#his death was the real atrocity of the war

[torchwood-99]

Every dragon in ASOIAF/HOTD is precious and must be protected, except Sunfyre.

That yellow piece of piss killed my baby boi Grey Ghost and deserves every bit of suffering coming to it. I can't wait to watch it die a long and painful death.

[steveyockey]

In the absence of a clear and obvious angle to attack Bushnell’s protest, most likely due to his status as a serviceman that would make outright insulting him or suppressing the news itself scandalous, discussions on Western shores have now taken on the familiar framing of mental illness. In Time Magazine’s write-up of Bushnell’s death, the article finishes with a link to the suicide hotline, and asks readers to contact mental health providers if they are experiencing a “crisis.” Mark Joseph Stern, a writer at Slate, seemingly unasked, also wrote on Twitter/X:

“I strongly oppose valorizing any form of suicide as a noble, principled, or legitimate form of political protest. People suffering mental illness deserve empathy and respect, but it is wildly irresponsible to praise them for using a political justification to take their own life.”

Conviction does not exist to the American. To be willing to die in a selfless act for what they believe in only exists for those outside America's sphere of influence. Many will recall reporting on those who self-immolated in protest in Iran and in Russia for instance where this sort of approach, unwilling to engage with the root of its cause, would not even be entertained, let alone written and published with sincerity. The Arab Spring began with a self-immolation. The self-immolation of Buddhist monks in protest of South Vietnam’s persecution became defining images of the war and its corruption. Within America’s walls however, there is a belief, unspoken and ingrained from birth, that democracy allows for everyone’s voices to be heard and that its representatives are inherently inclined to respond to the people and their widespread wishes.

Desperation at inaction or complicity in terror and atrocity need not apply. Everyone incensed by their government to such an extent must simply have something wrong with them. To be able to go about one’s day knowing that children are screaming from the hunger that is eating their insides and that pregnant women are eating bread made from animal feed, and that the United States is supporting Israel’s creation of this famine, is apparently the real sign of well-adjustment.

Seamus Malekafzali, “The Words Burned Through His Throat: The Sacrifice of Aaron Bushnell,” February 26, 2024.

[pessimisticpigeonsworld]

On the "Choose a Side" Discourse

With HBO leaning veryyyy heavily into "pick a side" for their promos, the "no team" people are crawling out of the woodwork. I want to preface this post by saying that I'm not saying people shouldn't have favorite characters who aren't mine, nor that people should just be totally invested in fandom discourse.

I already made a post about the issues with the arguments of the "no team" people, so I'll just summarize my thoughts from that real quick. A majority of their arguments and metas are thinly veiled anti Rhaenyra thoughts. That's still true of this new wave of this group.

Now, one thing I will agree with them on is: GRRM did not write this story to be one of choose a side. However, that is not because the Blacks and the Greens are equally bad or the Targaryens are all evil. No, it's because the Greens were always in the wrong and GRRM makes this abundantly clear to us in F&B.

Let's look at some facts from the Dance. While male primogeniture is tradition, it's not the law; the king's word is law, something ASOIAF has established time and again. The Greens took the throne through underhanded ways. They left Viserys' body to rot for days while they prepared for Aegon's coronation to prevent Rhaenyra from learning and coming to KL. They forced the smallfolk to attend and most didn't cheer for Aegon, with some even calling for Rhaenyra while most were confused and angry.

Aemond drew first blood by killing the unarmed thirteen year old envoy, Lucerys Velaryon. A majority of the realm declared for Rhaenyra; 53 houses supported her, while only 28 supported Aegon. The Greens committed the greatest atrocities of the Dance: Aemond burning the Riverlands and Daeron massacring Tumbleton. They also committed the greater number of atrocities.

The Greens also lost the war. The Blacks weren't just fighting for Rhaenyra, they fought for her heirs as well. This is why they swore to her and Jacaerys; later for Aegon III after the deaths of his older brothers. The Black forces continued to fight after Rhaenyra's murder and took KL. Aegon was murdered by his own men when the Blacks were marching on KL; in other words, the Greens knew they were beat, so they killed Aegon in an attempt to save themselves. Since Aegon left no heirs aside from Jaehaera, Aegon III was crowned and married to Jaehaera. The Blacks won the war.

Aegon the Usurper's bloodline is destroyed with the deaths of Jaehaera and Gaemon Palehair. This is the final affirmation of the Greens being in the wrong. GRRM's books punish usurpers by wiping out their bloodlines; Maegor and Robert Baratheon being the most obvious examples. Aegon and all the Greens have no descendants, their bloodline is dead.

Rhaenyra's bloodline, on the other hand, continues all the way through to the main series. Daenerys Targaryen, the most powerful character in the series, is her descendant, as is Jon Snow (unconfirmed as of now in the books) who is another of the key five. Rhaenyra may have died, but her faction won the war and her bloodline will save the world through her two greatest descendants (alongside the rest of the key five).

The Dance of the Dragons is, ultimately, a story of the damage the patriarchy does and how misogyny is destructive to the world. The Dance caused the death of the dragons and a great loss of power for women in the realm. Queen consorts after Rhaenyra had markedly less power and there was a drop in female leaders of the great houses. The loss of the dragons caused the weakening of magic in the world as a whole.

The Dance isn't about who your favorite war criminal is, nor is it about the evil of the Targaryens. It's about misogyny; something HOTD seems to have forgotten. Even before they started pushing TB vs TG so hard, they still missed the point.

It doesn't matter that Rhaenyra isn't a perfect, or even a good, person. It doesn't matter that Rhaenyra is non-conforming, plays the political game, and exploits her father's favor. Rhaenyra could have been as pious and well-behaved as Naerys and the Greens still would have usurped her. Rhaenyra could have had children with Laenor, and still the Greens would have usurped her. HOTD tries to paint the usurpation as partially being on Rhaenyra and her choices, but nothing Rhaenyra could have done would have been good enough.

The Blacks are the protagonists of the Dance. Are they perfect? No. Are they heroes? No. GRRM loves his gray characters, the Blacks are no exception. If you people want a story with black and white morality and perfect protagonists, go read another book. Just because people aren't perfect and don't operate exclusively in what's right according to our modern standards doesn't mean they aren't the protagonists.

In conclusion: there isn't a TB vs TG discourse in the Dance because the Greens are the antagonists and completely in the wrong. The point of the Dance is that the misogyny of the Greens damaged the realm. Rhaenyra is the rightful queen, there is no actual argument for Aegon or any of his allies.

Rhaenyra is the rightful queen to Westeros, go cry to George if you don't like it.

[blurredcolour]

The Only Truth... | Part Three

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x POW Flight Nurse!Female Reader

There are all sorts of hazards inside a Prisoner of War camp - guards, disease, injury, infection. One that none of you were banking on was the weather itself. Despite it all, and a severe lack of time to linger in one another's presence, you still find yourself growing ever closer to a certain Major.

Warnings: Language, Angst, Death, Blood, Disease, Reader Scars, Hospital Setting, POW Camp Setting, Kissing, SS Officers, Depictions of Nazi Atrocities Against Russian Soldiers, Threats, Fear, Mental Health Struggles, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 6337

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

April 21, 1945

Despite heeding your request and allowing others to bear the body of the late Freddy Simms, the boy whose name he learned only after his death, from the hospital to the corner of the camp where other bodies were also awaiting transport to the graveyard, Bucky still found himself tremendously sore the next morning. If not for roll call, he would have much preferred to remain on his makeshift sleeping palette tucked beneath the eaves of a fully occupied tent only half-protected from the elements. As it was, the resident goons needed him upright and counted, and so, with no shortage of grunting and grimacing, he had forced himself up and into line.

Considering the overwhelming population present, it was a wonder the guards did not just spend all day counting the prisoners to satisfy their twice daily checks. A few mouthfuls of broth later and Bucky had just lain back down to rest before it seemed like he was having to repeat the arduous process all over again. It had taken another day of rest to recover from his overexertion, but when he awoke this morning, things seemed a little less torturous. The warmth in the sunshine certainly helped, and he felt energized enough to accompany the delivery of the hot loaves of dense, black bread to the hospital. As his eyes scanned the rows of cots in the tent and then the clapboard building, he barely concealed his frown as you seemed nowhere to be found.

“Major, would you mind taking this pail of bandages out back for me? The Nurse seemed to miss them when she collected the laundry this morning.” There was a knowing tone to Chalmers’ request that made him swallow sheepishly, his ears heating up slightly, but he quickly nodded.

Grabbing the rather light pail with the hand of his uninjured side, he walked down the hallway to drop off a loaf of bread in your sparse quarters, brows furrowing at the lack of windows therein, before continuing out the back door. The sight of you crouched beside a basin, sleeves rolled up as you scrubbed at the sudsy rags with a large pot of bandages boiling away on a small fire nearby was so utterly domestic, Bucky could not help but let his mind wander. To imagine you in a kinder place doing something so very mundane without the fear of being shot or starved to death. That was where you ought to be – not here trying to scrub blood and other filth out of tattered cotton under the thumb of SS goons.

Bucky swallowed painfully as you paused a moment to smooth some errant strands of hair from your face and he was able to fully see the painful scars on your left arm. Scars that he had previously caught small glimpses of, despite your best efforts to hide them from him, but the full extent of them made his skin ache in sympathy. That explained why your nightmares featured fire.

Your sharp inhale, swiftly following by the sound of your boot impacting the pail behind you, pulled him from his reverie. Sent his eyes flying back up to see your horrified expression. You were frantically tugging down the rolls of your sleeve as you backed away from him, gait horribly off balance due to the obstacle you had encountered, and he was both afraid you would fall over and that he had offended you. Dropping his own pail, Bucky once again found himself chasing after you across the small, mud-filled yard behind the hospital, sliding his arms around you to haul you tight against his chest.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. It just looks like it hurt a lot.” He murmured into your hair, hating the way your entire body was rigid and stiff against him.

There was an agonizing, drawn-out silence where the ambient sounds of the camp bled into the intimate moment until finally some of the tension melted from you.

Sniffing indignantly, you muttered against his chest, “it did. Well not at first, I was too busy trying to get out of the damn plane and take my surgical tech with me. But after…” He felt your head bob in a nod against him and he pressed a reassuring hand between your shoulder blades.

“He make it?” Bucky whispered, immediately feeling guilty for prying, but he could not take back the words now.

“Fitz? Yeah, he’s here – helps out at the hospital once a week…” You leaned back in his arms to look at him with dewy eyes, that wicked grin tugging at your lips and the depth of his longing to kiss you took his breath away. “Don’t see him quite as often as certain prisoners, though.” You teased, making him grin warmly in response.

“Maybe I’m still a patient in a way, angelfish. Maybe you’re still healing me.” He had meant to parry your jest with one of his own, but instead all that had come out was a vulnerable truth, and you both stood there, eyeing one another intensely before Bucky felt your arms, previously trapped against his chest, slide around him properly.

The way you pulled him closer should have felt comforting, reassuring, but instead all it resulted in was a lightning bolt of pain ripping through his back and he was barely able to smother the resulting hiss. You pulled back quickly, fairly ripping yourself from his arms as you frowned at him with your hands on your hips.

“John Egan you are still very injured.” You chided, gripping his shoulders to maneuver and guide him back to the stairs before forcing him down to sit on the edge of them.

“Like it when you say my full name, angelfish. Middle name’s Clarence if you want to really give it all you got.” He smirked up at you incorrigibly and you huffed in what he hoped was a mix of fondness with that obvious infuriation.

“Don’t think I won’t add that to my arsenal Major. Now you stay right there, that way I know you’re not off getting yourself into more trouble.”

“Yes Ma’am.” He grinned, loathe to admit it aloud, but it really did feel better to be sitting down.

Nodding sharply, you grabbed his abandoned pail of bandages to add them to the pot of water, fanning the flames of your small fire until they burned hotter to boil off anything infectious, before returning to your bucket of rags. You continued to scrub at them, casting scrutinizing glances his way every so often before transferring them to a rinse bucket.

“Did you really meet the Pope?” Bucky suddenly asked the question that had been burning at the back of his mind since he had heard you speak the words to the Simms boy.

“Yes, I did.” You nodded, wringing out the clean rags one at a time before draping them across your ersatz clothesline. “The whole squadron did.”

“You were in Italy then…” He mused quietly and you nodded with a quiet hum of agreement, the pair of you swapping information without giving too much away to anyone who might be listening in. “Well I definitely did not meet the King.”

Your sudden peal of laughter had him both grinning and bristling defensively.

“That far-fetched an idea, hmm, angelfish?” He raised an eyebrow demandingly and your hand pressed against your lips, trying to smother giggles you seemed to be unable to stop. “Alright, alright… If I wasn’t stuck on these steps on your orders.” He threatened playfully, basking in the way that only made you throw your head back and laugh harder.

God, you did not belong in this place.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You apologized as he huffed, coming over to tousle his hair fondly.

It took all his willpower not to press up into your touch like some demanding housecat. Slinging an arm around your waist, he pulled you down to sit on his broad thigh.

“Think all this hard work is making you hysterical, angelfish, take a load off.”

“Bucky…” You murmured, reluctantly holding your full weight off him until he forced your hips down fully.

“Rest dammit, isn’t that what you’re always tell me to do?”

“But you’re actually injured…”

“So were you. They let you rest when this was fresh?” He asked softly, fingertips trailing across the abnormally smooth yet ridged surface of your burned and healed flesh.

Bucky could feel you twitching slightly in his arms, obviously not entirely certain how you felt about his touch on your scar and so he shifted to lace his fingers through yours instead.

“There were too many people to help.” You sighed. “Still are, I–”

“Just sit another minute. Can’t save ‘em all if you’re too tired to stand up.”

Your fingers closed around his as you exhaled shakily, head coming to rest on his shoulder. “I do want to save them all…and it’s never enough.”

“I know.” He whispered squeezing your side, lips brushing against your forehead.

The sound of voices caught his attention then – voices growing louder, growing closer. You leapt from his lap, and he reluctantly released you, assuming a casual posture as you grabbed a long stick to pull sterilized bandages from the pot and dump them into the sudsy water for scrubbing. Two guards rounded the corner, immediately barking at him.

“What are you doing back here?!”

“Hospital staff only, get out of here now.”

“Major Chalmers asked me to assist the Nurse, you can confirm it with him.” Bucky replied with a shrug, watching your eyes widen with curiosity.

“We will go confirm with him together, up.” The first guard spoke again, and Bucky rose stiffly, nodding to you before they led him inside.

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

As you awoke the next morning to the sound of rain hammering against the roof, you were filled with relief that you had managed to wash and dry all of the laundry yesterday. It was still waiting in its baskets to be folded, but it would hold until your next free moment. Forcing yourself to feel satisfied with a few slices of the loaf of that black bread that had appeared in your room – you held your suspicions that Bucky may have played a role in its arrival – you dressed and emerged as your door was unlocked, blinking in surprise as Fitzgibbons entered the hospital along with Chalmers and Menzies.

You had honestly lost track of the days, a serious risk in the camp, and the fact that it was now Sunday, his shift and your day of rest, had completely slipped your mind. As a medically trained Sergeant, it was well within Chalmers’ rights to order Fitzgibbons to work in the hospital more often, but an early clash of personalities between Menzies and your surgical technician meant that his presence was only requested on a more limited basis.

“Morning Ma’am. Brought you a book to try and keep you off your feet.” He held out a battered paperback and you shook your head with a fond sigh as you accepted the copy of The Great Gatsby.

“Thank you, Fitz…sure you boys don’t need any help today?”

“You can help us by taking the day off as intended, Nurse.” Chalmers replied in a tone that brooked no argument and you nodded, retreating to your room to sit at the small table to crack open the book curiously.

The selection of reading material in the Red Cross library in camp was limited, dated. This book had been published twenty years ago, and you had a feeling you might have read it before, but it was hopefully going to keep you relaxed and your mind off the dozens of tasks you felt like you ought to be doing instead. Despite your predilection to turn inward and get caught up in an overwhelming sea of introspection, the story proved engaging enough to lose yourself in until a knock on the door jamb startled you.

“Mail call.” One of Bucky’s friends stood there, the blond with the gold teeth, grinning. He had a box tucked beneath his arm.

Confusion bloomed unabated across your face as you had not once received a piece of mail since you had been taken prisoner in January. No one had.

“I didn’t think that we were getting mail…” You slid a piece of scrap paper into the book to save your place.

“We’re not, Hambone, stop confusing angelfish.” Bucky appeared over his friend’s shoulder and snagged the box out from under his arm. “It’s those Red Cross boxes we thought we might get.”

