#i always question if i can claim it as ive been denied it so often and i cant defend myself as i dont know anything

[genderqueerdykes]

im intersex and transmasc/a trans man and ive questioned being transfem as well, but its so hard for me to feel i can claim that when i dont present femininely very often and my connection is mainly to femininity itself, with womanhood its complicated... im definitely intergender and feel it's likely i'm trans because of having hyperandrogenism, i feel i may be a woman otherwise and have always felt connection to womanhood just without *being* a woman, its just not what happened for me (#complicated trans intersex things), i just always yearn for womanhood even though i just know deep down its not for me and never couldve been bc of being intersex, it just wouldnt have ever felt right. personality wise still i am very feminine, more feminine than masculine, very into feminine things/have very predominantly feminine interests, so all these things make me feel connection to the transfem label but i end up feeling like since i don't ever really look feminine that often and it's unclear to me if i'm considered to have a feminine gender (gender is a mess) that i can't claim the label (honestly since then i think i don't experience transmisogyny very often and some say that's a requirement to be transfem)

so lost on it, any time i tried calling myself transfem i felt like a fake and that if people saw how masculine i am that they would call me a fake (honestly i dont even know if that would happen if that itself would be considered transmisogyny for someone like me since i do identify as a transmasc too and im more masculine now because of being on testosterone even though it is as significant as it is because of the hyperandrogenism... Idk if it counts as transmisogyny towards a transfem intersex person when its partly from being on testosterone even tho it wouldnt show up as strongly if you were perisex, yknow. more complications sigh)

so there's a lot of nuance to being intersex, and i totally understand why you're so confused and lost, because that's where i'm still at right now, so don't feel bad at all

it can take a very long time to kind of unwind that you're not perisex and that perisex logic doesn't apply to you. it doesn't really matter if you're "more" feminine than masculine, honestly, sometimes that makes it harder for intersex people, because when you have more subtle masculine features, people often think you are a transfeminine person attempting to hide those features due to dysphoria or trying to pass. it's very annoying, people are invasive in ways that aren't necessary

afab intersex people are often denied our femininity wholesale due to our masculine features. i was told i wasn't a "real girl" and i couldn't do things like wear makeup, for example, without getting absolutely ridiculed for no reason by my peers. i was also ridiculed for carrying a purse, or wearing feminine clothing. i was told i was "too manly to be a girl" because of my face shape, the slope of my shoulders, the flatness/sagginess of my chest, and my beard/mustache and body hair. i wasn't a guy either though, because i had a high pitched voice and a very obvious hourglass figure, so people just couldn't seem to figure out exactly what they wanted out of me. i was ridiculed into chest binding because people thought me wearing any other type of bra was me "trying to be a girl".

it's very confusing and it's a hard place to exist in in life. i think perisex people just don't really quite get how hard it is to exist as an intersex person. our experiences are so unique that you really can't apply any other logic to it other than our own specific situations. every intersex person is different as well.

if you find yourself relating to this, then it sounds like you experience a transfeminine intersex experience. keep in mind that it doesn't really matter what your agab is due to how you've been treated and if you've been denied the ability to identify as feminine or female in some way due to your agab, it is a transfeminine experience. it's just important to remember to never speak over or for amab transfeminine people, of course.

also, once you are on testosterone for a while, if you choose HRT, and you choose you present femininely, people more than likely will interpret you as transfeminine. i was getting so aggressively she/her'd when i had my long pink hair that i had to shave it off because i was sick of it. i had an old woman in a dollar store rush up to me to tell me to be careful, because there are people out there who like to attack certain girls. i really appreciated the gesture but it just goes to show you how people jump to conclusions very quickly when they see a "masculine body" and "feminine clothing" combined.

i hope that helps you out, i know it'll take some time for you to be able to come to terms with everything. i still am, myself, it's hard. there's no guidebook to being intersex, i wish our experiences were more well spoken of, but for now we simply have to do our best with what we have. i'm going to write a few zines and leaflets down the road to hopefully help other intersex people like us who are confused and need a sense of community. take care of yourself, hope you're able to sort everything out. good luck

[fuzziemutt]

Seeing peeps celebrate dîa de lös mûertos (just so it's not in the search) just reminds me how much of a cultural limbo i exist in

Like having a white dad who bailed out when you were a kid (leaving us from poor to poor as hell) and a Hispanic mom who tries to pass for white with internalized racism (from the racism she and her family were subjected to) and practically refused to teach us any of our culture along with growing up with only one friend who even cared to see you outside of school along with major memory issues really left me in this weird existence of not celebrating majority of things nor knowing anything about family and culture from either side

Like yeah I've made banana leaf tamales with my grandma the few times we made them together but no i don't speak Spanish nor know what counts as latin/hispanic meals as i grew up in a house where dinner was anything my slightly older brothers could make

I spent so much of my younger years surrounded by fellow latine people (and my grandma) but i hardly remember them as by 12 my mom lost her job and i didn't leave my house beyond for school where i had 1 or 2 friends until i went to college where i still only made a couple friends before quarantine hit

Plus I'm white passing due to my dad so i was never "hispanic" enough (along with not knowing fluent Spanish but i also didn't really know English either) to be included in the hispanic group of kids and still am arguably excluded today

Is this what the 3rd culture feels like ? Where you're not connected to literally anything and you're just existing

Idk this has no point i just was thinking about how disconnected i am from it all in a way

Like I didn't grow up with American white culture but did grow up with arguable white privilege in a way since i had my dad's german last name but also grew up with broken English that caused negative remarks towards me yet no other celebrations beyond birthdays and 'american' holidays yet we'd make arroz con leche as a treat and occasionally buy from Hispanic stores

My mom is an immigrant from Guatemala but i couldn't tell you anything about the place beyond worry dolls; i went there and met my great grandma once but i never knew enough Spanish to understand what anyone was saying and my mom tends to try and blend in with white people because of her internalized racism

I was close to my mom's brothers and her parents (who have been divorced since my mom was a kid and there's a whole drama there) but I feel we still were disconnected especially as the family has a lot of familial trauma and keeps their distance plus the physical distance as well given they're in another state (just one state over but still distance)

My dad's family never wanted anything to do with us because they were racist towards my mom and because we were my dad's kids and they hated him

I'm just rambling really about something I've thought about for a long while that i still don't know how to word; i just don't know who i can connect to as i never experienced what white nor hispanic peeps experienced and having severe mental illnesses never helped

[womburt]

Hi! I saw that your requests were open and was wondering if you could write a Helsknight X reader post? :D

And if you don't write for him maybe something with any hermit where the reader is like rouge code that's hijacked the sever?

Reader with they/them pronouns please!

Knight in Sopping-Wet Armor; Helsknight x Reader

Hi Anon! I’ll admit I did not know very much about Helsknight, but I had a lot of fun looking into him while I was researching (watching last seasons Hermitcraft lol)! It was fun to reminisce

I may or may not have gotten a lil carried away, I just love the enemies to lovers trope! Also! Can we tell that my favorite cliche is cuddles?? I’ve only written it into 5/7 fics ive posted…

Anyway, hope you enjoy!

*Warning! This fic contains profanity! Don’t read if this could upset you!

------

Y/n was a very lucky hermit to have a neighbor like Welsknight. 

They thought this to themself as they leisurely walked toward his house, enjoying the sunshine of the day. Wels was such a generous friend, always willing to help. Which is why they often found themself at his door when they needed assistance or supplies. This was one of those times.

Stopping in front of the large wooden door, Y/n raised a fist and knocked politely, rocking back and forth on their feet. The door swung open soon after, only to reveal a form Y/n was not expecting. 

Ruby red eyes caught their gaze, narrowed and untrusting. Thick, dark eyebrows lay heavy above them, a long, roman nose settled in between them. Y/n felt their voice catch in their throat as they admired him, taking in all his features. Their heart rate picked up at the sight of him. He was frowning at Y/n, lips drawn into a thin line. 

“You’re trespassing.” He spoke up after a moment, voice low and unsettling. There was little inflection to his tone, clearly uninterested in interacting with Y/n for very long. 

They raised their eyebrows at his claim, tilting their head in confusion. 

“Me? You’re the stranger standing in Wels’ doorway. Where is he?” Y/n accused, shaking their head and matching his stare with an intimidating one of their own, or at least - as intimidating as they could manage. 

The man didn’t bat an eye at their allegation, looking them up and down without moving his head. Y/n suddenly felt very uncomfortable. It was as if he was assessing them, looking them over for any weak points. Subconsciously, they crossed their arms over their chest, hugging themself. 

“Go away.” He turned up his head, denying them a true answer. 

Y/n narrowed their own eyes defiantly. 

“Is he in there? Wels!” They asked before shouting over the tall man’s shoulder. Y/n peeked over him on their tip toes, searching for any sign of their knightly friend. 

The stranger was taken aback, raising his hands to block their view and voicing his frustrations. 

“Y/n?” Wels’ voice was quiet, seemingly coming from upstairs. Y/n made an ‘Aha!” sound of victory and shoved their way past the stranger, locating Wels’ stairs. They bumped the dark-haired man into the wall as they did so, ignoring his mumbled complaints. 

Y/n took the stairs two at a time, finding Wels on the second floor, completely unharmed. He was ruffling through chests, looking strangely calm for there being a strange man in his home. 

“Wels! Who is that man downstairs? He’s rude.” Y/n asked with a sigh of relief, sitting down on Wels’ bed. 

The blond laughed at their expression, continuing whatever task he’d been doing before they rushed upstairs. 

“That, my dear, is Helsknight.”

Before they had a chance to ask about him further, the man in question was standing at the top of the stairs, glaring at Y/n’s form on the bed. 

“Welsknight, your friend is obnoxious. Do they always shove their way into the house like this?”

Y/n rolled their eyes and flopped back on Wels’ bed dramatically, avoiding the violent look they knew the stranger- Helsknight was sending their way. 

“Wels, would you tell your friend I would not have had to shove my way into the house if he had just gotten out of the way?”

They heard Helsknight scoff and resisted the urge to pick up a pillow and toss it at his attractive stupid face. 

“Welsknight, does your friend know it’s impolite to come in uninvited?”

“Wels! Could you tell-”

“Okay that’s enough!” Wels cut Y/n off, making his way to the center of the room. 

They sat up on his bed, watching as the man put his hands on his hips, looking in between the both of them. He was smiling despite his frustration. 

“Hels, don’t be mean to Y/n. They can come and go as they please. Y/n, you’ll have to excuse Hels, he’s not thrilled to be here.”

All were quiet for a second, Y/n finally looking away from Wels to stare at Helsknight. He was already glaring at them of course, scarlet eyes watching them defensively. 

Y/n was the first to break, looking away from Hels and standing up from the bed entirely. “Okay. He’s here and I’ll ignore him when he’s rude. Anyway, I came over to ask if you had any honey? I ran out.”

Wels relaxed his posture a bit, hands falling down from his hips to hang at his sides casually. 

“Sure do! It’s downstairs.”

The blond found his way to the staircase quickly, slipping past Hels with a polite smile. Y/n followed cautiously, pausing when Hels stepped in front of them and blocked their way down. Looking up at him with a sickenly sweet smile, Y/n tilted their head. “Excuse you,” they spoke quietly so that Wels wouldn’t hear. 

Hels ignored them, instead leaning down to be closer to their level. Y/n’s breath caught in their throat as Hels’ mouth neared their ear, feeling his exhale on their skin. 

“You’re supposed to say ‘excuse me,” Hels corrected. He was quiet in their ear, sending shivers down their back. Y/n gulped and tried not to let him see how shaken they were. 

Laying a hand on his shoulder, Y/n carefully pushed past Hels, surprised by how easily he fell back and allowed them to pass. 

“You’re excused,” they teased without looking back, too busy trying to calm their racing heart.

~

As it turned out, having Helsknight for a neighbor was about as pleasant as Y/n had expected. 

Their usual visits to Wels’ house in the early mornings were now accompanied by the rude knight. He insisted on being a part of all their conversations, butting in to mock Y/n whenever he could. Y/n still tried to go over as often as they could manage, but they had to admit, the brunet knight made the trips less desirable. 

That wasn’t all of course. 

Helsknight had come up with a multitude of ways to make Y/n’s day-to-day routine more annoying. He hid behind trees when they walked home at night, jumping out to spook them when they weren’t paying attention. When Hels had free time, he often found himself rooting around in Y/n’s house. They’d caught him on multiple occasions and demanded he leave, but he always just smiled and ignored them. 

Most recently, the dark knight had taken to sitting around at Y/n’s megabase and pestering them whilst they built. 

He reclined against the large mass of chests they’d accumulated (an organized mess of course! Certainly not a chest monster-), head draped over the wooden crates. His helmet was on the grass next to him, eyes looking ahead at Y/n, who was perched atop their tall structure. 

“You missed a spot there.” The pale man called out, looking away from Y/n to stare at the slowly darkening sky instead. Heavy clouds were just starting to cover the sky, the sun making its departure over the horizon. He smirked when they groaned, their voice just barely audible from their height. He fought the urge to look back at them, positive they were already looking down at him bitterly.

Y/n, gave Hels a quick glare before looking at their build again. They were embarrassed to see he was right, and hadn’t just been pointing out nonexistent problems to annoy them. They bit their tongue and filled in the gap, refusing to acknowledge him any more than they already had. In the weeks that Hels had been bothering them, Y/n had learned that he fed on their anger. Every time they gave him a reaction, he smiled and did something worse. 

Turning back to where they’d been working before, Y/n wiped sweat off of their forehead and got back to work.

“Don’t you have anything better to do besides sit here and point out my mistakes?” They yelled back at him nonchalantly. They remained expressionless, trying to sell their indifference to him. 

Hels sat up a bit, eyes following Y/n as they lumbered away at their project. He waited for them to glance back at him, and frowned when he realized they weren’t going to. That simply would not do. 

Hels stood up from the ground, walking up to their build. He raised a hand to block the last of the sunlight from his eyes, standing just underneath them. He was still far out of reach due to how high up they’d built.

“Nothing’s more important to me than pointing out your mistakes.”

Y/n scoffed but kept quiet. They refused to look down at him, knowing he was standing there with that stupid smirk, waiting for them to tell him to fuck off. 

Hels’ face fell again, dissatisfied with their lack of retort. He shifted back and forth on his feet, metal-clad boots digging into the earth. He opened his mouth to sass them again when a loud crash sounded throughout the sky. 

Hels felt tiny droplets of rain begin to hit the top of his head. He grumbled with displeasure, leaving his hand in the air to guard his eyes. The knight spared a glance to his helmet which was still on the ground. He debated putting it back on, but ultimately decided against it. Too much hassle for not enough protection. 

Y/n ignored the rain, focusing on their work. They’d gotten a good night's rest in order to build nonstop, they weren’t going to let a bit of rain get in their way.

Off in the distance, there was a bright flash of lightning. It lit up the sky, revealing shaking trees that moved with the wind. The storm began to pick up, splashing harder than before. 

“You should come down from there,” Hels shouted up at Y/n, shivering from the cold. He was thoroughly soaked at this point, the droplets slipping through the breaks in his armor and dampening his clothes. Hels watched Y/n carefully, knowing they had no metal defense from the storm. 

Their clothes were stuck to their body, but Y/n kept going. Hels’ face twisted when he realized they were ignoring him. He dropped his hand from his face, allowing the rain to barrage him from all angles. 

“Hey! Y/n! I said you should get down.” 

He was shouting at that point, loud enough to be heard over the whipping wind.

Y/n ignored him still, continuing work on their project, not yet willing to call it a night. They took a step forward without looking.

Y/n’s heart dropped to the bottom of their stomach as their foot began to slide. They quickly tried to put their hands up and catch their balance, but it was too late. They shut their eyes as they toppled backward off of the base, cursing themself for choosing to build something so tall. They tensed their body, bracing themself for the crash. 

Before they could, however, Y/n’s fall was interrupted. Sturdy arms caught them just before they hit the ground, one under their knees, and the other on their back, just under their arms. Y/n could feel a solid chest pressed up against their side, the cold metallic armor pressing their soaked shirt impossibly closer to their body. 

They were shaking, though unsure if it was because of the cold or the adrenaline. Regardless, Y/n felt themself lean into the chest, searching for human contact. Their eyes remained shut, unwilling to meet the gaze of the man they knew they would see.

“I tried to tell you,” Hels mumbled in an uncharacteristically soft voice, tucking his head close to Y/n’s. He noted their shivering and squeezed their leg reassuringly. 

Y/n didn’t answer. Under normal circumstances, they’d be scrambling to get away from the knight. They knew he’d tease them about this for weeks. But these were not normal circumstances, and despite the solid layer of armor that was between them, Y/n could feel Hels’ breaths with the way his chest plate moved. Each exhale and inhale grounded them. So they ignored the way their brain screamed at them to get away, and tucked their head into him.

Hels froze, feeling them shift even closer to him. Rain be damned, there was a beautiful person trying to bury themself in him right now. The brunet cleared his throat and spun his head from side to side, searching for a way out of the downpour. 

He set his sights on the trail he’d taken out to their megabase. It was shielded by a thick layer of treetops. Some rain was still getting through the canopy, but it was much less than where they stood now. 

Without another word, Hels walked toward the path. Absentmindedly, he stroked the exposed skin on Y/n’s knee where he held them. If the cradled person noticed, they didn’t say anything.

Silently, Hels carried Y/n through the forest, looking down every once in a while to make sure they were still breathing. Y/n remained quiet, sniffling occasionally from the cold.  

They made it to Y/n’s starter base eventually, Hels shutting the door behind himself. He kicked off his shoes carefully, trying to minimize the water he tracked into their house. Flicking on a light on a nearby wall, Hels found their couch.

He sat them on it gently, slipping his arms out from underneath them. Y/n immediately curled themself into a ball, suddenly feeling very lonely from the loss of contact. They turned to face the inside of the couch, hiding in the cushions. They heard Hels wander away, but tried not to think much of it. 

Minutes later, Y/n felt a fuzzy blanket envelop their form. They gathered all their courage and faced outward, cautiously opening their eyes. 

Hels had his back to them. He was no longer wearing his armor, nor the underclothes Y/n had seen before. Somewhere in their house, he’d found a sweater and loose pants that seemed to be his. Y/n realized he must've left them in their house somewhere during one of his previous visits. They were surprised they hadn’t noticed the clothes around the house before. 

He spun around to look at them again, a stack of clothes in his hands. Dark red eyes met theirs, and Y/n noted that the way he stared at them was unusually soft. They gulped and waited for him to speak. 

“You’ll catch a cold if you stay in those wet clothes.” He finally said, handing the stack to them and looking away. Y/n noticed a red flush to his cheeks, but did not voice their observation. 

Knowing he was right, they sighed and pulled the blanket off of themself. 

“Turn around?” They prompted in a tiny voice, having not used it since they’d fallen. Hels complied, spinning on his heel to face the wall. 

Y/n made quick work of changing their clothes, sighing in relief when they finished. They draped the blanket over their shoulders again and stood up, approaching Hels from behind. 

Y/n argued with themself silently for a minute, fingers bunching the blanket together as they tried to gather enough courage to act on their desire. Finally willing themself to move again. Y/n wrapped their arms around Hels’ middle, pulling him into a tight hug.

The knight tensed, jolting from shock. They were both quiet, neither daring to say anything out of fear the other would pull away. Cautiously, Hels laid his hands on top of Y/n’s, holding them to his body. He fidgeted and turned around so that Y/n’s was hugging his frontiside, leaning down to embrace them as well. 

Y/n sighed in relief, breathing in Hels’ scent. His hair was still damp, but vaguely they could smell his conditioner and the soap he’d used to wash his clothes. It was inviting, the clean smell and warm hug. They couldn’t bring themself to let go. 

Hels was the first to say something, mumbling from above them. Y/n could barely make out what he was saying, catching only the words “rest” and “sleep.”

They hummed into his chest, still too embarrassed to look up at him. Y/n felt gentle hands leave their waist and find their shoulders, where they were pushed back toward the couch. They allowed themself to be shown the way, finding himself sitting beside the very tense knight. 

Hels was beside them, back straight and eyes watching them carefully. Without another thought, Y/n leaned into him. They brought their legs up on top of his, tangling them together and making themself comfortable. 

After a moment, Hels relaxed too, wrapping himself around Y/n. He pointedly ignored the way his heart pounded, hoping they couldn’t hear it through his skin. Y/n snuggled into him peacefully, shutting their eyes for some much needed sleep. 

~

“Good morning sleepyhead! I bro- Oh my!” 

Wels shouted in surprise, dropping the platter of breakfast food he’d made to share with his neighbor. 

Y/n shot up straight at the noise, crying out when they hit their head on something hard. 

“Motherfucker!” a second voice shouted, this one much closer, and much groggier. Y/n’s face felt hot as they looked up to see a sleepy Helsknight holding his jaw in pain. 

They rubbed the top of their head sheepishly, scrambling off of the couch and away from the brunet, who’d yet to open his eyes. 

“Sorry! Oh my- why’re you here?” They asked Wels, trying to calm their racing heart, not yet willing to acknowledge the yawning man on their couch that they’d just been cuddled up to. 

“To think, I took care of you last night, this is how you repay me? With a bruised skull?” Hels teased with his drowsy morning-voice, that stupid smirk finding its way back to him.

Y/n buried their head in their hands, hiding from the world as Wels’ laughter echoed through their house. They’d never hear the end of this.

[ruby-whistler]

Srry but i noticed in one of ur dream posts u Referred to tommy's cat as hope. I must correct u, that cat was born pussbou and died pussboi. /lh Also tommy killing that cat was nothing compared to dream killing mushroom henry in exile btw just wanna say Also for ur posts about dreams trauma or wilbur manipulating him can u provide links to vods or other proof? Srry if i seem rude i mean that in a "genuinely curious way"

Aaa sorry if my ask came off as rude im just genuinely curious :(((

hi! dw, you don't seem rude at all, and i'm extremely happy someone with a different perspective has found my blog! i really appreciate that sort of attitude and am happy to answer :]

/dsmp /rp

the cat was called pussboy by tommy, but dream only called it "the cat" and then said that "it was hope", which is why it sort of became a symbol (his hope is dead, basically) - that's why i kind of made its name capitalized, because it was more of a metaphor than anything.

most c!dream fans call the cat hope because it's just really nice and really symbolic, and also really sad when you think about it. that's why the name was used in the essay, just to clear up the confusion!

tommy killing that cat was nothing compared to dream killing mushroom henry in exile

i don't really think so? mooshroom henry was entertainment more than anything, and even if it was bad, when watching the stream i don't remember seeing him mourn that much - on the other hand, dream was very quickly and very obviously attached to the cat, with it being his only companion in months of isolation, along with the hope that even when tommy left it would keep him company.

keep in mind c!dream has been deprived of stimuli and human contact for so long it's officially classified as psychological torture at that point.

i don't mean to compare trauma or even compare deaths - because honestly, what c!dream and c!tommy have gone through individually is incomparable and i think neither should be diminished in favor of the other since they're both terrible situations.

that's why i disagree that it "was nothing compared to" - it had an obvious effect on c!dream, and was still c!tommy killing an animal specifically to hurt him, no matter what reasons he had.

when i'm talking about effects people's actions have had on c!dream, i'm not talking about those people. i'm talking about him. :) /lh

as for the trauma, a lot of people agree that a lot of the things he says or does are trauma responses, and hence it's very possible that he's had trauma before he went into prison!

this includes being repeatedly called a tyrant via propaganda by about half of your friends who decided to betray you, trying to keep peace and being pushed deeper into villainy instead, repeatedly being put in between a rock and a hard place in order to make sure the people you care about don't start killing each other, then being betrayed by your closest friends after merely trying to keep peace (sapnap & george) and just in general having no control over your life or image and grasping at straws to gain it back.

i know a lot of people with trauma who heavily relate to certain trauma responses, which aren't always just shaky breaths and flashbacks, but trauma often also manifests itself in extremely ugly and destructive ways, both inwardly and outwardly.

trying to control the people around you is also very often a response to going through trauma, as well as emotional repression which is... rather evident on c!dream during season two. it only seems to get worse with repeated abandonment.

in the end, during the vault scene, the way he acts really just isn't at all the way a healthy person would act, and a lot of his really bad mindsets come from the way he was taught by the world around him.

the character is very reserved however, and since we don't have his pov we can't really say for certain - a lot of people claim it in good faith because they have a lot of evidence for it, and i think they're certainly valid in that.

that is just before the prison, however. from what happened during the prison arc? there is no denying he's traumatized at this point.

he's been emotionally and physically abused by c!sam since the very beginning of being imprisoned, and being in solitary confinement for over two weeks is generally considered psychological (and maybe also physical?) torture. that alone shows up in a lot of symptoms of his mental deterioration while in pandora's during people's visits, and quackity's "sessions" just absolutely drove the point home.

what he's gone through during this arc is absolutely incomparable to anything others charactes have faced before, and it's just plain suffering being endured by someone who is, despite everything, still a human being.

as for the wilbur manipulation thing!! it's talking about the whole vassal scene (though even beforehand a lot of their interactions are pretty iffy), and here's a post about that :]

I also have a small question about the analysis u last reblogged cus it says "why dream needed lmanburg gone rightfully" and like. The house analogy is poor because for one cus the land is infinite. And 2 cus punz's yard was literally larger then lmanburg. And also stuff about dream being a mediator? Can u provide examples?

i wouldn't say it was poor. dream's said a lot of times that he didn't care in the slightest about the land - a lot of his problems with l'manberg arose with the fact that wilbur basically built it on lies and tried to disallow half of the server to come there. c!dream was mad about the division and the fact that wilbur wanted "freedom" to have authority in his lands - over others, as can be seen in this post also.

the table analogy was fitting not because dream was some overlord, but because these were literally friends he invited to hang out and live in a place he wanted to call home. claiming a part of it for yourself and saying people of a certain nationality can't come in is directly opposing those goals.

in the early days of the smp, dream's always been a mediator between his friends - sapnap and george, who would often get into fights and go around killing each other! he would always do his best to stop the conflict, which continued after tommy joined when he took him to court and then later tried to mediate conflicts he was a part of, which resulted in tommy killing him unprovoked, stealing his gear, and starting the disc wars when dream was trying to get his stuff back. later, during pogtopia, he is also most concerned with peace over everything, and this seems to continue indefinitely after.

Today i was thinking about how messed up the final control room was. Like. Dream arranged the betrayal and punz and sapnap killed tommy and tubbo who like. Were literal children and their pals (because the author, wilbur soot, is dead/j but srsly if u take the streamers words tommy said he was 9 during the revolution sooo)

Sorry im gonna ramble about how dumb canon ages are for a second cus like. Streamers can say the characters are one way or another (wilbur saying he is mentally 30-something, etc.) But in the end the characters act like they(or at least their streaming personas) do.

i... honestly don't find it that bad? they were in a war, and the final control room was basically just supposed to end it quicker. the l'manbergians made it clear they were going to fight to the death, so they really left c!dream no other choice. and it's not like he didn't give them chances to give up.

also yeah the 9 year old thing was retconned, because in that case c!dream would've been 14 and i don't think that's true.

c!tommy and c!dream were both young and once again, in a war. the final control room was an attempt to assure victory, which both sides would've taken if possible, but only c!dream saw he had the option.

i do agree the whole child soldier thing was bad but... complain about that to c!wilbur, methinks. he talked naive kids into fighting for his personal power. however, the age argument isn't really valid either way. they had enough agency to sign up for it, and whether or not c!wilbur pushing the intense nationalism onto them had something to do with that is another debate entirely.

Bacl to final control room cus like??? Also fun fact punz took 2 of wilbur's canon lives. And like that probably is what started wilbur's paranoia which later lead to his spiral and i. Many thoughts full of lmanburg today.

i'm pretty sure cc!wilbur said what lead to c!wilbur's spiral was a "dark, twister view of possessions" and "disregard for his fellow citizen whom he claimed to love so much", but i really wouldn't say it was the control room; if anything the sudden loss of power after the elections seems to me like the trigger for his spiral.

I watched the exile arc live and. I feel dirty almost for feeling little to no sympathy for c!dream (srry ive been forgetting to add that aa) because of his actions toward c!tommy and like. The whole probation was so humiliating and unfair and c!dream was planning to frame him for the crimes he and puffy did under the the guise of "pranks" and c!quackity was planning to seize the vice president role.

i mean... to be fair, if you didn't watch the prison arc much yet or only watch tommy's perspective i understand not feeling that sympathetic - however, i encourage you to maybe watch a few prison visits, since they could help you see the whole picture better!

i also watched it live, and i also thought it was terrible, but i share very much the same sentiment for the prison arc because. absolutely no one should have to go through either of those things, you know?

i don't think probation was that humiliating? he was just. being asked to not start conflict with the other factions for two weeks. of course, what happened as a result is in no way justified, but i don't think probation itself would've been bad at all. either way yeah the framing and c!quackity's behaviour was. very yikes, i agree.

Also c!tommy antis are dumb because they say "he deserved exile angry emoji" i dont see u saying that about ranboo. Just say you hate cc!tommy and go. Also people say c!tommy was just as toxic to c!dream and i??? No. One is the victim and one is the abuser and like. :/// man. This part is rambly srry

i wouldn't say they hate cc!tommy? cc!tommy has a persona who people think is annoying at first ( but then they subscribe because he is super entertaining big man! ) but a lot of c!tommy's actions are straight up toxic to certain characters, such as c!funndy and c!jack. he has a very dismissive attitude towards others and their trauma and it does affect the people around them very negatively.

examples; his repeated bullying and behavior towards fundy:

Tommy: “Fundy, I’m just here to kinda let you know that I – if you weren’t Wilbur’s son, you would be out of L’manburg, alright? Just remember – you need to keep that relationship with your father. I saw how asshole-y and bratty you were acting in the courtroom the other night. You need to pull your shit together young man.”

......

Fundy: “I’m wearing glasses…are you making fun of my eyesight?!”

Tommy: “Yes.”

Sapnap: “Your father would be very disappointed.”

Fundy: “Wh – disappointed for wearing glasses?!”

Tommy: “You got glasses, like what are you wearing…”

Fundy: “What do you mean?”

Tommy: “Sapnap, Sapnap, over here. Fundy, Fundy, Fundy, I’m really sorry to say this – I’m just here to publicly denounce you.”

Fundy: “…What?”

( credit for transcript: @/findingjoynweirdstuff )

he's also responsible for a big chunk of c!jack's trauma, both with actions and words, and that's why i think certain people might dislike the character, and i don't think that's wrong of them. anyone can dislike any character they want if they don't attack people for liking them, in my opinion.

also c!tommy was most definitely toxic against c!dream in the cell. it's of course understandable but that doesn't change the fact he was constantly hitting and insulting him (without dream doing anything back for a long while until he snapped) which is toxic behaviour.

i wouldn't say he was "just as" though, so i agree with you on that. they're different and they behave differently.

i made a dream blob keychain today. Is it possible to send images if u wanna see? Idk cus i havent used tumblr before. I think that's all for now. Thx for letting me talk :D peepoShy -curious anon (but fr a connoreatspants c!dream redemption arc would be cool)

yooo that's cool! i don't really,,, know if it's possible to send images? try it out and if it isn't i'll try find a way to turn it on.

also, no problem! just please remember this is a c!dream sympathetic blog, and me as well as my followers are uhh,, oftentimes emotionally attached / personally relate to the character, so if you could avoid sending hate on the character (not that you have or that i expect you to, just a friendly reminder) in the asks that would be great! we already see a lot of it unwillingly so, i'd rather not see more, but as long as the discussion is civil i'm absolutely ok with you asking more and with me answering more questions if you'd want to! :)

if anyone else would like to reblog this and add some things i might've missed with my answers, feel free to, just go easy on her (she uses she/her pronouns!) and keep it factual.

i hope u had a good or at least ok time at school today :D

thanks! i gtg now because exam tomorrow but i'm going to try write the redemption essay tomorrow as well because ohhh boy i have a lot of ideas about what all i could write around the concept.

also sorry this was long, i can't keep my tongue on the leash :[

[rangerslayer-97]

Things That Will Never Be Said

I got hit with more inspiration and curse my brain that I can’t write anything that isn’t angst. For the time being.

