anywhereigo

[tes-trash-blog]

🌙 hmm... an age old question but opinion on the whole Imperials Vs Stormcloaks fiasco Skyrim tried to feed us?

*cracks neck*

Goodbye follower count, I’m going in!

I’m going to preface this with a confession: In my first ever playthrough of Skyrim (2014), I did side with the Imperials. On my second, I sided with the Stormcloaks. Since then, I have done three more playthroughs on the Stormcloak side, and three more on the Imperial side. In four more still my Dragonborn was neutral, slaying Alduin without ever taking a side. In my playthroughs, especially the ones after 2016, I’ve developed my own opinions about the Imperials and Stormcloaks alike.

In order to better articulate my opinion, we must first briefly examine four factors: the American landscape in which Skyrim was conceived, Skyrim itself and its portrayal of the Imperials and Stormcloaks (and the Thalmor), and Umberto Eco, the usage of terms like “fascism” and especially “Nazism” in American popular culture, and how this all relates to the Imperial/Stormcloak fiasco.

So let’s get started.

Part 1: Thanks, Obama.

In 2008, Barack Obama was elected as the 44th President of the United States. It was a landslide victory against Republican runner John McCain, a conserative who frequently brought up his service in the Vietnam War (and his time as a prisoner of war) during his campaign, as well as his years of service in political office. In a move to make his (very white, very male) campaign seem more inclusive in the face of the frontrunners of the Democratic campaign (Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama), he appointed Sarah Palin as his VP. She was the only conservative woman who agreed to be his running mate, as all three  conservative women in the Senate already said no, and the Republicans couldn’t find a black conservative.

(I’m not making this up.)

Anyway, come 2008, the conservatives lose their goddamn minds because Bush’s reign of actual terror was over, a Black man is now President and Whiteness is in peril. This was before the term “triggered” became a popular sneer in the conservative dictionary, but “snowflake” was used a lot. Come 2009, the Tea Party emerges. And now we get to the crux of my, uh, observation.

For the young, uninitiated, or non-Americans who are thinking “What the fuck is wrong with America”, the Tea Party Movement was/is a rash of hardline rightwingers who, still licking their wounds from a sound beating by the Democrats in the 2008 election, sought to rebrand themselves. With some bootstrap lifting and millions of dollars in funding from media tycoons such as the Koch brothers, the Tea Party made its official debut in 2010 after the signing of the Affordable Healthcare Act. Their message was simple: It’s time to take America back from the lazy, the entitled, and the “uppity”. What was really just a rehash of a song and dance that’s been turning its ugly white head since at least 1964 gained something of a stranglehold on America, in spite of its relatively small size of active members. It hit all the notes: a populist movement rooted in the perceived threats to their faith, their culture, and their social and economic capital.

They also believed shit like this:

For instance, Tea Partiers are more likely than other conservatives to agree with statements such as “If blacks would only try harder they could be just as well off as whites,” and are more likely to disagree with statements like “Generations of slavery and discrimination have created conditions that make it difficult for blacks to work their way out of the lower class.” (Williamson, 34)

Like I said. Since 1964.

What made the Tea Party different from the other conservative temper tantrums was one thing: Internet access. All of a sudden, these angry white men had an outlet for voicing their rages, and an open recruiting forum for other malcontents and disaffected youths. I’m not implying the Tea Party had anything to do with Gamergate, nor that Gamergate had anything to do with the rise of the alt-right or whatever these tennybopper neo-Nazis are calling themselves now, but I am saying those circles at least touch in a Venn diagram.

“But tes-trash-blog! What do the machinations of American politics have to do with Elves?” you may ask. Well dear reader, this leads me to..

Part 2: Hey, you! You’re finally awake!

Skyrim was an overnight hit. On release, The Elder Scrolls 5 generated 450 million dollars on its opening weekend alone. This game sold for around 20 million copies, not including Special Edition, VR, or Switch, and continues to see an average of around 10,000 players a week 9 years later (Steamcharts).

And 20 million people see one thing first: A strong, noble Nord in captivity, telling you that you’re on your way to be executed by the Imperials, who are in bed with a scary, sneering bunch of High Elves dressed in black.  20 million people already were told who was the clear bad guy in this game, and it wasn’t the strong, noble Nord in captivity. I’ll be going into this more into Part 3, but suffice to say, the Imperials were already coded as Bad Guy by association. The Imperials decided to execute you, the player. They shot a man in the back because he ran from his own execution. He stole a horse, which was a crime punishable by death in those days. The game doesn’t tell you that part, and is content to say that Lokir was killed because he was in the same cart as the Stormcloaks.

Speaking of Imperials, the Third Empire is written as obtuse, corrupt, uncaring, and cruel. The Septim Dynasty is wrought with scandal and intrigue, plagued by conflict, and powerless to do anything about the Oblivion Crisis that almost ended the world. They flat out abandoned Morrowind and Summerset to better protect their own, offered no help during the Void Nights that destabilized the Khajiit, and worst of all, signed a treaty outlawing Talos worship. That is the crux on which the Stormcloak/Imperial conflict lies. These damned outsiders telling these humble Nords what to do and what not to do. They’re corrupt, lazy, and know nothing of the hardships these people endure, and now the nanny state Empire is telling them they don’t have the freedom to worship what they want? How dare they!

