#he always says 'this ought to be good for government work' when he chooses a cart

[possum-in-a-jar]

friday harbor is the kind of town where the sentence "i sell weed to the mayor" is a perfectly legitimate and comfortable thing to say

[triviareads]

The Becoming of Charlotte Bridgerton (And the Continuous Outrage of Anthony Bridgerton)

For Kate and Anthony 2021 Week, Day 6 Prompt: "Make me".

The Viscount and Viscountess Bridgerton prided themselves on being excellent hosts. Bridgerton House was forever teeming with friends and family during the season, and as their children grew older, their home became a veritable haven for the young people-

A haven Kate presently found herself eavesdropping on along with her very irritated husband.

To be fair, it wasn’t exactly her fault. She was looking for Charlotte and could not find her anywhere in the house. Somewhere along the way, she had run into Anthony who also looking for their daughter (presumably to gift her with yet another expensive bauble, Kate thought, rolling her eyes. Anthony always did dote on the girls).

After exhausting themselves, Kate struck upon the idea of looking in the library, where Miles was entertaining. Her hunch proved right when the Lord and Lady Bridgerton peeked through the shelves to see Miles, his cousins David, the Earl Clyvedon, and Lady Caroline Findlay-Watt; as well as Mr. Arthur Granville, James De Courcy, the Earl of Clairmont; and Charlotte, sitting right there with the rest of them, taking part spiritedly in their conversation as if such behavior was perfectly normal for a girl who had barely completed two seasons.

“What is she doing with Miles's friends?” Anthony whispered after a requisite scandalized gasp.

“Talking, I believe,” Kate said wryly, choosing wisely to ignore the fact that their daughter had helped herself to a finger of whisky.

“But she is alone! In a roomful of young men!” Anthony spluttered and moved to rush forward in what Kate assumed was a bid to rescue his sweet, innocent daughter from the clutches of these men (and Caroline).

“My dear,” Kate said, restraining him, “both Miles and David are there, and Caroline is chaperoning her.”

Anthony threw her a dry look. “This is Caroline we are speaking of.”

Kate was privately inclined to agree that perhaps Lady Caroline Findlay-Watt (formerly Lady Caroline Basset) was not the best chaperone in that she was far too permissive and her circles ran too liberal.

Nevertheless, Kate shushed her husband. “I want to see what our daughter has to say. We so rarely get to see her among her peers.”

It was true- what their eldest daughter did with her time ever since she debuted was something of a mystery. Of course, she attended the requisite balls and other events with Kate, but Charlotte was all too happy to be taken around by her older, married Hastings cousins, something Kate was secretly thankful for, because she knew they would give her the sort of social advantage even Kate could not offer her daughter.

Anthony grumblingly agreed to Kate’s command and fell silent.

“-All shoring up for it,” David was telling the group seriously. “I do want to remain optimistic, but as Lady Holland recently put it, it is no longer a matter of if, but when.”

He then turned to Charlotte, who was too busy staring at Lord Clairmont, and had to be called on repeatedly to elicit any response. Kate glanced at Clairmont, long-limbed and elegant, taking note of how his posture was subtly inclined towards her daughter.

Charlotte was eventually pulled away from her thoughts. “What?” she blinked and asked. “Oh yes, I agree- this government will fall.”

David cackled at this. “Good lord, Charlotte. You sound positively Jacobin when you say it like that.”

“One would think your namesake was Mademoiselle Corday and not the late queen,” Miles teased his sister.

Charlotte, who always took great pleasure in extending a joke, said wryly, “I suppose we’ll only truly know if I ever feel an inclination to assassinate any of you in your bathtub.” This roused a hearty laugh from the group.

Anthony snorted quietly.

Clairmont, who had been silent up until that point, spoke. “I should like to hear what Miss Bridgerton has to say on the matter.” He looked directly at Charlotte who, to Kate’s amusement, blushed ever so slightly. Kate wondered whether the blush was due to the pleasure of having her opinion asked after, or if it was something else entirely…

Kate had her suspicions.

Charlotte spoke. “I know David mentioned the current financial crisis, but I recall someone recently mentioning that the the Jamaica Bill was something of a turning point. Ever since then, all I seem to read in the papers is how tenuous a coalition the current government is comprised of.” Charlotte shrugged and concluded, “I suppose it’s easy to overlook because the bill ultimately passed, and the Whigs did remain in power, though no thanks to Parliament itself.”

Kate glanced at Anthony after this little speech, and to her amusement, she could tell he was riveted.

“Ah, the crisis of Her Majesty’s bedchamber!” Miles said spiritedly. “The only reason the Whigs prevailed!”

Charlotte rolled her eyes at her brother. “Crisis of the bedchamber- you make it sound far more tawdry than it really was, Miles.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to say that, cousin,” Lady Caroline said mischievously. “I can say with confidence that Amelia’s father-in-law had a public temper tantrum at the Lords when the news emerged that Amelia would not, after all, be one of the queen’s new ladies.”

Mr. Granville asked, “Lady Lowestoft’s father-in-law is… the Earl of Norwich, I think?”

Caroline nodded. “Yes. From my understanding, he lobbied Sir Robert rather hard for Amelia’s position.”

“And Amelia was crushed by the outcome, I’m sure,” David said sarcastically to his sister.

Caroline smirked, “Hardly. Now Norwich on the other hand…”

Lord Clairmont said emphatically, “I have seen that man enough in the Lords to understand exactly what you mean, Lady Caroline.”

“And would you account for Lord Norwich’s poor behavior on the account of some personality deficit, or merely the fact that he is a Tory?”

“A combination of both, my lady,” Clairmont assured her, to everyone’s amusement.

“Norwich was always a bit of a prig,” Anthony muttered to Kate.

Miles, eager to give his opinion on the matter, spoke. “I suppose that whole fracas can ultimately be attributed to Her Majesty’s unwillingness to back down rather than the strength of any one political party.”

“But even that is wholly political, Bridgerton,” Clairmont argued. “Did Melbourne not purposely provide the queen with Whig intimates so she could grow close to them and come to rely on them?”

Miles shrugged. “The queen still could have disliked them. It is hardly Melbourne’s fault if they genuinely grew to become her confidantes.”

“And I should think that you would be the last person to complain about such a thing, Clairmont,” Granville pointed out.

Clairmont grinned. “Oh believe me Granville, I’m not complaining.”

“I thought it was rather admirable for the queen to stand her ground on the matter,” Caroline opined. “One forgets that despite all her grand titles, she is still a woman of one-and-twenty who is being advised by men thrice her age.”

Charlotte smiled at her cousin. “I agree. By all accounts, Her Majesty has proven herself to be quite set in her ways, which is rather impressive.”

“Stubborn could be another way to put it,” Miles teased his sister, who pulled a face at him.

Kate stifled a laugh. Despite their ages, her children could reliably be counted upon to torment one another in little ways.

“Was the queen always like that, Caro?” David turned to his sister and asked. “Weren’t you invited to socialize with her some years ago?”

Caroline laughed. “I’m the last person you should ask, David. The Duchess of Kent nearly booted me out of the princess’s twelfth birthday party because I was too high-spirited and steered her daughter clear of me the entire time. Charlotte, on the other hand, was a perfect angel and played dollies with Princess Victoria for a quarter-hour while the rest of us watched enviously.”

“You remember that?” Charlotte asked delightedly. “All I can recall is the duchess staring disapprovingly at the lot of us- that and the cake.” She said in an afterthought, “To be fair, I was only nine.”

“I’ve heard rumors that the Duchess of Kent had some whiggish sympathies,” Lord Clairmont said thoughtfully. “I wonder if the queen showed any such inclinations early on?” He towards Charlotte.

Charlotte laughed, high and bright. “What would you like me to say, my lord? That the Princess Victoria showed some affection towards little Frances Cowper at her birthday party and therefore was converted to our Whig cause for life?”

“Our cause?” Anthony raised his brows towards Kate. “Did our daughter suddenly decide on a political affiliation?”

Kate shrugged, somewhat confused at so partisan a statement coming from her daughter.

Lord Clairmont chuckled, knowing he had been routed by Charlotte, though in a thoroughly charming manner. He grinned at her and said, “I wouldn't put that past Lady Cowper- pardon, Lady Palmerston. I still forget she remarried.”

"You might be the only person in all of England who still makes that mistake, sir," Charlotte told Clairmont dryly, "for the rest of us have been calling her Lady Palmerston for years."

The room roared with laughter at this.

Kate’s jaw dropped at so ribald a joke coming from her daughter- however artfully it was said.

Anthony choked and very badly attempted to stifle his coughing. “Good God!” He spluttered in an undertone. “I ought to go out there and trounce-”

Kate broke in sharply, “-No you will not- For heaven’s sake, show some restraint, Anthony!”

“Restraint?” Anthony repeated belligerently, and then said with a defiant gleam in his eye, “Make me.”

Kate gave him a lethal smile, fairly certain she knew what sort of persuasions her husband was open to, but she would not give him that satisfaction- not yet, at least.

“Oh I have no doubt I can,” Kate smirked. “For example, what if I told you I expect there to be an understanding reached between Charlotte and Lord Clairmont any day now?”

Anthony’s eyes widened to an almost comical extent and he gawped at his wife. “What?” he hissed. “How could you possibly know this?” His gaze flickered between Charlotte and Clairmont, as if were attempting to make out some visible attachment between the two unsuspecting young people.

“Because I am her mother,” Kate said, looking very smug. “And she told me herself, in other words.”

“She never told me,” Anthony said petulantly.

Kate raised her hand to pat his cheek in a conciliatory manner. “My dear, she knows you too well in that you are hardly tact personified.”

“But that Clairmont fellow!” Anthony whispered, glancing back at the man in question. “He’s so… staid.”

“I think she rather likes him for it,” Kate said thoughtfully, watching as Clairmont continued to be rather sweetly solicitous of Charlotte and her opinions.

And then, purely to torment her husband, she said, “Keep your schedule open, Lord Bridgerton. I would not be surprised if the earl comes to call on you shortly, if this little conversation is anything to go by.”

Anthony growled, broke free of Kate’s grasp, and before she could do anything, he strode forward.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Devotional Hours Within the Bible

by J.R. Miller

Devotional for February 17th

Israel Asking for a King - 1 Samuel 8

It was when Samuel was old, that the people began to talk about wanting to have a king. It takes a great deal of grace to grow old sweetly and beautifully. It is not always possible to carry the alertness and energy of young manhood, into advanced years. There is much talk in our days about the "dead line," which seems to be set down at about fifty. It is not easy for a man who has crossed that line to get a position in business. Yet if we live wisely and rightly all our lives, old age ought to be the best of life. We certainly ought to make it beautiful and good, for our life is not finished until we come to its very last day.

We ought to be wiser when we are old - than ever we have been in any former years. We ought to have learned by experience. We ought to be better in every way - with more of God's peace in our hearts, with more gentleness and patience. We ought to have learned self-control and to be able to rule our own spirit better. We ought to have more love, more joy, more thoughtfulness, to be more considerate, to have more humility. The 'inner man' should be taller, stronger, Christlier. Old age never should be the dregs of the years, the mere cinder of a burnt-out life. One may not have the vigor and strenuousness of the mid-years - but one should be every way truer, richer-hearted, better. If the outward man has grown weaker, feebler - the inner man should be stronger.

We expect to see a good man's sons reproduce their father's nobleness and worth. They ought to walk in his ways. They ought to continue the life he has begun, to carry on the work he has started, to keep his name bright and add to its luster. A father has lofty hopes for his sons. He dreams brilliant dreams. He expects his sons to be the true inheritors of all for which he has toiled and sacrificed. It is a bitter disappointment to him when they fail him, when they are not ready to be his successors, when the business he has built up passes to other hands, because they cannot continue it.

"Samuel's sons did not walk in his ways. They turned aside after dishonest gain and accepted bribes and perverted justice." 1 Samuel 8:3. They had enjoyed every advantage. Their father had set before them a godly and consistent example. Samuel was not like Eli. To the very close there was not a single stain upon his name. There is no evidence, either, that he had failed in parental discipline, as Eli did. Yet in spite of all these advantages and privileges, Samuel's sons had forsaken the paths in which they had been brought up. Godliness is not hereditary; it does not necessarily descend from father to son. The fact that one has a godly parent - does not guarantee godliness in the child. A father may bring up his children most carefully, and yet he cannot compel them to follow after God, and they may turn entirely away.

Samuel's sons loved the world. The record says they turned aside after lucre. It takes a steady hand to carry a full cup. Many young men who would have lived well in lowly places - fail when they are promoted to positions of power. The sons of Samuel were not able to stand the temptations which office brought to them. Political positions are always full of peril. Many men who are upright in private life - have proved unable to resist the temptation to dishonesty in official places where money passed through their hands. Money seems to have been the root of the evil which destroyed these sons of Samuel. Even in those crude times there were men who were willing to pay for legislation or for judicial decisions, and these men prostituted their offices to the love of gain and sold their influence for money.

It is pathetic to see Samuel's old age saddened by the corruption of his sons. The children of godly men, owe it to their parents to live so as to bring honor and blessing upon them in their declining years. There are many ways of doing this - but the best is by living noble, beautiful lives, and being such men and women as their parents will be proud and happy to own before all the world.

There seems something most ungracious and ungrateful in the way the elders of Israel came to Samuel to tell him of the people's desire for a king. "They said unto him, Behold, you are old." The elders meant that Samuel's old age made him incapable or inefficient as a ruler. It was a broad hint to him that he would better lay down his authority and let them choose some other ruler. They seem to have forgotten that he had grown old in their service; that he had given his whole life to the cause of the nation, and that they owed him whatever of grandeur or real glory there was in their land. Their conduct towards Samuel was ungrateful in the extreme.

This fault is too common in our own days. We are lacking in reverence to the aged. We are too ready to ask them to step aside when they have grown grey in serving us, to make room for younger people to take up the work they have been doing. We ought to venerate old age, especially when it has ripened in ways of righteousness and self-denial for the good of others. No sight is more beautiful than that of a young person showing respect and homage to one who is old.

Yet there is another view of the case that we may not overlook. Old men cannot always retain their places. They must give way to others, who in turn shall take up the tasks they have done so long. The old ought not to be afraid of the young. The oncoming host should not terrify them. When we have done our part well - we should be glad to surrender our places to those who may carry on the work we have begun. All any man can do - is a little fragment of a great work, the laying of a few stones on the wall. We follow others, and still others will follow us. The old must recognize this law of life and should neither grieve nor complain when they are called to surrender their places to make way for those who will come after them.

There are few severer tests of the Christian spirit than this, and the old need special grace and a large measure of the mind of Christ, in order that they may meet the experience sweetly. The lesson of gratitude and deference towards those who have served well, is greatly needed - but so also is the lesson of submission and resignation in those whose work is complete. Sometimes an old man, after a life of nobleness and great usefulness, mars the beauty of his record by the ungracious way he leaves his place. If he is wise and recognizes the Divine law for advancing age, he will retire in such a way as to crown his work by the beauty of its closing, and make the influence of his last days a holy aftermath, in which the best things of all his years shall continue to live in the glow and ripeness of love.

The demand of the elders was very explicit: "Now appoint a king to lead us, such as all the other nations have." They wanted to be "in fashion". They were growing tired of their plain, old-fashioned kind of government, and longed for the pomp and splendor which other nations had about their government. At the bottom of it all, however, was a discontent with what God had given them, and a feeling that what others had was better. Besides, there was a worldly spirit which craved to he in the world's parade and fashion.

This same spirit is still alive. There are many professing children of God who look longingly at the world's fields and sigh to get over the fence to try the world's enjoyments. Many Christians are not satisfied with the spiritual things of grace for their portion - but crave to have what the world has. The hour was a very trying one for Samuel. He was displeased. Yet his conduct was very beautiful. This request of the people for a king hurt him sorely. It was a painful slight upon him. After all his lifetime of service, they had asked him to step aside because he was getting old. Samuel knew also that they had made this request in a wrong spirit - that they were also slighting God and rejecting Him.

The natural thing for Samuel would have been to answer the elders sharply, and tell them in plain language what he thought of their request. But instead of this, notice how nobly he bore himself. He would give no answer at all until he had carried the whole matter to the Lord. When others hurt us by their sharp speeches, by their ingratitude, or in any other way, or when they are about to do us harm by their acts - our first duty is prayer. God is far more deeply concerned in any matter that concerns us - than we ourselves can be. We do not know what His will may be about it. Perhaps the things we think should not be done at all - He may want to have done. Perhaps He wants us to submit to the wrong or the injustice. Perhaps our part in the work has been completed and God Himself would have another take our place. At least, we should always carry every such matter to Him and ask what His will is before we give any answer or do anything in return.

The example of Samuel in this case teaches us important lessons. The lack of gratitude and graciousness in the people and their elders - did not affect Samuel's bearing in the matter. We must be Christians, however unchristianly others may have done their part towards us. Then God had far more concern in the change the people desired than Samuel had. They were setting Samuel aside - but they were also setting God aside. It often happens even in church work, that people have to be superseded. They are not altogether satisfactory, and it seems wise that a change shall be made. Or there is personal animosity in the desire. Whatever the motive, we should never resent such changes, if they apply to us - but should accept them sweetly and cheerfully as Samuel did.

The Lord bade Samuel to let the people have their choice in the matter of the king. They were persistent in their demand - and God let them have their own way. The thing they asked for was not pleasing to Him - and yet it was granted. God sometimes grants men's prayers, even when what they ask - is not really the best thing for them. He sometimes permits things which He does not approve. Even God, with all His omnipotence, may not compel us to take His ways. According to the prophet Hosea, God says: "I gave Israel a king in my anger."

It is not safe to make demands of God in prayer, to pray insubmissively and rebelliously. The thing we take as by force from God - may not bring blessing. The true way to pray, is to lay our requests at the feet of God - and leave them there without undue urgency. We do not know what is best for us.

A pastor sat by the sick-bed of a child who seemed to be near death. Turning to the parents, he said: "We will pray to God for your child. What shall we ask Him to do?" After a few moments of silence the father said, amid his sobs: "We would not dare choose - leave it to Him." This is the only safe way to pray in such matters. The thing that seems to us most desirable - may be in reality the very worst thing we could get. Life may not be the best thing for our child. We know not what would lie before him if he lived. The thing that seems to us most desirable - may be in reality the very worst thing we could get. There is no wrong in our praying for money - but it must be in the spirit of Gethsemane: "Not my will - but may Your will be done."

In praying for our friends, we dare not dictate to God what they shall have, for we cannot tell what is best for them. Unsubmissive prayers are always wrong. And God may sometimes let us have what we are determined to have, and the receiving may prove an evil rather than a good to us!

The Lord reminded Samuel of the wrong the elders had done to Him also. Thus the matter concerned God even more than Samuel. We should learn a lesson of patience and forbearance towards others - from the way God bears with men's sins - perchance with our sins!

God is very patient with the wicked in all their sins. Why should not we likewise be patient with them? We are not their judges; they do not have to answer to us for their sins. We should show them God's patience.

[luthersmithsthoughts]

How To Look For The Right Construction Company In Lake Quivira KS

Among the various industries within the world, one that's considered to be always an enormous operation is construction. With different structures involved, be it residential or commercial, it might take tons of your time and money, to not mention, effort in completing the work. it's also a risky job so expertise may be a must to any firm that might combat this type of labor.

Because this industry is pretty demanded nowadays, many of the companies are pretty venturing into all of this type of business. all of them possess different qualities and capabilities necessary to finish any construction project. However, experts share that there are certain qualifications that one should search for when hiring a corporation to make sure the project is in good hands. a number of the qualities are listed below.

Experience: This quality can say tons about how a corporation is intimate in the industry. With experience, they might know the principles and regulations that ought to govern all construction projects. Any client would be confident knowing the firm they got has already proven their skill within the number of years they need been within the industry.

Reputation: a perfect firm is one that has been mentioned by many purchasers. this is often a manifestation that the firm has done an excellent job when handling its projects. many purchasers would vouch for the workmanship of any firm goodbye as they're satisfied with their job. Searching online for companies including the testimonials of their clients is often an honest start to seem for the proper company.

Scope: What clients should realize firms is that a number of them may only offer a limited scope when it involves construction services. However, there are others who offer tons of services like landscaping, installation, and even interior design. it's recommended to choose companies that provide a good range of services to avoid any hassle during the whole construction process. it might save tons of your time instead of hiring other companies for other services.

Fees: this is often something any client should consider before agreeing to anything. There are companies that provide reasonable fees. Don't just stop and stick with one company. confirm everything including the budget is in line with the planned cost for the project.

Portfolio: to form sure, you're on the proper track, it might be ideal to see the previous projects handled by the firm. Firms usually compile them during a portfolio for his or her future clients to ascertain. Checking their portfolio is additionally the simplest time to make a decision whether their services would suit your needs.

Hiring The Right Kitchen Remodeling Designer

The kitchen is probably the foremost important place within the house. Remodeling a kitchen with the newest amenities, within a limited budget requires the talents, expertise, and knowledge of an honest kitchen remodeling designer.

