#exchanging clothes is an act of kinship.... of course....

[hauntingblue]

Nami against Wanda.....

[acedhigh]

SIEGEMAS 2020 @dualrainbow​ starring: Marius Streicher, Dominic Brunsmeier, Monika Weiss, Elias Kötz. main blog: @elitejager​ note: hey to anyone who reads this, I haven’t written anything in forever and the only time I’ve ever written a fic was a request, so this is a first for me. as an Autistic person I wanted to touch on the topic a little (i.e how the world views us versus how we view others and express ourselves) and incorporate it into my prompt for this piece. Marius inspires me a lot, I know he’s a popular part of Team Rainbow so I hope you all like it & happy holidays ✌

07 December.

As an icy chill snaked its way down his nape, Marius was reminded of the changed season. Days, weeks even, inside the workroom (his 'safehaven' as he called it to himself), made time and weather and all things mundane merge together in one big negligible blur. The transition between October into November now early December had seemed so...rapid. "Getting lost in one's work" was nothing short of apropos for this revelation; Unfazed by the cold however, he merely rolled down his sleeves and resumed gazing intently at his go-to site for ordering parts - Hated the white background (far too garish) but it offered the best of the best, and a quicker delivery schedule. He'd need it. It wasn't unusual for him to spend great bouts of time in one place. Even less unusual to be knee-deep in a project or two. But it was when morning frost and Christmas music became part of everyday life to crudely round off the year, that Monika and Elias were particularly attentive to Marius and his propensity to isolate. He'd been like that as long as they could recall. It could be almost jarring at first - His quips that'd rub less-familiar colleagues the wrong way, the speed at which his social battery would fizzle out like an ember, and a subtle arrogance which stepped on many toes. In contrast to Marius' heated and bull-headed nature, even his enthusiasm and eagerness to share or contribute somehow seemed misplaced or perhaps just poorly timed; Boundaries were a struggle and frequently crossed line despite how many walls he put between himself and others. He was unpredictable to most. "Hard to decipher", as Monika once put it. She was the first out of the four to recognize he was on the spectrum, and it tugged at her heartstrings to watch him endure contempt in place of a little understanding - But she vowed to hold her tongue. She did not want to patronise or belittle someone as bold as Marius. After all, in many ways she considered him to rival herself academically, and that garnered much of her respect. He was capable, he didn't need her or anybody else to coddle him or worry. Monika did not worry about him at all in fact, until this time of year.

16 December.

Elias had a similar view. Never had he met someone so rigid in his performance, so disciplined, yet so antsy. Must be the whole chaos of creativity, he thought. He recounted several incidences where he tried his hand at entertaining Marius, to no avail. Like things just didn't connect with him or tickle him the way Elias could achieve with others. But that didn't mean they lacked a connection at all - They were close, but where other people stood Marius was always one step further away, by his own accord. It was clear from the get go that the engineer liked to do things his way and per his agenda. Elias would grant him the favour of “breathing room” because he knew that although Marius held people at arms' length, beneath that eccentric exterior there was a shining heart of gold that cared deeply about the people he would shoo out of his workroom. Today was no exception, apparently.

"Hey, Marius--" There he was, ensconced in something technical of course, and drenched in fluorescent white light.

"No!"

"Huh--"

"Don't-- You can't look. Just...I'm busy. And I'm discussing this prototype of mine with the head of BMVg, whatever it is, it can wait."

Oops, Elias. "This isn't for prying eyes, it's commission work. I'll humour you later."

"Ah, err, got it. No peeking. Just don't work yourself to death and I'll check back in tonight. See ya!"

Yeah, this wasn't uncommon he muses, as he's met with a cold hand gesture towards the door. Though Elias couldn't help but wonder if maybe Marius was pushing himself even harder as to not think about the holidays. Dominic's relationship with him was different. Not as warm to the touch. And certainly more volatile, when tension arose. A clash of unorthodox personalities. They were polar opposites in one way, but fiercely empathetic in others, because pariahs stick together even when grating on each others' nerves - It was their non-conformity that made them a good team no matter how unconventional (and potentially troublesome) the dynamics. He knew how it was to be alone like the back of his hand. Maybe that too is the reason for their kinship, once all strain dissipated. Even he occasionally considered how his comrade handled the isolation; Dominic relished it to a degree, a darker mind who co-existed with his demons. But he knew Marius and he frequently observed his drive to form relationships only for them to fall flat or worse because of that same old disconnect Elias talked about on occasion. Never brought it up verbally but nothing could ghost Dominic's perusal. "Damn. Rejected again," Elias jests as he spots Dominic taking a break from playing grease monkey on his bike - Cigarette routinely positioned in mouth and garage wide open so that snow had begun collecting on the entrance floor. This wing was probably his safehaven, too.

"You should leave him to it." Dominic takes a long drag before expelling two plumes from his nose.

"Yeah I know, I know. Just seems wrong to not try. I don't think he's going home for Christmas. Hasn't heard from his Uncle for a couple of years...Not sure why. Marius tells me that's nothing out of the ordinary. Still, doesn't hurt to remind him we're around."

"He knows we're around. If you and Monika make a fuss it'll probably backfire."

"You could be right. But hey, buzzing in somebody’s ear is better than letting them feel ignored. I wouldn't be half as fun if I wasn't annoying."

"...Are you sure 'fun' is the right word?" Dominic concealed his smirk behind another toke.

"Whaaatever. Have a good night Brunsmeier. And don't get too cold old man! I don't know how you have the place all opened up on days like this. I don't want to come back tomorrow morning and find you in cryostasis."

"Uhuh. Well, snow chains. Fitting new ones on the tires and have to put 'em to the test somehow. See you, Smartass."

23 December.

The air was cold and dry and it permeated indoors but the serenity of snow blanketing everything for miles upon miles outweighed the chill in his lungs. Even the sun couldn’t thaw the ice nor interfere with celebrants having their white Christmas. From the moment he'd woken up that morning he rushed to get stuck back into his work without so much as cranking up the radiators. No matter the climate, it wouldn't deter him from his endeavours, much like Winter itself. As he fine-tuned his latest creation Marius felt overcome with accomplishment and relief knowing he had the rest of the day to spare after hours of trial and error. Fingers weaved and arms raised he stretched up high, taking a moment to admire the fully customised apparatus begging to be used. Fishing his phone out of a denim pocket he checked the time and grabbed one of the gift boxes wrapped neatly with a lavender bow. Monika would always make a point of going home to celebrate with her family - he'd heard many stories about her mother's Sauerbraten - and was always the first to leave to ensure she'd catch her flight. Ergo, her turn came first. His soles crunched against the virgin snow as Marius made his way to the dormitories. He could've forgotten the clean scent of fresh air or the sheer brightness the day can bring after spending a majority of his time hunkered down at the workroom. Cutting it close, he was fortunate enough to cross paths with Monika, luggage in her wake while punching in a numberpass for the electronic gate. "Monika!" He called out, waving her down.