Going further, in the seat of Imperial power in Skyrim is none other than Jarl Elisif, a young widow who relies heavily on the advice of her (overwhelmingly male) thanes, stewards, and generals. She’s weak, thinks mostly of her dead husband, and is written as someone who overreacts to scenarios; the “legion of troops” to Wolfskull Cave over a farmer reporting strange noises, banning the Burning of King Olaf in the wake of her husband’s murder via Shout come to mind. Compare and contrast that to the seat of Stormcloak power, Windhelm. Ulfric spends his time pouring over the map of troop movements and discussing strategy when he’s not delivering his big damn “Why I Fight” speech. Elisif is weak, Ulfric is strong. The Jarl of Solitude is even told to tone it down during the armistice negotiations in Season Unending. She’s chastised by her own general. The first thing you see in Solitude is a man being executed for opening a gate. The first thing you see in Windhelm is two Nords harassing a Dark Elf woman and accusing her of being an Imperial spy.

Both are portrayed as horrific, but only one has bystanders decrying the acts of the offender. Only one has a relative in the crowd proclaim, “That’s my brother [they’re executing]!” The best you get with Suvaris is her confronting you about whether or not you “hate her kind”. Even a mouth breathing racist would be disinclined to say “yes” when confronted with the question of whether or not they’re racist, but that’s how the writers of Skyrim think racism works.

I acknowledge that this was an attempt at bothsidesism, but the handling was.. clumsy.

Part 3: Ur-Fascism, Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Bash The Stormcloaks

And now we move on to Umberto Eco, fiction writer, essayist, and writer of the famous essay Ur-Fascism. In short, Eco summarizes 14 separate properties of a fascist movement; it’s important to stress that this should not be treated as a checklist if a piece of media is fascist, or if a person is actually a Nazi, or to say “X is Bad Because Checklist”. It’s frankly impossible to even organize these points into a coherent system, as fascism is an ideology that is, by its nature, incoherent.

With that in mind, let’s run down the points:

1. “The Cult of Tradition”, characterized by cultural syncretism, even at the risk of internal contradiction. When all truth has already been revealed by Tradition, no new learning can occur, only further interpretation and refinement.

2. “The Rejection of Modernism”, which views the rationalistic development of Western culture since the Enlightenment as a descent into depravity. Eco distinguishes this from a rejection of superficial technological advancement, as many fascist regimes cite their industrial potency as proof of the vitality of their system.

3. “The Cult of Action for Action’s Sake”, which dictates that action is of value in itself, and should be taken without intellectual reflection. This, says Eco, is connected with anti-intellectualism and irrationalism, and often manifests in attacks on modern culture and science.

4. “Disagreement Is Treason” – Fascism devalues intellectual discourse and critical reasoning as barriers to action, as well as out of fear that such analysis will expose the contradictions embodied in a syncretistic faith.

5. “Fear of Difference", which fascism seeks to exploit and exacerbate, often in the form of racism or an appeal against foreigners and immigrants.

6. “Appeal to a Frustrated Middle Class”, fearing economic pressure from the demands and aspirations of lower social groups.

7. “Obsession with a Plot” and the hyping-up of an enemy threat. This often combines an appeal to xenophobia with a fear of disloyalty and sabotage from marginalized groups living within the society (such as the German elite’s ‘fear’ of the 1930s Jewish populace’s businesses and well-doings, or any anti-Semitic conspiracy ever).

8. Fascist societies rhetorically cast their enemies as “at the same time too strong and too weak.” On the one hand, fascists play up the power of certain disfavored elites to encourage in their followers a sense of grievance and humiliation. On the other hand, fascist leaders point to the decadence of those elites as proof of their ultimate feebleness in the face of an overwhelming popular will.

9. “Pacifism is Trafficking with the Enemy” because “Life is Permanent Warfare” – there must always be an enemy to fight. Both fascist Germany under Hitler and Italy under Mussolini worked first to organize and clean up their respective countries and then build the war machines that they later intended to and did use, despite Germany being under restrictions of the Versailles treaty to NOT build a military force. This principle leads to a fundamental contradiction within fascism: the incompatibility of ultimate triumph with perpetual war.

10. “Contempt for the Weak”, which is uncomfortably married to a chauvinistic popular elitism, in which every member of society is superior to outsiders by virtue of belonging to the in-group. Eco sees in these attitudes the root of a deep tension in the fundamentally hierarchical structure of fascist polities, as they encourage leaders to despise their underlings, up to the ultimate Leader who holds the whole country in contempt for having allowed him to overtake it by force.

11. “Everybody is Educated to Become a Hero”, which leads to the embrace of a cult of death. As Eco observes, “[t]he Ur-Fascist hero is impatient to die. In his impatience, he more frequently sends other people to death.”

12. “Machismo”, which sublimates the difficult work of permanent war and heroism into the sexual sphere. Fascists thus hold “both disdain for women and intolerance and condemnation of nonstandard sexual habits, from chastity to homosexuality.”

