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blessedarethebinarybreakers · 4 years

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Answer asap (I feel bad saying that, but I'm stuck). Do you have any resources for dating/not dating non-christians? A dear friend of mine told me they care for me, and I feel the same for them, but... all the resources online warn again and again not to date non-christians lest they endanger my faith. I feel like going forward with this would be ignorant at best and would set us both up for heartbreak. And I fear my fear itself would lead to me trying to convert them. But I still care for them.

Hey, anon! Thanks for reaching out -- the rhetoric among many Christians against interfaith relationships, particularly with the argument that they’re “unequally yoked,” is something I haven’t addressed in years, and have been meaning to discuss again.

Little disclaimer at the start that this stuff is so contextual, and it’s personal -- I don’t know your life as well as you do, or this friend of yours like you do. Maybe what i say doesn’t fit you and your situation.

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To begin, I firmly believe that interfaith relationships can be and often are truly beautiful, holy partnerships. (This includes relationships in which one or multiple members identifies as an atheist / otherwise doesn’t ascribe to a particular religion.)

When both (or all) members are respectful of one another’s beliefs, and find as much joy in learning as in teaching their partner(s), their unique perspectives can deeply enrich one another. You can bear good fruit together that glorifies God and nourishes others.

This being said, you definitely want to at least begin working through your worries and fears before starting to date this person. If you enter the relationship overwhelmed with fear or guilt about dating them, it’ll bring a lot of resentment and angst. The rest of this post points out things you’ll want to reflect on and read up on before entering this or any interfaith relationship -- and offers resources that can help.

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Interfaith Partners: Always “Unequally Yoked”?

I’m sure you’ve seen a certain phrase on those websites you mentioned, drawn from 2 Corinthians 6:14 -- “unequally yoked.” I’m going to end this post with some alternative ways of interpreting this verse, but what Christians who advise against interfaith relationships take it to mean is something like this:

Just as two animals yoked to the same plow should be of equal strength and on the same page so that one doesn’t do more of the work, or get tugged away from the work by the other one, two partners should also be of equal “spiritual” strength and on the same page when it comes to their faith...

And of course, these people will say, a person who is Christian is definitely spiritually stronger than any non-Christian -- and a non-Christian might just pull them away from The Way, getting them to skip church or prayers or even stop being Christian entirely.

But there are a lot of assumptions there that don’t hold true in every relationship, right? First off, who says every Christian is necessarily “spiritually stronger” than every non-Christian? To claim that is to assume that non-Christians don’t also have access to spirituality or to the Divine -- which I’m going to push against throughout this post.

Furthermore, the assumption that a non-Christian partner will definitely harm your own Christian faith doesn’t have to be true, as I’ll get to in a second.

So yeah, keeping these assumptions about an interfaith relationship being inherently “unequally yoked” in mind, and with a plan on returning to this phrase at the end, let’s move on to specific things you should think about before entering an interfaith relationship.

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Must a non-Christian partner “endanger” your faith -- or can they enrich it?

If being open to learning about how our fellow human beings perceive the world, humanity, and the divine “endangers one’s faith,” perhaps that kind of faith was not made to last. Perhaps it has to give way in order to birth a new, deeper faith -- a faith that is bold enough to wrestle with God as Jacob did; broad enough to survive questions and doubts and times of grief; and wise enough to perceive the Spirit blowing wherever She will (John 3:8), not only among Christians.

If your partner truly respects you and your faith even if it’s different from theirs, they’ll do what they can to help you be the best Christian you can be -- or at the very least, they will give you the space and time you need to go to church, pray, etc. And you will do the same, helping them to be the best Muslim, Buddhist, or simply person they can be.

I highly recommend asking this friend of yours before you start dating what their thoughts are on your being a Christian, and/or on Christianity in general.

Is it something that makes them happy for you? is it something that makes them deeply uncomfortable? or something that they don’t have strong feelings one way or the other on? .

How “involved” would they be open to being in your faith? Would they be interested in going to church with you, as long as they could trust you weren’t trying to force them into anything? Would they enjoy talking about your varying beliefs together and how they impact your lives? Or would they never ever want you to bring up Christianity (which I imagine for you would be a deal breaker)? .

Be open and honest with one another about what expectations you each have about things like boundaries around discussing faith, about time and space you each want for practicing your faith, etc. As you seem aware, it’s better to get all this clear before you start dating, to avoid problems later down the road!

For an example of what such discussions might look like, I found this story from Robert Repta, a Christian man married to a Jewish man. Their union, he says, has included working out what it means not only to be gay persons of faith, but also persons of two different faiths:

“Ultimately, what happened was that in our struggles to find ourselves, we ended up growing closer together. We both supported and challenged each other. We began asking each other bigger life questions and talking about religion, God, science. Both of our lives were evolving, and what started to happen was that we started seeing the similarities in our core beliefs more than the differences. Some of those beliefs even evolved along the way.

We both believed in God. We both believed that God is love. We volunteered together. He would occasionally come with me to church, and I would occasionally go with him to the synagogue. Eventually, I could see that the common thread between us was unconditional love. The same unconditional love of God.”

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On pressuring a non-Christian partner to convert -- assumptions about Christian superiority & fearing for their afterlife destination

It’s really good you recognize that it might end up being hard for you not to try to get this person to convert! Before dating them, you should keep reflecting on this and decide whether that’s something you can let go of or not. If it’s not, then you’re probably right in thinking this relationship won’t work out.

It would be highly disrespectful to this person you care about to pressure them to become a Christian in order for you to feel okay about being with them. (And for more thoughts on how evangelism and conversion as carried out by many Christians isn’t what Jesus had in mind, see this post.) Doing so would imply a lot of things, including that you don’t think they’re a worthy or equal partner unless they make this big change, that whatever beliefs or ideologies they currently hold are inferior to yours, etc.

In order for your interfaith relationship to go well, you would need to come to understand non-Christians as being equally made in God’s image, equally worthy of dignity, equally capable of doing good in the world. You’d have to come to believe that there is much of value within their own religion / ideology that you as a Christian could learn from.

Let’s bring in our lovely Christian/Jewish couple from before: as his relationship with David developed, Robert discovered that

“God is not conformed to this world we live in; God does not belong solely to the Pentecostals or the Baptists, to the Jews or Gentiles, to Muslims or Zoroastrians. Two of the most profound self-identifiers God calls himself in the Bible is “love” and “I am.””

Here are a few resources that can help you explore the idea that other religions are as valid as Christianity and also have much wisdom to bring to the world:

I highly recommend you check out the book Holy Envy by Barbara Brown Taylor to help you explore how you can be a devout Christian and learn from and form mutual relationships with persons who are not Christian. You can check out passages from the book in my tag here. .

