for my sessions. It’s not that we don’t want to be in therapy, but a lot of us also have trauma from therapists and are more reluctant than others. We all absolutely adore our psych, but we also know that she is a little out of her depths with me—but she does her research, she listens, she validated my experiences, and she is actually trauma-informed. It’s just hard to get everyone (especially the teenagers) on board with opening up because that is a completely novel experience for all of us. And a scary one at that.
#cw child abuse allusion#cw childhood trauma#cw trauma discussion#cw flashback mention no details#osddid#olive blogs#dissociative identity disorder#dissociative amnesia#signed: blend of A & A
0 notes
Text
Purgatorium
Kyojuro Rengoku x ArrangedMarriage! Reader
My first fanfic ever omg!
cw: 15.1k words, canon typical violence/injury, alcoholism, parental emotional abuse/neglect
divider by @saradika-graphics :)
You feel as though you might as well be merchandise as you approach the Rengoku Estate with your father. But you knew this would happen a long time ago.
The sound of an angry voice from over the high walls that surround the house like a fortress sends a shiver down your spine as you think with horror, “Is that him? Rengoku Kyojuro?”
You turn the corner to finally enter the expanse of property that had been home to generations of Flame Hashiras dating back to the Sengoku Period, you know this, you’ve been here before after all. Your heart is in your throat, you’re about to see the man who was chosen to be your husband when you were still a child after a decade of close to no communication.
Your mind drifts back to when you came here first. You had just turned ten, the same age as the eldest son of the Rengoku family, to one day assume the role of Flame Hashira from his father and become the head of the household. You had always been shy, not one to interact with strangers, but he had been so warm, much like flame itself.
After some discussion, your respective parents agreed that a marriage between the two of you would be mutually beneficial to both families, and just like that, your hand was promised in marriage when you reached adulthood. The whole day was hazy in your mind now, but Kyojuro’s bright smile and lively voice still appear vividly in your memory.
You wonder if he still had them, or maybe he was the source of the enraged noises you had heard as you drew closer. Even if it was him, it didn’t matter. You had to do this. Your family was one of well-repute, and it knew it could only stay that way with a strong strategic marriage every generation. This engagement was seen as just that. Not to mention, they were well aware that your tie to the Rengoku would open their ample pursestrings from centuries of Flame Hashiras.
You say a brief goodbye to your father, and enter the gates. The younger Rengoku son stands in the doorway of the home, impossible to miss thanks to the unmistakable hair and vibrant hued eyes that run through the men of the family.
The young man spoke politely, “Welcome, we hope your travels here weren’t too strenuous. I’m the only one here at the moment, I apologize my brother is coming back from some work with the corps.” He looked down for a moment, “And my father is unfortunately… unable to see you at the moment.” He introduced himself as Senjuro and welcomed you into their home, offering refreshments and recounting the epic tale his brother’s crow reported transpiring the night before.
Senjuro spoke of how he bravely vanquished a demon wreaking havoc in a town over the mountain. From the grandiose language to how his previously placid tone elevated, it was clear he idolized his brother. You act piqued courteously, however truly you don’t really have the understanding of demons or swordsmen to comprehend what kind of a task he had accomplished. Your chest felt hollow even as you tried to look composed, your mind spinning, overcome with nerves. A flurry of what ifs make up a cacophony in your thoughts, you may as well be meeting the man you were expected to raise children and share your life with for the first time in mere moments.
Your ears perk at the sound of the coarse gravel covering the walkway crunching beneath heavy footsteps, indicating someone approaching. The shoji door lightly drags against the floor as its opened by a firm grasp. One look, and there was no question who it was. A matured spitting image of Senjuro stood before you in corps uniform, with the same warm smile you recall seeing as a child.
An upbeat voice engulfs the room, “Hello! It’s been many years! I do hope you are well.” Minding your manners, you bow and reply as you’ve been instructed, “Thank you Rengoku-sama, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
He takes your shoulders and gently lifts you out of your bow to an upright position, “Oh please, no need for that! It’s Kyojuro!” His tone rings out a cross between assertive and cheerful, quite authoritative but deeply optimistic.Your eyes widen with shock at how casual he was being, you had yet to see a husband who treated his wife as such an equal before.
You don’t even know what to make of the man standing before you. He seemed nice enough, he was your age, he was attractive, not to mention highly motivated in a noble occupation, coming from what you knew from other arranged marriages, this was not a given.
On paper, he might’ve been “perfect,” but you still felt skeptical. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you both were pawns, both being used for the gain of others. You were strangers to each other. Based on what you had seen of other similar matches, there was a chance the rest of both of your lives together would be nothing more than what it began as, a business exchange.
You had gotten too lost in your own thoughts, it was apparent. Kyojuro’s bold gaze met yours that had been lingering on the floor for too long. His voice lowered to an inflection of sincerity. Kyojuro reigned in some of his fervor from moments ago, hoping he had not scared you with his temperament which has been called various things ranging from cheerful to overzealous. He slowly reached into his pocket to pull out a long rectangular box.
“Although, I admit I do not know you very well. You once told me how you liked the plum blossoms.” Suddenly you remember, sitting on the grass outside while the adults spoke, with Kyojuro picking up fallen flower petals and timidly saying how beautiful you found them.
You look at him with slight surprise at his memory of an event you all but forgot, and curiosity where he was going with this. “Please look inside, I hope it is to your liking.” Kyojuro says earnestly, passing the box to your hands.
You open it to find a hairpin adorned with the same color of petals from that day. The hairpin resembled them so closely it looks as though it could’ve been the very same blossoms crystallized into an accessory.
The gesture was so thoughtful, and not to mention unexpected. Kyojuro looked at you intently, clearly waiting for a response to his gift, any response. “This is simply lovely, Ren—Kyojuro. Thank you.” You say after a moment. Making your best effort to not let on your overwhelm, and your reluctance to find comfort in such an inherently uncomfortable situation.
Kyojuro says while taking your hands in his own much tougher ones to remove the hairpin from your grasp. “Allow me,” he asks respectfully. Understanding what he means, you tilt your head to the side for him to gently slide it into the side of your hairstyle. Your eyes dart up and down, unable to make eye contact, as you feel the cool metal against your scalp, and the heat emanating from his touch. With a soft smile he spoke reassuringly, “This will be an adjustment, but I believe we can find happiness together.”
He knows as well as you do the origins of your marriage, he knows that his father was urged to retire (rather dishonorably) once he began excessively drinking. The last straw being once it was discovered, by the Master as well as his fellow pillars, he was attending high-stakes missions completely intoxicated.
The Breath of Flames was intricately woven into the very existence of the corps. There had never been a generation of pillars that did not have a user of Flame or Water, and surely the Rengokus wouldn’t allow that tradition to be broken. So, the eldest son of the former pillar quickly satisfied all prerequisites, and assumed the mantle sooner than anyone anticipated to take his father’s place as the Flame Hashira.
Kyojuro knew as well as you, the good to the Rengoku name that would come from another successful marriage with a well bred young lady of a respected family. Duty was no foreign concept to him, but he cannot help but recall back to his early memories of joy he saw in the life his parents built together. He wants the same for himself naturally, even with the weight of expectation resting heavily on his shoulders.
But all the same, he can remember sitting on the grass with you a decade before. The delight radiating off your face at the simplest things, he’d like to see that in you now. He can tell you are guarded, but with some time, maybe he’ll get a glimpse again.
The days leading up to your wedding, ten years in the making, go by in a blur. Kyojuro had to work for several of them since he planned to take off for his wedding proceedings. You spent your time engaging in small talk with Senjuro, writing letters home to each relative letting them know you had arrived safely and were in the care of the Rengoku family now, or simply walking the expanse of the property. Slow, uneventful minutia, at best.
The elusive father, Rengoku Shinjuro, still yet to be seen by you, for whatever reason. Before you knew it you had both signed the license papers making you officially the lady of the Rengoku house. This all seemed to move at a breakneck speed, and as soon as you left the ceremony to move into a separate residence from the main house on the estate with your now husband, you remembered what came with your new position.
Would Kyojuro expect you to sleep together since it was your wedding night? Would you have to start giving birth to heirs as soon as possible? While you understood the whole reason you were brought here in the first place was to become his wife, you wondered if it all had to be so quick. You had barely been here a week, and had been with Kyojuro even less than that.
You shuddered at the idea that your fate was to be stripped of any sense of agency, and relegated to a vehicle for continuing the Rengoku line. But at this point, you felt like your wants were no longer relevant. This is why you were sent off here, it was all part of the arrangement. You would have to just go along with it all.
Kyojuro proudly took you inside the home on the Rengoku Estate set aside for you both to live in. It was just across the courtyard from the main house with a view of the entire property. As the evening trailed into night, Kyojuro could see you out of the corner of his eye standing stiffly in the corner, looking at the floor with the same pensive look he had seen days ago.
“How are you my dear?” he said in his usual upbeat tone looking at you with a genuine expression. “I’m alright…” you reply with a painfully forced smile that you hoped wouldn’t set off any alarms to Kyojuro about what you could possibly be dreading. “Oh I’m glad to hear that!” he beamed.
“You know, I tend to work at night, usually coming and going at all kinds of unholy hours! If you want a place to rest on your own I set up the room next door for you! Feel free to stay there as often as you would like. I would not want to disturb you with my irregular schedule.”
A wave of relief washes over you as you thank him and go into your own quarters for the night. As you walk in the outfitted room you notice a small vase off to the side, you realize it's a bundle of the same plum blossoms.
A pang of guilt stops you before you can lay down to sleep, you had run out of the room to be alone a little abruptly. Kyojuro was considerate enough to give you a separate room to sleep in and even tried to decorate it how you might like it.
Even if you resented the situation you found yourself in, Kyojuro was no more to blame than you were. You needed to have a little empathy. He was going through the same thing right now, he had just married what could be considered a stranger himself.
Popping your head in the other room to say something, you realize you had walked in just as Kyojuro removed his top. Not fazed by this a bit, he turned to look at you with his saying “Yes my dear?” in his usual tone.
You could see his muscular arms and chest leading down to his prominent abs followed by a chiseled v-line at the edges of your vision. You felt naive for a moment, had you expected him to be the same little boy you met all those years ago? For some reason in your head when you thought of him, that was still the person you saw. He had matured into a man, and not only that, was one of the nine elite weapons of the Demon Slayer Corps.
You refrained from making this awkward unnecessarily, you should’ve announced yourself or done something before just appearing in his doorway after making it clear you wanted to be by yourself. If you made it obvious you were gawking at him, it would just make things weird. No, worse, it would make it inappropriate.
You simply smile, a real genuine smile this time. “Uh, thank you, truly. Good night.”
Smiling sweetly, he replied “Oh, of course, good night darling.” Feeling somewhat foolish, you sheepishly return to your room next door to turn in for the night.
As you laid down studying the gifted hairpin in your hands, tracing your fingers over it, you felt a sense of hope? Like somehow, someway, this might all work out? Kyojuro returned to what he was doing with a sense of accomplishment, he finally got to see you smile with that delighted look, for the first time.
—————————————
The next day, Kyojuro returned to work. Such is the expectation of a hashira. You rose around dawn to look out in the courtyard to see Kyojuro awake, already sword in hand. His motivation really was commendable, it was known that he stopped receiving formal training from his father as a child and relied on historical texts to learn the art of Flame Breathing. Since then, he had taken his training upon himself, and rose to the rank of hashira with practically no outside help.
After noticing Kyojuro still completing his intense regimen after a few hours, you casually watched while reading at a safe distance across the courtyard. You slightly jump when you hear a gruff voice from behind you, you recognize it, it was the same rage filled one you heard the first day you arrived. It can only be the former Flame Hashira, Rengoku Shinjuro.
“The Rengoku men really take after each other in appearance,” you think to yourself upon seeing the same features possessed by both Senjuro and Kyojuro. “I was a bit surprised you went through with this. But I suppose you seem like the type to just go along with things. I bet you even told yourself it's your duty or something like that. We’ll see how far that gets you” he said to you bluntly.
“You’ll learn soon enough that the life of a Hashira isn’t some noble samurai existence. It’s a miracle when they all live long enough for the next appearance of the Master. The shadow of death follows them everywhere they go.” He took a long swig of sake, before muttering, almost incoherently. “Probably follows everyone around them too…”
This was definitely one of the more uncomfortable ways to be introduced to your father in law. “Do you even care for my son?” he followed up with. You didn’t know what to make of his first statement, the Rengoku were a long line of fierce warriors, clearly the “shadow of death” didn’t loom them too closely. What did he even mean by that? As for the second statement, you had hoped it wasn’t as obvious as it may seem, but you hardly even knew Kyojuro. Of course you married him for the good of your family. Did you care for Kyojuro? Was he asking if you loved him? Is it possible to truly love someone given the circumstances?
“Whatever. I really don’t give a damn. It’s none of my concern anyway.” Shinjuro said, walking away. Your pause might’ve been an answer enough, or maybe it was your expression that always tends to betray you. You knew you shouldn’t ponder the words of an inebriated person for long, but the question stuck in your mind for the rest of that day. There was no requirement to love him so long as you filled your duty as his wife, anything in addition to that was at your discretion alone.
—————————————
Not long after, the pillars were all called from their respective regions and responsibilities for a semi-annual meeting. The hub of the Demon Slayer Corps buzzed with a particularly lurid tale. News of an alleged benevolent demon, being carried and protected by a young slayer, spread like wildfire. Even a civilian like yourself could see the conflict of interest there. Apparently, the slayer was summoned by the Master himself, and was to appear before all nine Hashira.
You were relieved that there was something more exciting to be gossipped about than the latest rumors surrounding the ever-popular Flame Hashira’s personal life. After their meeting, which had clearly left an impression considering the looks on faces, Kyojuro began introducing you to some of his colleagues. Among the first was a fellow pillar, Uzui Tengen, whom he considered his closest friend. You don’t think you had ever met a bigger person before. You thought Kyojuro was tall and brawny, but he was dwarfed by the Sound Hashira.
“Uzui, this is my dear wife” he gestured to you with pride, that same glowing look he always had. “Oh so you're the flashy bride! I’ve heard a lot about you.” Those words made you pause for a moment, what did he mean by this? Had Kyojuro said how you refused to share a bed with him? Had he talked about how frigid you acted?
"I have to say, Rengoku," he began, a knowing glint in his eye, "you really undersold her. She’s even more ‘lovely’ than you described, if that’s possible!" Speaking through his teeth with a smirk he added, “No wonder you’re satisfied with one.”
Kyojuro laughed, bold and vibrant as ever. “You are too kind! My heart is truly filled to the brim!” Eager to return a retort, clearly relishing in banter on the topic of the number of wives the Sound Hashira possessed.
“Indeed you are correct. I suppose I was not able to do her justice with words alone, but, at least I gave you a notion of what to expect. I’m sure you recall my bewilderment when, after I introduced myself, and then proceeded to do so two more times when another, and then yet another wife stepped out.” You let out a soft chuckle, trying to hide the blush that crept up your cheeks. The warmth of Kyojuro’s joy was infectious, and you could feel your heart racing as he caught your eye. His bright smile widened, and you couldn’t help but smile back, even as a blush colored your cheeks.