13. “Selective Populism” – The People, conceived monolithically, have a Common Will, distinct from and superior to the viewpoint of any individual. As no mass of people can ever be truly unanimous, the Leader holds himself out as the interpreter of the popular will (though truly he dictates it). Fascists use this concept to delegitimize democratic institutions they accuse of “no longer represent[ing] the Voice of the People.”

14. “Newspeak” – Fascism employs and promotes an impoverished vocabulary in order to limit critical reasoning.

I did copy and paste the list from Wikipedia, but you can read the full essay here. It’s 9 pages long. You can do it, I have faith in you.

You may notice that you can’t really shorthand these concepts, or at least not in an aesthetically pleasing way. However, you can point to the most infamous of fascist regimes and take their aesthetic instead. You see it in Star Wars with the Empire (hmm) and the First Order, in Star Trek with the Mirrorverse and the Cardassian Dominion (hmm), and in the.. Oh, it’s on the tip of my tongue..

Oh, yeah. The Thalmor. They dress in dark colors, are a foreign power trying to exert their influence on the downtrodden Nord, enact purges, and scream about Elven superiority. The Thalmor express every surface level perception of a Nazi in American popular culture. TVTropes has already pretty well covered this ground in their Video Games section of A Nazi By Any Other Name, so I won’t go too much into here seeing as I’m already at the 2000 word mark. Suffice to say, it’s hard to think Bethesda wasn’t trying to make the player associate the 4th Era Altmer with the 1930’s German.

And in doing so, they accidentally created a group that is.. Well, you’ve read the essay or at least the 14 points. Try and tell me how many of them don’t apply to Nordic culture. What grabs me the most are points 9, 11, and 13: life is a perpetual struggle in which you must emerge victorious, a culture of Heroes impatient to die in a glorious fashion, and the Common Will that is enacted and reinforced by one strongman leader. You see these elements in play in Nord culture, in Stormcloak ideology especially. I, for one, hear what Galmar really means when he says “We will make Skyrim beautiful again”. I hear the echoes in George W Bush’s speeches and McCain’s campaign when Ulfric talks of duty and service, of “fighting because Skyrim needs heroes, and there’s no one else but us.”

It’s less of a dog whistle and more of a foghorn if you ask me. And to go back to part 2, this is a message that 20 million played. Not all of them are Stormcloak stans, but that compelling message was still present. Americans love being a strongman hero in their media; we eat that shit up. The setup was enough: you’re a lone hero about to be executed by milquetoast Imperials and Nazi-coded Thalmor. The story was enough: a strong man rebels against a system gone awry, one that seeks to destroy his way of life. 

It was enough to compel a “fashwave” artist to take on the monkier Stormcloak(Hann). It was enough that Skyrim was lauded as a “real” game instead of say, Depression Quest, and to justify ruining a game developer’s life over it.

It was enough that when Skyrim came out in 2011, the game did not do so well in Germany because of these elements, because the game was written for you to be sympathetic towards these very white, very blond and Ayran-coded Nords. I can’t speak for the popularity of the game now in Germany, but when I lived there, there were a few raised eyebrows among my age group about the message of the game.

I think about that a lot, especially when the tesblr discourse heats up about the Stormcloaks. I see how visibly upset people get when someone throws shade at Ulfric. The talk of “it’s just a video game” and “lul get triggered” starts to look less like passive dismissal and shoddy trolling and more a kind of funhouse mirror to how they really think.

I can’t lie, it reminds me so much of 2009, of these angry people screaming racial slurs on the Internet because there’s a Black president or posting sexist screeds because Michelle Obama wanted kids to have access to healthy meals. It reminds me of the kid in my sophomore class who said he was going to “take out” Obama on his inauguration day. He was 15 years old then. He’s a father now.

Hell, it reminds me of right now, of Republican Senators demanding civility and tone policing as they kowtow to an actual fascist. The Stormcloak in the Reach camp “had to do something” about the Empire telling him and his what to do, and the neighbor I used to dogsit for had to do something too. I don’t watch his dogs anymore. When I told him I wouldn’t, he tried to make himself the victim and say I was getting political about dog sitting. It’s just two dogs. It’s just a video game. All political messages are just imaginary, snowflake.

But it’s really not, is it now?

TL;DR and Sources

TL;DR: The imperials are portrayed as weak and effectual, as the bootlicker to the Thalmor, and the writers were so busy trying to make one side look bad and weak they inadvertently made actual fascists.

Even though this is pretty long, this really only scratches the surface of the.. Well, everything. In all honesty this is just a very condensed version of my opinion. Big shockeroo, there.

Do keep in mind that this isn’t a condemnation of Skyrim. Lord knows I love that game, or I wouldn’t have this blog. This also isn’t a damning of people who play the game and side with the Stormcloaks, or think Ulfric is hot, or don’t like the Thalmor or what have you. You do you, fam. You do you. This is my observation and opinion on one aspect of the game, just with some tasty sources to better paint a picture of where I personally formed my opinion.

This also isn’t to say that I’m trying to draw a 1:1 comparison between The Elder Scrolls and reality, or that Ulfric is obviously a McCain/Trump/Hitler expy, but Skyrim is, like all things, a product of the minds that created it. Skyrim didn’t happen in an apolitical vacuum, and apolitical stories about war simply do not exist. Anyone who tells you otherwise is simply reinforcing the status quo, and it is our responsibility as people who consume this media to question it, and that status quo they so dearly wish to hang on to.