“Man, I just wanted to say it once, still a kind of mail.” He grumbled as he strode back down the hall.

Bucky sighed, shaking his head as he set the box down on your table. “Sorry if he got your hopes up.”

Laughing dryly, you set your book down to pry open the already portioned box – each package meant for two servicemen. “Don’t worry, I’ve learned not to expect anything here.”

Spotting the can of powdered milk you held it out to him. “You take this.”

“Angelfish, why are you giving me your rations?” Bucky eyed you suspiciously and you raised an eyebrow in response.

“You’re healing bones and I’m not?”

“At least take half, put it in one of your old cans…”

Glaring at him a moment, you relented with a sigh, unable to deny the fact that it would be nice to have some to add to the bitter coffee. Digging through the remnants of your last box, you found the empty can from the allotment of powdered milk that had arrived in February and began decanting half of the fresh supply.

“You haven’t gotten a single letter? Not even your parents?” He asked quietly, leaning against the door frame.

Swallowing tightly, you slid the metal lid back into place on the cannister, shaking your head. “Figure things must be pretty bad if they can’t get the mail through. Not that I got a lot of mail before but…” You shrugged and held out the powdered milk to him. “Pretty sure it’s got a hole so use it quick.”

Stepping forward to take it carefully, Bucky’s eyes traced over your face curiously. “No handsome fella desperate for your scented stationery, angelfish? I find that hard to believe.”

You could not help but roll your eyes with a sarcastic noise. “Fellas don’t want girls like me, Bucky. They want some pretty thing waiting back home with the time to write pages long letters in looping cursive and those saucy acronyms and pretty spritzes of perfume. Not girls who spent so much time making a living they forgot to make a life.” Your eyes dropped to study the cans of corned beef, of ham, the fresh box of crackers, and small block of American cheese in your ration box. “I’m sure you’ve got a beautiful girl waiting stateside. Sweet and kind and not a whisp of a scar on her. Doesn’t know the sound of jackboots on floorboards or how to use a parachute or what it looks like when the life leaves someone’s eyes. That’s the kind of girl a man like you deserves, Bucky. To completely forget this nightmare even happened. Not this beat up, grungy, girl who wouldn’t even remember which fork to use at the dinner table–”

You barely registered the press of his lips against yours at first, mouth fumbling against his as you continued your litany of reasons why you were utterly unsuitable for him until at last you became fully aware of his warm palms cupping your cheeks, his kiss growing firmer until you stilled against him. An exhale sighed its way through your nose as the tension seeped from your bones, melting against his tantalizingly firm and broad chest. With a noise of deep reluctance, you forced yourself back, licking your lips slightly.

“You could get yourself in serious trouble doing things like that John…”

“Long as it’s not in trouble with you, angelfish.” He murmured fondly, tracing his fingertips along the curves of your ears before slowly pulling them back, tracing your jaw as he went, your nerve endings shimmering in the wake of his touch. “I just couldn’t bear to hear another word of that horseshit.”

A smirk tugged lazily at your lips, the tender flesh of them still humming slightly. “So if I spout nonsense, I get kissed, is that how this arrangement works?”

He exhaled sharply through pursed lips. “You can just ask, too. No need for all the absurd self-deprecations. Because the ‘fellas’ you speak of are idiots. You are a damn treasure, angelfish. Anyone who can’t see it isn’t worth your time.”

Feeling moisture gathering at your lash line, you grabbed a fistful of his shirt and hauled him in to lay a firm kiss of appreciation on his lips, briefly glimpsing his look of surprise before your mouths collided. Mindful of his ribs, you slid your other hand to his hair, holding him close as his arms encircled your waist.

“I like this ‘arrangement.’” He breathed against your mouth when the pair of you were forced to come up for air.

“Mmmm. Well you’d better get out of here before someone comes looking for you.” You muttered, not making a move to release him.

“Absolutely.” He replied, only pulling you closer into him.

“Bucky…” You sighed, tone not nearly admonishing enough.

“Thirty more seconds.” He whispered.

The unmistakable and aforementioned sound of jackboots scraping across hardwood echoed down the hall and you started to shove at him. “Goon, goon!” You hissed and he back pedaled quickly to the threshold of the room, cradling the powdered milk under his arm.

“I tried reading that book, didn’t really understand the green light business.”

Chest heaving, you furrowed your brows, watching him gesture sharply to the paperback on the table beside your ration box and you inhaled in recognition.

“I think it’s some kind of metaphor in futility?” You blurted out, a long-lost lecture on the novel suddenly flooding back to your rescue as a guard strode past him down the hall, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“Yeah, got enough of that in my real life.” Bucky huffed with easy nonchalance before shrugging. “Well, see you around, Nurse.”

“Thank you again, Major.” You nodded, desperately trying to even out your shaky breaths as Bucky disappeared down the hall and the guard continued out the back door, sending you slumping into your chair in relief.

Your trembling fingers traced the tiny smile that curled at your lips, not at all certain what had just transpired, but things between yourself and Bucky had definitely changed.

What most certainly did not change was the weather. The deluge persisted through the night and into the next day, Chalmers and Menzies arriving mud-splattered and damp after being released from their combines. The humidity was of absolutely no help to Desmond Brown, an infantryman from Pennsylvania who had been battling pneumonia for nigh on a week now. Dusty, as he was affectionately known, only seemed to grow weaker, and you were quite dismayed to note a bluish tinge to his fingernails and around his lips today.

“Won’t be long now.” Menzies uttered as you made your rounds and you nodded silently. “Doubt we have anything to prop him up and make him more comfortable?”

Scouring the hospital with your gaze, you shook your head with a frown. “I’ll move his cot against the wall and try to prop him against it – not the best but better than…” You left the fact that he surely felt as though he was drowning in his own fluids unspoken.

Menzies was smart enough to understand and nodded firmly. “Try and sit with him as much as you can today.”

“Yes, sir.” You nodded and the pair of you parted ways to put your various treatment plans into action.

Pushing the cot flush against the wall, even with its occupant still in place, was not terribly difficult. Malnourishment and illness had devoured much of Dusty’s muscle mass, though you did need a moment to catch your breath and recover, given that you too were three months into your POW diet. What proved hardest was keeping the man propped upright. Any time you would leave his side to check on another patient or help one of the surgeons with a task, you would find him slumped to the side or slid down into what he deliriously claimed was a more comfortable position.

Most concerning of all, a soft rattle had taken up residence in the back of his throat, audible with each exhale. It was worryingly known as the ‘death rattle’ and usually signalled the end was not far off. Fetching a cool cloth, you settled him into the most comfortable yet still propped-up position you could manage with a combination of his pillow and blanket and the wall before laying the cloth across his fevered forehead. Dusty blinked his glassy hazel eyes at you once, then twice, before his eyelids fell shut for the last time. His labored, rattled breathing continued on for a remarkable duration, and all the while you sat at his bedside, cradling his hand in yours.

You tried to remember sweet things to talk about – spring and its flowers, family dinners, Hershey bars from his native Pennsylvania, anything at all so he would know he was not alone. The men in the adjacent beds grew quiet, the only sound the insistent rain striking the roof and the fading breaths of your patient until even those were gone too. Confirming Dusty had passed by checking his pulse, you shifted his body to lay flat on the cot and covered him with the blanket, standing with a start to find Bucky leaning against the wall, soaked to the skin, watching quietly.

“You know where his friends are bunking?” He asked in a hushed voice, and you nodded, fishing out his chart to find the number of his combine, providing it softly. “I’ll tell ‘em.”

“Thank you, Major Egan.” You nodded, looking quickly as Menzies arrived to note the time of death as you glanced back at another meaningless loss, wondering when it could all just be over.

Bucky’s knuckles brushed against yours gently and you offered him the ghost of a smile before Chalmers was calling for you. “Try and stay dry, this is perfect trench foot weather.” You gave him a meaningful look, willing him to not become another tally on the death sheet, another hole in the POW graveyard.

Bucky nodded sharply in return. “Doin’ my best, angelfish.”

“Good.” You breathed before rushing off to try and keep someone else alive.

Another night, followed by another day of incessant rain, had the yard outside resembling a sea of mud. It kept everyone trapped indoors, even the prisoners who had been sleeping outside found their fellow men making room wedged between sleeping palettes lest people get swept away in the night. There was no meeting Bucky out back whilst doing laundry, nor any excuse to sneak off to quiet corners for a moment of privacy. There was simply too much to do and so all you were able to share, when he and his compatriots delivered another allotment of black bread that day, was an intense look of yearning before duty pulled you away once more.

The state of the tent had been weighing on your mind as it sagged lower and lower beneath the three-day onslaught of water, and it was no surprise when the canvas gave way the morning of the 25th, a mighty sound of rending fabric echoing through the space. A deluge of frigid, accumulated rainwater poured down onto the three men who had the misfortune of being positioned below the gaping tear, its ragged ends flapping in the breeze. Grabbing some towels of rough cotton, you were rushing along the slickened wooden floor to try and move them, dry them off, when the entire corner of the tent lurched and collapsed with a groan and further cries of distress.

“Help!!” Was all you had the mental capacity to yell in the face of the sight before you, hoping to summon Menzies and Chalmers.

To your immense surprise and relief, a flood of men began to pour in from the yard, most likely summoned by the sight of the collapse, but also perhaps your scream. As the lot of you began to unearth men from beneath the debris, you recognized Bucky’s friend with the gold teeth – Hambone, he had called him – as well as the brunette who had tried to give him the benefit of the doubt over ‘angel face.’

“Where should we put ‘em, angelfish?” Bucky’s voice broke through the cacophony from behind you and you turned back to him quickly, wondering when he had arrived.

“In the hall, towards my room.” You thought quickly on your feet, the very last available space in the hospital coming to mind.

With over half of the tent still intact, you worked with the group of volunteers to reinforce the structure that remained standing and ensure the men resting there were all right. Mercifully, the rain slowed for the first time in days, before stopping altogether. Barricading off the collapsed portion of the tent with the sodden, unusable cots, you turned to take stock of the rest of the patients, pleased to find them resting as comfortably as possible. You were drenched and filthy, but that was a secondary concern. Squelching your way inside, you gnawed on your lip to see a total of eight patients now sheltered in the hall with no bedding to speak of.

The feel of a towel being draped over your shoulders jerked your head to the right to see Bucky roughly rubbing at his dripping curls with a towel of his own.

“I am once again in your debt, Major Egan.” You sniffed, wringing out your shirt slightly into the rough cotton.

“Don’t mention it. I’m guessing the only beds you have for them are out there in Lake Moosburg?”

A small, incredulous snort escaped you despite your ragged state and he huffed an exhausted laugh in reply. Shaking your head with a sigh, you furrowed your brows. “We’ve got nothing but a few more towels, and an abundance of dirty rags and bandages…It stopped raining though.” You tagged on the tiniest piece of good news and lifted your knuckles to rap against the wooden wall for good luck, to help it hold, grinning fondly as he practically mirrored the motion.

“Small mercies. I’ll see if I can convince some of the others to part with their blankets in the name of the unwell. I’ll be back, angelfish.”

“You’re a good man, John Clarence Egan.” You murmured tenderly.

Bucky froze, eyeing you intently, unmoving. Not even breathing for nearly a minute before he exhaled heavily. “Suppose you did warn me you’d weaponize my full name, angelfish…” He rasped, fingers wrapping around your wrist to squeeze in a subtle but emotive gesture, his thumb stroking across the sensitive skin of your inner wrist, making you shiver.

“Sorry.” You whispered, having not anticipated the heaviness of the blow it would land, but Bucky quickly shook his head.

“I look forward to you almost killing me again, soon.” He smirked and squeezed one last time before releasing his grip on you to head outside, sloshing his way around the camp to scrounge up enough bedding to keep the displaced patients comfortable.

A variety of guards and their officers came to inspect the damage throughout the day, Lieutenant Colonel Clark making his presence felt as he appeared on Bucky’s heels and immediately demanded the tent be repaired to provide appropriate care for the men.

The next morning dawned sunny for the first time since the 21st, but the cheer brought by the change of the weather was significantly dampened by the appearance of the skeletal figures of Russian labourers. You had glimpsed them from time to time through the barbed wire of the fence behind the hospital, ghoulish figures forced to work in the kitchens, on camp maintenance and repairs, and burying the dead, but you had never been this close to them before. Clearly summoned to complete the repairs on the corner of the hospital tent, they moved in a slow shuffle, clothing barely more than limp rags around their spindly frames. Rumor had it they did not even receive Red Cross ration boxes, subsisting solely on the scraps provided by the SS camp administrators.

Your heart ached at the sight, and you longed to smuggle them food or something of comfort, but they were, at all times, surrounded by a ring of guards to keep them separate. To keep them apart from the rest of the POWs. Casting sympathetic glances their way, you collected the rest of the cots and bedding they unearthed from beneath the partial collapse and shifted it all outside to dry out in the sunshine, noting the increased presence of guards kept Bucky and his compatriots from dropping by.

You assumed the same would be true throughout the 27th as well, however, shortly after the sun reached its zenith, you straightened from a patient’s bedside to see him leading in an unfamiliar face, the shorter man cradling a bloody hand to his chest.

“McLeod here sliced himself good on one of the ration tins.”

“Sorry to trouble you, Ma’am, it just won’t seem to stop bleeding.” The Scottish brogue tumbling from McLeod’s lips matched his shock of red hair impeccably, even if it was a bit difficult to decipher.

“Take a seat right here and we’ll take a look.” You smiled and gestured to one of the freshly dried cots, wedged between other patients at it awaited the completion of its normal resting place.

As you perched on the edge of the cot beside him, setting a pile of bandages in your lap, you noted Bucky eyeing the crowd of SS guards and their waif-like labourers hard at work in the corner of the tent. Gathering McLeod’s injured hand in yours, you gently dabbed at the blood pooling in his palm, nodding as the depth of his cut was revealed.

“Think you might need some stitches here, let me fetch the surgeon.” You smiled reassuringly, pressing a wad of bandages over the wound, coaxing him to apply pressure to it before approaching Chalmers who was working just a few beds away from the construction zone.

The clatter of tools striking the wooden floor caught your attention before the frail body of a workman collapsed to the ground. Acting on instinct, you surged forward to check on him, a professional hazard when on duty in a hospital. The nearest guard, not quite so tall as the others and thereby twice as mean to make up for it, barked at you sharply.

“Get back, schwester.”

He gave you little warning before the butt of his rifle cracked against your shoulder, making you lurch back in pain and chastisement. The cramped quarters combined with the mud-slickened floorboards to send you sprawling backwards onto your hip, mortified, but as you immediately tried to scramble back up to your feet, a wall of humanity was in your way.

“She’s just tryna do her job, keep your shirt on.” You recognized Bucky’s terse growl first, followed by Chalmer’s British accent, made all the crisper in his annoyance.

“You would strike a woman who is only trying to help an unwell man?!”

Sliding backward across the slimy wood, you felt a gentle tap on your shoulder.

“Let’s get you on your feet, lass.” McLeod grasped your elbow with his uninjured hand and hoisted you up despite the way your boots seemed reluctant to find purchase on the ground, holding you steady until you nodded that you were, in fact, stable.

“Nein!” The guard shouted back through the men who had formed a barricade between you. “No help!”

Frowning deeply you balled your fists to see the Russian POW laying in the mud, unaided, unacknowledged by any of the guards or his fellow labourers.

“Nurse, go get cleaned up.” Chalmers’ orders snapped your eyes to his face, and you swallowed tightly before turning on your heel, making your way to the utility room to fetch some water.

You could vaguely hear the surgeon arguing for the man’s life as you transitioned from the tent into the main hospital building, but you narrowed your focus to carefully stepping over the men sheltering in the hallway. To trying not to cry at the meaninglessness of it all. Stopping at your room to grab your wash basin, you looked yourself over in the mirror, sighing as you were thankfully not as mud stained as Chalmers’ order led you to believe. Bucky’s reflection as he peered into the room made you turn sharply to face him, gulping back tears as there were patients just steps away.

“You hurt?” He asked softly, seizing your hands.

You shook your head quickly. “Just a little bruised, but I’ll live.”

Bucky tugged on your hands to pull you against him, wrapping you tightly in his arms. “You’d better.”

Burrowing your face into his neck, you could only muster a nod in reply, clinging to him, careful not to hurt him, until you felt able to take more than just the tiniest sips of air for breaths. As the crushing weight lifted from your chest, you lifted your head to look at him apologetically. “Sorry…”

“Don’t apologise, angelfish, you were just trying to help that poor man.” He sighed, pressing his lips to your forehead. You felt one of his hands leave your back and heard him huff a laugh. “You might want to change your shirt though, your back’s covered in mud.”