The market is nowadays swarming with a pretty array of some of the kitchen designers who may bring authentic and some kitchen designs up to the table. However, the kitchen designer who keeps in mind your needs, lifestyle, and budget also as providing genuine solutions is what you ought to be trying to find.

Before hiring a kitchen remodeling designer to offer a facelift to your kitchen, it might be advisable to stay subsequent in mind:

Find A Licensed Kitchen Remodeling Designer

It is imperative that you can see out all of the credentials of the kitchen designers before hiring them to redo out all your kitchen. A professional and pretty licensed up kitchen remodeled designer, unlike any sort of indoor decorator, they should have passed some tests conducted by a corporation like the NKBA. you'll search online for reputed designing companies or individual contractors. The kitchen designer, if asked, should be ready to offer you reliable references for previously completed projects.

Estimate What Proportion Of Time It'll Take To Remodel The Kitchen

Kitchen Remodeling in Overland Park KS takes time and energy, as meticulous details got to be taken care of. Before the project begins, you ought to discuss the time frame together with your contractor that it'll fancy giving your kitchen the looks it needs. An efficient kitchen remodeler will coordinate with the opposite contractors necessary to finish the project- including an electrician or appliance company- well beforehand. this may allow them to remain on schedule and finish the project in a timely fashion.

Discuss all Financial Details Of The Remodeling

People often refrain from remodeling their kitchen thanks to the fear of unbearable costs. However, hiring a knowledgeable Kitchen Remodeling Overland Park KS  company can really offer you your money's worth, returning on your investment once you attend sell your home. a talented kitchen designer will suggest excellent ideas, resources, and amenities, all within your budget, and leave the ultimate decision to you. By analyzing your family's cooking style, frequency in socializing, space and lighting effects within the kitchen, an honest designer will create an appropriate plan that supported your budget.

Look Into Technical Design Details

A qualified and licensed kitchen remodeler will lay out all the emphasis out on the brilliant lighting out effects and ventilation within the kitchen. He will check out all type of the plumbing, any sort of storage capacity, some of the appliances and electrical details efficiently, leaving no room for any pitfalls later. Keeping your ideas and wishes in mind, concerned Kitchen Remodeling Overland Park KS contractor will offer expert suggestions for your benefit. He will ensure your kitchen is going to be properly functional before beginning the project.

Define Your Own Needs

The kitchen is yours and you want to discuss your thoughts, requirements, and wishes with an open mind. Share your thoughts repeatedly and confirm that the remodeler goes to deliver what you desire. the type of color scheme you would like, the floorings you desire, and therefore the relevant amenities must be clearly outlined to the designer. Kitchen Remodeling Overland Park KS knows how does a kitchen function and can suggest out-of-the-box ideas, keeping your interests and budget in mind.

[nicnacsnonsense]

Just watched Enola Holmes. I have mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, Enola is a fun and charming character, and most of the movie is entertaining and engaging, especially the plot surrounding her love interest. On the other hand the resolution with Enola and her family was very disappointing. I liked Sherlock taking Enola’s wardship away from Mycroft (though it would have been nice if he’d had to fight Mycroft at least a little over it), but it also seems rather pointless since Enola — a sixteen year old child who spent all her life isolated at her family’s country manor — is still living on her own in London at the end of the movie. I’m glad she proved herself capable over the course of the movie, but she is still a child; she ought to be living with someone who respects her autonomy, but can also provide her with the care and safety net she needs. I also hated the ending with the mother “I only abandoned you to protect you,” and honestly she was just a poor mother all around. We can acknowledge her good intentions and that she did impart some important lessons to Enola, and even acknowledge that she had other very important social causes she was fighting for, but let’s not pretend she was some fantastic parent.

I’m also a little confused as to why this was even a Sherlock Holmes story. I mean, I know why, money, but aside from that. Despite my trepidations about a surprise sister (I didn’t even watch series 4 of BBC’s Sherlock and it still scarred me), as I said I found Enola to be charming and I think the movie did a good job of slotting her into the Holmes family in a reasonable way; the original stories were always a little loose with regards to their canon anyway. Mycroft and Sherlock, as examples of those two literary characters, are fine. Sherlock is the brilliant detective with a knack for observation and deductive reasoning, and Mycroft is his older brother who works for the government. They’re fine. But there are aspects of both characters that don’t fit with the canon — a particular example being the movie saying Mycroft lacks Sherlock’s (and Enola’s) skills, when the books assert that Mycroft is actually smarter than Sherlock, he just prefers to sit back and let information be brought to him rather than getting directly involved in things. Little things like that which are forgivable but do mean there’s no reason they have to be Sherlock and Mycroft. You could change the names and maybe make a few other minor adjustments and you’d have two new characters.

But really the only reason I bring that up is the movie’s total lack of John Watson. It’s not just that he’s not physically present in the movie. Given that Sherlock himself is only a secondary character and all but one short scene of his is revolved around his family matters, it’d be easy enough to dismiss it as Watson having something else going on keeping him busy or Sherlock deliberately choosing to keep his family matters private. But in this case there are actually multiple instances of other characters pointing out Sherlock is alone, he doesn’t have any friends, doesn’t have anyone he works with, etc. Which is great for this specific story as it helps tie him thematically to Enola, but as a Sherlock Holmes story is absolutely bizarre. John Watson is an integral part of the Sherlock Holmes mythos. He’s just as important as Sherlock himself is, and is the only character aside from Sherlock that I would say cannot be written out of a Holmes universe. I’m not even clear on how Sherlock became famous in this movie’s universe if Watson wasn’t there writing and publishing the stories of his cases. Which brings me back to my earlier question: if you’re going to write a Sherlock Holmes story, except you have to cut out John Watson for your story to work, then why are you even writing a Sherlock Holmes story?

[thiswasinevitableid]

this isn't off any prompt list but hero/villian indruck where they have a meetcute and both desperately try to keep the other from finding out their alter ego as their relationship gets more and more serious while simultaneously trying to keep their rival away from their seemingly innocent love interest for fear of endangering them

Here you go!

“You win this round, Knight,” The Moth hovers, mechanical wings flapping and smile spreading across his face. The blood trickling down his nose doesn’t faze him in the slightest, “But I’m sure we’ll see each other quite soon.”

He flies off before Duck can grab him, leaving the hero standing, arms crossed (and cross in general), his quiet evening at home ruined by The Moth’s need cause trouble at the Governors Ball.

He’d just gotten to a good part in his book too.

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

“Oh goodness, I’m so sorry!”

Duck looks up as he’s wiping coffee from his lap to find a tall, gangly, angular stranger hurriedly tossing down his bag  to help clean up the spill.

“I’m sorry, I get lost in my thoughts sometimes and oh, darn it all.” In his eagerness to help, the taller man splashes coffee onto this white tank top, giving him a belly splotch that matches the one on Ducks green t-shirt. 

“It’s uh, no big deal, ain’t like I was in my Sunday best and, uh, that ain’t a library book.”

“Oh no your book.” The other man lifts the stained paperback, looks at it sadly, “At least let me buy you a replacement.” He’s holding the book to his chest now, clearly hopeful that Duck will let him make amends.

Between the red-brown eyes, the tousled, silver-dyed hair, and the earnest, odd smile, he has an air of disheveled charm that, at his age, Duck ought to be past finding adorable. 

Instead, he smiles back, “Sure thing. Bookstore  two blocks down oughta have copies, and a little cafe to boot. You let me buy you a replacement drink, I’ll let you buy me a new book. Deal?”

The other man nods, hands flapping, “Yes, that sounds wonderful.”

Duck grins, suddenly excited, before noticing he’s a bit sticky.

“Meet me there in an hour so we can both change?”

“It’s a date.”

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

It’s a date? Agh, of all the ways he could have phrased it, why did his blasted, traitorous mouth choose that one?

He stands awkwardly in one corner of the cafe, hands stuffed into the pockets of his pink and yellow cardigan. Was this too flamboyant? He doesn’t even know if the other man is gay. He supposes he could look into the futures to determine the answer to that, but doing so feels rude. 

This is why he turned to supervillainy in the first place; he’s terrible with people. 

He wishes he’d worn his glasses. They’re technically a tool of his trade, but they make him feel safe. 

“Uh, howdy.” 

He glances up, finds the man from before looking at him. Now that he’s not racked with panic trying to clean up a spill, he has a chance to take in just how much his type the man is. Short, but bear like (”a teddy bear” his mind supplies, unhelpfully), with green eyes and charming, unhurried vibe to him. His drawl does remind him of a certain hero who’s always in his way, but he won’t hold that against him. 

“Buy you a coffee?”

“Yes, please. Ah, um, I guess I should introduce myself; I’m Indrid.”

“Duck” he holds out his hand and Indrid takes it, enjoys the warmth and strength in his grip, “Nice to meet you.”

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

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” Duck tightens Beacon around The Moth, who tears at the blade with his retractable claws. Duck learned about those the hard way, when the villain extended them during one of their first meetings. The slash broke the skin, something rare for Duck on account of his durability. 

“And you have got to come up with some more creative lines, hero.” The Moth snarls, “you have used that one twice before now. Which is also how many times you have forgotten about this.”  The villain throws himself sideways and down with enough force to yank Duck to his knees and loosen his grip. As his sword clatters to the ground, red powder fills his eyes.

“Gah, jesus, not that shit again.” His eyes sting, and as he pats the ground for Beacon he hears the scrape of metal moving away from him. Beacons hilt disappears into the mist, dragged slowly back by The Moth’s foot. 

Duck looks up at him through watering eyes, trying not to breath in the dust. 

“Well, you got me at your mercy. You gonna start gloatin about your evil plans or some shit?”

A light, sharp laugh, “Why would I waste my time in such a way? Oh no, I shall be making off with my prize. And making sure you don’t follow me.”

He raises his foot, and Ducks vision whites out on one side as he crumples. 

He should be more worried about the villain getting away with the schematics for the ApCorps latest government security features. 

Mostly, he’s worried he’ll have a black eye tomorrow. 

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

“Hel-oh goodness, Duck, your eye.” Indrid opens the door a half second before Duck knocks, then quickly cups his cheeks to take a closer look.

“Looks worse than it is, sugar, don’t worry. And, uh, surprise.” He produces a small bouquet of Irises from he behind his back. Indrid beams, taking them with squeak of delight. 

“They’re lovely, but what’s the occasion?” He’s smiling almost like he knows, almost like he just wants to hear him say it. 

“Know, uh, know I said I wanted to take things slow, but I realized we been datin a month I ain’t given you anythin.”

“You bought me coffee that first time. And we have each bought dinner for the other multiple times.” Indrid takes his hand, drawing him inside.  

“I know but, well, kinda wanted to do somethin a little more special.”

“Any time with you is special.” 

Duck snorts, “Cornball.”

Indrid kisses, “I learned from the best.”

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

“What can I say, I learned from the best.” Indrid grins at The Knight, who is currently hanging upside down in an elegantly simple snare. 

“I got the idea from that unpleasant sword of yours. Keep your enemy tied up nice and tight to keep them out of your OW, ow, alright I should have seen that coming.” His glasses are now cracked from the Knight headbutting him.

“I’m impressed you could manage that upside down.”

“Drop these fuckin chains off me and I’ll show you somethin real impressive.”

Indrid tilts his head, “Tempting, but I have a pressing engagement tomorrow morning. Not to mention I need to get this,” he pats the painting he just lifted from the house of a man with a gold toilet, “somewhere safe. Until we meet again.” He offers a mocking salute, and takes flight.

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

“Again?” Indrid offers, pressed against warm, sweat-tinged expanse of Duck’s chest, his heart beating in time with the rapid rise and fall of Ducks breathing.

“Nope. Not that the body and mind ain’t willin, but the mind and body also got work tomorrow. Damn that felt good.” He usually tops, but with Indrid he’s found it more variable; some nights, like tonight, the other man fucks him into the bed, or over the nearest table, or however far they get before Duck can’t stand waiting anymore. Other nights, Indrid gets on all fours so Duck can fuck him with the strap, drops to his knees before they make it past the entryway, tugging at Duck’s belt buckle with little whimpers. 

“Mmmm, it was magnificent my love.” Indrid goes stone still in his arms as that last syllable flutters in the air.

Duck brushes strands of pale hair from his forehead, “I love you too, ‘Drid.”

His boyfriend flops down in relief, “oh thank goodness that’s the way it went.”

“As if I could feel any other way about you.”

Indrid mutters something that might be “cornball” into his chest, yawns and nestles closer with whisper of “love my teddy bear.”

“Love you too, sugar.”

Shit.

He’s in love with Indrid. 

Bad things happen to superhero love interests. Very bad things. He can’t bear losing him, but no one beside the other members of the Pine Gaurd know his secret identity. He’s not ready to tell him yet. Soon, but not yet. 

Indrid rolls sleepily onto his side and Duck goes with him, turning into the little spoon in his embrace. God, what if an enemy decides to kidnap him, hurt him, just to get to Duck?

Then again, no villain has singled him out, save for one. 

Which he’ll need to deal with that one as soon as he can. 

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

“Give up while you still can, Moth!” 

“Not a chance.” Indrid hisses back, clutching the gash on his arm from the sword. What has gotten into the Knight today? Usually he only fights Indrid the amount needed to stop whatever crime he’s busy committing. 

Today he’s trying to destroy him. 

He’s been training, that much is clear, he has new moves that Indrid finds difficult to anticipate in a fight, and a fire in his eyes that heightens Indrid’s guard. 

As he flits out of reach of yet another strike, his goal of thievery long forgotten in favor of not getting chopped in half, he tries to determine the source of the change. What would make him fight harder?

Duck. He’d burn this city to the ground, tear every hero in it to pieces, if Duck were in danger. 

He reaches the edge of the building, but before stepping off to safety he turns.

“You win tonight, Knight. But do give that new lover of yours my regards.”

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

“Hey, Indrid?”

“Yes?” His boyfriend looks up from his sketches. 

“I was wonderin if, uh, if you’d like to go to a  fancier place than normal? Barclay got me an in at La Lune, thought we could go on Friday. There’s, uh, there’s somethin I wanna talk about.”

“Is is a marriage proposal or breaking up with me?”

“What? No!”

Indrid chuckles, “I am teasing. Mostly.” He bounces his eyebrows and Duck rolls his eyes in response. 

“Thought afterwards, might be nice to go out to the park and stargaze, tell you what I need to in private.”

“That sounds lovely, my love.”

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

The stars are aligning in Indrid’s favor this week. 

Yesterday, when the Knight tried to corner him on his way out of his lair, he took the gamble of getting close, earning him the reward of landing a deep slash on The Knight’s cheek. One he won’t be able to heal by tonight. Whether he’s in his hero get-up or his civilian clothes, Indrid will be able to spot him. 

And tonight, he has it on good authority that the Knight will be appearing in this block of the city.  The same block on which sits La Lune. Indrid can go to dinner with his boyfriend right after removing the biggest threat to said boyfriend. 

He’s perched on the roof of the restaurant, steering clear of the large skylight. His glasses scan the streets, the windows all around him. 

But this is taking longer than anticipated. He hasn’t looked too far into the futures for the night, since his growing romantic side wants whatever Duck tells him to be a true surprise. 

He pulls out his phone, swipes to his conversation with Duck. Beneath the photo of a Scarlet Tanager Duck sent him from his work at the ranger station he types, running behind, will be there shortly after 7.

He receives back, NP, see you soon sugar with a kissy face. 

The minutes tick by, the spring sun setting inch by inch behind the downtown skyline. At 7:05, he peeks through the skylight, spots Duck. He can’t see his face all the way in the mood lighting of the restaurant, but he knows his gait, his profile. 

At 7:30 there is still no sign of his nemesis. He’s been scanning and staring and searching, looking at his phone only once after it buzzes many times. He has four missed calls and five texts

Duck: ETA? Damn, this place is even fancier than I thought. 

Duck: Everything okay? If you’re close, I can order us some appetizers so you don’t got to wait to eat. 

Duck: Can’t wait to see you.

Duck: Are you still coming? Are you okay? 

Duck: Sugar?

That last one comes as he’s reading the others. He peers down through the skylight, sees Duck stare at his phone for a ten count, gnawing his lip. Then he looks up at the sky, eyes shut, as if weighing a decision. 

Indrid’s heart plummets. 

There’s a gash on Duck’s cheek. 

A gash he put there. 

Every coincidence, every strange incident he’d pushed to side, lost in the happiness of their courtship, floods his mind. 

Suddenly, he knows what Duck was going to tell him. 

With shaking fingers, he types,

So sorry, my battery died at the worst of all times, I borrowed a charger from a good samaritan. I’m nearly there. 

It takes him two and a half minutes to descend the building and change into his evening wear that he stashed nearby. 

At three minutes, he’s walking through the doors, Duck jumping up and hugging him before he even makes the table.

“Sorry for, uh, textin so much, I guess I got a bit nervous. Y’know how shit can get here; can be walkin home and suddenly a supervillain is wreckin shit and you’re collateral.”

“I understand.” He takes his seat, Duck relaxing into the chair opposite him, “in fact, my love, I understand a great deal.”

Indrid reaches into his pocket, producing a pair of red glasses. He slips them on, knowing the other diners will think nothing of it. 

“I look familiar, don’t I?”

Duck stares so long, moving so little, that Indrid fears he sent him into some kind of shock. 

“Get out. Now.” Duck’s tone is level, his eyes glinting with threat. 

“Duck, please, I, I want to explain-”

“Out. I ain’t gonna tangle with you tonight, but I don’t wanna see you ever again.”

Wordlessly, Indrid removes the glasses, and walks into the night.

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

Indrid is out of ideas. 

For the first week after his confession, he searched the futures religiously for any sign that Duck would come after him, would reveal his apartment to the other heroes. 

It never came. 

He hasn’t stolen anything in two months. 

He sent a single apology letter to Duck, doing his best to explain the situation. Watched the futures narrow down to a single one; Duck reading it, then tearing it up. 

He even sent anonymous notes to the Pine Guard, altering them to several oncoming disasters or the kind of supervillainy that has a body count. 

Wounded pride, a loss of purpose, a wave of self-loathing, and a dozen other complexly unpleasant emotions could form the center of his world. 

But it all comes down to one simple feeling: he misses Duck. Misses his smile, his sense of humor, his strange laugh, the safety he felt by his side, and endless list of things stripped from his life by his own actions. 

Which is why it has come to this.

He sets up the camera, and starts recording.

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

“Hey, Duck, I think you should see this.”

Duck plods into the main control room, where Ned is fiddling with the video feed while Aubrey waves him to sit by her.

“I swear to fuck if it’s that police chief tryin to recruit us again-”

“Nah, Aubrey and I finally got through to him.” Mama tosses out from the corner where she’s busily whittling a wooden duck. 

The screen flickers blue, and then Duck feels the opposing pulls of revulsion and longing as Indrid’s face appears. His glasses are off, but he’s otherwise in his full villain get-up.

“Hello Duck, and, ah, I assume the rest of the Pine Guard. It is fine with me if you all listen in, but this message is ultimately for him.”

Barclay reaches over Ned to hit pause, “Duck?”

“Y’all can stay.”

The video resumes. 

“I have two messages. The first is an apology; not necessarily for the things I have stolen, but for any genuine harm I caused other people, yourselves included. And I apologize once again, and as many more times as you require, Duck, for not telling you the truth sooner. In my defense, there is no easy way to admit to the man you love that you are a supervillain. All the same, I ought to have been brave enough to try, for your sake.” 

Indrid sits up and Duck leans forward. 

“My second message is that I am retiring from supervillainy. I could say something about a change of view on the world in general, but the truth is that villainy is less interesting without an equal to rival and banter with me. And, well, I am sure I can find other ways to fill my days. Especially if the man I care for is by my side. I should be clear that my retirement is not contingent on you reaching out to me again, Duck. Merely that it is something you may wish to know. Ah, I suppose that is all. This is the Moth, signing off for the last time. I’m sorry again, Duck. I love you.”

“Think it’s a bluff?” Aubrey asks as the screen goes dark.

“No, as one who has mastered the art of insincerity, I do not believe so.” Ned responds, switching on the lights.

Duck, for his part, says nothing.

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

Indrid rolls off the bed at the knock, rubbing his eyes as he trudges to the door, too tired to look at the futures. 

“How can I…” 

The sight of Duck Newton on his doorstep elicits so many emotions that he short circuits. 

“Hey.”

“Hello.”

“So, retiring huh?”

“Yes.” He fights the urge to chew his nails. 

“Guess that means you’re free to talk right now?”

“Indeed.” He steps back, allowing Duck to step in and shut the door.

“Great, Because we got a lot to talk about. But, uh, first.”

He cups Indrids cheeks, kissing him so lovingly that the former villain melts against him, gripping the front of his ranger jacket the way a falling man grasps at a cliff. 