Time is set where my Knight Guardian main Violcrik is the Outlander and Commander of the Alliance. Set post-Echoes of Oblivion, during the Knight only Alliance Alert "The Padawan Returns". Mentions of previous game choices during Shadow of Revan, Knights of the Fallen Empire, Eternal Throne and Onslaught.

~~~~~

WARNINGS: Angst, Hurt, Unrequited love, One-sided attraction, Minor emotional manipulation (I could be wrong, but I'm covering borders)

~~~~

Summary: Lana comes to terms that she does have buried feelings for Commander Violcrik, but learns someone else won the. Commander’s heart.

~~~~~

Dark Advisor and Alliance Second-in-Command Sith Lord Lana Beniko, the former Minister of Sith Intelligence walked the War Room as she sifts though data on her data pad from various individuals and her contacts. The Commander, former Jedi Knight and Battle Master of the Jedi Order, Violcrik Baliss was taking a much deserved break after the battle of the Meridian Shipyard Complex on Corellia. Lana worries Violcrik hasn’t given enough time to herself to relax. The Commander has always been on her feet, sometimes pulling all-nighters, drinking a lot of caff or taking a concerning amount of stims. Lana felt after Corellia, Violcrik deserves the downtime after running between Ossus, Onderon and Mek-Sha. It was one battle after another. Unbeknownst to the Republic, the Knight’s home faction, Violcrik has chosen to align with the Sith Empire. It came as a surprise to Lana, but a welcome one, even Empress Acina has been made aware of the Commander’s choice. She is pleased that the Empire now has a spy in the Republic ranks. Lana did send a subtle warning to not overstep their bounds with the Commander and that the Alliance is still an independent third-party. Empress Acina respected the warning loud and clear.

The Sith Lord understands the Commander’s reasonings. A lot of them stem from what occurred during the war against the Eternal Empire. Violcrik often confided with her about her gradually crumbling fate with the Republic. These words were normally spoken when Theron Shan, former Republic SIS Agent, was out of earshot. They knew Theron would try to remind the Jedi that the Republic is still good. Violcrik told her she felt her faction had all but abandoned her, the Jedi Order had forsaken her, though she always felt like an outcast in the Order. Lana listened when the Commander revealed the crimes she committed for the ‘good of the Republic’, two of which were definite counts of war crimes. The Sith knew Violcrik wasn’t like the other Jedi, she was emotional, passionate, will do what needs to be done. As a Dark Sider, Lana did find that as an attractive quality. These qualities often put her at odd's end with the High Jedi Council. The Commander admitted she locked horns with the Council members more than she cared to count.

It is enough to say that Lana became Violcrik's go-to for private talks, personal. The Sith advisor is good at reading people and she knows the Commander has a lot on her mind that she hasn't been able to get off her chest. Lana did suggest therapy at one point, but Violcrik laughed it off, claiming she didn't need to see a therapist; and seeing one would ruin her image and reputation. It was never brought up again. The former Jedi did open up to her about her past, it was one Lana would never wish on anyone. Alderaan is a planet for the rich, snobbery and being born out of wedlock can lead to a family name being ruined. Violcrik and her sisters were all but wiped off the family tree, none entitled to an inheritance by their father. From the way Violcrik spoke about her father, there was malice, there was anger and there was hatred. Such intense emotions almost made Lana dizzy.

During the war against the Eternal Empire, even up to now, Lana had taken time out of her schedule to teach Violcrik how to control her darkness. She won't deny there is a danger of having a rogue Dark Jedi running around the galaxy. The Sith Lord herself has witnessed several times, the Commander giving into her darkness; and many times, seeing her eyes change from deep blue to deep orange that nearly glowed. Lana won't lie there are some days she is afraid of what Violcrik is capable of if she lost control. Violcrik did prove as her short stint as Empress, that she will resort to using fear and terror. The last time she got concerned was over the Commander's reliance on Valkorion's powers when he resided inside her mind. Of course, they did get at odds with each other when Violcrik lied to her about Valkorion sharing her mind. It took some days to get one another's trust back. Yet… then she remembers the Commander went her way to save her twice and refused to leave her side during the breakout with… that's beside the point. Violcrik saved her twice and when the Alliance was set up, the Commander intended to speak to either her or Theron (long before he got banished after defeating the Order of Zildrog). Lana had a feeling Violcrik wanted to speak to her alone, but when Koth soured the mood; the Battle Master told them to forget about it and walked away.

The Dark Advisor knows things were left unsaid between them. Lana needed to know what it was. When they made love on Yavin IV after they defeated Revan, there was something between them. It wasn't just a physical attraction. While to some it may have appeared as a one-night stand or a fling, but it must not have been, otherwise Violcrik wouldn't have flirted with her during the disaster on Ziost. Though the timing was quite poor on Violcrik's end, the spark between them was there, fresh, a crackle of electricity that was about to spark into a flame. While the Commander hadn't approached to talk about her feelings, Lana respected that. She wasn't going to impose. Lana can't hold it in now after six years of waiting, she is in with love with Commander Violcrik Baliss. She tried to deny the feelings when Violcrik didn't come to her, so she held the emotions in. Now, they can't be held in any longer. Maybe the Commander was scared to come forward and admit her feelings. It is scary territory, to open yourself up and give your heart to someone. Perhaps... maybe the Commander was waiting.

Lana had tried to deny her feelings, but now… she no longer can't. Dark Advisor Lana Beniko is in love with Commander Violcrik Baliss. She's going to confess her feelings now. No more waiting. The Sith Lord turned to Teeseven, asking where the Commander is now. The astromech told her he had last seen her head to the Force Enclave, which means she's nearby. Lana thanked Teeseven, shut off her datapad and headed for the Force Enclave. She followed the Force signature she felt, small amounts of Light being drowned under the heavy blanket of Darkness.

Her heart was beating fast, Lana ran through several different ways to confess her feelings and not sound like an idiot. There was an unusual skip in the Sith Lord's step, both Republic and Imperial troops dare didn't question what made the stoic advisor so happy. Lana made it to the entrance of the Enclave. Sana-Rae was off somewhere. The advisor was about to call out to the Commander, only to see… it was Knight Carsen. She and the former Emperor's Wrath, Lord Scourge joined the Alliance after finally be ridding Valkorion and his previous incarnations, Vitiate and Tenebrae. It appears the Commander and Carsen are talking, Lana couldn't hear what, but judging by her body language; something was said to make the Commander's former Padawan disgustingly giggly like a young Jedi Initiate.

Then the two stepped into each other's personal space. Lana's heart dropped like a heavy weight. She watched as the two embraced each and… they kissed. The Commander and Carsen… kissed. So is this why Violcrik never let her feelings be known to her? Had they always belonged… to her? Then what were they? Friends? Friends with benefits? A fling? Is the Commander stupid!? Getting with Carsen, who is undoubtedly loyal to the Republic? Who is quite clearly oblivious to the Commander's true loyalty!? The Commander who is happily turning against her own faction! Who severely weakened the Republic fleet en route to Corellia and destroyed their newly built shipyard that could have tipped the war in an ongoing resource crisis!?

Fair enough, let Carsen be the one broken when the Commander's betrayal come to light. Violcrik will end up running back to her. No, she has to stop these thoughts. Lana is angry, that the Commander made her feel she was nothing more than a fling. At the same time, after the Commander went through her dark period in life after being awoken from carbonite, she can't do anything but respect the choice. Lana won't resort to pettiness, she will respect Violcrik and her choices, who she gives her heart to. It appears now, she must step back. After six years, the Commander deserves this. This… this happiness.

No, not deserve. Deserve is a crutch for the weak. Lana will take happiness where she can find it. She will not blame the Commander for finding hers.

The Dark Advisor silently slips away from the entrance of the Force Enclave, her head bowed down and a single tear slipping down her cheek.

[ducavalentinos]

Is Meyer's book on The Borgias subtitled 'Hidden History' or is that another book lol I want to make sure I get the right one (Meyer's is good, right?)

Yes, it’s the same book, anon. Is it good? I mean, it has its issues like any other bio. Personally I don’t think Meyer did a good job where Cesare, Lucrezia, and their sibling relationship are concerned. He doesn’t challenge much of the official narratives and assumptions made about their characters and lives, not like he does with Rodrigo. I don’t think they were his point of interest, either. Indeed, it’s easy to see his interest, his focus were on their father, Rodrigo, and his papacy as Alexander VI. I’ll put my thoughts under keep reading because idk if you are reading it now, and I don’t want to impose my conclusions about his work without you having formed your own first, so if you like you can check the rest after you’re done reading, or you can check it now, it’s your choice ;)

He is a diehard fan of Rodrigo, more so than previous scholars I think, although I’m still less of an expert on Rodrigo’s historical literature. So naturally, he tries his best to give him justice, and to set the record straight in regards to his reputation as Pope. I believe he follows De Roo, and the phenomenal work about Rodrigo and his family, published in 1924 iirc. I think it was Meyer’s intention to make De Roo’s research, and his great questionings more easily available towards a general audience, since De Roo’s work is very scholarly, very long and not so easy to find. And I understand what he was trying to do, I appreciate his effort, at least he tried to deliver something new, I just don’t think it worked out that well tbh. Because no matter how strongly you may disagree with De Roo’s interpretation of Rodrigo, some even call him an apologist (which he certainly was not imo), there is no denying his arguments are all incredibly well constructed. He meticulously exposes all of his evidence for his claims and conclusions. He gives the reader a pathway for his thought process. Meyer often does not offer evidence for his claims and conclusions about Rodrigo, much less about Cesare, Lucrezia, and other popes lol, nor he tries to explain his thought process at all. You have to guess, or just take his word for it, which always gets a big no no from me. And that leads to many confused moments, and contradictions on his part. It gets messy from time to time and you have to check other sources. He also goes about the wrong routes when trying to give Rodrigo justice. His tactic is basically: I’ll attack and blame anyone around Rodrigo, esp. Cesare, in order to acquit him. Cesare has to be thrown under the bus, again, (as he always is by all sides btw) in order for Rodrigo to get his rehabilitation. He is the ��dark force” working behind his father, forcing him to do his will. Which not only it’s laughable, it’s also truly unfair to Cesare as it is for Rodrigo himself. He was not a Sixtus IV. He was and remain the patriach of the family until the end. And in the same way he doesn’t deserve to still be remember as one of the worst Popes in history (quite contrary actually) Cesare also doesn’t deserve to be everyone’s scapegoat, and still remember as this evil tyrant, or Renaissance’s villain. Or perpetually as Machiavelli’s Prince, with all its negative implications attached to it. The latter which, whether Meyer intended or not, he certainly feeds into it and helps to perpetuate. In addition, this narrative doesn’t help in understanding Rodrigo and Cesare’s complex and amazing relationship. It completely ignores the fact they mostly worked together, and their interests were very much interwined. That they were one of the most remarkable, powerful duo of this period. One that made the whole of Italy tremble in envy, anxiety and hatred for their accomplisments. Understanding their dynamics has a direct link to understanding one of the key factors of how the Borgian myths came about, and it was a missed opportunity for Meyer, sadly. De Roo seems to have understood this better, unlike other Rodrigo scholars I’ve read, he miraculously tried to be fair to both father and son. Giving them a honest, equal treatment. He does not see the need to attack nor blame others to justify Rodrigo’s behavior. He prefers to simply insert the man within his historical and social context, and let the evidence do the talking. Only pointing out what’s malicious gossip with its political agenda behind it, and what’s hostile and uncredible sources. Had Meyer followed these routes and approaches of De Roo here, instead of not offering historical evidence to back up his claims, and letting his bias go unchecked, his book would have been better imo. As it is, it’s ok. Definitely better than Bradford’s bios for example, (not a hard thing to accomplish tbh, but still lol) or the other more popular, generic bios about the Borgia family. The same caution needs to be applied though, when it comes to Rodrigo’s family, as well as other people outside his family. Meyer is accurate about the lords of the Romagna in general, but not so much about other Popes. He tends to be a bit too harsh and dishonest about them and their papacies, again, in order to rehabilitate Rodrigo. Other good aspects for me about his book were his treatment of Juan Borgia, he was possibly the least venomous one, that I've read. Dealing with him more fairly than others, at least acknowledging we don't actually have a lot about Juan to make so many claims about his character. And I adored the way he constructed the book, with chapters about Italy in between the ones about the Borgia family. It was the hightest point for me. It was a nice, creative addition, that allows you to understand the political and social context of the time the Borgias were borned and lived in. If you already know these things, it’s still very enjoyable to read it. Meyer, like the majority of Borgia scholars, is clearly a skilled writer. I really wish he would write a bio about the Catholic Church and Italian politics from the 11th to 16th century. I think he would thrive there.

[peachyteabuck]

I know that this aroace Yelena topic may be tiring (as an aroace person that has been seeing this discourse all over my Tumblr and sometimes on TikTok, I am lol)

I have a problem where I can see the two sides of this, on one side i know that it is fiction, if I don't like it, i won't read it (personally I don't read Yelena smut because i don't feel comfortable for example) BUT as was said before, when you take a lgbtqia character, gay, lesbian, and turn them straight, most people would NOT take this very well, and the writers, fans that would headcanon and write them as straight would continue doing it anyway, the same ive been seeing with Yelena

My main problem is with the reaction twords the fact that Yelena is canonically Aroace, and everyone is trying to erase this by saying "that's not even explored in the comics" or *hoping* that in the MCU she "hopefully won't be Aroace" and that's so frustrating u know? If it was a gay or lesbian character with a chance to be canon in the MCU, people would celebrate, demand that marvel and Disney would make them gay, but just the thought of one Aroace character and suddenly it's all questionable? "Oh maybe she isn't"

I know that at the end of the day I can't control anyone's writing or headcanon, and that's alright, just don't be an jerk and put a whole community down just so you can fuck the character in ur head, or ship them with anyone

And about the "oh but aro and ace people can date and have sex" yes they can, but are their experience being written the way a asexual would deal with it? The way a aromantic person would feel? Most of the time I'm sure that it would be a big no

Again I'm not trying to attack you and I'm sorry if I sounded rude or anything, i follow you and I love your writing, but I've seen this discussion so much and it's like when we (Aroace people) talk about it, no one is really listening and it's frustrating sometimes

Sorry if it's too much and if my way of though didn't make sense lol

prerequisite context: i am never and will never deny the power of fanfiction to be morally abhorrent, and i have never and will never claim that fanfiction writers are never responsible for the context we produce.

so I guess there are a few main reasons people are claiming writing yelena within sexual and romantic contexts is bad, according to the people in my inbox:

1) unequal fan backlash

2) unequal fan celebration/comics = mcu

3) improper representation of ace/aro people who do engage in sexual/romantic contexts

in regards to those:

fan backlash and celebration are exceedingly poor reasons to do/not do something. mostly because, especially in the MCU, there are fans who are homophobic, they're conservative, they're trump supporters. several actors are those things. there's no reason to use fan response (whether backlash or celebration) as a motivation to do something, because fans are sometimes wrong. additionally, "fans" is a pretty wide term. are people who prefer comics fans? young teens? people who don't write fanfic? those who only make edits? tik tokers? cosplayers? whose opinions should we listen to? whose shouldn't we?

plus, as i've canon compliance in the MCU is a pretty massive beast. characters are whitewashed left and right, their origin stories changed and plotlines are plucked out of thin air or altered heavily from the source material. yelena can be aroace in one comic run and not in the other. what i've also seen are post-production comments, which are often made to pander so that directors can say they made "MCU's first ace character" without putting in the work. is that something we should listen to? it brings up the golden question: are fanfic writers responsible for fixing broken media?

i don't think so. we're often people doing this for free (or close to it). we're broke, we work other jobs, we have other hobbies. we don't have sensitivity writers or editors or researchers. why are we responsible for fixing massive canon mistakes in a 2k fic about pet play, and why aren't the creators of the media we're writing fanfiction about the center of the backlash?

lastly, the line "are their experience being written the way a asexual would deal with it? The way a aromantic person would feel? Most of the time I'm sure that it would be a big no" is exceedingly odd to me. who says ace people can't want to be werewolves? or engage in omegaverse? or fuck in hallways? or engage in BDSM?

what does it mean to write an aro/ace character in these contexts? what doesn't it mean? if a creator thinks aro/ace people are liars, and that ace people need to go to conversion therapy, but writes a fluffy yelena fic where her and reader have a movie night with no sexual/romantic context, is that good aro/ace representation? why or why not?

all in all, i understand if there's some frustration. but every time someone takes the "writing yelena in sexual/romantic contexts is Always Morally Wrong" side, all i see is misplaced and uninformed criticism. it's 100% better to either write the fics you want to see or support creators who do, than come into inboxes of people who don't.

[levisnackajack]

Unquenchable Delicacies

Chapter IV

“Y/N...” 

Much to your reluctance, you opened your eyes, hissing soundly as the brightness of the light above you burned your irises. 

After recollecting yourself, you tried once more, this time slower. The medication had slurred reality with your mind, the effect taking its sweet time to ware off. 

“Anakin?” You mumbled out, your voice sounding off in the far distance. You heard someone awkwardly clear their throat out before they stepped closer to your cot. 

“I’m afraid Anakin is not present, Padawan L/N. How are you feeling?” Obi-Wan’s voice fluttered around you, each syllable slowly pronounced clearer and clearer. You groaned, head pounding ferociously. If whatever pierced through you didn’t manage to kill you; this headache seemed to have wanted to do exactly that.

“I’m...fine. What happened?”

Master Obi-Wan pursed his lips tightly, the crease between his brows deepening as you sensed his mind distantly recalling the disasters that made up the eve of the Chancellor’s celebratory event. 

“Well, you saved the Chancellor’s life. Unbeknownst to how the attacker stayed unnoticed between Anakin and I; your quick reflexes and selfless persona caught sight of him and you swung yourself before the Chancellor, taking the shot.” 

You glanced down at the plaster-white bandage twisted around your waist. You ran your fingers along the material, trying to feel where the wound was, but Obi-Wan gently moved your hand away. 

“Let it heal. The plasma energy shot at you missed your stomach by a few mere inches. It’s a deep wound, but lucky for us all, no significant organ was damaged. You’ve been in and out of sleep trances for the past few days, thanks to the medication. But, that is only because when it happened, the shot sent you into shock and we needed to stabilize you as quickly as possible,” Obi-Wan explained, smiling sadly down at your exhausted facade. 

You nodded, running a hand through your hair. “I understand. Thank you for explaining. May I ask where my Master is?” You tried controlling your tone, but the mention of Anakin sent a jolt of electricity through to your heart. Obi-Wan looked away, concealing his hands between the sleeves of his robe. 

“I’m afraid, he left Coruscant. Once this all happened, Anakin decided to take on a mission; leaving without even telling me. Do not take offence, dear Y/N. Anakin probably did it in an attempt to deal with the traumas of that night. After all, losing a Padawan would hurt just as much as it does losing a Master,” he offered apologetically as your face strained into a hurt scowl. “Please, get some rest,” Obi-Wan continued, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder before departing the Jedi Temple’s medical bay. 

You sighed loudly, feeling deeply disappointed that Anakin had left so abruptly. Did he not care about you enough to wait a day or two until you woke up? Did he despise you that much? 

Questions rolled in and out of your mind as you glared up at the ceiling; the medical machinery around you beeping loudly. You were so deep in your hurt thoughts; you barely even noticed the medical droid that popped into your room to check your vitals and change your bandages. 

Another two days passed and your only hobby seemed to be staring into the void of your room’s ceiling. Sometimes, Obi-Wan would come by- try to make you laugh or just keep you company- the fear of losing you to insanity all too real for him. 

You denied the food they were giving you- claiming that exhaustion was taking the best out of you. But really, it was the unforgiving sadness and disappointment caused by the fact that your Master wasn’t present beside you during these new, hard times. You spitefully began missing his irritating jokes and how insulted he would get if you said anything about his job as a general and Jedi. 

But alas, time passed by and you were finally allowed to check out of the medical bay and return to continue your healing in your quarters. 

________________________________________________________________

Walking through the Temple seemed a mission on its own, as people stared and spoke in hushed voices as you passed by. Nonetheless, you kept your head high as you wordlessly made your way back to your quarters. But, your pacing slowed as you felt the Force ripple around you, sensing someone you were all too familiar with. 

Anakin. 

You followed the Force, palms sweating as your mind raced with thoughts that mixed with the various emotions flowing through your blood vessels. 

However, when you saw him engaging in a deep conversation with Senator Padmé Amidala; all these confusing emotions seemed to be quickly replaced by a stab of sadness and something else. 

Something that made your heart clench a certain way. 

Though you knew it wasn’t the right thing to do; you ignored your consciousness as you walked closer to them, trying to pick up on what they were saying. Alas, they were too far away- but you could tell that they were having a deep conversation about something that made Anakin frown at her apologetically as she persistently attempted to get him to respond back. 

He stepped back, eyes catching sight of his Padawan. His customary tight expression was replaced by a soft contortion as he excused himself and began striding towards you. Senator Amidala’s gaze followed him wordlessly; shifting towards you as a sigh escaped her lips. You had always felt as though there had been something going on between her and your master. Alas, you were in no position to question Anakin about his personal life. 

“Y/N,” Anakin began gingerly, earning an ice-cold shoulder from your behalf as you marched past him; stomach clenching uncomfortably. 

Without turning to look back, you hurried towards your initial destination- the comforts of your bleak quarters. You needed to be as far away from him as possible, afraid that you’ll unleash the wrath that was entirely directed towards him. 

Right as you slammed the door of your room; it rudely snapped open- revealing the one individual you had tried escaping from. 

“What was that for?” Anakin growled out angrily, blowing the door shut behind him. 

You stood in the center of your room, your back facing him as you glared out of your window and into the commotion happening on the air traffic routes. 

When your silence became his apparent answer; Anakin gritted his teeth and advanced towards you, the weight of his hand on your shoulder holding you hostage as he tried twisting you around to face him. 

“Don’t touch me,” you snapped, stepping away from him as you shrugged his hand off of you. Anakin widened his eyes before trying to calm himself, the Force between you prodding at the growing pressure building in the room. 

“Why are you acting like a child?” He said calmly, voice giving away the shake of irritation and anger he was trying to hide, but to no avail. 

You shook your head, letting out a cold, humorless chuckle. 

“I bet Jedi business with Senator Amidala and everything else for that matter will always be a top priority. Why was I stupid enough to expect my own Master waiting for me to wake up in the medical bay?” You were thankful that you were facing the other way; although it would have probably made you feel better when the sound of your words left a hurt expression on the features of your young master. 

“Is this what it’s all about? If you really want to know, I was-” 

“Yeah yeah. General Skywalker went on a super dangerous mission to try and please the Council so they can see that you are perfectly able of earning the ‘Master’ ranking without having to train a Padawan. Good for you. Congratul-” You harshly interrupted him, waving your hand in the air nonchalantly. 

What caught you by surprise was how Anakin took that to his advantage as he grabbed hold of your wrist- roughly pulling you to finally face him. That completely stripped you of your confidence as you stared up at him- eyes wide and filled with bewilderment. Your noses were so close to brushing as he bitterly looked into your eyes; jaw clenching and unclenching firmly. 

“Be quiet!” He barked, making you wince as the roughness of his loud voice pierced your eardrums. 

“Why do you always have the tendency to paint me as the bad guy? Sure, I thought that I didn’t need a Padawan- but here we are. Did you ever stop to think that maybe I left Coruscant to follow the fool who shot you? Oh no, you can’t possibly put that through your thick head because ‘I don’t take you and your training seriously and there’s always something more important than you.’ Well, think again,” he spat out, brusquely letting go of your wrist before running a hand through his hair. 

Tears threatened to pool into your eyes as you stubbornly stared at the floorboard; the sound of Anakin pacing back and forth causing frustration to overwhelm you. 

“I’m sorry, Anakin.” 

He halted in his footsteps, the feeling of his deep-blue eyes boring into your self. 

“Yeah, you really should be.” 

You both stood stationary, neither of you facing each other. You tried to apologize again mentally, but he manipulated the Force to push you out of his mind. You sighed, your chest constricting as you turned to face him. 

Anakin looked ridiculously tall in your tiny quarters, it almost made you chuckle. His head was bent downwards, staring at his boots, fists clenched tightly into punches. You slowly- almost cautiously- walked to stand beside him, the moonlight blended with the series of lights emitted from the buildings in front of you lighting up both of your faces. You couldn’t help but notice the twinge of hurt and pain concealed behind his deep frown as he refused to look down at you. 

“I’m so sorry, Ani. I shouldn’t have been so ignorant.” 

Maybe it was the rawness behind your soft voice; or maybe it was the use of his nickname that you would often play with when you want to mess with him; that made Anakin finally shift his solid gaze onto you. You held onto your breath as you waited for him to say something. Anything. 

“I’m sorry too.” 

Shaking your head, you locked eyes with him- the action burning you from the inside out. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

“That’s not true. I left you without saying a word. It wasn’t very ‘Jedi’ of me to let my anger control me...but the only thing that filled my mind was how badly I wanted to hunt this person down and harm him...for hurting you,” Anakin said in a low voice, eyes dropping to your bandages framed by your Jedi robes. 

You were about to say something as you opened your mouth, but Anakin continued, his fingers brushing your jawline. “I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if something had happened to you.” 

All you could do was stare at him. You gaze swept across his troubled face- his scar, his knitted eyebrows, his pursed lips, his defined jawline, his messy hair. You gave into his touch, head tilting towards his fingers, a silent plead to strengthen the calloused pressure of his caressing. 

His hand moved his fingers, trailing an invisible map from the side of your face- and for a split second- to your lips before continuing onward to your throat. He let out a shaky breath, swallowing hard before letting go of you- too soon for your liking. He noticed the discontent his action brought into you; but stayed silent, his blue eyes seeking yours- the intensity making you feel as though he was memorizing every perfection, every imperfection that made you up. 

“Get some rest, Y/N, I’ll come see you tomorrow. Good night,” Anakin whispered to you softly, his gruff voice sounding like velvet as it trickled through you. 

You let go of a breath, (E/C) hues following his frame as he walked towards the door. You couldn’t help the vibration of his name escape your lips as he turned to face you, in question. 

“You know, if our roles had reversed that night, I would have reacted the same way.” 

That made him smile, the dim light coming through your windows revealing the gleam in his eyes. 

“I know.” 

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A/N 

Omg, this chapter is definitely one of my favs at the moment. I’m currently midway through rewatching ‘Revenge of the Sith’ but I’m very much avoiding the ending bc if I don’t watch it...  ✨ it never happened ✨ 

But anyway, I can’t believe that today I got noticed by one of my favorite accounts on this app @anakinswhore omfg the fact that you read and REBLOGGED my story means the world to me, bb!! I can promise you that when I finally write their smut scene (whenever that happens hehehe), I’ll dedicate it to u! 

Thank you to everyone who’s read, liked and reblogged the story up to now- much love

till next time ;) 

EnVy

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Taglist: 

@shads121 @musictelevision @anakinswhore

[butterflies-dragons]

Sansa - Alayne - Alysanne - Sara - Sansara

A great deal has already been said about how similar Sansa Stark and Good Queen Alysanne Targaryen are. Here some sources:

Sansa Stark and "Good Queen" Alysanne Targaryen parallels

open thread #1: alysansa

Good Queen Alysanne translates to Good Queen D@ny??

Don't you think that Alysanne has more similarities with Arya than Sansa?

Tidbits from Fire and Blood

More tidbits from Fire and Blood

An Idyll where love conquers all

Jaehaerys and Alysanne was a romance unequaled since the days of Florian the Fool and his Jonquil

Doug Wheatley, we need an explanation!

can I copy your homework?

Lord Commander Burley also renamed Snowgate castle in her honor, as Queensgate

is nourishing

What are you doing George?

Jonquil Darke “the Scarlet Shadow” & Joffrey Dogget “the Red Dog of the Hills”

There is a certain irony in people rejecting any Sansa/Alysanne connection

There’s plenty Sansa and Alysanne parallels and some situations may actually repeat themselves

so sansa and good queen alysanne am i the only that sees it?

What are some parallels/similarities between Sansa and Good Queen Alysanne? Are there any?

More Sansa = Alysanne

Queen Alysanne has a knight named Jonquil and meets Lord Commander Lothor at the wall

Sansa & Alysanne portraits 

Queen Alysanne and her cousin King Jaehaerys

Queen Alysanne/Sansa Stark parallel

Why is it so significant the parallel between Queen Alysanne and Sansa?

Queens

Now I will give you my contribution on the matter, mostly based on what I found in my recent first re-reading of Fire & Blood.  

MERCY

Five of Maegor’s Seven yet survived. Two of those, Ser Olyver Bracken and Ser Raymund Mallery, had played a part in the late king’s fall by turning their cloaks and going over to Jaehaerys, but the boy king observed rightly that in doing so they had broken their vows to defend the king’s life with their own. “I will have no oathbreakers at my court,” he proclaimed. All five Kingsguard were therefore sentenced to death…but at the urging of Princess Alysanne, it was agreed that they might be spared if they would exchange their white cloaks for black by joining the Night’s Watch. Four of the five accepted this clemency and departed for the Wall; along with Ser Olyver and Ser Raymund, the turncloaks, went Ser Jon Tollett and Ser Symond Crayne.

—Fire & Blood

This passage reminds me of Sansa asking mercy for her father Ned and saving Dontos’ life by denying him the mercy of a quick death: 

The king! Sansa blinked back her tears. Joffrey was the king now, she thought. Her gallant prince would never hurt her father, no matter what he might have done. If she went to him and pleaded for mercy, she was certain he'd listen. He had to listen, he loved her, even the queen said so. Joff would need to punish Father, the lords would expect it, but perhaps he could send him back to Winterfell, or exile him to one of the Free Cities across the narrow sea. It would only have to be for a few years. By then she and Joffrey would be married. Once she was queen, she could persuade Joff to bring Father back and grant him a pardon.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa IV

"Do you deny your father's crime?" Lord Baelish asked.

"No, my lords." Sansa knew better than that. "I know he must be punished. All I ask is mercy. I know my lord father must regret what he did. He was King Robert's friend and he loved him, you all know he loved him. He never wanted to be Hand until the king asked him. They must have lied to him. Lord Renly or Lord Stannis or … or somebody, they must have lied, otherwise …"

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa V

Unhappy, Joffrey shifted in his seat and flicked his fingers at Ser Dontos. "Take him away. I'll have him killed on the morrow, the fool."

"He is," Sansa said. "A fool. You're so clever, to see it. He's better fitted to be a fool than a knight, isn't he? You ought to dress him in motley and make him clown for you. He doesn't deserve the mercy of a quick death."

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa I

JOFFREY & THE HOUND

In Fire & Blood we meet a character named Ser Joffrey Doggett, also known as the Red Dog of the Hills. He was a knight from House Doggett, a noble house from the westerlands, vassals of House Lannister. 

During the reign of Maegor I Targaryen, Ser Joffrey Doggett was a member of the Lannisport chapter of the Warrior's Sons, an order of Westerosi knights sworn to the Faith of the Seven.

Ser Joffrey Doggett’s family was burned by the fires of Balerion: 

Then Maegor himself took wing, flying Balerion to the westerlands, where he burned the castles of the Broomes, the Falwells, the Lorches, and the other “pious lords” who had defied his summons. Lastly he descended upon the seat of House Doggett, reducing it to ash. The fires claimed the lives of Ser Joffrey’s father, mother, and young sister, along with their sworn swords, serving men, and chattel. 

—Fire & Blood

The day of his coronation, Jaehaerys I Targaryen appointed Ser Joffrey Doggett a member of the Kingsguard: 

“I rose against your uncle just as you did,” replied the Red Dog of the Hills, defiant.

“You did,” Jaehaerys allowed, “and you fought bravely, no man can deny. The Warrior’s Sons are no more and your vows to them are at an end, but your service need not be. I have a place for you.” And with these words, the young king shocked the court by offering Ser Joffrey a place by his side as a knight of the Kingsguard. A hush fell then, Grand Maester Benifer tells us, and when the Red Dog drew his longsword there were some who feared he might be about to attack the king with it…but instead the knight went to one knee, bowed his head, and laid his blade at Jaehaerys’s feet. It is said that there were tears upon his cheeks.

—Fire & Blood

Much later, Ser Joffrey Doggett flew with Queen Alysanne on her dragon Silverwing:

Even for a dragon, the flight from King’s Landing to Oldtown is a long one. The king and queen stopped twice along the way, once at Bitterbridge and once at Highgarden, resting overnight and taking counsel with their lords. The lords of the council had insisted that they take some protection at the very least. Ser Joffrey Doggett flew with Alysanne, and the Scarlet Shadow, Jonquil Darke, with Jaehaerys, so as to balance the weight each dragon carried.

—Fire & Blood

So here we have a character from the westernlands, vassal of the Lannisters, named Joffrey but also known as a red dog, whose family was burned by dragonfire and later became a member of the Kingsguard of Jaehaerys and also protected Queen Alysanne.  Ser Joffrey Doggett sounds like a combination of Joffrey Lannister and his sworn sword and later Kingsguard Sandor Clegane, the Hound. Both characters closely connected with Sansa Stark.

This is not the first time that GRRM did something like this. In the tale “The Hedge Knight”, part of his book “A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms”, GRRM has surrounded the fair maid of the Ashford Tourney, a girl of 13 years old, with a lot of characters that remind us of Sansa’s suitors and other men somehow interested in her.  

And this is not the only time that GRRM did it in Fire & Blood either. Queen Alysanne is surrounded by a lot of characters that remind us of ASOIAF characters that surround Sansa Stark. 

APPEARANCE

Before Fire & Blood, GRRM gave us this description of Good Queen Alysanne Targaryen, as an old woman at the end of Jaehaerys I reign:

GOOD QUEEN ALYSANNE

Alysanne was the queen, consort, and sister of King Jaehaerys I, the Old King, and like him she lived a long life. Since you pictured him as an old man at the end of his reign, I figure it would be most appropriate to do her the same way, rather than as the young woman she was when Jaehaerys first ascended the Iron Throne.

You might consider Alysanne as the Eleanor of Aquitaine of Westeros, and model her on Katharine Hepburn's portrayal of Eleanor in the film THE LION IN WINTER. Tall and straight, unbowed by time, she had high cheekbones, clear blue eyes. Age left crow's feet around her eyes and laugh lines about her mouth, but her face never lost its strength. She was a fine archer and hunter in her youth, and loved to fly atop her dragon to all the distant parts of the realm. Alysanne was slim of waist and small of breast, with a long neck, a fair complexion, a high forehead. In old age her hair turned white as snow. She wore it in a bun, pulled back and pinned behind her hear.

Her relationship with King Jaehaerys was always very close. She was his most trusted counselor and his right hand, and often wore a slimmer, more feminine version of his crown at court. Beloved by the common people of Westeros, she loved them in return, and was renowned for her charities.

[Source]

Here is Katharine Hepburn as Eleanor of Aquitaine in the film THE LION IN WINTER:

Katharine Hepburn‘s was 1.72 m.

After Fire & Blood, GRRM gave us this description of Good Queen Alysanne Targaryen, as a girl of 13 years old: 

Though she had only recently turned thirteen, the young princess rose to the challenge brilliantly, all agreed. For seven days and seven nights, she broke her fast with one group of highborn ladies, dined with a second, supped with a third. She showed them the wonders of the Red Keep, sailed with them on Blackwater Bay, and rode with them about the city.

Alysanne Targaryen, the youngest child of King Aenys and Queen Alyssa, had been little known amongst the lords and ladies of the realm before then. Her childhood had been spent in the shadow of her brothers and her elder sister, Rhaena, and when she was spoken of at all it was as “the little maid” and “the other daughter.” She was little, this was true; slim and slight of frame, Alysanne was oft described as pretty but seldom as beautiful, though she was born of a house renowned for beauty. Her eyes were blue rather than purple, her hair a mass of honey-colored curls. No man ever questioned her wits.

Later, it would be said of her that she learned to read before she was weaned, and the court fool would make japes about little Alysanne dribbling mother’s milk on Valyrian scrolls as she tried to read whilst suckling at her wet nurse’s teat. Had she been a boy she would surely have been sent to the Citadel to forge a maester’s chain, Septon Barth would say of her…

(...)

“My little flower,” was how the queen described her. Like Alysanne herself, Daella was small—on her toes, she stood five feet two inches—and there was a childish aspect to her that led everyone who met her to think she was younger than her age. Unlike Alysanne, she was delicate as well, in ways the queen had never been. 