You might also like my two podcast episodes on interfaith relationships (in general, not romantic ones, but the same material applies) -- episode 30, “No One Owns God: Readying yourself for respectful interfaith encounters” and episode 31, “It's good to have wings, but you have to have roots too": Cultivating your faith while embracing religious pluralism.” You can find links to both episodes as well as their transcripts over on this webpage. .

There might also be some helpful stuff in my #interfaith tag or #other faiths tag if you wander around. .

Simply getting to know whatever religion this friend does belong to (or what ideologies and value systems they maintain if they’re atheist / non-religious) can also be super helpful. Ask them what resources they can think of that can help get to know their religion as they experience it. Attend worship service (virtually works!), seek out folks on social media who share their religion, etc. I bet you’ll find a lot that you have in common -- and hopefully you’ll find some of the differences thought-provoking and enriching to your own understandings of Divinity!

I’m guessing a lot of your worry stems from the assumption that non-Christians don’t go to heaven. If you believe that not being a Christian leads to hell after death, it’s very hard to view non-Christians and their beliefs as equal to your own!

That Holy Envy book discusses this genuine fear many Christians have on behalf of non-Christians, and how to let it go. .

Here’s a post with links to other posts describing the belief that many faithful and serious Christians hold that non-Christians don’t all get whisked to hell. .

And a post on the harm done by fearmongering about hell. .

Finally, a little more on the academic side but if you’re interested in some history behind Christian views of hell that can help you see that there really is no one “true” belief here, check out the links in this post.

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Reinterpreting “unequally yoked”

I said we’d get back to this, and here we are! While the easiest to find interpretation of 2 Corinthians 6:14′s “Do not be unequally yoked together with unbelievers” is that it argues against interfaith marriage, there are other ways to read this text.

I adore this article I found on the passage from a Christian minister who is married to a Hindu monk -- “Unequally Yoked”: How Christians Get Interfaith Marriage Wrong.” Incredibly, Rev. J. Dana Trent writes that when she and her now-husband dug into 2 Corinthians 6:14 to see what it was all about, she found that

“An ancient scripture meant to deter us from getting involved with each other actually brought us together. Our core beliefs in God became the focus of our study and relationship, not the issues that divided us.”

She also explains that biblical scholars say this verse isn’t even specifically about interfaith marriage -- which becomes clear when you read the full chapter surrounding it! It’s more general -- about the hazards of “working with” an unbeliever.

And what exactly is an unbeliever? Paul and other “believers” of these very early days of Christianity had a different definition than we might today -- an “unbeliever” wasn’t synonymous with “non-Christian,” because Christianity hadn’t even solidified into an actual religion yet! Instead, a nonbeliever was "anyone exposed to but was not faithful to Christ’s teachings—someone not characterized by devotion, love, peace, mercy, and forgiveness.”

In other words, if a person in those early days was told about the good news of Jesus that entailed things like liberation of the oppressed and love of neighbor, they didn’t have to “become a Christian” to accept that good news. And thus, Rev. Trent continues,

“Today, my husband’s deep Hindu faith has taught me to dig deeper into what Jesus would have me do. Perhaps Paul might have even considered me an “unbeliever,” as I claimed to be a baptized Christian, but my life did not inwardly and outwardly reflect the Gospel. Since marrying Fred, I re-attuned my life to Christian spiritual practices: spending more time in contemplative prayer, practicing non-violence through a vegetarian diet, limiting my consumption, and increasing my service to others.

Much to many Christians’ dismay, it took a person of another faith—a seemingly “unequally yoked” partner, to strengthen my Christian walk.”

Isn’t it beautiful to hear how this relationship between a Christian minister and Hindu monk has born good fruit for both of them? They help one another become the best Christian and best Hindu they can be, respectively. They are both so deeply committed to faith -- that doesn’t sound like an “unequal yoking” to me.

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Whew, this got long! But it’s a big topic, and one I hope you’ll take the time to explore. Bring God into it; bring your friend into as much as they’re comfortable. And feel free to come back and ask me more questions as you go.

If anyone knows of other articles or other resources that explore the good fruit that can come from an interfaith partnership, please share!

#interfaith relationships #unequally yoked #progressive christians #interfaith dating #Anonymous #relationship tag

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heyheydidjaknow · 3 years

Text

It is 6 am. I know that it reads like I’ve never heard of pacing. Trust me, I’m aware. Quite frankly, I am entirely too tired to care. It might not even be as bad as I think it is. It’s possible, I guess, but not likely, I don’t think. I don’t have proofreaders, and it’s probably too edgy or too soon for more edge but you’re along for my ride and I’m sorry. I’ll probably rewrite it at some point, but right now I’m happy I’m even awake right now to post it. My eyes hurt and I'm a little queasy but we are powering through. Having said that, let's torture some fucking teenagers.

Chapter 12

Donatello stares at the small knife intensely.

It is an incredibly boring-looking one. Knowing as little as he does about culinary arts, he does not know the exact use of it, its size and shape giving him very little insight into its use in that environment. He is willing to make an educated guess and assume the blade itself is made of carbon steel, which is not exactly a strange choice for a knife in his opinion. It is not a combat or survival knife. It is hardly sturdy enough to last long in a combat setting. He is tempted to call Mikey to ask him to identify it for a second but thinks better of it.

After all, it fell out of your pocket. Questions would be asked.

He picks it up off the floor, weighing it in his hand. ‘This is a kitchen knife, right?’ He picks your jacket off the floor, folding it neatly and placing it on the back of a chair. ‘Why would she carry around a kitchen knife?’ He rests his head on his arms, holding the offending tool in front of his eyes, continuing to analyze it. ‘To fight? She knows carrying around a knife like this with no combat experience is a bad idea, right? Don’t people usually use pepper spray or something when they want to defend themselves?’

An image flashes into his head. You, standing alone in an alley, pointing this poor excuse of a weapon at a member of The Foot or the Purple Dragon. You, falling back and hitting your head and bleeding out with a knife sticking in your side because you fell on it wrong—‘It’s not even in a sheathe’—and trying to crawl back out into the street, begging to god not to—

He blinks, noticing his knuckles going pale around the handle, mouth weirdly dry.

He swallows. He forces his grip to loosen. ‘That’s dramatic.’ He gets up, slipping the knife back into the pocket of your jacket, hoping he put it in the right one. ‘She’s fine. She’s probably just scared after everything that’s happened. It won’t come to that.’