"Hm?" Immediately she turned on her heel - Perhaps he startled her, or it was the (pleasant) surprise of hearing that familiar voice in another place other than his station or dorm.

"Monika, I'm glad I could catch you. Here--" Offering the palm sized box it was clear to the both of them that neither knew exactly how to handle the situation without underlying befuddlement. "--Frohe Weihnachten." (Merry Christmas). Ah yes, he'd forgotten that part. He wasn't well-versed in the act of gift giving - not face to face, at least...

"Really? For me?"

"Of course it is. It's purple. I don't know anybody else's favourite colour."

"I'm a little speechless...! Thank you Marius, and Frohe Weihnachten. I got something for you too, so did Elias. You were too busy we didn't think to disturb you and thought we'd leave them on your desk. You're welcome to pick them up yourself beneath the tree Emmanuelle and Yumiko set up in the foyer." Something akin to a glorified 'Secret Santa' Harry suggested for Team Rainbow to build on their camaraderie but appealed little to Dominic.

"Oh, that was unnecessary, but I'm grateful. Then I'm obliged to thank you as well. I didn't expect anything - I just wanted to see what I could come up with. I hope you like it."

"No act of benevolence is unnecessary. I'm tempted to open this up right here and now, I'm very curious. I'm going to show restraint however and open it tomorrow. I'll shoot you a message afterwards, OK?" She unzipped her case and placed it delicately atop folded clothes. Whatever it was, it seemed fragile, and would need the padding. "You take care of yourself Marius. Tschüss!" She passed through the gate and left with a smile.

24 December.

With more confidence after yesterday's exchange next in line was either Elias or Dominic, whoever he bumped into first. Today was bitterly cold and much darker, grey clouds hanging overhead almost as thick as the snow. Still, it was welcomed by those who enjoyed the seasonal comforts of lounging around; Vastly preferable to these scorching Summers in recent years, to Marius' admittance. He could spy from beyond his work station window that Dominic had the garage locked up early and was now dumping fodder to feed one of his burn barrel fires. To Marius, this had grown synonymous with Winter, and was a good way to gauge the severity of the weather - Dominic explained to him that it became habit from his undercover days, and was a quick & easy disposal method of...well, anything that could burn. Which sounded vaguely ominous with the way he put it, and there was no doubt in his mind that it absolutely was ominous. But that was then. He would ponder though, what his fellow operative saw in those flames. If he thought of an array of things and memories like a haunting myriad or maybe he just saw nothing more than a warming fire and burning magazines. It was hardly worth asking either, because he was scarcely linear, and seemed to quietly take pleasure in keeping people on their toes. An enigma for sure. They both were. Joining Dominic's side he could feel heat from the fire and the barrel itself as it raged on between them.

"You've been out here a while?" "An hour, maybe less." "Can't be too good for you. It's cold & flu season. If you're going to see your nephews and nieces, that's not wise." "I've dealt with worse." "Yes, that's true, I'm sure your lungs appreciate your pack-a-day fitness ritual." "If I smoked a pack a day, BPOL would give me the chop faster than any bad habits could on my life expectancy. Besides, I can still outrun you. Did you come here to give me health advice or was there something else?" "I know you well enough to know that giving you advice often goes unheeded." Much to my dismay. "So no, however--" He presents the red giftbox to Dominic, which he'd yet to acknowledge. Or he didn't care enough to ask. There's a visible confusion that reads in his otherwise stark expression - Like Monika's the day prior. Was it really so foreign for Marius to present his generosity this way? "Oh...?" "Open it, Dummkopf." Rather than muster some spur of the moment retort Dominic does as instructed. He settled the box in snow and crouched down to examine what awaited inside. "Pure silver electromagnetic rods. In a similar vein to an EMP device, rather, a preemptive attack on them and on your target. Think of them as an extension to your CEDs. Place them around in any formation you like to create an electromagnetic field; They will go live the moment your CEDs do. I've included a remote for functionality and to check that they're all within range of each other. The frequencies will be dizzying for enemy weaponry and at the touch of a button, shock anybody standing within the field's radius." Astounded, Dominic can only look down in disbelief at the device in his hands. It's one thing to fix up an old motorcycle, or even a car, but something of this calibre was truly belonging to a prodigious acumen. And that prodigy is Marius Streicher. "Oh, there's also armbands and a 'plate' you fit to the bottom of your footwear to absorb static and safeguard you from being on the receiving end of the electrogrid. That part should be a familiar concept." "..." "Well?" "I don't know how the hell you come up with this shit, but it's incredible." "Mmhmm. Of course it is, I made it. Brave of you to finally admit that." "Don't make me regret showing some gratitude. I mean it. Is this what you've been busying yourself with the whole month?" "Yeah, calculating pulse waveforms took more work than Monika's and Elias' upgrades, I readily accepted the challenge though." "You went to the trouble of making something for them too huh. Crazy." "I did yes. Monika's was no sweat. I pulled up the files on her RED Mk III and tweaked a few things. Utilising the same technology I fitted a lens-like screen to a headpiece, so the intel she needs is always in view, and her handling of weapons isn't compromised. I think she'll appreciate the purple tint I used for the lens. That, and it can also be used for her spelunking - The new and improved Spectre can see beyond solid walls several metres thick, and it can detect hollow spaces like tunnels. If she removes the chip and slots it into the drone I made for her - I'll reveal that part to her once she's back - she can apply the Spectre to airborne recon in the same way as the lens itself." "Now, you're showing off. She's going to use and abuse that thing every chance she gets." "Good. Then I won't have made it for nothing." "What about Elias, what did you give him?" "I haven't given him his yet which works out nicely." "I'm all ears, Brainiac." "Interesting moniker. Elias gets a conal radius motion & thermal detector that bolsters his ballistic shield. This will give him an increase in tactical advantage, by alerting him to whoever is in his vicinity. If there's an obstruction or he loses sight of the enemy he can find them with ease and make his move. Like Monika's, his can mimic the technology he's accustomed to and can also be detached and used with the specialised drone made for him. He'll be able to temporarily blind at range, or cause distraction, meaning if he keeps his wits about him he'll manage to play a part from long distances." Dominic spied something else in the box as Marius gave his run down on each of the devices. Brow furrowed he picks it up and examines it closely, unable to crack what purpose it served. "Hm. And this?" "That, is a personal touch. Call it whimsical but I think you'll like it. His drone is also yours." Shooting the engineer a bewildered glance Dominic held the second remote in hand, waiting expectantly to understand its significance and what exactly made it so 'whimsical'. "I had trouble coming up with a unique quality for each of you. You're both irreverent in your sense of humour, so I decided to play on that. Elias' drone also has a compartment where something, such as a flashbang for example, can be stored and dropped at command. I'll tell him about that. What I won't tell him however is that you have full access to the drone with that control you're holding. I'll leave it to your imagination to invent shenanigans of your own design. It ought to appease your prankster inclinations," Marius smiled knowingly, but only just - A sliver of the pride gathering in his center. Dominic's was blatant and devilish; Cogs turning in his mind already. But moreso this was a gift with meaning, and understanding to a level that excelled clinical intelligence. He had captured all three of them as operatives and as people, as friends, in the best way he knew how. Each gadget was far from mere machinery. Like polaroids immortalising their merits on the field and in life. "Don't expect to hear this out of me again anytime soon but you've outdone yourself." "Hah! It's worth the effort just to wring sincerity out of you, you ornery bastard." "Yeah, yeah, pot calling the kettle black. I know you're not a drinker but come on, show me how to use this thing over a pint - and bring the drone. I want to get Elias back for all his gaudy Christmas music in the dorms. I considered smothering him with his pillow, but this will suffice." He sneered, amused by his own facetiousness. "I know you don't have anything else planned so I'm not giving you much of a choice." After placing everything back in its box Dominic stood up to give his friend a gracious pat on the back. Marius noticed a glint in his eye he hadn't been privy to before - one unlike the dispassion that most would consider default to 'Bandit' - perhaps they were both seeing each other in a different light. An aspect they kept tucked away, save for rare junctures such as these. "Fine. I'll agree, considering the occasion. Might as well get into the spirit of things a little. Frohe Weihnachten, Dominic." "Frohe Weihnachten."