Tensing, you craned your neck to look over your shoulder, muttering bitterly. “So that’s what Major Chalmers meant…”

“I’ll get you some fresh water and make myself scarce, too many goons watching.”

Nodding softly, you passed him the basin, hoping the construction would be done soon and things could go back to their bleak yet relative normalcy. As if hearing your wishes for the first time in months, the universe actually conspired to have the repairs to the hospital tent completed that evening, all eight patients returned to the cots in the corner, the hallway cleared. Everyone seemed to breathe a little easier that night as you settled them down for sleep, awaking to yet another gloriously sunny day and finally the chance to catch up on the overwhelming backload of laundry.

Setting your water to boil out back and prepping your wash basins, you returned to the hospital to collect the pails of rags and used bandages, smiling warmly as you found Chalmers in conversation with Bucky about one of the American patients. He sent you a friendly nod without breaking his concentration and you bent down to grab the pail that rested between the central desk and the cot where one of the medium-term residents, Pete Thompson from Ohio, was recovering quite well.

“Nurse, you gotta be the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” He gushed, as he was prone to do, fluttering his long, dark eyelashes.

The young man had lain it on pretty thick since the moment he had arrived several weeks ago, before traversing a brutal course of bronchitis, which he was thankfully coming out the other side of.

“Oh come off it, Thompson.” You laughed warmly. “You boys are so desperate for female company, I’m sure you would propose to Eleanor Roosevelt if she had the misfortune of crossing your paths in this place.”

The guffaw your joke earned had you grinning brightly in return, and you made sure he was comfortable before turning to grab the last couple buckets, blinking to find them in Bucky’s hands.

“This all of ‘em?” He raised an eyebrow and you nodded, leading him out the back way to set your load down in the nearly dry yard.

You hard barely turned around when his lips were crashing into yours, hands gripping your elbows, kissing you breathless.

“Wha…” You tilted your head at him, stunned, when he finally pulled back.

“That’s for slandering our First Lady but also diminishing yourself. Couldn’t just kiss you right there in front of everyone though, angelfish. Specially not that soldier boy getting fresh with you. Had to wait ‘till we were alone.” He smirked and pressed his lips against the tip of your nose, making you giggle airily.

“John Clarence Egan, never change.” You sighed dreamily.

His chest rumbled softly before his lips surged forward, already parted, to take advantage of your surprise and slide his tongue along yours hungrily. In retrospect, his ‘attack’ may have been well warranted, give your twice use of his full name. It was also not unwelcome, making you cling to his shoulders and whimper down his throat as he seemed to taste every inch of your mouth. The way the hair dusting his upper lip brushed against your face threatened to undo your knees, your head swimming with lack of oxygen and emotion until the sharp snap of the door’s hinges had Bucky wrenching back from you.

Pressing your lips together to take greedy breaths through your nostrils, you watched Menzies moodily deliver a missed bucket of rags, eyeing the pair of you suspiciously.

“Best move along Major, we have guests inspecting the handiwork of our unfortunate neighbours.”

Bucky nodded to him firmly, sucking in a deep breath as though to muster a reply. “Thanks for the heads up, Captain. See you around, angelfish.”

He tipped his imaginary cap to you, and you nodded in return, watching him disappear around the side of the building, heart hammering beneath your sternum, before lurching back to focus on the task at hand. To say that your thoughts stayed to him often throughout the course of the day would be an understatement.

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

Read Part Four

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @luminouslywriting, @softspeirs, @sunny747, @storysimp, @slowsweetlove, @httpsmoon, @buckysegan, @justheretoreadthxxs, @precious-little-scoundrel, @jointherebellion215, @timetowastetime8

[sugar-grigri]

Crazy theory, but since I don't really read them, I don't know if it's ever been mentioned before.

I've already talked about this urge to discover the demon of death. So much so that fans see them in every new character introduced.

We know that Pochita punctuates both the birth and death of demons with his chainsaws.

I've always been surprised by the way Pochita calmly took hold of Makima, allowing Denji to knowingly save her by recommending that he give her love

Just as I'm surprised by Fami's interest in separating Chainsaw Man just as Yoru is stubbornly intent on revenge

How can these three horsemen of the apocalypse have so much interest and connection with a single demon?

We already know that Fujimoto has opted for the metaphorical, choosing the instrument designed for childbirth: the chainsaw, as the keystone of his story.

Chainsaw Man is intrinsically linked to birth and death

Denji's rebirth alone is linked to death having been cut up as well as Pochita?

Demons are born out of fear of one thing, so I know it might be strange that Pochita, representing chainsaws, represents death and isn't the chainsaw demon.

But two things: firstly, the impostor is actually the real chainsaw demon.

Fujimoto likes to undo our first impressions, so I find it absolutely INCREDIBLE that Denji should be the impostor from the start, the false Chainsaw Man in a part 2 that focuses on identity.

Secondly, how can simple chainsaws have so much power? I mean, sure, they're scary, but how can they have so much power as to be able to wipe out demons? Why should it be the chainsaw demon who's capable of this, and death remains crouched in the shadows?

This would also explain his promiscuity with the other Knights of the Apocalypse.

The demon of control wanted to play with Pochita - death was the only thing she couldn't totally control, the only thing she aspired to be on an equal footing with.

If Pochita understood her so well, it was as the fourth knight of the apocalypse. If Makima considered him her equal, it was because she couldn't control a demon she knew to be of her own rank. The logic follows with Nayuta.

The demon of war doesn't accept death, it accepts to spread it through conflicts and weapons of mass murder, but a general doesn't accept that death can touch him too. To spread death represents victory, to be touched by it a defeat that demands vengeance.

Famine works hand in hand with death, and is feared because suffering and death are the end result of not being able to eat. She's the one with the clearest goal at the moment: to save humanity. She doesn't hesitate to recruit her fellow Apocalypse members, whether it's proposing it to Nayuta, trying to recruit Asa and Yoru, or splitting Chainsaw Man in two to work with the pure state of the death demon.

The public hunters' aim is also to protect mankind from Nostradamus' prophecy, but by paralyzing death's actions as much as possible. They exploit Denji's flaws and desire to be normal to the full, threatening those around him. While the church, represented by Fami, titillates Denji's heroic side, his abnormalities, they want death to act.

It would also explain why everyone close to Denji is disappearing.

All the signs are pointing to Asa's imminent atrocity.

Wouldn't it be incredible to think that it's because death is in Denji's belly ?

Everything would then make sense: it's normal for Denji's development to stagnate, and for him to go through so many existential crises.

He doesn't know his own identity

What's more, it doesn't contradict my most meta theories: Fujimoto places himself in the work through Denji (cf. chapter 133), just as he responds directly to his fans (chapters 136 and 137).

We're all hating him, seeing all our favorite characters meet unfortunate deaths

It would all make sense if the manga we were holding in our hands, "Chainsaw Man", actually referred directly to death right from the start.

It would all make sense if we saw Part 1 as Denji's introduction to the ranks of hunters governed by an early death.

It would make sense for Aki's love for him to be a metaphor for accepting death, in the continuity of mourning.

It would make sense for Power to be reassured by Death when traumatized by the demon of darkness: she died twice for love, and the total disappearance of body and spirit allows us to escape the darkness.

I don't know if this theory holds, but let's agree...

It's poetic

[thedelusionreaderbitch]

Nikolai Lantsov x gn! Reader - Kings and fools

A/n: whoops, cannon? she died yesterday. also translations at the end

Summary: Being trapped in a Fjerdan lab isn't much fun, but things do start to get interesting when someone you recognize shows up.

Warnings: Swearing, implied death, implied torture, beating people up, prolly ptsd, just all around fun times.

[Pronouns used: You/your] [Pov: 2nd person] [Pairings: (romantic!) nikolai x reader]

You were going to laugh because of the sheer hilariousness of this situation. Never-mind, you were currently laughing your head off.

One of the guard's turned around to look at you with fierce eyes and smacked your face thrice just for little a giggle slipping past your lips.

"Tig!" He shouts at you in Fjerdan after hitting your face repeatedly. "Tig!"

But you could care less, because they obviously didn't realize who they had just captured, because if they had, they would be carrying a body bag instead. War would start between Ravka and Fjerda, or perhaps they would keep it a secret and invade Ravka knowing they had a dead king.

The King of fucking Ravka was shoved into your cell.

The Fjerdan guard scampered off probably because he had spent too much time on such a lowly prisoner not knowing if he used his fucking eyes he would see that he would be getting a raise within the hour.

Alas, he didn't and now you were stuck with an unwanted roommate.

"Are you okay?" He whispered to you, and your breath stopped.

You had not expected that, you had expected some arrogant fool, as kings usually were. Kings and fools were one in the same after all.

"What?"

"He hit you."

Blinking a couple of times, you just shook your head. "He was being kind."

The King narrowed his eyes. "Unless I'm mistaken, kind people do not hurt someone."

You wanted to say that it didn't hurt, but you were weak. The bruises forming would say otherwise, and lying wouldn't get you anywhere. Even so, the only way to survive this place was to be strong, someone slapping you three times because you laughed wasn't the worst you've experienced or seen. A slap was child's play.

"You'll soon find out kindness comes in more forms then one."

___________

It was Nikolai Lantsov's first true day in this hellish Fjerdan laboratory.

Now he would find out what you were used for.

"Get up." You kick his side as he groans on the dirt floor. "Get up, you babink!"

He throws his head up to look at you with curled lips.

"I certainly won't if you don't ask me nicely."

You have heard of his ability to charm, and you've heard of his large ego, you've found the only thing that's true is the latter. Nikolai has an incredible ego whether it be a facade or not it didn't matter. It was going to cost him his first real beating, and make all the other ones look like mercy.

"Unless you want one of the guards to kick the shit out of you, get up!"

He sighed, but quickly followed your orders and you vaguely wondered if he was used to giving orders rather then receiving them, or if he let all his generals do it for him.

You shouldn't be helping this poor fool, but some part of you still burned with the need to protect your country, and by extension of that the king. It was a part of you that dared to hope, it was weak, and the reason you were in this situation. You thought that hopeful part of you had died the first week you were here, and you knew they weren't coming for you. Despite being their best.

You should have known better then, just like you should know better know.

But you're a fool.

Somehow, for the next five months you manage to shield Nikolai away from the brunt of the nasty atrocities in this lab-rat prison. Both of you do your labor with no foul-language, or whimpers escaping. You manage to stay quiet and to get the guards off his, and your backs. It's a miracle considering he talks so much.

You just hope you can keep him out of the lab.

"So, you know how to speak Ravkan?"

Your back stiffens, and the cuts there sting a little as you do but you manage to ignore it in favor of glaring at the man who's sitting in your cell beside you. How he managed to remember you cursing at him in Ravkan that first morning is beyond you. Usually time will seep deep into bones until there's nothing but the memory of pain, and the moments of suffering. Having someone else there is dangerous, because it lessens the load and makes you a fool, for it gives you hope.

"You should stop asking questions you know the answer to." You muttered while rolling your eyes at him.

"That wasn't my question." He shoved your shoulder, if you weren't here he would have had more strength to not shove it so weakly. If you weren't here, you wouldn't wince slightly anyways, if he hadn't shown up this would have never happened.

His bright piercing gaze meet yours and you wanted to curse for your heart stuttering in your chest. At least you knew there weren't any grisha around to hear it.

Now, that very thought made you sick.

"What do you want to ask me then?" You ask him, as his eyes glint dangerously and you wonder whether kings are the fools, or if it's just the people who get caught in their snare that are.

"Three questions," He bargains. "Then I'll let you sleep."

Pursing your lips, you think about what could go wrong, but you find you don't care. You've been fearing for your life, and pain for over three years, if your name was still uttered around Ravka then Alina Starkov was going to come running for your rescue. It didn't matter if he found out who you were through some silly questions, it was just leveling the playing field. It wasn't fair, you mused, that you knew his identity, but he didn't know yours.

"Fine." You snap.

Plus, you were feeling slightly more sappy tonight, if he wanted to hear your sob story that he's already been told but has forgotten then he could be your guest.

"Where did you live?"

"Fjerda, then Ravka."

"What did you used to, do before all of this." He gestured towards the cell.

"I hunted down the people I used to work for." You speak rather curtly before facing away from him, unwanted memories flickering behind your irises. "I think that's enough questions for tonight."

But he grabs your chin and turns your head to face him as he shifts his body closer to yours so you were only a breath apart.

"I have one more question left."

"I hate you."

He smiled, "No you don't, drüskelle maleni."

You slapped his hand away from your face, and moved away from him with a furious expression written with the frown on your lips.

You thought if anything, he would know you as the spy, not as the drüskelle maleni - the drüskelle ghost.

That's what you were before, someone who had been raised to kill without thought, to someone who found humanity again. Then lost it as they had to repent for their sins.

"I'm sorry lapushka, I shouldn't have-" Nikolai tries to reach out for you, but even in your tiny cell do you manage to move away from him.

"Don't Moi Tsar." You hissed, quickly silencing the King. You didn't hear from him again that night

_____________

Of course the next day was shit.

Nikolai refused to follow any orders and you knew the guards were getting fed up with his behavior. Currently, so were you, did he just forget every lesson you taught him to stay quiet? Was he such a fool as to not realize that if he didn't stay hidden enough they would figure out who he was and he would be dead by morning?

Yet it was not in Nikolai Lantsov's nature to stay quiet, saints, you doubted he even knew the word.

If he was going to be this reckless than you couldn't help him, you wouldn't help him. What's the point if he was bargaining with his own life?

That's what you repeated to yourself anyways, as he was slowly getting dragged off.

"We're taking this demjin to the lab." One grumbled as they pulled Nikolai with a group of soldiers.

Your blood went cold, and your eyes started to fill with dread.

You had been in the lab, once, but they decided they didn't actually need you. Still, you got to see the people being put under terrible things, testing them to see how much the body could handle. There were crimes not even imaginable, so bad that when someone opened their mouth to speak about them, a scream got let out instead.

The unlucky ones would disappear once they crossed the border into the lab. The lucky ones would come back alive, maybe even a little maimed, but alive.

Maybe they weren't so lucky than, maybe the real curse is going through it than surviving it.

Djel, You prayed. Please let this work, for once let me save something instead of kill. Don't use me as your blade but as your shield. Just this once.

You ran up to the guards and tore them off of Nikolai, breaking their grip on him.

"Me jer jonink." You whispered to the King in your mother tongue, not quite knowing what you were asking forgiveness for. Perhaps it was for the way you snapped, or for the lives you've stolen, you don't quite know. Maybe it was for the way he laid his eyes on you, and you on him. The way you've protected him, and the way he's given you hope.

Kings and fools are one in the same.

"What do you think you're doing!" One growled, while the other two held down your arms against your thrashing.

Saving him. "Helping my country, Fjerda." You lifted your chin staring defiantly into their faces. Knowing that you were like them once, killing grisha, only to be shown mercy, and turned into a weapon against the Drüskelle. You could be that one last time, you could serve Ravka, even if it meant death.

You could serve your love.

"You should know that grisha anything but vile, they are good, they are-"

The guard not holding you down, knees you in the gut, causing your knees to tremble and your strength to waiver. Yet the men gripping your arms forced your legs to work, lest you break them.

"Grisha will run this country to the ground!" He yells at you, spit hitting your face.

You knew you had to go further if you wanted them to forget about Nikolai and his stunt of, existing.

Taking a breath you opened your eyes and hoped.

"Fel holm ve koop djet."

Immediately they start to drag you away from Nikolai who tries to shout, to get them to stop, but they ignore the King. Instead they seem to find enjoyment with bruising you up on your way to the lab.

Now you truly understood why you asked for forgiveness, because the look in his eyes as they pulled you away could only scream love.

Words 1843

-thedelusionreaderbitch

Translations:

Fjerdan:

Tig - Shut up

Drüskelle - Witchhunter

Demjin - Demon

Me jer jonink. - Forgive me

Fel holm ve koop djet. - Our home is better for it

Ravkan:

Babink - Barbarian

Maleni - ghost

Lapushka - Darling

Moi Tsar - My King

Grishaverse taglist: @kaqua @rika90 @thefandomplace @gallysonegoodlung @navs-bhat @sumsebien @dontjudgeabookbythecover @brekker-zenik @alohastitch0626 @brekkers-desigirl @emmsamultifan06

[a0random0gal]

I know that right now we're all pissed at the horrendous character assassination Alicent has gone through this season (God I'm the first one who still can't believe her eyes), but this awful representation of the green Queen on screen has at least given me some newfound appreciation for book!Alicent and all she stands for.