Also, Elisif hot.

Sources:

Eco, Umberto. “Ur-Fascism”. The New York Review of Books. 1995. https://www.pegc.us/archive/Articles/eco_ur-fascism.pdf>

Williamson, Venssa, Skocpol, Theda and Coggin, John. “The Tea Party and the Remaking of Republican Conservatism”. Perspectives on Politics, Volume 9. March 2011. https://scholar.harvard.edu/files/williamson/files/tea_party_pop_0.pdf>

The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. Steamcharts.com https://steamcharts.com/app/72850>

Schreier, Jason. “Bethesda Ships 7M Skyrim, Earns About $450M”. Wired. November 16, 2011. https://www.wired.com/2011/11/skyrim-sales/>

Hann, Michael. “‘Fashwave” - synth music co-opted by the far right”. The Guardian. December 2014. https://www.theguardian.com/music/musicblog/2016/dec/14/fashwave-synth-music-co-opted-by-the-far-right>

[madmilez]

Deer slayer therepy

I knew something was bothering my buddy when he slowed down in the middle of the road, pulled his .22 rifle up from the darkness and shot a deer in the face and kept on driving. This was definitely the strangest drive by I had ever been on personally, to date. We didnt even stop and get the illegal meat, given that it was NOT deer season.

Im not sure if this was a cry for help or just the desperate act of a broken man to try and release some of the pain the world had seen fit to fill his up with. Either way, I could not even say a word. I had none. All I could do was feel pain too.

Im not sure at that moment or even now who that man was. I mean, I know his name. I know where he lives and I know what he seems to be, especially to those just meeting him, but I still do not truly know him.

He is simply one I cannot figure out. His hills are too steep, and when he hits a valley, its strangely hard to even acknowledge for what it is. He is the type of person you want to be who they seem to be more than most other people. He has the aura of the 'good guy'. He is friendly and kind. He listens and seems to care even if just mildly so. He is into everything so has something in common with everyone.

But his intentions are grey and I think it is because even he does not fully understand them. Or perhaps he does not ALWAYS understand them. He acts. His intentions possibly pure or maybe the voice that is his conscious has in a momentary lapse of reason, been nullified.

He does not see himself as an evil entity nor his actions as malicious, however, someone else may feel strongly the opposite. Throw in a bit of tweaker paranoia and he could really find himself riding on the tounge of another again and again as they demonize and exaggerate whatever crime they feel he has done to them.

The worst thing going for him on this front is the fact that even a small, seemingly insignificant infraction against someone.... if you are Hayden L@uh is that whoever he hurts is hurt so much worse when it comes from him because they believed in their fucking souls that he was their best fucking friend and are now feeling like its not exactly mutual and therefore more reaction from them.

Ugh, that was a lot. Anyways, I guess I imagine a lonely guy sitting around at home all evening talking on the phone with his mother, telling her all about his new friend Hayden. (I think dudes fall in love with him on the low too BTW) They are talking him up. How much alike they are and how cool his mechanical toys or guns are. The plans they made together and what they have done so far. Maybe this dude even has a little fucking Hayden shrine he looks at just before bed at night........ ha ha. That actually does crack me up a bit.

Anyways, Then one day Hayden is over to visit and walks off with this dudes fucking deck of bicycle playing cards without saying a word.

The dude notices the next day. In the back of his mind there is already that voice. Muffled, far away and incoherent, but its there. He ignores it. Gives a half hearted effort into finding said playing cards but turns up nothing. The voice gets closer.

Then he needs the cards one night, a friend is over and wants to play a drinking game. He looks for the cards. Hard. Everywhere. Does not find them. Blames himself for being such a dunce he cant even keep up with a pack of fucking cards. The voice becomes louder and clearer.

At some point this man finds himself defending Haydens honor. How dare the voice even suggest such a thing as Hayden taking his cards. They were rare playboy cards and he knows how much he loves them cards. Hayden would never. The voice chuckles.

The man has so much invested in this guy, Hayden, that when he is faced with reality it is too much heartbreak. He cant take it and so he lashes out.

Its different with everyone. Some just talk trash, some plot, some will want to fight, I expect that some probably even cry and then pretend that they are not effected by the situation.

Now, Im not exactly 100% confident in my ability to articulate things the way I intend to but if you are still following along....... man..... is your brain melted yet? This whole deal is literally mind numbing to watch. I thought to laugh about it for a moment, in the beginning, but that moment has long since passed.

As an armature student of psychology, this whole deal, no..... this person, Hayden L@uh, and his lifestyle and character are a conundrum to me. I like to think and observe and come up with theories on why things are the way they are but I also like to eventually come up with a reasonable explanation as to the events I took interest in. Here, there are no answers, only more questions. You may generate a theory or two but in doing so you have opened up ten more doors leading to ten more roads you must walk down if you are to ever fully grasp what is taking place in this mans head.

Now that you understand my predicament, maybe you will also see why no one was mad at him the day he killed 19 animals and left them where they lie.