You walk the grounds of the hub of the Demon Slayer Corps talking to whomever Kyojuro could borrow for a moment. Meeting people was not your forte, old habits die hard you suppose. It was relieving to be with someone so easily able to light up a room.
Something about being proudly introduced by your personable husband gave you a sense of security. You were happy to be able to just smile and do the bare minimum of talking to the onslaught of strangers. Kyojuro almost felt like a shield of charisma and positivity to hide how socially awkward you felt, and deflect those unwanted questions.
Especially since there were definitely some intimidating individuals around here. You were happy their enemies were the demons, never did you want to find yourself on the other end of any of their blades.
With each person you met, you found yourself inching closer and closer to Kyojuro. This didn’t go unnoticed, and he couldn’t help but get a flutter in his chest seeing you blushing and getting closer and closer to pressing yourself against his chest.
Eventually when walking, you gently took his four calloused fingers in your hand subconsciously. He paused and turned to you, “Here, if I may” he said with earnestness.
Kyojuro entwined your fingers, his grip secure yet gentle, and as you resumed your walk, his thumb began to stroke the back of your palm. There was an innocence and tenderness in this simple gesture, a quiet reassurance that spoke volumes. He seemed to sense your anxiety, and with each soothing caress of his thumb, it felt as if your worries were slowly melting away, replaced by an enveloping comfort.
—————————————
One thing you quickly learned about Kyojuro was that he was a creature of habit, and you soon saw yourself following suit. You had begun nonchalantly sitting in a usual spot at the edge of the courtyard with a direct view of where Kyojuro did his daily conditioning. Rain or shine, he would be out there honing his techniques and maintaining his fitness.
You preferred when it was bright out, the radiating light off the sheen of sweat on the surface of his skin was a sight indeed. Something about it was so fitting. He seemed to have a perpetual glow about him anyway, his energy taking on a visible manifestation seems like it was that way it was always meant to be.
He wasn’t always alone in his training. Nearly every pillar came by at least once, some more outgoing than others. Kyojuro’s former tsuguko, The Love Hashira, Kanroji Mitsuri, had even fawned over you as if she was meeting a celebrity. Absolutely bubbling with compliments over how “cute” you both were. You were happy to not be seen as the icy girl you feared everyone, including Kyojuro, saw you as. Upon hearing this comment, you glanced over at him to see a slight hue of red over the top of his cheeks? Was he actually blushing? No, you thought, it’s probably just warm out. You doubt he feels any way in particular about you yet.
Soon you realized you were reading and sketching less and less each day, and watching Kyojuro instead. In addition to the pillars joining him for spars and exercise, Senjuro also took part as well. Kyojuro had no official tsuguko at the moment, but he seemed prepared to give this role to his younger brother.
Senjuro wasn’t quite strong or skilled enough for a blade, but with a wooden stick he would do his best to copy his brother’s demonstration of each form of Flame Breathing. You were no master, but there was something obviously missing in Senjuro’s understanding of swordsmanship. Kyojuro’s movements carried so much power and fluidity through them, but no matter how he slowed them down and simplified them, Senjuro couldn’t seem to catch on.
Despite this, Kyojuro never looked disappointed or faltered in his passion for instructing him. Whenever Senjuro asked to practice with him, Kyojuro gladly took long breaks in his own regimen to try to correct Senjuro and encourage him with insightful pointers.
Senjuro wasn’t oblivious to his own ineptitude. One day after leaving his brother to resume his own training, he walked past where you sat watching as you always did looking especially dismayed. You felt as though you should say something to the young boy, he was your brother in law after all.
“Your swings are looking more and more like Kyojuro’s every day” you say as he passes. Senjuro stopped, pitifully turning to face you as if he had gotten caught doing something wrong, “I’m not sure about that, but thanks. I need to spend more time practicing...”
You frown slightly, “I see you spend lots of time out here as it is, you don’t want to burn out.”
Senjuro responds with desperation in his tone, as if he had reason for shame. “If I can’t master this, there might be a day I need to carry on the title of Flame Hashira, but won’t be able to. I don’t know why it’s so hard for me, my brother is the best teacher I could ask for.” You don’t know what to say, he clearly wanted this and was willing to work for it. But it was like he was trying to squeeze into a position that he couldn’t fit into, no matter how he tried.
“I can tell he likes being able to see you while he’s out here. I catch him looking over here at you all the time. He really is a great teacher, you should ask to try one day. I think it would make him happy.”
The dejected look on his face dissipated into resolve, “I’m going to work even harder until I’m as strong as my brother. Thank you for comparing me to him.” You were glad to be able to help him gain some confidence, but Kyojuro looked over at you often? Had he noticed how intently you had been watching him lately?
The next time you sat in your usual spot at the edge of the courtyard, you did something you didn’t think you would do. Honestly, you weren’t sure why you were walking towards Kyojuro right now, but nevertheless you had approached him and gotten his attention in doing so. He was in the middle of his striking drills when he noticed you, his demeanor changed in an instant.
He abandoned the formidable striking stance he was once in to an approachable posture, his brow furrowed once with concentration and lips curled into a pensive grimace snapped into his trademark look of unwavering joyfulness.
“My wife!” He exclaimed. “Do you need anything dear?” His words were enough to take you aback for a moment. It still didn’t feel real to you, you wonder if he felt the same deep down. It was easy to forget you were actually married sometimes. It often felt like you were friends at best, all things considered. “If you aren’t too busy, would you teach me a little?” You said almost as if you expected him to decline your request. “You want to try? Oh absolutely!” He gestured you over, standing beside you as he passed his katana into your grasp.
Upon his transferring the weight of the sword to you, it took you by surprise how heavy it was. Immediately the blade drooped sideways as you tried to keep it upright. When Kyojuro wielded his sword, he made it look as if it was another limb that he moved as easily as one could move any part of their body. Noticing your early difficulty, Kyojuro moved himself behind you to wrap his masculine battle worn hands over your own.
Your own forearms between his own corded muscular forearms coming out of his rolled sleeves, their vascularity on full display to you. More intimate than that, you could feel the heat coming from his presence directly behind you. Kyojuro was careful not to completely press up against you, a gentleman through and through. But that didn’t change how flustered it made you to hear his voice, not wanting to shout while so close to you, he lowered himself close to your ear to speak much more softly than usual to instruct you.
Using his strength to guide the blade in your hands, told you “Just start here and follow through the movement.” He paused for a moment to let you watch the sword's motion before continuing “Just like that, you’ve got it. Beautiful.” You copied the stroke once more with his help before trying it on your own.
“You might just have a career slaying demons if you keep that up! Ha ha!” His laugh rang out melodically, you understood why people enjoyed training alongside or under him. Hearing Kyojuro praise you even for the simplest thing made you feel so good, special even. “I’m proud of you, you did very well.”
He told you with the same electric smile you recalled from the first time you saw him, you had seen it many times in the time you had spent watching him and in his presence. But something about it never got old.
Feeling a sense of giddy as you walked up to the main house, you quickly came down when you heard the same negative gruff voice you knew belonged to your father in law. “I’m surprised you show yourself around here. Your family already got the money they sent you here for.”
He didn’t even make eye contact with you, focused on finding another bottle to get his fix. “You’re not obligated to spend time with him. The closer you get the harder it’ll be when he inevitably finds an early grave.” Shinjuro chuckled dryly, he seemed to want to hear what you had to say to that, a change considering he often speaks at you rather than to you.
“I don’t see why you think that. He is very ski-“ you are cut off mid sentence abruptly, his tone rising from indifference. “Skill is something you’re born with. He tries to cheat this rule by training himself to the bone. No amount of work can ever supplement an absence of talent. His fate is decided. You getting attached will only make it harder when that fate comes to pass.”
You were appalled by what you were hearing, wasn’t this man a hashira? He had to understand that a human is always at a disadvantage to a demon, yet that does not stop the righteous fury that compels them to confront those monsters anyway. Innate ability is overcome by work all the time, otherwise how would a human ever beat a demon?
The essence of the Demon Slayer Corps is finding strength through determination and will. Dismissing work ethic as a cheap short cut for those never meant to succeed was contradictory to everything it stood for. How did the man once celebrated as the greatest hashira of his generation end up like this? “You do whatever the hell you want, but I tried to warn you. It’s for the best that you didn’t marry him for love.” With this, Shinjuro got another jug of sake and returned to where he resided alone.
—————————————
You had always known how taxing the work of the nine leaders of the Demon Slayer Corps was, but even you were taken aback when you realized how much was demanded of Kyojuro. He was not only a leader in spirit for the other slayers, but the one who was tasked with being aware of everything happening throughout his sector.
Recently, he had learned about a village with a troubling incident involving a well, where someone had allegedly fallen in and vanished without a trace. It seemed that only a few lower-ranked slayers had been sent to investigate, but Kyojuro insisted on going along personally.
He wanted to be involved in as many missions in his sector as possible; it helped the lower-ranked Corps members assigned to the incident feel more at ease, even if he was just there to stand by and ensure the extermination went smoothly.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he set out to investigate. Taking off on foot to follow any traces, he suspected a blood demon art was the culprit. Now, he had been gone for what felt like over a full day. His absence was palpable, as if a swell of energy had been drained from the home.
As the late afternoon dragged into evening, you found Senjuro bags in hand coming through the gates. You watched as he made his way into the kitchen, and followed in suit.
“Gone to the market? You could’ve asked me to go.” Being the elder of the two of you, it was only natural that such tasks would be your responsibility. You felt bad that unbeknownst to you he had gone on his own.
Senjuro washed his hands before unpacking the groceries he had bought, donning a kitchen apron. “Some years ago, Father dismissed all our housekeepers. So I pretty much take care of the chores and cooking around here, I’m so used to it I didn’t think to mention.” As the youngest Rengoku informed you, it started making sense. You had always wondered why the son of a wealthy noble family spent so much time doing household errands, he had adopted it as his role in the family. “I don’t mind though. As much as my brother loves to eat, he really can’t cook anything,” Senjuro said endearingly.
“I try to have some food ready before he comes home from his duties, mainly because otherwise he’ll insist on helping, then end up making it all no matter how many hours he’s been working.” Senjuro put several large sweet potatoes in a loosely woven basket before submerging it into a wooden basin of fresh water, the dirt on the reddish-purple flesh coming off as he scrubbed them with a soft bristled tawashi brush.
“But also because I think he is far better with a katana than a kitchen knife.” Senjuro shook his head with a soft chuckle. You could tell he had his fair share of miso saltier than the sea and gluey rice balls.
As he worked, he moved to the stove, rinsing a measure of rice and putting it on to cook. The sound of water bubbling and the aromatic nutty scent on the steam filled the air.
“I’m a bit useless… but this is something I think I can do”
Senjuro lifted the basket of sweet potatoes out of the basin, the remnants of Earth cleared from the skin, leaving them ready to be cooked. The furnace was already warm and simmering a main course, that had seemingly been cooking for hours, to compliment the carb rich Rengoku family favorite side dish.
He had begun adding cubed bite-sized pieces of the starchy vegetables to a large pot to infuse the hearty taste into rice, before long the smell notified all that dinner was nearly done. When a roaring voice made Senjuro jump, leaving him clearly shaken to the core.
“Senjuro?! Where are you boy?”
The young man fumbled with the tie of his apron, frantically removing it, before scurrying off to the origin of the shout. You couldn’t help but overhear the conversation in the other room.
“Where’s the damn sake I told ya t’get?” The voice barked angrily. The words slurred in a state of intoxication. Your father in law. No doubt.
“I just thought maybe…” Senjuro replied sheepishly, trying desperately to keep the incident from escalating.
“Can’t even do something as simple as buyin’ sake from th’ market, huh? Worthless.” Shinjuro’s seething rage turned into cold disdain. It was sickening.
“Go back. Now! Don’t come back t’my house until you have some!” You couldn’t tell if Shinjuro was willing to make good on the threat he elucidated, but there was venom in his words nevertheless.
Senjuro piped up timidly, speaking as though any word could and would lead to consequences. “B-but brother will be back soon… I need to finish making hi-”
“I don’t give a damn! You will obey your father, boy!” The muddled speech from the alcohol was cut by Shinjuro’s fury, he bellowed clear as day.“He has someone else to do that anyway! It’s time you get a fucking life and stop worshiping that bastard!” You hear the door slide shut so forcefully you worry if it had broken.
Senjuro trudges by you with his head hanging low. You can see the glassiness of his eyes when he lifts his head to face you. Instinctually, you embrace him, holding his head as if you were his mother. As a tear escapes his eye, you wipe it away with your sleeve offering a warm smile that he halfheartedly returns after a moment.
“I… have to go, but please finish up making brother’s satsumaimo gohan for me? And if he tries to help in any way, promise me you’ll make him sit down! He’s been gone since before dusk yesterday!”
“Senjuro, you know I’m perfectly capable of sitting down and enjoying your cooking! But why not let me lend a hand while I’m already standing?” You felt the warmth of his presence, his charisma and energy igniting a sense of undeniable comfort.
“Brother!” Senjuro’s face lit up with joy as he went over to greet Kyojuro, still standing in the doorway, running to hug him with force that might’ve knocked over an average person. The boy had acted as though it had been months or years of separation the way he clung to Kyojuro, and rejoiced at seeing him standing in the doorway. Foolishly you had forgotten, or maybe just been illusioned by his nigh impenetrable invincibility, that the life of a demon slayer was one of uncertainty. Any time a swordsman left for work, might be their last. It certainly was something to be celebrated each time he returned home.
“Ha ha! Glad to see you are in high spirits Senjuro! Now what is this about needing to go somewhere?” Despite nearly 24 hours of fatigue weighing on him, Kyojuro’s vivacity was as potent as ever.
“Uh… Father has demanded I go and buy him more sake…”
“Nonsense! We ought to all enjoy the fruit of your labors! Surely Father will understand.” Kyojuro reassured, resting his hand on the younger boy’s shoulder. Senjuro seemed to be at ease with his elder brother’s blessing.
Turning to you, Kyojuro lowered to a knee, cradling your hand in his own grasp; the hardened hands of a warrior enveloped yours with a gentleness as though you were made of glass. His amber pools met yours before carefully bringing the back of your hand to his lips for a soft kiss, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “Ah my flame!” His words were thick with affection, tenderness.
You might as well have been electrocuted at the point where your skin connected with his lips. It made you think of what it would be like if you both… You move such a thought from your head, “Welcome home, we’ve all missed you dearly.” You speak, basking in the bright glint in his eye upon hearing your greeting. He carried a scent of the woody musk with faint notes of smoke, no doubt indicating the remoteness he traversed on the way to the village, it was an essence befitting a man such as him. You couldn’t help but notice the way his golden hair was tousled and his features drawn with fatigue leaving shadows beneath his honey rimmed eyes, giving him a ruggedness you had yet to admire in its full glory yet.