Alicent, the young girl who stood by Jaehaerys's side as he passed.

Alicent, who became queen against all odds and watched in horror as her foolish husband dismissed her sons' claim to the throne in favor of her step-daughter.

Alicent, who knew what she wanted for her family and fought tooth and nail against Rhaenyra to protect her children.

Alicent, who demanded Luke's eye in exchange for Aemond's when she realized Viserys didn't care for the wellbeing of their son.

Alicent, who cleverly plotted Aegon's ascension and put her plan in motion the moment her useless husband kicked the bucket, disregarding his wishes in order to save her kin from the blacks.

Alicent, who witnessed the atrocity that was blood and cheese, helpless to do anything as her grandson was butchered and who then later on said she wishes to bathe in the blood of the men who had committed this horrible act.

Alicent, who remained loyal to her side till the bitter end, and kept taunting and threatening Rhaenyra even after she took the capital.

Alicent, who never recovered from her children's deaths and lived only to erase Rhaenyra's legacy, trying to convince her granddaughter to kill Aegon III despite the end of the war.

Alicent, who spent her last days in imprisonment, seen as a remnant of the past, a grief stricken woman fueled by vengeance, unable to see a future with Rhaenyra's blood on the throne.

Alicent, who died alone and defeated still thinking of her happy teenage years and her beloved family.

She was fierce, she was loving, she was manipulative, loyal, clever, brave and even fucking evil when she had to be, but at least she felt real.

She had agency, knew what she wanted and how to obtain it.

Never forget what they took from us.

[girlactionfigure]

She was a teacher. She just wanted to help.

She was born in Milwaukee on September 16, 1902. She was known as "Mili" to her friends and attended West Division High School, now known as the Milwaukee High School of the Arts.

She would meet her future husband at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, where she earned a Bachelor of Arts in English in 1925, and a Master of Arts in English in 1926. They were married at her brother's farm near the village of Brooklyn, Wisconsin.

"They had a profound connection through literature, her Ph.D. was in literature," Madison arts program administrator Karin Wolf said. "That's what inspired and sustained them, the works of Walt Whitman in particular. I just feel them as very real people. They liked to hike, they liked to canoe, they liked being outdoors."

In 1929, she and her husband moved to Germany, where she worked on her doctorate. She taught modern American literature at Berlin University, becoming one of the first Americans on a faculty that included Albert Einstein.

The position was short lived, however, according to a story in The New York Times. Fifteen months later, the university had fired her for not being “Nazi enough.”

Adolf Hitler had been granted dictatorial powers by a subservient legislature. After the concentration camps opened, the couple had decided to stay in Germany, to assist immigrants fearful for their lives.

"They were confronted with this unacceptable situation, and they did what they felt what they needed to do as moral beings,” said Wolf.

They were saddened at what was happening to their beloved country, to see a dictator use racism to divide the people and use his propaganda machine to reinforce his power and control the people, destroying the country from within.

Alarmed by the rise of Hitler and the Nazi regime, she and her husband joined a small resistance group that helped imperiled Jews, assisted forced laborers, and documented the atrocities of the Nazis in Germany. Her husband would regularly meet with the first secretary of the American embassy to keep Washington informed on the state of the Third Reich’s economy, its trade agreements, rearmament and war plans.

Their group published an underground newsletter, and fed economic information not only to the U.S., but also to Soviet embassies in Berlin. After Germany invaded Russia, the group transmitted military intelligence to Moscow via radio “concerts,” prompting the Gestapo to call them the “Red Orchestra.”

On September 7, 1942, Mildred Fish-Harnack and Arvid Harnack were arrested while on a weekend outing in Germany.

Arvid was sentenced to death on December 19, 1942, and was put to death three days later. Mildred would be executed two months later, beheaded, on the orders of Adolf Hitler.

Mildred Fish-Harnack was the only American woman executed on the orders of Hitler. She was 40 years old.

"She could have come home at any time," Wolf said. "But there was something bigger than her that was compelling her to fight in the way that she could. I just think of that strength of character."

Shereen Blair Brysac, Harnack's biographer, said in a 2011 Wisconsin Public Television documentary that Mildred "had an American passport and she could travel to France and Norway and Denmark," but she instead used her connections to help those trying to flee Germany ahead of the Holocaust.

Mildred Fish-Harnack was initially given six years in prison, but Hitler refused to endorse the sentence and ordered a new trial, which ended with a sentence of death.

"This is a woman who 75 years ago was executed for her role in fighting fascism," said Wolf.

According to Jay Rath of isthmus, Wolf noted that Mildred Harnack never set out to be a hero. “She was just trying to do the right thing. Which I feel we’re called to do in every era, and have that kind of moral compass; that you won’t see your neighbor treated that way. You will risk your own safety and your own comfort, because it’s not right.”

Ellie Gettinger, education director at the Jewish Museum of Milwaukee, agreed, saying, the lesson of Mildred's life is to do what's right, even when it's hard.

This summer, the city of Madison, Wisconsin, unveiled a new sculpture to honor Mildred Fish Harnack, a teacher who just wanted to help - a Wisconsin farm girl who became a World War II resistance fighter in Germany.

The artist of the sculpture, John Durbrow, said the sculpture recognizes Mildred's "strength, courage and resolve to address early on the forces of oppression which eventually inflamed the entire world."

"None of us, hopefully, are ever going to face the kinds of conditions that Mildred faced," Gettinger said. "But if we can just say, we did what was right in that moment, that's keeping up her standard of excellence."

The Jon S. Randal Peace Page

[matan4il]

hey sorry if this is disrespectful as a non-jew but ive been reading up on stuff and thinking about i/p and.

War is synonymous with mass death. There has not been a single war in the history of mankind that has not resulted in suffering. Even Sun Tsu, in his 25-century old The Art of War, emphasized the importance of peace and of nonviolent resolutions. so i really do not understand the watermelon-fixated dumbasses who cheered on the oct. 7 massacre then decried Israel's self defense as genocide. this is the "globalized intifada" they've been clamouring for. this is *exactly* what you're asking for when you cheer on hamas and their genocidal buddies. sorry that yank school never taught you that war is bad but this is how reality works. the real pro-palestine stance would be staunchly against hamas.

Hi Nonnie!

I'm not gonna lie, whenever I think about war, the one sentence that gets stuck in my head is, "war is hell." It is death, destruction, mayhem, and cruelty that has no bounds, even when it's not committed on purpose. Even the most justified of wars. I think one of the reasons we all keep going back to WWII is because it was simultaneously maybe the most justified war ever, literally fought to stop a fascist regime and its dictatorial partners from expanding their conquests of more and more land, occupying more and more people, bringing about more and more suffering (including the most extreme case of genocide in human history), and yet at the same time, it was also the single bloodiest conflict ever, and the war itself was cruel and brutal, certainly when we talk about acts committed by the Nazis and their collaborators, but on occasion there were atrocities committed by the allied soldiers, too (not to the same degree, and not as a part of their government's policy, but my point is that even fighters who are in battle for the best of reasons, as the allied soldiers were, have some among them, who commit terrible crimes. In part, because war blurs the lines of normal reality and morality).

And I'm saying all of this, because I truly believe that we, as human beings, should always aspire to avoid war whenever possible. I would have given EVERYTHING I could in order to stop Oct 7 from happening. Because the second that the massacre started, that's when this war began, and so many innocent lives were doomed, along with the terrorists. From the POV of what is internationally accepted as an act of war, Hamas firing 4,000 rockets into Israel in one day qualifies. Hamas breaching Israel's border and invading it with thousands of armed fighters qualifies. And without a doubt, Hamas committing the biggest massacre of Jews since the Holocaust, while intentionally targeting civilians, and compounding the horror of so many deaths, with the rape and beheading and torture and abuse and then kidnapping of even more victims, it beyond qualifies as an act of war. In fact, on August 25, 2023 (a month and a half before the massacre), Hamas senior Saleh al-Arouri explicitly said in an Arabic interview that IT IS THEIR GOAL to, that THEY WANT to, start a "total war" with Israel.

Once Hamas made and executed that choice, it doesn't matter how much and how many Israelis may aspire to avoid war. We were already in one. We should always aspire to avoid war, but we also have to recognize that sometimes, the choice simply isn't in our hands. It wasn't in the hands of the British on Sep 1, 1939. And it wasn't in ours on Oct 7, 2023.

And the thing is that war IS hell. Like I said, the massacre of Oct 7 was already war. Which means, it was already hell. Certainly for its victims, but it also was already a hell that every Israeli will carry with them for decades to come. And if we don't want ANOTHER war, if we don't want ANOTHER HELL, then we have to be sure that Hamas, those who chose to start this war, will pay for it in such a way that they can't start another one, and so that others will be deterred from starting one, too (I'm thinking mainly of Hezbollah and Iran, but all Islamists need to see a western democracy not backing down from defending itself in a war it did not choose).

THAT is the meaning behind the ancient Latin phrase, "Si vis pacem, para bellum." If you want peace, prepare for war. It's the understanding that sometimes, for the sake of peace in the long run, you have to be prepared to fight in the near future.

(remember in 2014, as the pope released doves in a symbolic gesture of hoping for peace in Ukraine, and they ended up being attacked?)

I want peace. I have always wanted peace. I was the ridiculous kid, who had a "peace diary" where I wrote every day about how much I wanted peace, and how I hoped it was coming. I'm not writing that diary anymore, but I still want it, and I still believe that one day, we WILL have peace.

But it's not going to happen as long as there are extremists on Israel's borders, who still believe they can genocide us a second time, and are willing to start a war to achieve that. When they give up on that "dream," when they finally see that it will always fail, and in the process, they will suffer hell along with us to such a degree that it just won't be worth it, that's when we'll have real peace. That's when both Israelis and Palestinians will finally be safe from the threat of another hell being unleased on us. We'll have real peace, not the kind made to get something from the other side, but because both sides want peace over war for themselves (that's what the crucial mistake of the "land for peace" formula was IMO. It should be "peace for peace." With agreed land concessions, obviously. But it should be clear that the big prize both sides get is peace itself, and not that one side is doing the other a favor, and giving it peace in exchange for something material, because that kind of peace is an abstract concept, that can be withdrawn at any moment when it's not something the "giver" values for themselves. That's what happened with the Oslo accords, the PLO got territories, self rule and international legitimization, then as admitted by Imad Faluji, the Palestinian Communications Minister, Yasser Arafat planned the launch of the violent riots and wave of terrorist attacks known as the second intifada once he concluded he got as many material prizes out of the accords as he could).

On a side note, when the total number of people killed on both sides during the two intifadas was in the thousands, and the injured in the tens of thousands, IDK how anyone can claim that the call to "globalize the intifada" is anything other than a call for violence and death. The fact that this chant is coming from the same crowd that claims to be pro-peace when they demand a ceasefire now is truly deranged, and can only be rightly addressed with memes...

Sorry for the length, I guess it's still hard to process the inability of people to understand that sometimes, we don't want a war, but we do grasp that we have to fight one, even at the cost of possibly our own life or the lives of those dearest to us, even when it's bloody and nasty and hell, and civilian casualties are impossible to avoid thanks to Hamas' choice of using Gazans as human shields. I'm not sure if this helped, but I hope it somehow did! xoxox

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[gabrielsbubblegumbitch]

do you have any opinions on the hazbin critical and vivziepop critical tags?

tw // mentions of sexual abuse and sucide

I have a personal beef with them. And not because I love Hazbin and Vivzie so much but for more presonal reasons so the following opinion won't be measured at all.

Now, don't get me wrong, there are some legit criticisms out there. Like, the show could definitely do better with body diversity and giving us more varied sapphic relationships instead of just throwing a ton of male/male couples at us. And, yeah, Vivzie's response to some of the criticism has been... questionable. (I still cringe when I think about that one time she explained that Raphielle can ship ValAngel because they are sa survivor, but Raphielle explicitly admitted to not be one).

But then, there's stuff that's just... pulled out of nowhere. Like the whole thing about Valentino being a "fetish character." Come on, the world of villains is filled with queer, flamboyant baddies. What sets Valentino apart is how his abusive behavior is shown in the open, making us rethink our love for villains. If it weren't for Mascarade, people would worship this moth daddy gangster in a dress, much like they are with Vox now. It's hard to root for the bad guy when you see the fallout of their actions. Like, Loki committed war crimes and no one was outraged when he got his own TV series and dragged creators for supporting atrocities.

Constant Valentino/Angel Dust discourse actually leads to the more serious issues I have with this "community", more harmful than just "bad media literacy" like the way they handle the topic of sexual abuse and weaponize it, without ever listening to victims. There is this constant shitstorm about Angel being a "bad sa survivor rep," that the way he's written is insensitive because "he shouldn't be horny, he's sexually traumatized." Like, do these people not understand that making Angel unable to enjoy his sexuality the way he wants would essentially mean acknowledging that it's no longer his but belongs to his abuser now? Also, the argument I keep seeing that drives me BAT SHIT CRAZY aka "I can enjoy this media that is centered around murderer, you cannot enjoy the media that treats rapist as a nuanced character because rape is objectively worse than murder." WHO THE FUCK TOLD YOU THAT? Reading this makes me feel so angry and sad and guilty because frankly, I was raped, and of course, it was horrible but still I'd choose it any time over being murdered. Because I have my life, I'm loved, and I love, I pursue my dreams, and I can still experience so many good things in my life. Painting sexual assault as this worse-than-death experience is not the feminist take they think it is and does not do victims any good.

Or accusations that Vivzie's support of fandom bullying led to someone taking their life. It's such a ridiculous and harmful claim. Honestly, this thing always makes me heated because suicide is not an easy decision, ask any person who ever faced it. It's not like "ah, this stranger told me to kms, I guess I gotta do it now." Of course, any kind of bullying and abuse adds to the suffering and can be the final trigger, but to me, it's just so disrespectful and harmful that someone could have experienced prolonged, intense suffering and all of this is omitted, their death labeled as a result of "fandom bullying" and weaponized in fandom drama. Also, it's simply cruel to put the blame for it on one, uninvolved person.

Also, it always annoys me when people hold small creators to immensely high standards while not doing the same with others. If we keep lynching and canceling every media that is not objectively morally pure, we won't be left with only perfect media. We will be left with media produced by white, privileged billionaires who might be real-life rapists, abusers, and thieves but are too powerful to be taken down by social media outrage. Hazbin's success is a major W for the underappreciated medium of animation (we saw what WB did to 90% of their animated shows), unpopular genres like musicals (Wonka creators were literally too ashamed to market it as one??), and unapologetic queer narratives that are not written for a heteronormative audience or centered around queer oppression (ofmd, the other medium I can think of in that realm has just been canceled). I can't stand people so desperate to put it down driven by their black-or-white sense of morality. Kant won't be patting your back for being the Moraliest Person because you bullied an indie creator and her fans.

Also everyone who feels the need to explain me hazbin critical agenda - save your breath. I'm very emotional about it and I frankly don't fucking care why you think you are right.

[threeletterslife]

38 | Legends of Darlaria

⨰ summary: You wake up in yet another unfamiliar place. This time, however, these strangers seem to recognize you. With your previous judgments and aspirations thrown out the window, you're now forced to face where your loyalties really lie. Who will you betray? And which General will you choose to stand by his side?

⨰ pairing/rating: yoongi x reader & jungkook x reader | PG-15

⨰ genre: 70% angst, 30% fluff | war!au & magic!au

⨰ warnings: profanity, gruesome depictions of the war, death, blood

⨰ wordcount: 5.8k

⨰ join the taglist! (pm/send in an ask/reply/reblog)

⨰ previous | series m.list | next

⧖⧗Many, Many Circas Ago⧗⧖

“On your left!” Jungkook roared over the din of cries on the battlefield. He valiantly swung his sword, catching several Solarian limbs in the process, and sliced right through them as if they were made of paper. Mangled bodies crumpled to the floor, writhing as paper tended to in flames. He marched on, leaving his enemies to die, covered in blood that wasn’t his.

Swerving right, you narrowly missed a ball of fire, no doubt aimed at your head. It would’ve killed you had Jungkook not warned you. But on the battlefield, there was never any time to express gratitude, for one misstep, one second of wasted time could be fatal. Before the enemy could attack you again, you twisted your torso, eyes squinting as you concentrated on their limbs. In seconds, they turned into jelly. The Solarian soldier collapsed into a miserable, trembling heap, fear overtaking their features as their quivering eyes landed on the silver insignia on your black uniform—such a symbol only a General would be fit to wear. Their look of fear spoke to you. Please don’t kill me.