—Fire & Blood

5.2 feet = 1.58 m.

Queen Alysanne’s “semi canon” description matched with Sansa’s a lot. But, from the “semi canon” source to the canon source (Fire & Blood), Queen Alysanne changed from tall (1.72 m) to small (1.58 m).  She kept two features that are very similar to Sansa though:   

Not purple eyes but BLUE EYES

Not silver hair but HONEY-COLORED CURLS 

And these two features are very close to the main features of House Tully: Blue Eyes and Auburn Hair. 

You can google “honey colored hair” and see by yourselves that honey colored is closer to auburn than silver. There are also metas about the matter out there, you can check them out too.   

There is not no mention of high cheekbones in Fire & Blood, but the illustrator of the book, Doug Wheatley, definitely gave Queen Alysanne high cheekbones and a very close resemble to Sophie Turner, the actress that played Sansa Stark in the Series:

This could be a coincidence of course. This is what GRRM has said about book illustrations while promoting Fire & Blood:  

Q: You have a very distinct idea of what the characters look like in your own head, because readers will always take their own?

GRRM: I do have ideas of what the characters look like in my own head but I’m perfectly willing to let the artist do different interpretations… You know, let different artists present their different interpretations of it, I’m fine with that. It’s not photography, so I love the idea of, you know, letting people use their own creativity within limits of course, but I love some of the works, many of the works I’ve bought original is hanging on, you know, on my own walls so…    

In conversation: George R. R. Martin with John Hodgman FULL EVENT 

Drawing Queen Alysanne with a close resemble to Sophie Turner was within the limits, it seems. 

I’m not saying Queen Alysanne and Sansa are identical twins, they don’t have to be, but they share significant physical features. They have differences as well, Alysanne is slim with small breast while Sansa is curvy with a big bosom. 

Queen Alysanne and Sansa also share these traits:

Alysanne was a bright but unremarkable girl; small but never sickly, courteous, biddable, with a sweet smile and a pleasing voice. To the relief of her parents, she displayed none of the timidity that had afflicted her elder sister, Rhaena, as a small child. Neither did she exhibit the willful and stubborn temperament of Rhaena’s daughter Aerea.

—Fire & Blood

This Alysanne’s description matches almost bit by bit these Sansa’s descriptions (including the contrast between Alysanne/Aerea and Sansa/Arya): 

It wasn't fair. Sansa had everything. Sansa was two years older; maybe by the time Arya had been born, there had been nothing left. Often it felt that way. Sansa could sew and dance and sing. She wrote poetry. She knew how to dress. She played the high harp and the bells. Worse, she was beautiful. Sansa had gotten their mother's fine high cheekbones and the thick auburn hair of the Tullys. Arya took after their lord father. Her hair was a lusterless brown, and her face was long and solemn. Jeyne used to call her Arya Horseface, and neigh whenever she came near. It hurt that the one thing Arya could do better than her sister was ride a horse. Well, that and manage a household. Sansa had never had much of a head for figures. If she did marry Prince Joff, Arya hoped for his sake that he had a good steward.

—A Game of Thrones - Arya I

"Sansa was a lady at three, always so courteous and eager to please. She loved nothing so well as tales of knightly valor. Men would say she had my look, but she will grow into a woman far more beautiful than I ever was, you can see that. I often sent away her maid so I could brush her hair myself. She had auburn hair, lighter than mine, and so thick and soft . . . the red in it would catch the light of the torches and shine like copper.

"And Arya, well . . . Ned's visitors would oft mistake her for a stableboy if they rode into the yard unannounced. Arya was a trial, it must be said. Half a boy and half a wolf pup. Forbid her anything and it became her heart's desire. She had Ned's long face, and brown hair that always looked as though a bird had been nesting in it. I despaired of ever making a lady of her. She collected scabs as other girls collect dolls, and would say anything that came into her head. I think she must be dead too." When she said that, it felt as though a giant hand were squeezing her chest. 

—A Clash of Kings - Catelyn VII

Tyrion let them have their byplay; it was all for his benefit, he knew. Sansa Stark, he mused. Soft-spoken sweet-smelling Sansa, who loved silks, songs, chivalry and tall gallant knights with handsome faces. He felt as though he was back on the bridge of boats, the deck shifting beneath his feet.

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion III

So the singer played for her, so soft and sad that Arya only heard snatches of the words, though the tune was half-familiar. Sansa would know it, I bet. Her sister had known all the songs, and she could even play a little, and sing so sweetly. All I could ever do was shout the words.

—A Storm of Swords - Arya IV

INTELLIGENCE

Fire & Blood remarks Alysanne’s intelligence a lot, she was an avid reader and she could have been a Maester of the Citadel:

No man ever questioned her wits.

Later, it would be said of her that she learned to read before she was weaned, and the court fool would make japes about little Alysanne dribbling mother’s milk on Valyrian scrolls as she tried to read whilst suckling at her wet nurse’s teat. Had she been a boy she would surely have been sent to the Citadel to forge a maester’s chain, Septon Barth would say of her…for that wise man esteemed her even more than her husband, whom he served for so long. That was far in the future, however; in 49 AC, Alysanne was but a girl of thirteen years, yet all the chronicles agree that she made a powerful impression on those who met her.

(...)

It is written that the young king and queen were seldom apart during that time, sharing every meal, talking late into the night of the green days of their childhood and the challenges ahead, fishing and hawking together, mingling with the island’s smallfolk in dockside inns, reading to one another from dusty leatherbound tomes they found in the castle library, taking lessons together from Dragonstone’s maesters (“for we still have much to learn,” Alysanne is said to have reminded her husband).

(...)

“If I had not become queen, I might have liked to be a maester,” she told the Conclave. “I read, I write, I think, I am not afraid of ravens…or a bit of blood. There are other highborn girls who feel the same. Why not admit them to your Citadel? If they cannot keep up, send them home, the way you send home boys who are not clever enough. If you would give the girls a chance, you might be surprised by how many forge a chain.”

(...)

For three days she lost herself in the Citadel’s great library, emerging only to attend lectures on the Valyrian dragon wars, leechcraft, and the gods of the Summer Isles.

(...)

Once the initial frost had thawed, his lordship took the queen hunting after elk and wild boar in the wolfswood, showed her the bones of a giant, and allowed her to rummage as she pleased through his modest castle library.

—Fire & Blood

Sansa shares Alysanne’s love for reading:

The queen took Sansa's hand in both of hers. "Child, do you know your lettersSansa nodded nervously. She could read and write better than any of her brothers, although she was hopeless at sums.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa IV

Jeyne Poole and all her things were gone when Ser Mandon Moore returned Sansa to the high tower of Maegor's Holdfast. No more weeping, she thought gratefully. Yet somehow it seemed colder with Jeyne gone, even after she'd built a fire. She pulled a chair close to the hearth, took down one of her favorite books, and lost herself in the stories of Florian and Jonquil, of Lady Shella and the Rainbow Knight, of valiant Prince Aemon and his doomed love for his brother's queen.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa IV

“Do you read well, Alayne?"

"Septa Mordane was good enough to say so."

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI

Here is Arya listing all of Sansa’s artistic talents:

It wasn't fair. Sansa had everything. Sansa was two years older; maybe by the time Arya had been born, there had been nothing left. Often it felt that way. Sansa could sew and dance and sing. She wrote poetry. She knew how to dress. She played the high harp and the bells. Worse, she was beautiful. Sansa had gotten their mother's fine high cheekbones and the thick auburn hair of the Tullys. Arya took after their lord father. Her hair was a lusterless brown, and her face was long and solemn. Jeyne used to call her Arya Horseface, and neigh whenever she came near. It hurt that the one thing Arya could do better than her sister was ride a horse. Well, that and manage a household. Sansa had never had much of a head for figures. If she did marry Prince Joff, Arya hoped for his sake that he had a good steward.

—A Game of Thrones - Arya I

Arya is also here to tell us that Sansa is good at Heraldry:

No one ransomed the northmen, though. One fat lordling haunted the kitchens, Hot Pie told her, always looking for a morsel. His mustache was so bushy that it covered his mouth, and the clasp that held his cloak was a silver-and-sapphire trident. He belonged to Lord Tywin, but the fierce, bearded young man who liked to walk the battlements alone in a black cloak patterned with white suns had been taken by some hedge knight who meant to get rich off him. Sansa would have known who he was, and the fat one too, but Arya had never taken much interest in titles and sigils. Whenever Septa Mordane had gone on about the history of this house and that house, she was inclined to drift and dream and wonder when the lesson would be done.

—A Clash of Kings - Arya VII

Sansa understands songs sung in High Valyrian:

"I'm sore all over," Arya reported happily, proudly displaying a huge purple bruise on her leg.

"You must be a terrible dancer," Sansa said doubtfully.

Later, while Sansa was off listening to a troupe of singers perform the complex round of interwoven ballads called the "Dance of the Dragons," Ned inspected the bruise himself. "I hope Forel is not being too hard on you," he said.

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard VII

Then the heralds summoned another singer; Collio Quaynis of Tyrosh, who had a vermilion beard and an accent as ludicrous as Symon had promised. Collio began with his version of "The Dance of the Dragons," which was more properly a song for two singers, male and female. Tyrion suffered through it with a double helping of honey-ginger partridge and several cups of wine. A haunting ballad of two dying lovers amidst the Doom of Valyria might have pleased the hall more if Collio had not sung it in High Valyrian, which most of the guests could not speak.

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VIII

If the Eyrie had been made like other castles, only rats and gaolers would have heard the dead man singing. Dungeon walls were thick enough to swallow songs and screams alike. But the sky cells had a wall of empty air, so every chord the dead man played flew free to echo off the stony shoulders of the Giant's Lance. And the songs he chose . . . He sang of the Dance of the Dragons, of fair Jonquil and her fool, of Jenny of Oldstones and the Prince of Dragonflies. He sang of betrayals, and murders most foul, of hanged men and bloody vengeance. He sang of grief and sadness.

—A Feast for Crows - Sansa I

But, apparently, Sansa is bad with numbers...

It hurt that the one thing Arya could do better than her sister was ride a horse. Well, that and manage a household. Sansa had never had much of a head for figures. If she did marry Prince Joff, Arya hoped for his sake that he had a good steward.

—A Game of Thrones - Arya I

She could read and write better than any of her brothers, although she was hopeless at sums.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa IV

Something changed then, because Alayne Stone is doing pretty well as de facto Lady of the Eyrie...

I can continue but this would be too long, so it’s better if I leave you this great post about Sansa’s intelligence: Sansa Smart

And here is GRRM himself talking about Sansa’s wits:  

Up to now Sansa has been a piece, that other people have moved around the board, to achieve her own goals, using her, discarding her, using her for a different purpose: You know, you’re going to marry Joffrey. No, you’re going to marry Loras. You’re going to marry Tyrion. She is beginning to at least try to understand how she can play the Game of Thrones and be not a piece, but a player. With her own goals, and moving other pieces around. And she’s not a warrior like Robb, Jon Snow. She’s not even a wild child like Arya. She can’t fight with swords, axes. She can’t raise armies. But she has her wits! Same as Littlefinger has.

—Game of Thrones Season 4: Episode #8 - A Different Purpose (HBO)

UNDERDOGS

Queen Alysanne Targaryen and Sansa Stark are two examples of “underdogs”:

No one paid attention to Alysanne until she was a maid of thirteen and was left in charge to entertain and charm lords and ladies at court. She grew up in the shadow of her older siblings, she was never expected to be Queen:

Alysanne Targaryen, the youngest child of King Aenys and Queen Alyssa, had been little known amongst the lords and ladies of the realm before then. Her childhood had been spent in the shadow of her brothers and her elder sister, Rhaena, and when she was spoken of at all it was as “the little maid” and “the other daughter.” 

(...)

We know very little about the childhood of Alysanne Targaryen; as the fifthborn child of King Aenys and Queen Alyssa, and a female, observers at court found her of less interest than her older siblings who stood higher in the line of succession. From what little has come down to us, Alysanne was a bright but unremarkable girl; small but never sickly, courteous, biddable, with a sweet smile and a pleasing voice. To the relief of her parents, she displayed none of the timidity that had afflicted her elder sister, Rhaena, as a small child. Neither did she exhibit the willful and stubborn temperament of Rhaena’s daughter Aerea.

—Fire & Blood

The same way as Alysanne was described as “unremarkable”, Sansa Stark is often described as “stupid”:

That gorget wasn't fastened proper. You think Gregor didn't notice that? You think Ser Gregor's lance rode up by chance, do you? Pretty little talking girl, you believe that, you're empty-headed as a bird for true. 

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa II

"Your Grace," he said sharply. "You truly are a stupid girl, aren't you? My mother says so."

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI

. . . ah, you're still a stupid little bird, aren't you? Singing all the songs they taught you . . . 

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa II

"Everyone wants to be loved." "I see flowering hasn't made you any brighter," said Cersei. 

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa IV

"He will," Sansa lied. "He is very . . . very comely."

"You said that. You know, child, some say that you are as big a fool as Butterbumps here, and I am starting to believe them. 

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa I

"Her heart was broken."

Sansa would have sighed and shed a tear for true love, but Arya just thought it was stupid. She couldn't say that to Ned, though, not about his own aunt. "Did someone break it?"

—A Storm of Swords - Arya VIII

"I forgot, you've been hiding under a rock. The northern girl. Winterfell's daughter. We heard she killed the king with a spell, and afterward changed into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window. But she left the dwarf behind and Cersei means to have his head."

That's stupid, Arya thought. Sansa only knows songs, not spells, and she'd never marry the Imp.

—A Storm of Swords - Arya XIII

"NO!" Lysa gave Sansa's head another wrench. Snow eddied around them, making their skirts snap noisily. "You can't want her. You can't. She's a stupid empty-headed little girl.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

"Some books. I like the fighting stories. My sister Sansa likes the kissing stories, but those are stupid."

—A Dance with Dragons - Bran III

Sansa as Alysanne was not “remarkable” among her siblings, who often called her stupid, specially Bran and Arya, and was never expected to be the Heir of Winterfell or the Stark at Winterfell. She is the underdog...  

... And GRRM just loves underdogs:

Chris Long: Do you watch sports through that lens (characters developed all the time, unsung heroes/archnemesis of everybody/misunderstood as villains/some heroes are villains in disguise), with your writing background, and your penchant for creating characters, do you look at the characters in sports?  

GRRM: I do. You know, I think America loves the underdog, and we don’t like, except if it happens to be your dynasty, we tend not to like dynasties, you know?

—George RR Martin in The Fish Bowl with Chris Long

WEDDED BUT NOT BEDDED

Alysanne and Sansa flowered and wedded at a similar age. But both remained maidens: 

The princess was three-and-ten years of age, and had recently celebrated her first flowering, so it was thought desirable to see her wed as soon as possible. 

(...)

A modest feast followed the ceremony, and many toasts were drunk to the health of the boy king and his new queen. Afterward Jaehaerys and Alysanne retired to the bedchamber where Aegon the Conqueror had once slept beside his sister Rhaenys, but in view of the bride’s youth there was no bedding ceremony, and the marriage was not consummated.

—Fire & Blood

“How old are you, Sansa?” asked Tyrion, after a moment.

“Thirteen,” she said, “when the moon turns.”

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

“She is old enough to be Lady of Winterfell once her brother is dead. Claim her maidenhood and you will be one step closer to claiming the north. Get her with child, and the prize is all but won. Do I need to remind you that a marriage that has not been consummated can be set aside?”

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion IV

Also Alysanne’s determination to marry his King brother Jaehaerys against her own mother's wishes, sounds pretty much like Sansa's stubbornness to marry Joffrey against Ned's orders.

Sansa, in an act of defiance, ran to Cersei and tells her of her father's plans, pleading that she might be allowed to stay and marry Joffrey.

"How well I know that, child," Cersei said, her voice so kind and sweet. "Why else should you have come to me and told me of your father's plan to send you away from us, if not for love?"

"It was for love," Sansa said in a rush. "Father wouldn't even give me leave to say farewell." She was the good girl, the obedient girl, but she had felt as wicked as Arya that morning, sneaking away from Septa Mordane, defying her lord father. She had never done anything so willful before, and she would never have done it then if she hadn't loved Joffrey as much as she did. "He was going to take me back to Winterfell and marry me to some hedge knight, even though it was Joff I wanted. I told him, but he wouldn't listen." The king had been her last hope. The king could command Father to let her stay in King's Landing and marry Prince Joffrey, Sansa knew he could, but the king had always frightened her. He was loud and rough-voiced and drunk as often as not, and he would probably have just sent her back to Lord Eddard, if they even let her see him. So she went to the queen instead, and poured out her heart, and Cersei had listened and thanked her sweetly … only then Ser Arys had escorted her to the high room in Maegor's Holdfast and posted guards, and a few hours later, the fighting had begun outside. "Please," she finished, "you have to let me marry Joffrey, I'll be ever so good a wife to him, you'll see. I'll be a queen just like you, I promise."

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa IV

Alysanne ran to Jaehaerys himself and they both elope to Dragonstone:

No record survives of what Alysanne Targaryen said or thought when first she learned that she was to be wed to a youth ten years her senior, whom she scarcely knew and (if rumor can be believed) did not like. We know only what she did. Another girl might have wept or raged or run pleading to her mother. In many a sad song, maidens forced to wed against their will throw themselves from tall towers to their deaths. Princess Alysanne did none of these things. Instead she went directly to Jaehaerys.

The young king was as displeased as his sister at the news. “They will be making wedding plans for me as well, I do not doubt,” he deduced at once. Like his sister, Jaehaerys did not waste time with reproaches, recriminations, or appeals. Instead he acted. Summoning his Kingsguard, he instructed them to sail at once for Dragonstone, where he would meet them shortly. “You have sworn me your swords and your obedience,” he reminded his Seven. “Remember those vows, and speak no word of my departure.”

That night, under cover of darkness, King Jaehaerys and Princess Alysanne mounted their dragons, Vermithor and Silverwing, and departed the Red Keep for the ancient Targaryen citadel below the Dragonmont. Reportedly the first words the young king spoke upon landing were, “I have need of a septon.”

—Fire & Blood

Curiously enough Alysanne’s first betrothed was Orryn Baratheon, just like Sansa’s first betrothed was Joffrey Baratheon.

LIKE IN THE SONGS

Alysanne and Jaehaerys eloping and first wedding had all the element’s of a fairy tale, like the songs Sansa loves to read: 

The Kingsguards as witnesses 

The Kingsguard arrived from King’s Landing by galley a few days later. The following morning, as the sun rose, Jaehaerys Targaryen, the First of His Name, took to wife his sister Alysanne in the great yard at Dragonstone, before the eyes of gods and men and dragons. Septon Oswyck performed the marriage rites; though the old man’s voice was thin and tremulous, no part of the ceremony was neglected. The seven knights of the Kingsguard stood witness to the union, their white cloaks snapping in the wind. 

—Fire & Blood

The Kingsguards fighting against the men that tried to separate the couple

From that day to this, the tale has been a favorite of lovesick maidens and their squires throughout the Seven Kingdoms, and many a bard has sung of the valor of the Kingsguard, seven men in white cloaks who faced down half a hundred. 

—Fire & Blood

This eloping, secret wedding and the Kingsguars involvement reminds me a lot of Lyanna’s “abduction” by Rhaegar and the Kingsguards “protecting” Lyanna in the Tower of Joy...  

A romance unequaled since the days of Florian and Jonquil

“That is how the singers tell the tale, certainly; the swift and sudden marriage of Jaehaerys and Alysanne was a romance unequaled since the days of Florian the Fool and his Jonquil, to hear them sing of it. And in songs, as ever, love conquers all. ”

—Fire & Blood

Florian and Jonquil love story is Sansa’s favorite. 

We are one now, and neither gods nor men shall part us

“As you command, Mother.” King Jaehaerys pulled his sister closer and put his arm around her. “But do not think that you shall unmake this marriage. We are one now, and neither gods nor men shall part us.” “Never,” his bride affirmed. “Send me to the ends of the earth and wed me to the King of Mossovy or the Lord of the Grey Waste, Silverwing will always bring me back to Jaehaerys.” And with that she raised herself onto her toes and lifted her face to the king, and he kissed her full upon the lips whilst all looked on.”

—Fire & Blood

An endless honeymoon

“It is written that the young king and queen were seldom apart during that time, sharing every meal, talking late into the night of the green days of their childhood and the challenges ahead, fishing and hawking together, mingling with the island’s smallfolk in dockside inns, reading to one another from dusty leatherbound tomes they found in the castle library, taking lessons together from Dragonstone’s maesters (“for we still have much to learn,” Alysanne is said to have reminded her husband), praying beside Septon Oswyck. They flew together as well, all around the Dragonmont and oft as far as Driftmark.”

—Fire & Blood

A maid observing her love while training

Every morning Jaehaerys trained with them in the castle yard, shouting at them to come at him harder, to press him, harry him, and attack him in every way they knew. From sunrise till noon he worked with them, honing his skills with sword and spear and mace and axe whilst his new queen looked on.”

(…)

“Jaehaerys was oft brusied and bloody by evening, to Alysanne’s distress, but his prowess improved so markedly”

—Fire & Blood

Jaehaerys training with more than one man at the same time reminds me of Garlan Tyrell and Jon Snow because they do the same:

On the edge of the yard, a lone knight with a pair of golden roses on his shield was holding off three foes. Even as they watched, he caught one of them alongside the head, knocking him senseless. "Is that your brother?" Sansa asked.

"It is, my lady," said Ser Loras. "Garlan often trains against three men, or even four. In battle it is seldom one against one, he says, so he likes to be prepared."

"He must be very brave."

"He is a great knight," Ser Loras replied. "A better sword than me, in truth, though I'm the better lance."

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa I

Jon swelled with pride. "Robb is a stronger lance than I am, but I'm the better sword, and Hullen says I sit a horse as well as anyone in the castle."

—A Game of Thrones - Jon I

“When Iron Emmett spied him, he raised a hand and combat ceased. “Lord Commander. How may we serve you?”

“With your three best.”

Emmett grinned. “Arron. Emrick. Jace.” . . .

“Which one do you want first?” asked Arron.

“All three of you. At once.”

“Three on one?” Jace was incredulous. “That wouldn’t be fair.” He was one of Conwy’s latest bunch, a cobbler’s son from Fair Isle. Maybe that explained it.

“True. Come here.”

When he did, Jon’s blade slammed him alongside his head, knocking him off his feet. In the blink of an eye the boy had a boot on his chest and a swordpoint at his throat. “War is never fair,” Jon told him. “It’s two on one now, and you’re dead.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon VI

An Idyll

“Queen Alysanne, for her part, was in no haste to return to court. “Here I have you to myself, day and night,” she told Jaehaerys. “When we go back, I shall be fortunate to snatch an hour with you, for every man in Westeros will want a piece of you.” For her, these days on Dragonstone were an idyll. “Many years from now when we are old and grey, we shall look back upon these days and smile, remembering how happy we were.”

—Fire & Blood

Sansa Stark is sighing somewhere... 

QUEENS

I found this very interesting detail in Fire & Blood: The Three Queens 

In 50 AC, the realm of Westeros found itself blessed with one king, a Hand, and three queens, as in King Maegor’s day…but whereas Maegor’s queens had been consorts, subservient to his will, living and dying at his whim, each of the queens of the half-century was a power in her own right.

In the Red Keep of King’s Landing sat the Queen Regent Alyssa, widow of the late King Aenys, mother to his son Jaehaerys, and wife to the King’s Hand, Rogar Baratheon. Just across Blackwater Bay on Dragonstone, a younger queen had arisen when Alyssa’s daughter Alysanne, a maid of thirteen years, had pledged her troth to her brother King Jaehaerys, against the wishes of her mother and her mother’s lord husband. And far to the west on Fair Isle, with the whole width of Westeros separating her from both mother and sister, was Alyssa’s eldest daughter, the dragonrider Rhaena Targaryen, widow of Prince Aegon the Uncrowned. In the westerlands, riverlands, and parts of the Reach, men were already calling her the Queen in the West.

—Fire & Blood

This passage obviously makes me think in The Three Queens mentioned by Littlefinger in a conversation with Sansa in A Feast for Crows:  

“You would not believe half of what is happening in King’s Landing, sweetling. Cersei stumbles from one idiocy to the next, helped along by her council of the deaf, the dim, and the blind. I always anticipated that she would beggar the realm and destroy herself, but I never expected she would do it quite so fast. It is quite vexing. I had hoped to have four or five quiet years to plant some seeds and allow some fruits to ripen, but now … it is a good thing that I thrive on chaos. What little peace and order the five kings left us will not long survive the three queens, I fear.”

“Three queens?” She did not understand.

Nor did Petyr choose to explain. Instead, he smiled and said, “I have brought my sweet girl back a gift.”

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

Thanks to this passage of Fire & Blood about The Three Queens: 

Queen Alyssa, Queen Regent, widow of Aenys

Queen Alysanne, Queen Consort, wife of Jaehaerys (but still a maid)

Queen Rhaena, widow of Prince Aegon the Uncrowned (& Maegor)

We can make the following association with these three ASOIAF characters in a similar position:

Alyssa/Cersei = Regents & Widows

Alysanne/Sansa = Wedded but No Bedded

Rhaena/Margaery = Twice Widows of Aegon/Maegor & Renly/Joffrey

But Fire & Blood has a little surprise in a footnote:

Footnote:

*1.- It should be noted, lest we be charged with omission, that there was a fourth queen in Westeros in 50 AC. The twice-widowed Queen Elinor of House Costayne, who had found King Maegor dead upon the Iron Throne, had departed King’s Landing after Jaehaerys’s ascent. Dressed in the robes of a penitent and accompanied only by a handmaid and one leal man-at-arms, she made her way to the Eyrie in the Vale of Arryn to visit the eldest of her three sons by Ser Theo Bolling, and thence to Highgarden in the Reach, where her second son had been fostered to Lord Tyrell. Once satisfied of their well-being, the former queen reclaimed her youngest boy and repaired to her father’s seat at Three Towers in the Reach, where she declared she would live quietly for the remainder of her life. Fate, and King Jaehaerys, had other plans for her, as we shall relate later. Suffice it to say that Queen Elinor played no role in the events of 50 AC.

—Fire & Blood

The fourth queen was Elinor Costayne, widow, mother of three living sons and one stillborn of Maegor. 

So we can make this final association:

Alyssa/Cersei = Regents & Widows

Alysanne/Sansa = Wedded but Not Bedded

Rhaena/Margaery = Twice Widows of Aegon/Maegor & Renly/Joffrey

Elinor/Daenerys = Widows, Mothers of three living sons: 3 Bolling sons/Drogo-Rhaegal-Viseryon & one twisted and malformed stillborn (unnamed/Rhaego)

Take note how Alysanne is described as “a younger queen” and “maid of thirteen”, because this could be a hint that Sansa Stark is the younger and more beautiful queen of Maggy The Frog prophecy.    

FLORIAN & JONQUIL

Sansa Stark’s favorite love story is the Tale of Florian and Jonquil, and Alysanne Targaryen is heavily associate with that story as well.

As mentioned earlier, Alysanne’s own love story is compared to Florian and Jonquil:

“That is how the singers tell the tale, certainly; the swift and sudden marriage of Jaehaerys and Alysanne was a romance unequaled since the days of Florian the Fool and his Jonquil, to hear them sing of it. And in songs, as ever, love conquers all. ”

—Fire & Blood

The Maidenpool incident

Alysanne suffered an attempt of murder perpetuated by three women at Maidenpool:

The town of Maidenpool was far famed for the sweetwater pool where legend had it that Florian the Fool had first glimpsed Jonquil bathing during the Age of Heroes. Like thousands of other women before her, Queen Alysanne wished to bathe in Jonquil’s pool, whose waters were said to have amazing healing properties. The lords of Maidenpool had erected a great stone bathhouse around the pool many centuries before, and given it over to an order of holy sisters. No men were allowed to enter the premises, so when the queen slipped into the sacred waters, she was attended only by her ladies-in-waiting, maids, and septas (Edyth and Lyra, who had served beside Septa Ysabel as novices, had both recently sworn their vows to become septas, consecrated in the Faith and devoted to the queen).

The goodness of the little queen, the silence of the Starry Sept, and the exhortations of the Seven Speakers had won over most of the Faithful for Jaehaerys and his Alysanne…but there are always some who will not be moved, and amongst the sisters who tended Jonquil’s Pool were three such women, whose hearts were hard with hate. They told one another that their holy waters would be polluted forever were the queen allowed to bathe in them whilst carrying the king’s “abomination” in her belly. Queen Alysanne had only slipped out of her clothing when they fell upon her with daggers they had concealed within their robes.

Blessedly, the attackers were no warriors, and they had not taken the courage of the queen’s companions into account. Naked and vulnerable, the Wise Women did not hesitate, but stepped between the attackers and their lady. Septa Edyth was slashed across the face, Prudence Celtigar stabbed through the shoulder, whilst Rosamund Ball took a dagger in the belly that, three days later, proved to be the death of her, but none of the murderous blades touched the queen. The shouts and screams of the struggle brought Alysanne’s protectors running, for Ser Joffrey Doggett and Ser Gyles Morrigen had been guarding the entrance to the bathhouse, never dreaming that the danger lurked within.

The Kingsguard made short work of the attackers, slaying two out of hand whilst keeping the third alive for questioning. When encouraged, she revealed that half a dozen others of their order had helped plan the attack, whilst lacking the courage to wield a blade. Lord Mooton hanged the guilty, and might have hanged the innocent as well, save for Queen Alysanne’s intervention.

—Fire & Blood

I find this incident a metaphor of that famous Littlefinger line: "Life is not a song, sweetling. You may learn that one day to your sorrow." Maidenpool was a place where a great love story occurred but for Alysanne was also the place where other women tried to murder her.  She was pregnant of her first child during the attack and later she gave birth a premature baby, Aegon. He died three days after birth. Alysanne blamed her son’s death on the women who attacked her at Maidenpool. Had she been allowed to bathe in the healing waters of Jonquil’s Pool, she would say, Prince Aegon would have lived.

The same ‘disillusionment’ happened when Jaime and Brienne arrived at Maidenpool in ASOIAF and found the pool full of corpses:

At Maidenpool, Lord Mooton's red salmon still flew above the castle on its hill, but the town walls were deserted, the gates smashed, half the homes and shops burned or plundered. They saw nothing living but a few feral dogs that went slinking away at the sound of their approach. The pool from which the town took its name, where legend said that Florian the Fool had first glimpsed Jonquil bathing with her sisters, was so choked with rotting corpses that the water had turned into a murky grey-green soup.

Jaime took one look and burst into song. "Six maids there were in a spring-fed pool . . ."

—A Storm of Swords - Jaime III

But this awful incident was the cause for Alysanne to take a female knight to protect her. A knight with a very singular name: Jonquil Darke.

FEMALE KNIGHT

Jonquil Darke

With hundreds of knights eager to compete for the honor of serving in the Kingsguard, the combats lasted seven full days. Several of the more colorful competitors became favorites of the smallfolk, who cheered them raucously each time they fought. One such was the Drunken Knight, Ser Willam Stafford, a short, stout, big-bellied man who always appeared so intoxicated that it was a wonder he could stand, let alone fight. The commons named him “the Keg o’ Ale,” and sang “Hail, Hail, Keg o’ Ale” whenever he took the field. Another favorite of the commons was the Bard of Flea Bottom, Tom the Strummer, who mocked his foes with ribald songs before each bout. The slender mystery knight known only as the Serpent in Scarlet also had a great following; when finally defeated and unmasked, “he” proved to be a woman, Jonquil Darke, a bastard daughter of the Lord of Duskendale.

In the end, none of these would earn a white cloak.

—Fire & Blood

Jonquil reminds me a lot of Brienne of Tarth, the True Knight of ASOIAF. Both female knights that competed for a place in the Kingsguard. Jonquil didn’t make it, but Brienne got a place in Renly’s Rainbow Guard. 

After the Maidenpool incident, Alysanne chose Jonquil Darke to be her sworn shield:   

“I need a protector of mine own,” she told His Grace. “Your Seven are leal men and valiant, but they are men, and there are places men cannot go.” The king could not disagree. A raven flew to Duskendale that very night, commanding the new Lord Darklyn to send to court his bastard half-sister, Jonquil Darke, who had thrilled the smallfolk during the War for the White Cloaks as the mystery knight known as the Serpent in Scarlet. Still in scarlet, she arrived at King’s Landing a few days later, and gladly accepted appointment as the queen’s own sworn shield. In time, she would be known about the realm as the Scarlet Shadow, so closely did she guard her lady. 

—Fire & Blood

At this point in ASOIAF, Briene of Tarth is in a quest to find Sansa Stark to fulfill the promises that Jaime Lannister and her did to Catelyn Stark:

“Hear me out, Brienne. Both of us swore oaths concerning Sansa Stark. Cersei means to see that the girl is found and killed, wherever she has gone to ground . . .”

Brienne’s homely face twisted in fury. “If you believe that I would harm my lady’s daughter for a sword, you—”

“Just listen,” he snapped, angered by her assumption. “I want you to find Sansa first, and get her somewhere safe. How else are the two of us going to make good our stupid vows to your precious dead Lady Catelyn?”

The wench blinked. “I . . . I thought . . .”

“I know what you thought.” Suddenly Jaime was sick of the sight of her. She bleats like a bloody sheep. “When Ned Stark died, his greatsword was given to the King’s Justice,” he told her. “But my father felt that such a fine blade was wasted on a mere headsman. He gave Ser Ilyn a new sword, and had Ice melted down and reforged. There was enough metal for two new blades. You’re holding one. So you’ll be defending Ned Stark’s daughter with Ned Stark’s own steel, if that makes any difference to you.”

“Ser, I . . . I owe you an apolo . . .”

He cut her off. “Take the bloody sword and go, before I change my mind. There’s a bay mare in the stables, as homely as you are but somewhat better trained. Chase after Steelshanks, search for Sansa, or ride home to your isle of sapphires, it’s naught to me. I don’t want to look at you anymore.”

“Jaime . . .”

“Kingslayer,” he reminded her. “Best use that sword to clean the wax out of your ears, wench. We’re done.”

Stubbornly, she persisted. “Joffrey was your . . .”

“My king. Leave it at that.”

“You say Sansa killed him. Why protect her?”

Because Joff was no more to me than a squirt of seed in Cersei’s cunt. And because he deserved to die. “I have made kings and unmade them. Sansa Stark is my last chance for honor.” Jaime smiled thinly. “Besides, kingslayers should band together. Are you ever going to go?”

Her big hand wrapped tight around Oathkeeper. “I will. And I will find the girl and keep her safe. For her lady mother’s sake. And for yours.” She bowed stiffly, whirled, and went.

—A Storm of Swords - Jaime IX

See? Jonquil Darke was Alysanne’s sworn shield as Brienne of Tarh is Sansa’s sworn sword. A sword made of Ice, literally.   

Later, when Alysanne visited the North for the first time, she met another “female knight”, a wildling girl:

Manderly also staged a small tourney in the queen’s honor, to show the prowess of his knights. One of the fighters (though no knight) was revealed to be a woman, a wildling girl who had been captured by rangers north of the Wall and given to one of Lord Manderly’s household knights to foster. Delighted by the girl’s daring, Alysanne summoned her own sworn shield, Jonquil Darke, and the wildling and the Scarlet Shadow dueled spear against sword whilst the northmen roared in approval.

—Fire & Blood

It would be no surprise if Sansa meets another female knight or warrior during her return to the North, a wildling spearwife, or a Mormont woman, or her wild faceless assassin sister Arya Stark.   

To finish with Jonquil Darke, take note that her name and surname are also references to Dontos Hollard, another character that acted as Sansa’s knight. Sansa called Dontos “Her Florian” and House Hollard was once sworn to House Darklyn of Duskendale, that are related to House Darke.

Also take a look at this color refrences:

Jonquil Darke was also known as the Serpent in Scarlet and the Scarlet Shadow.

Ser Joffrey Doggett was also known as the Red Dog of the Hills. 

Ser Dontos Hollard was also called Dontos the Red.

Only Brienne of Tarth breaks this pattern, because she was called Brienne the Blue, during his days as member of Renly’s Rainbow Guard. Wanna know who was the Red in Renly’s Rainbow Guard? It was Ser Robar Royce, son of Yhon Bronze Royce and brother of Waymar Royce, Sansa’s first crush.

But my point with all this Red/Scarlet colored references is that red is a color hugely associated with Sansa Stark, because of the red of her hair and the red of the weirwood tree. 

THE VISENYA AND THE RHAENYS 

During a discussion between King Jaehaerys I and his older sister Rhaena, these words were exchanged: 

“And Silverwing?” asked Rhaena. “Our sister—”

“—had no part in this. I will not put her at risk.”

The Queen in the East smiled then. “She is Rhaenys, and I am Visenya. I have never thought otherwise.”

—Fire & Blood

Rhaena compared Jaehaerys with Aegon the Conqueror, herself with Queen Visenya and Alysanne with Queen Rhaenys. 

This is part of a dichotomy that GRRM work with a lot: the Lady Woman Vs the Warrior Woman. A pattern that started with the Stark Sisters, and is replicated a lot in Fire & Blood with several Targaryen Sisters. Here some examples:

Visenya and Rhaenys

Rhaena and Alysanne

Aerea and Rhaella

Baela and Rhaena  

Rhaena was not exactly like Visenya and Alysanne was not exactly Rhaenys, but Rhaenys and Alysanne certainly shared a lot of similarities:

Rhaenys

Rhaenys, youngest of the three Targaryens, was all her sister [Visenya] was not, playful, curious, impulsive, given to flights of fancy. No true warrior, Rhaenys loved music, dancing, and poetry, and supported many a singer, mummer, and puppeteer. Yet it was said that Rhaenys spent more time on dragonback than her brother and sister combined, for above all things she loved to fly. She once was heard to say that before she died she meant to fly Meraxes across the Sunset Sea to see what lay upon its western shores.”

(...)