[patricia-von-arundel]

Mother’s Day

Summary: A new marriage, a new life, even a new name - and a new stepson. Deprived of Edelgard, Anselma - now Patricia - tries to come to terms with the new child dropped into her life: Dimitri.

Rating: G

Set in the same 'verse as A World on Its Side.

I started this story *for* Mother's Day, and then got distracted writing other things. Better late than never, right?

As always, for @lysissisyl, who knows why. 

Also on AO3

-

Edelgard was the only child she'd ever really known - and how to judge, from only one, and only so briefly, any sort of notion of what children in general were like, or should be like? It was no true frame of reference, even if it had been possible to consider Edelgard without any bias at all. Which it was not. And never would be. 

Fierce - that was the word for Edelgard. Tiny and tenacious and hopelessly stubborn, even before she had words, only the most flailing attempts at control, determined to make her presence and her specific desires clear, through whatever nascent means her own development had, thus far, seen fit to bestow upon her. And while Anselma could claim no prior knowledge, she, then, cradled within herself the blooms of pride from Ionius' doting. And he had been doting.

Once.

Doting, but if he'd had even a few drops of the ferocity that was in Edelgard...

Well - he had not. And he did not. But he had possessed far greater stores of knowledge of the path of early childhood - a thought now tinged with aching bitterness - than Anselma had, or would likely ever have. If he found precocity in Edelgard's determined attempts to make herself understood, then there must be more to it than merely blind pride? 

Irrelevant, now. As irrelevant as the promises he had made; as irrelevant as her own blinders, even as she had pretended to have endemic talent: some natural, inherent gift for playing a game in which she had never accepted the rules. Ionius was not the only foolish one - just a fool with more unearned clout. 

He was gone now. Likely for good. And she knew nothing of the wives, of the children. 

Of Edelgard. 

She told herself not to think about it. Even before leaving the Empire, she had known it was best to try to forget. 

But what was best, and what was possible, might be two very different things. 

Especially with the little prince darting in and out of daily life like some frightened scrap of a kitten. 

Whether he was a normal child, she could not say.

But he was nothing like Edelgard. 

he was introduced to her formally, with the same coldness that seemed to have seeped from the air of Faerghus and into the souls of its people. The man she had married was a stranger to her, and she to him, so perhaps a certain frost was not unexpected between them. But the way he spoke to his son - of his son - seemed also to carry almost no warmth at all. 

"Boy," he said - and the little one, a spitting image in miniature, stepped obediently forward. His eyes found hers only briefly, before he ducked his head to a bow, and remained there. "My son, the Crown Prince Dimitri. Dimitri, your new stepmother."

And that was all. Non words exchanged between them. Another land, and still more walls, and Anselma knew no way to scale them. Instead, she knew now all that could be lost if she attempted again, and still failed. 

More than a month had passed, since the hurried formalities of a wedding, and a single, passionless night of necessary consummation. She had seen Cornelia more often than her new husband, and still had no promised answers to other question she had asked before agreeing to leave Enbarr - to leave Edelgard. She told herself to practice patience. She nurtured that anger that seemed to have always smoldered within her - feeding it slowly, carefully. Stoking it. 

Fire could be a dangerous weapon. 

And none seemed inclined to pay hers any mind.

Not yet. Not yet...

If they would not tell her the rules, what could prevent her from breaking them?

"Say nothing of Edelgard." Whispered words, but with an almost frightened, harsh ferocity she had rarely, if ever, heard from her brother's oft-simpering lips. She would not deny that something was badly amiss within the Empire, and his sudden fear only confirmed as much. "She would never be safe, even under Lambert's protection. I will see to her safety - I swear it by the Goddess, and Seiros, and all the Saints above."

She had done as told. But the Goddess? Seiros, the Saints? What would they do, to protect one girl?

Nothing  - as they always did. Nothing at all.

If anyone in the Empire harmed Edelgard, it would not be the Goddess they would need to concern themselves with. 

But until then - she had said nothing, and she would say nothing. She was not even certain Lambert was aware of her relationship to one of the small herd of Imperial children; there had never been official union between Hresvelg and Arundel, and though he knew she had spent a lifetime as "Anselma," she had never heard him call her anything but "Patricia." And she had no idea what tales might have been woven concerning her own provenance by Volkhard and those in the Kingdom seeking his continued favor. Once again, as always, she was a pawn to their minds. 