You turned your head.

Never look a helluvian straight in the eyes, Jungkook told you so many times before.

The first time he’d said that you and Hajin had been curious. But why? you’d asked in unison. The two of you had been so naïve then, inexperienced to the real atrocities of war.

It’ll humanize them, Jungkook had answered. It’s easier if you don’t think of them as people.

You walked away from the pleading soldier, sparing their life at the moment, but knowing their death was imminent. They had nowhere to run, for there was an entire unit of Darlaean soldiers right behind them. Guilt ripped through your guts, but you swallowed it just as you usually did. If Jungkook could walk away so easily, you should be able to, too.

You caught up to your lieutenant, who, despite the grueling hours already spent on the field, only had a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. If he weren’t drenched in others’ blood, it would’ve been hard to believe he was at war. Jungkook glanced at you from his peripheral vision and nodded to himself as if he were glad you were left unscathed from your last encounter. Then he was off again, his sword glinting in the afternoon sunlight, his sapphire radiant amongst the sea of deep red and black uniforms. He always moved as if he saw ten steps ahead—perhaps he truly did. 

“On your right!” you called in caution. 

Yet, the Solarian you’d warned about was already writhing on the ground by the time you finished your sentence. Jungkook gave you a knowing look. Thanks anyway.

You and your lieutenant ventured further into the battlefield, working in perfect tandem and paving a path for the rest of your army. You had no need for weapons—nor did you prefer them. So, you stuck to your maskings, which were temporary and meant to be innocuous. It was stupid, of course, to think that you were mitigating the Solarians’ pain by masking their limbs into jelly or their scarlet uniforms into stone. They would die anyway. But you just couldn’t do it. It was selfish and cowardly; yet, even the thought of having someone else’s blood on your hands made you feel sick. You couldn’t look anyone in their eyes—Solarian or not—and kill them. How could you? They were people too—people who just happened to be wearing a different uniform. They, too, would have loved ones to go back to after the battle was over. They, too, would mourn the deaths of the fallen once the rust-colored dust settled. They, too, would antagonize the very people who dared to take the lives of their brave ones. Yes, it was naïve to think you, the General of the Darlaean Army, could get away without spilling blood on her hands—you knew that. You also knew your refusal to kill was to satiate your own sense of morality. But knowing that you weren’t the direct cause of anyone’s demise gave you peace of mind—the kind that allowed you to sleep better at night and maintain your appetite. 

Jungkook, on the other hand, didn’t mind a bit of bloodshed. 

“Move!” he shouted. Even amongst the roar of the battle, you could hear his booming voice, devoid of its usual silvery tone. He sent a forceful kick to a Solarian in his way, sliced their head off, and leaped into the three-way fight that Seokjin was on the verge of losing. Your poor comrade sported burn marks all over his sleek uniform and looked exhausted, though determined to persevere. Still, it was three against one; if Jungkook hadn’t intervened, Seokjin would be dead.

In a flash, your lieutenant severed the limbs of one of Seokjn’s attackers and size-shifted the eyes of the other until they popped out of his skull. That gave Seokjin just enough time to duck the ball of fire of the third and deliver a killing kick to her head. Before the captain could express his gratitude, Jungkook was off again, moving swiftly with the wind, the only glint of color coming from the sapphire on his sword. Seokjin looked stunned for half a second, as one may when one was only seconds away from death, but he hastily resumed fighting, covering your blind spots. You, in turn, allowed Jungkook to take the lead.

The march back to base was a blur as usual. You carried an injured soldier on your back while Jungkook hauled two over each of his strong shoulders right next to you. There were casualties as usual, but they were much lower than expected. Even more miraculously so, you and Jungkook sustained no major injuries—a remarkable feat, considering you had been on the front lines. But perhaps that was just beginner’s luck, for you were the freshly made General and her lieutenant.

Your officials didn’t have to tell you the battle was a success for you to know it. 

“I heard you guys killed it!” Hajin said excitedly, grabbing two deviled eggs in each hand and shoving them in her mouth without chewing nearly as much as she should. The three of you were dining in your private quarters, which contrasted starkly with the barracks you were so accustomed to. Private quarters and an office came with your new title. Plus, extravagant food.

“It did go pretty well,” you said, smiling. “Better than expected. I just can’t believe it. No deaths, minimal casualties… Who would’ve thought?”

“Well, that new formation of yours was impenetrable. Absolutely no flaws at all,” Jungkook said as he sipped some wine. He was no longer using one of those half-rusted metal cups. Instead, the dark red wine sat in a beautiful crystal glass. His new title came with perks too. “Seokjin had a close call to death, though. If I hadn’t intervened.”

“Seokjin?” Hajin snorted. “Captain Kim?”

“It was three against one,” Jungkook said. “I had to help him out.”

“I bet he’s going to worship you now,” Hajin snorted. “Maybe he’ll worship you more than he worships Y/N.”

“Oh, come on,” you said. “He’s just a dedicated.”

“Come to think of it, he thanked me after the battle for saving his life and offered to shine my shoes for me.” Jungkook stared down at his feet. “But my shoes are always clean.”

“Well, did you tell him that?” Hajin asked as she took another deviled egg from the plate and took a gigantic bite.

“I did,” Jungkook said. “But he seemed insistent on assisting me in some way, so I let him wash a few of my uniform sets.” He smiled. “Y/N’s right. He’s dedicated. What a great guy.”

Hajin leaned back in her seat, grinning so widely you could nearly see her entire front row of teeth. “I’m so glad we’re still doing this,” she said with a content sigh. “You know, our late-night dinners.”

“And we’ll never stop,” you said. “I look forward to them every night.”

“As do I,” Jungkook said with a soft smile. 

The candles in your private quarters flickered, and the breeze from your open window helped the floral scent of the melted wax permeate through the room. It was a cool night, one that made you feel extra warm inside of your quarters. And in that moment, sitting with your loved ones, talking with them over dinner and drinks, you realized that you’d finally accepted your position. You were the General of the Darlaean Army. And you were no longer worried about it. 

But with this much power came a mountain of responsibility. You were determined to change Darlae for the better, as Instructor Shin always believed you would. And now you had the means to, for you commanded hundreds of thousands of soldiers who risked their lives in your name as well as the nation’s. 

It was strange. Before you were the General, you felt meek and never quite enough, but as soon as you assumed your new title, you morphed into a different person. Perhaps General Son did see your inner potential when he chose you. Or perhaps you didn’t want to fail him when he’d put so much faith in you. So, when all eyes were on you, believing in you, you realized that you had no other choice but to be who they wanted you to be. And instead of that being exhausting, it awakened a part of you that you didn’t know existed.

You shifted the funds, spending hours attempting to make the math work to provide better meals for your soldiers. By the end of the circa, the kitchens were bustling with royal chefs you and Hajin handpicked from the 12th city. Gone were the sad, dry variations of meat, bread and corn that sometimes left the soldiers going to bed still hungry, and in came roast ducks and pigs, delicious, crumbly pastries, and sweet, fresh fruits. 

When you realized some soldiers weren’t getting adequate sleep, you strictly banned your officials from giving their subordinates work to do after hours. Within weeks, you saw improvements in training performances. You were generous with giving soldiers free leave as well. When Taehyung’s sister grew seriously ill, you comforted him and offered him ample leave. He cried happy tears. When his sister’s condition grew worse, you had her looked after by your private team of healers; they never had much to heal for you, anyway.

When you stepped into the infirmary again after spending circas avoiding it, you realized how much of a shithole it was—smelled like one, too. Immediately, you sourced more healers from the 4th city, expanded the building itself, and added ventilation, which had been years overdue. 

Every soldier you met, you tried to remember their name so that the next time you saw them, you could call them by it. You also insisted that others called you by your first name, for General Kwang felt far too removed from who you were. You were merely Kwang Y/N, who happened to lead the army. Your soldiers were also more than their titles, so you called them by their names, too.

You tried to visit the 12th city as much as you could—to pay your respects to Hoseok and to occasionally facilitate the training program for adolescents. The cadets loved it when you rolled up to the castle gates in your fancy carriage. They would always crowd around you, telling you about their latest training and duels. You knew every one of their names, and if there was a face you didn’t recognize, you asked for an introduction.

Every so often, you would have a speech prepared for the cadets. You talked about your experience in the Training Corps, your hopes and dreams when you were their age—though most of them weren’t that much younger than you. You loved the bright looks in their eyes when they listened to you speak. It was as if somehow, your words were inspiring them. That, in turn, inspired you to visit them more often; they were the future of the army, after all.

But things weren’t always so perfect. Outwardly, you were the charitable General who single-handedly shifted the cutthroat army into a place of unity and understanding. You were on par with Guseul to some, though you couldn’t find that believable. You were simply human, not a legend who founded an entire nation. In the end, all of these good deeds came at your expense.

You lost sleep over brainstorming new ways to improve the army. When you weren’t fighting, approving battle plans and signing documents, you were memorizing your soldiers’ names and worrying over their wellbeing. Even when you were driven back to the 12th city to relax, the war was still on your mind. You couldn’t escape it.

What’s worse, your relationship with Jungkook took its first rocky turn.

He stood in front of your desk, arms crossed and frowning. You were sitting in your chair, looking up at him, pleading with him to be reasonable.

“It’s not setting a good example,” he told you, crossly. You’ve never seen him frown at you like that before. “I’m trying to help you,” he said. “As your Lieutenant General, I’m giving you advice.”

“But I can’t, Jungkook,” you said. “I can’t just kill...”

“Don’t you understand?” he said, running a frustrated hand up his hair. “You’re killing them anyway if you’re leaving them immobilized on a damn battlefield.”

“But they could still survive,” you countered desperately.

Jungkook gave you a look. “You know that’s not how the war works.”

He was right. He was so painfully right. But… “It’s… It’s my moral code, Jungkook. I just… I can’t kill someone because they were born in another nation that we happen to be at war with. What did they ever do to me? They’re only attacking me because they were ordered to. Because I’m wearing black and they’re wearing red. Please, can’t you understand?”

Jungkook scoffed, shaking his head. “I don’t think you understand,” he said, his voice cold. You never heard him speak like that; it made you feel so small, so stupid. “Our soldiers fight not because they were told to but because of passion. Because of hatred. Why do you think so many of us use light magic? They are motivated to march into battle, to kill the enemy because they believe those fucking helluvians are the scum of the earth. If you spare them in battle, if you show them mercy, your practices will bleed into your soldiers’ heads. They will begin to believe that these, these helluvians deserve to see kindness. They’re going to lose their passion, their hatred, their motivation. They will lose their will to fight. Do you understand?”

“But—”

“We have no choice but to continue to create propaganda that slanders the Solarian name. I would even argue that we must increase it to heighten morale.”

You shook your head, your hands gripping onto the edge of your desk. “But you don’t even believe in that sort of propaganda. Do you…?”

Jungkook gave you a long, hard look. He didn’t have to say anything for you to know his answer. 

“But you told me,” you said. “You once told me that I don’t have to kill. That with my… my talent, I wouldn’t need to.”

Jungkook didn’t even flinch. “That was before you became the General of the Darlaean Army,” he said. “Before you had any influence.”

Before you had any influence… Of course when you were a nobody, you could do anything you wanted on the battlefield; no one was watching. But now that you were the General, expectations were different. There were always people watching. It was a good point. Yet… “I don’t know…” you whispered. “I really don’t know…”

He only sighed. “Sleep on it,” he said. “But not for too long. I’ll still be expecting you at dinner.”

You showed up to dinner that day, not having made up your mind. Then, you proceeded to sleep on it for many, many weeks. In the end, nothing was done. You continued to have mercy on the Solarians you met on the battlefield, which you knew disappointed Jungkook, but maybe you were weak. Maybe you were selfish. Maybe you were a coward. Even after all of those battles you’ve been on, you were never able to shake that fear out of you. So you couldn’t do it. And if your soldiers couldn’t do it either, you wouldn’t blame them. Jungkook never asked about it again.

More battles flew by. You saw mostly victories, a few losses and many casualties, but your soldiers were resilient. They absorbed the new charms you developed and deployed them on the battlefield with ease. They learned the formations you assigned to them and executed them flawlessly. When they were hurt, they took their generous leave, but always came back, looking to serve their nation once again. You worked hard to support their ambitions, though with the tides of the war turned so far over in the Darlaeans’ favor, there was more room to breathe, which equated to more free time. 

Your dress collection began to grow. You spent odd hours in the night sketching your latest designs in your precious leather-bound notebooks and then masking them into gowns that were your exact size. You played around with fabrics: silk, velvet, cotton, lace, wool, satin. You experimented with different lengths and gowns for all sorts of occasions. The collection expanded so large that you had two other wardrobes built just to fit your chambers in the 12th city. 

Your wardrobe was rather small in the 1st city, understandably so, so you often rotated your gowns when visiting the 12th. There was a different dress for every occasion, every dinner meeting, every royal event. When you weren’t fighting in the war and leading official meetings, you discarded the rather drab Darlaean uniform, which you didn’t dare change for any other than legacy reasons. You didn’t mean to have fashion attached to your name, but it was inevitable with the meticulous way you chose to dress yourself. Your clothes told your story—each one mindfully made and woven with your emotions.

The lavender gown with sage ribbons evoked a sense of nostalgia when you donned it, for it was one of the very first gowns you successfully created. It reminded you of your training program days—before you went to war, before your military titles and the whole nation knowing your name. Things were much simpler then, which had manifested itself in the gown; though beautiful and flowy, it was rather plain in design. Yet, the intricate colors resembling springtime sprigs of grass and pretty lilac blossoms made up for it. 

The cotton garnet-hued dress tasted of blood—the aftereffects of your first victory as the Darlaean General. Inspired by the sea of red uniforms you faced and immobilized, the gown reeked of death, and yet just the faintest bit of triumph. The material was akin to the Solarian uniform: cotton, breathable, and perhaps a little shapeless. It had been a materialization of your fears on the battlefield—the fires, the blood, the Solarians. You never wore it, for it resembled the Solarian’s style and Jungkook wouldn’t approve, so it sat in the back of your wardrobes in the 12th city.

Then there was that sleek, silvery gown you’d crafted with soft tufts of fur around the neckline. This was an experimental one when you were playing around with the juxtaposition of contrasting materials. While you didn’t quite like the outcome, Jungkook did. He would always run his fingers over the fur, eyes glinting with longing. So, on one of his birthdays, you fashioned him a majestic cape made of similar material. He wore it everywhere, and especially to battle—something about enjoying the looks of horror on the Solarian’s faces when they realized he donned real animal fur.

The gowns that you did enjoy wearing, you often twirled around in them in front of your mirror, watching the hems flutter and the colors blend together like the wind. Sometimes, you had an audience—usually Jungkook and Hajin—who would give you second opinions on your designs. Though Hajin was never quite as interested in fashion as you—and occasionally Jungkook—she was still supportive. When she could, she asked you to configure her gowns for fancy events she was forced to attend as the crown princess. The budgets were glorious for the royal family, so you always enjoyed a worry-free day shopping for fabrics in the 3rd city, never checking the price. You spent countless hours fitting your newest creations on Hajin as her lady-in-waiting fussed over her hair and makeup. 

One such event you diligently prepared Hajin for was the Harvest Ball, a celebration in the 12th city in honor of the fruitful harvest in the 4th. You remembered this simple moment so vividly. The ball had been so suffocating that you, Hajin and Jungkook managed to sneak out to the Sapphire Lake—after you shook the hands of the nobility and gave your scripted speech. 

You could imagine how odd the three of you looked in your formal wear, sitting at the edge of the undulating waters, extravagant clothes soiled by the damp sand. You were wearing your beautiful navy dress that day, the silk one where the skirt rippled like the waves of the lake. An intricate silver circlet sat on your head, complementing the sparkling diamond around your neck. Hajin wore a deep purple chiffon dress you’d fashioned for her, a smooth velvet ribbon wrapped tightly around her waist, much to her disdain. She looked like a true princess with her silver tiara, ruby earrings and delicate necklace. Jungkook was always quite fashionable, and today was no different. He wore his usual slacks, which accompanied the silk and navy button-up you’d masked for the occasion. It was adorned with small sparkling jewels fit for a Lieutenant General. Draped over his shoulders was his fur cape, and tucked into his belt was his sword. He looked fiercely handsome, though you supposed he always did. 