He sets back down, picking the last gas mask up and turning it over in his hands to give him something to do. He will not have time to properly test whether it works exactly as planned, but he is fairly certain that it and its brothers should allow them to breathe with little difficulty when they need to go into the TCRI building through the elevator shaft. If that is the plan they go with, anyways-- he had elected to stay out of the planning party, seeing as creating explosives strong enough to destroy the portal is enough of a challenge on its own, and he has faith in you and his eldest brother to come up with a good course of action. You guys always did. Bradford was dead after all, a fact that he had been informed made their lives considerably easier. In your words, “Mousers are the fucking worst, and if Bradford had gone off and recruited Stockman, we would have to deal with all of that way sooner.” You had quickly admitted that you did not know how long the peace would last, but you seemed pretty satisfied by the way things were happening overall, despite his accidentally causing the power cell to be stolen—“We’ll have the whole thing under control after this mission, don’t you worry.”

You had also claimed that you had the staking out of Shredder’s lair under control, but that is neither here nor there.

The door to his lab slides open. “Donnie,” you call, “we need to go over the game plan. How’re the explosives coming?”

‘Why is there a knife in your pocket instead of a taser?’ “Theoretically? Well.” He shrugs, getting to his feet. “I can’t really test if they work, but they’re good to go, probably.”

You smile teasingly. “They’re not gonna go off randomly?”

“Probably not.”

“Probably?” Your smile widens.

“No promises.”

“Well,” you grin, “I sure hope they’re good explosives in that case; wouldn’t wanna almost bleed out again.”

His stomach churns. “For sure,” he agrees, crossing the room as you start to “walk” back to the war room/kitchen. “Have you guys decided on anything?”

“Well,” you sigh, “Leo’s bein’ Leo if that’s what you mean. I don’t mind their plan, mind, but it seems a bit silly.” You hold the door open for him. “After you.”

“Dude, totally.” Mikey nods eagerly in agreement to something someone said. “I can get him on board, on prob.”

“Good.” Leonardo taps his finger against the blueprint splayed across the counter. “Now all we need is a big enough box.”

“There should be crates down by the docks.” Raphael looks over at you. “Any stores up top sell ‘em that big?”

“Probably.” You lean against the doorway as Donnie steps past you. “You guys know we don’t know what they’re breathing, right?”

“Yeah. So?” The green-eyed brother gestures to him. “He can figure out letting us breathe.”

“Can and did, but I’m not sure that’s what she’s talking about.” The tall boy crosses his arms across his chest absentmindedly. “If the gases they’re breathing are highly flammable—which, knowing the absurd biology of the Kraang, isn’t out of the question—” You stifle a laugh, covering your mouth, “using explosives in there might blow the roof off the place.”

“That’s good, ain’t it?”

“Not If you don’t want to be pressure cooked, no.”

“Is there some other way to destroy the portal?” Leonardo laced his fingers together, leaning his elbows on the worn island.

“Without knowing the metal they’re using?” He shakes his head. “Even if we did, I’m not sure if I could safely create hydrochloric or nitric acid, especially on such short notice, let alone transport it.”

“Then we’re screwed.” Raph looks off. “Perfect.”

“Unless you feel confident in busting out of that building on a time crunch, we’d need someone to be close enough to the bomb to actually use the detonator. Seeing as we need all hands on deck, we really don’t have anyone that could fit the bill.” Even with his back to you, you notice his tension. “Unless you guys just want to crack a window or something, but that would kinda negate the point of doing the whole stealth thing, setting off an obvious alarm.”

“That’s not true.” Mikey points out the obvious. “Y/N could do it.”

“I’m down,” you shrug, moving your hands to slide in your nonexistent pockets. “You’d need to let me know when to do it so I don’t fry you guys, but I might as well add domestic terrorism to my non-existent rap sheet.” You smile wryly at that.

You think you hear Donnie mutter something before speaking up. “I’m not sure there are any buildings high enough up or close enough to be an effective--”

“Sure there is.” Mikey, again. “There’s that apartment building across that alley. It’s plenty tall.”

“Oh yeah, huh?” Raph smiles sharply. “Even has a fire escape to climb.”

The idea of climbing anything anywhere makes you want to vomit, but the idea of having to deal with whatever goes on with the saving of Leatherhead later is enough to ignore it. ‘Stop being a pussy,’ you reprimand yourself, feeling vertigo already. ‘It’s a fucking ladder. A twenty-story high ladder, yeah, but it's still just a ladder.’

“She can’t use a ladder,” the tallest brother protests. “She can’t use one of her legs.”

“Then she can take the stairs, or we can carry her there before we go.” You take slow, deep, quiet breaths. “It’s no big deal. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind doing it, right?”

You are suddenly incredibly grateful that you are leaning against a doorframe. The idea of being carried over buildings, twenty stories into the air, makes the ground sway underneath you. You subtly dig your fingernails into the walls on impulse, trying to slowly relieve the pressure.

“It’s not about—What are you even talking about?” You barely register his bashful embarrassment, swallowing thickly. “I’m just saying…”

You can barely hear them, shutting your eyes as you feel sticky, warm blood on your fingertips, dripping down in between your digits. You wipe the phantom liquid off on your jeans quickly, thoroughly, opening your eyes to see what you register as the other three ragging on Donnie about something you do not catch. You lock your knees to keep them from shaking as bad as your hands, ignoring the nausea and staring straight ahead. ‘Your folks didn’t raise a wuss. Your hands aren’t wet. Snap out of it.’

You force yourself to focus on counting threads in your sleeves. You get to thirty-five before you feel someone shaking your shoulder.

“Dude, you alright?” Mikey was waving a hand in front of your face, having apparently crossed the room from his seat on the counter. “Hello?”

Your eyes snap up from your wrist to look at him. “Hm? Yeah, totally.” You nod. “Just zoned out is all.”

He put the back of his hand to your forehead as if he knew what he was looking for. “You sure? You look sick.”

You nod again. “Just didn’t sleep well last night. I’m fine.”

“Do you plan on zoning out during the mission?” Raphael smirked. “Don—”

“No,” you cut him off sharply. “I’ll be fine. When are you guys going?”

“A couple of hours.” Donnie is staring holes into you. “The hours listed online say actual people work until then, but the actual building is open for another few hours, so by the time we get far enough down to hopefully not feel the effects of the blast, we won’t have to worry about witnesses or people getting caught up in it.”

“Awesome.” You start out the door, using the walls to limp back to the lab. “Meetcha back here in an hour.”