I thought to be upset myself due to the fact that 3 of the kills were deer and I could have used the meat, but long term opted against being upset with him because who can really stay upset with Hayden fucking L@uh?

Hayden, if you ever end up reading this, just know, your still my nigga, Im just calling the game like I see it. :)

The perspective of others when talking about our own lives is often strange and easily misunderstood. Hell, this dude might think this article is a bad review but in my mind it is simply an observational diary that I was suddenly inspired to write. In fact I should think if the shoe were on the other foot, I might dare feel a bit of pride that someone sat down and wrote an article (however mind numbing) about me and my damaged brain.

Anyways. I will end this with first a clarification; Hayden is not a serial animal slayer. He just has baggage and, like most young people, has no idea how to deal with it. He is smart enough to know how truly unjust life is and he knows that none of us can do anything to change it.

Fucked by fate and no hope of justice. #Life

Today, the thing that was the cause of so much of his pain has returned to his life. He is pacified by this. He is also aware of the lions jaws in which he has found himself, yet again, drawn into. He dives head long into a sea of pain all for the brief mercy of relief he shall feel, the calm before the storm if you will. He has been in pain for so long that he only wants relief even if he must inevitably return to the pit of sorrow from wince he came.

I know because I too have loved and lost and know the answer to that old cliche is... it is by far better to have never loved at all that to have lost what you love.

Maybe each person he comes in contact with and offends in whatever minor way is a little piece of what he bears all at once, everyday, and subconsciously he gives a little away at a time least the madness fully take him.

Or, there is of course always the possibility that I am wrong about the whole deal. He is simply a petty thief with a strong word game going around, fooling all the locals so he can get his grubby hands on some of their dollar tree items....... we may never know.

I gotta be about my mfin business yall. Much love. MM

[imagine-it-like-this]

Title: Burn the Witch Characters: Rowena, reader Relationships: Rowena/reader Genres: Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Romance Warnings: Whump

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Rowena and you have been through it all in your two years of knowing each other, but never, in a million years, would you have thought a bunch of religious nuts would kidnap her and attempt to burn her at the stake for the horrible crime of being a witch.

You made your presence known by blasting the door clear off its hinges with a simple glance. You were in no mood for pleasantries, and considering these people wanted to kill your lover in one of the worst ways possible, they were lucky you didn't set them on fire on sight to give them a taste of their own medicine.

Rowena was tied to a wooden stake, her wrists bound behind her back. Straw and firewood laid beneath her feet, waiting for the torch the old guy (whom you assumed was their leader) held to light it.

"Drop it!" you ordered, your tone leaving no place for argument.

Rowena stirred up, startled by your voice, and turned to look at you. Noticing a dark purple bruise around her eye, you clenched your fists in anger. They were going to pay for that. They were going to pay for everything they'd put her through.

The fanatics, all five of them, pointed their rifles at you, and you barely resisted a chuckle. As if those things could hurt you. Ever since Rowena had gotten you a Resurrection Seal of your own, there weren't that many things that made you fear for your life.

The sixth one, the guy holding the torch, smirked at you smugly. He was enjoying this more than he should have. You made a mental note to make sure his death was the worst.

"And why should I?"

"'Cause if you don't, something really bad will happen to you."

Correction: something really bad would happen to them either way, but if they stopped what they were doing, you were willing to make it hurt a tad less. It all depended on how much they pissed you off, and right now they were treading on a dangerous line.

"You're unholy," one of the rifle holders, a bearded man in his mid thirties, said.

"You need to be cleansed," a blonde woman whom you assumed to be his wife, judging by their matching bands, added.

That was rich, coming from people who couldn't take Rowena on without drugging her first. It must have felt great to beat on and tie up a helpless witch who couldn't even defend herself. Whatever they'd given her was strong; you could tell she was struggling to keep her head upright.

Your anger burned stronger. Oh, how you would make them scream! Forget mercy – they deserved nothing but the worst, and that was exactly what they were going to get.

"It's okay," the torch guy said, nodding to his comrades before turning back to you. "I'll do what you asked."

And with that he dropped the torch onto the straw, and in a split second a large fire burned up, finding its way over to Rowena's feet.

Fuck!

Bad choice of words.

Rowena's eyes widened in fear. She struggled against the restrains, trying to free herself, but all attempts were futile. The ropes around her wrists were too strong.

"You will pay for that, you bastard!" you snarled, eyeing him and the rest of his merry group as you readied the very first incantation your girlfriend had taught you. "Impetus bestiarum! Occidete invicem!"

One by one, the fanatics began to scream, their eyes turning blood red as animalistic growls ripped from their throats. Just as you ran over to Rowena, their eyes found one another and soon enough they were at each other's throats, quite literally, ripping and gnawing at fresh flesh.

"Rowena!"

Her dress had caught fire, flames eating their way up the left side of her body. She screamed out loud as pain ripped through her leg, the fire licking at the sensitive skin.

Your eyes welled up in tears and, feeling helpless, you let out a barrage of curses. What was the spell to put out fire, again?

"Exstinguere," you exclaimed, hoping you got it right. Latin wasn't one of your strong suits.