It was peaceful and quiet as the three of you caught your breath after the rather suffocating social scene. You could see the gentle puffs of air leave your mouths from the Circa Amethyst cold. Winter was shedding, though the chilliness seemed to linger. Hajin was the first to break the silence.

“Well, that was a show,” she said with a laugh. “I can’t believe there was a line to talk to you, Y/N!”

You couldn’t believe it yourself. “I thought the attention would’ve been on the 4th city healers,” you said. “They’re the ones we should be thanking for the bountiful harvest.”

“Ah, but food is guaranteed for the nobles,” Jungkook says. “They’re always more interested in the war.”

“I think they made that pretty clear today,” Hajin snorted. She sunk back on her elbows to stare far out into the lake as sand clung to her sleeves. “Do you guys remember when I begged you to explore the Blackwoods?”

“You’re not going to beg us again today, are you?” Jungkook asked. Though his tone was serious, he was smiling.

“Of course not!” Hajin said. “Come on, I’m trying to be nostalgic, here,” she teased, reaching in front of you to playfully shove Jungkook’s left shoulder. “We sure were rowdy.”

“We?” Jungkook said incredulously.

“Oh, shut up, Lieutenant High-Horse.”

“Remember when we used to skate on this lake?” you asked, trying to dissolve the play-fighting.

“Yeah, and Jungkook would eat shit every time.”

“I appreciate you needing to resurface that detail,” Jungkook bit back sarcastically.

“Oh, you’re very welcome.”

They were snarkier than normal today, perhaps paying homage to the sweet, old memories the three of you shared in the Training Corps. Jungkook and Hajin had always loved to bicker. Though with age, they seemed to have grown out of it. Tonight was special, then, for they had reverted to their old antics. A wave of nostalgia came over you.

“We were so young,” you said. It came out more wistfully than you imagined.

“We’re still pretty young,” Hajin said. “Youth is a mindset!” she giggled.

“Clearly,” Jungkook said.

“You wouldn’t understand, you grandpa,” Hajin retorted.

You had to laugh at that one. Jungkook shot you a look.

“Sorry!” you said, stifling another laugh. “I guess I was trying to say we’ve come so far.”

“That’s true,” Hajin said. “Who would’ve thought that I somehow befriended both the General and Lieutenant General?” She slumped into the sand, hands on her stomach as she stared up at the sky with a grin on her face. “I can just taste victory,” she said. “You two have led us straight to it, all right. The war will be over soon.” She sat up excitedly, pumping her fist in the air. “We’ll punish every last one of those tree huggers for ever messing with the Jung Dynasty!”

Jungkook entertained her. “Oh, really? What will you do once the war is over and every last one of the helluvians is punished?”

Hajin paused. “That’s a good question, Lieutenant,” she said. “I never really thought about it. But I can think about it now! Lemme see…” She tapped her finger on her chin. “I’ll start a Deviled Egg Ball every circa in my name. It shall be a national holiday. Let’s see… I’d also spend some more time with my father. And I do hope they’ll let me continue to wear the Darlaean uniform because I won’t be able to last two days in gowns like these. I’d also take volunteers on an expedition into the Blackwoods,” Hajin said, grinning. “I expect the two of you to come with me, by the way,” she added. “We’ll all be able to search for Guseul’s Hill!”

Jungkook looked at Hajin like she was crazy.

You were nicer. “Let’s discuss that when the war ends,” you said. “We promise.”

Jungkook shot you a look that said, We???

Hajin’s grin grew wider at both your words and Jungkook’s expression. “I’ll look forward to it!”

There was the familiar, yet ever-so-putrid stench of piss and blood. You saw dead bodies left and right—bodies of which were missing their heads or various limbs. Some bodies had already been burned to ash and would soon mix with the blood and soil for the next unit of soldiers to trample over. Your soldiers were crying into the charge—some cried in pain while others cried for mercy. It should’ve been a typical battle. Even with the few losses, you were supposed to emerge victorious. You were winning the war for fuck’s sake.

But in that moment, it felt like you lost everything.

Jungkook saw it at the same time you did. 

She was lying on the ground, face up, her eyes empty yet wide open, a hole through her head. 

First, there was the shock. It sizzled through your body and left it feeling scorched, sucked dry. Your legs threatened to give out. A distinct ringing in your ears came and never left.

Then, it was red. All you saw was red.

Was it rage? The blood? The fucking Solarian uniforms?

“Y/N!” Jungkook yelled.

You ran.

The terrain was rugged from the fallen, your feet stumbling over severed limbs and still bodies. You slipped several times, and once, your ankle twisted unnaturally, but there was no pain. It was as if you couldn’t feel anything. You didn’t stop running until you knelt over her, grasping her still warm hands, pretending like she was only in a deep sleep and she’d wake up any moment now. 

“Hajin,” you whispered, squeezing her hands. “Hajin…”

Warm blood trickled down from your forehead. You had no idea how it got there. It sunk into your vision, tinting it red. You tasted iron on your tongue. The droplets dripped from your chin. You wondered where the wailing, the bawling, was coming from until you realized it was from you. 

Yet you couldn’t stop screaming.

Fire hurtled at you. You only had half the mind to duck. 

Someone was calling your name. He was grabbing your shoulder, trying to hoist you up. You fought him, staying on the ground, wrapping your arms around Hajin’s body, rocking back and forth and back and forth.

Another ball of fire careend your way. 

You turned it into smoke with a desperate, clumsy wave of your hand.

The same someone mutilated your attacker, hot blood splattering everywhere, and yelled, “You’ll get yourself killed!” 

You barely heard him.

“H-Hajin…”

You held her close to your heart, fingers tangling into her matted hair, hoping that she would wake up, that the blood spilling from her head was a stupid illusion. Red. It was all so red. Your bloodied hand reached up to touch your necklace.

Hajin… It’s so pretty….

Aw, don’t cry! Everyone in my family has accessory trinkets. My father’s is his crown. My mother’s was a bracelet. Mine’s an earring. And now yours is a necklace. Isn’t it beautiful? Dad thought a ring would be a better fit, but I argued against it. You like to fidget with your trinket, so I thought you’d lose it if it were a ring.

Your shaking hand tucked her dark hair behind her ear to reveal her trinket. The ruby earring had lost its shine as birthstones did when magic no longer coursed through the Darlaean’s veins. You couldn’t bear to look at it, so you let her short hair fall over her ear again.

Look! Look! A secret passageway! We have to explore it! How could this have been in my room all these years? How are we only finding this now? Maybe I should’ve taken up reading earlier. Oh, Y/N, we’ve got to go in there! It’ll be like the secret passageways in my summer home! Oh, what an adventure! I wonder what we’ll find. Today’s looking out to be adventurous after all. Come on!

W-Wait! Don’t you think it’ll be dangerous?

If it was dangerous, it wouldn’t be in my room.

W-What if this is how your aunt disappeared?

Then we can finally solve that mystery! I can always go by myself!

Blood continued to spill out from the wound between her eyebrows, drenching your hands and uniform in red. Red. You were so fucking sick of it. 

It’s the Solarians. They’re murderers! The whole lot of them! Did you see the damage they’ve done in the infirmary? We’ve got to punish them, Y/N! We’ve got to get our vengeance! We’ll defeat those helluvians one day. We can’t keep letting them get away with killing our people, Y/N! Not after what happened to my poor mother! Oh, I miss her, Y/N. Isn’t it sad? She died on the battlefield when I was only four. I can’t remember much, but she had my trinket made for me. See?

You buried your face in her hair, and though blood smeared on your face, you didn’t care.

But guys, it can only go up from here! Seven battles in and… damn. I can’t even explain it! It’s like… It’s like I’m finally doing what I’ve always dreamed of doing! Every time I go out there, I’m raining hell on those stupid helluvians, knowing Mom’s watching me from somewhere, really fucking proud. 

Guys, guys, guys… I just realized something! I swear, if I died now, I would be perfectly content.

A loud sob left your lips.

I think I’ve gotten everything I’ve wanted out of my life! I’ve killed some tree huggers, I’ve finally made it to the 1st city, and I even have two amazing bodyguards!

You failed her. You failed your best friend, the crown princess, and you failed her father, the Darlaean King, as well. What would he say? You didn’t want to imagine the horror-stricken look on his face. 

The least you could do was bring her body back with you.

“What the fuck are you doing??”

You grabbed onto her arms, pain shooting up your leg as you stood up. You swore it hadn’t been there before. “I have to bring her back. I have to!” Your voice was so hoarse it was almost unrecognizable.

“Are you fucking insane?”

You ignored the voice. “Retreat!” you screamed. But that command was pointless, not without the violet smoke signal. The world was a blur. “Retreat!”

“Y/N!” The voice was angry now. “Don’t you dare order a retreat!”

“I have to!” 

“Fuck, Y/N, you can’t! We’re so close—”

“Help!” you called to no one in particular. You began dragging her limp body towards the 1st city. Your leg was beginning to feel numb from the pain. “Please, someone! Help!”

“Whatever you do, don’t shoot the retreat signal! I’ll take care of things. Do you understand?” Your shoulders were grasped. “Either leave her or get out of here alive. Do you fucking understand?”

You were a sobbing mess, a mixture of blood, snot and tears all over your face. “Yes,” you said. 

“I can’t cover for you,” he said.

“Jungkook…”

“She’s already dead, Y/N. There’s nothing we can do.”

You were crying so hard that you couldn’t breathe. But you continued to drag Hajin’s body across the battlefield. Your arms ached and your leg was threatening to give out, but you continued. You had to get her back. You owed it to the king. You owed it to her, too.

You were being targeted, but you lashed out at your attackers, immobilizing them by turning their uniforms into stone. You continued to move.

Someone grabbed Hajin’s legs and began helping you carry her across the field.

You didn’t register who he was until minutes later. The kind face, the tousled hair, the soldier, your comrade, your friend, the one who had a boxy smile. “Thank you,” you sobbed.

“I’m sorry,” Taehyung answered. “I’m sorry.”

You nodded, letting go of Hajin’s arm momentarily to throw another hex at a Solarian soldier who dared to get too close.

“Let’s bring her back home, all right?”

You won the battle. But it didn’t really matter.

The king fell to his knees when he saw his daughter’s still body. 

And the entire world wept, it seemed, for Hajin was quite the beloved princess. 

She was so young. Only 22.

I’d take volunteers on an expedition into the Blackwoods. I expect the two of you to come with me, by the way. We’ll all be able to search for Guseul’s Hill!

Let’s discuss that when the war ends. We promise.

I’ll look forward to it!

⨰ previous | series m.list | next

⨰ a/n: so.... another sad one! the next chapter is one of my favorites :') act II is the saddest act of the series, but don't worry! things get a lot more magical and romantic in the third. meanwhile, hang on and enjoy <3 the next update will be in a month (oct 25th, 2024)

please consider telling me your thoughts with a comment, an ask or a reblog :) i love hearing readers' impressions/rambles/predictions! if you want to join the taglist, send in a private message, ask, reply to this post or reblog with your request!

[docgold13]

Heroes & Villains The DC Animated Universe - Paper Cut-Out Portraits and Profiles

The Justice Guild of America 

The heroic Justice Guild were a team of superheroes based in Seaboard City on an alternate Earth. In a dimension parallel to this alternate Earth, the Justice Guild were believed to be fictional characters, having appeared in popular comic books of the middle twentieth century. Evidentially the creators of these comics had somehow subconsciously ‘tuned in’ on the events of the alternate Earth when crafting their stories.  John Stewart of the Justice League was of this earth and he grew up greatly enjoying reading the comic book exploits of the mighty Justice Guild.  

Sadly, the Justice Guild perished in a terrible nuclear war that decimated their planet, leaving it a wasteland inhabited by a small population of survivors.  As a result of the Guild’s deaths, the comic writers were no longer inspired by The Guild and the comics featuring them were eventually cancelled.

Ray Thompson, a young citizen of Seaboard City, survived the nuclear atrocities and developed vast psychic powers from the radioactive fallout. Ray used his newfound powers to recreate the world in which he lived and ‘resurrected’ his heroes. Other survivors of the war were forced to play their parts in Ray's world, becoming witless puppets to his whim.

Decades later, The Flash, Hawkgirl, Green Lantern and J'onn J'onzz found themselves transported to this parallel earth after being caught in a dimensional rift. John Stewart immediately recognized the heroes he had read about in his youth.  Following some initial confusion, The Leaguers were welcomed into the Justice Guild as fellow heroes and together they battled against the dreaded villains of the Injustice Guild.

It was not long, however, before the Leaguers were able to ascertain the truth about this world.  They discovered that young Ray, the adolescent sidekick to the Guild, was manipulating reality with his mental powers and enslaving his fellow survivors.  The imagoes of the Justice Guild he created were true to their original selves.  And when they discovered that they were not real, that they were puppets enforcing a tyrannical rule, they turned against Ray and demanded freedom for the survivors of this world.

Ray used his powers in an effort to destroy both the Guild and the League.  Working together, however, the heroes were able to defeat Ray.  The Justice Guild sacrificed themselves so to free their world and thereafter the Justice Leaguers were able to return to their home dimension.  

The Justice Guild was composed of the Streak (voiced by actor David Naughton); Tom Turbine (voiced by Ted McGinley); Catman (voiced by Stephan Root); The Siren (voiced by Jennifer Hale); and The Green Guardsman (voiced by William Katt). Actor Neil Patrick Harris voiced Ray Thompson.  The tragic team of heroes featured in the sixteenth and seventeenth episodes of the first season of Justice League, ‘Legends Parts I and II.’   

[mariacallous]

Even Israel’s friends overseas often have trouble understanding its conduct in the Israel-Hamas war and its ancillary conflicts with Hezbollah, Iran, and the Houthis. While some may be forgiving about the high numbers of civilian casualties as an inevitable part of urban warfare, it is harder for many to swallow Israel’s reluctance to allow enough humanitarian aid to reach Gaza or its seeming indifference to the massive collateral deaths involved in rescuing hostages and targeting Hamas leaders. Many are mystified by Israel’s willingness to risk what could be a devastating war with Lebanon’s Hezbollah or Iran. The back-to-back assassinations at the end of July of senior Hezbollah commander Fuad Shukr and Hamas political leader Ismail Haniyeh were unusual displays of state violence by the standards of any government, much less one that regards itself as a liberal democracy.

Israel has traditionally taken an aggressive military stance toward its enemies. But in the 10 months since the outbreak of the war in Gaza it has become more lethal than ever—killing some 40,000 people in Gaza alone. Israel’s harshest critics assert that its purpose is to destroy the last vestiges of Palestinian nationalism—or worse, to commit genocide against Palestinians. But the real explanation for the change is more complicated.

The aim of Israel’s ultra-nationalist right is, in fact, to make life unbearable for Palestinians in Gaza and the West Bank. However, only a small minority of Israelis hold such extreme views, and the far-right ministers who echo them have little or no say over war policy. Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has been careful to keep that under his personal control with a handful of like-minded officials.

Where the extreme right does have an impact—and mostly an indirect one—is on humanitarian issues. Far-right leaders don’t have so much a war strategy as a desire to see Palestinians suffer and for the war to go on. Anxious to ensure that the extreme right remains in the governing coalition, Netanyahu has bent to their will by taking a tough line on cease-fire negotiations and has only enabled sufficient humanitarian aid to reach Gaza when international pressure left him no choice. As Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich, the leader of the rightist Religious Zionist Party, told a conference of rightists on Aug. 5, he would have no problem allowing the people of Gaza to starve. “We bring in aid because there is no choice,” he explained by way of an apology to his audience.

National Security Minister Itamar Ben-Gvir has allowed inhumane conditions at the Sde Teiman detention facility for Palestinians arrested in the war to fester by refusing to move inmates to the civilian facilities under his control. He called nine soldiers suspected of sexually abusing a prisoner at Sde Teiman “our best heroes” and may have told police to back off when rightist extremists tried to block their arrest by military police last month.

To a degree, a desire for punishment and revenge is shared by the troops in Gaza, including the vast majority who have no use for the extreme right. The atrocities of Oct. 7, which remain very much alive in the Israeli consciousness, have inevitably left many soldiers at best indifferent to Palestinian suffering and at worst out for revenge. The military advocate general, Maj. Gen. Yifat Tomer-Yerushalmi, said in June that she was investigating some 70 cases of alleged wrongdoing, and that is only the tip of the iceberg.

Some observers contend that Israelis have become more violent, or at least more tolerant of violence. Certainly, among extremist settlers violence toward Palestinians has grown and is regarded as a legitimate tool to further their political ends. But even among settlers, they represent a small minority. Overall, the rate of violent crime in Israel is low by developed-country standards and until last year had been falling.