He runs after you. “Need me to come with you? I can help pick a crate out.” The way his words spill out is not lost on you. “O-or I could drive you there if you want—it’s bad to walk around so much on your leg, especially at night.”

“If you don’t mind vomit in your party-wagon, sure.” You slip through the gap in the door, grabbing your jacket and pulling it on. “Honestly, Donnie, I’m fine.”

“But—”

“I walk home all the time.” You use the chair to roll over to your walker, snapping it open and getting to your feet. “I’m just going to go to a hardware store, buy a couple of the largest boxes they have, grab some dinner, and come back. Besides, you have to worry about getting in, right? I’ll be fine, really.”

He wants to argue. He does not.

“Text me if you need anything while I’m out.” You maneuver past him with a bit of difficulty. “Want me to pick up some pizza while I’m out?”

“… yeah.” He nods, shaking off the feeling sinking into his gut with a bit of difficulty. “If you want some, you’ll have to eat it on your own, though.”

You smile back at him. “I’ll get something else to eat,” you roll your eyes, voice oozing with honey seemingly unintentionally. “Don’t you worry too hard about me, now; your brothers give you a hard enough time as is.”

“Don’t get yourself killed and I’ll think about it,” he jokes, mostly serious.

You laugh. “I’ll try, Dad.”

He has never noticed how loud you walk until today. Maybe it is just that it is unusually loud in comparison to him and his brothers, or maybe it is the sound of it knocking around the concrete walls of the lair bouncing the sound off the walls, but he cannot help but notice it, how easily he can identify where you are just by listening. How has he never noticed that? ‘You could hear her down the street, walking past. Anyone with ears could tell where she is, no problem.’

He feels himself grip onto the door to keep himself from running after you and insisting he come with you. ‘If someone can hear her walking down the street, someone can hear her scream. They’ll call someone. Who would leave a teenage girl to get attacked?’ He does not answer his question.

He shuts the door. ‘And she has a point. I still need to figure out how to get us into TCRI without the cameras catching us.’ He sits back at his workstation to think. ‘It doesn’t have to be too advanced. A remote-controlled dolly wouldn’t take much time to build, and I have the code already.’

It is not an effective distraction, but it is enough to preoccupy him for a solid half an hour.

You are back at the time you say you are going to be back. The trip did not take you long, although carrying the boxes and food was an unforeseen challenge, and you bought yourself a burrito and soda, so all is well. You and the guys eat in the kitchen, you do not have another episode and, all in all, you almost forget about the fact you will have to be carried up a twenty-story building.

Standing and staring up at the building they had ended up next to is an easy reminder.

You swallow your dinner back, mouth dry. ‘Commit.’ You fold your walker up, hiding it behind a dumpster and hooking your arms around Donnie’s neck before you can chicken out, shutting your eyes tight, the humming of their van—you had walked—doing nothing to ease your nerves. You hear the others say something before the engine roars back to life, the tires squealing against the asphalt as they drive off.

“I’m not going to drop you,” he promises, barely noticing the extra weight as he hooks one of his arms under your thigh to pull your body flush against his. Your legs immediately tighten into a vice-like grip around his middle, pulling him even closer.

“Fucking better not.” He starts to scale the building with a bit of difficulty, with one arm otherwise preoccupied. “I’ll haunt your ass.”

He smiles at that. He jumps up, grabbing onto the railing of a fire escape and earning a squeak of terror and a quiet string of obscenities from you. He takes longer than usual out of necessity but finds a quiet joy in how hard you cling to him, swallowing laughs drawn out by your swears—his personal favorite is, “Oh fuck me Mother Mary!” which is a result of him overshooting the railing, resulting in both of you violently swinging back and forth for a time.

“Are we on solid ground?” Your voice is pleading.

“We’re on the roof, yeah.”

You let go, sliding down to your knees and lacing your fingers together behind your neck, breathing for the first time in the eternity—two minutes—it had taken to get there. You want to cry, your heart pounding out of your chest as you try to catch your breath.

“Are you okay?”

You nod once, shifting back and putting your head between your knees to regain your head.

‘Did I do something wrong?’ He crouched down in front of you, concerned. “You sure?”

You nod again.

“Are you being honest?”

“I will be in a sec,” you snap shakily.

He backs off, staying in that position.

You give yourself a count of fifteen before looking back up at him. “I’m good.” You take a deep breath, pulling yourself into him again. “Let’s do this shit before I’m not.”

The journey over is painfully silent, other than your guys’ breathing. Balance is the only real problem throughout. Holding you and making sure not to crush you makes the normal measures he would normally use to soften his falls impossible, meaning his jumps cannot be as high or far as normal—the last thing you need on top of everything else is a concussion. The trip might have been rendered shorter had it not been for the need for the Kraang to know nothing of their whereabouts, but he does not think it is too long until he moves to let go of you.

You do not let go of him.

“Y/N?”

Nothing.

“Y/N,” he says again, “we’re here.”

You do not move to let go of you, your heartbeat thundering against his chest.

“I’m going to set you down.” He unhooks your legs, lowering himself and setting you on the floor. “See?” He unlatches your arms, gently pulling you away from him.

Your face is white as a sheet, mind only barely registering the fact you were on solid ground. He would be concerned you were dead had it not been your incredibly fast pulse. You stared straight ahead, eyes unfocused.

You blink, pushing the hair out of your face as you get to your feet. “Sorry,” you mumble. “Zoned out. Tired.”

He hesitantly gives you the detonator. “Alright,” he relents. “You know the plan, right? You remember it still?”

“I’m scared, not dumb.” Your face flushes. “Sorry. That was mean.”

He blinks, confused. “It’s fine,” he shrugs. “Lack of sleep can cause irritability, especially in teenagers.” His voice is soft despite his own anxiety about the whole plan. He hands you your phone. “I’ll come back to pick you up. If I don’t in two hours, text me. If I don’t respond…” he trails off.

Your stomach drops. “You will,” you assure him firmly. “I know you will.”

“If I don’t,” he nods in agreement, if only for your sake, “hell will’ve frozen over anyway.”

You chuckle nervously at that. You reach over, cupping his face in your hands. “Seriously, though,” you make him look at you properly, “kick their asses for me.”

He smiles, his face heating up under your hands. “You got it.” He gets up. “See ya, then.” He smiles tipsily, waves, and runs off.

You watch him bound rooftops, grateful he had seemingly not noticed the violent shaking of your hands as you set the electronics down. You swallow again, dragging yourself and leaning your back against the ledge, crossing your legs in front of you. You lean over, placing the detonator down next to you carefully and picking your phone up. You shakily input the passcode, turn the volume as low as it would go, and press the speaker to your ear, sinking into a song with a slow exhale of breath. While you had refused yourself any illicit substances for the same reason you had gotten rid of your sleeping pills, you saw no issue with relying on music for some stress relief, the familiarity of the slower song letting your heartbeat match its rhythm.