Luckily, your magic heard your call and the flames died down in an instant, leaving behind a cloud of dark smoke. Breathing out in relief, you went to free Rowena's wrists and your heart swelled with sympathy as you took in the state of her injuries. The ropes, thin and razor sharp, had cut into her skin. Blood was pouring out the cuts, fresh and warm.

She yelped when you started fiddling with the ropes. "It's okay," you told her gently. "Let me take them off. It'll only hurt for a moment."

As soon as she was freed, you took her into your arms, holding her tightly against you. She held on to you as if she hadn't seen you in centuries, burying her head in the crook of your neck.

"You're safe, sweetheart," you whispered. "I got you. Come now, let me take you home."

Home was a small apartment you owned. It was far from the glamour of the five star hotels the two of you were used to, but it was cozy and had a homely feel to it that no luxury could replace. Rowena would never admit it out loud, but she loved that tiny place. She felt safer there than she did anywhere else.

"I can't. My leg…"

You carefully sat her down, pushing up her charred dress to examine the extent of her injuries. A large, nasty looking burn spread from her ankle all the way up to her thigh. The skin was raw, an ugly bright red that looked awful and hurt even worse.

"Damn it!" you swore. "You can't walk at all?" You hoped with everything you had that she could.

"I could try, but I don't think we'd get far. It hurts, and also, they injected me with somethin'. I feel strange." She looked you in the eye. "Ye should leave. Don't worry about me."

"Never!" you fired, outraged at her suggestion. How could she even think you'd ever leave her? "You hear me? Don't even think that! I don't ever want to hear you say that! Have I made myself clear?"

"So dramatic," she teased, pulling on a small smile.

"When it comes to you, always." Being dramatic was the only way you could get through to someone as stubborn as her. "Listen, the car is just around the corner. It's not a long walk. Wanna give it a go? I'll help you."

"Alright," she reluctantly gave in. "I'll try."

You let her throw an arm around you, yours in turn wrapping around her waist for support. She limped and hissed all the way over to the car, but managed to pull through without much trouble. You made sure to compliment her on her strength; after everything she'd been through in the past few hours, she deserved a little praise.

By the time you reached your apartment, the drugs had worn off. Rowena was still weak; her injuries hurt like hell, but she was able to use little bits of magic and her head had gotten somewhat clearer.

As per her request, the first thing you did was run her a hot bath. You wanted to take care of her injuries, but she was adamant that she get clean first – she wanted to get all the filth off herself as soon as possible, even if it meant enduring a little bit of pain.

You helped her out of her tattered dress by ripping the ruined fabric apart and letting the pieces slip to the floor. Once she was naked and you could absorb the full extent of her leg injury, you wondered how the hell she withstood the pain she certainly must have been in. If it had been you, you would have curled up on the floor and cried out incoherently until the pain meds you most certainly would have taken started working.

You led her into the bathtub and positioned her to sit between your open legs, careful not to disturb the painful-looking deep purple bruises on her abdomen. Those fanatics had beaten her good. Rage swelled up in you from even the thought of how much they had to have pounded on her to cause that kind of damage.

Rowena seemed to be taking it well. She hadn't protested much, and save from a few hisses and yelps, the water, as well as the warmth and safety of your arms around her, seemed to have relaxed her.

It was when you poured some shampoo into the water that she stirred, after moments of just laying in your arms, and let out a pained moan.

"It burns," she said, motioning to her raw wrists and burned leg.

"It's the shampoo," you explained, feeling guilty for causing her unnecessary pain. "For your hair. I'm sorry."

She sighed. "It's fine," she said, thought her voice told you it was anything but fine.

"I'll be quick."

You gently massaged her scalp, smiling as she relaxed once again under the softness of your touch. After you were done with her hair, you made sure to scrub away all the dirt and caked blood glued to her pale skin; you realized how dirty she really was once you exited the bathtub and glanced upon the brownish-pink water going down the drain.

After getting her a set of clean clothes (an old tank top and soft shorts you had outgrown back in junior high school) and blow-drying her hair, you sat her next to you on the couch in the living room and, having prepared the bandages and healing salve she'd made for you weeks ago following a nasty encounter with a werewolf, started working on her injuries.

"Tell me if I hurt you," you told her, carefully taking her hand so you could inspect her wrist. It had stopped bleeding, but the wound was still open, very obviously painful.

Rowena smiled through the pain. "Don't worry, dear. I've been through worse."

What could have possibly been worse than this? You didn't dare ask. The situation was depressing enough as it was. "Wanna talk about what happened?"

"There isn't much to say. Ow!" she yelped as you applied the salve to the open wound. That thing had an unfortunate side effect of causing pain before speeding up the healing process.

"Sorry," you said guiltily, tenderly wrapping the bandage around her wrist before reaching for her other one. "They did horrible things to you. I can't even imagine–"

"So don't! Let us not dwell on the past."

"Alright," you gave in. You didn't want to pressure her into doing something she wasn't comfortable with. Heaven knows she'd had enough of that for one day.

"I'm fine. Honest," she said, seeing the worried look on your face. She pulled on a small smile. "What's a little beatin' and fire for an ol' witch like me?"

"This isn't funny, Rowena! You could have died!"