“I missed you so much.” He whispers, and before he has time to hate the crack in his voice, Duck is kissing him again, guiding him slowly and surely to the couch, murmuring in between kisses.

“Missed you too, so much, goddamn, couldn’t stop thinkin about you, love you so much ‘Drid, wanna make things right, we’re gonna make ‘em right, I promise.”

Indrid glances at the futures, sees that in all of them they do, in fact, end up having a long, serious conversation, one that ends in even softer kisses and Duck curled around him in his bed. 

But there’s still a few more minutes for him to savor being here, safe and secure, in the arms of his hero. 

[exceptionalism]

fate stay night heaven's feel spring song sub español

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The final chapter in the Heaven's feel trilogy. Angra Mainyu has successfully possessed his vessel Sakura Matou . It's up to Rin, Shiro, and Rider to cleanse the grail or it will be the end of the world and magecraft as we all know it.

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Title : Fate/stay night: Heaven's Feel III. Spring Song Original Title : 劇場版「Fate/stay night [Heaven’s Feel]」Ⅲ.spring song Alternative Titles : Fate/stay night Heaven's Feel III.spring song Directed by : Yuki Kajiura Cast : Noriaki Sugiyama, Noriko Shitaya, Ayako Kawasumi, Kana Ueda, Mai Kadowaki, Miki Itō Genre : Animation Countries : Japan

Our relationship is strained. It feels like it has been for a while. For the last four years, there has been an elephant in the room — I’d joke and call it an orange elephant, but I’m nervous that might end this earnest conversation before it even begins. Have I changed? I mean, yes, of course I have. I’ve gotten older. I’ve had two children. I’ve tried to read and learn as much as possible, just as you taught me. In fact, that’s sort of the weirdest thing. I don’t think I’ve changed much. I still believe, deep in my bones, all the fundamental things you not only talked to me about, but showed me when I was little. I believe in character. I believe in competence. I believe in treating people decently. I believe in moderation. I believe in a better future and I believe in American exceptionalism, the idea that the system we were given by the Founding Fathers, although imperfect, has been an incredible vehicle for progress, moral improvement, and greatness, unlike any other system of government or country yet conceived. I believe this exceptionalism comes with responsibilities. Politically, I’m pretty much the same, too. Government is best when limited, but it’s nonetheless necessary. Fair but low taxes grow the economy. Rights must be protected, privacy respected. Partisanship stops at the water’s edge. No law can make people virtuous — that obligation rests on every individual. So how is it even possible that we’re here? Unable to travel, banned from entry by countless nations. The laughingstock of the developed world for our woeful response to a pandemic. 200,000 dead. It hasn’t been safe to see you guys or grandma for months, despite being just a plane ride away. My children — your grandchildren — are deprived of their friends and school. Meanwhile, the U.S., which was built on immigration — grandma being one who fled the ravages of war in Europe for a better life here — is now a bastion of anti-immigrant hysteria. Our relatives on your side fought for the Union in the Civil War. Great-grandpa fought against the Russians in WWI, and granddad landed at Normandy to stop the rise of fascism. And now people are marching with tiki-torches shouting, “the Jews will not replace us.” What is happening?! Black men are shot down in the streets? Foreign nations are offering bounties on American soldiers?

fate/stay night heaven's feel - iii. spring song fate/stay night heaven's feel - iii. spring song release date fate/stay night heaven's feel - iii. spring song full movie fate/stay night heaven's feel - iii. spring song watch fate/stay night heaven's feel - iii. spring song stream fate/stay night heaven's feel - iii. spring song blu ray fate/stay night heaven's feel - iii. spring song reddit fate/stay night heaven's feel - iii. spring song dub fate/stay night heaven's feel - iii. spring song blu ray release date fate/stay night heaven's feel iii. spring song australia And the President of the United States defends, rationalizes, or does nothing to stop this? I’d say that’s insane, but I’m too heartbroken. Because every step of the way, I’ve heard you defend, rationalize, or enable him and the politicians around him. Not since I was a kid have I craved to hear your strong voice more, to hear you say anything reassuring, inspiring, morally cogent. If not for me, then for the world that will be left to your grandchildren. This does not feel like a good road we are going down… Look, I know you’re not to blame for this. You hold no position of power besides the one we all have as voters, but I guess I just always thought you believed in the lessons you taught me, and the things we used to listen to on talk radio on our drives home from the lake. All those conversations about American dignity, the power of private enterprise, the sacredness of the Oval Office, the primacy of the rule of law. Now Donald Trump gushes over foreign strongmen. He cheats on his wife with porn stars (and bribes them with illegal campaign funds). He attacks whistleblowers (career army officers, that is). He lies blatantly and habitually, about both the smallest and largest of things. He enriches himself, his family members, and his business with expenditures straight from the public treasury. And that’s just the stuff we know about. God knows what else has happened these last four years that executive privilege has allowed him to obscure from public view. I still think about the joke you made when we walked past Trump Tower in New York when I was kid. Tacky, you said. A reality show fool. Now that fool has his finger on the nuclear button — which I think he thinks is an actual button — and I can’t understand why you’re OK with this. I mean, the guy can’t even spell! You demanded better of me in the papers I turned in when I was in middle school. I know you don’t like any of it. If you’d have had your choice, any other Republican would have been elected but Trump. You’re not an extremist, and you’ve never once said anything as repulsive as what people now seem comfortable saying on TV and social media (and in emails to your son, I might add). Four years ago, I wrote to you to ask you not to vote for Donald Trump. But this time around, that’s no longer enough. At some point, just finding it all unpleasant and shaking your head at the tweets, while saying or doing nothing more about it, is moral complicity. You told me that as a kid! That the bad prevail when good people do nothing. A while back I emailed a friend of mine who is an advisor to the administration. I said to him, why do you think my dad’s support of Trump bothers me so much more than yours? Because it does. This is someone who helped put Trump in office and wants to keep him there, but we’re still friends. Talking to him doesn’t hurt my heart the way it does when politics come up over family meals. The man’s answer was telling, and I am quoting. He said, “Because I am irredeemable, but your dad ought to know better.” Does that register with you at all? One of the things you taught me well was how to spot a scam. Double check everything, you said. Do your research. Look at what the people around them say. Look at their history. Remember when you used to quote Reagan’s line to me, “Trust, but verify”? I’ve been lucky enough to make a few trips to Washington the last few years. I’ve sat across from Senators and Congressmen. I’ve talked to generals who have briefed the president, and business leaders who worked with him before the election. This is a guy who doesn’t read, they said, a guy with the attention span of a child. Everybody avoided doing business with him. Because he didn’t listen, because he stiffed people on bills, because he was clueless. He treated women horribly. He’s awful, they said. I thought this was a particularly damning line: If Donald Trump were even half-competent, one elected official told me, he could probably rule this country for 20 years. I have trouble figuring what’s worse — that he wants to, or that he wants to but isn’t competent enough to pull it off. Instead, Washington is so broken and so filled with cowards that Trump just spent the last four years breaking stuff and embarrassing himself. I learned from you how to recognize a dangerous or unreliable person. If you don’t trust the news, could you trust what I’m bringing you, right from the source? Let’s trust our gut, not our political sensibility. Based on what I’ve told you, and what you’ve seen: Would you let him manage your money? Would you want your wife or daughter to work for him without supervision? I’m not even sure I would stay in one of his hotels, after what I’ve read. Watching the RNC a few weeks ago, I wondered what planet I was on. What’s with all the yelling? How is this happening on the White House lawn? Why are his loser kids on the bill? His kid’s girlfriend??? And what is this picture of America they are painting? They are the ones in charge! Yet they choose to campaign against the dystopian nightmare that is 2020… which is to say, they are campaigning against themselves. Look, I agree there is crazy stuff happening in the world. The civil unrest is palpable, violence is on the rise, and Americans have never been so openly divided. Sure, rioting and looting are bad. But who is to blame for all the chaos? The President. Remember what you told me about the sign on Truman’s desk? The buck stops here. (May we contrast that with: “I don’t take responsibility at all.”) In any case, what some crazy people in Portland are doing is not ours to repeatedly disavow. What the president does? The citizens are complicit in that. Especially if we endorse it at the ballot box come November 3rd. Besides, what credibility do we have to insist on the ‘rule of law’ when eight of the president’s associates have faced criminal charges? His former lawyer went to jail, too! And then the president commutes their sentences, dangles pardons to keep them quiet, or tries to prevent them from cooperating with authorities? When he’s fined millions of dollars for illegally using his charity as a slush fund? When he cheats on his taxes? When he helped his parents avoid taxes, too? I remember you once told me the story of a police officer in your department who was caught filling up his personal car with gas paid for by the city. The problem, you said, wasn’t just the mistake. It was that when he was confronted by it, he lied. But the cameras showed the proof and so he was fired, for being untrustworthy most of all. Would you fire Trump if he worked for you? What kind of culture do you think your work would have had if the boss acted like Trump? As for the lying, that’s the craziest part, because we can, as the kids say, check the receipts: Was it bad enough to call John McCain a loser? Yes, but then, of course, Trump lied and claimed he didn’t. Bad enough to cheat on his wife? Yes, but of course, he lied about it, and committed crimes covering it up (which he also lied about). Was it bad enough to solicit help from Russia and Wikileaks in the election? Yes, but then he, his son, and his campaign have lied about it so many times, in so many forums, that some of them went to jail over it. Was it stupid that, in February, Trump was tweeting about how Covid-29 was like the flu and that we didn’t need to worry? Yes, but it takes on a different color when you listen to him tell Bob Woodward that in January he knew how bad it was, how much worse it was than even the worst flu, and that he was deliberately going to downplay the virus for political purposes. I’m sure we could quibble over some, but The Fact Checker database currently tallys over 20,000 lies since he took office. Even if we cut it in half, that’s insane! It’s impossible to deny: Trump lied, and Americans have died because of it. A friend of mine had a one-on-one dinner with Trump at the White House a while back. It was actually amazing, he said. Half the evening was spent telling lies about the size of his inaugural address. This was in private — not even for public relations purposes, and years after the controversy had died down. That’s when he realized: The lying is pathological. It can’t be helped. Which is to say, it makes a person unfit to lead. Politics should not come before family. I don’t want you to think this affects how I feel about you. But it does make it harder for us to spend time together — not just literally so, since Trump’s bumbling response to the pandemic has crippled America and made travel difficult. It’s that I feel grief. I feel real grief — were the lessons you taught me as a kid not true? Did you not mean them? Was it self-serving stuff to make sure I behaved? Was I a fool for listening? Or is it worse, that my own father cares more about his retirement accounts — and I’ll grant, the runup of the market has been nice for me, too — than the future he is leaving for his children? Are you so afraid of change, of that liberal boogeyman Limbaugh and Hannity and these other folks have concocted, that you’d rather entrust the country to a degenerate carnival barker than anyone else? I see all this anger, what is it that you’re so angry about? You’ve won. Society has worked for you. My own success is proof. So what is it? Because it can’t possibly be that you think this guy is trustworthy, decent, or kind. It’s definitely not about his policies… because almost every single one is anathema to what Republicans — and you — have talked about my entire life. The one thing I hold onto is hope. I believe in America. I believe in the goodness of hardworking people like you and Mom. I know that this is not what you wanted to happen, that this is not the America you grew up in nor the one you would like for me and my kids to grow up in. I hold onto hope that you’re tired enough to draw the line. That you are not irredeemable as that Trump advisor allowed himself to become. The right thing is always the right thing, you’ve said. Even when it’s hard. Even when it goes against what your friends think, or what you’ve done in the past. The right thing is obviously to end this. To cancel this horrendous experiment with its cavalcade of daily horrors and vulgarities and stupidities and historical humiliations. America is a great nation. …

[grandwizardcreation]

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The final chapter in the Heaven's feel trilogy. Angra Mainyu has successfully possessed his vessel Sakura Matou . It's up to Rin, Shiro, and Rider to cleanse the grail or it will be the end of the world and magecraft as we all know it.

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Title : Fate/stay night: Heaven's Feel III. Spring Song Original Title : 劇場版「Fate/stay night [Heaven’s Feel]」Ⅲ.spring song Alternative Titles : Fate/stay night Heaven's Feel III.spring song Directed by : Yuki Kajiura Cast : Noriaki Sugiyama, Noriko Shitaya, Ayako Kawasumi, Kana Ueda, Mai Kadowaki, Miki Itō Genre : Animation Countries : Japan

Our relationship is strained. It feels like it has been for a while. For the last four years, there has been an elephant in the room — I’d joke and call it an orange elephant, but I’m nervous that might end this earnest conversation before it even begins. Have I changed? I mean, yes, of course I have. I’ve gotten older. I’ve had two children. I’ve tried to read and learn as much as possible, just as you taught me. In fact, that’s sort of the weirdest thing. I don’t think I’ve changed much. I still believe, deep in my bones, all the fundamental things you not only talked to me about, but showed me when I was little. I believe in character. I believe in competence. I believe in treating people decently. I believe in moderation. I believe in a better future and I believe in American exceptionalism, the idea that the system we were given by the Founding Fathers, although imperfect, has been an incredible vehicle for progress, moral improvement, and greatness, unlike any other system of government or country yet conceived. I believe this exceptionalism comes with responsibilities. Politically, I’m pretty much the same, too. Government is best when limited, but it’s nonetheless necessary. Fair but low taxes grow the economy. Rights must be protected, privacy respected. Partisanship stops at the water’s edge. No law can make people virtuous — that obligation rests on every individual. So how is it even possible that we’re here? Unable to travel, banned from entry by countless nations. The laughingstock of the developed world for our woeful response to a pandemic. 200,000 dead. It hasn’t been safe to see you guys or grandma for months, despite being just a plane ride away. My children — your grandchildren — are deprived of their friends and school. Meanwhile, the U.S., which was built on immigration — grandma being one who fled the ravages of war in Europe for a better life here — is now a bastion of anti-immigrant hysteria. Our relatives on your side fought for the Union in the Civil War. Great-grandpa fought against the Russians in WWI, and granddad landed at Normandy to stop the rise of fascism. And now people are marching with tiki-torches shouting, “the Jews will not replace us.” What is happening?! Black men are shot down in the streets? Foreign nations are offering bounties on American soldiers?

fate/stay night heaven's feel - iii. spring song fate/stay night heaven's feel - iii. spring song release date fate/stay night heaven's feel - iii. spring song full movie fate/stay night heaven's feel - iii. spring song watch fate/stay night heaven's feel - iii. spring song stream fate/stay night heaven's feel - iii. spring song blu ray fate/stay night heaven's feel - iii. spring song reddit fate/stay night heaven's feel - iii. spring song dub fate/stay night heaven's feel - iii. spring song blu ray release date fate/stay night heaven's feel iii. spring song australia And the President of the United States defends, rationalizes, or does nothing to stop this? I’d say that’s insane, but I’m too heartbroken. Because every step of the way, I’ve heard you defend, rationalize, or enable him and the politicians around him. Not since I was a kid have I craved to hear your strong voice more, to hear you say anything reassuring, inspiring, morally cogent. If not for me, then for the world that will be left to your grandchildren. This does not feel like a good road we are going down… Look, I know you’re not to blame for this. You hold no position of power besides the one we all have as voters, but I guess I just always thought you believed in the lessons you taught me, and the things we used to listen to on talk radio on our drives home from the lake. All those conversations about American dignity, the power of private enterprise, the sacredness of the Oval Office, the primacy of the rule of law. Now Donald Trump gushes over foreign strongmen. He cheats on his wife with porn stars (and bribes them with illegal campaign funds). He attacks whistleblowers (career army officers, that is). He lies blatantly and habitually, about both the smallest and largest of things. He enriches himself, his family members, and his business with expenditures straight from the public treasury. And that’s just the stuff we know about. God knows what else has happened these last four years that executive privilege has allowed him to obscure from public view. I still think about the joke you made when we walked past Trump Tower in New York when I was kid. Tacky, you said. A reality show fool. Now that fool has his finger on the nuclear button — which I think he thinks is an actual button — and I can’t understand why you’re OK with this. I mean, the guy can’t even spell! You demanded better of me in the papers I turned in when I was in middle school. I know you don’t like any of it. If you’d have had your choice, any other Republican would have been elected but Trump. You’re not an extremist, and you’ve never once said anything as repulsive as what people now seem comfortable saying on TV and social media (and in emails to your son, I might add). Four years ago, I wrote to you to ask you not to vote for Donald Trump. But this time around, that’s no longer enough. At some point, just finding it all unpleasant and shaking your head at the tweets, while saying or doing nothing more about it, is moral complicity. You told me that as a kid! That the bad prevail when good people do nothing. A while back I emailed a friend of mine who is an advisor to the administration. I said to him, why do you think my dad’s support of Trump bothers me so much more than yours? Because it does. This is someone who helped put Trump in office and wants to keep him there, but we’re still friends. Talking to him doesn’t hurt my heart the way it does when politics come up over family meals. The man’s answer was telling, and I am quoting. He said, “Because I am irredeemable, but your dad ought to know better.” Does that register with you at all? One of the things you taught me well was how to spot a scam. Double check everything, you said. Do your research. Look at what the people around them say. Look at their history. Remember when you used to quote Reagan’s line to me, “Trust, but verify”? I’ve been lucky enough to make a few trips to Washington the last few years. I’ve sat across from Senators and Congressmen. I’ve talked to generals who have briefed the president, and business leaders who worked with him before the election. This is a guy who doesn’t read, they said, a guy with the attention span of a child. Everybody avoided doing business with him. Because he didn’t listen, because he stiffed people on bills, because he was clueless. He treated women horribly. He’s awful, they said. I thought this was a particularly damning line: If Donald Trump were even half-competent, one elected official told me, he could probably rule this country for 20 years. I have trouble figuring what’s worse — that he wants to, or that he wants to but isn’t competent enough to pull it off. Instead, Washington is so broken and so filled with cowards that Trump just spent the last four years breaking stuff and embarrassing himself. I learned from you how to recognize a dangerous or unreliable person. If you don’t trust the news, could you trust what I’m bringing you, right from the source? Let’s trust our gut, not our political sensibility. Based on what I’ve told you, and what you’ve seen: Would you let him manage your money? Would you want your wife or daughter to work for him without supervision? I’m not even sure I would stay in one of his hotels, after what I’ve read. Watching the RNC a few weeks ago, I wondered what planet I was on. What’s with all the yelling? How is this happening on the White House lawn? Why are his loser kids on the bill? His kid’s girlfriend??? And what is this picture of America they are painting? They are the ones in charge! Yet they choose to campaign against the dystopian nightmare that is 2020… which is to say, they are campaigning against themselves. Look, I agree there is crazy stuff happening in the world. The civil unrest is palpable, violence is on the rise, and Americans have never been so openly divided. Sure, rioting and looting are bad. But who is to blame for all the chaos? The President. Remember what you told me about the sign on Truman’s desk? The buck stops here. (May we contrast that with: “I don’t take responsibility at all.”) In any case, what some crazy people in Portland are doing is not ours to repeatedly disavow. What the president does? The citizens are complicit in that. Especially if we endorse it at the ballot box come November 3rd. Besides, what credibility do we have to insist on the ‘rule of law’ when eight of the president’s associates have faced criminal charges? His former lawyer went to jail, too! And then the president commutes their sentences, dangles pardons to keep them quiet, or tries to prevent them from cooperating with authorities? When he’s fined millions of dollars for illegally using his charity as a slush fund? When he cheats on his taxes? When he helped his parents avoid taxes, too? I remember you once told me the story of a police officer in your department who was caught filling up his personal car with gas paid for by the city. The problem, you said, wasn’t just the mistake. It was that when he was confronted by it, he lied. But the cameras showed the proof and so he was fired, for being untrustworthy most of all. Would you fire Trump if he worked for you? What kind of culture do you think your work would have had if the boss acted like Trump? As for the lying, that’s the craziest part, because we can, as the kids say, check the receipts: Was it bad enough to call John McCain a loser? Yes, but then, of course, Trump lied and claimed he didn’t. Bad enough to cheat on his wife? Yes, but of course, he lied about it, and committed crimes covering it up (which he also lied about). Was it bad enough to solicit help from Russia and Wikileaks in the election? Yes, but then he, his son, and his campaign have lied about it so many times, in so many forums, that some of them went to jail over it. Was it stupid that, in February, Trump was tweeting about how Covid-29 was like the flu and that we didn’t need to worry? Yes, but it takes on a different color when you listen to him tell Bob Woodward that in January he knew how bad it was, how much worse it was than even the worst flu, and that he was deliberately going to downplay the virus for political purposes. I’m sure we could quibble over some, but The Fact Checker database currently tallys over 20,000 lies since he took office. Even if we cut it in half, that’s insane! It’s impossible to deny: Trump lied, and Americans have died because of it. A friend of mine had a one-on-one dinner with Trump at the White House a while back. It was actually amazing, he said. Half the evening was spent telling lies about the size of his inaugural address. This was in private — not even for public relations purposes, and years after the controversy had died down. That’s when he realized: The lying is pathological. It can’t be helped. Which is to say, it makes a person unfit to lead. Politics should not come before family. I don’t want you to think this affects how I feel about you. But it does make it harder for us to spend time together — not just literally so, since Trump’s bumbling response to the pandemic has crippled America and made travel difficult. It’s that I feel grief. I feel real grief — were the lessons you taught me as a kid not true? Did you not mean them? Was it self-serving stuff to make sure I behaved? Was I a fool for listening? Or is it worse, that my own father cares more about his retirement accounts — and I’ll grant, the runup of the market has been nice for me, too — than the future he is leaving for his children? Are you so afraid of change, of that liberal boogeyman Limbaugh and Hannity and these other folks have concocted, that you’d rather entrust the country to a degenerate carnival barker than anyone else? I see all this anger, what is it that you’re so angry about? You’ve won. Society has worked for you. My own success is proof. So what is it? Because it can’t possibly be that you think this guy is trustworthy, decent, or kind. It’s definitely not about his policies… because almost every single one is anathema to what Republicans — and you — have talked about my entire life. The one thing I hold onto is hope. I believe in America. I believe in the goodness of hardworking people like you and Mom. I know that this is not what you wanted to happen, that this is not the America you grew up in nor the one you would like for me and my kids to grow up in. I hold onto hope that you’re tired enough to draw the line. That you are not irredeemable as that Trump advisor allowed himself to become. The right thing is always the right thing, you’ve said. Even when it’s hard. Even when it goes against what your friends think, or what you’ve done in the past. The right thing is obviously to end this. To cancel this horrendous experiment with its cavalcade of daily horrors and vulgarities and stupidities and historical humiliations. America is a great nation. …

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Devotional Hours Within the Bible

by J.R. Miller

The Kingdom Divided

The golden age of Israel closed with the death of Solomon. His empire was great, extending over wide limits. His revenues were very large. Everything in his kingdom was on a grand scale. He "made silver and gold to be as stones in Jerusalem." The palaces and public buildings were magnificent in their splendor. Yet the seed of decay was in the heart of it all. The rabbis say that while Solomon walked about in splendor - a worm was eating at the heart of his empire. This is another way of saying that the elements of corruption were in Solomon's kingdom. There were reasons. His heart had been drawn away from God by his heathen wives. At the same time the magnificence of his kingdom and the extravagance of his reign made it necessary to extort oppressive taxes from the people. Many of them also were drafted for forced labor. No wonder that they grew restive under these hard conditions. When Solomon died they were ready for the outbreak which followed. If Rehoboam had been wise, there might not have been an immediate rending of the kingdom from him - but in his folly - he drove the people to the extreme of rebellion.