And best forgotten when the game required no sacrifice. 

She kept herself to herself, now in cold, unfamiliar, unforgiving Fhirdiad. It was not hard, when she hardly saw or spoke to anyone but the taciturn castle staff, who were all but silent even amongst themselves as they delivered meals, laid out fresh clothing, or turned down blankets and tamped the fires to warm embers each night. Even the Arundel lands were lively when to compared to dour Fhirdiad. 

But sometimes she wondered... 

She had champed and strained against her own childhood reins. So what of growing up somewhere even more stiff, and quiet, and cold?

Boy.

The motherless little crown prince. The skittish kitten of a creature. She caught glimpses of him, but he spoke no more than formal, necessary greetings, always with that extended bow she was beginning to believe spoke as much of a shy nature as a polite one. He was almost of an age with Edelgard. She resisted, though, the inclination to compare them. 

But not as successfully as she might have claimed, had anyone asked. (Which, of course, no one did.)

He had no ferocity to him - none at all. He seemed, if anything, so docile that it seemed some colossal jape to name him heir to a household, much less an entire kingdom. His build was study enough, but there was still about him an air of fragility, and the same seemed to reflect in his eyes, as wide and cloudless and blue as the sky on the first perfect day of summer. There was assuredly sweetness to him - but sweetness such as his was dangerous. Dangerous to himself - and dangerous to his future rule. 

In that, she had another comparison: not Edelgard.

Ionius.

Perhaps that, more than thoughts of Edelgard, led her to distance herself from him. Sweetness, weakness: his own life was not her concern. The Kingdom was not her concern. Her concern was herself, and her daughter, and if for the moment she had no power to guarantee protection for either of them, she would at least do nothing that risked jeopardizing them further. This soft, sweet, sad boy was nothing to her, and should King Lambert drop dead tomorrow, she would be nothing to this boy. It was safer for both of them. 

But she could not pretend she did not notice his presence - particularly when it was often the only one besides her own. Or maybe it was simply a consequence of all the time she had spent alone, these last few years. Time when there should have been a child... though she could not imagine Edelgard ever skulking so. 

She could feel him watching; hear the soft scuffling of his boots against the stone flooring, or an occasional sniffle or sigh. But she kept her gaze pointedly on whatever task lay before her - she saw no reason to draw more of his attention, and what purpose would it serve to let him know she was aware of his presence? It would only embarrass him. He was spooked too easily already, poor thing. 

Beyond that first month - how long did this strange little act continue? Time seemed to grow increasingly nebulous, the longer she spent in Faerghus. The seasons never seemed to change, one cold, blustery, white-skied day bleeding endlessly into another. She kept track of when it was, as she did every year, but not how long it had been; there was already sufficient past to be mourned. The day it was: that was to light a candle for Edelgard's birthday. 

She would be ten, soon.

The Garland Moon in Enbarr was a beautiful month, warm and sunny without yet the wet, oppressive heat of late summer. In Fhirdiad, she suspected things would not change much between this moon and the next. Maybe that was why the boy was about so much of the time; Lambert had said he was often out with friends, but maybe that was on a rare warmer day. Or maybe his father paid as little mind to his son as he did to his new wife. 

The thought occurred to her on one of those endless, bleed-along days - then gripped, refused to let go. She had assumed the boy was merely bored and curious about this new addition to his life, but what if...

What if he was lonely?

It brought her back to how little she knew about the ways of children. She could not imagine Edelgard quietly putting up with being bored or lonely; she would make entertainment, or demand it be made for her. But was that some prerequisite of very small children - would Edelgard be the same way now?

Because it also took Anselma back to her own memories of childhood. Her own loneliness. And her own isolation. 

She had always thought Edelgard much like her - far more like her than like Ionius. But in considering Dimitri's loneliness, she felt, for the first time, a blossom of kinship. When she felt his eyes, she now looked very pointedly elsewhere, and made broader movements: sewing or reading was hardly still likely anything interesting to watch, but there was no harm in trying to make it so. 

She considered speaking to him - she wanted, more and more, to speak to him - but after so long, she wasn't sure how, nor even, truly, if such a thing would be acceptable. She could recognize the absurdity of it - a woman almost 30 years old, and unsure of whether she could talk to her own stepson! - but the concern was nonetheless there. If such a thing was allowed, why had Dimitri still said so little to her? Too many bedtime stories of wicked stepmothers? 

(That made her smile, to think of - and she could not remember the last time she had done so. It was nice to know a smile might still come unbidden.)

Perhaps she was no longer as impetuous as the girl she had once been. perhaps Dimitri was bolder and braver than she had given him credit for. Or perhaps it was some combination of both - but whatever it was, in the end, the strange wall that had grown between them was brought down not by her, but by Dimitri. 

Dimitri, and the first time he reminded her of Edelgard. 

Her liing quarters in the castle were a set of three small rooms on the third floor - the newer part of the hulking, ancient monolith squatting over Fhirdiad like some immense, ugly, judgmental toad. The inside was hardly much better; she missed the privacy and simplicity of the cottage in Enbarr, and even the familiar confines of the Arundel manor house, with its fug of peat fires and faint aroma, always, of damp thatch and wool and leather. Still, she appreciated the semblance of privacy, especially of the bedroom; she was not so naive as to believe it truly her own, but also aware of hos much less it might be, and how little recourse she would have if it was.

Just outside her bedroom was the small parlor where she took her meals, and next to it the study where she spent much of her time; it had a large, modern window, and she had dragged one of the more comfortable parlor chairs in there, to take advantage of what natural light there was by which to read or sew. The castle staff left breakfast in the parlor each morning, but never went into the study except when she was awake and elsewhere, so that they might dust or tidy. It was otherwise left alone - or so she had always believed.

Which meant it came as a surprise, one bitter early morning of the Harpstring Moon, to find muddy footprints leading across the parlor, and into the study. Small prints - but she could not imagine one of the servants, even a very young one, not only going into the study instead of quietly placing tea and cakes down and leaving, but also ignoring the trail of wet muck left in their wake. Anselma ignored the tray of breakfast - she followed the prints. 

There was a cup on the windowsill. Nothing unusual about it - it was just like the one she had passed not a minute earlier, left for her tea. But there was more dirty and tiny clods of mud around it, and the toes of the footprints before the sill were deep and well-defined, as if the person who stood there had had to raise themselves on tiptoe to do their curious job. 