“Okay Brother! Now please just sit down! You need to rest!” Senjuro implored, his brother heeding his insistence. The younger boy took the lid off the sturdy pot to reveal the gigantic portion of sweet potato rice, a cloud of steam wafting out carrying an earthy, saccharine aroma. Senjuro pulled a decorated cloth from over another dish to reveal succulent soy glazed meat, it was truly a meal befitting a gourmand like Kyojuro.
“Senjuro what a beautiful talent you have! Truly, what would we all do without you!” Senjuro’s delight at these words was palpable. The beratement received from his father not long ago, was seemingly replaced by Kyojuro's accolades.
Looking out the doorway to the sliding door of the master bedroom, Kyojuro’s smile faltered momentarily. “It would be a shame for Father to miss this! Perhaps I'll inform him that I’m back!” Without hesitation Kyojuro stood from the table.
—————————————
The noises of chatter within the kitchen sounded faint despite its proximity, his hardness of hearing only adding to the sense of anxiety and isolation as he steeled himself outside Father’s room. The irony was apparent. The title “hashira” alone struck terror in the hearts of horrible bloodthirsty monsters, despite their capacity for any amount of both power and unimaginable cruelty under the veil of night. Yet at this moment, in his own home, he found himself more uneasy than he ever had in the face of a demon. He could not hide behind years of discipline, victories, or raw strength. He felt as if he had become a small child again, simply seeking approval.
He hardly sensed any movement from within, exhaling sharply, sliding the door open to speak in a tone he consciously kept as even-keeled and humble as possible. His senses were overwhelmed with the pungence of undiluted alcohol.
“Father… I’ve returned.”
The older man laid his back facing the door, surrounded by the emptied vases of sake, and did not turn, not even to acknowledge the presence of another.
“Yeah? I could tell. I could probably hear you from the afterlife. Tch.” Shinjuro growled caustically, still refusing to meet his son’s gaze.
“Would you care to join us for dinner, Father? Senjuro would certainly be happy to see you enjoying the meal he worked so hard on.” Kyojuro prayed for once he would say yes. He rarely left his room much less the house, hardly doing anything but drinking in solace.
“I don’ give a damn about that. I told your fool of a brother to bring me sake, and of course even that is too difficult for him. Useless. Utterly useless.”
“Please Father do not speak so-”
“Get out. Stop disturbing me.” Shinjuro cut him off abruptly, haphazardly shaking each of the old bottles for anything left within.
Begrudgingly, Kyojuro began sliding the shoji door shut once again.
“As you wish, Father…”
With a small space left before the sliding door had completely shut, he remembered something. A message he was asked to pass on by a civilian he had met earlier.
“In the village I patrolled… another person recognized the family haori. They too, have asked me to thank you… for your time as the Flame Pillar…” Kyojuro waited for what felt like forever, he needed to hear what his Father would say. Yet another living proof professing their gratitude to the passion that he once held.
Setting down the empty bottle in his hand, Shinjuro sighed, even his breath marred with exasperation.
“It’s all meaningless…”
“In the end, we’re both destined to be nothing more than failures. Pathetic until the very end.”
Kyojuro clamped his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to repel the spiteful words. It would not dampen his spirit, he couldn’t succumb to that. Not when he had so many people depending on him, they deserved better than that. The horrible things his father said were not worth thinking of another minute. Kyojuro slid the door back shut, softly as he could, before rising to return to the table. The light emanating from the kitchen beckoned him back like a vessel to the land after days of traversing a cold, bitter sea.
Kyojuro entered once again to see his little brother and you inspect slices of the meat back and forth, before putting a few on a plate with an exceptionally large scoop of sweet potato rice. Senjuro presented the plate to him, his eyes shining with anticipation.
“We’ve decided these are the best pieces of meat, here!”
You nod in agreement beside Senjuro, a smile curling your lips. “For me? Ah! Thank you!” Kyojuro beamed at them, taking the plate from his brother. The juicy pieces making his mouth water at the sight alone. Chatter, warm laughter over trivial things, the sight almost felt like a dream he would be shaken from at any minute. He cannot remember a time in so long the Rengoku household had felt alive, for so long it had been just him and Senjuro. Well, that was not quite accurate, they were not “alone” necessarily.
“It appears Father is not hungry at the moment, let us just put some aside for him for now.” Outfitting the unattended plate with a generous serving of food, he waited until you and his brother were distracted when he transferred the tender slices of meat from his own plate.
“Father does not eat nearly well enough. Perhaps this would benefit his health.” He thought silently to himself.
—————————————
You understood how things worked around here now. You had stopped feeling like a stranger around the estate. Senjuro seemed to really trust you now, especially seeing his idol did too. You abandoned the thought that the father of the house would be much of a presence, he didn’t want to be bothered, and frankly you were okay with that.
Your job appearing as a member of the Rengoku family was in full effect. Of course, Kyojuro tried to make sure you were comfortable and happy, despite his duty keeping him busy. You sensed the guilt that creased his brow whenever he couldn’t see you, and made a conscious effort to make up for it when he did. You became aware of an annual festival to celebrate the transition of seasons, the late Spring entering early Summer.
The next day, during one of Senjuro’s increasingly regular conversations with you, he brought up something that took you back for a moment. “About the festival tonight, I told my brother not to worry about me this year.”
You were slightly taken aback by this, wasn’t it their yearly tradition? “I think you both should go and have some time together. After all, I've had plenty of turns to go alone with my brother, since this would be your first time going. I insist.”
Senjuro seemed sure of himself on this, you could guess he was trying to be an understanding brother and give Kyojuro some alone time with you. But you almost wanted Senjuro to go, it sounded silly, but this would be your first real date with your husband.
Aas day waned into night you felt butterflies in your stomach while getting ready to go. You felt as if you would have to meet Kyojuro for the first time all over again. A whole night, just the two of you with no one to break the tension.
You robe yourself in something presentable. Subconsciously you wondered what you could wear if you really wanted to catch his attention… You push it from your mind for now. You carefully remove the gifted hairpin from the rectangular box that housed it before sliding it into your hair. Your hand moves down from your updo as you glance in the mirror, and suddenly you feel a jolt of shock upon hearing the upbeat voice you’ve grown to know approaching.
You feel a soft tap on the sliding shoji door to your room. You rose and moved to open it. As your eyes met Kyojuro’s he beamed with a grin so infectious you couldn’t help but softly smile back. You noticed he was dressed differently than you usually saw him. Rather than his typical corps uniform, he was clad in traditional attire with a few fiery motifs reminiscent of his usual haori. You tried not to let your eyes drift down from his to rest on where the two halves of the fabric overlapped each other to reveal the upper curvature of his well built chest.
You approached the village center where the festival was being held together. There was an overwhelming buzzing ambiance as you approached, until you were close enough for a surge of stimulation to fully wash over you in a barrage of color and noise.
Worrying that you may be overwhelmed by the sight, Kyojuro turned to look at your reaction. The lights reflected in your eyes as you giggle “How beautiful,” slightly tightening your grip on his arm. Kyojuro wants to say the same, even though his gaze wasn’t on the view.
You walk by the stalls, each with a different delicacy to boast. The air is thick with the enticing aromas of grilled yakitori, sweet candied fruits, and the savory scent of meat sizzling on hot griddles. Colorful lanterns sway gently overhead, casting a warm glow over the main strip. Laughter and chatter fill the atmosphere, punctuated by the rhythmic beats of nearby taiko drums.
“This has always been my favorite part of the festivities. One year my family lost me in the crowds many years ago when I ran off, practically disappearing, after getting a whiff of shrimp tempura.” As you walked through the bustling streets together, the sounds of laughter and cheerful chatter surrounded, adults and children alike filling the street.
“I have been told I was a bit of a rambunctious child, always bursting with energy, but my mother was a remarkably stoic woman. I never saw her lose her temper, not even once. My father suggested tying my wrist to his with an obi sash after the time I went missing, but she was firm in me practicing discipline on my own.” Kyojuro said, his gaze drifting thoughtfully toward the colorful stalls.
You took a moment to reflect on his words, letting them linger in the air between you. “It sounds like she had a lot of faith in you, to be able to make the right decisions, even then.”
“She did.” Kyojuro nodded, a hint of warmth returning to his wistful expression. “I try to remember that, even now.” He paused, a smile widening as he glanced toward a nearby takoyaki stall. “And speaking of good decisions…”
Feeling your nose perk up at a savory aroma, your stomach rumbled. “Can we get some?” You say looking at him wide eyed with enthusiasm. His melodic laugh rang out as he replied “A fine idea! Anything you would like, dear!” After securing ample snacks and refreshments, Kyojuro and you find a nice place to sit down just off the bustling Main Street.
The night peaceful, and the sky a clear endless expanse of stars. This was contrasted by the steady vibration of energy emitted from the heart of the village. You finally cut the silence. “Thank you for inviting me” you say somewhat sheepishly. “We have gone every year since before Senjuro was born, so of course that includes you now! I’m glad you’re here!”
“Is your father,” you pause to gauge his reaction at the mention before continuing, “Busy perhaps today then?”
His usual bravado lowers into a more serious tone, a poignant smile still forced on his lips, “No. He actually hasn’t been in many years.” Despite not knowing all that much about the inner dynamics of the Rengoku family, this didn’t surprise you. “After Mother passed, I don’t think he ever recovered. He hasn’t come since.” That explains it then. The drinking, the bitterness, the isolation, he was caught in a cycle of grief. One he hasn’t been able to get out of. Instinctively, you place your hand gently on top of his much larger one.
“Senjuro was so young when we last all came together, and I just wanted him to have the memories that I was able to have. Even if he wasn’t able to remember coming with our parents. He could at least remember us going together, and I hoped maybe that would be enough.” You had never seen this kind of vulnerability from him before. At a young age, he devoted himself to filling the gaping void left in his family for his brother.
He would become mother, father, mentor, brother, whatever Senjuro needed. Never concerned for himself, or asking for anything. That was just the way he was, you suppose. A man who lived for the well being of others, never expecting anyone to ever reciprocate. A true pillar in all facets of life, one who exists to support and safeguard those around him. What about you? You want to ask. Who is there for you then?
Noticing your pensive expression, his lips spread into a genuine smile, an upbeat yet gentle voice reassures “You shouldn’t lose your smile my flame, it’s quite becoming on you.” He tucks a small piece of your bangs behind your ear as he speaks, his touch tender. “Please do not feel any sympathy on my behalf, this is simply a responsibility of mine that I carry with pride. The last thing I would ever want is to be the reason you wear a heavy heart. To me, that would be a failure on my behalf.”
“No, that’s not it.” Your tone matter-of-fact as your gaze shifted from his to your hands folded in your lap. Meeting his eyes again, you spoke with purpose, a firmness in your resolve. “Whether you want me to or not, I’m going to be there for you now. So, please take care of yourself, unless you want me to worry.” Kyojuro let out the euphonious laugh that you had learned to identify even when he was nowhere to be seen. He replied with a cheerful, “Well I suppose I’ll have to be on my best behavior then!” You couldn’t help but giggle along in contagion with him, it was impossible not to.
Hearing a whistling noise overhead, you cock your head to the night sky where the projectile reached a peak before bursting in a flurry of vibrant hues followed by a loud BANG. You wince slightly at the collapse of sound that hits you all at once. Kyojuro’s brow furrowed seeing your face contort from the impact.
Despite having severely impaired his own hearing to withstand a blood demon art that weaponized music in his early days in the Demon Slayer Corps, Kyojuro remained acutely aware of others’s sensitivity to noise—even if he was incapable of experiencing it himself anymore.
Instinctively, he clasps his hands over your ears, a protective gesture to shield you from the cacophony of pops and cracks exploding in the sky. Slightly surprised, your fingertips grace the rough exterior of Kyojuro’s hands on the sides of your head.
As you begin to move his hands away, turning to face him, you catch the look in his eyes—a mix of concern and curiosity. Looking at you wide eyed, matching your look of surprise, he asked point blankly “Is it too loud?” His voice earnest, searching your expression for reassurance.
“No, I’m alright.” you say with a soft smile.
“Do you… ever think that I am too loud?” His expression remains unchanged, but there’s a hint of vulnerability in his question. You pause for a moment, considering his words. “No,” you reply, your voice steady and confident. “I like how self-assured you speak. It puts me at ease when I hear you; it makes me feel like I can trust whatever you say, unequivocally.”
In a quick attempt to distract you from the color that hadn’t left his cheeks for the past moments, he looked away, quickly directing your attention back to the light show.
“Look, my flame!” he exclaimed, his signature cheerfulness radiating from him, you raise your head to the sky, letting your eyes fall upon the illuminating bursts of color. Despite the brilliance of the fireworks dancing across the sky, you feel your head become heavy and your gaze flicker as you struggle to keep your eyes open. You can do little to stop yourself from swaying, beginning to nod off.
Kyojuro’s gaze falters from the display bursting through the darkness upon noticing, moving you to the side of his chest for support. You feel a gentle touch embrace you, lightly stroking your hair as you subconsciously nestle against the unknown surface you found yourself resting against. Kyojuro was convinced you must’ve been an angel how peaceful you looked with the way the man-made supernova above you flashes across your features, like an ever-changing watercolor on your skin.
You slowly lift your gaze, opening your eyes to meet his own ambered orbs, still flushed against him as if it was where you had belonged all along. Like puzzle pieces perfectly fitting together. Looking up at him, doey eyes, for the first time Rengoku Kyojuro found himself truly speechless.
You clear the haze from your mind and attempt to rouse yourself up. But you didn’t want to remove yourself from the security of the warmth emanating off him. Not yet. You wished you could just lay there, as long as you possibly could.
You felt as though he could see every one of your thoughts with how intently his golden irises pierced yours, with more affection than you thought possible for a person to muster.
“Would you allow me to kiss you?” There is a tremble of fear of rejection in his voice, and you finally notice the rosy blush crossing his cheeks as he looks at you longingly, clearly enraptured. “Please” you reply softly.
Feeling a hand brush against your cheek, your chin was gently raised as Kyojuro pulled you closer. You felt a spark ignite at where your lips joined and a surge of electricity rush through from where you connected.
You feel his hand shift from your jawline to the side of your face where you were sure he could feel the heat of your cheeks. You ran your fingers through the thick sunkissed locks of his hair, and at that moment you felt your frozen exterior melt.
The frigid ice that you encased yourself in a desperate attempt of self preservation, felt all but liquified now. All those painful feelings. There was no way to avoid the reality in your mind. Your own family considering you as no more than a bargaining chip, and giving you away as soon as you reached child bearing age.
That realization created the cold front you manufactured. Even if it kept you detached from the rest of the world, you didn’t want to feel the ache of abandonment or desertion again. Even as you resisted, you couldn’t help but open yourself up in that moment to the radiant warmth that Kyojuro gave off. But you knew this meant now you were vulnerable to succumb to the blaze between you two, you might even be consumed by it.