Queen Rhaenys was a great patron to the bards and singers of the Seven Kingdoms, showering gold and gifts on those who pleased her. Though Queen Visenya thought her sister frivolous, there was a wisdom in this that went beyond a simple love of music. For the singers of the realm, in their eagerness to win the favor of the queen, composed many a song in praise of House Targaryen and King Aegon, and then went forth and sang those songs in every keep and castle and village green from the Dornish Marches to the Wall. Thus was the Conquest made glorious to the simple people, whilst Aegon the Dragon himself became a hero king.

Queen Rhaenys also took a great interest in the smallfolk, and had a special love for women and children. Once, when she was holding court in the Aegonfort, a man was brought before her for beating his wife to death. The woman’s brothers wanted him punished, but the husband argued that he was within his lawful rights, since he had found his wife abed with another man. The right of a husband to chastise an erring wife was well established throughout the Seven Kingdoms (save in Dorne). The husband further pointed out that the rod he had used to beat his wife was no thicker than his thumb, and even produced the rod in evidence. When the queen asked him how many times he had struck his wife, however, the husband could not answer, but the dead woman’s brothers insisted there had been a hundred blows.

Queen Rhaenys consulted with her maesters and septons, then rendered her decision. An adulterous wife gave offense to the Seven, who had created women to be faithful and obedient to their husbands, and therefore must be chastised. As god has but seven faces, however, the punishment should consist of only six blows (for the seventh blow would be for the Stranger, and the Stranger is the face of death). Thus the first six blows the man had struck had been lawful…but the remaining ninety-four had been an offense against gods and men, and must be punished in kind. From that day forth, the “rule of six” became a part of the common law, along with the “rule of thumb.” (The husband was taken to the foot of the Hill of Rhaenys, where he was given ninety-four blows by the dead woman’s brothers, using rods of lawful size.)

—Fire & Blood

Alysanne

Queen Alysanne looked back on the short-lived glories of her father’s court fondly, however, and made it her purpose to make the Red Keep glitter as it never had before, buying tapestries and carpets from Free Cities and commissioning murals, statuary, and tilework to decorate the castle’s halls and chambers. At her command, men from the City Watch combed Flea Bottom until they found Tom the Strummer, whose mocking songs had amused king and commons alike during the War for the White Cloaks. Alysanne made him the court singer, the first of many who would hold that office in the decades to come. She brought in a harpist from Oldtown, a company of mummers from Braavos, dancers from Lys, and gave the Red Keep its first fool, a fat man called the Goodwife who dressed as a woman and was never seen without his wooden “children,” a pair of cleverly carved puppets who said ribald, shocking things.

(...)

The king’s first progress was meant to be a modest one, commencing with the crownlands north of King’s Landing and proceeding only as far as the Vale of Arryn. Jaehaerys wanted Alysanne with him, but as Her Grace was with child, he was concerned that their journeys not be too taxing. They began with Stokeworth and Rosby, then moved north along the coast to Duskendale. There, whilst the king viewed Lord Darklyn’s boatyards and enjoyed an afternoon of fishing, the queen held the first of her women’s courts, which were to become an important part of every royal progress to come. Only women and girls were welcome at these audiences; highborn or low, they were encouraged to come forward and share their fears, concerns, and hopes with the young queen.

(...)

Men oft speak today of Queen Alysanne’s laws, but this usage is sloppy and incorrect. Her Grace had no power to enact laws, issue decrees, make proclamations, or pass sentences. It is a mistake to speak of her as we might speak of the Conqueror’s queens, Rhaenys and Visenya. The young queen did, however, wield enormous influence over King Jaehaerys, and when she spoke, he listened…as he did upon their return from the Vale of Arryn.

It was the plight of widows throughout the Seven Kingdoms that the women’s courts had made Alysanne aware of. In times of peace especially, it was not uncommon for a man to outlive the wife of his youth, for young men most oft perish upon the battlefield, young women in the birthing bed. Be they of noble birth or humble, men left bereft suchwise would oft after a time take second wives, whose presence in the household was resented by the children of the first wife. Where no bonds of affection existed, upon the man’s own death his heirs could and did expel the widow from the home, reducing her to penury; in the case of lords, the heirs might simply strip away the widow’s prerogatives, incomes, and servants, reducing her to little more than a boarder.

To rectify these ills, King Jaehaerys in 52 AC promulgated the Widow’s Law, reaffirming the right of the eldest son (or eldest daughter, where there was no son) to inherit, but requiring said heirs to maintain surviving widows in the same condition they had enjoyed before their husband’s death. A lord’s widow, be she a second, third, or later wife, could no longer be driven from his castle, nor deprived of her servants, clothing, and income. The same law, however, also forbade men from disinheriting their children by a first wife in order to bestow their lands, seat, or property upon a later wife or her own children.

(...)

Alysanne remained in the Red Keep, presiding over council meetings in the king’s absence, and holding audience from a velvet seat at the base of the Iron Throne.

(...)

“I see no honor in any of this. I knew such things happened hundreds of years ago, I confess it, but I never dreamed that the custom endured so strongly to this day. Mayhaps I did not want to know. I closed my eyes, but that poor girl in Mole’s Town opened them. The right of the first night! Your Grace, my lords, it is time we put an end to this. I beg you.”

(...)

And so it came to pass that the second of what the smallfolk named Queen Alysanne’s Laws was enacted: the abolition of the lord’s ancient right to the first night. Henceforth, it was decreed, a bride’s maidenhead would belong only to her husband, whether joined before a septon or a heart tree, and any man, be he lord or peasant, who took her on her wedding night or any other night would be guilty of the crime of rape.

—Fire & Blood

As you can see, we can easily associate Sansa Stark with these shared similarities between Queen Rhaenys and Queen Alysanne.

SINGERS AND KNIGHTS 

Queen Alysanne was fond of singers and gallant knights, just like Sansa:

Three of the brothers had been singers before taking the black, and they took turns playing for Her Grace at night, regaling her with ballads, war songs, and bawdy barracks tunes. 

—Fire & Blood

Ser Simon Dondarrion

Though his castle was small and modest compared to the great halls of the realm, Lord Dondarrion was a splendid host and his son Simon played the high harp as well as he jousted, and entertained the royal couple by night with sad songs of star-crossed lovers and the fall of kings. So taken with him was the queen that the party lingered longer at Blackhaven than they had intended.

(...)

But the champion’s laurels went to the gallant and handsome Ser Simon Dondarrion of Blackhaven, who won the love of the commons and queen alike when he crowned Princess Daenerys as his queen of love and beauty.

—Fire & Blood

A young and handsome noble man that played the high harp as well as he jousted sounds like Sansa Stark’s ideal man. 

Also, the name Simon and the surname Dondarrion are very subtle references of Jon Snow, an idea that I’m developing in an unfinished meta. 

Ser Ryam Redwyne

Queen Alysanne knew in person to the famous knight Ser Ryam Redwyne: 

It was a time for celebration and celebrate they did, with a tourney at King’s Landing on the anniversary of the king’s coronation. Princess Daenerys and the Princes Aemon and Baelon shared the royal box with their mother and father, and reveled in the cheers of the crowd. On the field, the highlight of the competition was the brilliance of Ser Ryam Redwyne, the youngest son of Lord Manfryd Redwyne of the Arbor, Jaehaerys’s lord admiral and master of ships. In successive tilts, Ser Ryam unhorsed Ronnal Baratheon, Arthor Oakheart, Simon Dondarrion, Harys Hogg (Harry the Ham, to the commons), and two Kingsguard knights, Lorence Roxton and Lucamore Strong. When the young gallant trotted up to the royal box and crowned Good Queen Alysanne as his queen of love and beauty, the commons roared their approval.

—Fire & Blood

Later, Ser Ryam Redwyne served as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard under Jaehaerys I Targaryen and Viserys I Targaryen.

In Sansa’s case, while having a nightmare of the riot of King's Landing, Sansa wished to be saved by Ser Ryam Redwyne Florian the Fool, or Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, but none appear:

That night Sansa dreamed of the riot again. The mob surged around her, shrieking, a maddened beast with a thousand faces. Everywhere she turned she saw faces twisted into monstrous inhuman masks. She wept and told them she had never done them hurt, yet they dragged her from her horse all the same. "No," she cried, "no, please, don't, don't," but no one paid her any heed. She shouted for Ser Dontos, for her brothers, for her dead father and her dead wolf, for gallant Ser Loras who had given her a red rose once, but none of them came. She called for the heroes from the songs, for Florian and Ser Ryam Redwyne and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, but no one heard. Women swarmed over her like weasels, pinching her legs and kicking her in the belly, and someone hit her in the face and she felt her teeth shatter. Then she saw the bright glimmer of steel. The knife plunged into her belly and tore and tore and tore, until there was nothing left of her down there but shiny wet ribbons.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa IV

The only man that effectively, but unbeknownst for her, had fulfilled Sansa’s wishes for a hero, was Jon Snow: 

Frog-faced Lord Slynt sat at the end of the council table wearing a black velvet doublet and a shiny cloth-of-gold cape, nodding with approval every time the king pronounced a sentence. Sansa stared hard at his ugly face, remembering how he had thrown down her father for Ser Ilyn to behead, wishing she could hurt him, wishing that some hero would throw him down and cut off his head. But a voice inside her whispered, There are no heroes, and she remembered what Lord Petyr had said to her, here in this very hall. “Life is not a song, sweetling,” he’d told her. “You may learn that one day to your sorrow.” In life, the monsters win, she told herself, and now it was the Hound’s voice she heard, a cold rasp, metal on stone. “Save yourself some pain, girl, and give him what he wants.”

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI

“You are refusing to obey my order?” “You can stick your order up your bastard’s arse,” said Slynt, his jowls quivering. […] “As you will.” Jon nodded to Iron Emmett. “Please take Lord Janos to the Wall—” […] “—and hang him,” Jon finished. […] This is wrong, Jon thought. “Stop.” […] “I will not hang him,” said Jon. “Bring him here.” “Oh, Seven save us,” he heard Bowen Marsh cry out. The smile that Lord Janos Slynt smiled then had all the sweetness of rancid butter. Until Jon said, “Edd, fetch me a block,” and unsheathed Longclaw. […] The pale morning sunlight ran up and down his blade as Jon clasped the hilt of the bastard sword with both hands and raised it high. “If you have any last words, now is the time to speak them,” he said, expecting one last curse. Janos Slynt twisted his neck around to stare up at him. “Please, my lord. Mercy. I’ll … I’ll go, I will, I …” No, thought Jon. You closed that door. Longclaw descended. “Can I have his boots?” asked Owen the Oaf, as Janos Slynt’s head went rolling across the muddy ground. “They’re almost new, those boots. Lined with fur.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon II

WATER AND BREAD FOR THE SMALLFOLK

Alysanne procured clean water for the people of Kingslanding:

Queen Alysanne served each of them a tankard of river water at the next council meeting, and dared them to drink of it. The water went undrunk, but the wells and pipes were soon approved. Construction would require more than a dozen years, but in the end “the queen’s fountains” provided clean water for Kingslanders for many generations to come.

—Fire & Blood

Sansa made Joffrey gave some money to a poor woman with a death baby:  

Halfway along the route, a wailing woman forced her way between two watchmen and ran out into the street in front of the king and his companions, holding the corpse of her dead baby above her head. It was blue and swollen, grotesque, but the real horror was the mother's eyes. Joffrey looked for a moment as if he meant to ride her down, but Sansa Stark leaned over and said something to him. The king fumbled in his purse, and flung the woman a silver stag. The coin bounced off the child and rolled away, under the legs of the gold cloaks and into the crowd, where a dozen men began to fight for it. The mother never once blinked. Her skinny arms were trembling from the dead weight of her son.

—A Clash of Kings - Tyrion IX

But the people was hungry and wanted bread: 

From both sides of the street, the crowd surged against the spear shafts while the gold cloaks struggled to hold the line. Stones and dung and fouler things whistled overhead. “Feed us!” a woman shrieked. “Bread!” boomed a man behind her. “We want bread, bastard!”

—A Clash of Kings - Tyrion IX

Bread that Sansa would have given them, If she had it:

Tyrion called to her. “Are you hurt, Lady Sansa?” Blood was trickling down Sansa’s brow from a deep gash on her scalp. “They . . . they were throwing things . . . rocks and filth, eggs . . . I tried to tell them, I had no bread to give them”. 

—A Clash of Kings - Tyrion IX

In the Show they translated this Sansa’s line of dialogue to this one: “I would have given them bread if I had it.”  

Sansa, like Queen Alysanne, knew that love was a surer route to people’s loyalty than fear: 

“The night’s first traitors,” the queen said, “but not the last, I fear. Have Ser Ilyn see to them, and put their heads on pikes outside the stables as a warning.” As they left, she turned to Sansa. “Another lesson you should learn, if you hope to sit beside my son. Be gentle on a night like this and you’ll have treasons popping up all about you like mushrooms after a hard rain. The only way to keep your people loyal is to make certain they fear you more than they do the enemy.”

"I will remember, Your Grace," said Sansa, though she had always heard that love was a surer route to the people's loyalty than fear. If I am ever a queen, I'll make them love me.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa VI

THE NORTH

Did you know that in the ASOIAF Books, Queen Alysanne is mostly mentioned in Stark POVs? Yes, she is. Queen Alysanne is mentioned by Jon, Bran, Catelyn and Sansa. You can also count Samwell Tarly in this list, because he is now a Black Brother of the Night’s Watch and Jon’s best friend. 

Jon, Bran and Samwell mention Good Queen Alysanne’s visit to the North and the Wall.

In Catelyn’s and Sansa’s case, they heard singers singing the song “Alysanne”, that according to Sansa is a sad song.  

Winterfell

In Winterfell Good Queen Alysanne met Lord Alaric Stark. A man that reminds me a lot of Stannis Baratheon:  

Alaric Stark

Alaric Stark was best left in Winterfell; a stubborn man by all reports, stern and hard-handed and unforgiving, he would make for an uncomfortable presence at the council table.  

(...)

Lord Alaric had a flinty reputation; a hard man, people said, stern and unforgiving, tight-fisted almost to the point of being niggardly, humorless, joyless, cold. Even Theomore Manderly, who was his bannerman, had not disagreed; Stark was well respected in the North, he said, but not loved. Lord Manderly’s fool had put it elsewise. “Methinks Lord Alaric has not moved his bowels since he was twelve.”

(...)

Her reception at Winterfell did nothing to disabuse the queen’s fears as to what she might expect from House Stark. Even before dismounting to bend the knee, Lord Alaric looked askance at Her Grace’s clothing and said, “I hope you brought something warmer than that.” He then proceeded to declare that he did not want her dragon inside his walls. “I’ve not seen Harrenhal, but I know what happened there.” Her knights and ladies he would receive when they got here, “and the king too, if he can find the way,” but they should not overstay their welcome. “This is the North, and winter is coming. We cannot feed a thousand men for long.” When the queen assured him that only a tenth that number would be coming, Lord Alaric grunted and said, “That’s good. Fewer would be even better.” As had been feared, he was plainly unhappy that King Jaehaerys had not deigned to accompany her, and confessed to being uncertain how to entertain a queen. “If you are expecting balls and masques and dances, you have come to the wrong place.”

—Fire & Blood

Stannis Baratheon

"Robert can barely stomach his brothers. Not that I blame him. Stannis would be enough to give anyone indigestion."

—A Game of Thrones - Bran II

"Oh, a shred, surely," Littlefinger replied negligently. "Hear me out. Stannis is no friend of yours, nor of mine. Even his brothers can scarcely stomach him. The man is iron, hard and unyielding. He'll give us a new Hand and a new council, for a certainty. No doubt he'll thank you for handing him the crown, but he won't love you for it. And his ascent will mean war. Stannis cannot rest easy on the throne until Cersei and her bastards are dead. Do you think Lord Tywin will sit idly while his daughter's head is measured for a spike? Casterly Rock will rise, and not alone. Robert found it in him to pardon men who served King Aerys, so long as they did him fealty. Stannis is less forgiving. He will not have forgotten the siege of Storm's End, and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dare not. Every man who fought beneath the dragon banner or rose with Balon Greyjoy will have good cause to fear. Seat Stannis on the Iron Throne and I promise you, the realm will bleed.

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard XIII

A king's first duty is to defend the realm, and Mance attacked it. His Grace is not like to forget that. My father used to say that Stannis Baratheon was a just man. No one has ever said he was forgiving." 

—A Feast for Crows - Samwell I

"A boy he may be, my lord, but … King Robert was well loved, and most men still accept that Tommen is his son. The more they see of Lord Stannis the less they love him, and fewer still are fond of Lady Melisandre with her fires and this grim red god of hers. They complain."

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon III

At this point in ASOIAF, Stannis is in the North trying to take Winterfell from the Boltons. And as Queen Alysanne melted all the ice of Lord Alaric Stark, I think Sansa could do the same with Stannis Baratheon.  Sansa would easily befriend Princess Shireen as well:    

Even a lord as stern and flinty as Alaric Stark found himself helpless before Queen Alysanne’s stubborn charm.

(...)

The longer the queen stayed, the more Lord Alaric warmed to her, and in time Alysanne came to realize that not everything that was said of him was true. He was careful with his coin, but not niggardly; he was not humorless at all, though his humor had an edge to it, sharp as a knife; his sons and daughter and the people of Winterfell seemed to love him well enough. Once the initial frost had thawed, his lordship took the queen hunting after elk and wild boar in the wolfswood, showed her the bones of a giant, and allowed her to rummage as she pleased through his modest castle library. He even deigned to approach Silverwing, though warily. The women of Winterfell were taken by the queen’s charms as well, once they grew to know her; Her Grace became particularly close with Lord Alaric’s daughter, Alarra. 

—Fire & Blood

Night’s Watch

Alysanne then decided to visit the Night’s Watch:

In the North, Queen Alysanne grew restless with waiting, and decided to take her leave of Winterfell for a time and visit the men of the Night’s Watch at Castle Black.

—Fire & Blood

Once at Castle Black she met the Lord Commander: 

Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Lothor Burley, assembled eight hundred of his finest men to receive her. That night the black brothers feasted the queen on mammoth meat, washed down with mead and stout.

—Fire & Blood

Lothor Burley sounds pretty much like Lothor Brune, another of Sansa’s protector.

Curiously enough, Queen Alysanne had this exchange with Lord Commander Burley:

Burley was apologetic for the quality of the food and drink presented to the queen, and the rudeness of the accommodations at Castle Black. “We do what we can, Your Grace,” the Lord Commander explained, “but our beds are hard, our halls are cold, and our food—”

“—is nourishing,” the queen finished. “And that is all that I require. It will please me to eat as you do.”

—Fire & Blood

This exchange is very similar to the one between Sansa Stark and “Lord Commander” Edd Tollet during Season 6 of the Show:

Edd Tollet: Sorry about the food. It’s not what we’re known for. 

Sansa Stark: That’s alright. There are more important things. 

From Snowgate to Queensgate  

Queen Alysanne left her mark in the Night’s Watch forever: 

Above all else, a queen must know how to listen,” Alysanne Targaryen often said. At Castle Black, she proved those words. She listened, she heard, and she won the eternal devotion of the men of the Night’s Watch by her actions. She understood the need for a castle between Snowgate and Icemark, she told Lord Burley, but the Nightfort was crumbling, overlarge, and surely ruinous to heat. The Watch should abandon it, she said, and build a smaller castle farther to the east. Lord Burley could not disagree…but the Night’s Watch lacked the coin to build new castles, he said. Alysanne had anticipated that objection. She would pay for the castle herself, she told the Lord Commander, and pledged her jewels to cover the cost. “I have a good many jewels,” she said.

It would take eight years to raise the new castle, which would bear the name of Deep Lake. Outside its main hall, a statue of Alysanne Targaryen stands to this very day. The Nightfort was abandoned even before Deep Lake was completed, as the queen had wished. Lord Commander Burley also renamed Snowgate castle in her honor, as Queensgate.

—Fire & Blood

This is an action that Sansa could easily replicate as Queen in the North. House Stark was always a friend of the Night’s Watch. And as Queen in the North Sansa would probably have statues to honor her all along the North.

Also the “Snow” gate becoming the “Queen” gate gives me a lot of Jon and Sansa romantic vibes.

A New Gift 

Queen Alysanne proposed a New Gift: 

Lord Stark and King Jaehaerys would never be fast friends; the shade of Walton Stark remained between them to the end. It was only through Queen Alysanne’s good offices that they ever found accord. The queen had visited Brandon’s Gift, the lands south of the Wall that Brandon the Builder had granted to the Watch for their support and sustenance. “It is not enough,” she told the king. “The soil is thin and stony, the hills unpopulated. The Watch lacks for coin, and when winter comes they will lack for food as well.” The answer she proposed was a New Gift, a further strip of land south of Brandon’s Gift.

The notion did not please Lord Alaric; though a strong friend to the Night’s Watch, he knew that the lords who presently held the lands in question would object to them being given away without their leave. “I have no doubt that you can persuade them, Lord Alaric,” the queen said. And finally, charmed by her as ever, Alaric Stark agreed that, aye, he could. And so it came to pass that the size of the Gift was doubled with a stroke.

—Fire & Blood

Jon remembers Ned Stark’s wishes for the New Gift:

Your brothers will not like it, no more than your father's lords, but I mean to allow the wildlings through the Wall . . . those who will swear me their fealty, pledge to keep the king's peace and the king's laws, and take the Lord of Light as their god. Even the giants, if those great knees of theirs can bend. I will settle them on the Gift, once I have wrested it away from your new Lord Commander. When the cold winds rise, we shall live or die together. It is time we made alliance against our common foe." He looked at Jon. "Would you agree?"

"My father dreamed of resettling the Gift," Jon admitted. "He and my uncle Benjen used to talk of it." He never thought of settling it with wildlings, though . . . but he never rode with wildlings, either. He did not fool himself; the free folk would make for unruly subjects and dangerous neighbors. Yet when he weighed Ygritte's red hair against the cold blue eyes of the wights, the choice was easy. "I agree."

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XI

This is something Sansa would do as Queen in the North, to fulfill Ned’s wishes, either with the wildlings or northern people, or both.

Also, take note how Jon is always choosing the redhead girl over a threat to the realm and humanity... After all, Jon is the shield that guards the realms of men.    

The Wall and Beyond

Finally, to finish the North section, we have that Queen Alysanne’s reaction to the Wall and the lands beyond, is very similar to the reaction Jon Snow imagines Sansa would have to that sight:  

Her first sight of the Wall from above took Alysanne’s breath away, Her Grace would later tell the king.

—Fire & Blood

The pale pink light of dawn sparkled on branch and leaf and stone. Every blade of grass was carved from emerald, every drip of water turned to diamond. Flowers and mushrooms alike wore coats of glass. Even the mud puddles had a bright brown sheen. Through the shimmering greenery, the black tents of his brothers were encased in a fine glaze of ice.

So there is magic beyond the Wall after all. He found himself thinking of his sisters, perhaps because he'd dreamed of them last night. Sansa would call this an enchantment, and tears would fill her eyes at the wonder of it, but Arya would run out laughing and shouting, wanting to touch it all.

—A Clash of Kings - Jon III

And this passage about Alysanne ride atop the Wall from Snowgate to the Nightfort and the descending to the ruinous castle, reminds me a lot of Sansa’s descending from the Eyrie to the Gates of the Moon:  

Lord Commander Burley himself took the queen into the haunted forest (with a hundred rangers riding escort). When Alysanne expressed the wish to see some of the other forts along the Wall, the First Ranger Benton Glover led her west atop the Wall, past Snowgate to the Nightfort, where they made their descent and spent the night. The ride, the queen decided, was as breathtaking a journey as she had ever experienced, “as exhilarating as it was cold, though the wind up there blows so strongly that I feared it was about to sweep us off the Wall.” The Nightfort itself she found grim and sinister. “It is so huge the men seem dwarfed by it, like mice in a ruined hall,” she told Jaehaerys, “and there is a darkness there…a taste in the air…I was so glad to leave that place.”

—Fire & Blood

"Ser Sweetrobin," Lord Robert said, and Alayne knew that she dare not wait for Mya to return. She helped the boy dismount, and hand in hand they walked out onto the bare stone saddle, their cloaks snapping and flapping behind them. All around was empty air and sky, the ground falling away sharply to either side. There was ice underfoot, and broken stones just waiting to turn an ankle, and the wind was howling fiercely. It sounds like a wolf, thought Sansa. A ghostwolf, big as mountains.

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

I HOPE MY HUSBAND FALLS OFF HIS HORSE

This is just a funny parallel:

What do those “highborn ladies do whilst their lords are out deflowering maidens? Do they sew? Sing? Pray? Were it me, I might pray my lord husband fell off his horse and broke his neck coming home.” 

—Fire & Blood

Those lords Alysanne was referring to sounds very much like Harry the Heir: 

A lady's armor is her courtesy. Alayne could feel the blood rushing to her face. No tears, she prayed. Please, please, I must not cry. "As you wish, ser. And now if you will excuse me, Littlefinger's bastard must find her lord father and let him know that you have come, so we can begin the tourney on the morrow." And may your horse stumble, Harry the Heir, so you fall on your stupid head in your first tilt. She showed the Waynwoods a stone face as they blurted out awkward apologies for their companion. When they were done she turned and fled.

—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

Sassy Queens!

A FEMALE RULER

A ruler needs a good head and a true heart. A cock is not essential. —Alysanne Targaryen

Queen Alysanne wanted a female Targaryen ruler. She really wanted it. She tried. She failed.    

This is a bit hypocrite tho... Since Alyssa, Jaehaerys and Alysanne herself wronged Rhaena and her claim to the throne, but still...

You could argue Jaehaerys and Alysanne ruled together, but despite the great influence and counsel of Queen Alysanne, she was not the ruler. Jaehaerys was. Alysanne was only the Queen consort.

Alysanne wished for her daughter Daenerys to be Queen, but Jaehaerys wanted a male heir to succeed him on the throne, so he chose his son Aemon:

“She is so clever, she will be reading to me before long,” she told the king. “She is going to be a great queen, I know it.”

(...)

Jaehaerys loved all three children fiercely, but from the moment Aemon was born, the king began to speak of him as his heir, to Queen Alysanne’s displeasure. “Daenerys is older,” she would remind His Grace. “She is first in line; she should be queen.” The king would never disagree, except to say, “She shall be queen, when she and Aemon marry. They will rule together, just as we have.” But Benifer could see that the king’s words did not entirely please the queen, as he noted in his letters.

—Fire & Blood

Alysanne also wished for her granddaughter Rhaenys to be Queen, she was the only child of the heir to the throne, Prince Aemon, but Jaehaerys wanted a male heir to succeed him on the throne, so he named Prince Baelon, Aemon’s younger brother, the Prince of Dragonstone:

Baelon, a seasoned knight of thirty-five, was better suited for rule than the eighteen-year-old Princess Rhaenys or her unborn babe (who might or might not be a boy, whereas Prince Baelon had already sired two healthy sons, Viserys and Daemon). The love of the commons for Baelon the Brave was also cited.

(...)

The most prominent dissenter was Good Queen Alysanne, who had helped her husband rule the Seven Kingdoms for many years, and now saw her son’s daughter being passed over because of her sex. “A ruler needs a good head and a true heart,” she famously told the king. “A cock is not essential.”

(...)

The queen died of a wasting illness in 100 AC, at the age of four-and-sixty, still insisting that her granddaughter Rhaenys and her children had been unfairly cheated of their rights. 

Sansa Stark has a lot of Queen foreshadowing and imagery around her and she could be the one female ruler to defeat patriarchy in ASOIAF.  

SARA SNOW

Let me tell you about a northern girl, the mysterious bastard girl from Winterfell, a wolf girl called Sara Snow:

But we turn to Mushroom to find the tales other chronicles omit, nor does he fail us now. His account introduces a young maiden, or “wolf girl” as he dubs her, with the name of Sara Snow. So smitten was Prince Jacaerys with this creature, a bastard daughter of the late Lord Rickon Stark, that he lay with her of a night. On learning that his guest had claimed the maidenhead of his bastard sister, Lord Cregan became most wroth, and only softened when Sara Snow told him that the prince had taken her for his wife. They had spoken their vows in Winterfell’s own godswood before a heart tree, and only then had she given herself to him, wrapped in furs amidst the snows as the old gods looked on.

This makes for a charming story, to be sure, but as with many of Mushroom’s fables, it seems to partake more of a fool’s fevered imaginings than of historical truth. Jacaerys Velaryon had been betrothed to his cousin Baela since he was four and she was two, and from all we know of his character, it seems most unlikely that he would break such a solemn agreement to protect the uncertain virtue of some half-wild, unwashed northern bastard. If indeed there ever lived a Sara Snow, and if indeed the Prince of Dragonstone perchanced to dally with her, that is no more than other princes have done in the past, and will do on the morrow, but to talk of marriage is preposterous.

(Mushroom also claims that Vermax left a clutch of dragon’s eggs at Winterfell, which is equally absurd. Whilst it is true that determining the sex of a living dragon is a nigh on impossible task, no other source mentions Vermax producing so much as a single egg, so it must be assumed that he was male. Septon Barth’s speculation that the dragons change sex at need, being “as mutable as flame,” is too ludicrous to consider.)

This we do know: Cregan Stark and Jacaerys Velaryon reached an accord, and signed and sealed the agreement that Grand Maester Munkun calls “the Pact of Ice and Fire” in his True Telling. Like many such pacts, it was to be sealed with a marriage. Lord Cregan’s son, Rickon, was a year old. Prince Jacaerys was as yet unmarried and childless, but it was assumed that he would sire children of his own once his mother sat the Iron Throne. Under the terms of the pact, the prince’s firstborn daughter would be sent north at the age of seven, to be fostered at Winterfell until such time as she was old enough to marry Lord Cregan’s heir.

—Fire & Blood

How is Sara Snow connected with Queen Alysanne and Sansa Stark?

At this point in ASOIAF, Sansa Stark is under the disguise of Alayne Stone, a bastard girl, like Sara Snow.  Both young maidens, and both were called wolf girls: 

The green knight laughed again. "Barristan the Old, you mean. Don't flatter him too sweetly, child, he thinks overmuch of himself already." He smiled at her. "Now, wolf girl, if you can put a name to me as well, then I must concede that you are truly our Hand's daughter."

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

And regarding Queen Alysanne, Sara Snow is linked with her through their husbands. 

According to Mushroom, Sara Snow married a Targaryen Prince in secret. And who was this Targaryen Prince? It was Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, the older son of Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne.

Prince Jacaerys Velaryon was a Targaryen Prince with brown hair (Like Jon Snow). He was probable a bastard (Like Jon Snow) son of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Ser Harwin Strong, called Breakbones.

Curiously enough, Jacaerys Velaryon supposed father, Laenor Velaryon wanted to name him Joffrey (Like Sansa’s first betrothed Joffrey Baratheon, also a bastard).

Jacaerys is a traditional Velaryon name. House Velaryon is of Valyrian descent, and its members often have Valyrian features, such as silver hair, purple eyes, and pale skin. But as I said before, Jacaerys had brown hair, like Jon Snow.

Also, Jacaerys sounds like the Velaryon version of Jaehaerys. The short for Jacaerys was Jace. 

Sara Snow and Jacaerys Velaryon married in secret like Alysanne and Jaehaerys. 

Alysanne and Jaehaerys eloped because their mother planned to marry Alysanne with Orryn Baratheon (This is also parallel with Rhaegar and Lyanna).  

Jacaerys Velaryon was already betrothed with his cousin Baela Targaryen. Jacaerys Velaryon broke that vow to marry Sara Snow in secret.

These two couples Sara Snow & Jacaerys Velaryon and Alysanne and Jaehaerys Targaryen are two similar versions of Rhaegar and Lyanna, a Targaryen Prince with a Stark maiden or, in Alysanne case, a maiden that reminds us of a Stark one. All three secret marriages that broke a previous betrothal.

Curiously enough, Cregan Stark (Sara Snow’s brother) and Jacaerys Velaryon  signed “the Pact of Ice and Fire”, a pact sealed with a marriage, a marriage between the Stark Heir (Cregan’s son) with a Velaryon/Targaryen Princess (Jacaerys’ daughter).  

Under the terms of the pact, Jacaerys’ firstborn daughter would be sent north at the age of seven, to be fostered at Winterfell until such time as she was old enough to marry Lord Cregan’s heir.

That pact never happened because Jacaerys Velaryon died childless.

Mushroom said that Vermax (Jacaerys’ dragon) left a clutch of dragon’s eggs at Winterfell. This could have meant that Sara Snow (Jacaerys’ wife) was already pregnant with Jacaerys’ first child and if that child were a girl, she must have married her cousin Rickon Stark. But that never happened.

What did happen was that Jon Snow, the son of a Targaryen Prince with a Stark Maiden, was raised at Winterfell, next to his cousin Sansa Stark, older daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, with whom he can fulfill the “the Pact of Ice and Fire”. 

Rhaegar himself probably tried to fulfill “the Pact of Ice and Fire” with Lyanna Stark. And Jon Snow would be the fruit of that fulfillment, a son of Ice and Fire. 

Here you can read more about Jace & Sara.

ALYSANNE “BLACK ALY” BLACKWOOD

Alysanne Blackwood, also known as Black Aly, is not very similar to Queen Alysanne or Sansa Stark. She was a woman more like Arya Stark. In summary: Not a Lady.

But Alysanne Blackwood became the second wife of Lord Cregan Stark, wich made her Lady Stark, Lady Alysanne Stark.

RICKON STARK

Lord Cregan Stark had a son with his first wife Arra Norrey, a boy named Rickon Stark. And little Rickon sang for the new Lady Stark:

The wedding itself was said to be splendid, however; Black Aly and her wolf pledged their troth before the heart tree in Winterfell’s icy godswood. At the feast afterward, four-year-old Rickon, Lord Cregan’s son by his first wife, sang a song for his new stepmother.

—Fire & Blood

This will probably never happen, but imagine our little Rickon Stark singing for his sister-mother Sansa Stark... But our beloved Rickon is a wild wolf pup so he would probably howl instead of sing, after all: 

“The Starks know no music but the howling of wolves.” —A Game of Thrones - Catelyn V

SANSARA TARLY

If you thought that all this similar/linked names are just a coincidence, that Sara Snow has nothing to do with Queen Alysanne and Sansa Stark, now let me tell you about “more coincidences”, let me tell you about Sansara Tarly.

In Fire & Blood, during the searching for King Aegon III second wife, we meet a character named Sansara Tarly:

Perhaps the boldest letter came from the irrepressible Lady Samantha of Oldtown, who declared that her sister Sansara (of House Tarly) “is spirited and strong, and has read more books than half the maesters in the Citadel” whilst her good-sister Bethany (of House Hightower) was “very beautiful, with smooth soft skin and lustrous hair and the sweetest manner,” though also “lazy and somewhat stupid, truth be told, though some men seem to like that in a wife.” She concluded by suggesting that perhaps King Aegon should marry both of them, “one to rule beside him, as Queen Alysanne did King Jaehaerys, and one to bed and breed.” 

—Fire & Blood

Sansara is literally a combination of Sansa and Sara.

Sansara is from House Tarly, and our beloved Samwell Tarly is, what I call, a Male!Sansa:

Yes, it’s just amazing how similar Sansa Stark and Samwell Tarly are. They have a lot of common interests and they sure would be the best of friends:

Whatever pride his lord father might have felt at Samwell’s birth vanished as the boy grew up plump, soft, and awkward. Sam loved to listen to music and make his own songs, to wear soft velvets, to play in the castle kitchen beside the cooks, drinking in the rich smells as he snitched lemon cakes and blueberry tarts. His passions were books and kittens and dancing, clumsy as he was.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon IV

Sam remembered the last time he’d sung the song with his mother, to lull baby Dickon to sleep. His father had heard their voices and come barging in, angry. “I will have no more of that,” Lord Randyll told his wife harshly. “You ruined one boy with those soft septon’s songs, do you mean to do the same to this babe?” Then he looked at Sam and said, “Go sing to your sisters, if you must sing. I don’t want you near my son.”

—A Storm of Swords - Samwell III

And during a few passages in the ASOIAF Books you can read how Samwell prays to the Mother: “Mother have mercy, Mother have mercy, Mother have mercy.”, just like Sansa. 

It is said that Sansara Tarly “has read more books than half the maesters in the Citadel”. This is a direct connection to Queen Alysanne, another book lover that could have been a Maester of the Citadel; and also to Samwell Tarly who is actually studying at the Citadel to become a Maester (Thanks to Jon Snow). Another book lover? Yes, Sansa Stark.     

Sansa - Alayne - Alysanne - Sara - Sansara

What an interesting chain of names George, all of them connected, so subtle of you:  

SANSA’S bastard name is ALAYNE  

ALAYNE can be formed removing a letter S and one letter N from ALYSANNE    

SARA was called WOLF GIRL like SANSA

SARA is a bastard like ALAYNE 

SARA married in secret with JACAERYS just like ALYSANNE married in secret with JAEHAERYS (Also JACAERYS = JAEHAERYS) 

ALYSANNE “Black Aly” Blackwood married Lord Cregan Stark and became LADY STARK, LADY ALYSANNE STARK 

SANSARA is a combination of SANSA and SARA

SANSARA is from House Tarly, like Samwell Tarly who is a Male!Sansa

SANSARA is as cultured and well read as ALYSANNE (Also like Samwell and Sansa) 

GRRM chooses the names of his characters very carefully. For example, here is what he has said about the Stark Sisters’ Names:     

The names Arya and Sansa are meant to represent the polar opposites of their characters, Arya being a hard sounding name, Sansa a softer more pretty name, etc. [Source]

After all of this, if GRRM decides to name a next character of the ASOIAF Universe: ‘ALYSANSA’, I would not be surprised.  

I rest my case.  

[didanawisgi]

Genocide Watch- Ten Stages of Genocide

Genocide Watch- Ten Stages of Genocide

Written by Gregory H. Stanton, from Genocide Watch  

“It is crucial not to confuse this model with a linear one.  In all genocides, many stages occur simultaneously.

Genocide is a process that develops in ten stages that are predictable but not inexorable. At each stage, preventive measures can stop it.

The process is not linear. Stages may occur simultaneously. Each stage is itself a process. Logically, later stages are preceded by earlier stages.  But all stages continue to operate throughout the process.

I. CLASSIFICATION

All cultures have categories to distinguish people into “us and them” by ethnicity, race, religion, or nationality: German and Jew, Hutu and Tutsi. Bipolar societies that lack mixed categories, such as Rwanda and Burundi, are the most likely to have genocide.  One of most important classifications in the current nation-state system is citizenship in a nationality.  Removal or denial of a group’s citizenship is a legal way to deny the group’s civil and human rights.  The first step toward the genocide of Jews and Roma in Nazi Germany were the laws to strip them of their German citizenship.  Burma’s 1982 citizenship law classified Rohingyas out of national citizenship. In India, the Citizenship Act denies a route to citizenship for Muslim refugees.  Native Americans were not granted citizenship in the USA until 1924, after centuries of genocide that decimated their populations.