Solomon largely outlived his fame. His reign became excessively burdensome to the people by reason of the heavy taxes they had to pay. His character also lost much of its charm through his departure from God. His aims were not lofty - as they were at the beginning. He was called in his earlier years, the wisest of men - but his later life was characterized by folly. His kingdom was no longer as secure and strong as it was, when he received it. Indeed, it was ready for disruption, and Solomon himself was responsible for its corrupt condition. It was a pathetic ending of his record that, notwithstanding the glory of his reign and the great things he had done - no word of commendation of him is given. All that is said of the close of his life is that he "slept with his fathers, and was buried in the city of David his father; and Rehoboam his son reigned in his stead."

Solomon did not leave behind him when he died - a sweet, fragrant memory in the hearts of his people. "When he was gone, the people came to Rehoboam, asking him to lighten their oppressive loads. Rehoboam promised them an answer in three days, and then sought advice.

First he sent for the older men, and they advised him to grant the request. Experience had made them gentle. "Show yourself their friend," they said. "Listen to their grievances. Take a kindly interest in them. Think of their good. Speak to them affectionately. Give them the relief they seek, and serve them in any way you can. If you do these things - you will win their love, and they will prove your faithful subjects."

This was good advice - but Rehoboam was not satisfied with it. The aged men were too slow for him. He turned to the young men of his own age, hot-headed fellows like himself, and sought advice of them.

When the people came to the king for his answer, Rehoboam, following the advice of the younger men, and replied to them roughly. His answer, indeed, was insolent and brutal. Such words as he spoke would have kindled the flame of rebellion, even if there had been no tinder dry and ready for the spark.

Rehoboam has many followers. We should learn the folly and wickedness of sharp, rude, and bitter words. Anyone sees how unworthy of a king, Rehoboam's speech was - but such words are unworthy of anyone's lips. They were insolent, contemptuous, haughty, unmanly, and cruel. We are all too apt, under provocation, to give rein to intemperate speech.

Destinies have been wrecked by following foolish counsel. Every young person needs a wise older friend to whom he may go with his life's serious questions. Happy is the young man or young woman who has such a counselor, and who will then accept the wisdom which comes of experience. But Rehoboam rejected the wise counsel of the aged men. He answered the people roughly: "My father was harsh on you, but I'll be even harsher! My father used whips on you, but I'll use scorpions!"

The consequence of Rehoboam's harsh words was the wrecking of his kingdom. The people turned away, saying, "What portion have we in David?" It took but a minute to give the reply which Rehoboam gave - but the harm done by it never could be undone! Burke said, "Rage and frenzy will pull down more in half an hour - than prudent deliberation and foresight can build up in a hundred years." We need not go far, nor seek long - to find other illustrations. Many people lose noble, helpful friends, lose them beyond regaining, by the petulant, ill-tempered words of a minute. Many lives with splendid possibilities become utter failures through uncontrolled tongues. When will men and women learn to put bridles in their mouths?

The matter of seeking advice is always a serious one. Some people too readily turn to others to ask them what they should do. We ought to learn to think for ourselves. Each man must bear his own burden. We never can get clear of the responsibility of choosing for ourselves. However, there are times when we may turn to others for advice. The young and inexperienced especially may receive valuable help from those who are older and more experienced. But in seeking advice we should make sure of the people to whom we turn. Bad advice has wrecked many a life.

Rehoboam had good advice from the older men - but rejected it. There are many who follow him in this regard - they receive good counsel from friends, from parents, from teachers, from godly men, from those who are wiser than themselves, and then ignore it. There are many who, like Rehoboam, reject the good advice - and take the bad. There was One Rehoboam seems to have missed altogether in seeking advice - he did not go to God for counsel. We should always ask God what He would have us do; He never advises unwisely. No life was ever wrecked by taking His counsel.

One lesson we get from Rehoboam's undisciplined course - is that those who would rule over others, must have achieved both self-control and patience in themselves. Rehoboam had achieved neither. He thought only of his own personal gain - the last element that should influence one in dealing with others. He lacked altogether that spirit of meekness, which Jesus said shall inherit the earth. We should keep SELF out of our work for God, out of all our work of love. Whenever SELF comes in - it mars everything. We should think only of our duty, not of the way our act may affect us. If Rehoboam had asked, "What course will be the best for the country and for the good of the kingdom?" he would not have acted so foolishly. He would have shown patience and kindliness, and would have lightened the heavy burdens under which the people were bending.

Those who rule over others, should love them and be ready to serve them. Rehoboam is an example of those who try to govern others by tyranny. If he had really loved the people and had been disposed to serve them, sympathizing with them in their burden-bearing and showing them kindness, they would have continued loyal to him. "Through love, be servants one to another" is the New Testament law.

We all need to guard ourselves at these points. We are apt to be unloving and harsh in our dealings with others, especially when our dignity seems to be hurt. Even parents need to keep a careful guard upon themselves in this matter, lest their consciousness of having authority should make them unjust to their children. Paul exhorts fathers not to provoke their children to anger, lest they be discouraged. Teachers have like temptation in enforcing authority. So have all who are placed over others.

It often happens that a man who has been very kind and brotherly as a fellow-workman, or as an equal among men, becomes tyrannical and intolerant when in a position of authority. We should remember that all power is of God, and we represent Him in whatever place of authority we occupy. We should rule, therefore, in God's name - as He would rule if He were in our place. In all our dealings with those over whom we are placed in the Providence of God - we should be gentle, sincere, loving - that we may look into God's face without shame.

Life has its turning points for all of us. This was the turning point in Rehoboam's career. He had before him the possibilities of a prosperous and successful reign. All hinged, however, on one word. Should he say yes - or no? If he had said yes, he would have won the people to himself and his kingdom would have been established. He said no, however, and he drove the people to anger and rebellion. Men are continually coming to turning points when all their future depends upon a single decision. Two paths lie before them. One leads to beauty, honor, blessing; the other leads to dishonor and sorrow. The decision of the moment, settles for us in which of these two paths we will walk. Many a man or woman by a careless word - throws away the hope of infinite blessing and good.

It is interesting to notice that while the kingdom of David had failed of its best through man's fault and sin, it was not altogether cast off. The vessel had not come out what the potter first intended it to be - it had been marred on the wheel - but he made it again, another vessel, not so fine as the first would have been - but still a good vessel. The kingdom had a second chance. From the seed of David came at length the Messiah. There is encouragement in this for all those who miss their first and best chance. They may try again, and their life may yet realize much honor and beauty. When we think of it, most of the worthy lives of godly men in the Bible - were second chances. They failed, and then God let them try again. David himself, and Jonah, and Peter, and Paul are illustrations.

[bluewatsons]

Anna E. Clark, Twilight of the Mentors: Or how I learned to stop worrying and love my gatekeeper, The New Inquiry (May 19, 2020)

Mentors have a dubious lineage. Since the 1980s, when the corporate world co-opted the concept, mentoring — long a synonym for teaching — has come to stand for almost any kind of professional guidance, and especially that which rank-and-file employees provide to one another. As mentoring has become increasingly linked to workplace diversity initiatives, a mentor is more likely to be the person sitting next to you than a CEO, a shift that echoes the economic devaluation of historically male-dominated jobs now occupied by women. As Helen Colley, a professor at Manchester Metropolitan University’s Education and Social Research Institute has argued, mentoring is no longer a system in which powerful people support other structurally powerful people but a burden passed on to the masses. Though presented as an unalloyed good, mentoring is an additional encumbrance, a way of shifting what should be the responsibility of the institution to the individual.

It might be tempting to view this now ubiquitous corporate mentoring model as further evidence of capitalism’s capacity to extort our emotional labor, but it’s more accurate to say that corporate culture’s embrace of mentorship surfaces the extractive, obfuscating qualities that have always been integral to the concept. Mentors enable and thrive in systems of obstruction and privilege. By embracing them now as vehicles of ostensible inclusivity, companies, nonprofits, and schools gesture to diversity while shoring up the opaque gatekeeping structures that keep power consolidated. Meanwhile, as mentorship becomes increasingly inseparable from its corporate repurposing, the term itself has come to subsume other forms of teaching and caregiving, blurring the lines between labor coerced and labor freely given. Now, we are all the conscripts of mentorship.

Mentorship has become so pervasive, such a taken-for-granted value, that the shallow history of its contemporary meaning has gone strikingly unremarked. Though articles about mentors like to say that they started with Homer’s Odyssey, where Athena disguises herself as someone named Mentor in order to tell Odysseus’s son, Telemachus, to kick Penelope’s deadbeat suitors out of the house, the mentor as it exists today is a uniquely late-capitalist construction. Mentors start popping up with frequency in 18th century literature, where the term means something like “stern but well-intentioned teacher.” In The Task, William Cowper’s charmingly meandering 1785 epic on, among other things, nature, sofas, and God, the speaker describes a thin board frequently strapped to aged backs in the service of posture as “a Mentor worthy of his charge.” By the 19th century, a mentor is as likely to be a piece of instructional literature as a person. The Bible is a “mentor.” So too are didactic texts on everything from fashion to marriage to living a moral life. In the early 20th century, the Mentor is the title of a popular American magazine charged with giving its readers “knowledge that they all want and ought to have.” Here, “mentor” suggests a kind of anonymous trustworthiness and authority, like a particularly salutary encyclopedia.

Something changes, however, in the 1970s. A search for “mentor” in the Google Books Ngram Viewer — a convenient tool for charting broad shifts in printed English — shows a modestly steady increase in the word’s usage from 1800 to the earliest years of the Reagan era, when the graph starts to mimic a textbook illustration of exponential growth. “Mentoring” is almost nonexistent until the mid-eighties or so, when it too sees a similar spike. For comparison, a search for “adviser” (a common synonym) in the same period yields a graph that looks like a mountain range.

What shifts in these years? One clue exists in a 1980 installment of William Safire’s On Language column in the New York Times, where Safire, a former Nixon speechwriter, practiced his layman lexicography for nearly three decades. In a characteristically tongue-in-cheek piece titled “Perils of the Fast Track,” Safire codifies the new meaning of “mentor” by close reading a recent exposé of what was arguably the first corporate sex scandal: A 29-year-old VP, Mary Cunningham, was accused of a “romantic liaison” with her mentor, William Agee, who also happened to be her CEO. She was forced to resign; Agee stayed on.

“Today,” Safire begins, a mentor is “a senior management figure who takes a younger person under his wing, risking rumor and innuendo if the protégée, or mentee, is an attractive woman.” Safire goes on to explain that though the word comes from Homer, it’s been “adopted” by the corporate world to signify “‘career guide and executive nurturer.’” Safire’s point is that, despite mentor’s new status as business-world lingo, its fundamental meaning hasn’t changed. “Here’s the beauty part,” he writes in the column’s kicker. In the Odyssey, Athena uses Mentor’s identity as a disguise. Thus, Safire concludes, “It was all a trick. . . . As Mary Cunningham learned, at the start of her own odyssey to CEO, mentors can be trouble; even Homer shook his head.”

Safire sounds authoritative — his prose tends to have the air of someone with a comment rather than a question. But his closing “gotcha” nod to Homer is an empty rhetorical flourish. While it’s true that Athena disguises herself as Mentor, the aim isn’t mischief. Taking on his appearance allows her to overlap her identity (all-powerful goddess of wisdom and strategy) with his (a nobleman and guest), which is capable of setting the young Telemachus at ease. When Athena/Mentor takes leave of Telemachus, now buoyed on praise for his bravery and manhood, he has himself become “godlike.” Mentorship here looks not like a “trick” but like a subtle, enlivening transfer of power.

Why does Safire mention the Odyssey at all? Because aligning the fundamentally new meaning of corporate mentorship with Homer is an ideological move, part of the larger linguistic project of Safire and other conservative commentators such as William F. Buckley and George Will, who seek to revive the conservatism that had fallen out of favor since the 1960s by linking it to free market economics, reframing American identity as a matter of Christian faith, “Western Civilization,” and capitalism. In this context, classical learning serves as a form of arbitrary clout, a way of invoking time-honored authority for extant power structures. Things have always been so, says the reference. Who are you to think they could be otherwise? It’s certainly true that men in positions of power have long cultivated the careers of their successors, entrenching their own control by choosing their likenesses to carry it on. But calling this practice mentorship is, in 1980, a new evolution, a way to elide the less savory aspects of business-world patronage by associating it with the term’s blandly benevolent connotations, articulating a vision of corporate life that is not profit hungry but humane, generous, and invested in individual success. At the same time, portraying mentorship as part of a timeless tradition makes it easier for Safire to blame Mary Cunningham for her own termination. The fault lies not with her boss, or the board of trustees who forced her out, but in her own naive assumption that mentorship at work might mean anything other than the same old patriarchy.

It’s tempting to read Safire’s casual endorsement of mentorship’s worst impulses as quaint anachronism, but the Janus-faced definition he helps to shape continues to inform the concept today, overwriting things we used to call teaching, counseling, advising, and friendship. We talk easily of Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., and Jesus as mentors and the solidarity practiced by people of color, women, and LGBTQ communities as mentorship; at the same time, official mentorship programs syphon up the language and labor of these informal networks, turning their aims not to structural change but to objectives such as employee retention and professional success. Or, as a 2019 Forbes article puts it, “Employees are happy, engaged, and productive when their individual needs and the needs of the organization are in sync.” Like company softball leagues and team-building retreats, mentoring has become another cheap substitute for the structural transformations needed to upend entrenched injustices, superseding tangible forms of support such as money, time, health care, and job security. Even in government and philanthropy, mentoring’s primary aim is economic advancement. In 2002, George W. Bush endorsed January as “National Mentoring Month” in an effort to bolster the professional prospects of youth from underprivileged backgrounds, a cause later taken up by Barack Obama. Granted, when we talk of community and social-justice leaders as mentors, we don’t usually mean “executive nurturers.” We use the term to capture a sense of an affective heritage, in which the meaningful work of social change gets carried forward. And yet, that we turn to “mentor” at all is largely thanks to the term’s Reagan-era reclamation. However much we might want to claim “mentor” for other uses, its every application to the labor of solidarity, caregiving, and comradeship refracts back on its corporate context. Like so much of what was formerly grassroots organizing and activism, it too has become professionalized.

There is one additional feature of the Odyssey’s mentor scene that Safire leaves unremarked. There, as Athena guides Telemachus, preparing him to fight alongside his father, the mentee looks less like an apprentice or a novice than like someone ready to assume the mantle of responsibility, a sharp difference from contemporary corporate mentorship. This is the torch-passing version of the mentor-mentee relationship still common in Hollywood blockbusters and video games, where it’s so frequent that it gets its own mention on the pop-culture wiki TVTropes.com — think of the Jedi masters of Star Wars, or Morpheus tutoring Neo in The Matrix. It’s an archetype that still informs how we often think of the relationships between teachers and students, raising up the young to take over from the old. But it’s an anachronistic fantasy in an era when the structural forces that enabled older generations’ well-being no longer exist — when, in fact, the material comforts of past generations bear responsibility for a climate crisis that will be borne largely by generations to come. In these circumstances, a meaningful transfer of power between mentor and mentee might look less like a torch passing — a replication and renewal of extant practices and beliefs — than like a wholesale rethinking of what power meant and entailed.

Academia, a system with its own long mentorship history, is especially useful for thinking about how conditions of scarcity and upheaval have changed the concept’s meaning. Here too, “mentor” has typically bled into other offices — those of teacher and advisor, which recall the mentor archetype. It’s common for academics to refer to their “mentors” with reverence, as if the term connoted a specific kind of guidance and personal instruction. The term speaks to the idea of intellectual legacy, the way that advanced graduate study was, in a less precarious era, an induction into a genealogy of thought that one would eventually pass on to one’s own mentees.

But academic mentorship has never been perfect, often replicating the same inequalities present outside its walls, and its contemporary application has only heightened its propensity for exploitation. In an era in which the gulf between well- and underresourced institutions has become increasingly stark, mentorship is often uncompensated labor, a trait that compounds the arbitrary ways it has long been dispersed. Mentorship is something many professors can fail at or excel in, disperse with equity or bias, wield as a cudgel or dole out as a gift, often with little penalty or risk to themselves. Students and colleagues rely on such support for their advancement, yet they are often without recourse if they don’t receive it. While some schools and programs might assign mentors, others leave it up to the student to find their own support, whether by networking, charm, or nepotism. The fuzziness of mentorship as a category of academic labor perpetuates this inequality. How do you measure it? What does it involve? What kind of training does it require? What does it even mean? Though the academy has become increasingly willing to use the same productivity quotas honed in the business world, it has remained stubbornly resistant to quantifying the work of mentorship in meaningful ways.

At the same time, mentors bear the weight of institutional efforts to increase diversity. Here, perhaps even more than in the corporate world, it’s often treated as a form of charity, a service obligation one can assume or disregard, reserved mostly for those who see inclusion as an ethical and political obligation as much as a professional one. While universities may pay lip service to its virtue and form committees to facilitate its practice, it usually counts for little in the tenure process. The labor and value of mentoring is a dominant theme in Written/Unwritten: Diversity and the Hidden Truths of Tenure, English professor Patricia A. Matthew’s indispensable collection of interviews and essays on the experiences of the “diverse” faculty academia claims to celebrate. Here, as sociologist Andreana Clay suggests, being a mentor is often “inextricably linked to the position of the educator,” encompassing mutuality, allyship, friendship, activism, and role modeling. But ambivalence and frustration are equally part of the job, the consequence of institutional unwillingness to give time or recognition to work disproportionately performed by faculty of identities historically marginalized in academic life. Meanwhile, academia largely excludes the ever growing number of contingent instructors — the majority of teaching faculty at colleges today — from formal and informal support. This doesn’t prevent their students, who see no difference between them and tenure-track professors, from seeking their time and care. If, at some point, for some people, academic mentorship offered an archetype of the concept, as close as anyone outside a Homeric epic might get to godlike guidance, that day is long past.

And yet. The ideal of the good mentor persists. We reify the term even as it grows increasingly imprecise. Much like the 20th century ideal of the perfect spouse, the mentor in 2020 houses a seemingly endless and incompatible cluster of desires, everything from understanding to support, friendship, motivation, protection, advocacy, leadership, deference, generosity, power, nurturing, care, and collaboration. The mentor stands for the best version of who we want to be, while promising to see us as the best version of ourselves. As in the Odyssey passage Safire references, we might as well ask for a divine protector. Even in its originating appearance, the mentor is an impossible hybrid, as much a fantasy as a source of guidance.