“A-Are you ready to go home my love.” Something you hadn’t heard him call you, ever. You nod your head in response as you continue to cling to him for support. The fatigue clouds your mind so much so that you hardly even notice what he calls you. But you could practically feel just that, what he called you.
—————————————
A harsh WHACK echoed from the impact of carefully placed hits. Kyojuro’s wooden training stick sharply hitting the solid log propped before him, a staple of training sessions for any swordsman, pillars being no exception. Kyojuro continued hitting the same spots on the log over and over with increasing speed and power, hardly even acknowledging the Sound Hashira leaning against the wall feet away from him.
“You haven't given me a pep talk, or even barked at me to stop screwing around and start 'surpassing my limits’ and all that” he snickered blithely “so what the hell is on your mind.”
Kyojuro stopped his incessant striking. His rough hands wiping a bead of sweat from rolling down his forehead, raking back loose strands of honey-golden hair before turning to his self proclaimed “flamboyant” but incredibly nosy dear friend. He looked blankly for a moment, clearly gathering his thoughts before speaking.
“Don’t make that face, you look like Tomioka.” He chuckled, shaking his head with thinly veiled disgust. “Shit, man, I haven't seen you like this before.” Uzui said, inspecting his multicolored fingernails feigning disinterest, despite his probing.
“Usually you're the type you can hear before you see. Now I have to pry a single word out of you.”
Kyojuro shook his head with a laugh “Come now. I’m the same as I’ve always been. I just don’t know if I ought to share what I’m thinking of, out of discretion for the person.”
Taking a wry smirk upon his face, the fellow hashira’s eyebrow raised slyly “So, what did you do to her?”
Despite being three years Kyojuro’s senior, Uzui had a penchant for regressing into a teenager both in impudence and coarseness. Much in contrast to Kyojuro, typically assuming a role more mature than his years.
“So I…” Kyojuro was interrupted by Uzui slinging a large arm, resembling that of a bear’s around his shoulders. “Aw you finally had your first time, huh? Was it good? I was starting to worry you two would blush and fist bump forever...”
“I kissed her,” Kyojuro said in a self-satisfied tone.
Uzui went silent for a moment before letting out a thunderous laugh, Kyojuro maintaining his expression of complete seriousness. “With a wife that looks like her? You’re a strong man, Rengoku. I probably would’ve gone crazy by now.”
Kyojuro’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You disrespect both her and yourself by talking like some kind of fiend, Uzui,” Kyojuro replied, crossing his arms like a disappointed father.
Uzui sighed petulantly, taking a step back with his hands up as if in surrender. “You’re right, you’re right, my bad. A kiss is still a first for you, so congratulations.”
“You do what you want, I just wonder why you waited until you were hitched to get any kind of a woman’s touch in the first place. I could’ve introduced you to so many girls over the years.” Uzui spoke bluntly.
Kyojuro held his arms straight out in front of him before executing the first four forms of Flame Breathing in rapid succession, deepening the existing divots marking the sides of the log. Looking over again with a bright smile, he answered “I suppose I’ve never felt tempted by the idea of a woman I do not love.”
Uzui replaced his impish visage with one of sincerity reading between the lines of his friend’s remark. “So now it’s all different, huh? You really love her don’t you?”
Kyojuro’s eyes dilated noticeably, his face overflowing with gratitude. “I always planned on making anyone who became my wife happy, but nothing is so simple anymore.”
“All that has faded away now, I cannot think of her as something as superficial as that. I just want her as purely as a man could. I do not think I could be without her if I tried.” The confidence in his voice eliminates any doubt when answering the question.
“I just hope she feels the same for me, even if nothing more than a fraction…” Kyojuro’s voice trailed off.
Uzui chuckles, dragging his palms over his face dramatically with a groan, “Ugghhh. Just don’t get all mushy on me. I still need someone who can match my flash!”
Uzui donned a smirk once again before adding “Albeit barely!”
Kyojuro ran a hand through his thick blazing hair with his unmistakable laugh, “Ha! Of course. If you’re going to keep up with me, you had better stop idling now Uzui.” Kyojuro said, gesturing over with his practice stick.
—————————————
As time passed, the heat intensified. With that, you found the only time it was pleasant for a breath of fresh air was as dusk fell.The plum blossoms that littered the estate upon your arrival had all but withered, and in their stead, small tender buds were maturing into fruit.
Even as the daylight waned, the heat clung to the air like a lingering embrace. The sky was a watercolor painting with streaks of saffron and rose fading into a deeper purple. The hued sky served as a grim warning for humans, and you made your way back to the gates with purpose.
A bead of sweat trickled down your brow, raking through the tussle of your hair, you freeze at the missing sensation of the stiff yet delicate gifted hairpin. You run your hands over your clothes and run your fingers through your hair once again to ensure what you already suspected, it was gone.
Using the remaining embers of the sun, you retrace your footsteps back down the path. The veil of night had fallen, but the moonlight made visibility no problem. It would only take a moment to search…
You recede from the gates in your sights trepidatiously, meandering the path with eyes at your feet. You were vehemently hoping to find the hairpin as quickly as you could. It was no doubt expensive, and you couldn’t shake how rotten you felt that you so carelessly lost it. After some pacing, you finally spy what you had been looking for. A little dirty, but undamaged. You blow some of the debris off before returning to where you ought to be at this time.
Your blood runs cold hearing stirring from somewhere around you, something is wrong. Are you being watched? You feel your heartbeat in your throat. It couldn’t possibly be what you feared. You try to take a breath but your lungs become shallow, unable to take in air. Afraid of making any sudden movement, your eyes darted around your surroundings for anything.
You instinctually jump with a yelp upon hearing a raucous CAW cut through the obscurity of the darkness and your own panic. A kasugai crow? You see the silhouette of the dark bird darting into the distance in the blink of an eye. Why had it flown off so urgently? Where could it be going? You dismiss such questions as you feel your muscles free from tension with a deep exhale. You feel your heart rate coming down to its normal pace with your nerves stilling. You continue walking down the path to return to the house, moving with haste before your luck could run out.
You are filled with the warmth of familiarity as you are but meters from the gates, when suddenly you feel a talloned grip of a murderous creature grab your left wrist yanking you back with such force you nearly bite your tongue. Time nearly stops as you turn your head and gaze upon the monster that wants nothing more than to feast on your flesh. You shriek in terror at the sight, two horrible red beady eyes, scaly white skin, and rows of razor sharp fangs. No doubt about it. A demon.
Doing whatever you could possibly think of to free yourself from the death grip of the beast, you firmly clutch the hairpin in your right hand. Using the breakneck momentum sending you throat first hurling towards the abomination, you dig the metal accessory deep in its eye.
The hair pin was left buried in its face. The creature howled in agony, throwing you to the ground as if you were weightless. Your ears ring and you feel warmth beginning to seep from your lower lip at the impact, but you know you’ve only bought yourself a few crucial seconds to get distance from the bloodthirsty monster.
You rake the ground with your fingertips attempting to force yourself to your feet before stumbling down again. Horror and pain manifesting in your body at last, leaving you frozen in shock. You turn your head upon hearing the shrill screeches of pain turn to aggression once again. Its eye had already regenerated completely.
The hairpin left a crumbled wire on the ground beside the beast. You can’t outrun this thing. If you turn from it again you’re dead for sure. Beads of crimson blood trickled from your lip, the metallic taste ripe in your mouth causing you to spit instinctually. The demon came lunging at you again, its speed and agility unreal as it launched from where it stood.
You braced yourself for the inevitable when you saw a blur of motion, a burst of blazing power. It was as if a fierce, explosive flame had ignited out of nowhere. Suddenly, you heard a pathetic plop as the demon’s decapitated head fell to the ground, disintegrating into ash.
The creature didn’t even know what happened before it was slain with ease, in the blink of an eye. Standing firmly, with a presence exuding both fortitude and finesse, a figure appeared in front of you. The unforgettable haori of the Flame Hashira draped over the shoulders of your rescuer.
In a fluid motion, Kyojuro thrusted the garnet blade out to the side, the demon blood shirking off cleanly. Then, lining the katana’s edge up with the sheath, he slid it into the wooden saya with a resounding click. He kneeled to your eye line, your breathing still ragged and uneven.
He lifted a hand to your face, almost as if to ground himself. You feel his palm tremble against your cheek. You hold your own hand on his, stilling the involuntary tremor. Feeling the warmth of your skin against his, he quieted the panicked white noise in his mind.
You looked in shock, but miraculously, mostly unharmed. Save for the blood dripping from your mouth down to your chin. He lightly swiped his thumb over your bottom lip in an attempt to wipe the blood from your face, the traces of what was nearly his greatest failure.
His mind went back to images of a distant past. She coughed blood as well. Mother.
When it became harder for her to move, he stood at her bedside wiping the red fluid from her lips as her chronic illness advanced. Around that time, the father he looked up to that was once full of passion seemed to forget he and Senjuro even existed, seemingly grieving the loss of his beloved wife already. When the day came she was unable to breathe anymore, she passed in the night, without anyone even getting a chance to say goodbye. And with that, whatever was left of the Rengoku “family” shattered.
“Mother has gone to heaven...”
The words felt like tons of lead hanging in the air when he broke the news to his younger brother the next day. As much as he wanted to scream, cry out, ask someone—anyone—why. Why did a gentle woman like her have to suffer to the very end without anyone even there when her body finally gave out? Why did father drink himself into a perpetual stupor? But he knew he couldn’t. Watching little Senjuro, barely four years of age, clinging to his arm, sobbing, he knew the last thing he could do was crumble. He had to be strong. Not just for himself, but for everyone. Strong enough to protect them all.
He winced at the thought of what could’ve happened if he followed the standard procedure of pillars on standby, and spent tonight fast asleep and blissfully unaware.
“If I only got here a few minutes sooner. Did that thing touch you anywhere else?” His eyes remained steady and solemn on your sole injury, still holding your chin between his index finger and thumb.
Your chest tightened seeing the look on his face, both shame and concern. You told him you would try to lessen the burden he felt. What an empty platitude you’d spewed that night.
“I-I’m alright… really, the Earth did me more damage than it did.” You knew he would only consider it as a personal ineptitude if the very being he swore to annihilate managed to do any degree of injury to you. Even with your futile attempt to ease the concern and remorse, no doubt digging deeper into his skin than any claw of a demon, his countenance was drawn thin. The man who you knew to burn with unwavering sanguinity, was reduced to a flicker of uncertainty at the sight before him.
“I’m sorry. I don’t want you to worry about me, you already worry about everyone. I don’t want to be a burden or another thing hanging on your mind. And I broke my hairpin. I’m sor-” Your near hysterical drabble was abruptly cut off by Kyojuro pulling you closer, wrapping his arms around you as if to create a protective cocoon to keep you from harm henceforth, tenderly holding your head like a lifeline.
“Do not apologize. I won’t allow it. I am your husband… so just this once, please, you must obey me. I won’t let you apologize for anything.” His voice wracked with tremors, the usual self-assuredness cracking beneath the weight of everything.
“Even if you apologize for it, you will not leave my mind. It’s not possible. But it’s not because you’re a burden. You’ve never been a burden. Never.” He forcibly regained his composure, wiping a tear that had escaped to run down your cheek. Still holding your face so that he could take it in its entirety, sear each feature into his mind if he could. His lips curled back into a smile, one that he hoped you would mirror back at him.
Despite your insistence you were practically unscathed, Kyojuro insisted on carrying you back to the house. With careful hands, he lifted you effortlessly, as if you weighed no more than a feather. You could feel the heat radiating from him, if you didn’t know better you might’ve thought he was feverish.
“Warm” you think to yourself, he really was always so warm.
—————————————
The morning light filtered into the room like flecks of gold, but he paid no mind to it. He had been awake before dawn anyway. Unable to shake the feeling of a taint sticking to his skin like a film of filth. What had happened hours earlier, a blur of fangs, debris, shadows, and sanguine hued splatters.
He moved deliberately, as to not awaken you so early in the other room. Clamping a fabric tie between his teeth, he lifted his arms to gather the amber strands of his hair, his shoulders flexed, corded muscles shifting smoothly beneath his skin. Before dexterously pulling through and fastening his usual ponytail with one hand.
Next, he inspected the condition of the white haori accented with red and yellow left carefully folded across the room. Scanning it, running his hands over it, he ensured the prized heirloom wasn’t soiled as he did each time he worked. He was meticulous about his corps uniform, never did he allow it to look creased, disheveled, or unprofessional. But the most important piece of the ensemble was his haori.
Passed down from generation to generation, the garment was a symbol of the house Rengoku going back to the Sengoku era, precious, and only be to worn by the current Flame Hashira.The kaen pattern was a sacred motif that served as both a beacon of light to those in need of salvation, as well as a searing warning to evil. The privilege of donning it was not one to be taken lightly. He most literally carried the long legacy of Flame Breathing on his shoulders.
With that legacy came an unyielding duty. Every hashira had a sector they were responsible for protecting, mainly by remaining vigilant for anything suspicious that could be related to demonic movements. Weak demons were much like mindless animals, prowling the night haphazardly seeking human flesh to feast on.
They were easy to both find and slay. On the other hand, powerful demons were intelligent, sinister. They spun elaborate webs, even employing humans or feigning humanity themselves to strategically ensnare unsuspecting victims to devour, only to then return to the shadows and repeat the cycle again and again.
In recent days, Kyojuro knew something was horribly awry in his district. Forty passengers and a small platoon of demon slayers did not simply vanish from their seats halfway through a train ride. And just as that same “man-eating train” was to return to the rails, a demon dubbed “The Slasher” doing absolutely nothing to conceal itself, suddenly begins wreaking havoc? A distraction, no doubt.
There was a foreboding bitterness in the air of something horrific to come, a phase two of this calculated plot. A twelve kizuki, perhaps even an upper rank, was lying in wait. Reporting his findings to the Master, Kyojuro was officially dispatched, and to board the Mugen Train at dusk in two days time.
It was standard procedure for the pillars to have a short period to arrange preparations and fully rest before the ordeal to come when assigned a mission from the Master himself; he had not been personally sent by the Master on a mission more than but a few times in his career.
When a hashira was sent at all, it was a signifier as to the direness and expected peril of the situation. A code red emergency. It was a necessity for anyone attending such a high stakes operation to be both mentally and physically at their pinnacle, a few nights of leaving patrol to the sector’s subordinate kinoe and kinoto battalions was in the best interests of all. Even a pillar is only human after all.
He was no stranger to any of this, he had been on countless missions, even eliminating the twelve kizuki was something he knew he was capable of doing. He usually did follow the expectation of a brief rest period, but he was under no real obligation to. No one, not even the wise Master, would try to convince a pillar of their own physical threshold if one continued duties anyway.
Images of ruby droplets dripping down your lip played in his mind on loop. It stirred something fierce in him, something that made any prospect of fatigue irrelevant. You had been so close to becoming another victim, another statistic of demonic cruelty. His jaw tightened at such a thought. Was respite a luxury he could afford?