How could she joke at a time like this? You had been scared to death that you would lose her, that she would die without a goodbye and leave you all alone in this world you already despised enough with her in it. You didn't know what you would have done had you not been able to see her again.

"You're bein' dramatic, Y/N," she said, barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

"Dramatic?"

Gritting your teeth in anger, you tightened the bandage, causing her to let out a pained groan. Good, you thought. You hated the thought of hurting her, but if she had to learn the hard way what her attitude was doing to you, so be it.

"I've been worried sick ever since you disappeared! I almost went to the Winchesters for help. The Winchesters, Rowena! Hunters! It's fine that you're so casual about this, but newsflash, sweetheart – I love you, and the thought of you being in pain hurts me! You're free to get yourself into all kinds of fucked up shit, but not on my watch. You hear me? 'Cause as long as I'm here, I'm gonna worry about you!"

She stared at you, her expression softening at the concern that washed over your features, prompting a single tear to slide down your cheek. You weren't certain what went through her head; you could see your words impacted her, shook her to the very core, but reading her actual feelings was mission impossible.

Rowena wasn't used to people caring about her. All her life she'd only had herself to depend on, herself to trust. Everyone she'd ever crossed paths with had either betrayed her or abandoned her. You were the first genuine thing she'd had in centuries and she didn't know how to deal. She trusted you, immensely, truly, but the experience was still foreign to her. It was almost like she'd expected you to betray her, expected you to sell her out to some hunter and leave without ever coming back.

She was a mesmerizing tragedy. Even with all the scars and bruises, both physical and psychological, she was gorgeous, a beautiful disaster you loved more than anything in the world.

"How could ye love someone like me, after all I've done?" she asked suddenly, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had fallen between you.

Loving her was far from easy. You knew what you were getting into from the very start. You'd witnessed firsthand her manipulation tactics. How she'd play the Winchesters even when they were the ones keeping her chained up. Hell, she'd even tried to manipulate you while you were doing your best to make sure they wouldn't hurt her while they held her captive. She'd given up once she realized you were on her side, but still, she never completely stopped being her worst self.

Hearing her say she would never love anything broke your heart into a million pieces. That had turned out to be false, however, those words still hurt, having to listen to them while, head over heels by now, practically begging Castiel and Crowley not to hurt her.

You had almost called it quits when the whole thing with Lucifer happened, but watching her die made you realize you weren't ready to let her go. She had become a constant in your life, a part you couldn't imagine living without.

"I just do," you replied. You didn't really have a reason. Rowena was beautiful, powerful, dangerous, a force to be reckoned with and, once you got to know her, the biggest sweetheart you could ever meet. She was just Rowena, and that was enough for you to love her. "You're Rowena fucking MacLeod. Isn't that enough?"

That prompted her to chuckle. "I appreciate everythin' ye've done for me. I'm sorry if I came off as ungrateful. I love ye, Y/N. I guess I'm still strugglin' to accept that someone could love a person like me."

"You're very lovable." Finishing her wrist, you brought her hand to your lips and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles. "Don't ever think that you're not." You glanced down to her abdomen. "Your ribs okay?"

"Aye. It's just a few bruises. I'll be fine."

"And your face?"

"Same."

"God, Rowena, I hate this." You cupped her cheek so you could inspect the deep purple bruise around her eye. "I hate them for doing this to you."

"I'll live. They won't." She gave you a proud smile. "That was quite an astonishing feat, my dear. I'm impressed."

You blushed at her praise. You could win a Nobel prize, and not even that could compare to the joy of having her respect. "I learned from the best."

"You flatter me," she said, smiling brightly. She loved compliments as much – if not more – as you did.

"Put your leg up," you instructed as you got up and pulled over a nearby chair to sit on.

Rowena obeyed, letting out a groan at the outburst of pain caused by the sudden movement. A string of empathy pulled at your fast beating heart. You hated seeing her in pain, and loathed those who'd caused it. A small part of you took solace in the fact that they paid for it with their lives. However, their death, as horrifying as it was, didn't make her pain go away.

You would have gladly taken all her suffering onto yourself, if given a chance. Anything, just so she wouldn't have to suffer.

"This is going to hurt," you told her as you prepared the salve. By your estimate, her burn was somewhere between first and second degree; while it was nowhere as bad as it could have been, it was still nasty and touching it would hurt like a bitch.

"It's alright. Just do it," she replied calmly, though the dread that crossed her face gave her away. She was scared, deadly so; scared of more pain, of torment that didn't seem to end no matter how much time she gave it. In the end, something would always happen and regress all her progress back to zero.

It wasn't fair, you thought. Rowena may have been bad in the past, but she was trying her hardest to be a better person. She deserved a chance.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," you whispered, getting up shortly just to give her a kiss to the forehead. "I'll be gentle."

"I know, darlin'. Do what ye must do. I'll be fine," she assured you, forcing on a smile to placate you.

Taking a deep breath for courage, you started rubbing the cool, creamy salve over her burn. The moment your hand touched the soft injury, Rowena let out a hiss, her face twisting into a pained grimace.

"I'm sorry," you said, your sympathy-filled eyes welling up with tears. You were the one hurting her now, and you hated yourself for it. It was to help her, yes, but the fact remained that it was because of you that she was in so much pain. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I can stop if you want."