The cup held flowers. 

Or rather - unopened blossoms. Roses, by the smell of them - and by the smooth-silk coolness of the curled petals, when she reached to touch them. They'd been left in a meager splash of mud-darkened water; the stems were hacked off in jagged, uneven strands of green. Pink and yellow blossoms - they were the brightest thing she had seen in a very, very long time. 

But why were they here?

Edelgard...?

The overgrown back garden of their home in Enbarr, before Edelgard was taken for good: she had loved that meager patch of land. The grass, the uneven hedges, the insects and the tiny frogs that came each summer, out of the stream that separated their house from the rolling fields beyond. 

She picked the wildflowers - tiny things, like Edelgard herself, but just as determined to find a place to call their own, to take root and push their way up, through the soil, around stocky blades of grass or into narrow cracks in the paving stones. A deadly-serious job, as Edelgard took it, to gather up those flowers. She made piles on the stones, separating them by color: a red pile; a blue one; yellow and white. Carefully easing them more tightly together. She spent whole mornings at her slow, methodical work. It was a marked difference from her usual behavior, when she ran hither and yon, outside or in, nothing able to capture her attention for more than a fleeting few minutes at a time. 

They had pressed the flowers - some of them. Anselma showed her how, and Edelgard took this, too, very seriously: biting her lip and squinting at the pages before her, trying to decide the best place for each little bloom. They used a book of hagiographies, a gift from Volkhard, the largest book Anselma had in her possession - and she felt a little spark of an adolescent-esque rebellious pleasure, wondering what he would say of this use of a religious text. 

It wasn't as if Edelgard could read it. 

Flowers...

And small footprints on the floor.

Don't be absurd.

A sudden, surprised little noise behind her - followed almost immediately by a sloshing crash. 

When she turned, blue eyes met hers with no sign of bowing away - just wide, frightened shock. Dimitri's cheeks were red, his hair in its usual long muss, his buttons uneven, and his boots - his very small, mud-caked boots - now splashed and shiny with the contents of the bowl of water he had dropped. In his left hand, he held a cloth. 

He blinked at her, as if for a moment he had lost track of who she was, or perhaps where he was. Then - it seemed almost inevitable - came the bow, though it was hurried and sloppy, with none of his usual careful politeness. "I... I ask your apology, Stepmother. I did not realize you were awake, or... I would not have come in. Without knocking. Though I... I already did. I ask your apology for that, as well. I'm sorry. I will see it all cleaned up. Myself."

Dimitri had created such chaos? Dimitri had... left flowers for her? 

For a long moment, she could find no words, and no thoughts but those. Dimitri had straightened once more - his eyes still afraid, but his face and demeanor patient, waiting. Whether such was normal in a child of his age, she could not say, but just then, she was certainly appreciative of the time allowed to attempt to gather herself. 

"May I help you?" she finally asked. 

Now, it seemed his turn to merely stare. "But... I was the one who made the mess. Why would you... wish to help me?" It was the most emotion she had ever heard from him: his tone still measured and polite, but not tinged, as much his expression was, with what seemed honest befuddlement. 

Was it truly so alien to him, to have someone offer him help?

"Because I'd like to," she said.

Again, Dimitri stared. Then - another bow. But not quickly enough: she had already seen how he started to smile. 

"I'll get more water," he said, "And... I thank you, Stepmother."

As soon as he was gone from sight, she could hear the slap of his boots, as he started to run.

She waited for a moment, still and silent, then went to prepare the tea. She should she might like to offer it to him. 

[kappasigmalife]

Desolate Caladium: Chp 2

Desolate Caladium : chapter 2

Falls on me

The dead of night came quickly for us, I was able to use some of my savings to get us out of port on a cargo ship going to neighboring islands. The kingdom is in an uproar and caladium is terrified. While on the hold we were finally able to rest and I watched as he tossed and turned the entire night. Of course I wanted to tell him everything was fine but in truth how could it, losing your father, cast from your kingdom like a leper, and your only company is a guy you saved 5 years ago, and is wanted for the murder of the king. When he woke up I found him eating a basket of fruit some of the sailors gave him, tossing me a banana, he told me to eat it plenty of it considering scurvy is a thing in the high seas. Eating the fruit I notice that caladium is taking out a long dagger and looking at it.

“an azoth dagger, meant for mages who completed their training as novices and attain the rank of casters, only given when one slays a beast, never thought I’d ever unwrap the cloth to use it.” “it’s a beautiful blade prince, but why take it out now” As I ask I notice hime cut it into his long locks of hair and sees it change color, from dark brown, to a light tan.

“as of now, my name is callum, and drop the prince, I don’t have use for it no more.” When we got to port he asked me to get him clothes that were civilian instead of royal and as we walked I saw him eyeing the guards around us, looking for me.

“don’t worry if anyone notices you, ill keep them away alright.” “being a mage must really be cool.”

“well it’s the hard work that pays off.”

His hair almost looks better shorter, but of course the hair that fell off just burned away, no doubt to just simply keep from being tracked later on. He grabbed my by the arm and brings me to the marketplace where he places some cents on a man’s table asking for a place for the night. The man tells him money is no good for him as the merchants guild has been struck down by the fallen kingdom and requires assistance more than anything. He gave us the room in exchange we bring his caravan to the next city 5 miles away. Gladly accepting, callum looks at me and smiles knowing that were safe another day. That night he slept more soundly and I kept watch outside once again. I began notice the sound of a horse galloping fast around the market and place it as nothing more than rounds being done by the police force. My real concern was watching callum just sleep as the night drags on. He woke around 4 am telling me he will take over and for me to rest before we must leave again. I can tell his very focused as he doesn’t even blink as he gazes outside, his auburn eyes under the moon glistened as I looked at him before drifting off. Although my time with him has been short we have been through more than enough to know the confines of needing one another to survive in this world. He promised me that we would be okay and in retrospect we are, together we stand against the illegal acts of the coup de ta    while also running from our fate at the hands of the gallows. Forbidding himself from magic, he relies only on his brawn to keep us safe.

While the night persisting into the early morning we were able to rest enough to be ready to head out with the caravan. He took the reins and whisked us away from the market all the way to the next town in only a matter of hours, with one horse and supplies. As we arrived he received a large sum of cash that he stashed into his satchel to get us another room. Instead of a nice room in an inn, we chose to stay in the stables free of charge in order to recuperate and regroup our route away from the kingdom. His idea is to become a merchant only to provide protection as well as favors for cash in return for living quarters and start a new life. While I would like the idea of having a new life with him, it is not fair he is the one doing all the work. I requested to be sent to the local apothecary to work as a medical official and help townspeople with licensing from the city. The issue is that I need an alias as well, but callum assured me that desmond is so common it wouldn’t be an issue and effortlessly got me an emblem signifying my alliance to a med corp. as tears ran down my face I saw that he was smiling and wiped the tears from me.