You reach down, pulling your pant leg up and carefully peeling the tape from your good leg, wrapping your fingers around the handle of the paring knife and holding it at your side. Sure, you know, logically, it would do little but hinder you in a fight, but you felt as though you needed something, anything to make you feel less weak. You already feel the embarrassment from clinging onto him so tightly, tears pricking at your eyes. “You’re the literal definition of a damsel in distress,” you mumble, scoffing at yourself. “A young, unmarried woman who is in distress. A crazy damsel in distress at that.” You blink them away. “God, you’re really fucking pathetic, huh?” You chuckle, swallowing again and pressing the phone closer to your ear. “You’re almost a fucking adult and you’re scared of a little height and a little blood. Perspective, Y/N.”

It feels like an hour of sitting, knees now at your chest as you listen to music to take the edge off—‘Like taking ibuprofen for an amputation.’ Regardless of how effective it is, it does something, at least, and that is all you can ask for right now.

You jump out of your skin when your phone buzzes with a text. You fumble with it, pulling it to your face to read Casey asking if you were still free next Tuesday for his stupid fucking game. You text him back that, yes, you are, and hope he stubs his toe for the false alarm.

The text comes at eleven-o-three.

You almost drop the phone, the message “NOW” crossing your screen. You pick the device up carefully, craning your neck back to glance at the building across the street, feeling as though you missed something incredibly important despite knowing the contrary. You swallow one more time and slam your hand down on the button.

The sound of the explosion roars in your ears, your eyes widening at the light now illuminating the roof, images of that night burning in your head and squeezing your throat. You drop the detonator, covering your ears as the ground in front of you is seemingly set alight. It barely registers to you that it is a cold autumn night. Why would you care when all you can hear is screaming? Why bother when your heart is begging to be let out of your chest, when your blood is pooling under you and all your scars are open? All you can see as you shudder, shutting your eyes tightly, is that man’s sides slashed with glass, warm red dripping out of him and onto the dashboard.

You look up, choking on your fear.

You remember what you forgot.

The walls of the top three floors of TCRI?

They are made entirely of the glass now showering down on you.

Table of Contents

Chapter 11

Chapter 13

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mybeautifulchristianjourney · 3 years

Text

Devotional Hours Within the Bible

by J.R. Miller

Looking One's Soul in the Face

"Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the everlasting way." - Psalm 139:23-24

It takes courage to pray this prayer, "Search me, O God, and know my heart!" Not all men can do it. Many people fear to look into their own heart. If by some divine revealing, we were made to see ourselves as we are - all the evil that is in us, our face would blanch into deathly paleness. It takes courage to ask God to search one's inner life - and show one one's sins.

It takes honesty, too, to pray this prayer. The poet meant that every wrong thing found in his heart, under the clear light of God's Spirit, he would cast out. Some people do not want to find their own sins - because they do not want to give them up. They do not wish to discover their secret faults, because they love them and desire to keep them. We cannot pray this prayer - if we are not ready and willing and eager to have Christ save us from whatever evil way, whatever sinful habit, feeling, disposition, or temper - we may discover in ourselves. It takes honesty, therefore, and sincerity, to pray God to search us.

The writer asks God to search him. He does not say he will search himself. An ancient maxim was, "Know yourself." But no man can really know himself, in the depths of his being - unless God holds the lamp to shine in the darkness. God is light. Christ is the world's only light. None but God can truly search us - and show us to ourselves. The poet invites divine searching .

Neither does he ask his neighbors to search his ways and thoughts. Men are willing enough, ofttimes, to judge their fellow men, to find and expose their faults, to proclaim their sins. It is easier to confess other people's sins - than one's own. The Pharisee was quite free in searching the publican and declaring his wrongdoings, though he saw no faults and sins in himself! The poet might have found men who would be willing to search him and try him and point out his blemishes and his wicked ways. But this, he did not ask. Men's judgments are imperfect. Sometimes they are uncharitable, even unjust. There are lives that go down under men's condemnation, whom love would have saved. At the best, men are only ignorant or partial judges. They cannot see our motives - and ofttimes they condemn as evil - that which is noble and beautiful, and approved as right and praiseworthy, that which before God is unworthy and sinful. It is not enough for us to ask men to search us and try us, to say to a friend, "Tell me of my faults and blemishes, that I may put them away."

Dr. Stalker tells the story of a young composer whose work was being performed in a great music hall. A throng was listening and applauding. But the young man seemed to be indifferent to all these tokens of approval. All the while his eye was fixed on one man who sat at the center of the hall. This was his old master, and the musician cared more for his opinion - than for that of the thousands of other listeners; and was thrilled more by his faintest look or gesture of approval, than by all the thunderous cheers of the throng.

It matters very little to us what men may say - either in praise or in blame - of our conduct, or our deeds. But there is One who sits at the center of all things, who is perfect in wisdom, love, and righteousness, and whose judgments are unerring. We should want always to know what He thinks of our acts, words, dispositions, and thoughts. Though all the world applauds what we do, if on His face there is no pleasure, if we see there the shadow of disapprobation, what a mockery is men's applause! On the other hand, if the world sneers, condemns, and blames; if men have for us only scorn, reproach, and persecution; and if, meanwhile, turning our eyes toward the heavenly throne, we see in the divine face - the smile of pleasure and approval, what need we care for either the favors or the frowns of men? It is to God we should turn - for the searching of our lives. No other judgment will avail.

It is better and safer always, to fall into the hands of God, than into the hands of men. God is kindlier and juster than men. Nobody understands you - as God does. Nobody knows your infirmities and has such patience with them - as God has. He knows our frame. He remembers that we are dust. He understands our weakness. He knows human life - this blessed Lord of ours - by actual human experience. He knows all the elements that enter into human struggle, and, therefore, is fitted for sympathy. We never need be afraid to open our heart to Him, for He will never be unjust with us. We never need be afraid to ask Him to search us, for if we truly want to give up our sins when we discover them - we shall find Him most merciful and gracious.

It will be worth our while to think seriously of the things in us - that only God can see. There are sins which are hidden from ourselves, of which our conscience is not aware - our unwitting, unknown errors - the evil in us which lies too deep to be discovered. There is a SELF in us, which even we ourselves do not see. There are depths of our being, into which our own eyes cannot pierce. Even our own knowledge of ourselves, is not final. You may say that you know of no sins, errors, or faults in yourself, and you may be sincere; still this is not evidence that you are sinless.