In all events, the actions of soldiers on the ground in Gaza don’t explain what is clearly a change in Israeli policy at the top. Here, the decisions made by Israel’s political and military leaders to order assassinations, bomb the Houthi-controlled port of Hodeidah at a cost of 80 Yemeni lives for one Israeli, or risk war with Iran reflect a new realpolitik.

In the wake of their momentous victory in the 1967 Arab-Israeli War, Israelis had gradually come to feel that their country’s existence was no longer imperiled. It was a gradual process that developed as one Arab country after another either reached peace agreements with Israel and acknowledged its existence (Egypt, Jordan, the United Arab Emirates, Bahrain, and Morocco) or lost the capability to mount a war (Syria). Normalization with Saudi Arabia looked to be on the horizon. The rise of the high-tech economy, growing foreign investment, and two decades of buoyant economic growth that turned Israel into a powerful and prosperous economy seemed to confirm that. The talk turned into how to “contain” the Palestinian conversation because no solution was needed.

This Weltanschauung had practical effects. From the early 1990s, defense spending as a share of gross domestic product declined. Of the three pillars of its defense strategy—victory in war, deterrence, and intelligence—Israel abandoned the first, allowed the second to erode, and therefore became overly reliant on the third. From the 1980s, Israel’s wars with unconventional forces never ended in decisive victory. With that, Israel’s ability to deter its enemies waned, as evidenced by Hamas’s willingness to repeatedly go to war with Israel from 2008 on. In place of decisive victory and effective deterrence, Israel came to rely more and more on defensive measures—walls, fences, and high-tech early-warning systems.

Israel paid a steep price for these policies on Oct. 7. Even if it quickly turned back the Hamas attack, Iran and its proxies appreciated the magnitude of the intelligence and organizational failure. Hezbollah began attacks over Israel’s northern border just a day later and the Houthis were soon firing missiles and drones at Red Sea shipping and Israel itself. In April, Iran crossed a red line in its long-running conflict with Israel by staging for the first time a direct missile and drone attack rather than using proxies.

The “total victory” that Netanyahu promises is unlikely to ever be achieved against Hamas, much less against Hezbollah or Iran. Restoring Israel’s deterrent ability is a more realistic goal, but not a painless one. Facing non-state actors with an ideological commitment to ending Israel’s existence, it is not enough to demonstrate effective defensive capabilities. It requires a willingness to strike out even in response to relatively small provocations and to go on the offensive.

For policymakers and public opinion in the United States and Europe, Israel’s recent actions seem dangerous and disproportionate, and there is no denying they risk sparking a regional war. But Israel doesn’t have very good choices. Despite its image as an always-triumphant military power, it is worthwhile remembering that Israel is a small country in terms of population, geography, and economy. It cannot afford to be taken by surprise, fight long wars, or maintain a heightened defense posture indefinitely. Israel now fully appreciates that for every new friend it has in the region, it has an implacable enemy. The Middle East remains a tough place.

The ordinary Israeli isn’t party to the calculations behind restoring deterrence. Public opinion nevertheless backs the country’s newly aggressive stance for more existential reasons.

The Hamas attack of Oct. 7 did not pose a fundamental threat to Israel, but its psychological impact was profound. For Israelis, the images of terrorists engaged in an orgy of murder, rape, and kidnapping were a tangible reminder that the threat to Israel’s existence was not idle talk by its enemies and that the consequences of even a brief moment of failure to secure the country’s borders would be severe. The months of pummeling of the country’s north by Hezbollah rockets, drones, and anti-tank missiles and the Iranian missile barrage in April have given Israelis a taste of how the end may come.

Yossi Klein Halevi captured the new national mood in a recent Wall Street Journal op-ed: “Even as we maintain the pretense of daily life, a part of us is permanently alert. We tell ourselves that we’re steady and joke about the apocalypse, because that’s the Israeli way. But during one recent sleepless night, I literally jumped when a passing motorcycle sounded like an explosion.”

Opinion surveys bear that out. An Israel Democracy Institute poll found that those expressing optimism about the future of Israel’s national security had dropped from close to 47 percent in November 2023, when the war in Gaza appeared to be going well, to 31 percent in June. Another recent survey by the Institute for National Security Studies showed that just a quarter of Israelis have a high or very high sense of personal security.

Israel faces a unique threat among nations at war or threatened with it. Russian President Vladimir Putin and Chinese President Xi Jinping would like to erase Ukraine and Taiwan, respectively, from the map, but neither wants to destroy or expel the Ukrainian or Taiwanese people. Not that life would likely be pleasant under their rule, but the Ukrainians or Taiwanese would be allowed to remain in their homes and live their lives, albeit as Russian and Chinese citizens. These are (or will be) wars of empire and conquest. Israel faces the threat of existence. For a time, Israelis thought otherwise—they no longer do.

[autumnmobile12]

The Vampires in Castlevania

Vlad III Dracula Ţepeș (Impaler) was a real person.  He was a Wallachian voivode who was born sometime between 1429 and 1431, and he died in 1476.  The exact manner of his death has been lost to history, but the common belief is he was beheaded in battle and his head was sent to Sultan Mehmed II in Constantinople as proof of his death.

As for Bram Stoker’s Dracula, some historians are starting to doubt the prince was the actual inspiration for the famous vampire.  One of the reasons for this is Stoker was a very thorough note-taker, but none of his notes for writing Dracula mention Vlad III or any of his lifetime achievements/atrocities.  So it’s possible Stoker only chose the name ‘Dracula’ because he knew it translated as ‘son of the Devil.’  Further reading - Dracula: Sense and Nonsense by Elizabeth Miller.

Carmilla is the name of a lady vampire in the novella Carmilla by Sheridan le Fanu, a story that is actually older than Stoker’s novel.  It features a lesbian relationship between Carmilla and the protagonist, Laura, and was written as a criticism of the Victorian view of women, specifically repressed sexuality.

Varney also comes from a book.  Varney the Vampire or The Feast of Blood was a penny dreadful written by James Malcolm Rymer and Thomas Peckett Prest.  (I haven’t read this one all the way through, but there is a scene where Varney is struggling to get over a garden wall, and I think that’s hilarious.  Not exactly apex predator material.)

Varney:  You think you have me stymied, don’t you.

Trevor:  No, I think a garden wall has you stymied.

Lenore is the name of a German poem written by Gottfried August Bürger.  It’s about a woman named Lenore who curses God because her beloved did not come back from war, so Death kidnaps her to reunite them, effectively condemning her soul for eternity.  It’s not about a vampire, but the poem has had a hand in influencing vampire literature.

Anyway, does anyone else really want to see Lenore cheering Trevor on in the last battle?  Or stealing the knife and ending Death herself.  Cause I do now.

The closest thing to a vampire in Viking folklore is the draugr, although this creature is more of a restless ghost than what we think of as a vampire.  They haunt the graves of the dead and guard the treasures they acquired in life by driving humans insane, drinking their blood, eating their flesh, and other nasty things.

Side note:  I’m really curious as to what led Godbrand to becoming a vampire.  Immortality didn’t really play a huge factor in Old Norse culture since the Vikings believed a glorious death in battle was the one and only way to go to Valhalla.  Other deaths that were deemed shameful or unworthy landed you in Helheim, which I really need to address further in a separate post.

Japan also doesn’t have an exact vampire equivalent, but they do have some yokai spirits that have vampire-like characteristics, including but not limited to:

Nukekubi:  A flying head that detaches from its human body at night and attacks people to drink their blood.

Rokurokubi:  A similar creature to nukekubi except the head doesn’t detach but rather travels from the body via an elongated neck.

Nure-Onna:  The ‘drenched woman’ is a large serpent with the head of a woman that drinks blood.

Personally, I would have loved to see Cho’s head fly off to attack someone simply to see Sypha, Alucard, and Trevor briefly panic.

[blurredcolour]

You Arms Pull Me In Like The Tide Pulls Me Under | Part Three

Your Arms Pull Me In Like The Tide Pulls Me Under Masterlist

Dick Winters x Female SOE Agent!Reader

For the first time since you met, fate seems to be conspiring to keep you and Dick apart, forcing you to find new ways to remain connected to one another.

Warnings: Military Violence, Discussion of Injuries and Death, Separation, Fear, Discussion of Nazi Atrocities, PTSD, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Language, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Note: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal of Dick Winters by Damian Lewis. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within. Non-English is denoted in italics.

Word Count: 4568

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

Bastogne – December 21, 1944

Grasping the handle of your F-S knife, Dick chopped at the thick layer of ice in the ammunition box braced between his knees, revealing the frigid water beneath. He planted the blade into the dirt at the edge of his foxhole, starting to spread shaving cream onto his cheeks as his friend Nixon threw back the tarp covering the next hole over.

He emerged into the milky light, the fog still thickly besetting the Bois Jacques, as he stumbled over holding out your scarf. Dick motioned with his head for him to set it on the ground beside him and Nixon simply sat down there himself. “Thanks for lending it to me.”

“You were shivering so much after your recon I could hear your bones rattling.” He muttered as he dragged his razor over his stubble, flinching at the chill of the blade each time it met his skin.

Nixon gave him a lopsided smirk. “Sure your girl won’t mind me borrowing it? It still smells real nice.”

Dick glared at him out of the corner of his eye. “I have half a mind to stab you with her knife.”

Nixon’s grin only widened. “The poetry of it would not be lost on me, I assure you.”

With an affectionate roll of his eyes, Dick quickly finished shaving before retrieving the scarf from his friend’s hand and wrapping it tightly around his neck, tucking it beneath the collar of his ODs. Nixon was right, there was still a hint of your scent woven into the fibres and he could only hope to hold onto it. Merely nine days ago he had left you on the platform in Paris, and not three days ago he had stood at the crossroads outside Bastogne, staring back to where he knew you slept safely in your bed, making a vow to keep it that way. Your body bore enough scars from this war, he would not permit the accumulation of any more.

His hands found their way into his pockets, lips twitching as his fingers brushed against the edge of your cap badge stowed inside the right one. Pressing it between his thumb and forefinger, his heart warmed somewhat against the chill of the morning. The eerie silence was broken by Lipton’s shouted warning of ‘incoming!’ and he and Nixon quickly threw themselves into the bottom of the foxhole to take cover as yet another barrage of artillery rained down on their position. Working the pad of his thumb along the grooves of the maple leaves, he took slow, steady breaths, focusing on each ridge, on the raised lettering, using it as a tool to ground him amidst the maelstrom that filled the woods.

As the chaos eased off, the men slowly began to emerge from their cover, and Dick took stock of the dead and wounded. It was a tedious and heart-rending routine they had fallen into since taking up this position. Reports given and calm restored for the time-being, Dick took advantage of the rare moment with no demands on him to delve his hand into the breast pocket of his jacket and retrieve your letter. The creases were becoming well worn, the words nearly memorized, but the solace it brought him was no less profound.

When, at last, supplies reached them after Patton broke through the German lines, Dick was both taken aback and yet somehow unsurprised when his correspondence from regiment included a bound packet of letters bearing your handwriting. You were a determined woman, and true to your word it seemed you had been writing almost daily. With your posting in Paris, and connections at Allied HQ, your letters had been delivered through military channels rather than civilian ones.

Ordering the runner to wait, he quickly dashed off a reply to you. He kept the message free of sentiment, knowing that it would be read by numerous people along the way, but was desperate to send something to you all the same. Folding it carefully, he addressed it to you care of Major Wilkes at Allied HQ, aware that he might receive a reprimand, but after everything he’d just endured the idea of that really held no fear for him.

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

Paris – January 7, 1945

It had been an agonizing three-and-a-half weeks. More accurately, the last two-and-a-half had been pure torture while the first had simply been filled with longing. As promised, you had written letters almost every day and sent them through the Allied post office. Letters about the weather, the book you were reading, the cat that lived in the courtyard of your building. Mundane topics that would pass by the censors and were in no way what you had actually wished to talk about, but you had done your best to keep the contents light as all the magazine articles recommended a lady ought to do.

And sometimes it felt like you needed advice on the subject. On how to field strip a Sten gun? Absolutely not – you could and had done that in the dark with your eyes closed. But supporting a man in the fight while you remained in the relative comfort and safety of Paris had been an entirely new experience for you.

The news of the German assault through the Ardennes, however, had put an abrupt halt on the festive feeling that had been unfurling across a city ready to celebrate its first liberated Christmas. It had not been necessary for Major Wilkes to ask you to stay late that first night, rifling through any and all decoded intelligence awaiting your translation from German into English, desperate to find out just how they had blindsided everyone. Late nights had run into early mornings, with copious amounts of artificially sweetened coffee consumed to keep you alert, thinking back wistfully to the Benzedrine tablets you would have carried if you were still a fully functional SOE operative.

The news had been dire – 2nd Battalion of the 101st surrounded in the Bois Jacques above Foy in the brutal cold, woefully undersupplied, under near-constant artillery fire. It had been all you could do to keep Dick’s face out of your mind as your eyes had raked over page after page of German, writing your preliminary translations in pencil before sending them to be typed up in order of importance. There had not been enough of importance in front of you to make a difference, it seemed.

A knock on the door to your small, windowless office had sent you scrambling to cover up the avalanche of paper covering your desk, but Major Wilkes had stepped into the room with a reassuring smile.

“At ease, Sergeant, it’s only me.” He had set a new cup of coffee on your desk, making you blink up at him owlishly before you had murmured your thanks. “I wanted to bring you word that the 101st continues to hold the line. Your Captain and his men are doing an excellent job.”

You had pressed your lips together shyly to hear the Major refer to Dick as ‘your Captain’ but had managed a nod of thanks. Your commanding officer had been slipping you bits and pieces of information as they came in, continuing to impress you with the fact that he never seemed to miss a thing. He had barely run into you and Dick at that restaurant over a week ago and yet he had retained that information and since taken the time to keep you updated on Dick’s situation.

“I understand you visit the post office almost daily on your lunch?” He asked.

Looking to him sharply, it had become even clearer to you just how astute Major Wilkes truly was. You had known him to be an acquaintance of Colonel Buckmaster, head of SOE’s F Section, for that was the reason why you had been placed under his command when you insisted on continuing to make yourself useful following the explosives incident in Normandy. But it had become increasingly apparent that Buckmaster and Wilkes may have spent a great deal of time together in similar fields to your own.

“I do sir, yes.” You had replied, taking a sip of the fresh coffee he had delivered even though your stomach had rolled in protest; you had needed the caffeine to keep working.

“Might I suggest you bring the letters to me, and I will send them internally. God knows when the actual post will reach them.”

“Sir I…” You had stuttered, taken aback by the generosity of his offer.

“I see you in here sixteen hours a day, Sergeant. Don’t you think your letters will help him just as much?” He had raised an eyebrow and you had nodded slowly.

“Good, I expect to see the first one on my desk tomorrow at 0900 for mail call. And don’t stay past midnight tonight, you’ve done that for the last three days.” He had looked to you firmly and you had nodded rapidly.

“Yes, sir.”

The news of Patton’s break through had brought with it some sense of relief but it paled in comparison to that brought by the tattered scrap of paper which found its way onto your desk that day in early January.

Two sentences scrawled in pencil upon paper bearing all manner of stains and splotches that reduced you to tears of the sweetest relief. Dick was alive. Yes, the reports all said so but to see something addressed to you in his handwriting made it real.

The pace of the war seemed to change after that – time and troop movements speeding up immeasurably. The promised arrival of six fresh-faced CWACs taking up residence in your apartment, needing constant supervision on the worldly Parisian streets only served to blur your perception of time even further. Certainly, they had arrived with a captain and sergeant of their own, but not one of them had set foot outside Canada before, save a brief stint in England, and relied heavily on you to ensure they were able to make their way to and from their posting – mercifully in the same building as yours.

Feeling not unlike a mother goose with a trail of goslings behind her, you did your best to keep them out of trouble with locals, and soldiers alike, leaving you little time to enjoy your now regular correspondence with Dick. Nor the privacy, for their Sergeant shared your bed with another girl on a single cot crammed in the corner of the room, the other four girls sharing the second bedroom. Their feminine influence did prove useful in finally eradicating your habit of cursing, however, which you had been trying to accomplish for Dick’s sake anyway.

One evening in late February, the sound of Glenn Miller and his orchestra echoed from the kitchen, accompanied by their bright laughter as they cleaned up from dinner. The girls were more than a little distracted by practicing their dance steps with each other to prepare for a dance hall outing the following night. Shaking your head fondly you signed off on your latest letter to Dick, sealing the envelope with a few dabs of glue before walking to the front hall to slip it into your shoulder bag to post tomorrow. The sound of heavy boots on the stairs set the hairs on the back of your neck on end, even in liberated Paris, while the subsequent knock on the apartment door had your heart skittering against your ribs.