“your eyes, I didn’t notice they were green, the color of life, a perfect fit for a medic.” “I never really noticed callum, thank you.” “we should celebrate, lets splurge a bit at the bar.” we drank til the hour grew late and we laughed at the expense of our new life, although much of it was running thin on the confines of time as we needed callum to still earn a living with the merchants guild. As a mage he could easily be a noble or even king, but his life was gone and he looks like hes okay with it.

“why are you so happy callum?” “huh, that’s no issue des, I just love being happy.” “but you have lost everything you had in a matter of days and you see the brighter side so quickly.” “of course I do, its because deep down the more I see the pain and anguish the easier it is for me to learn from it and become a better person throughout my life”

“why help everyone but yourself, you act like that’s your purpose.” “as a mage that is how I am born to be, to use magic as a way of helping instead of destroying as my master would say, but now I cant without being outed by the guards.” As I think back at all the things hes had to endure its more prevelant now that I merely only know one minute of his life aside from the entirety. He went on to tell me of his childhood, when his mother died when he was born due to the inheritance of her magic, his father showering him with affection even though he was king, spending time with other kids his age accidently hurting them only to have one friend who understood him.

“I fear that he may come soon, he is the most powerful knight of my fathers council and his bloodline is laced in carnage and bodies.” “how come, isn’t he your friend.” “because its his duty to protect the kingdom, as of now were seen as fugitives and at the same time as victims of conspiracy, but that doesn’t matter to them, they wish to seek control and end the kings familial bloodline one way or another.” “you really are a brave man, I don’t get how you could ever…..” he cut me off placing his hand on my mouth and gesturing me to leave with him. Sneaking out the back he pulled me into a back aisle in the road where he snuck behind the crates. A large hulking figure was looming around stopping in the aisle before moving on. I knew something was different, he was reeking of blood and seemed like the type to end a many for simply arguing with him.

“already found us, and not even three days passed, well done black knight, may we settle our debate tonight or shall I continue to elude you.” As I blinked the man came between us narrowly slicing me with a odd weapon, a sword and staff combined. He looked at both of us and kicked me into the crates as he went to take on callum, whose leaped in the air to the rooftops grabbing his azoth dagger. The man followed suit and I could only watch as they continually fought clashing blades and running after one another.

“for a man who is the kings lapdog, it’s a surprise you didn’t decide to kill him.” “true I didn’t, but given the price I can easily take his sons hide as my own trophy.” “always the morbid talker, taking any price for the job, taken any price for a rescue.” Callum had blasted him off right at my feet landing on his head. As soon as I thought he was dead, he rose back up cracking his neck into place and laughing.

“losing your touch caladium, you really surprise me without your true magic showing.”

“its callum, and what did I expect from the son of the impaler, or as I call you guys, the failed kinship.” “ouch most damage you ever gave me” Callum was getting more and more serious in this fight and all I could do was watch as the two moved more quickly than ever at each other. The metal of the blades going back and forth like a wavering dance of who would lead next, until chris began incantations.

“caelum hoc urere flammis bestia”

“oh goodie breaking out the dead language that gonna be fun.”

A burst of flames erupt from callums blade and strikes the man into the wall allowing him to grab me and run. The man gets up and gives chase merely cornering us and getting to grab my by the collar as I tried to run. Putting his blade to my neck he asked for me to drop mine and come with him. Doing so callum gives into the demands and leaves. I pick up his azoth dagger and glows in the direction he left with the man. Following the signal I come to see the man with piercing red eyes and golden hair curled with a massive beard. The two are drinking together near the shore and I sneak to see what is going on.

“its been years bro, how have you been?” “tough, but you know what its like in the kingdom.” “yeah true I don’t get it either but they pay well, and again im sorry to hear about your dad.” “he was old and things happen, but thank you for the sentiment.” “pleasure now that I know your good on your own, im gonna tell them your dead, and so is that nurse fellow.” “thank you for this, Trev” “least I could do after busting your ass to get me the knights gig, a vampiric knight of the council god everone flipped.” “those were the good old days.” I watched as callum got up and hands over a emerald pendant as the black knight rises and takes it from his grasp.

“payment for this favor, you know the drill.” “ill find two loathsome vermin in town your size and axe them off, then you disguise them yourself, that will act as proof of your death.” “not the first time we did this, go to the east district that where most of the mongrels live.” “good to know, and by the way, why hang around that kid.” “I see something in him innocent, that’s been masked for a long time, also his smile is adorable.”

[queernuck]

What Body, Therefore, Am I?

Last night, reading a brilliant quote regarding the way in which Butch identities existed at a sort of uneasy point regarding the coercive gendering of the body, how a performative interrogation of such a position could occur over the course of a cigarette break after a comedy show, first with an older woman who thanked the younger Butch for being outwardly Butch without an apparent sympathy or affinity for transness as a position, as a space of developing Butch identification, and then with an opposite misunderstanding by a young trans man whose identity fundamentally was realized in relation to actions that would lead to him not being realized as a butch woman, but specifically as a man, that he would engage in the kind of singular, molecular becoming- that goes with becoming-man as a sort-of-transness, one that was admitted as still an attempt to connect, to acknowledge shared embodiment and to emphasize certain relationships between transness, butchness, becoming-woman, and a process of becoming-imperceptible alongside it, and the differance imparted by vocabularies of identity that are restricted by community, by particularities and acts of identification and so many segmented non-moments that only a gesture which relies on a deep embodiment, that sense of affinity and frustration realized not in the latter but rather as a derivation of sorts within the former, as a hug, an embrace, as a moment of fleeting intimacy against structures of violence and the violence created by the singular structure that constitutes encountering another in a decontextualized public space, a denatured lack of assembly and assemblage that does not allow for the sharing of vocabularies, the creation of a consistent grammar out of multiplicative languages, that emphasizes the traitorous structures of translation over the syncretic birth within such an act, and instead a new vocabulary that rejects the necessity of moving toward a Body Without Organs in a given moment and instead simply relates organs into a new assemblage, one through which two arboreal bodies are instead arranged in a new rhizome, an embrace.