In one of his epistles Paul says, "I know nothing against myself." He was not living in the practice of any sin, so far as he knew. He did no wrong thing willingly and knowingly. He cherished no secret sin. Every fault he discovered, he put away. He knew nothing against himself. But he added, "Yet am I not hereby justified; but he who judges me is the Lord." The bar of conscience in our own breast, is not the final court. It is not enough to have the approval of our own heart. There are errors and evils in the holiest life on earth - which only God's eye can detect. We must ask God to search us, if we would be made absolutely clean. God knows all our past. We do not. There is much that we have forgotten. The memory of many of our deeds has faded out. But God has forgotten nothing. Our forgetting our sins - does not blot them out. The evil things we do not remember, are there yet.

We cannot see our own faults - even as our neighbors can see them. There is wisdom in the wish that we might see ourselves, as others see us - for it would free us from many a blunder and foolish notion. We are prejudiced in our own favor. We are disposed to be charitable toward our own shortcomings. We make all sorts of allowances for our own faults. We are wonderfully patient with our own weaknesses. We are blind to our own blemishes. We look at our own good qualities through magnifying glasses; and at our faults and errors with lenses reversed - making them appear very small. We see only the best of ourselves. If you were to meet yourself on the street some morning - that is, the person God sees you to be - you would probably not recognize yourself!

We remember the little story that the prophet Nathan told King David, about a rich man's injustice toward a poor man, and how David's anger flamed up. "This man must die!" cried the king. He did not recognize himself - in the man he so despised, until Nathan quietly said, "You are the man!"

We are all too much like David.

If the true chronicle of your life were written in a book, in the form of a story, and you were to read the chapters over - you probably would not identify the story as your own! We do not know our real self. We do not imagine there is so much about us that is morally ugly and foul, that is positively wicked. But God searches the innermost things of our life!

God sees into the future and knows where the subtle tendencies of our life are leading us. We do many things which to our own eyes, appear innocent and harmless - but which have in them a hidden evil tendency which some day will come to ripeness. We indulge ourselves in many things which may not appear sinful - but which leave on our soul a touch of blight, a soiling of purity. We permit ourselves to grow into a hundred little habits, in which we see no danger - but which meanwhile are weaving their fine gossamer threads into a net for our souls, or twisting their invisible filaments into a rope which some day will bind us hand and foot! We spare ourselves little self-denials, thinking there is no reason why we should make them, not aware that we are neglecting God-given duties, and refusing to take up crosses laid at our feet by the Master, thus failing in complete faithfulness. We form friendships which become very dear to us - but which insidiously harm us, weakening our life's purpose or drawing us away from God.

The peril in all these things, lies not so much in the mere acts or indulgences of the hour - as in the things to which they will lead. We have no eyes to see the hidden danger in these "no harms" in our life - but God detects the peril, and sees what the end will be.

A popular writer tells the story of a dream which a man had. He had left his English home and was in India. He had done many things which would have pained his mother's heart, if she had known of them. One night he dreamed that he saw a drunken man enter his room. As the moonlight fell on the man's face, making every feature visible, a terror more terrible than mortal had ever known before seized upon the dreamer. He saw that the face was his own - but marked and scarred with the furrows of disease and much evil-doing - white, drawn, and grown old. It was a glimpse of what he was coming to, if he did not quickly change his wrong course.

There is another kind of hidden faults. There are things in many of us, no doubt, which we regard among our strong points, certainly fair and commendable traits or qualities - which in God's eye are sore blemishes! Good and evil in certain qualities, lie not far apart. It is easy for devotion to principle - a good thing; to take the form of obstinacy - a very unlovely thing. It is not hard for zeal for orthodoxy, to pass into intolerance and bigotry. Self-respect, consciousness of ability, easily degenerate into prideful self-conceit. Gentleness readily becomes weakness .

A man may be giving his life, in the larger sense, to the work of Christ, doing great things for the church - while in his own home, with those nearest to him, he is living like a beast! We see this kind of fault cropping out in our neighbor's character and life, and we say, "What a pity so fine a character is so marred!" Yes, and our neighbor looks at us, and says, "What a pity that with so many excellences, he has these blemishes and faults!" Sin is deceitful.

The substance of all this is, that besides the evil which others see in us, and which we see in ourselves; all of us have undiscovered errors and faults - which only God can see!

We ought never to shrink from learning our faults. He is a coward who does. Moreover, he is making a fearful mistake, who blinds himself to the faults in his own heart and life. He is refusing to see a danger which by and by, may work his ruin! Every true man should be glad always to learn of any hidden fault he has.

Ruskin says, "Count yourself richer - that day you discover a new fault in yourself; not richer because it is there - but richer because it is no longer a hidden fault! And if you have not found all your faults, pray to have them revealed to you, even if the revelation must come in a way that hurts your pride!"

Secret, undiscovered faults - are more perilous than discovered faults. Open sins are enemies in the field, undisguised, recognized as enemies. Hidden faults are enemies concealed, traitors in our camp, passing for friends! No godly, true, and brave man will permit a discovered sin or fault - to stay in his life. He will fight it to the death. But his undiscovered sin or fault, lurks and nests in his heart while he knows it not, and breeds its evil in his very soul! Before he is aware of its presence - it may eat out the very heart of his life - and poison the springs of his being!

A fire broke out in a large storage building in the morning - but it had been smouldering all night, and, undiscovered, eating its way among the bales, so that when discovered the whole interior was a mass of fire, and there was only the shell of the building left. Just so, hidden faults destroy lives, and none but God knows the destruction that is going on - until the fatal ruin is wrought. We ought to pray God continually, to search us, and save us from undiscovered sins .

Hidden faults in us - will hinder our spiritual growth. They also make us unfit for God's work. When Canova, the sculptor, was about to begin his statue of Napoleon, his keen eye saw a tiny reddish tinge in the upper part of the splendid block of marble out of which he was to hew the statue. The stone had been brought at great expense from Paris. Common eyes saw no flaw in the stone - but the sculptor saw it, and the stone was rejected.

May it not be so ofttimes, with lives which face great opportunities? God's eye detects in them some undiscovered flaw, or fault, some tiny tinge of marring color. God desires truth in the inward parts. The life must be pure and white throughout. He who cherishes a secret sin - is balking God's purpose in himself. God cannot use him for the noble task or service. Because of the secret sin - he is rejected.