Such desire speaks to another aspect of the mentor ideal: the potential for mutual fascination, as mentor and mentee find in one another both a reflection and an exemplar, sharing the charged pleasure of mutual recognition. Affect theorist Eve Sedgwick gets at this kind of exchange best in her description of the teacher-student relationship in Western appropriations of Tibetan Buddhism. Reading The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, a popularization of The Tibetan Book of the Dead written largely for American readers by Sogyal Rinpoche, a charismatic Buddhist teacher, Sedgwick considers the distinctive phenomenology of reincarnation in descriptions of the teacher-student bond. As a young child, Rinpoche was identified as the reincarnation of a renowned Buddhist teacher by the man who would become his own “master,” Jamyang Khyentse. He was raised and taught by Khyentse, in the same way Khyentse had been raised and taught by him, in his prior life. In Rinpoche’s description, it’s a kind of teaching that, as Sedgwick suggests, “thrives on personality and intimate emotional relation,” even as it also “functions as a mysteriously powerful solvent of individual identity.” Here, temporal and interpersonal boundaries blur: One is always both teacher and student to an intimately connected other, who is also always one’s own teacher and student. A version of this interchange exists in the transactional language of mentoring today. Mentoring, we are often told, is a two-way street: The mentor stands to gain as much as the mentee, who should in turn consider themselves a mentor in training. Sedgwick reminds us of the emotional intimacy of such work. The will to mentor and to be mentored often comes from a sense of identification: This is who I was; this is who I want to be. It’s a relationship engaged with obligation and care, even as it’s not so much selfless as deeply, disorientingly self-entranced.

There is a coda to Sogyal Rinpoche’s story. In 2017, a quarter century after The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying became an international phenomenon, and nearly 15 years after Sedgwick wrote about it, decades of abuse suffered under Rinpoche came to light in Rigpa, the international Buddhist network he founded, along with evidence of a longstanding cover-up. In a public letter written by his former students, they describe physical, psychological, and sexual manipulation explained away as instruction, concealed by Rinpoche’s “public face” of “wisdom, kindness, humor, warmth and compassion.”

It’s a conclusion that today feels almost expected. Post #MeToo, the ability of powerful men who claimed to be mentors to exploit the trust that came with that role appears unnervingly commonplace. Looking back to Safire’s deeply sexist telling of Mary Cunningham’s experience, or to the many similar stories found in academia, there’s another account of mentorship to be told, one in which the role’s queasy combination of benevolence and power excuses manipulation and abuse. In this version of mentorship’s history, we might see its current association with inclusion and diversity as a kind of sea change, a way of shifting power away from those who have wielded it for too long. Here, the identificatory ideal of mentorship becomes relevant again, promising a way of retelling history, making wisdom from suffering, celebrating those who broke the paths we tread.

Or we could imagine different kinds of solidarity. As much as we might want to, it’s impossible to unwind contemporary mentorship from a worldview that blames individuals for their own subjugation and absolves the company and the state of the burdens of meaningful social change. Before the mentor’s rise, we had language for this. Maybe it’s time to reclaim it.

[3d10fire-damage]

red sun summary 3/6/2020

the party headed back to the newly renamed city of otaku to report back to the mercenary office they received the assignment from. the guard seemed more enforced and solemn than before, apparently on orders issued just within the last day or two. the guards did not give the reason why.

heading to the mercenary office, the party waited a bit to speak to the man who had given them the mission to investigate the temple. calypso, choosing not to take a seat like the others, asked zoroe why she always coiled her naga body around the chairs she sits in. zoroe explained it was so that no one trips over her, and calypso curiously tried emulating the motion by coiling her own tail around her legs a bit. then when the three of them were called to come into the back office, phosphorra got her tail caught up a little in her chair, but she recovered after flustering and apologizing for like two minutes straight smoothly.

the party gave their report to our boi zabu, which included the bandit gangs threatening the town of Susanbal, the guy just referred to as “the king,” and a lot of nervous rambling from phosphorra that calypso mitigated somewhat by gently covering her mouth. apparently zabu had received similar information from other people he had hired, and he seemed rather concerned about this issue. the party were nicely paid (working for the government pays quite well, apparently). they then received payment for their next assignment, which was to investigate this bandit problem in three large settlements to the north, Mahiru, Melu, and Bet Tabti. calypso asked if they had permission to throwdown with the king if they got the opportunity, but zabu advised them not to do that as he seems to be a powerful and dangerous person. pfft whatever, ZABU. the party were also told they had been assigned a fourth person to help in this quest, who they will be meeting in Mahiru (we got a fourth player ayyy). zoroe was a little concerned this fourth person would be an aarakocra. in splitting up the reward money, phosphorra suggested they donate the leftover gold piece. calypso suggested phosphorra just take the extra so she could do that, and when phosphorra did some more waffling, calypso just handed it directly over to her.

heading back to the tavern (zoroe was going to stay at the temple, but she was talked out of it, i mean GOSH doesn’t she wanna stay with her FRIENDS, jeez), calypso tried to peer pressure convince zoroe to drink mead with her. zoroe refused, even with an offer of 10 gold, but phosphorra, in trying to be a good friend, said she would drink with calypso. delighted, calypso paid for her drink and asked phosphorra to do a toast with her. phosphorra’s reaction was “sure but do we have bread for that?” after we all recovered from that zoroe helped showed her how to toast drinks, raising her glass of juice along with the tieflings’ mugs of mead. they toasted to a wonderful adventure, as suggested by zoroe, which calypso said was mushy (originally i said “saccharine” but given calypso’s terrible intelligence roll, the DM made me take it back) but accepted. fortunately phosphorra handled her drink well. calypso insisted afterward that someday she would get zoroe to drink with her, looking the naga dead in the eye and saying “bet.” zoroe bet one gold piece that calypso wouldn’t be able to do it by the end of their new mission. afterward calypso went out a wrestled a dog (again) and evidently won. the dog had a good time.

the next morning, on phosphorra’s suggestion the party went on a little shopping trip for travel supplies. calypso, already being prepared, simply bought a drum to play. the others were surprised to find she actually did know how to play. on their way out of town, a large and wealthy-looking naga approach the party and asked them to retrieve some family heirlooms from the estate near Melu. in discussing this opportunity, phosphorra said this woman seemed to be doing just fine without the heirlooms. zoroe said they seemed important to her, so they ought to help her out. calypso suggested they just take whatever they found for themselves and say that the estate had been cleaned out already. she’d be none the wiser. zoroe and phosphorra declined this idea, saying it was wrong, though phosphorra did apologize for being a bad friend in turning calypso down. calypso responded that it wasn’t being a bad friend, just that she was a bad influence on the others, and walked off on her own. zoroe and phosphorra had a conversation about not really knowing what it’s like to have friends, and about their previous conversation about religion and boundaries. they made up a little, and met back up with calypso (luckily, before she could “be loud” again without them. also, phosphorra suggested zoroe was more of a cylinder than a square).

the three of them traveled back to Susanbal, stayed the night, then headed to Mahiru, all while calypso played on her drum. zoroe did a few cleric rituals at the watering holes they passed, and phosphorra and calypso played I Spy, which calypso thought was boring. but then they arrived in Mahiru, which is a pretty cool place with a rad view of the grasslands.

it was an rp-heavy session full of laughs. my (and zoroe’s player’s) apartment is now a smoldering heap of ashes because chaos repeatedly roasted us. bun is either going to get waffles in this campaign or complain about not having them the whole way. 

bonus snippet: 

[depizan]

15 Day SWTOR OC Challenge, Day Thirteen

Both Sets

13. Alignment. Light-dark, or D&D style, or both, whatever suits you. Did you plan for them to be the way they are, or did your ideas change as you played?

Jezari Solarin

Chaotic Good. Though one could argue her work for the SIS (a government agency) and her feelings about the responsibility of leadership now that she has a crew tip her more toward Neutral Good. But she’s also quite comfortable in the criminal underworld, has no particular use for authority (other than her own), and operates mostly based on her own moral compass. Governments that mean well are, obviously, better than ones that don’t, but, as far as she can tell, governments don’t impart any special skill or competence. It’s just a galaxy full of people muddling through, and, unfortunately, some people who are terrible.

Considering my original inspiration for her was “green, female Han Solo,” I’d say she ended up a little more good aligned than planned. (Not that Han is evil, by any means, but he started more Neutral.)

Aori Savler

Neutral. She cares very much about her friends and family, and there are things that go too far, but she approaches her career without concern for morality. She may not personally do anything too terrible (at worst, she’s a bit free with the electro-darts), but she’s delivered people to terrible ends, and she knows it. She sees no difference between governments and crime syndicates and generally believes that the galaxy operates on might makes right. (Or biggest gun wins or however you want to put it.) The best anyone can do is just protect their own, and she will.

She’s about where I planned for her to be – an anti-hero, but not completely terrible.

Kyrian Nessar

Neutral Good. His actions as an Imperial Intelligence agent probably fall more into Chaotic Good, but that’s largely because working within the law tended to be impossible. It was either break the rules or do terrible things, so he tossed the rulebook out the window and followed his conscience. Where rules and laws are not made of terrible, he’d rather work within them, but it’s not a strong enough preference to qualify him for Lawful status. (Especially when he knows so well that law does not equal good.) He thinks that (good!) laws and rules and order are probably what would work best for the galaxy, but he’s not sure how well that’s happening anywhere, so he’s content to just continue following his conscience. (I suppose you could say that in some ideological way, he’s more lawful, but as far as actions go, he’s more chaotic…averaging out to a pretty solid neutrality.)

I expected to be playing more…James Bond, but working for the bad guys. I ended up somewhere else entirely. The light side choices were surprisingly fun (and surprisingly good…if sometimes well into “good is dumb” land) and he was basically instantly someone in entirely the wrong line of work.

Ianya Solarin

She was Neutral Good. Then she lost everything that mattered to her and she did some very bad things, and has never really regained her belief in…much of anything. In some ways, she’s where Savler is, just more depressingly – the universe is shit, bad things happen for no reason, far too many people are terrible, etc – except she also thinks a good chunk of the galaxy should burn and she’s trying to be a Jedi. She still thinks that kindness, helping people, and all that are good things, but she’s lost faith that those things are effective and that the people she helps won’t just fall victim to something else. There’s also the underlying problem that she made the right decision – choosing duty and the Jedi Order and fighting the war – and lost everything because of that. She’s depressed and grieving and angry, and it’s very hard to do alignment for someone who still needs a good therapist.

Yeah, she’s pretty much as intended…or at least as resulted from her backstory.

Tevin Eberel

Lawful Good. Of the sort who defaults to good when faced with “to be lawful or to be good” challenges. He believes in the Republic – or at least in what the Republic is meant to be. And he believes that rules and laws and benevolent power structures are the best way to ensure that things work out well for everyone – or at least for the absolute most people. It’s the only way to avoid might makes right/biggest gun wins.

And he was always intended to be a good, decent, heroic fellow.

Lord Daska

Chaotic Good. Ideologically, at least. She believes that Sith should be freedom fighters, breaking other’s chains as they have broken their own, and that the Sith around her are doing it wrong. But in order to survive as a Sith, she’s had to do evil, though she’s done as little as possible. Left to her own devices, she’d travel the galaxy helping people, freeing slaves, and generally doing good. (And confusing the ever living heck out of Jedi.) She doesn’t think that laws and governments are inherently bad, but she’s not sure how one would make them inherently good, either – it’s more of a feeling that power structures ought to be used for good. Somehow.

I didn’t really have a plan. I made an interesting looking big, beefy Zabrak Sith, chose mostly Light Side options because I’m terrible at being evil in video games, and ended up with Daska.

[belphegor1982]

I forgot to put chapter 3 on Tumblr last Friday :3

FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM

Summary: 1937: The O'Connells are required by the English Government to bring the Diamond taken from Ahm Shere from Cairo to London. Things get interesting when Jonathan bumps by chance into an old friend of his from Oxford, Tom Ferguson…

Chapter 2: Right Ground for Trouble (on AO3 here)

“Oh no, please, Rick, not you too!”

Rick began to laugh. Why did people talk so much about boredom within married couples? Eleven years, and Evy still managed to amaze him. In more ways than one.

“Look, honey, I don’t mean to follow the pack or anything, but you truly see mysteries everywhere. And you know what? I was wrong.”

“Were you?” Evelyn seemed pleased, then puzzled. “About what?”

“You don’t just attract trouble. You create most of it as well.”

He had to chuckle at the look on his wife’s face. Then he pulled her close and kissed her to let her know he was joking. For all of her qualities, Evelyn still had some problems catching onto Rick’s humour at times. Rather funny, considering everything he had heard about the famous British sense of humour.

She eventually smiled, and the dark room was silent for a short while. Her head was lying on the pillow right next to his face, and he almost had his nose in her dark hair. The scent of it had changed ever so slightly since they had left London; it was now a bit headier, deeper, and reminded him of sand, stupid as that sounded. The thought that he had come to love the smell of sand made him smile inwardly. He’d have to tell her that, some day. In the meantime, he let his eyes wander up and down her body, and wondered at the feeling growing in him as he gazed at those attractive curves. Before Evelyn, Rick had never truly had a real home, and had not really been looking for one anyway. By finding her, he had found out that he didn’t need a big house to settle in and everything; his home was simply wherever she was. Now this was a thought that he liked a lot.

Ah – his lingering gaze was beginning to make Evy blush. If that wasn’t an added bonus… She was so funny then, with her reddening cheeks, her bright eyes, and the way she bit her lip to keep herself from smiling. The fact that she generally failed delighted him, as his wife happened to be very cute in her unsuccessful attempts to suppress a smile.

“Well, Jonathan always said that there was a nosy streak in the family, but that I was the worst case he’d ever seen. Can you believe that?”

Her eyes demanded an answer from Rick. And he did answer, although he considered this particular moment in this particular place was maybe not best chosen to talk about his brother-in-law.

“Okay, coming from your brother that’s pretty funny, but you’re still the nosiest librarian I’ve ever met. That’s my own opinion about it, and you must admit there’s some ground in my judgement.”

“And you ought to admit there’s some ground in my line of reasoning as well. I mean, think about it! Why pull the act of surprise while he really knew all along…”

“Knew what?”

“Who I – who we were, what we’ve done… After what I saw in that file, I’m even surprised he didn’t bring up Ardeth’s name.”

“It was in –?”

“Oh, yes. There were at least four pages about the Medjai tribe, from their role as Pharaoh’s bodyguards to the protection of the City of the Dead…”

“And Ardeth was mentioned personally?”

“I read his name three or four times. It seems that he was made High Commander of the Medjai in 1932, barely a few years before the second Raising of Imhotep.”

Rick didn’t quite know what to say to that. The Medjai were a desert tribe, one of the most secret ones, and so far he had thought only a handful of people were aware of their existence. Especially in this ever-changing world where no one seemed to care much about mummies, ancient civilisations, dashing adventurers, and mysterious men guarding tombs. Most of the stuff he came across in London’s papers was more likely to involve shady political manoeuvres, arms races, treaties, or winning more gold in the next Olympics.

No wonder Rick felt slightly out of place sometimes.

“So, all this fussing about the first three folk to return from Hamunaptra –”

“All right, it might also be that he’s absent-minded, or that it’s really been ages since he last looked into this file… Otherwise, yes. All of it would just be a front.”

Rick thought it over for a minute, and then pointed out, “You know, I value your argument and all, but are you aware that you’re probably making all this fuss about nothing at all? The guy seemed harmless enough to me – the only thing I was worrying about yesterday was that he looked ready to carry you off, even though you’re wearing this ring.”

To add more weight to his words, he gently took his wife’s left hand and kissed her third finger. Evy grinned at that, but let him finish, her eyes never leaving his face. They shone even more in the dark.

“Anyway, I hope your feelings about it are wrong, sweetheart.”

“Believe it or not, darling, so do I,” said Evelyn, nestling her head against his neck. “Much as I love being right, I wouldn’t like it very much if I really had reason to worry about Mr Ferguson. Jonathan looked a little upset this afternoon when I spoke to him about it.”

“You ‘spoke’ to him? Look, Lord knows your brother and I aren’t exactly the best of pals, but maybe that wasn’t the wisest thing to do.” Rick paused, then frowned slightly. “What did you tell him anyway?”

“Well, I merely pointed out a couple of details to him.”

“What kind of details?”

“For one thing, the fact that it was strange that Ferguson didn’t seem to know Jonathan had been to Hamunaptra. And also that he didn’t see any relation between Evelyn Carnahan and Dr Evelyn O’Connell. It wasn’t such a big deal, honestly.”

“Yeah.” Rick scratched his head. “How did he react?”

“Jonathan? He sounded – sort of angry. He sulked a little bit. I mean, he can be such a child about some things that it wasn’t really that surprising, but it was odd to see him overreact that way.”

Rick was quiet for a minute, as he let his hand run from his wife’s shoulder to her hip. Of course, the thought of the warm skin underneath the nightdress sneaked into his mind and he tried to shut it off, keeping that for later. For the moment, he had something to tell Evelyn.

“Look, Evy… I’ll say this only once, so listen up. I understand your brother. If I’d met an old buddy of mine, and my sister insinuated shady stuff about him after seeing him only for an evening, I would’ve been pretty angry.”

“You don’t have a sister that I know of.”

“I know I don’t,” said Rick, rolling his eyes. “But that, Evelyn, my love, is not the point.”

It was her turn to frown slightly. In the dark, he saw her blink thoughtfully a few times. “So, your point is?”

“My point is, give it time. Don’t go ‘speaking’ more about that to Jonathan – you’ll never get a reasonable answer. Because that’s what you want, right?”

Evelyn let out a little laugh. “Yes, well, Jonathan’s not quite what I’d call ‘ reasonable ’ most of the time. I might’ve guessed that he wouldn’t be reasonable about that. He’s far too trusting , though – one of these days that’ll come back to bite him.”

“Your memory’s that bad? It already has. A number of times. God, choosing Mark Bellamy as poker partner…” Rick couldn’t help a snort. Bellamy was more of a cheat than Jonathan could ever dream to be, and that had caused his brother-in-law to lose quite spectacularly. He had just been lucky Bellamy was only a small-time hustler and not some gang leader.

Evy didn’t add anything, and Rick took the opportunity to crawl closer to her and say between kisses, “Sweetheart, why don’t we – forget about all that and – the rest? We can always talk about it – tomorrow. What d’you say?”

She eased herself among the pillows, and smiled before answering, “That’d be good, yes.”

One minute later, Rick had forgotten everything that was not exclusively Evelyn.

.⅋.

“I am positively surrounded by married couples.”

Tommy turned to Jonathan with an eyebrow raised, and Evy laughed softly. “Is it as bad as you make it sound?”

Jonathan snorted. “Oh, no. It’s worse. See that chap over here?” He pointed to Tommy, who looked surprised. “He told me yesterday that he married a common friend seven years ago. So he’s turned sides. Lousy traitor.”

Tommy grinned, getting the joke.

“Really?” Evy’s voice was polite, but there was a definite pleasure in it as well. “Congratulations, Mr Ferguson. About the happy event, but also for not turning out a complete scoundrel, like my brother here.”

They were walking to the Museum – Evy had kept her promise, and arranged an interview with Dr Hakim, the curator. Despite the overwhelming heat – it was three in the afternoon – Jonathan felt quite thrilled about this interview. He was going to see the diamond, for the first time in almost two years, and show it off to Tommy, who had never seen it. Of course, it was a bit of a drag not being able to touch it – not to mention taking it with him – but that was something already.

“What is your wife’s name?”

“Elizabeth, we met in Oxford years ago. She’s in our home in Dorset right now. She works for the telephone company, couldn’t get time off to follow me here.”

Evy slowed down her pace to be level with Jonathan, and looked at him thoughtfully. “You know, now that I think of it, you’ve never, ever brought up the subject of marriage…”

“That’s because I happen to enjoy my life as a happily debauched bachelor, thank you very much,” said Jonathan, sarcastic. Women and their obsession with marriage… He just couldn’t see the point.

“I’m sure you do,” she retorted in the same tone of voice. “And that’s too bad, really, because I think I would’ve liked being an aunt.”

Jonathan opened his mouth to reply something, but she was quicker. “Of course, there’s also the fact that I don’t think any sane woman would want to share her life with you the way things are right now. As I know you, you’d be picking her pockets in less than three days.”

Right. Now Jonathan was fuming. “Now listen here, you –”

“I know, I have no right to speak to you like that – I’ll probably be regretting it for the rest of the day, but be that as it may, I’m married, to a wonderful person, and I have a wonderful son. Remember how Mrs Pemberton used to rant on and on about how the blood would be dying with us, because you were a rascal and I was turning spinster. Jonathan, I found someone – why don’t you try and search, some day?”