Realizing, then, that the post originated with someone who has specifically embraced transmisogyny as part of their ontology of womanhood, who envisions both transition and more importantly detransition as a restoration of a forgotten identity, the means by which these processes of contrasting flows likeness and unlikeness are exchanged for an incoherent sameness through the combinatory approach to transmasc and butch identities as a project of transmisogynist violence, one begins to find a core aspect of what so many find most frustrating about life as trans women. This is someone who has specifically staked a kind of counterclaim upon my identity, for whom the cornerstone of a certain kind of epistemic processing lies atop my own identity. Not only do I stand as a trans woman, but I stand for all trans women insofar as the trans woman then becomes a vanished subject, is apparently exposed as a man, is made-imperceptible in a fashion that is anything but. The ideology of transmisogyny is not the misrecognition of trans women as men, and the subsequent privileging of their bodies as sites upon which sexual desire, political activism, and phallogocentric accounts of basic acts of selfhood, but rather a reversal of this: these are genuine components of trans womanhood, but specifically components through which a violent libidinal urge continually flows. That trans women are so often unable to define themselves except through hypersexual accounts of their self-discovery, that transness is interrelated with kink and performative acts of “womanlike” sexuality, the codification of certain sexual acts as proving identity and proving belonging, is due to the phallogocentric signification of trans women as subjects. Trans women exposed, named as men, are not in fact signifying bodies of men. Rather, there is a kind of second-order signification: trans women are a simulacrum of an absent man, and in order to create the man that corresponds to this body the trans woman in question must be approached with violence, with a destructive reading of the body that creates a man through repression or gleeful and apparently-deserved acts of violent collapsing, violent conduct.

The embrace of words such as “tranny” and “faggot” as part of this, as an attempt at response, indicates a kind of resting point at which the convergence of an acknowledgement of the performative structuring of gendered becomings and the historical resignification of community between trans women and gay men, the material component of becoming a “faggot” in this sense, of not becoming-trans but rather becoming-tranny, a kind of preemptive acceptance that allows a new restructuring of the body in the face of declaring it to be that of a man’s: indeed, it is, but it still allows phallogocentric accounts of desire that are reserved for women, positions reserved for womanhood, relationships to masculinity and manhood reserved for those faggots, those trannies, to flow through it. Thus, by projecting this image, one persists within a phallogocentric frame of reference, but can hardly be blamed for such an action. That the phallogocentric language of desire proliferates so widely that gay men are understood specifically in relation to singular sexual preferences (rather than shifting or unimportant understandings of it) or the Lesbian Phallus that Butler introduces, the means through which public resignification of Butch and Femme identities occurs for heterosexual consumption, one finds that women using the vocabulary of maleness for themselves, or men using those reserved for women, can open up new contradictions within a phallogocentric account of desire that express the genuine experience of contradiction and identification within it as a hegemonic system of desiring-machines, of an entire eternal space of desiring bodies.

Presenting my own body, naming myself as a woman and specifically identifying as such, refusing identification as a bisexual man while still keeping close community with them, showing a larger structure of affinity with other trans women who specifically desire something other than mere “passing” as a mark of acceptability, is then best realized as an act of becoming-woman that turns, then, into a kind of becoming-animal which is expanded by the question of the ecological as a social space, as constructed and spoken into “being” by a subject perceiving it: becoming-animal is specifically the act through which the Animal Other is named, is made clear, the point at which the Animal Other becomes an acceptable Other subject to violent acts of demarcation. A dog or cat or certain sorts of fish become something different, are able, then, to be understood as animals to a point, in a sense, that is, animals but not the Animal Other. Even Animal Others will be granted exceptions, specifically to justify the status of Animal Others that do not fit these anthropomorphic qualities as such as well as to maintain the prioritization of the subject as a privileged site of encounter, the creation of an ecology that centers humanity when the “human” is so ill-defined, is effectively the remnants of colonial acts of recognition designed to eke out which subjects could be trusted to maintain colonial rule and which could not be. It becomes a discourse of collaborators and enemies, of subjects and resources for them, one that will in fact inevitably elevate apparent animals above supposed humans, one that will show more sympathy to police dogs than those victimized by them, one that will deny commonality with animals even while seeking their kinship. To return, then, to my body, the offering of certain “acceptable” acts of retention, ones regarding qualities like facial hair, body fat, performative acts of assembling the body captured in momentary articles like pieces of clothing or means of carrying oneself, the offering of this, or that, or another aspect of trans womanhood in isolation, coupled with the way in which some are willing to recognize the same qualities as secondary to the identity stated during a process of detransition, the collection of these qualities, their assemblage upon a singular body, offers a point at which one looks to the body of a trans woman and has all of these otherwise-contemptible features that are merely tolerated in order to hide transmisogynist impulses and finds a kind of eagerness to start the flows of violence that trans women are deserving of, to expand out from this woman’s body into the denaturing of all trans women’s bodies. 

Of course, there is a converse: the assemblage of traits is recognized as one which contains an assemblage of organs which, isolated, can be understood as acceptably constituting a woman, so long as other phallogocentric performances are upheld dutifully. However, it also makes clear that there is an act of limiting, an act whereby womanhood is withheld on a mere suspicion of duplicity, rather than a meaningful sign of it, an act whereby trans womanhood’s measuring as a kind of false womanhood, as a womanhood forever limited and lesser, one that can only be realized with a kind of phallogocentric desire akin to that of the Lesbian Phallus as a means of recognizing lesbian subjectivities, the creation of the Trans Woman’s Phallus as a kind of singularity that finds itself following along similar flows of simultaneous desire and rejection, and the eventual rejection of a core statement of transness specifically until certain performative actions are reached, until certain aesthetics are first embodied, that trans women cannot be butch until first they transition into a sufficiently feminine body, that trans women are unable to be lesbians and instead are assumed-heterosexual even if they only desire other trans women, that trans women are unable to take comfort in androgyny or even anything other than abject misery from their own experience of the body unless a performative standard of womanhood is offered as a telos, as the eventual goal of womanhood, in a fashion that specifically defies the phenomenally rich identities that womanhood contains, the incredible and open space that is presented within becoming-woman as a new means of becoming-imperceptible in a possibly genuine fashion, the entry into something that accepts the phallogocentric hegemony of languages of desire but reduces them to a kind of base vocabulary, that instead offers a new translation of such vocabularies specifically aimed at betraying phallogocentric experiences even if nominally in the same languages of desire, all of this is refused as possible specifically by the ideological positions that radical transmisogyny demands. 