The Slasher was known for its speed; just last night, several crows reported sightings from different towns in a span of a few minutes. He could not let the beast stay on the prowl another night. He would eliminate it now if he could. He could not entrust its defeat to another slayer, or even another pillar.
The sightings had been too close to the estate; he wanted to track and dispose of it himself. He would never forgive himself if he stood idly by waiting for the Master’s order to board the Mugen Train, and something happened to someone he cared about again. Every fiber of his being screamed to act, to protect, unwilling to afford to think of anything else right now—not even the impending mission.
All his pursuits of strength, in an attempt to fulfill his promise, no, his duty not just to Mother, but to everyone he was capable of defending. Was it all for naught? He could not succumb to the trap of self satisfaction. Continue. Onward. There had to be more he could do, more who he could protect. A pillar is an immovable object to support all that rests upon it, and he would be the same. Solidified with an overwhelming passion. A couple of sleepless nights should be nothing to inhibit a hashira, right? He just needed to push himself harder.
“Please take care of yourself, unless you want me to worry”
A softer image of you enters his mind. Warm lantern light reflecting from your face, cheeks dusted with a rosy hue, and a wistful smile. Your echoes in his mind, almost hauntingly so. Your voice is saccharine like honey, and your words even more so.
He began slipping into his usual uniform attire, each button latched a manifestation of his ironclad resolve. He would investigate the Slasher incidents even if it took the next two day, and dispose of it. He would try to stop home for a quick goodbye, then straight away mount the Mugen Train next.
You would have to find it in your heart to excuse what he was planning to do. He slid the shoji open a crack large enough to peer inside. He looked in on you, peacefully asleep. The sunlight, a golden cascade against your skin. It may have well cast a halo upon you, the way you look positively ethereal. Whispering in a voice uncharacteristically low as to not cut through the tranquil, he uttered solemnly:
“Please, forgive me…”
—————————————
The cicadas chirped with the evening upon them, the warm air sat like a blanket over the Earth, with barely any breeze. With the company of the youngest Rengoku, you sat on the back porch of the house. Time moved slow, seemingly not even at all, like they were suspended in placidity, or maybe even monotony.
“Is it normal for pillars to be sent out for over two days straight?” You ask the young boy next to you.
“No,” he replied with certainty “They are the most valuable assets of the entire corps. Only to be dispatched when all logistics and reconnaissance is done, and they need someone to finish off the threat itself. Or perhaps if there is a devastating emergency or something, but even then.”
You nod, expressing understanding. “Brother likes to be involved every step of the way though, he likes enforcing that every position in the corps is equally essential, including hashira” Senjuro can’t hide his starry-eyed look at the mere mention of his idol.
You hum amusedly, how had you forgotten? You can picture him now, tirelessly ensuring that every corps member feels valued, regardless of rank or whether they wield a sword or simply provide support.
You can’t help but acknowledge how characteristic that kind of mindset was. That man really takes every opportunity to work as hard as humanly possible to set an example for others.
“You think he will send a crow soon?” Despite Senjuro’s steady tone and demeanor, you see his lip quivering.
“He always comes straight here as soon as he can, I’m sure he will be back by tomorrow morning at the latest.” You steel yourself, speaking confidently and self assured, smiling back at Senjuro.
“That’s what Kyojuro would do.” You think to yourself.
“W-would you come with me to our Mother’s altar?” Senjuro looked at you, concern still wrought into his features.
“Oh, uh sure.” You had yet to see where the late lady of the house was laid to rest, or the shrine that served as a physical memory of her within the home. The right occasion just hadn’t come up.
Maybe you remembered seeing her when you were a child the day you were promised to the Rengoku family? You can vaguely recall a beautiful measured woman with long, dark hair, in every manner down to how she breathed she exuded elegance and poise. Judging by how many years ago that was, Senjuro probably remembers her about as much as you do.
Regardless of that, her spirit was likened to that of an angelic being. Either serving as a fond memory of simpler times, or a bitter reminder of when life was worth living for all those who once loved her.
The boy rose to his feet beckoning you to follow him, taking a stick of incense before leading you into a small room.
Adorning the tiered altar were chrysanthemums and fine silks, leading to a portrait with an inscription beneath reading “Rengoku Ruka: Beloved Wife and Mother.” Her deep crimson eyes reflected a patience extending infinitely, steadily taking in all they surveyed.
“Someone already lit incense?” You say gesturing to the aromatic as it sat already burning, concentrated sake poured into an ornate ceremonial ochoko beside it. It looked as if the offering had been left earlier that same day.
“There’s never any incense here when my brother is gone.” Senjuro frowned at the untouched stick in his own hand. “There’s a bit of an old school tradition he told me about from The Flame Hashira Chronicles talking about pillars lighting incense for each other when they are sent into the field for an extended period, kind of as a way of praying for their safety. I’m not sure if the current pillars still believe in it, but my brother definitely does. He really tries his best to follow the ways of previous generations of hashira.”
You wondered why such a ritual was getting phased out, perhaps it was just considered archaic? You were no elite swordsman yourself, but it only made sense in your mind. The longer they are forced to continue fighting, the more difficult the mission becomes as they slowly fatigue. They deserve all the support from their fellow pillars in that case.
Senjuro sighed, “I figured he would like it if we followed that custom and lit some for his protection, just in case none of his comrades did it for him.”
As much as you were sure Kyojuro would be touched by you and Senjuro wanting to burn incense for him, your heart bled at the thought of being the only ones to do so. However, clearly there was someone else in the house who showed concern and solidarity for his endeavor…
“Well, I guess we won’t have to.” You assure Senjuro in an attempt to ease his disappointment. You could tell he wanted to be the one to ask Ruka’s spirit for guardianship and watchfulness over his brother. Nevertheless, you both kneeled on the zabuton cushion before the altar, your hands both folded reverently.
“Please Mother, keep brother from harm. Please guide him home when he is victorious over the demons.”
You shut your eyes while listening to Senjuro’s plea, feeling your breath shallow with worry hearing his words. You hadn’t said it to each other yet, but there it was. You and Senjuro both had considered the possibility of something dreadful, even as hard as you tried not to. You found yourself imploring as well.
“Please Ruka-san… watch over him.”
—————————————
He looked over his shoulder at the younger slayer incapacitated on the ground, and the civilians of the Mugen Train as they attempted to recover from the aftermath of the locomotive going off the rails.
The tattooed demon seemed in a state of bliss at the sensation of his blade slicing its body, as if it was in a state of bliss from the adrenaline of battle. The slashes closed as quickly as he created them, his enemy standing unharmed. “You still don’t get it? That if you continue attacking, you’re just getting closer to death, Kyojuro?”
Blood obscured his left eye to the point he couldn’t even see out of it. He felt sharp splinters of rib bone against his side, nearly making him dizzy from the pain. He tightened his core to do whatever he could to prevent the fragments from puncturing his vitals from within. He could not falter now. Not when over 200 lives hung in the balance. Firming his resolve, he gripped his blade with a vice.
The final and most powerful form of Flame Breathing was a Rengoku family secret technique. A mystery to demons and swordsmen alike. There were no records of an enemy living to tell the tale once it was wielded, even tsuguko hailing from outside the family were only told of eight forms in existence.
No matter how many centuries the monster known as Upper Moon 3 had lived, he could not possibly know of this move if he had never encountered a Flame Hashira before, as he had previously boasted.
This creature was not a demon, he was a calamity. A being only devoted to destruction. One that needed to be taken down here and now. This was his last chance, even if all he could do was trap the demon in place until dawn. He had to use it, the penultimate stance of Flame Breathing. A form that could only be described as using mind, body, very soul as kerosene and setting one alight to burn, burn!
“Flame Breathing Esoteric Art, Ninth Form: Rengoku!”
Taking off full speed, the rest of the world fragmenting into oblivion as his vision darkened at the edges. His only focus was striking with as much speed and power as he possibly could. A burning ferocity went ripping through every nerve ending, focusing every ounce of strength from everything down to each individual cell, to a single objective.
His opponent’s face lit up with ecstasy, cackling in a fit of twisted delight. “Now you must become a demon! We could continue to duel each other for the rest of eternity!”
The ground shook at both forces of nature colliding, all the pain reaching a threshold in his body that it became numb at once. He entered a dreamlike state. As if he was no longer in control of his own body, the righteous fury from within was overflowing to move him without thinking. It was only when the beast launched himself into the air, both arms ripped that he understood what had happened as they stood in a deadlock. Feeling his muscles finally give, he fell to his knees. Everything went white, the overwhelming silence gripping him in place. It was as if he was suspended in the crossroads of reality and time.
He sat kneeling in a maroon yukata. The familiar tatami floors he had known all his life beneath him. He was home? He looked down his lap to see the calloused, hardened palms he had acquired over years of combat were replaced with small, soft hands of a child.
Lifting his head from the ground, his breath caught in his throat at the sight before him. Serene ruby eyes met his gaze, complemented by the same sage countenance he had once known.
“Mother? Did I… did I do right by you? My duty… being strong... Did I fail?”
Her expression remained calm, the picture of composure, even now, embodying the quiet strength that had always defined her. “Kyojuro,” she spoke, her voice flowing like a babbling brook, soothing and reassuring. “You have never failed.”
“Why… Why can’t I embrace you Mother?” He was moving in slow motion, the harder he strained to reach her, the more resistance he felt on his body. What was this place?
“That is because it's not time. You are not finished yet. You promised to see your duty fulfilled, so fulfill it.” She continued, her eternally stoic gaze softened. “I’m so proud of you, my son.”
To be continued...
#rengoku kyojuro#kyojuro rengoku#kimetsu no yaiba#demon slayer#rengoku kyoujurou#rengoku x reader#kyojuro rengoku x reader#rengoku kyoujurou x reader#kyojuro x reader#rengoku x you#kny x reader#demon slayer x reader
369 notes
·
View notes
Text
ghost scar headcanons (CW for his backstory)
no tattoo/no text version & explanation under the cut
CW⚠️ discussion of child abuse, torture, self harm & sa
since i headcanon ghost to have quite a few scars, i decided to make a "character sheet" or "scar map" to keep my art more consistent.
in the drawing, the scars are already labeled and i think pretty self-explanatory, but i will go into some more detail and elaborate on my headcanons. again, please read the content warning. i did my best at trying to discuss the following in a sensitive way, but it may be upsetting to read nonetheless.
let's begin with the ones that say "mission". i imagined they are just random scars he sustained during his service over the years, like gunshot scars or knife slashes from close combat.
but others like "roba's hook", the autopsy scar, tally marks, the whip scars and his glasgow smile are from during the time where he was captured and tortured. i headcanon reboot ghost to have pretty much the same backstory as OG ghost, with some slight differences and additions of my own.
things like the glasgow smile or tally marks are made up by me, and others like the being hanged from his ribs actually happened (comics). ghost was also canonically sexually assaulted multiple times, which gave me the idea of said tally marks to emphasise how cruel his captors were.
correct me if i'm wrong, but in the comics ghost doesn't have any scars after being tortured, any cuts shown on his body just cease to exist a few panels later. but considering what he was put through, i do think that there would be permanent scarring.
now, it's also canon that ghost was abused by his father in ways like him bringing large animals such as snakes in his room to scare him, or having him watch a woman die from OD, which made me consider what the full extent of his terrible father's "parenting" must've looked like.
ghost has a small, almost faded scar under his eye, he was too young to remember how he got it, only finding out when his mother told him. his father was being neglectful when he was supposed to watch him, and simon injured himself while wandering around.
now, it is unclear in the comics if mr. riley's abuse was purely psychological, or if it extended to physical as well (again, correct me if i'm wrong). but i didn't find it unrealistic to have the latter be the case, which is why simon has cigarette burn scars on his neck and legs. his father found it amusing under the guise of "making him a man" and seeing how long little simon could take it before he would start crying. nowadays the burns are barely visible.
and lastly, the self harm scars covered up by the tattoo sleeve on his left arm. considering what simon had to go through at an early age, it is not unlikely that he might have resorted to SH as a teenager. and later, he got the tattoo as a reminder to himself that those days are his past and not his present.
i really read the comics and said:
#reupload because i noticed a mistake in the last one#call of duty#cod#ghost#mwiii#mw3#mwii#ghoap#my art#simon ghost riley#simon riley#cod ghost#mw2 ghost#modern warfare#modern warfare 3#modern warfare 2#modern warfare iii#modern warfare ii#cod fanart#ghost fanart#simon ghost riley fanart#call of duty modern warfare#skulldetergent_art🎨
231 notes
·
View notes
Text
Chilchuck’s wife and family - Facts, theories and headcanons
I want to keep this as a sort of masterpost on Chil’s family situation if I can, but if we get a lot of information on it (in the additional content that Kui is gonna make) that renders this more or less useless I probably won’t update this anymore. If you find other crumbs of information or I've said anything factually incorrect please do tell me! I'm planning to edit this as we go since I want to compile most if not all of the information and pages we get about this topic on here, and if I just wait to post it perfection paralysis will nip this in the bud. It focuses a lot on Chilchuck and Chilchuck's wife relationships, but the daughters and Chilchuck's own parents and siblings are talked about as well.
CW/disclaimer: This post talks about messy family dynamics and such, there’s no outright abuse I’m implying anywhere, but alcoholism and neglect are mentioned and discussed. I’m not here to demonize anyone! I love every character involved and I just want to theorize about the topic as a layered issue that involves complex characters. Also, I try to use very transparent language as to when I’m citing or analyzing canon information and when I’m giving a personal interpretation or headcanoning.
Abbreviated table of content:
Timeline and circumstances
Possible strains on the marriage
The hair question. Confirmation on what his wife looks like?
Other family dynamic & post-canon theories & headcanons
Parenting style + misc in a reblog addition (new)
Let’s start with the facts, shall we?
Timeline and circumstances
So, we see that Chilchuck and his wife are childhood friends, and they married at 13 years old and had two children in that same year. Since half-foots reach the age of maturity at 14, they seem to be what we'd call teen parents. It's a bit debatable though, since Laios says the age of maturity for tallmen (humans) is 16 instead of 18 or even 21, so what's considered to be the age of maturity is a cultural thing and isn't fully reliable when we want to compare to our irl understanding and what developmental stage it perfectly aligns with. Also, during the succubus chapter Chichuck says that his daughters were all now of age to be independent, and Chilchuck's wife leaves to live with Flertom, which would mean that Puckpatti was independent at age 10 and lived away from home as well (since she's the third/last daughter). Ah yes another interesting thing to note is that we don’t know the pregnancy periods for the races, since Meijack and Flertom were born the same year. It could be tight timing or it could be something else, but I don’t think they’re twins, they keep talking about them being the oldest and the middle child, them being twins is definitely the sort of thing that would get mentioned.