Evy had stopped in the middle of the pavement at some point of her speech, and was now staring at him in a way that made him look away. She would not move until she’d got an answer, he knew her well enough to be aware of that. Careful to avoid glancing at Tommy, who was standing a few feet ahead of them pretending he wasn’t seeing nor hearing anything, he waited to let his anger cool off a little and said, “Now look. Don’t mix things up. I’m not you – I’m not even like you. I like my life just as it is, and I’m sure you like your life the way it is as well. I’m not marrying some girl just to please you, so it’s no use to badger me about that, all right? If, by extraordinary chance, I happen to change my mind on the subject, you’ll be the first to know, I swear. ‘Til that day, please, not a word about it.”

Evy looked dumbfounded, and a little hurt, as Jonathan noticed with a slight pang of conscience. He hated to see his baby sister hurt, especially when he was the one who had caused it. With a sigh, he took her by the arm and started walking again.

“Come on, don’t be offended – you’re the one who brought up the subject, remember? And in such a subtle way, too.”

She said nothing, and when he looked over at Tommy, he noticed that his friend’s shoulders were hunched, as if he was still waiting for the storm to pass.

“All right, all right, I’m sorry I said that. Just – forget about it, will you?” Cripes. His one and only sister, and he still didn’t know what to say when he’d upset her. “Besides, you’re a great mum and all, but you don’t know, maybe you’d be terrible as an aunt.” Ah, he thought he caught something flicker over his sister’s face. So he pressed on, of course. “Right, try to imagine me as a dad. Now if that doesn’t make you laugh…” Hooray! Victory was at hand – Evy had that strained half-smile she gave when she had her mind set on not smiling. Jonathan had seen this expression directed at him quite a number of times when they were younger; now, it occurred mostly when Alex was trying to make it up to his mum after a prank gone wrong. If there was something the boy took after his uncle, it was the ability to talk himself out of every tricky situation. But Jonathan wasn’t sure if the knack of getting himself into these situations in the first place came from Evy or himself.

As they came into view of the Museum, he whispered in his sister’s ear, “Well, if you’re really that mad at me, let’s go find that bloody Book of the Dead, raise a mummy or two, and save the world again – you could let steam off, and I could make it up to you by… doing the best I can.”

That made Evy’s eyes dart up to him, and he was immensely glad to see a genuine smile finally dawn on her face. “Like you did last time?”

Jonathan scratched the back of his neck. He looked briefly at his sister, gave an embarrassed grin, and turned to look ahead at the entrance of the Museum of Antiquities. “Ah… yes. Like last time.”

Evelyn gave her brother’s arm a very slight squeeze, and her smile stayed on. Tommy grinned at him, and Jonathan grinned back. Too bad that the bloke never had a baby sister; he didn’t know the wonderful feeling of victory one could get by simply getting a smile from his sister after a conversation like that.

The curator was in his office, waiting for them in front of his desk, which was rather exceptional – Dr Fahad Hakim was not the sort of man who liked to wait for anyone. He was a thin man, of average height, with thick salt-and-pepper hair. Jonathan saw his small black eyes narrow at the sight of them, and was instantly reminded of how very uncomfortable the fellow made him feel each time he saw him. The ancient Medjai legacy must include the beady, steady stare that was one of Ardeth’s specialities.

“Dr O’Connell. Right on time, as always.” Evy was acknowledged with a polite smile that unveiled white teeth. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing pleasant about the way Hakim shifted his glance from sister to brother, though the tone remained polite. “Mr Carnahan.” How on earth had his sister managed to persuade this dragon to let him stand four feet away from the diamond, he would never begin to guess.

Jonathan gulped discreetly, and refrained himself from taking a step backwards, intent on keeping what little dignity he had left. Tommy looked at him quizzically.

“Dr Hakim?” Best to leave the entire public relation job to Evy. She was easily the best at that – far better than he and Rick. “May I introduce Mr Thomas Ferguson, from the British Antiques Research Department – I talked to you about him yesterday.”

“I certainly remember you doing so. Good afternoon, Mr Ferguson,” said Dr Hakim, extending a hand to Tommy, who shook it in a pretty different way than he had shook Jonathan’ and Evy’s. Evy had drilled him on proper behaviour. Officer training had nothing on Evelyn O’Connell once she got a good lecture going.

“I’m honoured, Dr. How do you do?” Tom’s voice was polite and even – it seemed to surprise Evy, and it sure surprised her brother. Hell, how could he tone down that accent of his at will?

The curator looked pleasantly surprised, too – ever so slightly – as he nodded his appreciation. Then he left his desk and walked over to the door. “Dr O’Connell, gentlemen – shall we proceed?”

The three of them left Hakim’s office and walked down the corridor, Evelyn, Hakim and Tommy in the lead, discussing animatedly some dynasty of Pharaohs. Jonathan trailed behind, idly gazing around him at the old stone walls, grateful for the change in temperature – it was really stiflingly hot outside – and not really listening to the conversation.

When they passed through a room where a few mummies were displayed, he could not help a silent snort, remembering the scream his sister had let out when he had quite literally ‘raised’ a mummy from its sarcophagus, on that particular morning, so long ago. Some things turned out quite weird, really: he couldn’t recall some events that had taken place one week ago, but he had kept in mind every detail of the day after the Sultan’s Casbah, when he had shown that bloody ‘puzzle box’ to Evy. Down to the fact that the Bembridge scholars had rejected his sister’s application for the third time. And also the massive hangover he had been nursing.

They crossed a small number of rooms, and finally stopped in front of a large wooden door. Evy and Tommy stepped aside as Hakim took out a bunch of keys.

The room behind the door was small, and rather dark, the only ray of light coming from a high, fairly large window. There were several items, but none of them caught Jonathan’s attention as much as the diamond, sitting imposingly on a low, sober-looking display shelf against the wall. The light was mirrored in its numerous facets, only stopped by the elaborated gold decorations.

The Diamond of Ahm Shere in all its gleaming glory.

“Whoa,” whispered Tommy, his eyes goggling.

“I know the feeling,” said Jonathan in the same voice, a big grin pulling at the left corner of his mouth. “Takes your breath away, doesn’t it?”

Tommy only nodded, blinking.

“The diamond taken from Ahm Shere,” announced Hakim, heading for the gem with Evy. “Although I suspect you already know the story behind it, Mr Ferguson, since you appear to be familiar both with Egyptian secrets and the ones who brought it here.”

“I do know the story,” Tommy said, not taking his fascinated eyes off the diamond. “Is it true, what I’ve heard? About the link between the oasis and the diamond?”

That drew Jonathan’s attention away from the gem. “What link?” he asked, puzzled. “What’re you on about?”

“According to what Ardeth once told me,” said Evy, taking a step to have a better look at the diamond, “the pyramid would be a sort of lock to the oasis, to which the diamond would be the key. But I didn’t quite understand what he meant by that. Besides, I had other things on my mind, at that point.” She trailed off, and Jonathan realised that this conversation must have taken place aboard Izzy’s dirigible, on their way to Ahm Shere. While they had been chasing after Imhotep and Anck-su-namun, who had kidnapped Alex. Bloody rotten mummies.

“Why didn’t I catch that bit?” he asked, interested in both the answer and talking Evy away from the memory. That worked, and she stared at him, a thin dark eyebrow raised sarcastically.

“I believe it had something to do about you dreaming about that ‘gold pyramid’…”

Jonathan opened his mouth, but, deciding that he’d had enough quarrelling with his sister to last him a long time, shut it and turned back to the diamond with a noncommittal shrug.

Then they heard the footfall. Hurried footsteps racing up the hall, coming closer and closer, until –

“Dr Hakim! Dr Hakim!”

The curator walked over to the door, where a young, skinny Egyptian fellow had just come rushing in, his face drenched with sweat.

“What is the matter, Jamal?” asked Hakim in a slightly strained voice, and Jonathan marvelled at the cold, calm curator suddenly coming so close to losing his cool.

“Problems – problems in the – the Akhenaten chamber,” the young assistant panted breathlessly. “Someone has moved pieces – the bust of the accursed Pharaoh has been set down – glass all over the floor, must be a broken window –”

“Calm yourself, Jamal,” said Hakim, putting a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “I’m going. Have you told Abdul?”

“Yes, sir, I met him on the way here,” stammered Jamal. “What shall I do?”

“Just give me one second while I speak to our guests,” answered Hakim patiently, and his steady voice seemed to have a calming effect on the boy. He nodded, and leaned against the wall for support, as Hakim turned to his ‘guests’.

“Well, I’m genuinely sorry that the visit was so dramatically shortened, but it appears I am needed. May I escort you to the main hall?”

Tommy opened his mouth, looking scandalised, but Jonathan was quicker. “Come on, can’t we just stay a mite longer? I mean, what’s the worst that could possibly happen?”

“Whoever broke into the Museum could break in here and steal some more objects,” replied the curator, coolly. “And I believe you’ve seen enough of the diamond. After all, it is all that it seems – just a gem.”

“It’s not ‘just a gem’!” exclaimed Tommy. “It’s the only remnant of the Oasis of Ahm Shere – the key to the pyramid and the chambers within!”

“What exactly do you know about it?” Evy piped up, and Jonathan noticed the glint in her eyes. Oh, boy. Whenever it appeared, this glint meant trouble.

Tommy shrugged disappointedly. “Not much more than you do. My superiors aren’t quite keen on giving out information they feel we don’t need to know.”

Jonathan didn’t like the look on Evy’s face, so he stepped up and tried to be reasonable, for once. “We could stand sentinel. You know, guard this room or something, until you find the guy. Nothing’s going to happen to the contents of this room while I’m in it, I swear.”

“And I’ll help,” added Tommy. “Believe me, if anyone tries to break in uninvited, I’ll bash their ‘ead in.”

The curator looked unimpressed, but Evelyn stared at them, frowning. “Can we actually trust you with the diamond? Do you swear that nothing will happen?”

“Evy, I swear on my own head,” said Jonathan, seriously. Well, almost. He really wanted to be, though.

Beside him, Tommy nodded solemnly, his face impassive. Evy sighed. For some reason, it was Hakim who spoke, and even more surprising, there was the ghost of a smile on his severe face. “Well. It would seem that you are quite determined. Consider yourself to be on a mission from now on. I may be wrong, of course – but I have a few reasons to think we can trust you.” And he smiled. He actually smiled slightly at Jonathan, his eyes still stern, and the Englishman got the feeling that he might be familiar with some of the events that occurred at Ahm Shere. Maybe Ardeth had told him about it , as they were distant blood relatives. In fact, their closeness was certainly more due to their both being Medjai than their actual kinship.

Jonathan stared back, a feeling of pride growing in him. Then he shook himself out of it and grinned. “Well, thanks – for trusting us, I mean. Not many people who’d do that, I guess.”

Evy chuckled, and the curator’s face went back to its usual gravity.

“We will conduct a thorough search,” he said, turning to young Jamal, “and I hope we’ll be able to catch the intruders in time. Stay here with Messrs Carnahan and Ferguson, while Dr O’Connell and I gather the attendants for the search.”

“Yes, Dr Hakim, sir,” said Jamal in a firmer voice, straightening his fez on his head. Hakim laid briefly a hand on his shoulder again, and, after a last glance at Jonathan and Tommy, he walked off with Evy. A few seconds later, there was the sound of a key turning in its lock, and footfall dying away.

There was silence; then Jonathan went to sit on the floor, his back against the wall. Tommy soon came to join him.

“Well, that’s quite some sister you’ve got, mate. She’s not only smart, she’s got guts as well,” he said after a little while.

“I know.” Jonathan grinned. “She and her family – they’re the stuff heroes are made of.”

“Knock it off, Jon. You’re her family too, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Of course I haven’t, you idiot – it’s just that I’m no hero. Try as I may, I’ll always be the average bloke, and I happen to like it that way. God knows they need someone normal in the family, for a change. Bloody bunch of heroic nutcases, the lot of them.”

Tommy nodded with a smile, and didn’t press the matter further, something for which Jonathan was secretly grateful. There were entirely in the wrong place for a proper heart-to-heart, and much too sober for it.

He looked up across the room to Jamal. The boy was standing near the door as he gazed at the chamber, looking a little scared. He couldn’t be more than twenty-two or so.

“Your name’s Jamal, isn’t it?”

The assistant started, and looked at them curiously, as if he wasn’t sure that the Englishman had actually addressed him. Jonathan grinned encouragingly.

“Erm, yes,” stuttered Jamal. “It is. You’re Mr Carnahan, aren’t you?”

“That’d be me, yes – didn’t know I was that famous.” Jonathan nodded. “And this fellow here, with the weird accent, is Tommy Ferguson.”

Tom waved briefly with a smile. Jamal nodded respectfully, and stared back at Jonathan. “You’re the Jonathan Carnahan who brought the Diamond of Ahm Shere to the museum?”

“I am,” he said, both pleased and puzzled by such fame. “How long have you been working here for?”

“Three months, sir,” answered the boy. “Dr Hakim was very kind to hire me even if I was not twenty-one. I really needed to work, and I like to work here.”

“How old are you, anyway?” asked Tommy.

“Twenty-one now, sir. My birthday was last month.”

“Jolly good – happy birthday, then, son!” said Jonathan, grinning. “Even if it’s a bit late –”

Something made the three of them look up at the window. There was a sound behind it, although Jonathan didn’t recognise what it was exactly.

Then another kind of sound came from the door. This time, the Englishman recognised it at once – somebody was trying to break through it.

“Tom –”

“I heard.”

Jamal had joined them near the wall, shaking like a leaf. As the mystery man on the other side kept fiddling with the lock , Jonathan started to feel the familiar cold sensation rising in his stomach, which meant he was dangerously close to panic. There was no adventurer around, no blazing guns this time. What to do, what to do, what to do…

Turning around wildly, he caught sight of a cylindrical thingy with the head of Horus at the top. He grabbed it and joined Tommy who was standing in front of the door. Jamal was a few feet away, still shivering, but resolute.

“Don’t you need –?” asked Jonathan, as he noticed his friend’s hands were empty of any weapon. He was answered by a grim smile.

“Don’t worry, mate. I won’t.”

The lock scraping grew more and more intense. Through his panic, a part of Jonathan’s brain that was still functioning marvelled at the fact that those guys, whoever they were, had managed to find, amidst all the rooms and chambers of the museum, the one hiding the diamond.

And them. Though not for so long, it seemed.

CRACK!! The window was smashed into pieces, distracting the three men for a second as they whirled around – it was one second too many. The door banged open, and before Jonathan could turn back to it, pain exploded at the back of his head. He had the sensation of falling backwards, the metal cylinder still clutched in his hand; a split second later, the world turned blood red, then black, and he knew no more.

[inexchangeforyoursoul]

FINALLY birthed this thing. I’m officially a disaster with writing anything that involves conflict. Just like irl. :”) Anyway, yeah, there were 3 reasons why I did not finish this immediately about a month ago.

Első: See above.

Második: I had no idea what I wanted the last drop for Hawks to be before writing the rest in advance anyway, whoopsie~

Harmadik: I was.... reeeeeally not sure whether I want to publish this during pride month, seeing as I’m cis, and what kind of shit I put in this. (..... ok I’ve been thinking about this, and somebody just tell me if I’m plain projecting shit here. I might as well. Like, I always am, but it has usually got to do with characters being heavily #relatable in some way in strictly canon, which goes for everyone I write scenarios for. But now I’m thinking about whether there is something more to this, bc me headcanoning Shiggy as genderfluid and starting that shitty LawxOC body swap fic came around the same time two years ago, and now here’s Hawks, too. I’m onto you, me. I’m so onto me...)

Anyway... if you want the usual fluff, you might wanna sit this one out. (There’s some of it, but beware of everything else... it got p long (~6.5k), too, so you might wanna read it on a proper platform for txt: AO3 )

Big, BIG thanks @cutiesableye @acidmatze @waxwingedhawks and @mistystarshine for basically proofreading it and slapping a big green GO into my nervous face. Or being at it rn; regardless, I am thankful. Sssh, only dreams now.

I hope y’all be as uncomfortable reading the meat of this as I was writing it, whoops.

For how much he's surrounded by people normally -which he enjoys most of the time, really- Hawks prefers the silent rooftop right now. It shouldn't be anything out of the ordinary, he'd need a lot more alone time in the first place… but he's supposed to be working right now. Be in the thick of this spying shit, collecting intel from social and environmental clues like nobody's business.

Returning to the room is not something he wants right now, though. The topic and the awkward atmosphere it brought are weighing on him, and he'd rather get over this before moving on with the sleuthing business. He's been perching over the weed-ridden parking lot for like half an hour already, though. Judging by what he can pick up, the League is back to their time killing activities, and not very concerned about his absence. He noticed Spinner checking on him some time back from the doorway, and that's what it was. He's low-key grateful that they would let him breathe instead of poking around some more, or tailing him. If it's something he's allowed to do all the time, it'll be a luxury he's plain going to cherish for as long as it lasts.

Another plus is… that his reasons to join have become more than just believable. Even if this bit of information was not something he wanted to share. Like, at all. Ever. It was perhaps naive to think nobody will ever find out in the first place, that it would stay a secret of the select few who trained and took care of him. But the ones aware of it now being the members of Japan's most infamous terrorist organization… is not reassuring. 

Still… they are letting him be alone. It's… nice. Being seen as a person. It also hurts, though.

His feathers catch onto the vibrations of someone coming up the staircase again. The echoes tell of familiar size, weight and shapes… he knows who it will be. Being a wild card, he's probably coming on his own volition. The plastic smile is already in place, even though it has never worked on the guy- this was nice while it lasted.

The metal door opens with a lazy creak, then there's a soft thud, followed by slacking steps that stop right behind him. Dabi takes a swig from the beer can in his hand before speaking. "So… Peacock and Starling, huh."

"What about them, bacon face?" It's a funny feeling to hear someone say those… names, technically. It's equally funny to think that one of those is what he'd be known as if things go a little more his way. Even considered the title Phoenix for a moment, but that was too pretentious even for him, not to mention ill-fitting past being made of reds and yellows. As for the flashy Peacock… it's easy to see why the blatant joke got rejected off the bat. He'd look sick in iridescent blues and greens for sure, but that's all the reason he ever had to consider it. Those colors didn’t fit his basically pre-established brand… and nowadays he'd rather be invisible than catch even more eyes, anyway. And there's the almost, almost final Red Starling, which had the prototype of his current hero costume and everything…

He wanted to avoid predatory birds when given the task to choose a hero name, blatant secondary traits notwithstanding. They were beautiful creatures, yes… but hardly something reassuring and safe, killing for a living, full of pointy bits. Someone else probably wouldn't have batted an eye and had gone for the intimidation factor, but it was simply not what he had in mind.

A hawk… is a borderline case. It's among the smaller species and underwent some form of domestication, after all. They are not ideal for being kept as mere pets, though; they serve a purpose, instead.

They are used.

Used to hunt for sport or pest control, as he usually does. As he's supposed to right now.

So 'Hawks' was an afterthought, invoking the image of speed and danger. Which they insisted on, especially after… that. Smuggling the S at the end on the form was a last passive-aggressive jab after getting the okay, before letting go of who he used to, or wanted to be. It was fascinating to see the big shots make peace with it almost immediately, and regarding it as an improvement, even; 'makes it easier to associate with a swarm of feathers,' and 'more unique and identifiable,' they said. As if the original idea didn't accomplish both. It really was just… fascinating. The rest of these names, he banished to the stuffiest, darkest corners of his mind, as there were few good things, and even less pleasant memories attached to them. Until… today.

What has happened was simple and logical- the idea whether he'd choose another alias for underground activities came up. Mentioning them in the first place was an enormous mistake… and entertaining either as a viable option was even more so. Disturbing those relics reminded him of those buried memories and feelings, and all he can think of right now is the way Himiko's words rang in his ears barely half an hour ago.

Today, your smell reminds me of Big Sister.

Dabi lets out a sigh before getting to the meat of it. He spent the time Hawks had been gone on thinking himself, and there's a lot to unpack here. So he ought to take it step by step, lest he gets lost in the details. “Let me… get this story of yours straight."

… Great. This is exactly what he needs.

"It starts with… dirty, piss-poor little you getting caught up in a car accident and single handedly resolving it, right? Then, for doing something nice and selfless like that… you got sold off like a slab of fucking meat to the government.”

He blinks. "Hmm… not the most revolutionary take on it. I know you can do better." Claiming that the thought has never crossed his mind would be a lie. He just never let himself dwell on it. But now, this idiot is making him do exactly that. Or is trying to, at the very least. It certainly seems to be one of those convos. This… is turning out to be a major pain in the ass right away. Maybe he should reconsider provoking him this time around, it could backfire big time in the current mood of his.

“It is what happened, though, wasn’t it?” Dabi continues, slipping down to sit next to him, one leg dangling over the edge. “And once your apparently sub-par parents raked in the easy money, and washed their hands of you… you got stripped of everything.”