"Keep goin'," she insisted. "I'll be alright."

"You sure?"

"Aye."

"Okay. If you need me to stop, let me know."

"Just get it over with."

The following twenty minutes, which was how long it took you to finish up her leg, had been hell. Despite all her attempts to keep quiet, a few screams that sounded like they came straight from nightmares had managed to tear from Rowena's throat. You were glad the apartment had been magic proofed, otherwise the police would have been called the very first time your touch to a particularly sensitive place on the large wound have caused her to shriek like a banshee.

You begged her to let you stop for just a bit, but she was adamant that you finish what you started. She may have been in unimaginable pain, but Rowena sure knew how to be intimidating. You didn't dare go against her pointed glare and sharp tone.

Once the salve had been applied and all the bandages were in place, you let out a breath you'd been holding for a while, happy to have finally finished the difficult task. It wasn't that you minded taking care of Rowena; nothing could measure with joy of being trusted enough for her to let you see her at her worst. To help her you had to hurt her, and that, despite the positive results, made you hate yourself more than anything.

She was still shaking like an addict craving a fix when you let go of her leg. You remembered that feeling well from the time that werewolf attacked you and she'd applied that very same salve to your deep scratches. It was some old recipe she'd found in one of the books she'd acquired over the centuries. In order for the wound to heal faster, the salve had to irritate it, and that tended to go as far as doubling the pain.

You recalled shaking the very same way, on that very same couch, crying into Rowena's chest as she held you and murmured soothing words. You'd spent the entire night like that, wrapped in the safety of her tiny arms.

You'd only managed to fall asleep in the early morning hours. When you woke up a few hours later, you'd found her bent over a stove, making you soup mixed with some potion she'd claimed – which had later proven to be true – would help keep your mind at ease for the rest of the ordeal.

It took almost two days for your scratches to stop hurting. You shuddered at the thought of Rowena being like this for the next forty-eight hours.

"This bloody hurts!" she whimpered, desperately reaching for her bandaged leg in hopes of easing the pain. The moment her hand pressed against the wound, she let out another scream. Tears she'd been holding back for hours finally spilled down her face, turning her naturally rosy cheeks a deep shade of red.

Your hands balled into fists in anger; anger at the people who'd done this to her and at the salve for having this horrifying side effect.

It was when she started scratching at her wrists, which, despite not being as affected, still hurt like hell, that you rejoined her on the couch and wrapped her in a tender, loving embrace.

"Don't do that," you told her, clasping your hand over hers to stop her from picking at the bandages.

Letting out a soft groan, she nestled into you, leaning her head against your chest.

"I don't think I can take this much longer."

She was full on crying now, pressing her lips into a firm line to suffocate the sobs that threatened to rip from her mouth.

You could tell she hated uttering those words, hated herself for showing vulnerability so openly, and it broke your heart to see her like that; broken, on the verge of a breakdown.

"Yes, you can," you told her. "And you will. If anyone can do it, it's you. If you need to scream, do it. Holding it in isn't healthy. Just let it go. I won't think any less of you." Your grip on her hand tightened in reassurance. "I promise, sweetheart. Whatever you do, I won't judge you."

So she did. She let it go, let the sobs and screams and shrieks roam free until her throat grew sore and she had no other choice but to bury her head in your chest and cry inconsolably.

Your soul hurt at the sight of her, so fragile, so vulnerable, but the only thing you could do was hold her and rub soft, soothing circles across her back.

"You're my strong girl," you murmured in an attempt to console her and get her to keep fighting for the only person who could truly get her through everything that awaited her was herself. "I know you can do this."

"I can," she agreed, her voice a tad more confident than before. It wasn't much, but it was progress. "I survived the British Men of Letters. I survived the Grand Coven. I survived Lucifer, and he actually killed me. I can do this."

"That's the spirit!"

"Thank ye, Y/N. Ye've been nothin' but kind to me. I owe you."

"You owe me nothing. You did the same thing for me when that werewolf hurt me. You've stayed awake for two days to watch over me. Now it's time for me to return the favor."

You leaned down to kiss the top of her head, nuzzling her hair like a puppy in need of cuddling.

"I'm not going to leave you. Whatever happens, I'm here. I love you, Rowena. Seeing you like this hurts me. And I will do everything in my power to make you as comfortable as possible."

"That's nice of ye to say."

"And I mean every single word. You're not alone in this, honey. Not anymore – and never again. I promise. You're stuck with me whether you like it or not."

She chuckled at the last part. "I love ye."

"You better," you teased, diving for another kiss, this one to her cheek.

It took a few hours for her to finally drift off to peaceful slumber. You followed right after her, holding onto her as if she were a plushie you used to sleep with as a child.

And, just as expected, two days later she was as good as new. The wound had still not properly healed, but most of the pain was gone and your girl was back to being her confident self again, the side of her you never, until now, thought you'd miss more than anything in the world.

CREDITS: Editor: @apritelleorai Latin:  @oswinthestrange

The bathing scene is @apritelleorai's idea. She was kind enough to allow me to borrow it.

These two beautiful ladies have my utmost gratitude!