The main preventive measure at this early stage is to develop universalistic institutions that transcend ethnic or racial divisions, that actively promote tolerance and understanding, and that promote classifications that transcend the divisions. The Catholic church could have played this role in Rwanda, had it not been driven by the same ethnic cleavages as Rwandan society. Promotion of a common language in countries like Tanzania has also promoted transcendent national identity. Laws that provide routes for citizenship to immigrants and refugees break down barriers to civil rights. This search for common ground is vital to early prevention of genocide.

II. SYMBOLIZATION

We give names or other symbols to the classifications. We name people “Jews” or “Gypsies”, or distinguish them by colors or dress; and apply the symbols to members of groups. Classification and symbolization are universally human and do not necessarily result in genocide unless they lead to dehumanization. When combined with hatred, symbols may be forced upon unwilling members of pariah groups: the yellow star for Jews under Nazi rule, the blue scarf for people from the Eastern Zone in Khmer Rouge Cambodia.

To combat symbolization, hate symbols can be legally forbidden (swastikas) as can hate speech. Group marking like gang clothing or tribal scarring can be outlawed, as well. The problem is that legal limitations will fail if unsupported by popular cultural enforcement. Though Hutu and Tutsi were forbidden words in Burundi until the 1980’s, code words replaced them. If widely supported, however, denial of symbolization can be powerful, as it was in Bulgaria, where the government refused to supply enough yellow badges and at least eighty percent of Jews did not wear them, depriving the yellow star of its significance as a Nazi symbol for Jews.

III. DISCRIMINATION

A dominant group uses law, custom, and political power to deny the rights of other groups.  The powerless group may not be accorded full civil rights, voting rights, or even citizenship. The dominant group is driven by an exclusionary ideology that would deprive less powerful groups of their rights.  The ideology advocates monopolization or expansion of power by the dominant group.  It legitimizes the victimization of weaker groups. Advocates of exclusionary ideologies are often charismatic, expressing the resentments of their followers. Examples include the Nuremberg Laws of 1935 in Nazi Germany, which stripped Jews of their German citizenship, and prohibited their employment by the government and by universities.  Discrimination against native Americans and African-Americans was enshrined in the US Constitution until the post Civil War Amendments and mid-20th century laws to enforce them.  Denial of citizenship to the Rohingya Muslim minority in Myanmar led to genocide in 2017 and the displacement of over a million refugees.

Prevention against discrimination means full political empowerment and citizenship rights for all groups in a society.  Discrimination on the basis of nationality, ethnicity, race or religion should be outlawed.  Individuals should have the right to sue the state, corporations, and other individuals if their rights are violated.

IV. DEHUMANIZATION

One group denies the humanity of the other group. Members of it are equated with animals, vermin, insects or diseases. Dehumanization overcomes the normal human revulsion against murder. At this stage, hate propaganda in print, on hate radios, and in social media is used to vilify the victim group. It may even be incorporated into school textbooks. Indoctrination prepares the way for incitement. The majority group is taught to regard the other group as less than human, and even alien to their society. They are indoctrinated to believe that “ We are better off without them.”  The powerless group can become so depersonalized that they are actually given numbers rather than names, as Jews were in the death camps.  They are equated with filth, i​m​purity, and immorality.  Hate speech fills the propaganda of official radio, newspapers, and speeches.

To combat dehumanization, incitement to genocide should not be confused with protected speech. Genocidal societies lack constitutional protection for countervailing speech, and should be treated differently than democracies. Local and international leaders should condemn the use of hate speech and make it culturally unacceptable. Leaders who incite genocide should be prosecuted in national courts.  They should be banned from international travel and have their foreign finances frozen. Hate radio stations should be jammed or shut down, and hate propaganda and its sources banned from social media and the internet. Hate crimes and atrocities should be promptly punished.

V. ORGANIZATION

Genocide is always organized, usually by the state, often using militias to provide deniability of state responsibility (the Janjaweed in Darfur.) Sometimes organization is informal (Hindu mobs led by local RSS militants) or decentralized (terrorist groups.) Special army units or militias are often trained and armed. Plans are made for genocidal killings.   Genocide often occurs during civil or international wars.  Arms flows to states and militias (even in violation of UN Arms Embargoes) facilitate acts of genocide.  States organize secret police to spy on, arrest, torture, and murder people suspected of opposition to political leaders. Motivations for targeting a group are indoctrinated through mass media and special training for murderous militias, death squads, and special army killing units like the Nazi Einsaztgruppen, which murdered 1.5 million Jews in Eastern Europe .

To combat organization, membership in genocidal militias should be outlawed. Their leaders should be denied visas for foreign travel and their foreign assets frozen. The UN should impose arms embargoes on governments and citizens of countries involved in genocidal massacres, and create commissions to investigate violations, as was done in post-genocide Rwanda. National legal systems should prosecute and disarm groups that plan and commit hate crimes.

VI. POLARIZATION

Extremists drive the groups apart. Hate groups broadcast polarizing propaganda. Laws may forbid intermarriage or social interaction. Extremist terrorism targets moderates, intimidating and silencing the center. Moderates from the perpetrators’ own group are most able to stop genocide, so are the first to be arrested and killed.  Leaders in targeted groups are the next to be arrested and murdered. The dominant group passes emergency laws or decrees that grants them total power over the targeted group.  The laws erode fundamental civil rights and liberties. Targeted groups are disarmed to make them incapable of self-defense, and to ensure that the dominant group has total control.

Prevention may mean security protection for moderate leaders or assistance to human rights groups. Assets of extremists should be seized, and visas for international travel denied to them. Coups d’état by extremists should be opposed by international sanctions and regional isolation of extremist leaders.  Vigorous objections should be raised to arrests of members of opposition groups.  If necessary, targeted groups should be armed to defend themselves. National government leaders should denounce polarizing hate speech.  Educators should teach tolerance.

VII.  PREPARATION

National or perpetrator group leaders plan the “Final Solution” to the Jewish, Armenian, Tutsi or other targeted group “question.”  They often use euphemisms to cloak their intentions, such as referring to their goals as “ethnic cleansing,” “purification,” or “counter-terrorism.” They build armies, buy weapons and train their troops and militias.  They indoctrinate the populace with fear of the victim group.  Leaders often claim that “if we don’t kill them, they will kill us,” disguising genocide as self-defense.  There is a sudden increase in inflammatory rhetoric and hate propaganda with the objective of creating fear of the other group. Political processes such as peace accords that threaten the dominance of the ruling group through elections or prosecution for corruption may actually trigger genocide.

Prevention of preparation may include arms embargo​e​s and commissions to enforce them.  It should include prosecution of incitement and conspiracy to commit genocide, both crimes under Article 3 of the Genocide Convention.

National law enforcement authorities should arrest and prosecute leaders of groups planning genocidal massacres.

VIII. PERSECUTION

Victims are identified and separated out because of their national, ethnic, racial or religious identity. The victim group’s most basic human rights are systematically violated through extrajudicial killings, torture and forced displacement.  Death lists are drawn up. In state sponsored genocide, members of victim groups may be forced to wear identifying symbols. Their property is often expropriated.  Sometimes they are segregated into ghettoes, deported to concentration camps, or confined to a famine-struck region and starved.  They are deliberately deprived of resources such as water or food in order to slowly destroy the group. Programs are implemented to prevent procreation through forced sterilization or abortions. Children are forcibly taken from their parents. Genocidal massacres begin.  All of these destructive acts are acts of genocide outlawed by the Genocide Convention.  They are acts of genocide because they intentionally destroy part of a group.  The perpetrators watch for whether such massacres are opposed by any effective international response.  If there is no reaction, they realize they can get away with genocide.  The perpetrators know that the U.N., regional organizations, and nations with powerful militaries will again be bystanders and permit another genocide.

​

At this stage, a Genocide Emergency must be declared. If the political will of the great powers, regional alliances, or U.N. Security Council or the U.N. General Assembly can be mobilized, vigorous diplomacy, targeted economic sanctions, and even armed international intervention should be prepared. Assistance should be provided to the victim group to prepare for its self-defense. Humanitarian assistance should be organized by the U.N. and private relief groups for the inevitable tide of refugees to come.

IX. EXTERMINATION

Extermination begins, and quickly becomes the mass killing legally called “genocide.” It is “extermination” to the killers because they do not believe their victims to be fully human. When it is sponsored by the state, the armed forces often work with militias to do the killing.   The goal of total genocides is to kill all the members of the targeted group.  But most genocides are genocides “in part.”  All educated members of the targeted group might be murdered (Burundi 1972). All men and boys of fighting age may be murdered (Srebrenica, Bosnia 1995).  All women and girls may be raped (Darfur, Myanmar.)  Mass rapes of women have become a characteristic of all modern genocides.  Rape is used as a means to genetically alter and destroy the victim group.  Sometimes the genocide results in revenge killings by groups against each other, creating the downward whirlpool-like cycle of bilateral genocide (as in Burundi).   Destruction of cultural and religious property is employed to annihilate the group’s existence from history (Armenia 1915 - 1922, Da'esh/ISIS 2014 - 2018).

“Total war” between nations or ethnic groups is inherently genocidal because it does not differentiate civilians from non-combatants.  "Carpet" bombing, firebombing, bombing hospitals, and use of chemical or biological weapons are war crimes and also acts of genocide. Terrorism does not differentiate civilians and combatants, and when intended to destroy members of a national, ethnic, racial, or religious group is genocidal. Use of nuclear weapons is the ultimate act of genocide because it is consciously intended to destroy a substantial part of a national group.  

During active genocide, only rapid and overwhelming armed intervention can stop genocide.  Real safe areas or refugee escape corridors should be established with heavily armed international protection. (An unsafe “safe” area is worse than none at all.)  For armed interventions, a multilateral force authorized by the U.N. should intervene if politically possible. The Standing High Readiness Brigade, EU Rapid Response Force, or regional forces (NATO, ASEAN, ECOWAS) — should be authorized to act by the U.N. Security Council. The UN General Assembly may authorize action under the Uniting for Peace Resolution G A Res. 330 (1950), which has been used 13 times for such armed intervention.  If the U.N. is paralyzed, regional alliances must act under Chapter VIII of the U.N. Charter.  The international responsibility to protect transcends the narrow interests of individual nation states.  If strong nations will not provide troops to intervene directly, they should provide the airlift, equipment, and financial means necessary for regional states to intervene.

X. DENIAL

Denial is the final stage that lasts throughout and always follows genocide. It is among the surest indicators of further genocidal massacres. The perpetrators of genocide dig up the mass graves, burn the bodies, try to cover up the evidence and intimidate the witnesses. They deny that they committed any crimes, and often blame what happened on the victims. Acts of genocide are disguised as counter-insurgency if there is an ongoing​ ​armed conflict or civil war.  Perpetrators block investigations of the crimes, and continue to govern until driven from power by force, when they flee into exile. There they remain with impunity, like Pol Pot or Idi Amin, unless they are captured and a tribunal is established to try them.

​

During and after genocide, lawyers, diplomats, and others who oppose forceful action often deny that these crimes meet the definition of genocide. They call them euphemisms like “ethnic cleansing” instead. They question whether intent to destroy a group can be proven, ignoring thousands of murders.  They overlook deliberate imposition of conditions that destroy part of a group.  They claim that only courts can determine whether there has been genocide, demanding “proof beyond a reasonable doubt”, when prevention only requires action based on compelling evidence.

The best response to denial is punishment by an international tribunal or national courts. There the evidence can be heard, and the perpetrators punished. Tribunals like the Yugoslav, Rwanda or Sierra Leone Tribunals, the tribunal to try the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia, or the International Criminal Court may not deter the worst genocidal killers. But with the political will to arrest and prosecute them, some may be brought to justice.  Local justice and truth commissions and public school education are also antidotes to denial.  They may open ways to reconciliation and preventive education.”

[frmartinshomiliesandreflections]

2nd January >> Fr. Martin’s Gospel Reflections / Homilies on John 1:19-28 for the 2nd January: ‘Who are you?’.

2nd January

Gospel (Except USA)

John 1:19-28

'One is coming after me who existed before me'

This is how John appeared as a witness. When the Jews sent priests and Levites from Jerusalem to ask him, ‘Who are you?’ he not only declared, but he declared quite openly, ‘I am not the Christ.’ ‘Well then,’ they asked ‘are you Elijah?’ ‘I am not’ he said. ‘Are you the Prophet?’ He answered, ‘No.’ So they said to him, ‘Who are you? We must take back an answer to those who sent us. What have you to say about yourself?’ So John said, ‘I am, as Isaiah prophesied:

a voice that cries in the wilderness: Make a straight way for the Lord.’

Now these men had been sent by the Pharisees, and they put this further question to him, ‘Why are you baptising if you are not the Christ, and not Elijah, and not the prophet?’ John replied, ‘I baptise with water; but there stands among you – unknown to you – the one who is coming after me; and I am not fit to undo his sandal-strap.’ This happened at Bethany, on the far side of the Jordan, where John was baptising.

Gospel (USA)

John 1:19-28

There is one who is coming after me.

This is the testimony of John. When the Jews from Jerusalem sent priests and Levites to him to ask him, “Who are you?” He admitted and did not deny it, but admitted, “I am not the Christ.” So they asked him, “What are you then? Are you Elijah?” And he said, “I am not.” “Are you the Prophet?” He answered, “No.” So they said to him, “Who are you, so we can give an answer to those who sent us? What do you have to say for yourself?” He said: “I am the voice of one crying out in the desert, ‘Make straight the way of the Lord,’ as Isaiah the prophet said.” Some Pharisees were also sent. They asked him, “Why then do you baptize if you are not the Christ or Elijah or the Prophet?” John answered them, “I baptize with water; but there is one among you whom you do not recognize, the one who is coming after me, whose sandal strap I am not worthy to untie.” This happened in Bethany across the Jordan, where John was baptizing.

Reflections (5)

(i) 2nd January

It is evident from the opening verses of today’s gospel reading that John the Baptist is very aware of who he was not. He says clearly and publicly that he is not the Messiah, he is not Elijah returned, and he is not the long-awaited end time prophet. He is clear who he is not because he knows who he is. He is the voice that cries in the wilderness preparing people for the coming of the Lord. In this gospel of John, the fourth gospel, Jesus is the Word who was with God in the beginning and became flesh. John is not the Word; he is only the voice who announces the coming of the Word. In the fourth gospel, Jesus is the light of the world, whereas John the Baptist is spoken of as a ‘burning and shining lamp’; he reflects the light of Jesus to others, as the moon reflects the light of the sun. In the fourth gospel, Jesus is the bridegroom, the revelation in human form of God, the divine bridegroom, who enters into a nuptial relationship not just with Israel but with the whole world. If Jesus is the bridegroom, John the Baptist is spoken of in the fourth gospel as ‘the friend of the bridegroom, who stands and hears him’ and ‘rejoices greatly at the bridegroom’s voice’. The relationship between John the Baptist and Jesus is very clearly outlined in the fourth gospel. There is a sense in which John’s relationship with Jesus is the relationship of all disciples with Jesus; it reflects the relationship each one of us is called to have with Jesus. We are all called to be the voice to the Word, the lamp to the Light and the friend to the Bridegroom. This is how we can answer the question, ‘Who are you?’ Our calling is to point to Jesus with our lives, to proclaim his presence by our way of being present to others and to reflect the light of his love by the way we relate to others.

And/Or

(ii) 2nd January

From now until the end of the week, our gospel reading is taken from the first chapter of John’s gospel. Beginning at v. 19, which is where this morning’s gospel begins, we read through the chapter continuously until we reach the end of the chapter at v. 51. This morning, John the Baptist is asked one of the really important questions of life, ‘Who are you?’ We can spend most of our lives trying to answer the question, ‘Who am I?’ It is not a question that lends itself to a quick and easy answer. There is a sense in which we never really come to know ourselves fully. A first step in knowing ourselves is knowing who we are not, so that we don’t try to be someone we are not. John the Baptist comes across in the gospel reading this morning as knowing who he is not. He is not the Messiah, he is not Elijah, and he is not the prophet. John does not claim to be someone he is not. He not only knows who he is not, he knows who he is – the voice crying in the wilderness preparing people for the Lord’s coming. He is the witness, the person who points to Jesus and leads others to him. In a very real sense, that is what we are all called to be. Even though we might have difficulty fully answering the question, ‘Who are you?’ we can all give the answer, ‘I am a witness’. That is our calling, to point towards the Lord and to lead others to him by our lives.

 And/Or

(iii) 2nd January

The question asked of John the Baptist in this morning’s gospel reading, ‘Who are you?’ is one of the great questions of life. We can struggle to answer the question, ‘Who am I?’ We can easily give an answer at a certain level to that question by telling people what we do, ‘I am an accountant’ or ‘I am a carpenter’. However, going below what we do to who we are in our core can be much more difficult. Also, our answer to that deeper question can change as we go through life. How we answer that question at this moment in our lives is not how we would have answered it earlier in our lives. For those of us who are people of Christian faith, our answer to that question will be deeply influenced by our relationship with Jesus, because that relationship, if it is alive and active, will touch us at a very deep level, at our core. Saint Paul is the great example of that truth. If he were asked, ‘Who are you?’ he might have answered along the lives of his statement in his letter to the Galatians, ‘it is no longer I who live but Christ who lives in me’. His identity had become a Christ identity. When John the Baptist was asked that question in today’s gospel reading, he answered that he was ‘a voice that cries in the wilderness’. His identity was shaped by his relationship with Jesus. He is the voice who witnesses to the Word that has become flesh. Our human identity will also be shaped by our relationship with Jesus, by our baptismal identity. Our own baptismal calling is to keep on growing into Christ so that our personal identity is more and more shaped by our relationship with him and we too can come to say with Saint Paul, ‘It is no longer I who live but Christ who lives in me’. The more we grow into Christ, the more we become more fully ourselves.

 And/Or

(iv) 2nd January

This morning, John the Baptist is asked one of the really important questions of life, ‘Who are you?’ We can spend most of our lives trying to answer the question, ‘Who am I?’ It is not a question that lends itself to a quick and easy answer, because it is a probing question that enquires after what our values are, what is really important to us, what shapes how we live, what are gifts and limitations are. There is a sense in which we never fully answer the question, ‘Who are you?’ An important step in knowing ourselves is knowing who we are not, so that we don’t try to be someone we are not. John the Baptist comes across in the gospel reading this morning as knowing who he is not. He is not the Messiah, he is not Elijah, and he is not the prophet. He might have liked to be all of these people, but he knew in his heart of hearts he wasn’t. He does not claim to be someone he is not. He not only knows who he is not, he knows who he is. He is the voice crying in the wilderness calling on people to make a way for the Lord’s coming. He is the witness, the person who points to Jesus and leads others to him. In a very real sense, heis what we are all called to be. John the Baptist embodies our baptismal identity. Even though we might have difficulty fully answering the question, ‘Who am I?’, as followers of Jesus, we can all give the answer, ‘I am a witness’. That is our calling, to be the voice that leads others to the Word who became flesh and lives among us.

 And/Or

(v) 2nd January

At the end of today’s gospel reading, John the Baptist declares to those who question him, ‘There stands among you, unknown to you, the one who is coming after me’. Jesus, God’s Son, the Word made flesh, was standing among them, but they were unaware of his significance. John knew who Jesus really was. He could see more deeply than those who were questioning him. He wanted to open the eyes of his contemporaries so that they could see Jesus as he saw him and come to know him as he knew him. Jesus was close to them, standing among them. Yet, he was also remote from them, because they were blind to who he was. God was present to them through Jesus, but they were unaware of it. John the Baptist could use the same phrase with reference to us today, ‘there stands among you, unknown to you’. Jesus, now risen Lord, stands among us. He is as present to us as he was to his contemporaries. Yet, he often stands among us, unknown to us. We do not always recognize his presence. We fail to appreciate the significance of his presence to us. We can sometimes live our lives as if he was not standing among us. We often need a John the Baptist figure to help us to see the Lord who is at the heart of our lives. We all need the guidance of others who see more deeply than we do. Others can help us to see the Lord who stands among us, but we can also help ourselves. We can learn to become more attentive to the Lord standing among us. We can become more responsive to the Lord’s daily invitation to ‘come and see’.

Fr. Martin Hogan.

[dumdumdrawstumtums]

ABB3 and I were talking about this earlier, you see I've recently got into the fate fandom and I was wondering if you had any belly canons for any of the guys, specifically Gilgamesh and Fate stay night's Lancer? Or any other guys you like from the series~ (Ive only seen fate zero and fate stay night so far btw.) ^_^

Oh hey good on ya! I'm still a woeful casual when it comes to the series, but it's provided some real nice guys to fawn over~ But alright lemme see what I can do...

G/ilgamesh

Well the fun thing about G/ilgamesh is that his monumentally enormous ego is matched only by his looks... and hopefully his appetite. Cuz I mean, damn, boy knows how to dress to impress.

The thing is though that his taste is incredibly high class, so he'll only be dining on 5-star dishes. He's been around modern society enough to know how to get what he likes, after all. The thing is though that he would be so caught up in holding this fact over others heads that he would neglect to take note of just how much he may be eating. Like, I don't see him as the sort to actively flaunt stuffing himself taut. He may even be secretly embarrassed by it, but damn if he won't play it off as something along the lines of course he's privileged to such gorging. Anything like greasy fast food he wouldn't allow to slip past his lips UNLESS his ability to even do so was being questioned. His weakness is having his ego struck in any way, after all. Then he would certainly have to silence the mongrels' barking and prove himself... probably leading to a very full, very upset stomach having so much garbage filling his belly. At that point he might require some belly rubs - something he would order someone he deems capable of providing to do. Perhaps threatening that if they aren't up to task, they may find themself added to the rest of the trash.

Whiiich leads into the headcanons for vore HAHAH// The King of Heroes lords over all, and sometimes he needs to assert his superiority in less conventional, but no less absolute ways. I don't think he would be too actively yearning to eat anyone, since his body is perfection that he doesn't want anyone ruining. It might be once his (admittedly thin) patience is tested in a certain manner (maybe someone questioned his appetite a little too hard?) that he will give them the privilege of being shown just what he can do. Most anyone he eats he would be dismissive of after; they're food now, they should settle down, and don't they dare give him indigestion, or he can make this even harder on them. And again, this is probably something he prefers to keep private. Although if any company shows up, I feel like Gil wouldn't be doing much to hide his large, squirming belly - like, full on sitting back, just idly stroking over the mega bloat, half-attempting to stifle burps or hiccups, mostly just quietly annoyed. Regardless of how awkward that might make the other feel. Nonfatal situations I think require for G/ilgamesh to at least feel a little respect for who he's gulped down? Which is no easy feat of course, so... he would definitely be the "one way trip" sort of pred the vast majority of the time. But even if that requirement is met, it wouldn't necessarily deter him from carrying on his day as he otherwise would, which includes eating and drinking what he pleases, and giving his belly a firm smack if his stomach's occupant protests. Basically, his wants and needs always take priority.

O/zymandias

Okay and because it would be a good follow-up, another who my friends like would be O/zymandias. Again, another drop dead gorgeous king~

Unfortunately though, since they share such similar attitudes, a lot of headcanons for Gil apply to Ozy OTL  That includes the fine taste, being mostly spurred into eating past his comfort levels by having his pride put on the line, and the authoritative aura he carries even when he's aching with fullness. As a matter of fact it's often fun to imagine them being quite the pair when it comes to eating; they're likely to goad each other into eating more and more with neither willing to face the shame of having the weaker stomach. Thank goodness they get along so well... for them, anyway. Maybe not so much for the restaurant they visit, or the unfortunate people who may be included in their kingly feasting.

I think a good distinction to make Ozy stand out more is that he's not quite so much a jerk as Gil would be regarded as? He's got a monumental ego sure, but seems to be less likely to utterly disregard the personhood of others in the process. So it may take a little more to make him deem someone to be his next meal... maybe. Possibly. His body is a temple, he can't very well be making this a habit, after all. Consequently I also think he would be a bit more likely to indulge in nonfatal scenarios, too. And with the mighty pharaoh he would make a little more effort in being a proper host. Oh, and since there was a funny bit a dialogue in the game where he staunchly denied being decapitated in the most huffy, tsundere way, I think that would apply to him having a ridiculously filled gut as well. "There's nothing wrong with my stomach... *grrrgghh...*"

A/sterios

Another one that friends have a big liking to so of course I'll jump on that too! What we got here is a colossal 9'9" tall berserker bull man, THE Minotaur of legend himself. The fun thing about him is that, as the myth tells, he's canonically eaten people - and plenty of them, too. He's got a great deal of dialogue alluding to how easily he could put even you on the menu as well. So, while he might have some difficulty speaking... his stomach can do the talking for him. Like, he already struggles to control his beastly urges, so who could blame him if he slipped up, caught someone in his inescapable clutches, and ate them? Or even two? He's almost twice as large as normal humans; it would be far less difficult for him to gorge on more than one. Consuming others would be treated as something that just comes natural to A/sterios, like a hunger that was finally quenched.

On the stuffing end (sorry for the reverse order, he's just far more likely to enjoy meat on the very rare side) the bull would require a lot to satisfy him. He's used to eating whole, poor people who were dumped into his labyrinth, after all. And again, this absolute unit is BIG. Not to mention being treated to food beyond "human" would probably be a novel experience for him. He's been in the labyrinth all his life, he has the whole world to see and experience! Poor A/sterios would probably be overwhelmed and adorably yearning to try everything. Very open to being fed, and having his belly rubbed, too! Just, again, both of these things are gonna take a while, given his size.

A/chilles

Husband material that captured my heart big time when I finally got around to watching A/pocryphaaa// He's got a similar vibe to C/u C/hulainn with his lax attitude and enjoyment in fighting. The differences between them though help to separate my headcanons just a bit. Like, whereas Cu's more laid-back the majority of the time, A/chilles has more of an intensity to him. He's more excited by a challenge for one, and that can play easily into some fun headcanons. Like, any meal he sits down for will be filling him up, but afterwards if he sees there's an eating contest going down, he'd still be going "Yeah I bet I could win, piece of cake *urp* Maybe poor choice of words..." And then claim that filling his stomach up beforehand was just to give everyone else a fighting chance. And he will win, it'll just... be something of a pyrrhic victory. One that he'll still try to take pride in sure, but not without a lot of groaning and claiming that he must weigh twice as heavy now. And as wont as the Greek hero would be to lie back and let everything digest, he's just as quickly to pull himself back up and heft around the gurgling gorge, since he hates to be bored or to seem pathetic. After all, while his ego might not be anywhere near the mountainous scale Gil's is, he still has a hefty arrogance to him that can be used to push him (and his belly) further. Though unlike the king and pharaoh, I think A/chilles would genuinely be unabashed in his bloated state, let alone the thunderous belches that might come about - just sighing with relief after and giving his stomach a pat. Even when receiving some welcomed belly rubs, don’t be offended if you get caught in the blast radius HAHAH

Regarding vore, I think A/chilles would very much have the mindset of "eating someone means claiming total victory." And it would probably be something he revels in just as much as any victory, roughly massaging his stomach, trying to clench his stretched thin abs, etc. What makes A/chilles unique is that, as said, he likes a challenge. That means that while he's groaning for his prey to settle down, he's also outright encouraging them to fight against his stomach, which might not phase him quite as much as it would others since, y'know, invincible body and all. If they're especially feisty, to the point it's making the brash hero gag, heave, have to swallow down lumps rising back up his throat, well then that struggle just makes this all the better. Heck, if they're not up to that point he may even waddle himself over to eat more, just to get himself to that point of barely keeping it together. Even in nonfatal situations, the Rider would undoubtedly enjoy making his carry-on squirm - probably utilizing effective teasing to get them riled up, like hiccuping and asking just how much they weigh, or downing a full gallon of drink to drench them, burping, and saying lugging them in his stomach is thirsty work. Much more inclined to some rough play than the blue Lancer would be, methinks. That includes all the belly play of jostling, prodding, 'accidentally' lying on his stomach a bit, all that goodness~

(I left C/u C/hulainn out because I remembered I already did a big post about him here, among other posts, so enjoy that if you’d like!)

[aliceslantern]

Beyond this Existence: Atonement, chapter 3

Ansem always had a penchant for strays, so it's not at all surprising when he takes in the orphaned child Ienzo. The boy's presence changes everything, far more than Even is willing to admit. Ienzo's brilliance seems promising, but the arrival of a young Xehanort pushes the apprentices onto a dark, cruel, inhumane path which will affect the future of the World. And even once it's all over with--once Xehanort is dead--they still must pick up the pieces, forgive one another, find a way to atone for their atrocities, and struggle to accept the humanity which has been thrust upon them.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

It takes three days for the young man to wake from his slumber--Even doesn’t know what to call it. It doesn’t qualify as a true coma, according to his tests; and when he pokes into one of the tomes the mouse king left behind, he finds an abstractly worded passage regarding darkness and sleep, that it can threaten the mind. It’s more puzzling than anything.

It seems he divides his attention between Ansem’s two strays--Ienzo, reticent, not quite himself since the night in the lab, and Xehanort. He and Aeleus try to figure out what happened, asking questions as gently as they can, but now the boy’s insisting he can’t remember. Even isn’t so sure, but he’s also afraid to push, less it destabilize him more.

Aeleus and Dilan examine the molten lump of the gummi block. It still hasn’t hardened after all these hours, and its temperature isn’t even high. From the lead-encased fume hood they watch the tendrils of darkness swirl against the display. They placed a mouse inside, to see how it reacted; it panicked, squealing for hours, trying to outrun the tendrils before--and Dilan recounts this with horror--the darkness ate it whole, leaving behind nothing but one stump of a leg.

They aren’t sure if the block is doing it on its own, or if it’s due to the darkness, but it produces small amounts of electricity, enough to light a ten watt bulb for a few seconds. Even itches to see what it does to cells--if it truly does eat away at them, or if it has a transmutative property as well--but rather than pursue this, he must tend to the young man.

Ansem is with him, much like he was with Ienzo in those early days; Even has a feeling he knows where this is going. At least if Ansem takes in this stray too, this one is old enough to feed and clothe and educate himself.

Xehanort wakes with a gasp. “Who--?” he asks.

“Easy, young man,” Ansem says kindly. “You’ve suffered a trauma.”

He blinks, his strange gold eyes taking everything in. “Where am I?”

“A city called Radiant Garden. We found you by the castle gates, during a horrible storm.”

“A… storm?” he echoes. His voice, while hoarse, is very deep for a boy that age.

“Do you remember what it is that led you here?” Ansem asks kindly. Even pulls the IV from the young man’s hand, bandages it.

“No, I…” He tries to focus, squinting. “It’s all… a blur.”

“It may come back to you,” Ansem says. “No need to worry. Where did you come from?”

The young man stares blankly. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t--” Ansem’s thrown. “Is there anything you do remember?”

“I’m Xehanort.”

“Other than that.”

The boy seems horrorstruck. “It’s all--I can’t--” He touches his forehead.

Even’s mind spins back to his reading. “...Retrograde amnesia,” he says gently. “Possibly as a response to an injury. But every test I ran showed no injuries…”

“We needn’t worry our guest,” Ansem says. His voice is polite, but Even senses the warning. “Not while he is recovering.”

The young man meets Even’s eyes. “No,” he says. “Tell me.”

Very quickly he finds that Xehanort is insatiably curious--about them, their work, this world he’s ended up in. He wants answers. As he’s physically well, he’s soon moved into an empty room on their floor. Ansem presents him with the clothing and armor they’d found with him. “Very strange,” Xehanort mutters, running his fingers over the material. “Nobody around here wears anything like this.” He’s gone out on his own, to explore the city and get his bearings. He’s an adult; Even has no real interest in what he decides to pursue. “You say I arrived with the storm… Is that more than just poetic? Could I have possibly been brought here by darkness?”

Even wishes not to care about him, but the curiosity nags, itching, almost more than the darkness. It’s clear the two are tied.

“How? And… why?” Xehanort presses a hand to his brow. “It’s so strange, what I do and don’t remember. I can’t remember my hometown, but I know to read, to tie my shoes. This loss of memory can’t be merely neurological.”

He has a point; all of the boy’s tests were normal. “Then what do you believe it is?” Even asks.

He thinks. “Perhaps… my heart?” He lays a hand on his chest. “If I were truly exposed to darkness, and my body wasn’t impacted, that’s all that could be left. Right?”

Even has to hide his shocked expression. It’s beginning to click, the pieces coming together. The darkness--Ienzo’s claim to have lost memory. “Your… heart,” he repeats slowly. “Xehanort… perhaps you were a scientist in your previous life.”

The boy smiles. “Well. Anything’s possible.”

This just emphasizes their need to be able to test and examine’s people’s hearts, and Ansem agrees. It isn’t just feeling, or bonds, it can clearly be so much more. Memory! He’s almost dizzy thinking about it.

Though Ienzo is temporarily banned from their research, Xehanort quickly assists; in some ways, it feels like he’s always been there. It’s clear he doesn’t have the education, but he picks up the studies with an unnatural speed, faster even that precocious Ienzo. “It could be my memories,” he says, returning a medical text to Even. “Maybe they’re coming back. It just feels… right.”

“You certainly are extremely bright,” Even says, with a smile. “Who knows--perhaps it is fate, that brought you here.”

“Perhaps…” He smiles, but then it fades. “But… then how did I get here? If I’ve learned anything, it’s that it takes so much power and effort to harness the darkness. And why would I have done it in the first place?”

“I can’t answer those questions,” Even says.

He nods. “Might I examine that block?”

“If you like. Please be exceedingly careful. You don’t want it to injure you… not like those poor mice.” He knows they are just lab rats, lesser beings, but they still feel physical pain.

“I will, sir. Thank you.”

It’s the politeness, more than anything, that makes him smile. “My pleasure.”

---

In all this, something in Ienzo begins to change. He’s still learning as much, as quickly, still occasionally nightmares aloud. But he becomes again reticent--not mute, but speaking as little as possible. He withdraws from the others, often spends his time hiding in the library (according to Braig). Even doesn’t pretend to understand it.

Xehanort chuckles. “Is it not obvious?”

Even looks up from the diagrams spread in front of him. “Say what you mean,” he says, a bit snappishly.

“He’s jealous ,” Xehanort says. He shakes his head. “We’re all down here, making these exciting discoveries--and then talking about them in and around him, over dinner, what have you.” Ansem has recently formalized Xehanort’s apprenticeship--not point not to. The young man is their inciting incident. “And he’s smart enough that not being involved must hurt. How would you feel, Even, if someone was working on your passion project instead of you?”

He looks up. “You are… right. But it’s not safe for him here.”

Xehanort considers this. “I’ll talk to him,” he says. “Let’s see if we can’t ease the tension.”

---

The good news comes in a pair. Seeing the cataclysmic storm the night of Xehanort’s arrival made the board of ethics more amenable to studying the heart. They approve Even’s plan to speak with human subjects and examine their hearts. This requires the construction of tiny conference rooms, to protect the privacy of their volunteers; it goes fairly quickly. Secondly, Ienzo is allowed to be present in the room again--on one condition.