"Bold of you to assume that I had much to lose, bro. If you know about the accident, you also know where they picked me up from." Putting up a front aside, there was a rough edge to that 'everything' that makes Hawks want to run for the hills immediately. Nope, he is positively not in the mood for antagonistic banter at the moment. He wasn't really able to hide his upset and embarrassment over the situation, so Dabi must have found some twisted sense of enjoyment in pestering him about this specifically. Why can't this asshole just… shut up for once. He thought the villain incapable of it, but he does it so damn well with others around. Sticking with the lot might be a good idea, because solo Dabi is worse. He… he better filter out all the babbling before he starts thinking about bad shit or worse. It’s been a while since he had to take such measures, but he'll have to lull himself into a coma, and just… shut up. Inside out. And hope that Dabi gets bored of him.

“Doesn't change the point, does it, now. They started with any meaningful human contact you may have had… until they erased every last ounce of self," Comes the continuation while Hawks tries to block it out; "They denied you time, likes, attention, possibly even your basic fucking needs while moulding you into a perfect little cleanup machine that fears no death. Then tossed your dried-up skeleton into a roomy cage, filled with expensive junk to fill the void, as a semblance of compensation. Well thanks for fucking nothing, you sick fucks."

Hawks' eyes have locked onto a sunbathing lizard in the distance, but the idle animal is not quite enough of a distraction and his fingers twitch with the tightening grip over the wall's edge. Why does it sound as if Dabi was taking his side?

Shut up… don't pay attention.

He winces when Dabi pulls on the collar of his tracksuit to take a disgusted look at the label. "All the shit you wear was gifted from companies you played dress-up doll for, wasn't it… one fantastic billboard, you are. You own literally nothing else, do you? I'm sure that's the case, because, funny story… a newbie classmate of mine, some dump kid whose parents became new money, had always obscene amounts of cash on him…  but after an initial shopping spree, he never could bring himself to buy a fucking thing. So we asked him about it. Turns out he simply felt like utter shit for spending any of it unless he had a good reason. I laughed then, but apparently, getting a bag of chips is a gargantuan issue for most people who grew up in poverty." 

He leans closer, low words dripping like liquid venom in Hawks' ear. "You, too, feel like garbage every time you spend an ounce of money on something you can do without, don't you? Reminding yourself that there are dozens of that thing at home, lying untouched in your wardrobe that's the size of some families' entire house. Pray-tell Hawks, how many times did you sit over a full basket of online goods… the stuff of your dreams, probably some basic ass shit... only to back out at the last second, hmm?"

Shut up.

Dabi's eyes slide to the tense hands possibly attempting to tear the crumbling edge off the worn wall. A second later, he distances himself again, stirring the can with lazy, circular motions. "I don't even want to imagine what it feels like. Never spent a fucking dime on anything but charities, I fancy. And the odd bottle of booze, fuck or junk food… Are those chicken bits the only thing you're allowed to get? Tch.” 

“What a fucking luxury, being allowed to treat yourself to a bucket every other week, when your disgusting training diet has been set in stone three months in advance." It sounds like a personal addendum, but not a single word in that sentence escapes the overbearing sarcasm and condescension.

A still ticking cogwheel in the hero's head wonders why Dabi knows of the standard diet thing he has to undergo at least twice a year being three months long, and how he could possibly know that he's come to hate half of the dishes over the years. The overwhelming majority of said cogs have long come to a halt, however, screeching SHUT UP. He's not sure who or what that message is directed to anymore. Probably both of them.

Dabi’s waltzing wrist comes to a halt, soon followed by the whirling liquid in the can; it's a minute break, the kind that's just enough to make conversations awkward. In fact, the silence is too big for Hawks to handle- there’s no white noise to drown out and it makes not thinking, not paying attention unbearably hard. The lizard disappears under the cracked asphalt, leaving him with nothing.

“With how long it took you to respond to Shigaraki, they also stripped you of your name. And what I got from the exchange with Toga… is that the same goes for your body, too.”

A shiver runs down Hawks’ back and wings over the addition, kicking the machine brain back in full order despite his best efforts. Dabi takes a big swig of beer and lets out a sigh, resulting in another ill-placed pause. It gives Hawks time to think, goddammit, and he thinks too fast, too hard, about everything.

“While you were moping up here, I've come to realize why you always seem to be so hilariously desperate to one-up me in any given way… it’s because you actually are grasping for straws. You have no control whatsoever, over anything. None." There’s a somber undertone to his voice. The can, along with the remaining sloshes of beer, are flung down to the concrete wasteland and land with a sad, high pitched clank. "My sister used to be like this… people like you don’t dare to ask why things happen. You will believe you’d done something wrong to deserve it all… maybe see yourselves as a necessary sacrifice. Did they ask you to be a martyr, or did you decide so yourself, bird brain? Not that it matters… because that’s exactly what your bosses want and they'd keep on twisting your arms until they get there… but I bet they did. They didn't ask whether you actually wanted it, though… or ask anyone else, about anything, for that matter." 

He reaches over Hawks' vaguely trembling shoulders for the jaw, forcing his face out of hiding. The grip turns gentler as the man's head turns in his general direction, though he's refusing to make eye contact. Dabi keeps him there like that for a while, dissecting him with icy, blue scalpels.

"Gentle like a dove… you'd have flipped the fuck out and been talking shit ever since I opened my mouth any other day. Is this the defense mechanism you developed for these situations?" There's some twitches to the corner of the mouth, but the other remains unresponsive. Heaving another, mildly annoyed sigh, he pries the hero off the crumbling wall with a disgruntled huff and turns to face him. Once there’s some space to work with, he tilts the head in his grasp to the left, to the right… no resistance. "To see you like this is creepy as all hell, birdie… do you even register what I'm saying anymore? Or is ignoring me the goal? Hmm?" 

He scoffs at the glazed eyes, then shakes his head. "I'd imagine you met some pigs high up on the food chain soon after the stunt… those monsters can do anything they want. Then buy silence from pocket change." He starts caressing the other's face as the trembling turns more and more into shaking. "Isolated, innocent eye candy kid at their mercy…… I can only imagine what they’d do to a sweet little plaything like you."

A visceral reaction makes Hawks' stomach convulse, threatening to empty itself, and the muscles in the rest of his body follow suit. Unwanted scraps of memories, all the blurred scenes, images and feelings he didn't quite manage to erase flare up in his mind. And even though his entire being is revolting against being reminded of hugs that felt off by a mere margin, of touches that were always, always distinctively soft and slimy, and things sometimes even worse, and much worse…  the sole thing that betrays his near perfect neutral expression is a pair of clenched jaws. What concerns him even more than any of this, however, is the fact that his tear ducts have been burning up for some unknown time, and...

… too late. There’s already a droplet of water sitting on the thumb Dabi lifted up a second ago.

The tear gets reduced to nothing between the pensive swipe of two fingers as he lets go of him. “Thought so…”

A sliver… a handful of cells, some unidentifiable part of Hawks is thankful that Dabi doesn’t elaborate on what he’s thinking right now, glaring somewhere distant both past the hero and his own damp hand.

The villain's eyes come back into focus soon enough. There's still… one more thing. "Then you started to grow… and they decided to focus on function over form, since your baby face would be just as marketable with a scruff. Becoming popular and following a strict schedule makes it near impossible for creeps to do as they please, with all the watchful eyes dissecting your every move… so you live on a leash instead. An accessory to show off to guests… and still shiny, new weapon to flashily beat up people with." He cocks his head. "And you loathe mindless violence."

On one hand comes the relief that the previous topic has been dropped as unceremoniously as possible, and he gets a moment to breathe and stop shaking like a leaf. On the other…

They are used. Used to hunt pests…

Having less than no time for himself, the daily drill of regular heroing and the overwhelming amount of paperwork the job comes with are things he can deal or cope with… It’s fighting, hurting and confronting other people he loathes the most, even if he'll ram heads with the bigger fish to ensure a more stable framework for everyone to live in. For… others to live in.

Forcing himself into a group of known murderers and the deception this comes with is just the icing on the rotten cake. God, all these fucking lies, he cannot look into the mirror anymore for being overcome with sheer disgust. And now he's stuck with it until the source of all Noumu can be located, too. Why can’t things be like a shitty cops and robbers chase and, just… easy? Simple? Is it really that much to ask for?

But what makes it unnerving is to know that Dabi’s right, always fucking right. About people, what a living nightmare being a hero is once one looks past the glitter covers, and pretty much everything else. But most importantly, he's right about him. He hates being predictable at all, not to mention being read with confidence, and right now he feels as naked as an open book with covers ripped clean off.

He can feel more tears break free, and his fingers scrape over the rough concrete, letting the bumps and glass shards cut a fingertip or two open. It's frustrating. Every single time they happen to make contact… Dabi either makes a good point or manages to get the upper hand in the most inane, little ways, and it’s so… frustrating.

He can’t keep bottling it all up forever, but what is he supposed to do about these feelings?

“What I'm not sure about… is what exactly they are thinking this time.” There’s a thoughtful pause before the continuation; every last tendon in the blonde’s body tenses up. “Are they actually this desperate to get us for good… or is it you they want to get rid of that bad?” 

For a moment that seems like an eternity, Hawks feels… absolutely nothing. Nothing but the piercing glare of the very sky above them, staring straight through the villain's eyes. “Psycho girl is right… you really have no idea how to say no.”

Why now… Hawks can't tell. But hearing the same shit he's thinking about for the millionth time makes something crack. Click. Snap. And next thing he knows, he’s already tackled Dabi to the ground and is clenching his fists into his coat; the man himself doesn’t look too surprised over the turn of events, which drives him even madder.

“Every,” his voice shakes with bubbling anger and is lower and gravelier than his normal, but it will do. Hawks pulls on the leather hard enough to lift the other before slamming him back onto the grey concrete--- “Every” --- over--- “single” --- and over--- “aspect” --- and over, “of you,” and over, “drives me up… the fucking wall,” and over… “any time you open your godforsaken MOUTH,” this time, he goes a little over the top, as the big yank is followed by a pointed knock upon Dabi’s head meeting the ground and his lungs flatten under the pressure of fists, but Hawks is not in the mindset to give a flying fuck about the minor inconveniences of the villain at the moment. Fucker has dug this grave himself, so he better lie in it. "how the everloving fuck... How…! How can you possibly know me more than I do?! TELL ME!!” He asks with an ever growing voice that borders screaming by now, all while shaking the man relentlessly.

He's about to pull and slam him down again when Dabi's hands grab onto his arms just below the wrist. Maybe it's that he did not expect it, but the grip definitely stings a little. As fragile as Dabi is, he thought those scrawny arms less powerful, but apparently what does he know? Still angry, he tears one hand free while shooting a glare at the villain.

There's a trail of blood flowing down his cheek around where Hawks' fist rubbed against at the time of the yank. Dabi blinks once, leaving his left eye with an odd pink texture as his lid smears the leaking red fluid all over it. Not too surprisingly, his face remains as unreadable as a mannequin's, and eyes as cold as that of a taxidermy specimen. Hawks hates looking at him when they are like this, which is most of the time. "Careful, little bird… you're tearing at the seams. Don't want to end up like this, do you?”

That calm voice works like just another taunt, making the hero want to beat him to a pulp, or at the very least, continue where he's just left off with flattening him into the concrete. At the same time… hesitation wedges his joints to a halt. No… No, he doesn’t want to end up ‘like this,’ whatever it may have been to drive Dabi into burning himself alive on a daily basis.

And he notices. Of course he does. Hawks could swear to see his lips curve, but it may just be the angle.

“Fucked-up kids know how to read others pretty well, don’t you think?”

Hawks’ still short breath hitches and he freezes upon feeling a hand, the very same he just shook off, slide over his hips, ice cold on his heated skin even through the fabric of a t-shirt. There's no real intent behind it; in fact, it feels like a doctor's indifferent, calculated touch. Somehow, that makes it even worse. "… didn't even have the decency to start stuffing you with testosterone from the get-go, huh?" 

Another statement that sounds more like a personal note than anything else, and it makes Hawks’ skin crawl.

“Well I can’t read you for shit! Congratulations!!!” He barks, slapping the intrusive limb away. “For starters, what was this supposed to be about, hell, why the fuck did you even come up here?! Just to gloat about it into my face? Or do you want to make fun of me for not being able to decide whether I’d rather be a cheeky bitch or the insufferable prick I am today?!” 

There’s tears streaming down his face again, but he couldn’t care less. It hurts like all hell… especially remembering full well how fucking much waking up from what was supposed to be nothing more than an open break surgery hurt- there was near nothing to remove, for fuck's sake. But claiming not to enjoy at least some aspects of what being a man brought would be just more lies on the throne built on them.

Mentioning his interest in IT and mechanics to strangers is not criticised or made fun of, not anymore. Neither is his tendency to run ahead of others in pretty much every situation. Instead of second guessing, people default to respecting and listening to what he says on any given topic in general, and he stopped doubting himself, too. The circumstances were a special kind of fucked-up for sure… but he also ended up having fewer weak spots than almost everyone else, which did come handy a couple of times. The hormones he received made him taller than he ever could have grown realistically, too. And rejecting fans is easier as most women- and most of them are women,- know basic fucking etiquette.

But he also wants cheesy tees with cats and birds and flowers that he never gets to sponsor. Cuter shoes that are still comfy. Some eyeshadow every now and then. Wear the prettiest blues and greens, and maybe… maybe a nice dress.

"… You are pissed for the same reason I am.”

By the time Hawks has processed the sentence, he is the one being pressed into the roof, with one wing stuck awkwardly underneath him. For a dreadful moment he breaks into cold sweat, because this also means that Dabi is between his legs, and--- fuck, this is the last fucking position he wants to find himself in, especially right fucking now. He doesn’t get to break out in panic, however, because the villain is busy strangling him against the lukewarm ground. It’s his turn to grab onto the other’s arms as he wheezes for some air. He needs to calm the fuck down somehow, otherwise he won’t be able to use his feathers---

“Looking at you… is like staring at a distorted mirror image at fucking funland.” Hawks cracks his eyes open, seeing Dabi stare right back at him. It's as if someone put goddamn transparency over the villain to make the blinding blue behind him visible. He’d blame cold eyes in general, but he doesn’t find Twice’s even lighter ones nearly this creepy when Dabi’s like this. His burn with intensity rivaling All Might and Endeavor, which have always made him uneasy.

“What a nice pair of custom-made patchwork monstrosities we are…” His voice delves into a hiss as the grip tightens over the hero’s neck. “… makes me sick to my stomach."

Hawks coughs under the weight on his throat. He manages to get some air in and think clearly enough to turn back to logical thinking; if Dabi wanted to go for the kill, he’d be toast by now. Motherfucker is just toying with him for the hell of it, isn’t he? He flexes his wings against the rough concrete and flips the two of them back over to where they started.

“Would you stop playing games, you *cough* sick fuck?!” he wheezes, all out of breath.

"Maybe you’re the one who should stop dicking around, bird brain!"

His next protest gets cut short when Dabi headbutts him in the temples. It feels half-hearted, but gets him to shut up for a moment nonetheless, which is all that the other needs.

"The fuck did you scrape us up from the floor for, HUH?! You had ONE JOB, and you could have been done with it just like that… but instead...!! INSTEAD you played nurse and started to GET ALL COMFORTABLE AND SHIT!” The villain’s voice is basically rolling like thunder over the forsaken plot.

Hawks’ angry and pained grimace twitches under his hand- he’s seen Dabi smug, and aloof, and crazed, but not… angry. Not to mention angry with him, specifically. And, once again, it’s one of those little, irritating, miniscule things that are… true. He didn’t get an order to stick around and follow the lead to the Noumu until like a week later, so it was all unnecessary and ended up being even more work and trouble than it was worth.

He didn’t have to help when he found all of them dying, bleeding and broken.

He also didn’t have to start talking to Compress and Twice and Giran, then all the rest as they warmed up to him and came to.

He wasn’t supposed to lie about their initial status, he didn’t have to keep covering for them after they were all walking and doing all right, after the decent person in him had already been satisfied.

And he definitely never meant to get… attached.

A pull on his tracksuit wakes him from the shock, just as Dabi continues screaming at him head-on. “And YET, there still isn't anything YOU want from us?! REALLY?!! Do you want to be a puppet for the rest of your life, idiot?!"

Well… Hawks had been called names before. He never thought that being called a ‘puppet’ would offend him this much, but that... that certainly just did it.

“NO, I DON’T!” He screams back at him, voice swaying all over the place.

"CAN'T HEAR YOU, BITCH!!"

"I SAID I DON'T WANT 'o!!” Whatever air's still in Hawks' lungs gets stuck inside as a wave of what’s probably fear washes over him upon hearing his own, distorted voice crack and echo in the empty parking lot. Realizing just how much he's straining his voice, a sudden knot manifests in his stomach that folds his rage into a small, jittery, awkward package.

“Ah… I,” It takes so much effort to squeeze out a single thing, what--- why is he embarrassed? “I don’t---”

The next word gets stuck somewhere between his thoughts and throat when the same cold hand from before leaves a little pat on his head.

"See? Wasn't that fucking hard, was it now." It combs Hawks' hair back, staples getting stuck here and there on the fragile strands. There’s nothing methodical about it this time; the entire gesture is just… gentle. "Good job, chicken."

Just like that… all that rage, despair and helplessness, along with the last confusing bundle of emotions, evaporates out of the blue, leaving Hawks empty and tired, somewhat nervous, and maybe a little… relieved. It takes him a bit to be able to think of anything at all, god knows how much time passes while he blinks blankly in front of him. It takes a rugged sigh from Dabi underneath him to phase back into reality; the scarred hand has long disappeared, and is tucked behind the villain’s head along with the other as he’s gazing at the passing clouds. The first coherent thought that crosses Hawks’ head is a fully formed fact- what kind, and with what purpose, he doesn't know or begin to understand… but this was… a test, or rather, a lecture.

A very… very crudely executed lecture.

Hawks sniffs with a stuffy nose. Fucking… fucking fucker. “… you are an asshole through and though, aren’t you?” And now he’s hoarse, too. Wonderful.

There’s a shrug… well, as much of a shrug it can be from someone in Dabi’s position. “I don’t believe it’s ever been up for debate.”

He sounds so smug, it's just so… ugh. The hero squishes his face with a palm in frustration before crawling off him at last. The annoyed grunt in response is all he needs right now. "Are you done being a nuisance, or do you wanna egg me on some more?"

There's a rare chuckle. "Already making bird puns…? Nah, little bird. Getting hell-and-back pissed is exhausting as fuck. You won't be any more fun today." 

With that, Dabi scrambles onto his elbows, then sits back up. He gives a quick massage to his previously flattened nose before rubbing the back of his head; there’s a number of fully formed lumps already. Feathers isn’t very gentle when riled up… at least the spot’s not bleeding. He'll need to put some painkillers to work, though. "Still… the manic look suits you well. I'm getting giddy just thinking about your bosses' reactions upon seeing you like that." In a move that is more or less successful, he licks a finger to rub the trail of rust off his cheek.

Hawks wrinkles his nose upon seeing a rather genuine looking smile on the other’s face. “Please. Noone in their right mind is in my face like you are all the damn time… at least not with the intent of driving me batshit only to make me murder them. You’re a freak case and should not be accounted for.” He sighs, resting his head on an arm- there really is no willpower left in him to do anything for the rest of the day. There better be no trouble on his late evening patrol, or so help him. Or help it, because there's no guarantee he won't snap back to this awkward beat-to-a-pulp mode if confronted with a no-name villain.

After some fidgeting, Dabi produces something from a pocket… something that looks very suspiciously like a worn blunt. “It’s because they don’t have to, dumbass… you are edging towards a nervous breakdown at any given time. Anyway, look… you are no doubt seen as an invaluable asset… but are worth so much more still. Give yourself some credit." Hawks peers back at him just as the conspicuous thing is lit over a wrist which gets shaken after, much like one would put out a match. There’s a tentative draw, followed by another. 

“What I want to say is… they are terrified of you, birdie. If not for the danger of exposing their disgusting practices, it's because they fear that their blue ribbon pet won't return from a hunt… for one reason or another. And, just for the record,” He breathes, offering the roll to him; “I'll gladly hold you back for a good scare."

Following a vacant stare and a blink, he takes it. It’s not as if this quite tolerable, for-the-hell-of-it mood of Dabi’s was new, but… he was seriously considering to strangle the guy a minute ago. When exactly did they return to casual banter? Hell if he remembers, or has noticed at all. God… this whole thing has him rattled real good. Hopefully a nap will get him back into the usual pace of things.

“I sure hope not everyone blows their sugarbird pocket money on beer and weed like you do,” The blonde muses once he can feel a different kind of fatigue set in, reaching the blunt back to Dabi. Hypocritical? Maybe. Won't stop him from nagging others for the same shit, though. Comes with the job.

“Well, Compress replaced the crumpled hat… and Tomura decided to save up for a new handheld,” Dabi muses, placing the smoke into the corner of his mouth. "It'll go via Giran, of course. After seeing the taxes on that shit, I can't even blame him."

Can’t help but smile at that. “You are all fucking hopeless.”

A hum is all he gets as a reply.