Are we ready to make the prayer for divine searching ? Are we willing to have God search us - and find every secret, hidden sin in us? Are we willing for Him to go down into our heart, among our thoughts and affections and desires, and find and reveal to us every way of wickedness He discovers? Then are we willing to give up, tear out, and cast away forever from us, everything that God finds that is not holy?

"Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the everlasting way!"

#J.R. Miller #Looking One's Soul in the Face #Devotional Hours Within the Bible #Psalm 139:23-24 #April 2 #2021

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theasteriae-arc · 4 years

Text

THE INTERVIEW.

( or, when sebastian met katherine. the discord thread between @epiitaphs & myself, feat. our muses squabbling over @diabolicaltendencies’ jim )

WHITEHALL, c. 2009.

Her heels make an impressive racket on the tiles, the sound of her footsteps echoing in the corridor like there’s an army of interrogators on their way to sink their teeth into him. Sebastian Moran. The slick haired, sharp tongued politician she had never liked—not even before she’d found out Jim was screwing him. It was just a shame that the thick carpet in his secretary’s office—in his office—muffled the quick ratatat of those stilettos. Her war cry. “No. Excuse me, madam, you can’t- Have you got an appointment? You can’t go in there without an appointment.” Kate ignored her and opened the door to Sebastian’s office. “My name is Katherine Conway,” she said crisply to the man behind the desk. “You’ll want to see me.” And without waiting to be invited, she took a seat across from him, putting her handbag down, and folding her hands expectantly in her lap.

Sebastian is, as always, busy. Everything's manageable at the moment - neither the country nor the party are falling into the abyss, but that doesn’t mean that he's got time to rest. There’s people and policy to keep up to date on, and he can't afford to ever fall behind. Which is why he makes sure to keep a couple steps ahead of where everyone’s supposed to be. It's what got him through school and through the first years of his job. It's also what keeps him at the office late, though that's decreased over time now that Jim's around. Much more appealing to be able to come home to someone and not just the cats. There was a commotion outside, Sebastian looking up from his work just as the door opened. “An interesting opening statement, Katherine Conway,” he replied. The name seemed familiar but not enough to be someone he kept active tabs on. “Will I?” It seemed very much like he would, given that she had clearly decided to make herself home. A nod at the secretary in the doorway and the door was shut. “In that case, I suppose I'd like to know just what it is that you think is so important to require an urgent, unscheduled meeting. My time is valuable and I have later meetings, so brief is best.”

“Cancel them. I’m here to talk about James, and knowing him, that could well take all night.”

And wouldn’t he just love that? There was a bitter twist to her lips as she continued, “He called me last weekend, told me about the two of you. How serious would you say it was?” He had a pot of pens on his desk, sleek and black with shiny gold hooks so that he could slip one into his pocket without fear of it falling out. She reached forward to take one, testing its weight in her hand, twirling it in between her fingers. “Serious enough for him to call, I suppose. But not serious enough for him to have told you everything, am I right? Didn’t want you to run a background check on him?” Her free hand disappeared into her pocket and came out with a card. Katherine Conway, Named Partner at Conway O’Kelly, an all-female chambers in Dublin. There had been a glint of recognition in his eyes when he’d repeated her name back to her and she was sure this was why; he knew of her work, not her history with his boyfriend. She’d enjoy telling him then. “Well, let me clear up some of the confusion. I used to be his girlfriend. And he wants to introduce you to the daughter we share. So, I wanted to meet you first, to make sure I was happy with that. Politicians, you know, they’re not the most trustworthy people.”

“James, you say? That sounds rather serious.” He made no move to cancel the meetings. He was fairly certain the first one could go on without him, though he’d miss out. But they'd cross that bridge if they came to it. If this was about Jim, he'd rather hear what she had to say, but he didn't intend to be pushed into any particular action. Jim had called her? What could he possibly be up to? “Quite serious, I’d say. I assume you read the news.” If she wanted details, she could refer to that. He watched as she took a pen, wondering just what her intentions where, what her connections to Jim might be. Sebastian didn't indicate an answer one way or another to the first question. “He’s told me more than enough and I have respected his privacy when asked to do so.” Jim’s privacy. Not that of others, but that wasn't something he was going to admit to. Not when she'd given him one small fact - that Jim had called. Fact 2: Sebastian hadn't known. Fact 3: Sebastian didn't know everything.

She pulled out her card - as if that would give him much more information. It’d give him information that he could find, which was exactly what this meeting was not about. This meeting was about gaps in knowledge and Sebastian hated being on the wrong side of that. She was more than simply her job and title - if she knew Jim, that is. “Thank you for the clarification. It's much appreciated.” The thin smile on his face suggested otherwise. That she was the mother was a surprise, but she didn't have to know that. “I’d be happy to meet his child, should I pass inspection.” That information hadn't been as much from Jim. “Some might say the same for your profession. I’d know - did you look into me at all?” He really hoped so, or he'd be sincerely disappointed. She'd shown initiative so far and it'd be unfortunate if that ended up being a false lead. Time for a little bit more of a gamble. “He did mention you, by the way. As a detail. Youthful mistakes, you know.”

Nothing about her expression, her demeanour, changed. She didn’t miss a breath or move a muscle. Not quite relaxed, because from her posture it was clear that she meant business, but authoritative. Refusing to be riled. Did you look into me at all? Ha. She wanted to scoff—the Dubliner in her who’d grown up in the wrong part of the city wanted to spit—but she didn’t. Instead, she smiled. “Of course. Sebastian Moran, graduated top of his class from Magdalen College, Oxford. Fast tracked into politics, no doubt helped by his Daddy, who’s the Labour Whip in the House of Lords. Sebastian Moran who dislocated his shoulder climbing up the drainpipe of his family home during a scrap with a sibling.” The information about Oxford and his father, she could have got from anywhere. The more personal details, though, they’re not such common knowledge. She could feel his eyes scanning her face, trying to determine her source. “Your sister told me. Moira. Well, obviously. Alex doesn’t talk, does she?” Kate’s smile grew wider, more pointed. “Still managing to cause a lot of trouble up in Manchester though, I hear. Moira and I work the same cases occasionally—opposite sides, of course, but it’s always good to have a glass of wine and catch up. I’d heard rumours about you and James and she all but confirmed them, but he’s never been one for commitment, so.” The comment about her being a mistake more than stung, but she couldn’t let herself lose her cool just yet. She brushed the hair out of her eyes and looked at his steadfastly across the wide expanse of his desk. “You’ll understand if I don’t want my family being dragged into the centre of a political scandal just for the sake of some fling?”