Several of the girls appeared in the doorway to the kitchen but you stopped them with the firm gesture of your palm, raising up on your toes to take near-silent steps before glancing through the peep hole of the door. The sight of the Officer’s Airborne patch on the garrison cap of the man outside had you clutching at the letter still in your hand tightly, but as he swivelled his head you were startled to see dark brown hair rather than the ruddy red you had been hoping for.

Pulling at the chain before unlocking the deadbolt, you tried to deny the feeling of your heart sinking through the floor. If something had happened, the reports would have told you. Major Wilkes would have told you. You exhaled shakily as you opened the door to see Lieutenant – No, Captain Nixon – standing on your doorstep with the distinct shape of a paper wrapped bouquet tucked into the crook of his arm and an envelope pinched between his fingers.

“Good evening, Captain Nixon.” You assembled what you hoped was a calm smile on your face.

“Ma’am.” He smiled in return, and you couldn’t help but note that the youthful softness he’d had about him in Normandy seemed to have been etched from his features. “With Major Richard Davis Winter’s compliments and regrets.”

At the sound of his voice, the girls flooded into the foyer behind you with all the subtlety of a herd of cattle, making you bite the inside of your cheek as you accepted the offered flowers and envelope.

“Thank you very much, Captain. Please convey my gratitude and understanding.” You swallowed, realizing now that though his battalion had been pulled back to Mourmelon-le-Grand for well-earned rest, it seemed you were not going to have the chance to lay eyes on Dick for quite some time.

“Of course.” He grinned, eyes dropping to the letter still clutched in your other hand. “Is there anything I might deliver to him in return?” He prompted with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh…oh!” You swallowed and quickly held it out to him. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“My pleasure.” He nodded. “Have a good night. Ladies.” He nodded to the cluster of women behind you, earning a chorus of giggles and farewells before disappearing down the stairs.

Tucking the letter into the pocket of your skirt, away from prying eyes, you lay the bouquet on the dining table to gingerly unwrap the paper, revealing a dozen red roses. A collective gasp sounded from all seven of your mouths at the surely astronomical cost. The amount of personal funds that Captain Nixon added to the sum Dick had sent with him on his leave to Paris would be a secret he kept well beyond the end of war. The worn enamel pitcher from the kitchen suddenly appeared on the table in front of you along with a paring knife, the girls settling into the chairs and begging for you to tell them all about your Major and the handsome Captain he had sent with flowers in his stead.

Carefully trimming the end of each rose stem before placing it into the makeshift vase, you spun a tale of an accidental collision with then-Captain Winters at the train station. His friend Captain Nixon had been there too, and you had shown them around Paris to make up for causing such a ruckus on their arrival. Partially based in truth, by the time you got to the dinner and dancing, dreamy sighs reached your ears. Nestling the last rose in amongst the rest of the bouquet you smiled softly at how lovely the dining room suddenly looked, but the letter was fairly burning a hole in your pocket.

You were unspeakably grateful when their sergeant interrupted their barrage of questions with a firm reminder that the kitchen was still in a state of disarray, and though they let out a collective moan, they trudged back in to finish cleaning up. Mouthing a silent ‘thank you’ in her direction, you quickly slipped off to your room, shutting the door and tearing into the envelope somewhat savagely.

The personal tone of his letter, a clear indication of the level of trust he held in Captain Nixon to carry around such honest words, made your heart ache fondly. You wished that the letter you had placed in his friend’s hand was comparatively tender, but you had written it, as always, with the expectation that several others would be privy to its contents before it reached him. Re-reading it several times before tucking it away safely in the false bottom of your suitcase, you knew it was a piece of him you would hold onto for the rest of your life.

More surprises lay in store for you that month when the girls took it upon themselves to write to their superiors in London, recommending you for a promotion. A King’s crown was soon in place of your sergeant’s stripes to denote your position of Company 47’s Sergeant Major. It was a promotion which amused Major Wilkes greatly, seeing as you’d gained it through honest means, while your place as a CWAC most certainly was not.

As the Allies advanced into Germany in the early spring, however, it proved to be one of the few sources of amusement in your office. Certainly, the promise of an ever-closer victory in Europe was a spot of radiance on the horizon, but the flood of paper being returned for translation was unveiling a darker and darker truth of just what had happened under Nazi rule. You had heard the rumors, and seen their violence firsthand, but the liberations of the camps, the cold and calculated way in which these things were discussed in the documents before you – it was taking a toll.

The news of the German surrender had brought with it riotous celebration throughout the streets of Paris, but you had only felt a moment a quiet relief that Dick would no longer be subjected to enemy fire – for now. The battle of the Pacific still raged for the American army, and you could not help but dread the possibility of his redeployment there. Major Wilkes startled you on your way back into the office with just two days later with some news.

“I’m sorry to say, Sergeant Major, you won’t be remaining with your company much longer.” His eyes held their usual spark of mischief as they did whenever he spoke of your ‘company’ but you tilted your head curiously at his words.

“Sir?”

“Plans have been in place for the eventuality to see justice done in the face of the heinous acts I know you have been busy translating.”

You swallowed dryly and nodded in reply.

“We are to move into Germany as soon as possible, please return to your lodgings and pack your things and report back to me immediately.”

“Yes sir.”

It was easier said than done, navigating the streets still in the throes of celebration, but you managed nonetheless to gather your belongings and leave a note of farewell to the girls. By the time you returned to the office with your suitcase, the clerks had nearly finished packing everything into boxes and the twenty of you working directly under Major Wilkes made your way down to a transport truck to begin the long drive. Settling in for an uncomfortable ride, you did not concern yourself with the precise destination like many of the other staff who were whispering amongst themselves. ‘Germany’ would suffice for now.

It wasn’t until mid afternoon the next day when you arrived in Nuremberg, with pockets of the city relatively untouched by the air raids and invasion, that your curiosity was piqued.

“Nuremberg, sir?” You asked him as you worked together to unpack into a new set of offices.

“A hunch.” He said with a knowing grin, and you had a feeling there was an awful lot more to it than that.

Spring wore on into summer, the documents you worked on grew more disturbing, and the London Conference convened proposing an International Military Tribunal to take place in Nuremberg, confirming your suspicions about Major Wilke’s ‘hunch.’ Dick, it seemed, was enjoying his time as an occupation commander in the Alps – not four hours away and yet duty still managed to keep you apart. The office was growing busier, more cramped as men no longer required for the fight were able to return behind desks and take up the work of translation alongside you and your colleagues.

Despite the increasing volume of personnel under his command, Major Wilkes still managed to keep an eye on you, not missing the way you had developed a tendency to stare vacantly off into the corner of the room from time to time. Physically present yet taken back to some moment in time you’d been forced to bury for the sake of carrying on with the tasks before you – the face of the German soldier as he drove his bayonet into your side, the ten second plunge into the inky blackness from the belly of a silent plane, the wailing of that boy’s mother when you’d returned with her dead son draped across your shoulders.

“Sergeant Major?” He interrupted one such moment in mid-July, making you sit up straighter as you were caught red-handed.

“Yes sir?”

“My office.”

You stood quickly, feet briefly snagging on the legs of your chair making you struggle awkwardly before you were able to follow him into his office.

“Close the door.” He said firmly and you were quick to do so. “This is long overdue.” He muttered and held out a piece of a paper. “Seventy-two-hour pass to Austria. My apologies for the length of time it took to arrange it, as well as the short notice.”

You stared at it openly before he thrust it a little closer in your direction and you stepped forward to take it from him. “Th…thank you very much Major Wilkes.” You gulped roughly, holding it between both hands as though to protect it.

“Now I have it on good authority there is a supply truck departing for Zell Am See at 1030 whose driver would not be opposed to a passenger. You’ll find the address tucked inside of your pass. It will most likely not be so easy to make your way back, which is why you have seventy-two hours. You’d best be on your way, Sergeant Major.” He smirked, leaning back against the edge of his desk.

You could not help the smile that stretched from ear to ear, nodding rapidly. “Sir, yes sir, absolutely I will be back on time I swear it. Thank you very much, sir.” Turning quickly, you nearly raced out of the door before reminding yourself to walk at a calm pace in front of your colleagues. You grabbed your shoulder bag from the bottom drawer of your desk, locking up the documents you had been working on, and snagged your uniform jacket from the back of your chair before making out way out through the main door of the office.

It was only once you were out in the hall that you began a mad dash for the entrance, not even having the time to return to your billet for a bag. You checked the address on the slip of paper inside your pass before running almost all the way there, drawing far too much attention to yourself – and not caring in the least. You arrived with ten minutes to spare, a sticky mess beneath your woollen uniform, finding the driver who helped you into the cab of the supply truck. He was a gruff, middle-aged man, but after you caught your breath, a few well placed questions easily drew him into telling his life story, filling the time as you wound your way higher into the mountains that Dick had described in his letters.

It was mid-afternoon by the time you arrived at the supply depot in Zell Am See, but you still had yet to reach Dick’s lodgings. Truth be told, you hadn’t even told him you were coming; there was a chance he might not even be there. Walking down the side of the road toward the hotel you knew they had requisitioned, you swallowed as you heard a jeep pull up beside you, rather missing the reassuring weight of your knife at your hip.

“If that man doesn’t sing you ‘Kiss Me Goodnight, Sergeant Major’, he’s just not living his life to the fullest.” Your eyes widened as Captain Nixon grinned up at you from the driver’s seat.

You let out a bark of laughter, though the accompanying smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’m impressed you recognize my rank badge…” You couldn’t help but admit.

“Used to be my job to know things.” He muttered, a touch of sadness in his voice.

“Not all it’s cracked up to be, knowing things.” You trailed off in a similar tone.

“I apologize I don’t have any flowers on me this time.” He tilted his head with a smirk, breaking through your melancholy silence. “But climb in, I’ll drive you the rest of the way.”

You quickly slid into the front seat beside him, thanking him profusely as he took you up the winding road to the hotel and through the checkpoint with ease. You followed him inside the building, removing your cap with its replacement badge, and up the stairs before he gestured at the door to room 308. Feeling suddenly nervous, you glanced over to Captain Nixon only to see him walking away down the hall.

“Captain Nixon where are you going?” You whispered after him anxiously.

“Trust me, he’s seen enough of my face.” He winked and disappeared into another room a few doors down.

Taking a fortifying breath, you raised your hand to knock.

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

Read Part Four

Your Arms Pull Me In Like The Tide Pulls Me Under Masterlist

Tag list: @allthingsimagines, @bcon24

[quidfree]

accidentally deleted this ask but for the anon asking what my gripes were with iwtv’s finale / this season:

look i love this show. ive never read the books* and i thoroughly enjoyed the one time i watched the movie mostly bc of tom cruise and kirsten dunst acting circles around bradd pitt. the show to me really elevates the material, it has phenomenal writing, the acting is obviously stellar, i think it does a great job at being that dark gothic romance that is both deeply tragic and fucked up and funny etc etc.

a key element of the adaptation is evidently that they have recontexualised the characters in ways that both add depth and nuance to them. when we meet him louis is a black gay man in a deeply racist and homophobic setting who hardens himself to survive and rise above as much as he can. claudia is a young black woman who has always faced societal violence and neglect because of this. armand’s whole arc as an exploited and fetishised child whose trauma has become his identity is also encased in colonial violence. i’m not from the communities they are so i can’t speak for everyone, but i think for the most part the show is pretty good at having these changes enrich the show and acknowledge what an impact this has on dynamics and the characters. s1 explicitly addresses how lestat handwaves away the racism louis experiences as something he can just overcome because he’s a vampire now, how lestat himself plays into racist imbalances of power in his patriarchal relationship in their home esp wrt claudia, how he goes to capture claudia on the train being portrayed to echo a slave-catcher, etc. s2 has the trial obviously set up like a lynching (claudia says so much herself), with lestat’s testimony framing the two black people he abused as the aggressors and himself as the victim, and even when lestat is genuinely apologetic and remorseful it’s because he’s allowed his tears and victimhood while louis and claudia are not. all this to say there is obviously lot of conscious thought that goes into the way the characters’ races feed into the show and the story and it oftentimes is very effective, as well as aware of audience perceptions of the characters and how the irl audience’s own biases might need addressing.

unfortunately for me there are two aspects of s2 that i feel are kind of outliers in this regard, and not in a way that makes sense/feels intentionally uncomfortable to me. 1) is madeline’s backstory, and 2) is the change of having armand actually have been plotting to murder both louis and claudia at the trial, and lestat have been the one to save louis.

1) to me is just really… weird. i feel like i know why they wrote her that way. it makes madeline a ~morally grey character~ by default so she fits in with the rest of the cast, and there is an element to the very real misogynistic vitriol and violence post-ww2 directed at french women even falsely accused of having slept with the invading nazi occupiers that feels very in line with the things the show likes to examine and point to as examples of plain old human barbarism and othering. but the way they present it in the show, unquestioned, not as a dubious survival tactic or a multi-faceted situation but an actual love story that madeline has no remorse for, is very off-putting to me. madeline is not louis and claudia who ignore the atrocities of the war because those are human affairs and they are no longer human but supernatural monsters. madeline is a normal person whose peers- jewish people, queer people (surely her own community), political dissidents of any kind- have been put down like dogs throughout the occupation, sent to prison camps at best and death camps at worst, and she never even has a line of dialogue addressing conflicting feelings about this? no one ever challenges her on it? the people painting nazi symbols on her shop are consistently framed as villainous? it just feels weird to me that claudia’s “weird white lady” has this saccharine romance with her, a black woman, without the show ever exploring any friction in that dynamic given madeline’s apparently uncomplicated nazi romance. madeline being a femme tondue is a great idea, but the execution leaves to be desired imo.

2) … oh boy. i feel like i’m wading into discourse here bc i’ve seen really confrontational takes on this, esp a lot of “responses to” people who didn’t like this change, where this is presented as those people being dumb babies who are blinded by their liking of armand and don’t Understand The Show. im sure there are those of which this is true (and ppl have explained better than me how antiblackness feeds into everyone jumping into ship wars and defense of louis’ abusive partners in general) but also it feels very reductive of some valid questions people have. people can argue the change is consistent with armand’s characterisation, which, sure, even though i feel like it feels a little flimsy / contradictory for armand to finally Choose The Coven and allow for them to execute louis but then go feed him blood and allow him to revenge-kill all of them immediately afterwards, etc. i don’t mind characters being More Evil on the Evil Vampire show.

my bigger question is why this change was made. bc my sense is that the change is less about armand than it is about lestat, and specifically setting the stage for the loustat reconciliation, and i do not love that. it’s one thing to make it so armand wanted to kill louis too, just for the extra drama of daniel’s reveal and scale of his betrayal, another push for louis to leave. it’s another to make it so lestat was the heroic captive who not only was forced to be there by armand as per but also bravely exerted the limits of his strength to save louis from execution and then nobly didn’t tell him about this. these are both monstrous vampires who have abused and betrayed louis in their own ways (armand has already orchestrated claudia’s death and kept louis in a purportedly protective mind prison for decades! that’s betrayal enough! you could even have armand originally want to kill louis too and then change his mind!), so why at this juncture choose to have lestat save louis in a move that was originally armand’s? just from the way the audience (fandom and casual watchers) is reacting it makes me wonder if the showrunners were just oblivious to how much this worsens people’s takes of armand (the brown man) being the “real villain” and lestat (the white man) being the redeemed self-sacrificing figure. i’m sure people will say this is placing too much weight on race blah blah blah but it was so jarring to me and the change in viewer attitudes so immediate that it left a really bad taste in my mouth.

inb4 the inevitable: i actually really liked the loustat reunion in the finale! i don’t hate loustat! i like all of the dynamics between all of the characters, albeit my favourite louis ship is louis x therapy (an obvious inference from my favourite character being daniel lmao). this is not a change that i hate because i’m a bitter lestat hater. i have no issue with armand doing bad things, episode 5 was my favourite episode! i just think this particular choice was weird, and felt kind of thoughtless in the service of speedrunning a lestat hero role in advance of his season.

i have other less tangential complaints but overall i think this is a great season of television. these are just two points that stood out to me as being handled with less grace than i expect of iwtv.

*i just started reading the first book today on the airplane so. we’ll see how that goes. book loustat is so funny compared to the show. book 1 louis hates his ass 😭