After a while of comfortable silence, the remains of the roll get snuffed out on the ground. Blinking past Dabi, Hawks can see the sun is soon to set. Fucked like two hours just sitting out here, didn’t he. The Commission better not expect much from today’s endeavor… cannot exactly tell them that he was getting high on the rooftop with the flame villain for a good portion of it, the only villainous topic being creepy fat cats and their own shortcomings. Or that his possibly biggest secret slipped, although they wouldn't give a rat's ass about that. Yyyeah… it’s best to bullshit it.

“Humor me for another minute of real talk, will you, chicken?”

Dabi’s voice drags him back to reality again, only to realize that the light has already turned into a warm yellow. If his bones… or rather joins popped now, he’d feel like the embodiment of a nice little bonfire under the sun. Huh. Guess the stuff was of the better quality to make him think of weird similes and turn his sense of time whack. What was he--- oh, right. He should answer.

“… cannot promise I'll be able to pay attention or remember any of it, but do your best, crouton.” There’s a mild prickly sensation in his wings and his brain feels like marshmallows. If only he could always be so calm.

“Don’t bullshit me, you barely had a whiff." The dirty remains of weed are flung over the roof in annoyance.

He can feel a goofy smile creep onto his face- it's nice to be the source of frustration for once. Maybe all he needs to do is be honest more often. "Second hand smoking goes a long way, bruh."

The initial answer is an exasperated sigh. "Shut it… Anyway, you should cut the sweet chirping and tweeting, birdie. No matter what you do, people take advantage of your position. You know this better than anyone else. So squawk and screech to your heart's content, if that's what you need… and if barking won’t help, get down to biting.” Having said that, he stops surveying the cracked parking lot under the golden sky, and turns back to Hawks.

He forgets to breathe for a second. Good lord… those eyes glow as if they were illuminated by blue fire from inside, and the contrast with the sunset is just… well, literally breathtaking, he supposes. This is among the few times when they don’t creep him out- quite the contrary, in fact. They still feel like X-rays, though. “I guess it really doesn’t matter… by the way, real talk question: can you fucking read minds?”

Not that he expected anything else, but a smug grin appears on the villain’s face. “Maybe~”

“Careful, man. Your pants are sizzling.”

Lo and behold, another rare chuckle. Despite being under the influence of drugs, (or maybe because of that?) Hawks is on a fucking roll.

He can't keep his eyes off those blue ones even once Dabi decides to stare back at him. “Jokes aside… suppose there really is an idiot like me out there, and they get up close and personal… put those clipped talons to work and gouge their fucking eyes out. You have all the means to tear them limb from limb… go all out, who gives a fuck. These are the same kind of people who shit on wild animals from beyond a cage, but watch them run with tail between legs upon realizing that the gates are wide open. And even if you weren't ready to dirty your hands or feathers like that…" 

He lifts a pointing finger and rests the tip on the hero’s nose. "One word of yours… and we'll make sure it's the last day they touched anyone. Understand?"

Really, all he can manage to that is a weak, sheepish smile. “… thanks,” he breathes, not knowing what else to say. He should be a thousand times more alarmed over basically being told that someone's ready to kill for him, and not… well, flattered? Touched? Especially since he knows Dabi means it, and so would the rest of them.

“Great,” the other grunts while getting on his feet, and leaning just a little bit on Hawks’ head while doing so. What a turd. Latter’s about to get his stiff legs working as well, but once the vague aching starts subduing, he can see Dabi stop in the doorway and put a hand on his hip. “… those filthy gremlins have been spying on us.”

Indeed… someone brought the hero’s scantily loaded bag to the top of the staircase and left it there.

“In that case,” turns Dabi around, flinging said bag over to Hawks in the same breath, “go straight the fuck home and get yourself presentable, you overgrown turkey. Might wanna decide on the new alias by the next time I call, too. You already know the rest.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighs, dragging the strap over his head.

Between the echo of boots, there’s a distorted farewell: “See ya, little star.”

Hawks stops in his tracks. He looks over to the empty entrance, and the metal door wide open. The sound of footsteps has faded into barely more than creepy sounds in an abandoned building- if not for his feathers, he wouldn’t even know that six other people are under the roof he’s standing on. Spirits and shadows haunting an old convenience store like many others.

He's nothing more than another ghost out here, and yet… he's never felt so real.

---

No matter what he chooses, Dabi will just stick to 'fancy chicken.' Also, I’m so fucking proud of that Red Starling. Not only is it obscure astronomy bullshit (much like the title of this thing), but it would be a nifty alternative to Hawks; just hit up a video on a flock (or, as I just learned, murmuration) of starlings. Shit’s cray.

[livvywrites]

ILLUMINARA

General

Often referred to as “the city of light and learning,” Illuminara is an independent city state built into the side of a mountain. The city was founded by Talynth Lumina, though not intentionally so. His goal had been to set up a college away from the rest of the world—due to disagreements with the Circle of Magi. However, as people flocked with their families, a town grew up around them.

The mountain range they’re part of cuts through several kingdoms along the northwestern side of Eldora, and while several times these kingdoms have schemed to take over Illuminara, all of their attempts have failed. An all out assault has never been mounted, however, but between the city’s natural defenses and powerful magics, such a thing would be incredibly foolhardy indeed.

Illuminara’s pinnacle achievements are the Magus College (sometimes referred to as the College of Magus) and the world’s first airship berth. Talynth, in addition to founding the college, was also the first one to create a flying ship—two things that have secured him and his family line a place in Eldora’s history. (And, of course, it helps that his great granddaughter, Talitha, seems intent on continuing his legacy.)

While Common is the most spoken language in Illuminara, Parinaran is considered the city’s native tongue. [And, if you’ll parden the author’s note, is imagined by myself to be French. Essentially.]

Illuminara has a very large amount of wealthy families, with claims of nobility. Their “commoner” population is very small, and mostly comprised of either student families or visitors.

Their colors are gold and white. Their animal is the owl, and their symbol a silhouette of the college. Their flags and banners are traditionally done in cream, with their symbol and a border done in golden thread.

Government

The city is ruled in equal parts by the Archmagus and Viscount, with the Archmagus overseeing the (sprawling) college and the Viscount overseeing the city proper.

The Viscount’s position is passed down through family line, falling to the oldest heir. (Regardless of gender.)

The Archmagus position has remained in the Lumina family, despite no rule stating it has to. In fact, according to Talynth’s direction, the position ought to be passed to the most magically talented and learned scholar within the College, over the age of 25. Most would tell you that the Lumina family just continues to produce great talent, but there are whispers that perhaps the college is just intent on holding onto the name.

Outside of their intellectual pursuits, Illuminara is known for their somewhat odd way of dispensing justice. Crime is highly frowned upon—regarded as something those of “baser” intelligence must resort to—and the punishments can be quite severe. While this isn’t entirely uncommon, particularly in the area, what is uncommon is the method of dispensing the justice. Starting with the “most” wronged in the eyes of the court, three people are given the opportunity to mete out the sentence themselves. If all of them refuse, a headsman or other official will do it instead. These public punishments are a great spectacle, and people will turn up from all corners of the city to watch.

Religion

The people of Illuminara primarily worship Order, though many at the college are devout to Wisdom as well. And, because Order is rarely without his counterpart, there are many who worship Chaos instead—albeit in secret.

Wisdom has no true cathedral, though there is a room and fountain devoted to her inside of the college grounds. People make wishes at the fountain, and can even be caught kissing the statue for luck. You see a lot of praying around it and around the altars during exam time.

Order’s cathedral towers over the town. While it cannot compete with the high towers of the Viscount’s castle, nor the ornate walls and grounds of the college, it’s still a fantastic building, complete with clocktower and bells. It’s said to be built in perfect geometry, though many scholars dismiss this as pure nonsense.

Chaos is worshipped in secret—hidden rooms and basements, furtive meetings. While worship of him isn’t illegal, it’s highly frowned upon, and people suspected of it can be accused of crimes they didn’t commit by those devout. As such, it’s better to keep such things to oneself.

Death also has a presence here, though his temple is outside the city. It’s very small and humble, and one wouldn’t guess what it was if they approached. It’s built near the mouth of a cave system, inside which all of the dead are entombed.

Districts

The College District is the largest. It’s comprised of a library, several bookshops, places to buy quills and ink and paper, teachers and faculty offices, and of course, the classrooms. Many, many classrooms. There is also a kitchen and cafeteria area, and a garden which grows the herbs and reagents necessary for the alchemical classes.

The Noble District is the second largest. Made up of an elite marketplace, a beautiful garden district, bubbling fountains, and of course, many noble houses. It’s overseen by the Viscount’s manor.

The Port District is where all of the merchants offload and onload their goods. This is where many travelers get their first look at Illuminara. There are many taverns here, which cater to the sailors. There are also quite a few guards and an outpost there, to keep people from getting into trouble. And then there is a “first look” market place, though what you’ll find there isn’t often worth the price…

The Market District cuts right through the heart of Illuminara, touching all of the other districts at least once. Here is where you’ll find the bulk of what Illuminara has to offer—including quite a few street shows. It’s also entirely possible you’ll find your purse cut, or be swindled out of hard-earned money at a trick game of cards.

The Temple District is were most people live, returning home from the Markets or the College after a long day. Clotheslines are strung between buildings. People do their best to grow gardens in what little space is available. Banners and wreaths are hung on windows and doors, doing their best to make a homey touch. Despite the main temple being dedicated to Order, the street looks an awful lot like a study in chaos.

Jobs & Guilds

The largest guild present in Illuminara is the Magus College. Unlike the Circle of Magi, their recruits are not being recruited to fight or learn violent magics (though they can if they so choose). The only “higher purpose” found here is that of learning. Or so the creed says. People come and go from the college as they please, meaning most of the populace is transient. Still, there are some permanent members.

For instance, the Knights and the Rangers both have a guild hall within the city’s walls—and some outside of it. The mountains are dangerous, full of all kinds of creatures. These creatures often come down to terrorize nearby towns and villages, or even Illuminara itself. The Knights and Rangers are there to deal with that.

Because of these two guilds, there are also quite a few positions for blacksmiths—both weapon and armor smiths—as well as leatherworkers, furriers, and cobblers.

The nobles all require good tailors, of course, and jewelry workers as well. There is a bank, in which bonds and money is stored.

Herbalists, alchemists, tavern owners, merchants, and others are always welcome. Which means, of course, that the Merchant’s Guild has a place here.

There is a Thieves’ Guild, which occasionally plays host to assassins from up north. The Guild is made up of Chaos worshippers, who believe it’s their divine duty to sow dissent. As such, while there is quite a bit of actual thievery, mostly what happens is people being framed, which often leads to blood feuds and in-street duels.

And what would a college be without teachers? Librarians? Researchers? These people and more work together to ensure that the college can stay up and running, available to teach whoever is willing to learn.

Recent History

Recently, the Fathis and Lumina lines were wed—between Isabelle Lumina and Byron Fathis. Their eldest child, Talitha Lumina, was to take over the college; while their youngest, Lynette, was to become Viscountess. The city was pleased—particularly when the two girls showed great talent. Talitha in the realm of magical theory and enchanting; Lynette in the realm of healing.

Unfortunately, however, problems rose not long after Talitha turned 7. Isabelle began spending less and less time at home, under the guise of “recruiting” and “checking in on other locations.” When Talitha was 16, around the time she graduated from the college, she failed to return at all. Byron assumed control of the College as well as the city, and the laws became stricter and stricter.

Not long after Talitha turned 19, the two girls ran away from home. No one knows what sparked their disappearance, only that shortly after, Byron’s rule became nothing short of a dictatorship. It soon became clear that he had designs of ruling the entire span of the mountain range, and was prepping their people for war.

Byron made a grave mistake, however, in sending men to retrieve his lost daughters. Talitha had become something famous across the coast, known for daring escapades and non-interest in “traditional” piracy. Instead favoring studying the Anari, and making the world richer with her research. His soldiers caused the death of Lynette and her budding family, which ignited Talitha in a rage.

She returned to Illuminara six years after she had left it, on the bow of an airship. Her return sparked a revolution, which led to the downfall of Byron and his men—sorcerers unafraid to use mind magic on the people. She then reigned as Archmage and Viscountess for a handful of months, during which time her mother, Isabelle returned. With a new husband and young son.

Once justice was served—Byron and his generals beheaded in public spectacle—Talitha stepped down from both roles, shed her last name, and signed over all birthright to her young half-brother. She disappeared from Illuminara and has not been seen again since, though tales of her still spread through the city.

taglist: @quartzses; @idreamonpaper; @runningonrain; @witchywrite; @queenofsquirrelsstuff; @margaretcroftwrites; @purpleshadows1989; @klywrites; @she-writes-love; @sixstepsaway; @neptune-nereid; @firesidefantasy; @joshuaorrizonte; @waterfallwritings; @languageisbae; @lady-redshield-writes; @luciellesgarden; @dogwrites; @quilloftheclouds

[thetaboochristian]

Christians And Cannabis... Always At Odds?

I’m a Christian who uses Cannabis, and I’m sure that’s a pretty Taboo statement to make (within the Church community that is), but let me clarify. I’m NOT saying it’s ok to blaze up and get blasted for recreational purposes, and if you are getting super high as a Christian you better have an extreme medical necessity/justification for it. However, for more typical medical uses as well as occasional, responsible recreation, reasonable dosages that DON’T make you a drooling vegetable stuck to the couch or DON’T make you feel like the toaster is an alien spy from outer space plotting to assassinate you, you may be surprised to see what the Bible says that at least implies that it’s ok. Also, I’m talking about using high CBD cannabis with low levels of THC (I believe that is suitable for Christians). I believe that Christians should never use high THC weed or THC extracts unless they have a true medical necessity for it and have a high tolerance and/or have some medical reason why an abundance of CBD will worsen their condition rather than help it.

Yes, there are verses in the Bible that say we should remain sober, and verses that condemn drunkenness, but you really need to look at the specifics, the circumstances and the full meaning in the original Greek and Hebrew in order to fully understand what it really means beyond taking it at face value that “sober means sober, all the time, end of story.”

I will also address the whole issue of pharmakia and “witchcraft” that the Bible mentions, and I’ll explain what that really means as well. Pharmakia being listed as witchcraft doesn’t mean that it’s always witchcraft in God’s eyes when someone takes any drug at any time for any reason, like some Christians try to portray.

The reality is, you need to look at WHY the Bible says what it says and take into account the culture and limited scientific knowledge of the time.

I will address the witchcraft issue first. At the time that the Bible was written, witches used drugs to alter their consciousness in order to connect with the spirit world and perform divination, communing with demons, etc. The most accurate definition for “Pharmakia” is “the use of drugs for magical purposes.” However, some other biblical dictionaries simply say “the use of drugs” or “the use of pharmaceuticals” which is a GROSS and EGREGIOUS error! Using drugs for the purposes of performing witchcraft through the aid of the drug is what is witchcraft, not simply the use of the drug itself.

I will say however that if someone who was not going to be performing any kind of magic/witchcraft took a dosage of any drug that was high enough to connect their consciousness to the spirit world, and if there was no medical necessity for that high of a dosage, then I do believe it would be a sin simply because they’d be exposing themselves to have their minds manipulated by demons and they’d have no medical necessity for it. Any time that someone is in a psychedelic state, they are open to have demons appear to them, talk to them, implant crazy thoughts into their heads, try to deceive them in some way, etc. The demons can appear as they truly look or they can appear masqueraded as some kind, loving, peaceful “entity.” 

There is a difference between what I mentioned above and using a light to medium dose of CBD, THC, alcohol or most other drugs for the purpose of relaxing and de-stressing after a long, hard day or doing it just on occasion for the sheer enjoyment of it, even if you are already having a good day with no real problems. There are a few reasons for this, but the first is that low to medium doses of any kind of drug (besides psychedelics and hard stimulants like meth or bath salts, etc) do not open your mind up to encounter demons or be manipulated by them. If it does occur, it’s barely... it’s just a tiny bit of mental noise coming from the other side that’s easily ignored.

This ties in to the definition of “sober” in the original Greek. There are a few places where the consumption of alcohol itself is forbidden, but that was only to the Nazarites like Samson and John the Baptist. Even Jesus drank wine and was accused of being a drunkard, though He really wasn't. The point is, most of the time in the original Greek and Hebrew, the word “sober” actually means “sober-minded” or “able to think clearly and reasonably.” It is true that when you are drunk or significantly high on something you can’t think or speak properly, though the Bible makes a medical exception for allowing non-sobriety when it’s really necessary for extreme medical conditions. The reason why it is so important to remain “sober-minded” is because the devil will almost always try to mess with people’s minds when they take something psychoactive, including alcohol. What most laypeople who are not educated in pharmacology do not understand however, is that there is a certain dosage range for every drug that will give your body a buzz but NOT intoxicate your mind. It is possible with virtually every drug to have physical effects from it but have a sober mind. It is having a sober mind that is most important here so that you can think and speak normally in any circumstance, and so you can withstand attacks from the devil and his minions.  

Now, I’m NOT telling people to break the law, I’m simply referring to what is legal to do in your area, or what the morals and ethics of it would be if no drug laws existed at all. I believe that it was NO ACCIDENT that God made psychoactive plants and their psychoactive chemical constituents. Even though the Bible rarely mentions the use of psychoactive or medicinal herbs (psychoactive herbs always have some medicinal uses BTW), what the Bible says about alcohol can transfer over easily to any other natural substance. 

While the Bible does condemn the overindulgence of alcohol, it DOES OK larger amounts of alcohol when used to ease suffering in a person who’s on their death bed, in severe pain, or suffering some kind of tragedy. Moderate quantities of alcohol are listed as being ok for “lifting the spirits” of a depressed individual as well as for celebrations like weddings, special occasion feasts, etc. The Bible finally says that light doses of alcohol are acceptable for regular everyday use at meals (at least it was acceptable at that time when wine was usually the only clean thing to drink or clean water was scarce). 

I just honestly, 100% firmly believe that when God created high CBD and high THC varieties of Cannabis, He knew exactly what He was doing and designed them that way intentionally. While God certainly did not intend for them to be smoked, He knew how it would affect people when they did inhale it, and He did know that one day people would smoke or vaporize it for medical and recreational purposes, and God knew how the plant would affect the people who used it that way too, not just from eating it or applying it topically.

I believe that God designed Cannabis to be frightening as the dosage gets higher, because that was God’s way of minimizing abuse of the plant, though many people nowadays have figured out how to ignore that built in warning and keep on pushing to outrageous heights anyway. I do not condone that, I think it’s foolish and I do believe that God is not ok with it. However, I do believe that God is ok with medical use of Cannabis (high THC or high CBD kind, depending on the specific needs and conditions), though I believe that God does not want or like people smoking it (though He understands when and why people do choose that method of consumption). I believe that God is NOT opposed to non-e-liquid vaporization as long as it is done in reasonable frequencies that do not cause major lung issues. I believe that God is only ok with e-liquid vaping for people who are trying to transition off of smoking or need some in a pinch and can't bring a dry herb or resin vape with them wherever they need to go. I say this because e-liquid vaping still has a good bit of carcinogens in it while dry herb/resin vaping that is convection (not conduction which is burning on a hot coil) is virtually free of any carcinogens, toxins or harmful byproducts. I believe that people who need constant medical administration of cannabinoids as medicine should use edibles because even the safe type of vaping will cause lung problems if done more than a few times per day.

What I said about God designing psychoactive plants to intentionally be the way they are and contain built in defense mechanisms (AKA scary or uncomfortable side effects as the dose increases) I believe it applies to ALL plants, not just marijuana or hemp. I believe it applies to magic mushrooms (I prefer to call them Psilocybin Mushrooms because magic is evil), datura (AKA Devil’s Trumpet), belladonna, Opium, Calamus, Frankincense, Myrrh, Peyote Cactus, the list goes on and on. I believe that God intended all of them to feel the way they do when ingested (different effects at different dosage levels) and that each of them has their own pros and cons, each having their own medicinal uses and safe dosage limits.

It is the responsibility of each individual person to research any drug they plan to take, learn how it works inside the body, the pros and cons, the medical benefits and risks, etc. I believe that God will hold each person accountable for how they use each substance they ingest (whether natural or man-made) but I believe that God intended for everyone to have the freedom to choose what they put into their body, NOT to have to have the government decide for them what they are allowed to consume, when, where and why... that should be between each individual and God. An individual may know better than their government and/or their doctor what drug is best suited to their needs and they should not have that freedom taken away from them. If they are irresponsible and get hurt or die because of using a drug inappropriately then they also ought to have the freedom to experience the logical and rightful consequences of their actions. Either way, everyone should be free to decide what they take, how much, when and why... then God will be the judge. End of story!

I hope this has given you a pretty clear picture of what I believe about drugs from a health, spiritual and freedom standpoint. I hope that you will consider the truth of what I’ve presented to you today, no matter how Taboo it may appear.

Until next time,

“Luke Davidson” (Pen Name)

Author of The Taboo Christian