Him starting working on the island notably happens just one year before his wife leaves him. I don't remember the other instances of him mentioning it though I feel like it happened, but since he started working at the Island's dungeon, working as a dungeon diver and then forming the half-foot guild, that probably means he started being away for longer periods of time and having a less reliable schedule on when he'd be coming back home. It is said that he went back home somewhat regularly iirc, though he usually ends up sleeping at the half-foot guild quarters. I'm not sure if Kahka Brud is also where he lived with his family, or just since he rented someplace new after she left him. He and his timeline state that he was born in a small village "northeast of the island", which he left at 14 one year after being married, but it isn’t stated where they go after so it’s unsure how far his home was from the island if it wasn’t in Kahka Brud. We don’t know when his father died so if that factors in to him leaving his village we have no clue.
Chil also says that he hasn’t seen or spoken with his wife nor daughters since the incident, which would mean he's gone 4 years without contact with his family during the events of canon. I don't remember if Chilchuck is said to exchange letters with his daughters, beyond the initial one from Flertom saying her mother was with her, so I've been assuming he hasn't.
He also says "For about ten years I’ve been travelling to dungeons in various areas and doing work" which considering he’s turning 29 that year would mean he started around 19 years old? The panel also gives details what sort of work he’s been doing. Either way it’s confirmed that Chilchuck travels for his work a lot.
In addition, since Chilchuck has the seal of approval of the bicorn + says so himself, he has always stayed faithful to his wife. So that means that unless he's had previous adventures before he was 14 and got married, he's never dated anyone else in his life, nor had romantic or sexual encounters/experiences with others in his 16 years of marriage right up to canon (year 514). I feel it’s safe to say that it’s implied that during all these years starting from when they were married, Chilchuck's wife was a housewife whose main job was taking care of the kids and the house.
Marcille's take on what happened is unreliable, as Kui even takes the time to directly say so in the Adventurer's Bible, so I don't want to use it as a baseline even if it offers some insight on what could have happened (her feeling out of place, leaving to test his love, etc etc).
What Chilchuck says seems to be accurate though since it pertains to his perspective of the events! Unlike how Marcille's theory flows, Chilchuck was aware that something was off before she left since she "suddenly fell into a bad mood".
Piecing everything together, my theory: Chilchuck and his wife were childhood friends and have always always sort of danced around of each other, the classic movie love story with childhood sweethearts, until they ultimately confessed and got together. While dating, Chilchuck's wife becomes pregnant and they're both unequiped to deal with the situation but decide to marry, either a bit forced in order to cover it up or hopeful to make the best of it. They make it work as they can and Chilchuck works to provide for the family while she takes care of the home and the kids, which means that even though he's not a deadbeat father (he cares, he was at least a bit involved in their lives and raising them since for example he knows how to braid hair after all) he ends up being rather absent from home. It only gets worse over the years, especially when Chilchuck starts working further and further away from home and coming home less often, and since Puckpatti left home Chilchuck's wife is alone at home most of the time, never knowing when Chilchuck would be coming and if to prepare the table for two instead of one, or even if he'd be coming back at all since his work is dangerous. The humdrum and lifestyle would get to her, they've grown into different people in these 10 years of marriage and she doesn't feel the spark or feels valued & seen anymore, so she leaves. He feels confused and betrayed which turns into anger so he doesn’t try to reach out and mend things, and with the way he says they’re estranged and he moves away I think he’s avoiding his family somewhat.
Possible strains on the marriage
Tfw all your daughters are independent and your husband is gone to work almost all the time and he barely even tells you that he loves you, is there even a reason to stay together anymore? Every day it’s just you and an empty house and chores to do, wondering if you have to cook for one or for two today.
Alright it’s analysis and theorizing time! Although there are more facts down in this post if you care about Chilchuck's wife's appearajce, Chilchuck's parents & siblings or the kids, the essential facts so to speak were all in the first part.
We don't see Chilchuck showing any discontent with his wife through the manga so I'm assuming that he was content in his marriage, happy with his wife, and with how he stayed faithful to her even in the 4 years after she left (and never stopped calling her his wife. Which also shows a weird stubborn attitude since he wasn’t planning on reaching out to her and mend things but I’ll put aside the possible entitlement/coping mechanism for another time) I think he truly loved her and still does. Since she left him and not the reverse, I'm putting a lot of emphasis on his wife's side of things. Especially since we do see how Chilchuck is at work quite a bit but never see how he is at home. I’ll be sounding harsh towards Chil on this but he’s pretty much the only party we can criticize since we don’t know her, I still side with Chil on the leaving issue though, he’s justifiably pissed if she left without a word what the hell even.
Alcoholism and health
Chilchuck’s favorite food as listed in the Adventurer’s Bible is beer, and it’s shown that he’s prone to drinking until drunk whenever he gets the opportunity to. A cheerful drunk is still a drunk. (Extra reading: if interested here's a oneshot FMA fanfic by a friend that goes in depth about this very topic that really illustrates what sort of family dynamic that can bring about. It’s not dunmeshi but it’s a good read.) Chilchuck is also canonically underweight, starving himself for a strict weight management diet (Extra reading: you can look at a short compilation post about that here). Did you know under eating makes one irritable? And this is on top of Chilchuck sometimes/regularly coming back home with "horrible injuries", since Marcille guesses it and he acts like she’s dead right on everything that far.
It’s rough seeing someone you love mistreat themselves, not being able to shake them out of that and having to stay to see them wasting away. It’s rough seeing them put their work above their own health. Putting their work even above their family. Putting alcohol over family time. It's not that simple, but there's always that element when asking someone you love to tone it down with things like alcohol or such, that if they refuse, then it feels like they value that thing more than they value your feelings or opinions. That they love alcohol more than they love you.
You know how there’s often this thing of "Well I’m providing everything for this family, so whatever else that I do you don’t get to complain." I do think that it’s something they’d have argued over a little bit, not that he’d say it that way, but the essence of it. "Chilchuck, you’re drinking a lot of alcohol often, I’m worried maybe you should ease up on it." "This is what I want to do in my free time, give me a break.", "Dear, your mood gets worse when you’re hungry, I really think you should stop dieting-" "Would you rather I die in a trap because I was too heavy?", "Honey I don’t like when you work so far away from home for so long" "Well what else can I do, do you have any better idea?". That sort of thing. Even if not being passive agressive or snappy, or even spoken upon, these situations can cause tension, or a feeling of powerlessness or imbalance in the relationship. Although I personally feel like they were both rather passive in their relationship (thus having little arguments), which itself can be a problem since yes they let each other live but they grew more distant and less communicative as a result, more on that later. Content and tolerating, rather than happy and fulfilled.
Workaholism and long distance
Spending a lot (or even a majority?) of time away from home for years and years obviously can strain relationships in many ways. Besides becoming more distant, both with his wife and his daughters, there's just that side that maybe you grow apart or you end up not knowing them all that well. Like the fictional dialogue excerpts I wrote just above, the way Chilchuck puts work above most things can by itself be the source of a lot of unhealthy habits and strains that could not only hurt himself but his relationships too. Devoted doesn’t mean attentive, even if Chilchuck 100% devotes himself to only her romantically and works in the goal to support her that doesn’t transfer into being there for her, even when he physically is.
An absent father isn't necessarily a deadbeat father, but an absent father is absent. And alright, we don’t know what his schedule was like exactly, but he was busy and traveled around, I think it’s fair to assume that if we were to make comparisons it’d be like parents irl who are often on work trips. We don't know what Chilchuck's wife's social circle is like, but regardless of how big or small or supportive it is it would be easy to get lonely I think. Besides raising the kids undoubtedly falling more onto her shoulders as well. Managing a household can be very hard and tiring even when not alone, I can imagine she felt like she missed the support of Chilchuck either as help or comfort oftentimes. We know very little about her, but I don't get the impression that she'd build up resentment over it except maybe her ‘falling into a bad mood’, but exhaustion? Absolutely.
It’s also implied imo, even beyond Chil not often being at home, that they rarely go out together. And that could very well be part of why she was mad after the outing. In Marcille’s theory she says that her wife felt out of place amongst all the cool adventurer coworkers, and if it’s a rare time that they go out together and it was supposed to be about her meeting his coworkers… I feel like what could have happened was that she felt out of place yes, and even moreso if she ended up not participating in conversations much because of it and no one really seemed to care, and the evening was all Chilchuck and his coworkers chatting it up as always and she was an outsider, if she sort of just faded into the background, if it felt like nothing would have changed wether she was there or not... If she felt like her presence didn’t matter on this special outing that rarely happened, it could have been the straw that broke the camel’s back for her to want to leave, definitely. He finally comes back after a long work travel and they finally go out and this is what their quality time is like? The outing that was supposed to be about her & them both ended up being all about him, and once more she was supposed to just orbit around him and his life without complaint or her own selfish wants like a devoted wife. With how Chil said that she got mad "all of a sudden" on the way home and he didn’t know why, plus that he was probably drunk (which may very well have made the whole thing worse), I feel like it supports that he didn’t pay her much attention during the evening, not that I’m assigning him ill intent at all, I’m sure that for him, it was a casual and fun night out and he didn’t think it'd been unpleasant or alienating for her.
That night
And all of this speculation in order to try and figure… What happened? Why did she leave? I've already gone into it a fair bit, but this is where I discuss it fully in depth.
We can’t rely on Marcille’s theory. Neither in the why she felt so out of place enough to want to leave, nor if her intention when leaving was to "test" him. I definitely agree that the reason why she left is layered and that the night/outing was the straw that broke the camel’s back more than the cause perse, but besides that it’s hard to say how much of it was impulsive and how much was because nothing else had worked to fix their relationship, or how long she'd been thinking of maybe leaving him.
Personally my favorite interpretation isn't that she found herself to be boring surrounded with Chilchuck's adventurer coworkers, or her reason for leaving is super centered around insecurity and if Chilchuck even loves her anymore, but that she sees how rich and eventful Chilchuck's life is and at the same time realizes how stagnant her own life has been. Chilchuck has adventurers for coworkers and they go out to bars and spend evenings together chatting it up, while she always does the same house chores every day and waits, and wonders, uncertain about when her huband would come back, and waits some more. She has a sort of passive role in her own life that gets pulled in one way or another by the people around her at their whims and needs, which is also a recurring theme in the manga: having a passive role in your own life, or a role that's devoted to others. Like with Falin who's always following her parents' directives or following Laios around, being the party's healer and eventually sacrificing herself for Laios and Marcille (she also doesn't seem to think much of marriage, as seen with Shuro proposing to her and her not having answered yet, which fits with how she was supposed to have an arranged marriage in her hometown too; a loveless marriage isn't something alarming to her). Izutsumi too, whose whole arc is about her gaining freedom and figuring out how to use this empowerment for herself and what she wants.
So she'd sit there, not knowing anyone except Chilchuck and not being able to follow their conversations about dungeons, and think about how this is a world she's totally apart from. How she knows so little of the world compared to him. She'd realize that while she's always waiting for Chilchuck to come home, dedicated to him and their family, Chilchuck's world doesn't stop and end at where and when he sees her, that while she's waiting he's living and experiencing things and being self-fulfilled. She's so passive and devoted and her tasks seem almost senseless now that the house is empty except for her, and in that time he's formed half-foot unions and she understands so little of what his life has become outside of her sight. This isn't a diss on Chilchuck or his attitude, I just think that it'd make her ponder about happiness and lifestyles, what's worth it and if she's content with her life. I think she'd find that her and Chilchuck aren't on the same page anymore, and probably they don't communicate much or even that they don't know how to communicate with each other anymore.
Other factors
They really do seem to be on different pages and not know how to communicate with each other well, since for example Chilchuck thinks that on the way back home she "suddenly" fell into a bad mood and seemingly left it alone, or otherwise they didn't talk until he knew what was wrong. Or like how she left and Chilchuck never reached out to her to talk or mend things, just like she never reached out either. According to Marcille it could be that she wanted to "test his love" and see if he'd even care if she was gone, but Chilchuck just got angry that she left like that and never reached out to her, so if that's true they definitely have incompatible expectations or ways to deal with things like that. Maybe she thought of leaving as something he should react to by trying to win her back, but Chilchuck did nothing and let her do her thing, and tbh if that were me I'd also have waited on her to reach out because I figure out that if someone leaves me they want space from me idk. He seems to be rather passive when it comes to interpersonal relationships and how they can mess up, made an analysis post here that talks about it, so the way he reacted by not reacting doesn't feel surprising, maybe she didn't know/remember that part of him, or wanted to shake him out of that tendency. He has no clue why she left, and there are just so many misunderstandings here that it's impossible to know what happened and how she felt and what she wanted for the future.
Also, we’re shown that younger Chilchuck, when he started dungeon crawling, is much more "innocent" and optimistic, less closed off on himself and bitter, and maybe he hasn't even developed his famous "sarcastic retorts" and "abusive remarks" yet as is plastered on all his character introductions and stats. Chilchuck has definitely changed a lot over the years, and some would argue not for the better. Staying with someone for so long has implications that they'll change and be different of course, but signing up for marriage with someone can still leave you questioning that choice decades down the line when they're so different
We get to see his freckles fade in sync with his corruption arc /j
Tfw when you can’t recognize the man you fell in love with.
The hair question
Edit 1/13/2024 leak!!!! Things aren’t officially confirmed but this is a safe bet. You can still read this section to see my reasoning to thinking she had black hair prior to this tho haha
It's not all that important rationally, but the community's been split on the topic: is Chilchuck's wife blonde or not?
Kui highlights Chilchuck being attracted to blondes a grand total of three times, and many assume that his wife is blonde due to this. However, the only vision we see of Chilchuck's wife is Marcille imagining herself as a halfling, so it's up for debate! Flertom has black hair, and that's mostly been the key clue that has people arguing.
I'm not an expert in genetics but black hair is a dominant gene, but it also doesn't mean a black haired parent can't have a brown haired kid, or that two brown haired parents can't have a kid with black hair. As long as one of the parents have it in their genetic code from somewhere in their family tree, it's possible, if not maybe unlikely.
People have been taking Flertom having black hair as evidence that Chilchuck's wife has black hair, but it could be Chilchuck that has the gene and could pass it on. Although...
That seems unlikely. We don't know what Chilchuck's elder brother's hair color was, and his elder sister does have a darker brown hair color, but in the case their parents had black hair or the gene for it, it seems highly unlikely if not impossible for the dominant black hair gene to miss this many amount of time in the gene russian roulette game.
And so I shall now call a witness to the stand, and you reader shall be the judge… Dandan.
You know, this guy? He makes appearances throughout the whole manga, but only has one spoken line in an easy to brush over flashback iirc. He's most often seen hanging out around Chilchuck and other half-foots, but it's unsure how far back he and Chilchuck go.
Now. Remember how Chilchuck and his wife are childhood friends? What if, and hear me out, what if Dandan is related to her. A cousin, or a sibling. Or maybe he's Chilchuck's cousin, even, if we go the reverse route.