“It could be worse,” Braig says. “Babysitting duty? Hell of a lot easier than trying to keep kids out of the castle.”

“I’ve no idea what you said to Master Ansem to allow him back,” Dilan says, with a shake of his head.

“I’m his pet project,” Xehanort says simply. “Ienzo’s his son. Together, we’re unstoppable.”

The boy certainly does seem a lot happier; it helps that Xehanort puts the fear of god in him when it came to safety procedures. This makes Ienzo’s seventh birthday a happy one, as they do have a lot to be thankful for.

They put notices in the papers, in community spaces, to find subjects for their study involving hearts. Initially, there’s not much response; a few people, here and there. They take scrupulous amounts of notes on these people--their lives, if they’ve suffered traumas, their physical makeups. Ienzo believes that the balance within the hearts is tied to the bonds of people; so they interview friends, married couples, siblings, parents and children.

“Ienzo’s right,” Ansem says. “It makes a difference in the samples.”

But how to truly determine light and darkness, all without hurting their subjects? It’s a sticky situation. The pods Dilan built all those weeks ago can still divine the difference in matter, with some few tweaks by Xehanort. He can’t deny that the machines look terrifying to step into, especially to an outsider. So while all the others bicker and waffle over the best way to do this, Even experiments again with his cells, his embryos. Things that are alive, but unfeeling. He holds the petri dish over the raw darkness extracted from the gummi block. Ienzo, bored of the arguing, watches as well from the other side of the glass. It gives Even a thrill, to only have gloves and some glass separating him from the darkness. Once exposed, he takes the cells back to his microscope. The darkness seems to have caused spontaneous division. This must’ve been what was missing all along, this power. Breathing a bit hard, he places the cells in an incubator, to see how it affects their functioning.

Xehanort is displeased with what they’ve done so far, momentous as it is. On one of the days Ansem isn’t there, he says, “We need to go farther.”

Aeleus squints. “How so?”

“Aeleus, we’re so close. We… we’ve discovered so much, but we still haven’t gotten close to how it all affects memory.” He smooths a flyaway hair. “I’ve been doing some… reading. Master Ansem lent me some of the books that King Mickey brought and I…” His hands are trembling. Ienzo stares up at him. “I’ve managed to create darkness. It’s great we still have that gummi block, but who knows how long it will be until it degrades?”

Even nearly spits out his coffee. “You created darkness? How is that even possible?”

“It’s magic too, not just science.” He closes his eyes, focusing hard; they see something like smoke in his palm. “Look,” he says with difficulty. “I… tried it on the mice… it causes a sort of frisson, in their balances. I’m afraid I have no samples left.” The darkness disappears. “If we could do it in people, maybe we can feel their bonds, see what it has to do with memory--”

“How do you propose doing this without killing people?” Dilan asks.

“I mean, I… I can try my best--” He swallows. “I would like to speak with Master Ansem. To see if we can get greater permission. We can… inform, the people. That way they know what they might risk. The people here love science, sirs. Some of them must be willing to make sacrifices.”

In his chair in the corner, Braig is smirking just the slightest.

---

Another amnesiac ends up on their radar, though she does not appear during a storm. She’s younger than Xehanort, about fifteen; unlike him, she doesn’t even remember her name.

“She’s the perfect opportunity,” Xehanort says. “With this darkness, maybe I can help her. Heal her. Let her remember.”

Even’s seen him practicing, in the courtyards. He can manifest it with ease, now. “I don’t know how Master Ansem will approve that.” Apparently, Xehanort’s idea made him fly into a rage. Even has no idea how that happened; he’s seen Ansem angry, but not like this. He’s ordered them to put a stop to the human side of the experiments, and so far they’ve listened.

Xehanort’s gold eyes bear into his. “He doesn’t need to know.”

“But Xeha--”

“Aren’t you curious?” he asks in a low voice. “Sir, I know you’ve been thinking about it. And I wasn’t going to say anything, but I know what you’re trying to achieve, with those embryos. I think that’s amazing--it could change the world. Maybe the worlds! I know the darkness is the only way you’ve made progress, the only way you’ve been able to start giving them their own hearts.” A pause. “Not to mention… if I can control memory… don’t you all have a thing or two you wouldn’t mind letting go of?”

He feels like he can’t breathe. “How did you find out about that?”

Xehanort doesn’t answer. “And Ienzo,” he says. “I know how hard things have been for him, how much pain he’s in, how little help there is--I can purify his mind of those memories. He can have the strength to be a fantastic researcher, instead of a sufferer.”

“I am not sure,” he says, reeling. “I--”

“Besides,” he says. “If no one knows the girl’s here, and there’s… an accident, nobody will ever know. No ethics board. No Master Ansem.” He stands back up, smoothing down his ascot. “Think about it,” he adds, at a normal volume. “Sir, don’t you deserve to be more than Master Ansem’s errand boy, his babysitter? Wouldn’t you rather this be your legacy, rather than a… a meaningless title?”

Even can feel his heart racing. “You won’t hurt her?”

Xehanort squeezes his hand. “I shall try my very best.”

---

They make one of the small rooms into a makeshift bedroom for the girl. They’ve already had subjects A through W, so it seems natural to label her as the next in line. She doesn’t seem quite as lucid as Xehanort was, like her mind is half in a dream. Xehanort soon loops in the others, and while they too are hesitant, they are only doing this for the greater good. And who knows? Maybe they can give this girl her life back.

They begin with a psychological assessment, of sorts; most surprising is that Ienzo wants to be the one to do it. “I’m little,” he says with a shrug. “I’m non-threatening.” He gets her to talk about dreams. Most of the dreams are not interesting, or of note--teeth falling out, realizing one is naked in public--but there are a few Ienzo suspects are memories “because mine hide in my dreams too.” She mentions something about a desert, about hoards of people; after she admits this, she falls into a deep sleep for nearly a week.

“Ienzo, this is excellent,” Xehanort says. “Her heart must be damaged--making her mind remember those dreams made her body shut it down.”

Ienzo doesn’t smile, the way he normally does receiving such a compliment. “Then why doesn’t mine?” he asks.

Xehanort kneels to his level. “Because your heart is strong,” he says. “So is your mind. You can handle the stress; she can’t.”

“So I’m special,” he says dryly.

There’s a gleam in Xehanort’s eye--curious. “Yes,” he says. “You are.”

---

When they come back the next morning the place has been ransacked. There are papers everywhere; one of Aeleus’s plant pots has been smashed, leaving dirt all over the white floor.

“Braig,” Dilan hisses. “Isn’t this your purview?”

“Dude! I can’t be here twenty-four hours a day. You forget I’m union?” He shrugs. “It must’ve been the night guy who let in our little friend--or maybe one of you forgot to lock the door.”

They padlocked it recently, in case Ansem were to try and get in. Even maintains they are merely working with the darkness, with the gummi block; this airtight door was a precaution should it get out. It should be harder to lie to him after all these years.

Braig walks over to the girl’s room. They don’t lock it--she never goes anywhere either way, almost catatonic--and she sits on the mattress, on her hands. He snaps. “You, girl. You see anything?”

She shrugs, her long dark hair falling over one shoulder.

“You messing around in here?”

She shakes her head.

“Well then, who was it?”

“I must’ve been asleep,” she says.

“There’s some fishy business going on,” Braig says. “Better keep a tighter lock in here, in case something falls into unsavory hands.”

That night they lock the door of the girl’s room for the first time. She doesn’t react at all. They are ransacked two more times over the following month; they begin locking their papers in file cabinets in the offices. Xehanort is convinced that they’ve done all they can with the girl without further intervention. He goes to her one cold winter morning, to examine her heart; the rest of them, including Braig, watch. Ienzo, in particular, seems fascinated; Even has to put a hand on his shoulder to hold him back.

Even feels his own pulse hammering as he watches the boy hold his hands over the girl’s chest, probing gently with the grayish strings of darkness. “I can feel her heart beating,” he says. Her eyes are wide, staring, darting back and forth in fear. “Does that hurt, friend?”

“No,” she says, with difficulty.

“I’m trying to find your memory. Your heart’s strong, I can feel it. You should be proud of that.” He probes more; she flinches.

“Careful,” Even says without meaning to.

There’s a faraway look in Xehanort’s eyes. “I can feel it,” he says. “The memory… it’s like chains, like a heart’s DNA--”

Dilan scribbles eager notes.

“There’s darkness inside of her, too, already. And light. So much light. So beautiful.”

“Do you see anything?” Aeleus asks.

“I can feel it. The memories are… severed. Choppy. I wonder if I can--”

She screams, a blood-curdling sound that causes Ienzo to cover his ears.

“Xehanort, that’s enough for now,” Even says.

---

They try it several more times on the girl. She complies, never fights, never asks questions; but it’s more of a sort of exhaustion, Even figures, than a lack of will. He wonders if it’s the darkness tiring her out, or else she’s sick.

So they know memories are in chains, and they’re in the heart; and that within the heart exists darkness as well as light. Stuff their studies all implied; now there’s proof. Even’s checking the girl when he sees it; a slight, almost imperceptible curl of darkness, mistakable for her dark hair. The fogginess and vacancy are gone from her eyes. He almost wonders if Xehanort’s been able to heal her. “You don’t know what you’re messing with,” she says urgently. “You have to stop this now.”

“Did you remember something?” he asks gently.

She screams and clutches at her chest. The room smells like smoke. “You can’t--you can’t--”

He isn’t sure how he knows; he jumps back and slams the door. She’s still wailing, pounding on the window, the sound barely muffled by Plexiglas.

“What’s going on?” Dilan asks. Ienzo’s eyes are wide, and Aeleus is frozen in horror.

“I was merely checking her vitals,” Even says breathlessly. “I don’t know what--”

“Oh,” Xehanort says softly, almost as if in a trance. He walks slowly towards them, pushing past Even and Ienzo numbly. He rests his palm on the window, his gold eyes vacant. “I--”

“Boy, what did you do?” Even asks.

“I thought the darkness was making her stronger, but it’s…” He covers his mouth. “It’s devouring her--”

Aside from the keening, the room is deathly silent until they hear Braig’s “...The hell ?”

Xehanort’s head snaps up, and for a long, long moment the two held eye contact. Braig approaches slowly, tentatively, and reaches for the crossbow at his waist.

“No,” Xehanort says. “We must study this.”

“Really? Cause I’m not sure I want to find out what that’s becoming.”

In an instant, “she” became a “that.”

“It won’t last long,” Xehanort says. “This is for… we have to know. Can’t you see what this is saying about human nature?”

It isn’t quick, in fact; she screams for hours, wordless, agonized shrieks. At first, Ienzo sits with his hands over his ears, but once it becomes clear the screaming isn’t going to end, he lets go. There’s something cold in his eyes, something Even hasn’t noticed before. If the boy truly is sensitive to darkness, he must be feeling something.

The screaming stops. They all approach the door warily, sure the girl’s dead; but this is not what’s facing them. She no longer looks human; her body is the color of ink, her hands and feet elongated into claws, her eyes a glowing sort of gold.

Wordlessly, Ienzo presses his forehead against the girl’s door. “...Heartless,” he whispers. “It’s gone.”

“He’s right,” Xehanort mutters. “The darkness has taken her heart.” And so it begins.

---

They spend most of their days in that lab, examining the new being, the Heartless; though Even is not here always. Two new pupils are accepted as Ansem’s junior apprentices. It’s not an uncommon process--the king has done it several times over the years--but Even figured with both Ienzo and Xehanort, there would be no need. It’s not like either of these boys join them, anyway; they have a bit of ladder-climbing to do. As he is still technically the one in charge of their training (though it feels increasingly ersatz), Even spends time with the boys. The quieter one, Isa, does have quite a bit of promise; intelligent, ingenious, and creative. As for the other, he can make the grade, but Even can’t figure out what on earth the boy is here for. He’s obnoxious; he interrupts constantly; he’s found poking around where he shouldn’t (perilously close to their lab); he’s often out of uniform and refers to Even by his first name.

Though he has hoped Ienzo would perhaps take with them, particularly Isa, the boy has no interest in socializing. He’s focused instead wholly on the Heartless, the girl, studying it (her?). They try to take samples from the Heartless, but it has no matter, and feels strangely intangible to the touch.

Between caring for Ienzo and educating the new apprentices, Even, again, finds himself increasingly pulled away from the lab. When he finally returns, he notes with horror that the divided cells he placed aside have died, becoming nothing more than black smoke in a petri dish. A heart is more than darkness. But how do they harness light? Is it the same?

There are also more subjects; volunteers, ones without amnesia. They are being quietly interviewed by Ienzo and Aeleus. The boy seems to have a natural aptitude for guiding the conversation, something Even’s never witnessed; women, in particular, tend to be tickled by this. “Aren’t you adorable?” more than one asks. At first, this seems to make Ienzo bristle, but soon, Even observes (and it makes him feel something cold and hard, something upsetting), the boy leans into this angle; using his stature as a way to get the answers he wants.

He never thought Ienzo could be manipulative.

Some of them are kept overnight, for “extended testing” and “sleep studies”, but Even sees Xehanort disappear inside each roomette, with any of the others (even Braig?). This goes on for several days; one woman asks to see her daughters (a set of twins) in the next room, wants to go home.

“I’m sorry,” Xehanort says. “But not quite yet.”

Even can feel this is getting out of hand. Once was enough, the one creature horrifying. Yes, all people have darkness, did they really need more Heartless? Yet, the scientist in him, growing louder than the rest of him, is intrigued, almost intoxicated; after all, one is not a decent sample size. Nothing can be proven with one. They’d need at least a hundred, if not more, to come to a universal conclusion--what is wrong with him?

“Sir?” It’s Isa speaking to him now, in the classroom space where he meets the two juniors twice a week. He hands him the test Even gave them. “Are you okay?”

He forces a smile. “Kind of you to ask. I’m merely tired, that’s all.”

The boy draws his hands behind his back, but doesn’t return to his desk. The other, Lea, seems to be hard at work, one hand in his hair, his eyes full of confusion. “Do you… smell that?” Isa asks.

Even cants his head slightly. “What?”

“It smells like something’s burning,” Isa says gently. “Lea thinks so too.”

“It stinks,” the redhead agrees.

Even sniffs; try as he might, he has no idea what they speak of. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“Might be electrical,” Isa remarks. “Thank you for the lesson. I’m going to go to the library for a little while.”

---

He tries clearing his nose with coffee beans, rubbing alcohol; he smells nothing other than the scents of the two substances. For about an hour he wanders around like a lunatic, sniffing various hallways. It all just smells normal; dust, food preparation, old books, laundry.

Odd. Perhaps the two were playing a prank on him. He won’t put it past Lea. And the two are awfully buddy-buddy. No matter.

When he returns to the lab, he can tell immediately that something’s changed. The lights seem dim; it’s almost gloomy. He notes, with something approaching horror (and, oddly, jubilation, a sensation only getting stronger the longer he stands here), that all of the doors are closed. Occupied.

“...That’s twenty-six,” Dilan murmurs, scribbling something on a clipboard.

“Twenty-seven,” Ienzo corrects. “The one in 4-B just went up.”

Even approaches them, perturbed. “Twenty-seven?” he asks.

Dilan raises an eyebrow. “Heartless,” he says, as though it’s obvious. “We had to release the Miller twins and their mother, but don’t worry, I doubt they’ll say anything unseemly. Xehanort made sure of that.”

“Twenty- seven ?” He hasn’t been gone that long; before there was just the one.

Xehanort emerges from one of the rooms, slamming shut its pocket door. The occupant screams, the sound muffled quickly. “We’ve made some changes, since you’ve been gone. We appreciate you continuing to give us a good face, Even. It’s very valuable.”

Even notes the absence of the “sir.” He turns slowly. The doors are different, heavier; the windows have a reinforced inlay.

Xehanort smiles pleasantly. Ienzo’s next to him, holding a clipboard. “Shall I catch you up on what’s happened?” They do not need to tell him, not really. Xehanort’s seeking to replicate what happened with the girl, with X-- “Oh, we’re using numbers now”--in order to prove the universality of darkness in the heart. “My thoughts next are to look into a scale of age. Are we born pure? Are children pure, as thought in the myths?” (At this, Ienzo’s head snaps up, and Even’s heart gives a weird twitch.) “Are we at some point changed, transformed?”

“Biting from the apple of knowledge?” Even asks sourly.

Xehanort shrugs. “Perhaps.” Braig just so happens to be toying with an apple. Cheekily, he takes a bite. “But my biggest discovery--perhaps the most important--is that we’ve found the realm of darkness.”

“You found it,” he repeats. “Just like that.”

“Not quite.” He stands up. “It’s easy for me to find the darkness now. I know wizards and magicians use their magic to teleport--I figured, the theory might be the same.” He holds out his palm. An oblong of darkness appears with a faint hiss and, Even realizes, the smell of smoke. “I’ve gone into it myself. There’s a whole world in there, one not bound by physics! And there are more, so many more, Heartless. I think--I think we can use it to travel. To leave this world behind.”

“...That so.” He feels numb.

“You don’t seem very pleased, Even.”

He forces a smile. “On the contrary. It’s merely a lot to wrap one’s head around.”

He bobs his head once. “Of course. Just think--we can apply what we learn here to whoever-- whatever --is out there. This is--the building blocks of the very universe.”

“Yes…” He feels it now, the pull of the thrill, his mind racing with the possibilities, a pull that makes him feel the most himself since-- And of course, if they can understand life itself , that would make his creation all the easier to realize. “Yes.”

Xehanort smiles. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

---

It feels like a million years since his last touchpoint with Ansem. So much has changed. Fifty-one brand new beings--his own brief, overwhelmed journey into the realm of darkness with Xehanort--the fact that his newest attempt with the embryos is still alive in its incubator. In reality it’s only been a few weeks.

“Don’t you look awfully pleased with yourself,” Ansem says. Even isn’t sure what to read into the tone, but Ansem smiles. “I take it things are going well?”

“Oh, extremely,” he admits. “Both Ienzo and Xehanort are invaluable assets.” Ienzo is technically too young to be considered a true apprentice, but it's all just paperwork at this point. The boy has thrown himself wholeheartedly into the project, is just as productive as the rest of them.

“I do wish I had more time to spend with you, but I’m afraid things are… intensely complicated at the moment. Between the city… Ienzo… the new junior apprentices… Well, you know I’d rather prioritize their learning than my personal pursuits. But I would like to see it.”

His heart about stops. “You would?”

Ansem raises an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I? I was there in the beginning. I should at the very least like to be a witness.”

Even nods, his heart pounding. “Of course, Master. We’d be very pleased to have you.”

“Excellent. I’ll make sure to set aside the time… say next week?”

“We’ll be ready.” He swallows. “I should go. It’s nearly dinnertime. It helps to keep Ienzo on a schedule.”

“Certainly.” He’s tapping the tips of his fingers together, an anxious gesture. Is this calculated? Does he feel Even’s paranoia? Or is he simply preoccupied with other matters? “Even?”

He turns. “Yes, Master?”

“There is one small thing.” His grin becomes more affable. “I’m positive it’s just a rumor--every now and again some hooligan or another will circulate them--but they say they can hear screaming, at night.”

He forces his expression into one of bored contempt; but yet, haven’t Braig and Dilan been saying the same thing? “A silly ghost story,” he asserts.

“Yes,” Ansem says, though something’s closed off in his eyes. “I’m sure. And I’m certain this has nothing to do with those missing persons cases?”

Even blinks; this is news to him, so he knows his surprise is genuine. “The what?”

“There are over seventy-five people missing. Once the number grows high enough, the authorities are required to report it to me. Funnily, it started shortly after I forbade young Xehanort from carrying out his manic experiments.”

Even truly feels the creep of panic now.

All affability has drained out of Ansem’s face now. He leans forward, across the desk. “Even, do you know anything about this?”

“You know I don’t.” He tries to make his indignation obvious. “As if I would ever do such an ugly, despicable thing. I took an oath, Master.”

He settles back in his chair, but the glint in his eye is still there. “You know I trust you,” he says. “But it never hurts to be too careful.”

Even nods. “Of course. I can only imagine how much infighting you must deal with. Now I must go.”

He nods, once. “...Be well.”

He leaves the office with his mask in tact, but he can feel the panic taking over. Ansem knows. He knows . Once he comprehends it all, Even would no doubt be taken in--all of them--worse, he can’t even remember what the consequences for something like this would be. He all but runs downstairs to the others. He feels faint, numb.

“Even?” Aeleus asks. “You look--”

“He knows,” he says through his teeth. “Ansem. He’s figured it out. You idiots. Did you think nobody would notice the people missing?”

Dilan guides him gently over to a chair. He’s gasping for breath now. Ienzo approaches Even. “What will happen to us?” he asks softly.

“Nothing will happen to you, child. I promise.”

Xehanort’s eyes are closed. “I know what we can do.” Over Ienzo’s shoulder, he mouths, “Let’s meet after dark.”

---

Once the boy is in bed, they reconvene.

“I’m afraid you won’t be happy with what I have to say,” Xehanort says. “But I’ve been weighing the options--our work is so much more important than the small fry. So to speak.” He’s asked them to meet in a courtyard, of all places, and his back is to them. The spring wind is cold. “Ansem will never allow us to do this work. It does not matter to him that the subjects have consented. He’s up on his moral high horse--despite the fact that this was basically his idea in the first place. After all, nobody’s died . They’re just… different. Why is our progress being stopped by a bunch of silly laws?”

Dilan squints at him. “So what do you propose? A coup? What then? You know nothing about how this city functions.”

“No, no, not a coup. Rather… Ansem’s going to go on a trip.”

Even feels shaky, nauseous now. “Is that a euphemism?”

Xehanort smiles. “Not at all. I think he’d find the realm of darkness fascinating. He’ll learn--he’ll understand why we’re doing all this. And he can no doubt learn to return whenever he so wishes.”

Even’s heart beats heavily. “What will we tell Ienzo?”

He thinks. “...That he’s gone mad,” he says softly. “Isn’t it true? Drunk on silly, bureaucratic power? He thinks he can control what we can and cannot learn? The boy’s better off without his mind blunted by such… petty matters.”

Again Even feels himself acting. “That’s fairly well reasoned, I suppose,” he says.

“So next week, when he comes… that’s what we’ll do. And Ienzo will conveniently be away. You can be with him, if you so wish.”

A plan comes to mind. “He may find that a comfort.”

Xehanort smiles. “Does that work for everyone?”

Aeleus’s face is unreadable; Dilan looks shaken, but it’s quickly replaced with steely resolve. “Of course,” he says. “Whatever you say is best.”

“...Quite. Well. I hope you have a good night, gentlemen. Sleep well.”

Even bobs his head and turns to leave the corridor.

“Wait,” he hears Xehanort says.

Blast. “What is it?” he asks, politely.

“Even.” He comes a bit closer. “I know you and Ansem have been affiliated for so many years. Doing this will not be difficult for you, will it?”

He shakes his head. Ienzo is way more important than Ansem; and much more vulnerable. The choice, he notes, is almost effortless. “We’ve been at odds for some time, as I’m sure you well know.”

“I just… want to make sure.”

“As you said. He will find it… enlightening. He may very well thank us.”

In the dim light, his eyes almost seem to glow. “I’m sure. As long as you’re on the right side. After all, considering you’re legally in charge of research and development, should you not be able to go through with it, this will all be on you. You know I don’t want that, right?”

It’s a threat if Even’s ever heard one. “Of course, Xehanort. You’re always so considerate.”

He holds out his hand. “I’m looking forward to our continued partnership.”

Even takes it, noting how cold, how papery, it feels. “...The feeling is mutual.”

---

Even bides his time.

He’s shocked, but relieved, when Ansem doesn’t show sooner. He isn’t sure why the king is allowing them this much time. Maybe to dispose of the evidence? Maybe he’s building a case against them, pooling resources? Either way, Even’s strung out and anxious.

It’s time to go.

Maybe it’s a cowardly, foolhardy move, but he’s taking Ienzo and leaving. Xehanort is obviously twisted, the darkness no doubt only helping. They’ll go into hiding, leave this city.

And go where?

Another world? Even has no power over darkness like Xehanort does; he doesn’t know if he wants to expose himself any more, or Ienzo, for that matter. But beyond the city limits there’s just stone, and crystal, and empty barren wilderness. He’s positive if they try to hide somewhere in this city they’ll be found.

He has to try something. This clearly isn’t going to end well. What if they should fall to darkness themselves? (But, the clinical part of his mind, growing louder and stronger, wouldn’t that be fascinating? To cast aside what it means to be human, to rise above ?) No, he’s becoming a lunatic.

He packs some things for them, hides them among the frippery in his closet. He tries to be pleasant, subservient, towards Xehanort, putting up just enough of a fight so that he seems himself. But truly Even feels as if he’s been backed into a corner; because he has been.

I’m such a fool.

He no longer cares if punishment befalls him; it’s Ienzo he’s worried about. Should Ansem disappear, should he himself become… compromised, what should stop Xehanort from molding the small genius into another sharp tool for him to use? Breaking down the boy’s conscience before it’s even fully formed, allowing him to do--goodness knows what?

What if that’s what he’s wanted all along?

He considers telling Ansem. Confessing, baring his soul, taking whatever came his way. Maybe so long as it all stopped, should Xehanort and his colleagues be contained. But Xehanort has the power of darkness. He can merely escape, and try again, elsewhere.

The night before their plan is meant to be enacted, he waits until the others are asleep, until it’s so late as to be early. He dresses and approaches Ienzo’s bedroom door slowly.

The door’s already open. And Even knows what’s about to meet him.

The boy’s nowhere to be found. On his bed, reading the storybook Ienzo must have left behind, is Xehanort. “Oh, hello,” he says pleasantly, setting the book aside.

“Where’s the boy?” He keeps his tone neutral.

“No need to worry. He’s quite safe. Sound asleep." He crosses his legs. "You weren't about to do something reckless, were you?"

Even takes a quick breath; caught. He tries to remain composed.

"See, I need him," Xehanort explains slowly. "Your boy is not as innocent or as purehearted as you think, Even. He likes this work. He's good at it. He knows exactly the right ways to break a person down, how to make the darkness spread faster. He's incredible. I will not have you waste him."

"He's only doing this to please you. Because he's a child. "

"Are you certain? Even, not everyone's born good. Some people have more darkness than others." He sighs. "But I digress. I didn't realize how soft you were… how weak. I thought you cared."

He says nothing.

"I believe in your replicas, Even. They can change the world… light a path to immortality. Place a heart in a new body… one can live infinitely."

"I see you went through my things."

"It was too tempting. You truly are a brilliant researcher."

"Where's the boy?"

"What's it matter? He's not yours. " A pause. “He's being freed. And you could be too, Even. Why do you hold so priggishly to such ties? All it's done is hurt you. Ansem's used you, manipulated you. He wants you all for himself. You could have the world."

He inhales shakily.

"...Besides. I'd hate for your record to be two for two, you know?"

Even blinks. "You'd joss him to keep me in line?"

Xehanort shrugs. "The choice is yours, Even. Or you could just leave. But either way the boy stays."

Even laughs; he can't help it. "You're so green, Xehanort," he says. "You understand nothing, you know nothing. A little power and you lose your head. No. That will not do."

"I've seen more than you know."

He's shaken the boy. Good. "You're so paranoid. You believe I'd leave now, when things are just getting exciting?"

Xehanort frowns. "I thought--"

"You thought what? Ienzo is prone to night terrors, and you remove him from his bed because you believe I'll--what? Take him? Disappear into the wilderness?" He clucks his tongue. “Only to die of starvation, or worse?”

"Why were you coming for him?"

"I check on him every night. Ask the others if you don't believe me."

"And the packs in your closet?"

"Supplies for a bad storm--they've gotten worse since you're arrived." He's infinitely glad he did not add clothing to them. "Xehanort. So quickly you feel so threatened. I'm on your side." Even can see him wavering. "Do you realize how long I've waited for an opportunity like this? As if Ansem would ever let me. I'm his babysitter--little more."

Xehanort grins. An intelligent child--but a naive one. "I must admit I'm relieved, Even."

"As long as I can assure you." He squeezes his hand, gently, trying not to shudder at the feel of it. "Now if you would please put Ienzo back in his bed."

"...Of course."

He turns to leave, his heart hammering. "So, is all in place for Ansem's… trip?"

He nods. On his way out, his shoulder brushes Even's. "Not to worry. It's already been done."

It feels like getting stabbed. "...Even better. Get some rest, Xehanort. You've earned it." He doesn't breathe until Braig brings the boy back. He's unharmed, deeply asleep; Even is sure they've sedated him. He smiles at Braig, and once they're in the hall, "I pray things went well?"

He chuckles darkly. "Put up a hell of a fight, the old codger. But he’s an academic. Soft.” He smirks. “No offense.”

Even tries to return the smirk. It takes all the rest of his energy. “None taken. I’m stronger than you think. Well. I will see you tomorrow, Braig.”

He goes over to the door. “Nighty-night.”

Even waits until Braig’s footsteps retreat; he can’t be entirely sure, the man has such a soft tread. He checks Ienzo’s arms for the pinprick of a hypodermic needle. He finds none, but they could have slipped it into a glass of juice, a snack. His breathing is much too deep and even; Ienzo hardly ever sleeps like this. “Oh, little one,” he says softly. “What have we ever gotten into?”

His heart is racing, nausea and dread pumping through his body, making him shake. He settles into the chair at Ienzo’s bedside, trying to compose himself.

Ansem in the realm of darkness.

There’s no way to stop Xehanort now. Not without risking Ienzo's life, or his own.

My old friend. I’m so sorry.

---

Ienzo doesn’t rouse until mid-morning; normally he’s up at dawn. He stumbles into the kitchen blearily, rubbing his eyes. He flops into a chair.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Even says. “You seemed exhausted last night, so I didn’t wake you.” He places a bowl of warm cereal in front of him. “Perhaps today you should work on your studies? It’s been a little while.”

He turns a bit green around the gills. “I’m not hungry,” he mumbles.

“You need to eat. Keep your blood sugar up.”

He shakes his head.

“Well, then at least have some juice.”

“I don’t feel well.” He admits this painfully. “I feel sick…”

What on earth have they given him?

“Why don’t you go back to bed? I’ll bring you something to settle your stomach. Must’ve caught a bug, that’s all. No wonder you were so tired.”

He groans a little, but complies.

Even barely slept at all last night, full of knots. He thought he would feel worse; he feels not much of anything. Which may be for the best, if he has to deal with this. He gives Ienzo some medication, a wastebasket to be sick into.

“You don’t have to stay with me,” he says weakly. “You should go… work in the--”

“That’s quite alright.”

“I want you to. Please. They need you.”

“I think they’ll be fine for one day.”

“Where’s Master? Is he still going to come today?”

Even freezes. He hopes his face is placid. “He was called away, I’m afraid. He should be back soon.”

“Is that… good?”

“For the time being. Until we can convince him of what we’re doing.”

Ienzo heaves weakly, but nothing comes up. Even pats him on the back. “I can hear them,” he says softly. “Screaming. It has to stop--” Even’s blood runs cold. But yet, it is something of a relief to know Ienzo is not as callous as he acts around Xehanort. “All right. All right.”

“We’re hurting them.” He agrees, but struggles to console the boy. “They’re doing this for science, Ienzo. For the greater good.” “Make it stop!” He actually is sick this time, and Even holds the hair away from his eyes.

Once Ienzo’s through, Even wipes his face with a damp cloth. “When you’re down there,” he begins. “Do you do it because they asked you to? Or because you want to?”

“I…” He sniffles, trying not to cry. “The… it makes me feel… when I’m there…”

“Think about what you need to say. Take your time.”

He nods. After a moment, the boy seems to compose himself. “When I’m there it feels… good ,” he admits. “Making them this way… feels like we’re… changing the world. But when I’m away… I start to hear it. Even, am I… crazy?”

“Not at all, little one.” He’s starting to feel numb again. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll check on you in a little while.” He pats the boy on the head, tucks the covers around him a little more closely. He tries to smile, but he’s shaking a--not a good sign for his own physical condition. The stress he’s under is no doubt bad for him. But what is he to do? Even tightens his ponytail, slips on his lab coat.

It must be darkness, making them feel this way--Even has felt it too, that sense of euphoria, of power, of discovery--because they truly are discovering so much . It certainly must not be good to expose oneself to it for so long. They’ve been treating it like radiation, with all the same precautions, but he has a feeling something so simple as lead will not stop darkness. They need something else, if this is to continue.

If this is to continue…

Must it?

He needs to speak with Aeleus and Dilan--away from Xehanort’s prying eyes. He’s the most senior apprentice. In Ansem’s absence, he should have the most power, the most control. He tries to smooth his expression into one of indifference as he punches in the numbers.

The smell down here is stronger now, acrid and smoky, darkness rising from the cells (that’s what they are at this point) like vapor. He gags a little, but quickly straightens. “Good morning,” he says. “I hope all is well?”

“Where’s Ienzo?” Aeleus asks. There’s something like guilt in his stoic face--with his knowledge of botanicals, Even doesn’t doubt for a moment that he was the one to drug the boy. Such trust Ienzo has for him--and how quickly this gentle man abuses it. The darkness is changing him. Dare he voice his concerns?

“Oh, poor thing seems to have caught a stomach bug,” he says breezily. “He’s resting now. The vomiting tired him out.” He notes, with pleasure, Aeleus and Dilan both wince and won’t make eye contact. So they were both in on it. Very well.

“He is rather fragile, isn’t he?” Xehanort asks, with a shake of his head. “No matter. Perhaps we can find a way to make him stronger.”

“...Quite.” Something breaks through his numbness, an indignation. “Has anything changed?”

“We’re at something of a standstill,” Dilan admits, keeping his eyes stubbornly on the report in front of him. “The numbers seem to have stabilized. The initial levels of darkness in the subjects seems to vary, but within it there are standard deviations. It’s only a correlation at this point, but look--” He pushes a spreadsheet across the table towards Even. He sits and takes it.

Even takes it all in. Gender, occupation, age--he notes that men at or near their prime, in positions in or adjacent to authority, seem to be the most vulnerable to it all. “How funny,” he says. “According to this, we’re the most susceptible.”

“Indeed,” Xehanort says, with a smile.

“I figured we needed to devise more ways to protect ourselves--I don’t think the lead is cutting it.” He gestures to the cells in the hallway, the darkness curling from below. “Very well. I will work on it. The rest of you may proceed as you wish.”

And he does work on it; but something like this serves as a perfect excuse to examine their behaviors, how they were reacting. They are different. The subjects are less human beings and more numbers. Even notes with a strange distance how easily Dilan shrugs off a woman begging for mercy. Should he intervene?

(Should he intervene, would Xehanort make good on that threat?)

He weaves together several different metal alloys, finds that darkness seems repelled by them; he weaves them into a scrap of fabric, one he covers a mouse with. When exposed to darkness, the mouse survives.

This is a process that takes several weeks; in the meantime they have other things to worry about. The city is abuzz with news of Ansem’s disappearance; nobody seems to buy the “trip” route, especially since if Ansem wants vacation, the time needs to be approved. The city officials are concerned; they interview all of them, but return to Even several times. Each and every single time he pretends to be dumbfounded and as confused as they are; after all, why would he leave without saying something to any of them?

Even knows this is his chance to ask for help, to turn himself in, to stop them. And perhaps it’s the thrall of darkness, or Xehanort’s threat on Ienzo’s life, but he denies everything.

On the matter of Ienzo…

The boy’s not stupid. He’s no longer buying their excuses that Ansem is merely on a trip. He’s become surly, distrustful. Finally, they agree to sit him down and tell him Xehanort’s truth (really, wouldn’t the actual truth be far more damaging to the poor boy? Even can’t have him falling apart with the darkness so close, it’ll claim his heart--).

He approaches them, his teal eyes making him appear much older than merely eight. “Where’s Master Ansem?” he asks.

Even reaches out towards him, but Braig places a hand on his shoulder. Xehanort crouches down to Ienzo’s level. “He had to go away,” he says.

“Go… away?” He raises his eyebrow.

This breaks through Even’s numbness; he turns away and retreats to the window, unable to watch this play out.

“He wasn’t well,” Xehanort continues. “He’s… he’s gone mad. He’s abandoned us.”

Ienzo inhales; it’s a painful sound. Even shuts his eyes.

“You poor child,” he says. “You’ve already lost so much--but we couldn’t stand to lie to you.”

He gasps again, a sound on the verge of a sob; Even recognizes it immediately. He turns, his own heart racing. “He’s panicking.” He crosses over to the boy, seeing him tremble and struggle for breath. He draws him gently into his arms. “Deep breaths, little one. Count with me.”

It takes him a long time to calm down, far longer than any of his nightmares. Even finally agrees to give him a tranquilizer. After this, Even too must lie down for a while, guilt washing around the ache in his heart.

It’s too late to get out of this; maybe the best option is to go through?  Give Xehanort what he wants? What does he want?

Ienzo is never quite the same afterwards. Like the beginning of his stay, he’s next to numb; there’s nothing behind his eyes. He does what he’s told no matter what it is--chores he hates, calculations the others have no time for. And anything Xehanort asks, up to and including speaking to their subjects. He’s gone cold.

If Even can perfect this protective fabric--if he, too, can learn to use darkness--they’ll go far away from here. He holds himself to this grimly, even as the darkness tempts him, calls to him, makes him want to push their subjects farther, past the threshold of inhumanity, even as he does so. This will end. Go through, not out.  

It says a lot about the state of Radiant Garden’s affairs, that the officials never seem to connect them to the missing people the way Ansem did. Or perhaps they’re too terrified--not that Even can blame them. Braig, Aeleus, and Dilan take rounds, experimentally; they confirm that no one comes near the castle gates, when before visitors would come in and out for all sorts of different reasons. The staff, too, seem to be disappearing. It takes Even too long to realize this is where their remaining subjects are coming from.

A bastion of darkness settles over them all.

---

“I’m afraid it’s inelegant,” Even says at one of their roundtables; Ienzo sits with his eyes focused on the middle distance. “But it’s something.” He lays the bolt of fabric onto the table. It feels odd, not quite like any fabric he’s encountered, but like anything else it’s synthetic. It originally was white, but the chemicals seem to have reacted, and now it’s black.

Xehanort runs his hands along the fabric, a small smile lighting up his face. “Oh, yes. This will do perfectly.”