The vital differance between this apparently-radical position and the usual transmisogyny is that the former specifically acknowledges such womanhoods, or at least tacitly accepts them. Meanwhile, transmisogyny most generally is a sort of homophobia, contained within the most general prohibitions of homosexuality and developed further as alluding to radical womanhood only as a means of resignifying hegemonic desire. The former maintains that radical acts of defiance that would welcome the cutting-up of masculinity under normal circumstances must be reexamined in light of trans women as a problematic, as a point at which the tension of womanhood becomes unbearable, the traumatic realizations necessary to the creation of a woman’s body become something other than strictly biological or strictly social, and a kind of recourse that posits womanhood as neither, and yet both, is adopted. The tragedy of such an act is that apart from leaving so many out of spaces in which rightful identification would find them far happier and far more meaningfully accepted, GNC trans men and GNC trans women who do not take hormones able to rightfully posit their identities as incoherent given one imagines them as post-gendered, post-sexed bodies, with the acknowledgement that in fact, this points to the impossibility of retaining so many vocabularies of desire without gendering and sexing the body, that much in the way the poststructuralist and structuralist movements relied upon one another in order to present a lack-of-shape, the argument for schizoanalysis as a kind of position derived from psychoanalysis requiring a cheeky intimacy with psychoanalytic methodologies that went beyond begrudging acceptance and into a joyous embrace as part of the schizophrenic positing of potentiality, that the post-boy, post-girl, post-man post-woman transgender transhumanist potential of such a cyborg vocabulary evokes new Virtual potentialities of identification that would require the demand for genuine anticapitalist potential, the radical ecology involved in demanding a world that rejects the separation of the natural and the social, the a priori and a posteriori, the breakdown of time itself a final government mandate as part of its withering self-abolition, the radical hegemony of socialism under radical democratic rule, the kind of absolute totalitarian joy of utterly Maoist criticism at every turn as part of creating a society without individuals but with overflowing bodies of happiness and love and joy, a kind of love that rejects love-as-such while recognizing that it is only with such love revolutionary action may continue, it is these acts of becoming-imperceptible that are implicated as instead reactionary, counterrevolutionary, as too far outside a vocabulary that seeks to sustain itself. 

Realizing that my beauty and desirability to other women, to women who understand themselves as lesbians specifically because of their identification with other women as politically alienated, political lesbianism as a kind of orientation that rejects either full acceptance or the dishonesty of imagining a full rejection of phallogocentrism so long as hegemonies of thought refer to it means recognizing that intentionally cultivating an aesthetic that does not pass, that apparently rejects all that which would make me womanly but still names itself as of-a-woman can be affirmed within lesbian identity is not itself a statement on my own orientation (and indeed, given my attraction to men and a lack of desire to attempt political lesbianism in any form, my own bisexuality) but rather the affirmative communities lesbians (trans lesbians included) constitute within larger gay communities, the way in which lesbian advocacy has so often constituted a radical advocacy for subjects far beyond themselves, the kind of radicality seen in Jewish lesbians who agitate against colonialism, the way that black lesbians rightfully name themselves in relation and reclamation of terms that had been denatured and applied at large to communities far beyond them, the means through which queer subjectivities of anticolonialism, postcolonialism, a refusal of return to precolonial hegemony and instead the understanding of decolonization as a process through which, inavoidably, the former oppressor will be liberated and the retention of an image of the oppressor becomes an oppressive act in itself, the acceptance that indeed, former oppressors will share in benefiting from some of their former riches and a firm acceptance of this, an acknowledgement of a fundamental potential for self-criticism that has no boundaries, that looks to restoration and acceptance and healing as the most vital of paradigms, the contrasting models of rhizome and arboreal hierarchy as just that, models which constitute a limited understanding, the acceptance of the psychoanalytic as a means of reaching a certain Marxist, Deconstructionist reading of the repressed and traumatized subject necessary to begin late capitalist acts of identification, one will eventually recognize that my body, too, will be freed to interact with the bodies of others in a fashion similar to that it interacts with them now, similar to that of a woman, echoing the then-long-past digital artifacts necessary to make such programs run, the kind of cyborg-esque ghosts in machines of social desire that allow for the envisioning of revolutionary goals, of revolutionary struggle toward some sort of end, the acknowledgement of statelessness alongside national liberation movements, of the importance of electoralism with the rejection of reformist strategies of approach, the equal affirmation of voter abstention and rejection of voter suppression as a fascist tactic of control, an antifascism that leads itself to the realization of the removal of the very structures by which fascism can ordain itself, antifascism not merely as a core aspect of struggle but one that will eventually end, that will find itself akin to struggle against counterrevolutionary, reactionary, revisionist thought that is no longer discursively possible beyond individual tendencies in an age of no individuals to speak of, this then is the kind of politics my political body hopes for, yearns for.

Denying me as a trans woman specifically asks, which part of me do you deny? What about me makes me unacceptable? And, should you admit it, what is it then that other women who share it with me have which makes them womanly “enough” to pass into womanhood? At once it is a challenge to the many differentiated transmisogynist accounts of trans womanhood, at once they are all presented in relief of a positive act of identification, asked to provide their own negative reversal, unable to contend with the already ironic recognition of their response within this account itself. A kind of simulacra that refuses second-order simulation because it is already being run as such, already accepting such claims about its womanhood and refusing them through such acceptance, the kind of totalizing desire that it modifies the body entirely without in any way discounting outside acts of collapsing the body. It rather invites them, specifically acknowledges their presence, their eventual fitting to the body, and merely asks what difference that act of interpretation possesses that makes it worth retaining, worth prioritizing over a wholesale recognition of even the simplest claims of womanhood as based in at least a tacit acceptance of violence against women. It does not reject their usefulness, does not claim that womanhood as a sort of violence cannot be resignified through the uneasy compromises that lesbian identities, bisexual identities, nonbinary identities, combinations of one or the other with the latter, present for women of all sorts, the way in which combinatory properties of womanhood are realized as such, as specifically the culmination of acts of identification that are hurtful, are as embedded within discursive processes of traumatization, the ubiquity of trauma as an aspect of identifying acts and the foundational Oedipal quality of these traumatic experiences. 

I recognize my body as cut from a kind of Oedipal clay, as a broken egg, as one that is made unacceptable, questionable, easily negatable specifically because it wishes to pose such wide and easily-denatured questions, questions that persist as anxieties of all sorts even after being dismissed.

Do you?