The chapter cover
Look at the chapter cover below! We see each member of the main party at a table that's meaningful to them and their history, mostly showing themes of family, community and routine. Laios and Falin sharing a meal by themselves, Marcille at a meal in the cafeteria at the magic academy, Senshi by himself cooking in the dungeon, Izutsumi with Inutade at the Nakamoto household, and... Chilchuck, surrounded by much more mysterious and unknown characters and surroundings.
The only face we see besides the infant is a young one on the left which strikes me as looking a ton like Chilchuck! I doubt it's Meijack or Puckpatti, or someone else, especially since Chilchuck left his hometown pretty early which must make family gatherings harder (and routine is implied with the others’ panels). If it were Meijack I think Kui would have drawn it to more closely match her too, and have her usual freckles. I also don't think it's just Chilchuck and his own family, since if that's Chilchuck the only sibling with black hair he could have is his elder brother and the infant in the middle is clearly, well an infant.
My thoughts are that the table is shared with family friends, or at least members of the community. The elderly person implies that either there's extended family or it’s a gathering, especially if Chilchuck's grandparents don't live with them. Community is implied to be very important with half-foots imo, and if Chilchuck is from a small hometown like he says that would surprise me even less. Childhood friends are often brought together as friends because of circumstances, such as proximity or their families being friends! Doesn't that kid almost off-panel on the right, with a Flertom-like hairstyle and black hair, look to be the same age as the Chilchuck on the left? 👀
Also… Notice the dragon plush she’s holding?
Passed down from mom to daughter? The "most likely belonged to his daughters" is interesting too
If he is related, Dandan could be the infant. I suppose he doesn't end up mattering all that much in the end if you theorize that the Flertom-like kid is his wife on its own though haha. But wether or not you think that this is convincing enough, it's all we have on the topic for now.
Ah yes! Lastly, I've seen the sentiment around that his wife should be blonde, that Chilchuck's taste for blondes, if not the thing that brought them together, should be an acquired taste from loving his wife. That if that's not the case, then Chilchuck's type being blondes is either out of place or insuting or unromantic, etc etc. I can't help but disagree! I think, especially with how Chilchuck and his wife are domestic and all about knowing each from a young age, familiarity etc etc, that it would be so sweet if she wasn't his type! Loving someone so deeply, even if they aren't an idealized type... Which is a common theme/story & character beat in Dungeon Meshi.
Family dynamic theories
Meijack is the most capable, takes after her father the most, seems to have her own business as a locksmith but has a stable steady life. Flertom is the most social, she works at a tavern which seems stable and is ambitious with marriage plans, she has a caring side to her since she sent her dad a handmade gift. Puckpatti is the most upbeat, though she has the most unstable lifestyle, seemingly doing odd jobs.
His daughters do seem well adjusted, which encourages me in that their family seems amicable on the whole and (at the very least) decently functional. We don’t hear what they think of Chilchuck but presumably none of them are on bad terms with him or each other. Flertom does say that "half-foot men are stingy" which, gee, I wonder what half-foot man would have made taught her that- though it does also seem to be a racial stereotype in general, with how for example Namari also says to "steer clear from stores with half-foot clerks".
Flertom seems to be the only one who reached out after their mother left (the only one who's mentioned to have done so at least), and it's because she was the one who took in her mother. It’s not implied that they exchange letters regularly too iirc, it possibly was the only letter they've exchanged since then. I wonder if the daughters even know the full story, if their mother told them all about it or very little. Maybe some are pretty out of the loop, or more distant.
It strikes me that they don't seem to be very close. We're not shown anything that leads us to believe they don't like their father, but I think they're so used to him being absent for work that such distance is normal for them and they don't really long for a deeper relationship or to see him often. They were already out of the house and it seems like they didn't see each other much at that time either so for them it would be just a bit less than the regular amount of Dad time. It's been 4 years Chilchuck what are you doing... But yeah! From what we see they seem mostly unaffected, almost indifferent, not that we can truly tell. I imagine Flertom is the one most attached to Chilchuck with how she sent him a handmade cowl, and I think he rubbed off the most on Meijack teachings wise (besides her attitude, she’s also the one who still wears braids, and we see that Chilchuck braids hair). It makes sense, since they're oldest, and on the contrary I think Puckpatti is the one that knows her father the least. It'd fit the timeline with him working away more while she grew up imo.
Wouldn't it be interesting then that she's the one that Chilchuck says is carefree, in the official translation "doesn't treat life real seriously"? That she's the most optimistic, the most go-with-the-flow, out of the bunch? To me that sounds like a result from her being the youngest and Chil being the most often at work, thus her getting raised by her mother without as much involvement from Chil. Far be it from me to say Chilchuck would raise his daughters to be unhappy btw, not at all, we just all know what down-to-earth values he wants others to have so he doesn't have to worry about them.
Although… Puckpatti spotted?? Seems like he wants to stop her from buying something? His heart meter for her is full <3 (Note: I’ve seen it be argued that this could be his wife. I disagree, since the "stop them" and way that the long haired one is off-center compared to everyone else gives the sense that it’s many of his daughters, and the fact that it’s styled after a dating sim doesn’t mean it’s romantic love as we see with the others. Otherwise imagine being her wife and he tells you not to buy stuff when you go shopping together rip)
Headcanons time:
When naming the daughters, together they choose a pool of names they’d like but only one has the final say, and they alternate between who that is. Chilchuck sticks around more near the end of her pregnancies, and he hasn’t missed any of their births. I don’t have any opinions on who named who right now, but there could be some interesting stuff to theorize with Puckpatti, like them taking extra care picking the name together because they settled on her being their last daughter for fluff, or it was supposed to be Chilchuck but he was so busy that he ended up not picking in time and she was the one to name her for angst.
Actually scratch that I have a new theory : What if it’s actually customary for each parent to pick one half of their half-foot kid’s name? So then each would have chosen half of each girl’s name… And this could be why Chil calls Puckpatti Patti instead of Puck which is her first name, because he’s stubborn since Patti was his pick lmaoooo. Pattipuck doesn’t have the same ring to it alas, his wife was so right
Chilchuck liked to do activities with the girls when they were young. He's not opposed to relaxing at home with them perse, but he likes to do workshops with stuff like arts & crafts to develop their agility some. I don't think they'd do much outings to places like restaurants or theatres for money reason, and I don't think Chilchuck is much of an outdoors type, but he could accompany them to nice fields to play in, or in winter places to play in snow and sled, and organize some activities at home. He's not home very often so when he is he likes to take it easy as a break from work and values the time he gets with his family.
Chilchuck would sometimes work from home as a locksmith, say, unlocking a chest for a customer. In those times, Meijack would take interest and watch him work, even handing him the tools he needs as he goes. In this way, Chilchuck taught her a lot about the work of a locksmith over time. He's also the one that would oil door hinges or do renovation around the house- when he's available.
Like the plushies under his table in his home that we see in illustrations, Chilchuck has a lot of mementos from his daughter (and his wife) he keeps around. Sometimes they take a bothersome amount of place, but throwing anything out isn't something he's seriously willing to consider. Flertom's the most artistic and she used to help with sewing clothes back together, so he has a cheap ceramic mug painted by her when she was really young and small embroideries around.
Imo Meijack would be the most distant in the present. Flertom makes efforts for her parents and is pretty involved, and Puckpatti's distance is more out of being a bit airheaded and being busy + not having a great grasp on time or what's a normal amount of family contact, but Meijack's the one who knowingly and intentionally keeps some distance. I think she’d be the least optimistic about their family situation, and although she’d be hopeful when Chilchuck reached out to them again she’d be a but hesitant. I think Meijack would hold some grudges, being the one most critical of their parenting, both grateful to her dad for working so hard for them and saddened that he wasn't in their life more. Since Flertom was born in the same year I think it’s possible that Meijack was pushed aside a bit to take care of the younger baby more, out of necessity rather than lack of love. Her mom probably needed a lot of help around the house too. Flertom wasn’t blind either, and she cared about & noticed her mom’s emotional states, but she’s on the whole more hopeful and forgiving.
This is my most far fetched one but it is a hc after all, but I think it'd be interesting if one of them had food hoarding tendencies/stress. I like to think it's Flertom, because she's the middle child and would get told that her older sister and younger sister are "growing and need the food" so she wouldn't be allowed to take as much refill or such, add that to them not having much money to frivolously spend on food and that makes a kid who's worried about not eating to her hunger and tends to be possessive over food (I'm projecting). Differential treatment is inevitable in families with many siblings, and it can manifest in small or big ways, maybe they realize it maybe they don't. Working in a tavern has helped eased that tendency of her though, and while she does diet a bit she always leaves a meal feeling satisfied.
When they were younger, Flertom was a real firecracker, loud and spirited with some troublemaking tendencies! She was the daughter that got in trouble & got scolded the most. You can still see slivers of it now that she’s an adult, but she’s much more poised and diligent. She has much more acquaintances than friends, but she has a couple of best friends and usually gets along well with most people. Puckpatti was always a bit head in the cloud, very kind if not gullible, and tended to make friends somewhat easily but didn’t keep them for long, preferring to keep meeting new people and not keeping in touch well. She isn’t super talkative but tends to ramble when she does. Meijack is very introverted, she has more trouble making friends, she has a good handful though they don’t meet up often, her friendships tend to last and she’s close to them. She’s grown more confident over the years, less repressed and more quiet. Meijack as the big sister tended to be the listener for her younger sisters who had more social mishaps. Flertom has dated once before and it only cemented to her that she was going to have very high standards from then on.
Meijack wears thigh-high boots because she hates when sand, dirt or snow gets in her shoes. She wears practical clothing but avoids anything frilly or flashy. Puckpatti also dresses practically, but she does enjoy pretty clothes, it’s more out of necessity and due to not having enough money to indulge. Flertom has a social stable job and she loves prettying herself up (especially as she’s in search of a husband) so she’s the one who gets the most and nicest fashionable clothes and accessories.
Chilchuck is hinted to have had a rather dysfunctional family himself (alcoholic father, distant siblings, etc). So he doesn’t really have the best model on how to raise someone and such. I imagine it was a sort of neglectful home situation, where the kids are encouraged to be independent. If they didn’t have to work or help around much, then free range parenting sort of thing. We do see how the family has full and warm feasts, where someone cleans his mouth with a rag, so it’s not like he didn’t have a caring circle or a tragic childhood though! I don’t remember if it’s explicitely stated, but he’s heavily implied to having grown up poor, as most half-foots, and I just think it's the hardened hardworking family type of childhood where just like he does with others they instill somewhat harsh life lessons in him, which in turn encourages him to indulge in the simple pleasures of life like alcohol and sex, or at least women’s beauty and crass jokes. We do see he seems more optimistic when he's younger in flashbacks, so a bunch of his harsh view on the world is still likely learned and earned rather than taught. I still think he inherited many flawed views from how his father acted, like his attitude about excessive drinking not being a big deal and worth it. That work hard play hard, enjoy life die young mentality he has, shown mostly in the "alcohol" section of his Adventurer's Bible profile, could very well be partly a result of the general poverty half-foot communities are that he grew in as well, like how he doesn't hope for things to be as best as they could be and contends with good enough. As far as I remember, his mother is never mentioned, but I doubt it implies she was out of the picture. She was probably a regular sort of mother that took care of the home as well and was still around when his father died. It looks like there’s a good age gap between one sibling to the next, that could be interesting to dig into too.
A part of Chilchuck’s character is that he takes responsibility for safety and actions of people around him and is very often looking out for them to not do faux-pas wether socially or literally with stepping onto traps. The way he says "I’ve got three people to think of here" makes me think that’s also how he’d think about having to provide for his family, and that could be a source of stress and insecurity for him. Caring for others is a pretty integral part of his character and we see time and time again that his family is very important to him, in any case.
Post-canon
This pic has so much to say!! It’s the ‘thank you for reading’ double page spread where they’re going to a big dining table at the castle with Laios and the main gang. First family gathering in 4 years perhaps?! I’ll say, not feeling very hopeful that his wife isn’t in this, not even implied to be just off-panel with a hand or anything… I imagine before this he still talked to them at least a bit and figured their family situation out, but I think this is still in the early stages of reconnecting. Haha imagine being one of them and receiving a letter saying "Hi it’s been a while… I want to introduce you to my ex-coworker the king and his friends, you up for that?" I don’t want to reconsider all my hcs for this yet, but this pic does seemingly show an eagerness from all the daughters to reunite and reconnect! Meijack’s could be seen as more hesitant, but I think it’s just awkwardness from meeting so many new people, of high status no less. Chilchuck does seem awkward and somewhat self-conscious though, and while that could be just from say Marcille and the others meeting his daughters and him not knowing how to act, I think that also shows that Chilchuck is unsure how to act around his daughters too. Can’t blame him, I’d be stressed too. Anyways, the daughters are all dressed up! Puckpatti even brought flowers! And I doubt it’s just for Senshi, or just to be in with the king. Oh also also, Puckpatti chides Meijack here, seemingly on manners?, so that implies new/different family dynamics there~
We know with the succubus chapter that he does plan on reaching out to his wife again and shooting his shot, and when Marcille was dungeon lord he told her she could help think of a plan to make up with her together at which point Marcille showered him in gifts and flowers intended for her and his daughters. So we do know that whatever happens and however it happens, Chilchuck definitely will at least reach out to her to win her back or worse case scenario get closure on the situation.
-
These are his plans before it’s revealed that the Island is… Well, not an island but the golden kingdom, so the news that Laios is king and that might have changed them a bit, but I think he’s still gonna stick around to help with the half-foot guild for a while.
My personal ideal post-canon Chilchuck life is that after around a year or two of helping around in the golden kingdom, especially regarding half-foot working rights, he gets his shop and finally settles down. He prioritized the whole half-foot guild because there are changes to attend to and people to help, but also used that to procrastinate a bit on getting in touch with his wife again. He does send a letter though, and when she replies they then meet face to face. They explain how it was like on their end, their grievances and their feelings, and they do reconcile. But… It’s been 4 years and his wife has frankly moved on. She’d rather they stay as friends, and Chilchuck has mixed feelings on it but is ultimately fine with it. He was halfway resigned to not reconciling with his wife in canon after all. But no longer do they have cut contact! They get together with the girls for the holidays and the ambiance is nice! He starts exchanging letters more regularly. He also gets a second family of clingy asses with Izutsumi and the main gang and so though he lives alone in his shop he’s well surrounded and well loved, and his daughters visit to check up on him every so often.
I really like the… Maturity of Chilchuck’s plotline, if that makes sense? To me the ending that fits the most is him and his wife reconciling, but not getting back together. I like that they could still be adults about it and at least amicable even after divorce, and that that wouldn’t be treated as a tragic ending. In the end, they were childhood friends and teenage parents, they rushed things a bit and I genuinely think they’re just not that compatible. If not then, at least having it be a gradual process, getting back together and making it work until they’re truly comforatble with each other. Destroy the relationship to better build it again stronger!