They fashion lab coats with it, clothing and shoes. Even hoped that the layer of protection would help with the thrall, especially with the rest of them, but he still feels it, pulling him deeper into a place he swore he’d never go, a place below ethics, below morals. He barely bats an eye when Xehanort suggests they examine children’s hearts. He wonders--hopes--that whatever Xehanort discovers can help Ienzo.

Which is why he shouldn’t be surprised when it actually begins happening with those kids, when-- “Dilan, I will not stand for this. He is too young to consent.” He’s trembling. The man’s violet eyes are cold, empty. “We’ve treated Ienzo with respect. I think he deserves a say. It’s only fair. He is different than the average child. I think it would make the data quite fascinating.” “I will not allow it.” He tries to hold to this feeling, to use it to dig himself out of the pull of darkness. He used to despise this paternal instinct, and now it’s all he has left. “...You’ve grown too soft for the boy.” Dilan sneers.

Even lowers his voice, all too certain that little pitchers have big ears; Ienzo, in the corner, gives no indication that he’s heard them, but that’s about meaningless. “It’s shocking that you have no respect for his wellbeing,” he spits. “After all this time.”

“Of course I respect it. That’s why we would get his consent. ”

Even shakes his head. “I will do everything in my power to prevent this.”

“I figured you of all people understand the work we’re doing,” he replies, with equal venom. “We must let go of such paltry bonds, to rise above. To do the work we’re meant to. Whatever tenderness you have for him is useless. I suggest you get rid of it.” He scoffs and leaves the room, the lab door sliding shut behind him.

They make another discovery, perhaps the most disturbing yet. (Is any of this disturbing anymore?) For the first time, one of the Heartless leaves behind a body. But instead of being wreathed in darkness, it’s wreathed in grayness, in silver, a sort of matter that’s physically difficult for the eye to perceive.

Braig shakes his head. “That’s no body,” he says.

And Xehanort laughs. “No. Indeed it isn’t.”

---

There are fewer Nobodies (Xehanort fancies himself a real poet) than Heartless; they soon come to the conclusion that one must be rather stronghearted for the body and will to exist after death. The others refuse to use that word, referring instead to it as “transformation,” but in the purest medical sense it’s true. None of these “Nobodies” have beating hearts, organs, or blood; like the Heartless, it’s impossible to take samples. They vary slightly in shape, some appearing more human than others, but all looking a bit off, a bit alien, all lacking lucidity. Without asking the rest of them, Xehanort has Braig calmly exterminate them. If there was any doubt before, now there’s none. They’ve out and out committed murder.

Even’s surprised he doesn’t feel anything. Then again, he feels so little these days other than anger and exhaustion, with pinpricks of concern for Ienzo now and again. Murder seems the least harmful thing they’ve done.

Something seems to be rising, to be changing. He isn’t sure what.

Xehanort again gathers them in the courtyard; minus, he notices, Braig and Ienzo. “The fresh air is so lovely, isn’t it,” he says. “It does get rather stale down there.” Even’s no longer accustomed to seeing him in his normal apprentice clothing after all the black. “I have a proposition for the three of you; one a touch more radical than my last.”

“It would take little to shock me anymore,” Dilan says tiredly. Aeleus just blinks.

“We know now it is possible to separate the heart from the body,” he says. “That our stronger subjects had stronger Nobodies… ones more human. We’re men of science, of reason; we’ve resisted the pull of darkness this long, so we’re strong. But if we’re to continue to work with it… it may make sense, to let go of such things. For our own wellbeing.”

“Our hearts,” Dilan says incredulously. “That is radical.”

Xehanort faces them. He looks, for the first time, utterly exhausted. “I don’t feel much of anything anymore anyway,” he admits. “And I’m not sure any of us do. What else do we need hearts for, anyway? They are merely things of pain… suffering… they hold us back from what we’re capable of.” He locks eyes with Even. “I’ve… figured out a way to do it. One which will not be nearly so painful or prolonged as those of our subjects. Without our hearts… we would be free to travel the realm of darkness safely. We could go anywhere… discover anything. There’s a whole World out there, waiting, that nobody knows about.”

“Do you believe this will help you with your memory?” Even asks. “Or did you forget this is where that all came from?”

The man smiles. “I no longer care about my memory. This is larger than me. Than us.” He pauses, to compose himself. “What do you think?”

Shocking Even, Aeleus murmurs, “I will volunteer myself.”

“I will too. I am also feeling numb,” Dilan says. “This may very well be… useful, regardless of the consequences.”

Xehanort turns to Even, a small smile on his face. “And you?”

“I…” He takes a breath. It would be good, to shed these chains; but is it natural? And how does he know it won’t kill him?

If he dies, who will look after the boy?

“What of Ienzo? He's a child, he's too young to make such a decision.”

Xehanort shakes his head. “We will not take Ienzo’s heart. If he decides, the boy can give it up in the future.”

Very well. “Yes… I shall…”

“Excellent.” His voice has gotten deeper as he’s gotten older. It’s almost like gravel. “I look forward to this new chapter in our lives.”

---

But nothing happens as expected.

The majority of that day is a blur to Even. They are examining their subjects’ hearts, pulled clean from their bodies and trapped in pods; Even watches Dilan’s fingers work across the keyboard in the computer room. Ienzo is next to him, standing on a chair, observing, along with Aeleus. Braig is polishing his crossbow, a look of boredom on his face.

All of a sudden there’s footsteps. “Were you expecting guests?” Even asks Xehanort.

The man’s gold eyes are deadly. “No.”

Two teenagers burst into the room; Isa and Lea, the neglected junior apprentices. “We know what you’re doing,” Lea yells. “We saw the lab, those people. We told the police. They’re going to get you.” Isa’s silent as he meets Even’s eyes, his green eyes positively smug.

Xehanort cocks his head. “That so. Very well.”

He sounds awfully calm. Too calm. He approaches the boys slowly.

Quickly, faster than Even can perceive, Xehanort moves, and all of a sudden the boys are on the ground, darkness slowly encroaching them. He grabs Ienzo’s hand, he’s not sure why. “That was not necessary,” he says slowly. “They’re apprentices, they could’ve seen reason.”

“They only became apprentices to expose us,” Xehanort says.

“They’re the ones who ransacked the lab,” Dilan says, with realization.

Braig looks up a moment from his polishing, sees the bodies, and resumes, numbly.

“Now is as good a time as any,” Xehanort says. “Don’t you agree?”

Dilan sighs, powers down the computer. “Quite.”

Even feels something for the first time in weeks; panic, and a deep, instinctual sensation that this isn’t right. He takes Ienzo’s hand; Ienzo’s gone still with fear, seeing Isa and Lea convulse in an odd silence. “The boy…” He says. “He shouldn’t have seen--” And then there’s a cold knowledge.

Xehanort has lied to him.

He draws Ienzo into his arms, tightly. The traumatized boy doesn’t fight him. Xehanort, so deftly, pierces Aeleus's chest with a Keyblade-- when did he get that? “You fools,” he says, and his voice is trembling. “What are you doing?”

Xehanort sneers. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

He’s not sure why, but he tries to run; Ienzo’s gotten heavier over the years, making it more difficult than it used to be. Dilan trips him, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Even throws his body over the boy’s, like a shield; the boy’s gasping in shock. “Take me,” he yells. “But don’t hurt the boy!”

The three of them close in on him. Even braces himself, clinging to Ienzo.

Xehanort’s gaze is pitiless. “The boy should’ve known better than to play in darkness.”

The tendrils descend upon him, upon them . It’s not painless as he's said, but perhaps the most agonizing thing Even’s experienced, his cells changing on a molecular level, everything coming undone. He’s still somehow awake, somehow able to meet Ienzo’s horrified eyes; he can see the darkness crawling over the boy as well. If anything, trying to protect him made him Xehanort’s victim all the faster.

Ah.

In his last moments of consciousness, he feels the tears in his eyes, cold as ice.

[paramounticebound]

Send me a symbol for five times… ||  ☁  five times my muse has thought about yours, and the one time they do something about it. || @starnamedlyra​ || accepting.

i.     The first time, when the night sky opens up and unleashes a torrential downpour that soaks him to the bone, Khan is entirely convinced that it’s a form of poetic irony. He’d caused her anguish, the light bruise that splayed across his cheek a testimony against his trespass. Deservedly so. Such only serves to let her haunt him in that aspect, the rare call of guilt and the like. The feeling is foreign to him: and for this, he plans to forget himself for the night. He plans to forget Lyra, as well.

ii.     The second time is when he remembers to eat. It’s not that he’s masochistic, prone to sick-starving things, but he’s preoccupied. Research must be done. The self-imposed deadline is closing in far faster than he’d care to remember– even if that savage and cruel excitement is ever present, ever the reminder that he is still a machine. War is a bold word, and often the only one present in his vocabulary.

–In any case, Khan sticks out like a sore thumb at the market, a shroud of black and grey amid reds, oranges, yellows. He recalls, in that bizarre pattern only the brain can create, that Lyra enjoys namana fruit. It’s not something that he’s tasted, and perhaps he’s too comfortable with prepackaged rations to try. He suspects that he would enjoy the liquor more than the fruit.

Long fingers close over the namana after a seemingly endless peruse through the stalls, flawless compared to its kindred, and he wonders why he considers tasting it; why he considers anything lately.

iii.    The third time is long after the Krayt dragon’s corpse had cooled, into the Tattooinian twilight, a reprieve from twin suns. The desert air bites against his flesh, like glass in his pores, and it’s not because he’s bruised and battered. He is damaged. If Lyra were there to look at him, turn him inside out, she would find durasteel and dragon bones and blaster burns. She would find him as he simply is– broken.

Self-destructive tendencies manifest like weights in the soul, if he laid claim to one, and Khan knows that he does this because he’s addicted to trying to feel alive. It’s much like the spice runners that say they never taste their product, the alcoholics living in the same cantinas in Bestine. He wonders if Lyra had treated addicts in the First Order. He wonders if she’s ever thought less of them, of him.

Khan decides that he doesn’t like to think about it.

iv.     The fourth time is when the eternal night is forgotten for gambling, dancers, spice, and Corellian brandy. It isn’t a vacation, it isn’t anything other than an unfortunate stroke of luck. Their ship could only survive so much abuse from pirates and the First Order alike, and Khan already plans to fit the vessel with stronger canons. His time served meant that he could survive a simple skirmish, though Lyra seemed to fret every time he returned with a limp, or a burn from a tired console’s malfunction. He supposes that it’s in her nature, caring far too much, because she promised to. Even beasts like him are not immune to healing hands.

v.     The fifth time is after they enter Korriban’s orbit. He’s chasing ghosts, he always has been, and he longs to rest. There is no grave waiting for Khan, only the emptiness of space and the accusation of failure.

He doesn’t let her join him when he searches for the first tomb. It’s decrepit, eroded from the fury of time, and filled with things with sharp teeth and rage and tendrils of the dark side. Even he, senseless in the Force, can feel it, wrapping tendrils around his throat, down it, into his lungs. This is no place for her, he decides, and perhaps that is true for any other, but he could not bare the thought of this place taking her.

Khan doesn’t wonder why this time; he doesn’t wonder anything, closing his mind to the things that lurk in the shadows as he descends further into Naga Sadow’s eternal resting place.

vi.     The sixth time is after he narrowly escapes disembowelment from an icetromper on the ice fields of Hoth. He likes to think that only those with blasters or fists are a danger, often forgetting that the maws of the galaxy are aplenty. This time it hurts, and he can admit it. Something broken beneath his skin, blossoming blues, purples, blood vessels burst; he nearly doesn’t make it back to their camp.

It’s the sixth time that he accepts that he’s been selfish.

Khan doesn’t register the look on Lyra’s face when he returns, vision blurring. Survival is predictable; living is something that he’s never truly understood. Her hands are over him, bandaging his wounds, bacta here and there, forcing him to lay still while she chides him for his idiocy. It’s deserved, he knows, because she always worries when he’s so reckless, so miserly. Denial tastes the same as regret, he finds.

It’s the sixth time that he kisses her, haphazardly pulling her toward him because his control is lacking (from the pain or from a late epiphany, a question without a sufficient answer). There’s something like a thank you on his lips, an I am sorry, an amalgamation of emotions that are usually denied. It’s been six times, and he thinks he’s done with thinking.

[missblanchette]

This Distance Between Us [1/1]

Series: Hypnosis Mic

Characters: Jinguji Jakurai/Kannonzaka Doppo; Appearances from Hifumi and Ramuda

Rating: PG

Summary: Day by day, Doppo learned that Jinguji Jakurai was more human than god.

Words: 11,287

Notes: Drowning tw in section iii. Implied self-harm tw in section iv. A JakuDoppo relationship study/Jakurai character study via Doppo’s POV! I wrote this before TDD Chapter 3 dropped, so that aspect of Jakurai’s character wasn’t taken into account though I tried to amend this fic as much as possible to include it. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy it~!

ko-fi // You can read this on AO3! Thank you all so much for reading!!

❤⃛ヾ(๑❛ ▿ ◠๑ )

i.

With the ban of violence and the rise of rap, the exploits of The Dirty Dawg had spread far and wide. Their voices had commanded the attention of Japan, claiming the land as their own and bringing all those who crossed their way to their knees. For a salary-man like Doppo, however, who was more concerned with his next paycheck than the territory battles, The Dirty Dawg's ascent to power had meant very little to him -- save for the genius doctor who used his hypnosis mic for healing instead of harm. Hifumi had introduced him to the famed ill-DOC with a shove of his phone into his face and a "Look, look, Doppo-chin! Check these guys out!". While The Dirty Dawg's voices harmonized powerfully and shook his core, ill-DOC's low baritone captured him instantly. If listening to him through video had been enough to soothe his fried nerves, Doppo wondered what listening to him live would’ve been like. He never got the opportunity during that era, though, for The Dirty Dawg fell as quickly as they rose.

That said, sometimes it was easy to forget that their reign ever happened.

The screen separating him and ill-DOC disappeared within a span of two years, a sales visit at Shinjuku Central Hospital leading to him becoming his patient. Over time, ill-DOC simply became known as Dr. Jinguji Jakurai to him: his physician, his leader, and (something he was still coming to terms with) his lover. On the day-to-day basis, Jakurai embodied the patience of a saint as he treated the sick and dealt with his and Hifumi's problems; with him and Hifumi as the rogues guarding Jakurai's side, they made up Matenrou, the pack of wolves who defied the cruelty of the world. For all they faced together, Doppo felt like he had a good sense of who Jakurai was -- a genius, a legend, a god. But staring at the photograph of Jakurai smiling along with Amemura Ramuda, Aohitsugi Samatoki, and Yamada Ichiro, Doppo came to realize that there wasn't a lot he actually knew about him.

"Do you need help, Doppo-kun?" Jakurai's voice echoed from the hallway.

Doppo startled and hit his head against the shelf, biting back a yelp as the box he'd picked up collapsed onto the ground again. He'd gone to Jakurai's closet to get a scarf for him since it would get cold later, but he knocked down a box on one of the shelves causing photographs and badges and other trinkets to scatter among the floor.

"Are you okay?" A hand rested on the small of Doppo's back, steadying him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snoop around. They all fell out and I was trying to pick them up --"

"There’s no need to worry about it," Jakurai said, rubbing his back. The soothing motion faltered, stilted and abrupt, when he caught sight of the photograph he held and Jakurai's azure eyes clouded over. "My, that's an old thing."

Without another word, he reached for it and Doppo handed it to him. He gripped it tightly, as if it were a letter bringing news of a loved one's death, and his lips pursed like reflecting upon an earlier disappointment -- a stark contrast to the radiant grin he wore as Amemura Ramuda pulled him into the group picture.

"You were cool back then," Doppo blurted out. When Jakurai's gaze snapped towards him, Doppo sputtered. "I mean, you're still cool now, but you and The Dirty Dawg made an amazing team."

Jakurai turned back to the photograph, expression unreadable.

"We were," he said, a hint of remorse in his tone. "But I believe Matenrou triumphs in every aspect."

"Do you miss them?" Eyes widening, Doppo slapped a hand to his mouth and bowed his head. "I'm sorry, you don't have to answer that if you don't want to."

"It's okay, Doppo-kun." His fingers carded through Doppo's hair, languidly and absentmindedly, though not once did his eyes leave the photo. "Thinking about it makes me rather nostalgic --" His lips twisted bitterly. "-- is all."

Silence followed, the ticking of the clock's hands serving as the sole reminder of time flowing on and on.

"Doc -- Jinguji-san," Doppo started, the less formal title still strange on his tongue. "I'm... here for you, if you ever want to talk about it?"

With one last stroke through his hair, Jakurai's hand fell to his shoulder and he patted him. The corners of his lips tugged up. "Thank you, Doppo-kun."

Though his words were kind, they stung regardless; gratitude he’d spoken, hiding a "no, I'd rather not" underneath. There were things Doppo wasn't privy to, certainly, and he would respect that -- yet, compared to all their sessions in the hospital where Doppo had complained about his life, had bared out his emotions, had burdened him with his anguish, Jakurai hardly spoke of his own. Was he so untrustworthy as a person -- as a lover -- that he couldn't share in those thoughts? Though maybe it was his fault for being so heartless and never asking about them in the first place.

"Let's clean this up and get going, shall we?" Jakurai asked before his self-doubts could turn tail to hell. His hand left his shoulder, leaving a chill in its place, and he crouched down to pick up the remnants of his fallen memories.

Shoving the remains of his negativity to the side, Doppo stared at the scene before joining him. Jakurai barely gave the scattered mementos a glance before placing them back in the box, away from sight and away from mind. Through the curtain of his lavender locks, Jakurai's azure irises dulled and his mouth curved downwards -- his face lost within seasons that Doppo couldn't recall.

With everything cleaned up, Jakurai tucked the box back into the darkness of the closet. His previous wistfulness swept away, he smiled at him with a composure much more akin to the Jakurai he'd come to know. Doppo forced himself to return it.

Jakurai had always seemed so far away, but in that moment, he felt unreachable.

ii.

Overtime might as well have been Doppo's regular work hours, considering how often he dipped into it. Always the last to leave, it was because of the coffee running through his body that he was able to catch the last train home. The note Hifumi left him was sweet as always, but as delicious as his dinner looked, Doppo could only manage a few bites before his eyes began to fail him. He barely even had the energy to shower or change his clothes before plopping into bed. Just as he sank into the mattress, he choked on his saliva when he remembered he'd forgotten to respond to Jakurai's message from earlier.

He quickly sent an affirmative for their plans this weekend and locked his phone, dropping it onto his chest while he waited for sleep to claim him. It wasn't long, though, before his phone buzzed and shook him awake. He squinted, the light far too bright though it was on its lowest setting, but he couldn't bring himself to be upset and he smiled at Jakurai's text.

Locking his phone again, Doppo leaned back into his pillow and sleep steadily settled in, but his eyes shot open and snapped towards the clock. 00:58. Much too late for Jakurai to be awake right now, let alone replying to him -- especially when both of them had work in the morning. Fingers fumbling, he opened his phone.

Doppo frowned. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, wanting to say something -- anything -- to comfort him but the words couldn't come. "I'm sorry," he wanted to say, but that wouldn't do any good to help him fall asleep; "that sucks," was his next thought but that came off as callous; "try some sleeping pills," maybe, but that sounded dismissive also. After all Jakurai had done to help him with his insomnia, he couldn't even say something back to him. What a terrible boyfriend he was, not being able to comfort him when he needed him --

A couple seconds passed before his next message.

Doppo read the texts over again. And again to make sure he was reading them correctly. And once more to be doubly sure. Then he rubbed his eyes and blinked rapidly to be certain he wasn't hallucinating. Nobody had ever asked him anything like that before; his voice was nothing special, after all, being dismal and weak among Shinjuku's white noise. "Are you serious?" he almost replied, but he was never one to deny Jakurai's requests. With jittery hands, he typed out a "Yeah, that's fine."

For something set on vibrate, his phone blared loudly in the quiet of his room. He almost dropped it, too shaky to get a grip and accept the call, but Doppo's nerves settled down as he heard Jakurai's soft breaths on the other end.

"Hi?" he said, unsure of himself.

"Hello, Doppo-kun." Tiredness seeped through Jakurai's greeting, fondness mixed in it. "How was your day? Is your manager still giving you grief?"

"Yeah, the same as usual..."

The conversation flowed on, reminiscent of their appointments in Jakurai's office but with a more casual air to it. Groans and sighs replaced Doppo's words, too exhausted to actually verbalize his feelings, whereas Jakurai hummed along to every utterance. Nevertheless, Doppo kept his complaints short and to the point because they'd gone through them plenty of times to write an entire anthology about his grievances. As their conversation fell into a lull, he directed the question back to him.

How strange it felt to be on the flip side of things, to be listening to Jakurai instead. Not that Doppo minded at all, taking in everything he said and holding onto it. In the still of night, Jakurai's speech blended together and he paused over his thoughts unlike the formalities and preciseness he spoke with during the daytime; but that didn't change anything about the softness in his voice as he told him of his day -- how his hair had gotten caught in the elevator doors, how one of the children he'd been attending to cried as he gave them an injection, how he'd heard that one of his patients had died.

Stuttering, Doppo offered his condolences as best he could and he could only imagine the sad curl of Jakurai's lips as he thanked him. His patient was an elderly one who suffered from heart pains on top of their insomnia, and Jakurai had been taking care of them ever since he started working at Shinjuku Central Hospital. Death was inevitable, Jakurai told him, but that didn't stop the regret that filled his tone.

They delved into lighter topics afterwards, carrying on like that until their voices lowered into whispers. Yet, neither of them made the move to end the call. Doppo didn't want to, either, no matter how much he yawned, no matter how much he slurred his sentences, no matter how much his eyes drooped...

"Rise and shine, Doppo-chin~ Oh, who's that?"

Eyelids weighing like iron, Doppo could hardly lift them without feeling like his eyeballs would combust into flames. To his right, a low rumble filled his ear like a windy day at Katase Beach. Something slammed down on his shoulder, eliciting a grunt from him, and hovered over his body. Squinting, he saw Hifumi looking at his phone with his mouth agape.

"Ooh, Dr. Jakurai. You guys have been talking for five hours?!"

Doppo's brows knitted together before remembering what happened last night. Never before had he jumped out of bed so fast.

"He's still on? Give that back --"

"Hi, Doc!" Hifumi said, putting the phone on speaker.

The rumble that'd been at his side echoed throughout his room before breaking into choppy breaths and then a loud snort. Hifumi giggled, lifting the phone higher into the air when Doppo reached for it.

"Wakey, wakey, Doc~"

"...Hi...fumi-kun...?" A long yawn came through, followed by a confused mumble. "I... oh dear. What time is it?"

"It's like six, but I bet it's easy to lose track when you and Doppo are having so much fun~"

Glaring, Doppo jumped up and snatched his phone back. Hifumi gave a cat-like smirk.

"Do --" A yawn. "Doppo-kun, my apologies. Did I keep you up?"

Turning speaker mode off, Doppo turned away. Hifumi pounced onto his back, ever persistent, and pressed his ear against the other side of the phone. Doppo couldn't muster up the strength to shove him off.

"No, it's all right, Jinguji-san. I fell asleep, too. I'm... I'm glad you were able to get some rest, though."

"It's thanks to you," Jakurai said. Hiufmi bounced excitedly behind him.

"It's nothing really..." He threw a look at Hifumi, but the tips of his ears grew warm.

"Of course it's something. We have not seen each other in a while, so I'm glad I was able to talk with you at least." Exhaustion dripped through as he spoke, but Doppo could hear the smile in his words.

Slapping his shoulders with the fervor of a hummingbird, Hifumi squealed. Doppo elbowed him and he finally backed off. He meant to say something else, but he saw the current hour -- 6:23 -- and blanched. Shit.

"I feel the same way, Jinguji-san, but, um, I'm sorry, I have to get ready for work now."

"Hm... oh? Oh." He stifled his yawn. "Yes, I suppose I should be getting ready as well," he said with an inkling of reluctance. "I hope you have a good day, Doppo-kun."

"You, too, Jinguji-san."

"Bye, Doc!"

Jakurai laughed. "Bye to you, too, Hifumi-kun."

Ending the call, Doppo spun around to see Hifumi grinning at him.

"Late night calls with Dr. Jakurai, hm~" Hifumi said, waggling his eyebrows.

"It's not a big deal." Averting his gaze, he rubbed the nape of his neck. "Jinguji-san was just having trouble sleeping."

"Aw, so you're like his medicine!"

Doppo's face reddened. "S-Shut up. Don't you have something else to do?"

A hand flying to his mouth, Hifumi gasped. "Breakfast!"

As Hifumi ran back to the kitchen, Doppo took a deep breath as he thought about the workload that awaited him -- another twelve-plus hours of labor, another twenty-four hours of mind-numbing stress. Though typically getting the bare minimum amount of sleep was enough to ruin his day before it started, he found motivation within the phone warm in his hold. Their call fresh in his mind, Doppo knew he wasn't the only one struggling to get up. For Jakurai, he would gladly stay up again and again; for him, too, he would do his best to get through work.

iii.

"Uh, is it always this slow?" Doppo asked, adjusting his hat as the sun steadily climbed higher and higher across the sky. He'd been sitting there at Ichigaya sandwiched between Jakurai and Hifumi for about two and a half hours now, and they'd only managed to catch one measly carp -- a joint effort between him and Jakurai (or rather, Jakurai took control of the rod when he freaked out at the fish's tug) while Hifumi waved the fishing net like a madman. He'd spent hours at work dreaming about this day -- the day he'd finally join Jakurai's and Hifumi's fishing trips -- and... "underwhelming" could only describe so much.

"Some days are slower than others." Smiling sheepishly, Jakurai’s eyes crinkled.

"Yeah, like, sometimes we don't even catch anything at all," Hifumi said, prouder of the fact than he should've been.

"I thought you said you were 'pros.'"

"We are!" Hifumi puffed up his chest, his fishing line swaying from side-to-side. "Like, Doc and I totes know how to use the fishing poles and stuff. It's just a bad fish day today."

Hunching over his knees, Doppo sighed. He and Hifumi must've had different definitions of "pro."

At his right, Jakurai chuckled and Doppo's mood brightened a bit; he couldn't bring himself to be disappointed at the sound of it. True, the trip didn't quite meet his expectations but he had to admit it was a nice change of pace from sleeping the whole day. The pond's ripples wavering to and fro and the light breeze accented Hifumi's and Jakurai's conversation about the deals at the supermarket, the scene lulling the stress and tension of the work week away. To be honest, with the three of them even having the chance to spend time together like this, Doppo couldn't have imagined anything better.

"Oh!" Nearly bouncing out of his seat, Hifumi furiously wheeled the handle. "I caught something!"

"Did you really, or do you think you caught something?" Doppo eyed Hifumi’s line. It wouldn't have been Hifumi’s first false alarm. He had the tendency to shake his rod while speaking, tricking himself into thinking he caught something when he chattered on for too long.

"I did, I really did! Quick, someone get the net!"

Jakurai reacted faster than he did, the warmth at his side dissipating as he stood up to aid Hifumi with his catch. What neither of them noticed, however, was that Doppo sat with his legs outstretched before him, and Jakurai stumbled over them. In a hurry to get out of the way, Doppo dragged his legs back but his feet knocked against Jakurai's as he did so, tipping him over and sending straight into the pond with a large splash!

"Dr. Jakurai!"

"Jinguji-san!"

They ran over to the edge of the platform, watching Jakurai flail helplessly in the water as the carp scattered off in different directions. His head bobbed up and down, eventually falling under and replaced by a froth of bubbles. Sinking deeper and deeper, his long tresses splayed up like seaweed.

"O-Oh my God, t-this is my fault." Hands trembling, Doppo clutched his face. "I tripped Jinguji-san, I made him drown, I --"

Hifumi slapped his shoulder and shook him. "Now's not the time, Doppo-chin! We have to save Dr. Jakurai!"

"How?! Neither of us know how to swim!"

"I dunno! But we have to!"

Dread crept into Doppo's stomach much like Jakurai's body falling to the depths of the pond; all the while, Hifumi yelled at the water as if begging would make it spit Jakurai back out. For a Saturday, there were hardly any fishers around and the ones there were too far away to call over. The tendrils of Jakurai's hair disappeared and an eerie stillness returned to the pond.

Now or never. Ripping off his hat and vest, Doppo shoved them over to Hifumi.

"What are you doing?" Hifumi asked, taking them on the automatic.

"I'm going to save Jinguji-san." Hopefully, the fear in his voice wasn’t too obvious. Toeing off his shoes and socks, Doppo peered down the pond and calculated how deep it was. He might not know how to swim, but he knew how to hold his breath for long periods of time. The perks of not caring about whether he lived or died.

"But you said it, we don't know how to swim!" Hifumi pleaded, continuing to take his clothes.

"I sat it on some of my little brother's swimming lessons before." He took a deep breath --

"Doppo!"

-- and jumped in.

How the hell elementary school kids made swimming look so easy, Doppo didn't know; he could barely kick his legs as he sank through the pond. The carp circled around him as if mocking him for his dumb decision. Not only would he have killed Jakurai, he'd have gotten himself killed, too; he could imagine Jakurai's disappointment in the afterlife when he learned that he'd drowned the both of them. But as he struggled through the water, he spotted Jakurai floating towards the bottom and a surge of energy powered through him. He could fail himself, but he wouldn't fail Jakurai.

With his pathetic doggy paddle, he somehow reached Jakurai. But then came his second challenge: bringing him up. His weight was one thing, but carrying him wasn't an easy feat with a single arm free and his lungs burning. In his peripheral, the carp zipped by as if pushing him back, telling him to give up -- that Jakurai was already dead and it was no use. It only edged him on, Doppo using the last of his strength to break the surface.

In his arm, Jakurai's head lolled onto his shoulder. The chill running through him surely wasn't from the air.

"Doppo, grab on!"

A splash hit the surface, sending more water into his clogged ears. It was the goddamn net. Had he not been desperate to get out, he would've sighed. Still, he held onto it and let Hifumi hoist them in.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God," Hifumi chanted over and over as they laid Jakurai onto the ground. He hadn't made any sign of movement nor breathing since they surfaced, but Doppo pressed an ear against his chest and heard a faint heartbeat. The dread ebbed away but only crashed back like a tsunami as the whole ordeal wasn't over yet.

"We have to do something, like -- like -- like CPR." Hifumi flittered over Jakurai's body, a blond blur pacing back and forth. "How do you do that? Like this?!"

Balling his hands into fists, Hifumi slammed it hard against Jakurai's stomach. Before Doppo could yell at him, Jakurai spasmed and he threw up water. Hacking his coughs, he struggled to sit up and Doppo hurried to his side.

"I-I-I'm so sorry, Jinguji-san! Are you okay?!" Patting his back, he cringed as the question left his mouth. "I mean, how are you feeling?"

"I'm --" Cough. "I'll be --" Cough. "Fine." Cough.

"Oh my God, Doc, you almost died!" Hifumi threw his arms around Jakurai, practically squeezing the rest of the water out of him. "Who'd fish with me then?!"

"Gee, thanks for remembering me," said Doppo.

"Okay, yeah, but like you'd rather sleep! Besides, Doc catches most of our fish,” Hifumi said, if by "most," he meant "all," and by "all," he meant "one."

Doppo readied a retort, but the sound of Jakurai's scratchy chuckle made him bite it back. Instead, he let Hifumi attend to him while he rummaged through their bag for the towel. Towel procured, he returned and began patting Jakurai dry.

"You're wet, too, Doppo-kun." Jakurai sounded hoarse from all the coughing, but Doppo was thankful to be hearing him at all.

"It's all right, I'll air dry."

"Nonsense, you might catch a cold."

"But --"

Cutting in, Hifumi grabbed the towel and wrapped it around them. Doppo moved in out of instinct, not realizing how close he was to Jakurai until he bumped into his chest. Before he could back away, Hifumi started rubbing their heads.

"See? Now both of you can be dry!"

They looked up at him. With Hifumi drying them off, Jakurai and Doppo shared a smile.

"Very well. We're in your care, Hifumi-kun," Jakurai said with an amused lilt.

"Be careful, okay?"

"Jeez, Doppo-chin, you're acting like I'll tear your hair out!" Making light of his threat, Hifumi rubbed Doppo's head extra hard.

"Oi!"

As Doppo shoved him off, the three of them laughed and fell into a steady rhythm. Hifumi hummed as he worked, and a hand placed itself atop Doppo's. He glanced over at Jakurai, who sat unperturbed as if he hadn't just drowned. Ever so hesitantly, he laid his head on Jakurai's shoulder.

"By the way, Doc, weren't you part of the military?" Hifumi mused as he worked on Jakurai's hair. "Didn't you, like, have to learn how to swim?"

"Ah, doctors weren't required to undergo that type of training," Jakurai said. His eyes fell to the pond, blue hues reflecting off them like waves. "Besides, I... have a tendency to sink like a rock."

"So you suck at swimming."

"Hifumi."

Jakurai chuckled. "You could say that it's not my strong point."

"Haha, y'know what that reminds me of? Doppo really sucked at PE. Like, one time we were playing volleyball and --"

"Jinguji-san doesn't need to know about that!"

"He's your boyfriend, of course he does. So, anyways..."

Groaning, Doppo buried his face into Jakurai's shoulder while Hifumi recounted The Volleyball Incident. When he'd gotten to the part where he gave not one, not two, but three of their classmates bloody noses, Doppo risked a peek up. Jakurai nodded along as Hifumi spoke, an amused smile on his face, but he met his eyes then and leaned in closer.

"I wasn't much better, I have to admit," he said in a whisper meant solely for him. "I gave my teacher a concussion and another classmate a broken arm during a game of basketball once."

Hiding his mouth behind his palm, Doppo snorted. The image of a younger Jakurai stumbling around in a gym and wrecking havoc popped into mind, a contrast to the serene figure he knew today but one he'd keep close. He supposed Jakurai's hands hadn't always been used for healing, but that made that fact all the greater.

iv.

In spite of of Doppo's unlucky streak, there was a tiny silver lining in it in the form of Jakurai. Despite Hifumi's reminders and the news warning of the thunderstorm coming that evening, he'd forgotten his umbrella when he rushed out the apartment. While he'd been lamenting his situation during the last of his overtime hours, Jakurai had messaged him asking if he'd like a ride since he'd be getting out of work soon. With the storm showing no sign of letting up, Jakurai also offered him to stay over at his place because it was closer. Doppo's instincts had told him not to impose any further, but the thunder boomed louder than his hesitation so he took him up on his offer.

Shooting a text to Hifumi that he wouldn't be home tonight, Doppo stretched his back and cringed at the cracks that resounded. He flopped onto the sofa with a hiss, his body protesting as it hit the firm material.

"Are you feeling well, Doppo-kun?" Jakurai's voice drew closer as he returned to the living room, a change of clothes for him in his hands -- Doppo's own clothes that he'd left behind after the first time he stayed over at Jakurai's place. Doppo never understood how wearing your partner's clothes was supposed to be "cute." He only felt embarrassed when he put on Jakurai's lounge wear, the shirt hanging loosely off his frame and the pants running past his feet.

"Just fine," Doppo said, rolling his shoulders and wincing. "My body feels kind of sore, is all."

"I should have some eucalyptus oil to relieve the pain, if you would like to try?"

Doppo opened his mouth to reject his offer, but a sharp pain ran through his back and he clamped it shut. He nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. "That'd be great."

Setting his clothes next to him, Jakurai left once again. Doppo figured he might as well get changed now, so he picked up the clothes and made his way to the bathroom. Unbuttoning his shirt, he froze as he saw the heat pads on his shoulders in the mirror, sickly white against his pale skin. He chewed his lip, recalling Hifumi's words from that morning and the chitchat of his co-workers. Instinctively, he tugged his shirt closer.

"Doppo-kun, I have the oil. Would you like me to apply it?"

The door hinges creaked as the door opened and Doppo rushed to press it closed.

"T-Thank you, Jinguji-san, but I got it," Doppo said, peeking his head through the small space he allowed between them. He stuck his fingers out for the bottle, straining to keep his shoulders out of sight.

Jakurai frowned, brows furrowing. He made no move to give it to him. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, like I said, I'm just sore."

Jakurai tried again to open the door with more force, but Doppo put his weight on it and shoved back. "Is there a reason you won't let me see you?"

"N-No, no reason."

"If there's something wrong, I would be more than glad to take a look at it. It's better to be safe than sorry." There it was: his Doctor Voice, the one that wouldn't let any potential ailment go unchecked. Though typically calming, it nagged Doppo in that moment.

"No! No, it's nothing like that, I... ugh." Counting to ten, Doppo slowly opened the door all the way. He hunched his shoulders in, he rubbed at the pads, and he kept his gaze on the floor. "I'm... wearing heat pads. I know -- I know it's really unattractive. I'm not even thirty yet, but Hifumi called me an 'old man' for wearing them. And the other day I heard my co-workers say they're a major turn off --"

"Doppo-kun."

Doppo's head snapped up and he let out a small "eep!". He covered his eyes, the clamminess of his hands cool against the heat rising to his cheeks, as Jakurai took his sweater off. Although, he couldn't help it if he peeked a little bit. Only enough to see Jakurai's arm muscles tensing and contracting. Doppo widened the spaces between his fingers ever so slightly.

Folding his sweater over his arm, Jakurai pulled his hair back and -- oh. Doppo's mouth hung ajar. On Jakurai's shoulders sat a pair of heat pads, much like the ones he wore on his own. Gently, Jakurai tugged Doppo's hands down.

"I wear them, too, see? There’s nothing to be embarrassed about." Eyes crinkling, he chuckled. "We match."

Doppo huffed out a laugh, though any other thought running through his mind stopped short as his eyes wandered downwards. He'd always imagined Jakurai's body to be as perfect as the lavender locks that flowed down his back, to be free of blemishes, toned, and fit -- a figure befitting a man so heavenly like him. Though toned and fit appeared to be the case, the same couldn't be said of blemish-free. Marks and scars ran through his body, through his abdomen, and through his arms that ranged from muddy reds to matte whites, from short nicks to long gashes, from deeply depressed to highly pronounced.

And yet Jakurai stood there as if none of them existed.

"You have scars?" Doppo asked before he could think. He slapped his mouth. "Sorry, I just noticed them."

"It's okay, I do not mind them." Following his gaze, Jakurai's expression fell into a neutral one. "Most of them are from the war."

Fixated on the wounds that grazed him, Doppo stepped forward; likewise, Jakurai kept quiet as he approached though he showed no sign of apprehension. Fingers trembling, Doppo lifted a hand. "Can I touch them?"

Jakurai inhaled sharply, the sound harsh and strident against the stillness. "Yes, you may."

His fingers hovered over his chest, and Doppo looked up at Jakurai once more. Jakurai nodded.