Although, his arc in the manga is to allow himself to form connections and be optimistic, which would fit well with him and his wife getting back together. I def think Chil would get healthier post-canon which could fix the issues they had in their relationship though. Like for one he starts eating more, which improves mood & irritability & health, and also after the whole half-foot guild he plans to settle down with a shop so it wouldn’t be long distance or unstable anymore which would definitely give his wife some peace of mind. If they still do some long distance at first while he gets the half-foot guild stable, it’d be really cute if he sent pressed flowers with his letters to her… That could make a nice fic concept, like over time all the pressed flowers and exchanged letters hehe (oh shit that’s a nice title)
My post-canon timeline is Chilchuck lives a nice life living alone in his house except his friends all visit him and care and even tho he likes living alone it’s also bittersweet and every corner of his life is haunted by mementos of the ones he loves and the moments he had with them. But then it’s also like the shared duty of everyone to pass by his shop when they can and keep the old man company and sometimes that means many people come at the same time like if both Meijack and Marcille came the same day~ Cozy life, no regrets except a lil regrets still. That’s it that’s all I want.
Misc
I didn’t know where to put this, so new category time! Family truly is a central theme of Chilchuck’s character. His reaction to learning more about how life gets made is so awed by the wonder of the world. Life indeed…
The implication of this page is that Chil didn’t know about the science side of how procreation works, though of course he did know about the practical side of it. This is speculation, and we have no clue how widespread the information of how reproduction scientifically works lol, but I think it’s fair to think that half-foots’ education especially in smaller communities is handled by the parent, school of life style, or if there are schools then the education is very general and it probably ends early. I think this is supported by how for example half-foots’ jobs we’ve seen are based on experience rather than knowledge, like being a locksmith. Of course any job has its fair share of specialized knowledge to learn, but jobs you learn on the fly pretty well. This sort of dynamic contrasts a lot against elves many tallmen communities, like with the magic academy, where education and knowledge are valued almost above experience, this is what the mandrake chapter was all about after all. Poorer communities tend to have poorer education systems as well irl, it’s a whole issue.
So I already said my piece about his wife not being blonde and it being nice and romantic because literally you don’t need someone to be a beauty ideal to love them and that’s fine and normal and even more romantic imo. But!! I do have an headcanon, now that his wife’s appearance is all but explicitly confirmed. While their hair is blonde, yes their hair is wavy and the ‘main’ one has deep-set eyes, not unlike his wife! Now this is a ‘which came first the egg or the chicken’ question, but while most people seem to be assuming that he got with his wife because she was his type, since they’re childhood friends I feel like it’s his love for his wife that shaped his preferences in that deparment. Like ok he loves golden hair and hers is black, but isn’t it so much more romantic that he has so much love and devotion for his wife and has stared lovingly at it so much over the years, that it’d become his ideal? He loves her eyes <3
Conclusion
Reminder that I’ve got more observations and tidbits compiled in a reblog addition now.
More stuff I should workshop for the masterpost:
Compile more info on Chilchuck's father and his other family. Edit: I compiled all I had pretty neatly here in a speculation post, but there’s no other concrete piece of info other than what I’ve covered here sadly. Same with stuff like Chilchuck’s past work schedule and exchanged letters, there seems to be no other bits of evidence, except…
On the chapter cover and extra where he’s in his basement room we can see one letter and a few papers across his desk. Maybe family letters? Wether his daughters or relatives. Seems too few to me, could just as well be job descriptions, but truly who knows, it’s hopeful.
Excellent analysis on half-foot culture here by a friend that I should read and incorporate the good info into my own meta~
And thus I leave you with a lil web weaving I made about Chil & his wife’s relationship~ And this is where I’d put panels of Chilchuck’s wife… IF THERE WERE ANY
Should we even call Chilchuck's wife Mrs. Tims... We don't know dunmeshi marrital traditions though, and half-foot already have somewhat complex naming conventions... I hate that we don't really know if the daughters' last names are Chils or Chilz. Although that seems to be a japanese to english translation issue, since japanese used the suffix zu and not su, likely to imitate the english S sound at the end of a word. Oh yeah the last names change each generation, that’s odd right? But in english it sounds like saying Chil’s, like, [father]’s, so I think this also supports how half-foots communities tend to be tightly knit and live in the present, for them to be like "Ooh so you’re [father]’s little one eh? I know who that is and this is insightful as to who your family is to me!". Iceland’s a place where last names are like this, though I don’t know about pros and cons of it in that context. It’s called a patronymic.
Ah and I have a bittersweet spotify playlist about her and Chil too, here if ya want. That’s it the post is over
#dungeon meshi#dungeon meshi manga spoilers#spoilers#chilchuck tims#delicious in dungeon#chilchuck’s wife#chilchuck’s family#Tims family#puckpatti#meijack#flertom#Analysis#Meta#Despite my best tries I am not omnipresent it's always fun when piecing together these topics is a community effort!!#please do build upon this if you have anything to add#but yeah editing is up in the air. I'll probably be adding stuff maybe even cutting stuff out#this is a giant post i am slightly overwhelmed#Kui puts so much importance in details it's incredible. It truly feels worthwhile to get into the weeds#We support chilchuck’s wife on this blog#I covered how stressful her life could have been a bit in my Grind Me Down Sweetly fic funnily enough if ya want to give it a read. It has#Daughters mentions too hehe. And my post-canon marchil take#Oh also if there’s already theory and compilation posts out there about this i’m down to link them in or smth. I haven’t seen it done but#If it’s been then i’m very interested in reading & seeing#Apparently chilchuck being an absent dad is a heated debated topic. Oops#Pls do not murder me… Peace and love in the dungeon meshi fandom? He’s my second fave have mercy on this humble stan#This is 7k words btw. Pls do pick and choose what you’re interested in or skim or take breaks or anything
685 notes
·
View notes
Text
(Discussing some my experiences with finding comfort in PMD while growing up in a hostile environment)
CW mentions of CSA, physical abuse, verbal abuse
During this time period my sister also died, I lost quite a few of my siblings, I was subject to severe ableism from aforementioned "father", very weird threats. I could go on and on there was a lot of bad
CW over
Nowadays I'm in a much better place both physically and mentally, I thank you my friends and my ma. I had PMD Explorers of Sky as a child and played all the time, it really shaped who I am today and I learned to stay alive from that game. I found comfort in all the characters, Chatot was also a big one surprisingly HAHA!
I hope this was not too upsetting of a post, "dadnoir' stuff really sticks out to me nowadays because I use to imagine him so much when I was scared... I was actually really scared of Dusknoir as a kid for a while, but then I played special episode 5 and he became a big source of peace and comfort after that. I liked how he changed and became good. I'm no stranger to doing absurd things out of fear and wanting to stay alive, I came to respect and understand him quickly.
Anyways, that was a big post ahhh, I hope you have a nice day! Do take care of yourself, you're cherished
#pmd#pmd 2#pmd eos#pokemon mystery dungeon explorers of sky#pokemon mystery dungeon#dusknoir#cw child abuse
248 notes
·
View notes
Text
Taking into consideration Till's history with sexual assault (i will be tw and cw tagging for this), it puts the Ivantill kiss in round 6 in so much more perspective for me. Not only that, but it gives a lot of context and reasoning to the way that Till interacts with other people (as well as his rapid, violent mood swings) into perspective.
I just to preface with this- I have never been the victim of sexual assault or sexual harassment, so my discussion on this purely comes from what I know at a psychological angle, in addition to what I know based on this video from pop culture detective on Youtube and his videos on the male interaction with abuse and generally seedy behavior in media. It's really good, I enjoy his content a lot. Anyways analysis below the cut. Content and trigger warning for discussion of sexual assault, sexual abuse, psychological abuse, and pretty much everything else relevant in this fandom (slavery, child abuse, etc)
Out of all of the characters in Alien Stage, Till is the most openly dehumanized. Sua is treated like a doll, Ivan is treated like a trophy horse to parade around, Luka is something of a combination of both- but Till is the lab rat. He's the losing dog that Urak is betting on. They're all dehumanized to a degree but Till is dehumanized so much so that his defining feature is his rebellion. Even amongst the fandom, he's made into Ivan's side piece or the idiot who's hopelessly in love with Mizi and yeah, I do think Till is a dumbass but I say that out of the deepest affection possible, I love this little freak and I want the best for him. I truly do.
He's so smart and talented and yet, he hates himself. He's passionate about music, he uses it to express himself in ways that he can't otherwise, and he's so good at music, too. He's not good with people and he has a temper and he's easily flustered, yes, but he's so complicated. He was hopeful and innocent to the ways of the world but when he was bought by Urak, he was shown how utterly and hopelessly cruel the world could be. Comparatively, even Ivan and Sua got lucky, with their absent and emotionally abusive owners- Till was put through hell, experimented on, forced into a cage and treated like a feral animal that needed to be shown who was boss- even when he was willing to go along with anything at the start. He wanted to be loved. He wanted to be cherished. Children always want so desperately to please their authority figures, I can't imagine that he would have resisted in the beginning, hoping that if he went along with whatever Urak told him to, that he would be rewarded and treated with tenderness and care.
He never was. He was beaten and broken and thrown through the wringer time and time again. They made him miserable because that's what Urak wanted- that's what makes good art, after all. A tortured artist who cuts off their own ear but paints the most beautiful night skies.
Even in Round 2, we see this dehumanization. Till has a tether, keeping him to the stage, because he's "dangerous." He's marketed as this rebel, who needs to be tied down, who needs to gagged and muzzled, we can't let him speak because if he opens his mouth, he'll bite. He's pushed down to the ground, subdued, IN HIS MARKETING. This is how he's presented FROM THE BEGINNING. He is forced into this role of the mad dog who screams and claws and bites because this is the mold he was given, he pushed himself into it because that was all he could do. He's giving Urak what Urak wants and even that isn't enough. Because he might be broken, he might have given in, but he's still a stubborn bastard.
Before Round 6 (but after Round 5), Till refuses to sing Mizi's song in the bar. He gets angry with a member of the audience for implying that Mizi is dead, maybe even saying shitty something about her, and he goes at them with a bottle. As @a-star-that-burns-brightly said, he's the only human we've ever seen to get violent with an alien within the bounds of Alien Stage, which makes Till all the more impressive- which means that they have to bring him down all the more forcefully.
I will admit- I didn't understand the scene to be SA until it was pointed out to me (not that I thought it wasn't, it just went over my head) but it adds so much to Till's character to analyse it through that lens.
They rape Till, punishing him for refusing to sing and punishing him to attacking an audience member. Terry Crews, who some may know from Brooklyn-Nine-Nine or other media, is a survivor of sexual assault, and he talked about it before the United States Senate Judiciary committee. He was assaulted by his manager, who was a man. And you may be wondering why I bring this up, and it's simply because I want to remind people that sexual assault is not about sexuality. It can be connected but correlation is not causation. Sexual assault is about exerting power over an individual to make them feel weak, lesser, and show them who is in control of the situation. It's not dissimilar to bullying (but far, far worse). After all, why would corrective rape be a phenomenon if it wasn't about exerting power over the victim and showing them that they don't have autonomy or agency? Because if they had autonomy or agency, they would be able to consent or conversely, the ability to say no.
Of course they don't have autonomy/agency, though, right? Because they're pets. They're possessions. It's akin to how we treat dogs and cats, we breed them and we don't let them say no, because they don't have an understanding of consent like we do, why would they need to say yes or no? They can just fight someone off if they don't want it, right?
Right?
Something that @k9punkout (Numso) said stood out to me, though, is that this might not even be the first time that this has happened to Till. This breaks my heart. Like, legitimately, it made me nearly cry when I read it, because the idea of sexual abuse being used as a form of regular and routine punishment against someone is horrible- but at the same time, that already happens. In prisons, in war zones, in households, sexual abuse is used as a regular punishment against people and that's horrible. The way that Till's experience specifically reflects that of a child in a toxic and abusive household is immensely interesting because of how people forget about that, how people don't seem to really care. He's a sopping wet kitten, yeah, he's a silly little guy, but he's been abused for his whole fucking life. He has a superiority complex that's teetering on an incredibly thin knife's edge and sometimes it wobbles into self-hatred and an absolute absence of self worth.
It's no wonder that Till clings so fiercely to the idea that Mizi is innocent and pure and hopeful, like he once was, because if she isn't- then does that mean he was stupid to ever hope at all? Was he stupid for expecting love and affection, from the people who were supposed to take care of him? Does that mean he's suffered for no reason, save Urak's amusement? Does that mean he's miserable just because, just because Urak demands that someone be miserable in order for them to be great? Does that mean he's been beaten, broken, made into this wretched, ugly thing simply because he's around? It's not so much that his suffering needs to have a purpose, it's more that if it's pointless and based on whim, then that says something about Till himself. That says that Urak saw something in him, something sturdy enough to be broken again and again and get back up. It says that he deserves this. (He doesn't, no one deserves that and deserving things is horseshit, but I can't imagine Till to be thinking anything else.)
Back, finally, to the whole reason I started writing this fucking thing: the Ivantill kiss in Round 6. I've seen some people call it SA, and while I can see why (and of course, I respect their opinions), I disagree.
Ivan shouldn't have continued to kiss Till after Till pushed him, yes, but at the same time, through the narrative of their kiss- it wasn't really a kiss at all. Not in the sense that it was an expression of sexual intent. And maybe this is because I'm on the acearo spectrum but. I don't believe Ivan wanted to kiss Till, it wasn't a romantic kiss, it was one last attempt to get Till to wake up, before it was too late.
Through the lens of knowing that Till is a survivor of sexual assault, the way that Ivan kissed him and his reaction to Ivan kissing him is all the more impactful because Till pushed Ivan away, yes, but he didn't seem horrified, or hollowed out like he is post assault in the bar scene. It shows his trust in Ivan, and maybe even the fact that he knows that Ivan isn't doing this to hurt him, Ivan is kissing him in a final effort to say "I love you. You're loved. I'm sorry."
Blue (@bluemoonscape) talked through this with me a bit earlier and he said something that stuck out to me as well "The kiss, if anything, shows how much control the aliens assert over them to put them in a position where this would be two friends’ last chance to communicate with one another, hence how desperate it is on Ivan’s part. (...) Ivan wasn’t trying to assert power over Till in any way; that just isn’t in his nature. Over the years, he basically lets Till dictate every aspect of their relationship, hell, he even gives power to Till over Ivan’s own freedom (power that Till didn’t want but nonetheless got)" and he really summed it up beautifully in my opinion. The ivantill kiss WASN'T romantic because it wasn't meant to be- Ivan was just saying that he loved Till period. It was a fucked up way to do it. I wish he hadn't.
But he was just trying to say goodbye.
(@atrophiedemotion because i mentioned this to you! <3)
#cw sa#cw sa mention#tw sex assault#tw sa#tw sa mention#alnst#alien stage#alnst till#alnst ivan#(because he's mentioned)#ivantill#rocktalks#me: i cannot be killed! *cue numso and a star that burns brightly killing me with a big hammer*#blue and cast thank you so much for being my beloved little friends who i scrambled around talking about this to. love you guys
177 notes
·
View notes