Slowly, Doppo traced the longest one first -- the jagged one that ran from the lower left side of his abdomen to beneath his right pectoral, outlined in a coarse pink that encased dull white and protruded his skin. He'd gotten it during a melee, Jakurai told him, where he'd been cornered. The other men had been taken out, but one of them survived and lunged at him with a knife. Jakurai managed to defend himself, though barely.

"I thought you weren't allowed to attack medical units?" Doppo asked.

The corners twitching, Jakurai's lips pursed together.

"...There is often no regard for rules in war." He stated it like a fact, simple as that. No wonder, Doppo thought, that women had eradicated violence when they overtook the government.

His fingers traveled up, right to the round wounds about the length of his thumb on Jakurai's bicep. Like a pair of twins, they sat right next to each other, identical in every way what with being faded dark splotches that dipped into his skin. Gun shots, Jakurai told him; he'd been assisting a few wounded soldiers back to the hospital, but the enemy had crossed no-man's land and started firing. All the soldiers who he'd been helping died.

"I never thought you'd get caught in the crossfire..."

"Being in an active war zone means putting one's self amidst the action," Jakurai said, voice even. His azure irises hazed over like a fog.

They continued on like that, with Doppo tracing the scars that marked his body and Jakurai explaining the story behind each one -- each fight he endured, each body he encountered, each soldier he tried to save. Having lived in the relative peace of their homeland his whole life, Doppo shuddered hearing Jakurai recount his experiences; though, in all honesty, whether it was because of the contents of his tales or the tone Jakurai took on, he wasn't sure. He spoke with an indifference to his words, as if disconnecting himself from the events, but a tinge of regret underlain it all.

Doppo was sorry. Sorry that he had to see all of that, sorry that he couldn't do anything to absolve him of the blood stained on his hands, sorry he couldn't relieve him of the anguish he suffered through. But there was little his apologies could do in the first place and so he kept quiet.

Reaching their last stop, Doppo's fingers came to a set of scars on his right wrist. They were different from the others strewn across his body; a multitude of stripes that had carved their way into his skin, each mark precisely made and organized rather than serrated and scattered. Paler than his ivory skin, they held a blotchy, white color to them. Jakurai's wrist spasmed as he made contact with them, his arm jerking in place. His eyes didn't meet his.

"Ah, those are... older scars."

He didn't need to say anything more.

Letting go, Doppo hastily unbuttoned his sleeve and pulled it back. The scars on his left wrist were redder and thicker, angrier and more distinct; they zig-zagged and criss-crossed, their own kind of morbid pattern. Lower down laid some keloids that formed years ago. They were a sight Doppo had long grown used to, a sight he'd grown to hate, a sight that he was tempted to continue working on to this day.

He was sorry. Sorry for being so weak, sorry for being so cowardly, sorry for being so useless. But he pushed his apologies down and he held his wrist next to Jakurai's.

"Mine are, too," Doppo said, voice feeble. Their scars might've looked different, but they weren't unlike each other's.  "...We really do match."

Carefully, Jakurai ran his fingers over the scars. Doppo resisted the urge to rip his hand away, his wrist twitching in his hold. Only Hifumi had ever seen his scars this close, having avoided the matter with his parents as much as he possibly could. But Jakurai's touch was gentle and delicate, caressing the wounds as if they'd re-open at the wrong move and inspecting them with a grim interest.

Jakurai let out a mirthless laugh. Softly, he said, "We make quite the pair, don't we?"

As the storm continued to rage outside, they fell into a silence, sharing unspoken words of a similar sorrow.

v.

Neither he nor Jakurai were the touchy-feely type, much to Hifumi's displeasure. No matter how many times he insisted that they "act more like a couple" and pushed them to get out of their comfort zones, they reserved those gestures for private spaces and intimate moments. In fact, Doppo preferred it that way since it made it easier to keep things between them on the down low -- something they both agreed to early on in their relationship. He received enough attention by having a loud mouth for a best friend and being a member of Matenrou, he didn't need people poking their noses into his business for dating the renowned Jinguji Jakurai either.

But nothing ever worked out Doppo's way.

"Wow~★ So the rumors are true?"

It was his fault that things came to this. His fault for not being discreet in their interactions, his fault for causing rumors to circulate, his fault for suggesting they go to the tea house bordering Shibuya, his fault they ran into Amemura Ramuda -- the very bane of Jakurai's existence. Rarely did Jakurai show any sign of annoyance that Doppo couldn't help but cower at the storm brewing in his azure irises, even if the look wasn't directed at him.

"I believe I do not know what you're talking about, Amemura-kun," Jakurai said, tone curt. No doubt Jakurai was tall, but his height had always served as a comfort, a safe space where Doppo tucked himself underneath his chin within moments of stillness. Right then, however, he loomed over Ramuda's small figure like a wolf cornering the pup that dared cross his path.

"Huh? For real?!" Widening his eyes, Ramuda's hands flew to his cheeks with a pop! Maybe it was because Doppo wasn't used to him, but Ramuda's voice sounded like it'd gotten higher since their last encounter -- grating and pitchy, a noise more annoying than the city’s clamor. "Everyone's talking about it, y'know. They're saying that Matenrou's leader is dating one of his members!"

Ramuda's eyes landed on him, lips curling into a grin that seemed akin to a sneer. Bouncing onto the heels of his feet, Ramuda bent forward to get a better look at him but Jakurai stepped in between them acting as a shield.

"Doppo-kun is my teammate."

"So you're having some team bonding without the other one?" Ramuda stood on his tiptoes, jumping up and down with his hands framing his eyes like binoculars to scan the crowds.

"Hifumi-kun is busy."

"You're just leaving him out? That's so mean, Jakurai!" Ramuda stopped hopping and he crossed his arms, cheeks puffing out as he stuck his chin up towards Jakurai. From behind, Doppo saw how Jakurai clenched his fists and how his veins bulged in his skin. "I bet what you're doing is really, really, really bo~ring, too!"

"That’s none of your business --"

Without warning, Ramuda shoved Jakurai to the side and skipped right up to him. Before Doppo could react, Ramuda grabbed his hands and swung them up-and-down so hard he worried his arms would pop out their sockets. For someone so damn tiny, Ramuda had a strong grip. Peering up at him, Ramuda tilted his head to the side and batted his long, long eyelashes.

"Why don't ya leave that stuffy, old man and join me today, Mr. Salary-man~? I'm sure you'll have tons and tons of fun with my honeys! ♥" His finely manicured nails poking into his palms, he dragged him into the crowd and the one thing keeping Doppo from tripping over his feet was Ramuda's vice grip.

"Um --"

"I would appreciate it if you didn't manhandle my teammate, Amemura-kun," Jakurai cut in. A contrast to his usual gentleness, Jakurai pushed Ramuda away and Doppo's back hit Jakurai's chest as he wrapped his arm around him. Meanwhile, Ramuda stumbled backwards, pink hair bouncing against his shoulders, and he pouted in a way that put spoiled, little girls to shame. Jakurai's grip on him tightened.

"But you're doing the same!" Ramuda whined, hands on his hips. "Besides, you didn't even ask him what he wanted. See what a big meanie you are?!"

Jakurai's chest rose and fell, the exhale of his sigh a heavy weight blowing through his hair. Reluctantly, Jakurai let go of him and his backside grew colder as he left him. Jakurai wore an unreadable expression.

"Well, Doppo-kun." Doppo squirmed in spot, hearing the traces of irritation that leaked through. As if sensing his discomfort, Jakurai's face softened and he continued speaking in a calmer tone. "Do you have anything to say?"

Two pairs of eyes stared at him -- a bitter azure and an icy blue. Doppo's decision had long been made, but that didn't make him any less stressed. The rejection would probably make Ramuda bother Jakurai more which would make Jakurai more upset and it would be all because of him. Mentally berating himself for this whole mess, Doppo turned to Ramuda and dipped his head. He gulped.

"T-Thank you for the offer, Amemura-kun, but I'm sorry, Jingu -- Dr. Jinguji and I already made plans for the day."

He might've been seeing things, but he could've sworn he saw Ramuda's mouth twitch.

"Awww, but you're gonna miss out on sooo much fun!" Face scrunching up, Ramuda's shoulders drooped and he kicked the ground like a child throwing a tantrum. But with the blink of an eye, he perked up and returned his gaze. "But, I totally get it! That dumb-dumb Jakurai doesn't let go of anything, so I guess you'll have to be his prisoner for the day."

Grabbing his collar, Ramuda pulled him down to his level and Doppo's stomach churned at the sugary, saccharine scent of his perfume. He met Jakurai’s eyes, placing a kiss on Doppo's cheek with a particularly loud mwah that drowned out the noise of passersby. He grinned a smile that sent a shiver down Doppo's spine.

"Hit me up if you ever wanna have some fun! Catch ya later, Mr. Salary-man~! ♥"

Ramuda winked at him and stuck his tongue out at Jakurai, running off before either of them could say anything else. Once he'd disappeared into the sea of people, Doppo released the breath he'd been holding and the tension eased out of his body. He thought that spending two decades with Hifumi was exhausting, but a couple of minutes with Ramuda left him deader than dead.

"Are you okay, Doppo-kun?" Jakurai's voice returned to its mild cadence, but a ghost of a scowl lingered on his features. He cupped his face, his thumb stroking the cheek that Ramuda had kissed to wipe off the lip gloss residue. Though, with the force with which he rubbed, he might've been trying to wipe off the kiss altogether.

Fidgeting at his touch, Doppo's eyes shifted from side-to-side. "Yeah, but are you?"

Jakurai's frown deepened.

"Yes," Jakurai said in a clipped tone. "Amemura-kun is just... quite a special character."

Doppo nodded, not daring to press further lest he irritate Jakurai any more. He couldn't fault him, anyways. Even if he didn't know exactly what happened between the two, Amemura Ramuda embodied the cacophony of the city and the chaos of the crowds that pissed him off to no end and that was enough to put him off.

"Anyhow, it's best to forget that happened. Shall we get going?" Not giving him a chance to respond, Jakurai grabbed his hand and pulled him along. While keeping up with Jakurai's strides usually didn't pose a problem, Doppo stumbled over his feet as he followed behind.

"J-Jinguiji-san, we're in public...!"

Jakurai paused and Doppo nearly ran into his back at the sudden stop. Lips quirking up in a rather crooked manner for a gentleman like him, Jakurai turned to him with an unfamiliar glint in his eyes. Doppo's breath caught in his throat.

"There’s no harm if others know that you are my teammate, hm?"

Heat rushed to Doppo's cheeks and he shook his head, not trusting himself with words. Jakurai squeezed his hand, which he returned, and they made their way to their destination. A selfless saint who always gave yet never took was all he'd ever known Jakurai to be, but as Doppo fell in step with him, he wouldn't deny that seeing this side sent a thrill throughout his body.

vi.

Silence and stares weren't normally part of the menu -- especially when the planets aligned to get him out of work on time and let Jakurai join them for dinner -- but Doppo found himself at the center of stunned attention that evening. Hifumi's chopsticks clattered onto his plate, jaw dropping to the table and eyebrows flying up to meet his hairline. Across from him, Jakurai's face bloomed into a red that rivaled the color of Doppo's hair and his bottom lip quivered slightly.

Doppo squinted at them. "What?"

"You said it, Doppo-chin."

"Said what?"

"Doc's name, you said it!"

Doppo looked at him incredulously. "Yeah? It's ‘Jinguji-san’ --"

"No, not like that!" Posture drooping, Hifumi picked up his chopsticks and mimicked Doppo's pose. In fake annoyance, he said, "'Hifumi! What Jakurai and I do at his place is none of your business!'"

Replaying the sentence over and over in his mind, Doppo's eyes bulged wide. Holy shit. He did say that, didn't he? He looked over at Jakurai, who'd buried the lower part of his face with his palm and looked at his half-eaten food as if it was the most interesting thing on the Earth; his usual perfect posture faltered under his gawking.

No matter how many times Jakurai assured him that calling him by his first name was all right, no matter how many times Hifumi urged him on, no matter how many times he told himself that no, it wasn't disrespectful to call your boyfriend by his first name, Doppo always found himself tongue-tied whenever he tried to speak it and fell back to "Jinguji-san." Somehow, he'd beaten out the "Doctor" habit, but crossing the first name boundary seemed about as possible as that damn manager of his cutting him some slack.

Who knew that all it took was an incredibly taxing day at work and a lack of patience?

"I-I'm so sorry, Jinguji-san --"

"Boo!" Hifumi pouted, giving a thumb's down. "You said it already, no going back!"

"You butt out of this --"

"Now, now, let’s settle down," said Jakurai, a warble in his voice. He cleared his throat, the red dusting his cheeks having faded to a bright pink, and schooled his face into a neutral expression -- or as neutral as wobbly lips and an unsteady gaze could be, that was. "Hifumi-kun, let Doppo-kun take things at his own pace. Doppo-kun, it's not everyday we are able to have dinner with Hifumi-kun so let's enjoy it."

Hifumi mumbled an "okay" and grumbled, but as always, he was quick to return to his upbeat attitude and started chattering on about some stray cat he saw on the way home from the supermarket earlier. Doppo, meanwhile, kept quiet and watched as Hifumi and Jakurai carried the conversation. His eyes caught Jakurai's, but Jakurai looked down after a moment's hesitation and gave him a stiff smile. All of a sudden, Doppo didn't feel hungry anymore.  

After they finished dinner, Doppo washed the dishes while Hifumi got ready for work and though he insisted otherwise, Jakurai volunteered to help him. Usually, working in silence wasn't a problem between them, but the awkwardness in the air led to the simple task stretching out for an eternity where Doppo skirted around him -- made worse whenever he brushed up against him or had to say something.

"Sorry, J -- ...sorry."

"J -- Um, can you pass those plates?"

"Did you get those yet, J -- ...yeah."

The last of the dishes settled into the dish rack with a louder clack than necessary. Jakurai turned to him.

"Doppo-kun, you do not need to be so afraid of saying my name." A hint of exasperation lied underneath his calm tone. "Either of them, for that matter."

"I'm sorry," Doppo said as he wiped the counter dry, moving methodically to avoid the look Jakurai gave him. "I just -- I just don't want to overstep any more boundaries."

Jakurai's face softened, though a frown marred his features. "Whoever said there were any?"

"I mean, you're you." Doppo flailed the towel in his direction, drops of water flying off. "You're Dr. Jinguji Jakurai, you're a genius who lowered the death rate on the front lines and you were part of the legendary Dirty Dawg and you're a really great guy in general." He heaved a sigh, the towel falling to his side as he slumped. "And I'm... me."

The dripping of the faucet filled the pause that followed, Doppo fidgeting in spot. His low self-esteem was no secret to either of them, neither were the comparisons he constantly made between them. For every "I don't deserve you," he uttered, Jakurai countered with a "You deserve the world," but his words could only do so much to stave off the nagging voice in the back of his head that told him Jakurai was way out of his league. Some days his reassurances were easier to swallow, others virtually impossible. And now that he'd spoken Jakurai's name as if they were equals of all things, his doubts suffocated him.

Hurriedly, Doppo returned to drying the counter. "It's dumb, I know --"

"Yes, you're you," Jakurai said. He took Doppo's chin and lifted his head up to meet his eyes, gracing him with a smile. "You're Kannonzaka Doppo, a salary-man who works incredibly hard, a member of the battle season’s champion Matenrou, and a very good friend. That's pretty amazing, no?"

Doppo couldn't bring himself to return the smile. "That's nowhere near as impressive as you."

Tenderly, Jakurai stroked Doppo's chin. "Your feats are separate from mine. Mine are not worth more than yours."

"But --"

Jakurai pressed his thumb against Doppo's lips, shushing him. "We're partners, correct? Are we not equals?"

A lump formed in Doppo's throat, his question ringing in his ears. He'd never entertained such an outrageous idea; the very notion of it incomprehensible, unfathomable. Someone as unremarkable as him paled in comparison to Jakurai's glory. Matching the crest of Shinjuku's skyscrapers that pierced the skies, Jakurai stood atop a pedestal kilometers high and all Doppo could do was stop and stare.

But here Jakurai was, the one who he'd admired for so long placing them on the even ground.

His instincts, inevitably, yelled at him to refute him -- that he was just saying things, he was simply placating him, he was merely leading him on. But for as much as his demons twisted Jakurai's words and strangled him with them, Jakurai himself shone a light upon him whilst stuck in a tempest of torments and cleared his mind, if only for a short while; his doubts would probably never leave, but Jakurai always won over all else. If he couldn't trust himself, he could at least trust Jakurai.

The weight on his chest a little bit lighter, Doppo gave a sheepish smile.

"We are, I guess. Thank you... um..." He forced out the name on the tip of his tongue. "...Jakurai."

The serenity on Jakurai's face immediately scrunched up in embarrassment, and he squeezed his eyes shut as red colored his cheeks once again.

"You're welcome, Doppo-kun," he said, choking the sentence out.

"Er, are you okay... Jakurai?"

Covering his face with his hands, he nodded vigorously and the strands of his hair fell out of place.

"...Jaku -- huh?!"

Pulling him into an embrace, Jakurai buried his face into his shoulder. Pressed up against him, the warmth of his blush seeped through his shirt and his unsteady breaths tickled the nape of his neck.

"Forgive me, Doppo-kun," came Jakurai's muffled voice. "Even though I said that you may call me by my name, I’m not used to being addressed so informally."

"T-Then I'll call you 'Jakurai-san' --"

"No." Jakurai shook his head, long locks flying from side-to-side. Softly, he said, "It makes me happy when you call me 'Jakurai.'"

Doppo’s heart thumped, skipping a beat or two at that. In the end, all he wanted was to make Jakurai happy. He'd do his best to never let him down, and he could start with something so bold such as saying his name.

"Okay..." He paused. "Jakurai."

If he strained his ears enough, he could hear Jakurai let out a noise. Doppo grinned and patted his back, a chuckle bubbling within his chest. "Mature" was one of the first words he thought of when it came to Jakurai, but "cute" fit him as well.

"...Jakurai?" Doppo said, the name still strange on his tongue. Nonetheless, it brought him a sense of giddiness he had to admit he enjoyed.

"Yes, Doppo-kun?"

"If I can call you 'Jakurai,' you can just call me 'Doppo.'"

Jakurai's knees buckled underneath his weight and Doppo used all his strength to keep them from toppling over. In the background, Hifumi whooped.

vii.

Another bought of restlessness struck tonight, though Doppo couldn't tell if it was due to his insomnia or from laying beside Jakurai. It wasn't as if this was the first time they'd shared a bed, but his body weighed so heavily, so uncomfortably, that he feared waking him up from his much needed rest with his bare existence. Honestly, he wouldn't have minded sleeping on the futon, or even the couch, but Jakurai insisted that it was fine and he wasn't one to argue with him.

As quietly as possible, Doppo turned over to see Jakurai sleeping away. He laid so still that the only indication he was alive was the steady rise and fall of his chest, his breaths barely audible within the silence of the room. A part of him was tempted to clutch onto the tail of his braid, plaited across his shoulder with not a strand out of place, but he fought the urge so as to not ruin the image of the sleeping beauty. Watching him deep in slumber, Doppo's lips quirked up regardless of his own fatigue. At least one of them was able to get some sleep.

The hands of the clock on Jakurai's side ticked by gratingly, reading 1:03 in an ever present reminder that work was steadily approaching. He watched as the minutes changed, every sixty seconds feeling like sixty lifetimes, before stifling a sigh and carefully pulling himself out of bed. Jakurai mentioned he had sleeping pills somewhere around, if he was remembering correctly. Normally he'd ask first, but he didn't dare wake him for something as small as this. If he could find them, he'd apologize first thing in the morning and buy replacements himself.

As his feet hit the cool, wooden floor, a low murmur made him freeze. He turned back, an apology ready on his tongue -- "Sorry for waking you up," "Sorry for taking things without asking" -- but Jakurai simply laid there the same way he left him. One beat, two beats, three beats, four; the sound didn't come back. Rubbing his ears, Doppo wondered if he was so tired that he'd started hearing things. He pushed himself off the bed when a groan filled the room.

He snapped back to Jakurai, still lying motionless but his features twisted in agitation. Doppo drew closer to his side, another groan escaping Jakurai's lips while his brows furrowed together.

"Jakurai?" Doppo shook his shoulder. His murmurs grew louder and his breathing became more erratic. Chest heaving heavily, his shoulders tensed and his hands clutched the duvet.

"Jakurai." Doppo shook harder, to which Jakurai's head jerked to the side. His braid became tousled as he began fidgeting, strands sticking to the sweat beads rolling down his face and neck. Biting his lip, Doppo watched as his body convulsed. Whatever he was dreaming of only seemed to be getting worse.

Breaking Jakurai's fingers free of their death grip on the duvet, Doppo grabbed his cold, clammy hands and squeezed hard. Hoping the gesture would have the same effect as it did on Hifumi during his nightmares, he tugged up.

"Jakurai!"

Jakurai's eyes shot open with a gasp, darting around the room as if in search for something -- or rather, like something was searching for him -- and his nails dug crater-deep crescents into Doppo's palm. He curled in on himself as he sat up, poised to protect himself as if he were under attack. His mouth hung open, breaths short and rapid, and finally his shaken gaze landed on him.

"...Doppo?"

"I'm here." Doppo squeezed harder. "You were having a nightmare, I think."

Running a hand down his face, the strands of Jakurai’s hair fell loose and clung to his skin which had taken on a deathly, pale hue.

"I... I believe that's right, yes." Nodding, he swallowed hard and his eyes fell to his lap. He shivered, the sensation rippling throughout his nerves and onto Doppo.

"What was it about?" Doppo asked, barely above a whisper. When Jakurai's fingers twitched, he hastily added, "I’m sorry. I mean, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

In the silence of the night, Jakurai's gasps echoed loudly throughout. He sat motionless hunched over his figure, save for the heaving of his chest as he took in air, deeply and desperately. His lavender locks curtained his hooded gaze, sockets holding empty eyes that dulled and slackened. As his breathing steadily returned to a normal rate, his grip on him loosened though he didn't let go. Likewise, Doppo remained equally as still -- scared that any movement would set him off or that any sound would send him into disarray again.

With a small voice, Jakurai broke the quiet.

"It's a dream I have often." Azure irises taking on a faraway look, he stared ahead at nothing in particular.

"...Yeah?" was all Doppo could respond with. Comfort might not be his strong suit, but at the very least, he could listen.

"I may have saved many lives on the battlefield, but I've also taken just as many and failed much more." Try as he might to keep his voice even, it quavered and shook as convulsions racked his body. Inching closer towards him, Doppo rubbed circles onto his hands with his thumbs. Jakurai's jaw clenched, the only response to his touch. "Those lives... in my dreams, they haunt me. The ones I failed curse me for abandoning them and the others try to drag me straight down to hell with them."

Eyelids shutting close, he shuddered. The wrinkles framing his eyes deepened, his cheek bones hollower. Hesitantly, Doppo wrapped an arm around him; after a moment, the other one followed and he embraced him tightly. His presence was all he could offer him, as little as it meant.

The clock's hands ticked on, and Jakurai's arms circled around his waist and he pulled him into his lap. Resting his chin atop his head, the beating of Jakurai's heart hammered wildly against his ear.

"Perhaps that’s my fate and I deserve it." Doppo's heart broke at how resigned he sounded, stomach churning at how weak his words were. Neither suited Jakurai, neither felt right. "I have been called a genius for my work, but sometimes I wonder if I truly am one when there were so many lives I couldn't help."

"That's not your fault," Doppo said, louder than intended. Jakurai's jaw clenched against his head, his hold on him trembling as it tightened. "You're -- You're just one person. You couldn't have possibly saved everyone. Not by yourself." Softly, he continued. "You did what you could and... I think that's enough."

A stillness fell over, and he felt Jakurai's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed his words. He made neither a move nor a sound, but the drumming of his heart slowed to a steadier tempo. An apology bubbled up on Doppo's tongue as the seconds of silence passed -- for overstepping his place, for butting into something he knew next to nothing about -- but Jakurai pressed his lips onto the top of his head before he could spit it out.

"Thank you, Doppo. I needed to hear that." He spoke quietly, but the fragility in his voice dissipated. Sitting back, he still wore an ashen expression, but the storm had left his eyes. Relief washed over Doppo at the small smile Jakurai gave him. Though not the strong and gentle face he was used to seeing, it was better than before.

"You're welcome," Doppo said, thankful for the darkness covering his blush. "I-I'm here for you, if ever you need someone to listen."

Another kiss met his forehead and Jakurai's fingers threaded through his hair, slowly and gingerly. "I know. Now, forgive me for disturbing you. Let's get back to sleep, shall we?"

"Haha, right..."

Deciding to keep his restlessness to himself, he followed Jakurai's lead and laid back down. Here, Doppo found himself in the same position as he was earlier: awake, with sleep far from his grasp. He should've been used to this by now but he suppressed his sigh, not wanting to burden Jakurai any further with his own problems. As he contemplated his previous decision of searching for sleeping pills, Jakurai shifted beside him and their fingers brushed against each other's.

"Doppo..." His name hung in the air, faintly like the sounds of cars driving by in the distance. "May I hold you?"

He waited a beat before hooking their fingers together. "Yeah."

Permission given, Jakurai wasted no time wrapping his arms around Doppo and cradling him. Doppo's head pressed up against his chest, his heartbeats playing a steady rhythm in his ear and his breaths a light breeze through the strands of his hair. Finding a comfortable spot atop his waist, Doppo's arms encircled him and their legs tangled together underneath the duvet. Despite everything, Jakurai's embrace was always warm.

Neither of them managed to fall asleep that night, but they were at least able to find some semblance of peace in each other.

viii.

Date nights where they actually went out were few and far in between considering their schedules, not that Doppo minded. The times where they'd fall asleep on each other on the couch were good enough for him, but he had to admit that going out for once was a nice change of pace. Although, yes, he much preferred the quiet night ins. he didn't care where they went nor what they did so as long as they were together.

Waiting in the living room, he checked his watch -- not out of dread, but out of anticipation for the evening ahead. They'd stopped by Jakurai's place first after finishing their shifts since he had some documents to drop off, though Doppo certainly wasn't complaining about the respite. Sinking into the couch, his eyelids fluttered closed and he pinched himself to stay awake as sleep tempted him. A dull thud came from further in the apartment, shaking the rest of his exhaustion off.

"Jakurai?"

No response.

Standing up and walking towards the bedroom, a sinking feeling fell through Doppo's stomach while he fought off his negative thoughts as best he could.

"Jakurai...? Oh --"

Crouched before his closet, a box had spilled over onto the floor that scattered an array of photographs and badges and other trinkets around Jakurai's feet. They laid there ignored, though, in favor for the photo he held in his hand. From his angle, Doppo couldn't make out the image but he could see the way he pressed his lips together in a fine line and the way his brow creased as he looked at it with hazy eyes.

Doppo fidgeted by the door. "Do you need help?"

Snapping out of his reverie, Jakurai blinked and turned his attention to him.

"My apologies for the delay, I..." He glanced back at the photograph. "I got distracted."

"It's okay," Doppo muttered as he hurried to his side.

He picked up the items with haste, trying his best not to dwell on them -- badges with symbols he couldn't identify, photographs with memories he wasn't privy to, mementos of a life Jakurai led without him in it. They held no meaning to him, though perhaps the lack of meaning was meaning in and of itself; for all they've gone through together, there was still so much he didn't know about him. In his peripheral, Jakurai worked at a much slower pace, or maybe it was more accurate to say not at all. Each emblem he turned over, each photograph he took, each piece of years gone by that he picked up was held with a delicacy that made him think they'd come alive and bite back if handled clumsily.

When he was done with his side, Doppo arranged everything he'd collected into a neat pile much like the many paperwork he'd done at work. Making sure not a thing was out of place, he held them out to him. But, Jakurai didn't take them. His face held a pensive expression, his azure eyes a still sea.

Jakurai clutched the photograph he'd been looking at when he entered the room. "Doppo, you were curious about these before, yes?"

"No," Doppo blurted out. At Jakurai's raised eyebrow, he scratched his chin and chuckled nervously. "Well, maybe a little bit. Just a little! You don't have to share anything you don't want to."

Taking the stack from him, carefully and cautiously, Jakurai sat down on the floor.

"I want to."

Doppo looked back and forth between Jakurai and the remnants of his past. "Are you sure? I mean, you don't have to feel obligated to, or anything."

Jakurai huffed a laugh, lips quirking up with a forlorn touch. "Yes, I'm very sure."

Moving over to make more room, he patted the empty space beside him. The seconds of the clock ticked a full rotation around the dial before Doppo crawled over and sat next to him. Their shoulders leaning against one another's, Jakurai handed him the photograph. It was the same one that he'd seen a while ago -- the group photo of The Dirty Dawg smiling together as if their reign wasn't fated to crash and burn, to destroy each other, to break apart in a matter of months for reasons he never dared to ask. Despite being a thin piece of paper, it weighed heavily between his fingertips.

"If... we're to have some sort of future together, I thought I ought to share these with you." Sitting right beside Jakurai like this, his soft voice reverberated throughout their shared space and vibrated through his touch. His hand covered his as he held the image of The Dirty Dawg as if to support him in the endeavor, a thumb running over the smiling faces. "A fair warning that the story behind them is rather ugly. That is, only if you do not mind listening."

For so long, Doppo had seen Jakurai as this faraway figure -- a genius among the replaceable, a legend among men, a god among mortals who'd simply blessed him with his presence. He'd pulled him out of the cacophony of the city and given him solace amidst the chaos. In a world that punished them for existing and cursed them for fighting back, Jakurai stood as an unwavering pillar, the white of his lab coat a sight he'd always be following but his figure one he'd never walk side-by-side with.

But as time went on, his image of him shifted.

Jinguji Jakurai was indeed a pillar that wavered -- a genius that knew not everything of the world and held finite patience, a legend that faltered and stumbled in the face on intimacy, a god that suffered through haunted memories and bore never fading scars. Yet somehow he stood strong and steadfast, resolute and firm in his beliefs, caring and gentle in his touch in spite of all that he faced. Neither a genius nor a legend nor a god he might be, but rather a man who felt, a man who hurt, a man who loved just as he did.

There were many sides of Jakurai that Doppo had come to see, so many things he'd come to experience. At the same time, the very proof of all the things he still didn't know stared back at him. The unreachable sat within grasp and the space separating them grew smaller and smaller with each passing day.

Shaking his head, Doppo leaned in closer. Perhaps Jakurai wasn't so far out of reach like he'd once thought.

"I don't mind."

[romancatholicreflections]

2nd January >> Fr. Martin's Gospel Reflections / Homilies on John 1:19-28 for the 2nd January: ‘Who are you?’

2nd January

Gospel (Europe, Africa, New Zealand, Australia & Canada)

John 1:19-28

'One is coming after me who existed before me'

This is how John appeared as a witness. When the Jews sent priests and Levites from Jerusalem to ask him, ‘Who are you?’ he not only declared, but he declared quite openly, ‘I am not the Christ.’ ‘Well then,’ they asked ‘are you Elijah?’ ‘I am not’ he said. ‘Are you the Prophet?’ He answered, ‘No.’ So they said to him, ‘Who are you? We must take back an answer to those who sent us. What have you to say about yourself?’ So John said, ‘I am, as Isaiah prophesied:

a voice that cries in the wilderness:

Make a straight way for the Lord.’

Now these men had been sent by the Pharisees, and they put this further question to him, ‘Why are you baptising if you are not the Christ, and not Elijah, and not the prophet?’ John replied, ‘I baptise with water; but there stands among you – unknown to you – the one who is coming after me; and I am not fit to undo his sandal-strap.’ This happened at Bethany, on the far side of the Jordan, where John was baptising.

Gospel (USA)

John 1:19-28

There is one who is coming after me.

This is the testimony of John. When the Jews from Jerusalem sent priests and Levites to him to ask him, “Who are you?” He admitted and did not deny it, but admitted, “I am not the Christ.” So they asked him, “What are you then? Are you Elijah?” And he said, “I am not.” “Are you the Prophet?” He answered, “No.” So they said to him, “Who are you, so we can give an answer to those who sent us? What do you have to say for yourself?” He said: “I am the voice of one crying out in the desert, ‘Make straight the way of the Lord,’ as Isaiah the prophet said.” Some Pharisees were also sent. They asked him, “Why then do you baptize if you are not the Christ or Elijah or the Prophet?” John answered them, “I baptize with water; but there is one among you whom you do not recognize, the one who is coming after me, whose sandal strap I am not worthy to untie.” This happened in Bethany across the Jordan, where John was baptizing.

Reflections (4)

(i) 2nd January

At the end of today’s gospel reading, John the Baptist declares to those who question him, ‘There stands among you, unknown to you, the one who is coming after me’. Jesus, God’s Son, the Word made flesh, was standing among them, but they were unaware of his significance. John knew who Jesus really was. He could see more deeply than those who were questioning him. He wanted to open the eyes of his contemporaries so that they could see Jesus as he saw him and come to know him as he knew him. Jesus was close to them, standing among them. Yet, he was also remote from them, because they were blind to who he was. God was present to them through Jesus, but they were unaware of it. John the Baptist could use the same phrase with reference to us today, ‘there stands among you, unknown to you’. Jesus, now risen Lord, stands among us. He is as present to us as he was to his contemporaries. Yet, he often stands among us, unknown to us. We do not always recognize his presence. We fail to appreciate the significance of his presence to us. We can sometimes live our lives as if he was not standing among us. We often need a John the Baptist figure to help us to see the Lord who is at the heart of our lives. We all need the guidance of others who see more deeply than we do. Others can help us to see the Lord who stands among us, but we can also help ourselves. We can learn to become more attentive to the Lord standing among us. We can become more responsive to the Lord’s daily invitation to ‘come and see’.

And/Or

(ii) 2nd January

From now until the end of the week, our gospel reading is taken from the first chapter of John’s gospel. Beginning at v. 19, which is where this morning’s gospel begins, we read through the chapter continuously until we reach the end of the chapter at v. 51. This morning, John the Baptist is asked one of the really important questions of life, ‘Who are you?’ We can spend most of our lives trying to answer the question, ‘Who am I?’ It is not a question that lends itself to a quick and easy answer. There is a sense in which we never really come to know ourselves fully. A first step in knowing ourselves is knowing who we are not, so that we don’t try to be someone we are not. John the Baptist comes across in the gospel reading this morning as knowing who he is not. He is not the Messiah, he is not Elijah, and he is not the prophet. John does not claim to be someone he is not. He not only knows who he is not, he knows who he is – the voice crying in the wilderness preparing people for the Lord’s coming. He is the witness, the person who points to Jesus and leads others to him. In a very real sense, that is what we are all called to be. Even though we might have difficulty fully answering the question, ‘Who are you?’ we can all give the answer, ‘I am a witness’. That is our calling, to point towards the Lord and to lead others to him by our lives.

And/Or

(iii) 2nd January

The question asked of John the Baptist in this morning’s gospel reading, ‘Who are you?’ is one of the great questions of life. We can struggle to answer the question, ‘Who am I?’ We can easily give an answer at a certain level to that question by telling people what we do, ‘I am an accountant’ or ‘I am a carpenter’. However, going below what we do to who we are in our core can be much more difficult. Also, our answer to that deeper question can change as we go through life. How we answer that question at this moment in our lives is not how we would have answered it earlier in our lives. For those of us who are people of Christian faith, our answer to that question will be deeply influenced by our relationship with Jesus, because that relationship, if it is alive and active, will touch us at a very deep level, at our core. Saint Paul is the great example of that truth. If he were asked, ‘Who are you?’ he might have answered along the lives of his statement in his letter to the Galatians, ‘it is no longer I who live but Christ who lives in me’. His identity had become a Christ identity. When John the Baptist was asked that question in today’s gospel reading, he answered that he was ‘a voice that cries in the wilderness’. His identity was shaped by his relationship with Jesus. He is the voice who witnesses to the Word that has become flesh. Our human identity will also be shaped by our relationship with Jesus, by our baptismal identity. Our own baptismal calling is to keep on growing into Christ so that our personal identity is more and more shaped by our relationship with him and we too can come to say with Saint Paul, ‘It is no longer I who live but Christ who lives in me’. The more we grow into Christ, the more we become more fully ourselves.

And/Or

(iv) 2nd January

This morning, John the Baptist is asked one of the really important questions of life, ‘Who are you?’ We can spend most of our lives trying to answer the question, ‘Who am I?’ It is not a question that lends itself to a quick and easy answer, because it is a probing question that enquires after what our values are, what is really important to us, what shapes how we live, what are gifts and limitations are. There is a sense in which we never fully answer the question, ‘Who are you?’ An important step in knowing ourselves is knowing who we are not, so that we don’t try to be someone we are not. John the Baptist comes across in the gospel reading this morning as knowing who he is not. He is not the Messiah, he is not Elijah, and he is not the prophet. He might have liked to be all of these people, but he knew in his heart of hearts he wasn’t. He does not claim to be someone he is not. He not only knows who he is not, he knows who he is. He is the voice crying in the wilderness calling on people to make a way for the Lord’s coming. He is the witness, the person who points to Jesus and leads others to him. In a very real sense, he is what we are all called to be. He embodies our Christian identity. Even though we might have difficulty fully answering the question, ‘Who am I?’ as followers of Jesus, we can all give the answer, ‘I am a witness’. That is our calling, to be the voice that leads others to the Word who became flesh and lives among us.

Fr. Martin Hogan, Saint John the Baptist Parish, Clontarf, Dublin, D03 AO62, Ireland.

Email: sjtbclontarf@eircom.net or  frmartinhogan@gmail.com

Parish Website: www.stjohnsclontarf.ie  Please join us via our webcam.

Twitter: @SJtBClontarfRC.

Facebook: St John the Baptist RC Parish, Clontarf.

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