She didn't react, which told him only so much. Either it could be that neither of his hits had landed or that some of them had - and he wasn’t going to be able to tell which ones until she’d started on the offensive again. He didn't like her, but he had to admit she had at least done her research. Plenty of it, it seemed, given the much more personal anecdote tacked on the end. “A good summary of my CV. I’d keep the assumptions to a minimum, if I were you, though. I have an entirely different constituency from him - no handover there. Speaks just a little bit to his position on merit, wouldn't you say?” It was a blow that set him off each time he heard it, but Sebastian wasn't going to reveal weakness. “It's hardly surprising that it'd be easy to find inspiration in his work.”

An eyebrow raised as he stared, wondering just who she might have had access to - ah. Moira. Of course. No family loyalty - he should have known. They'd have to talk about that next time he saw her. In all, the story wasn't too damning, as long as no one looked too closely at how old he'd been at the time. The fact that Moira somehow approved of Conway was both a red flag and a promise that this would be interesting, no matter the way it turned out. “Oh, no, Alex simply has better judgement of who she speaks to.” The jab at Alex was another blow that landed. Conway really had done her research. A smile. “You know, given how close she and Jim are?” Just how far he’d gone since leaving Kate. He wouldn’t give her information that she didn't deserve - that Jim had been committed for far longer than the press knew. “I think he can be, with the right person. Maybe you didn't have enough faith.” The personal angle seemed a far richer vein for now. “I understand perfectly, though really it's up to you - when have I ever been implicated in a scandal, after all? It’d be awful to lose the reputation you've made, wouldn’t it? And I'm sure the scrutiny on the rest of your family would be uncomfortable as well.” It wasn't an outright threat. “All the same, I do understand the value placed on family - did Moira neglect to tell you about the times I've looked after her children?”

“I have plenty of faith, thank you. Actually, I found it was his that was lacking.” Tucked beneath the sharp collar of the severe white shirt ( court clothes; really, she should be at the hotel, prepping her closing statement for tomorrow ) was the battered gold crucifix her parents had given her for her First Communion. Her fingers tighten around one another in her lap so they don’t fly up to fiddle with it. No clues. “And reminding me about his lifestyle choices—" As if that was necessary. “—Won’t help you make your case, Mr. Moran.” Once upon a time, it had been James’s lack of conventionality that she had loved, the fact that he wore leather and make up and made her mother spit with fury whenever she saw them together. When had that changed? When she’d found out she was pregnant and the father of her child had fucked off to England, leaving her unmarried and in trouble and—

Kate took a deep breath to calm herself, recentre her thoughts, and continued. “I’m sure you’re a fine babysitter,” she said stiffly. “But this is different. And the fact that you can sit there and threaten my family tells me everything I need to know. Unless you have anything else to add, this interview is over.” She pocketed his pen and bent down to retrieve her bag, getting back on her feet before she said, “You can give James my answer, and that is if he ever brings up introducing her to you—or attempts to do it behind my back—I shan’t let him anywhere near her again. We can take it to the courts if we have to; we all know who’s going to win.”

“A strong judgment, I'd say.” Perhaps not entirely unfair, depending on what sort of faith they were discussing, but still. “No, I suppose it wouldn’t. But one of my sisters is willing to avoid gossip about the family, and it’s not the one you’re friends with.” He’d really have to talk to Moira about tattling like that. It was annoying, more than anything, but all the same. She took a breath and - clearly, he’d set her off with one his remarks - this wasn't really how he'd wanted this to go. “I don't see how it's different. In fact, I'd say it's even more low risk than babysitting, given that all Jim has asked of you is an introduction.” He considered asking for his pen back. With her standing, ready to go, he’d have to take this seriously - more seriously than before. He might have told her not to be so sure about the outcome, but that would drive the wedge further between them. For Jim’s sake, he shouldn’t.

“I know the statistics of custody awards, Miss Conway. There is no need to threaten.” Really, there was no need to resort to outright threats. “You do realize a court case would bring exactly the sort of eyes you’d like to avoid?" He stood as well, finally. “I appreciate how much you're willing to do to protect your family and I won't tell you how to do so, but I do think it incredibly unfair of you to not tell him your decision yourself. Not because I don't want to be the bearer of bad news, but because he - maturely - asked you for permission to do the barest minimum of actions and you're making assumptions based on a five minute interview that you began with no pretensions of civility.” She’d come in on the offensive and he’d replied in kind. "You don't have to like me - I hardly expect you would, but that doesn't seem like just grounds to punish Jim. Or your daughter, really, who I believe is old enough to ask questions. If I find that you've ever actually prevented him from seeing her because of me, then I really will take issue." Maybe a bit of a threat.

“Mrs.” She paused with her bag over her arm, glowering down at him until her got his feet, and then, even in heels, she was forced to look up. “I don't know what kind of woman you think I am, sir, but I'm not a single one, that's for sure. I've been married eleven years next month.” For their anniversary the year before, she and Richard had hoped to go to Italy. Perhaps this year, if they could find someone to mind the children for a long weekend, they'd actually make it to the art galleries in Florence, the catacombs under Rome. Maybe if Jim could take them ... There was no one else she trusted, but could she even trust him anymore? “You said you were short on time and I believe in getting straight to the point, so please forgive me if I didn't pause to make small talk; we're busy people and there's not a whole lot to say. I don't like to be threatened and that’s twice in five minutes you've threatened me and my family. I don't like you, and your attitude certainly isn't helping. How long have you and James been together?”

“Mrs. Conway, then.” They were past pretending to polite, but he might as well be correct. "Yes, that is what the records say, isn't it." Seb hadn't looked into Jim, but he had done some digging. Just to see what he could find. He'd looked less at her, still trying to keep from directly disobeying Jim's wishes, but the brother had been an opportunity. “I did, didn't I. It's still true, but at the same time you did say it could take a while. You seemed less bothered by time limits at the beginning of this.” Which meant most likely that he'd offended her. Which he'd been trying to do, to be fair. “Neither of those were direct threats, Mrs. Conway, but neither of us have time to argue semantics. You rudely marched in here, implied that I was courting scandal and have since mentioned cutting Jim off from his daughter as well as the possibility to take all of this to court. You're hardly innocent.”

Here was the choice. They were at the rumor stage of the plan. Technically they'd been more or less together for a year by now, but no one else knew that. “You said you read the news - if they're to be believed, then I think you have your answer - that it all came together after his track.” A breadcrumb. “Moira would perhaps tell you that over a year ago, I was in charge of driving him to and from one of our family's gatherings.” And another breadcrumb dropped. If she wanted to pick them up, follow the trail, she could. Everything he'd said was true in its own way. The interpretation was up to her.

One of Kate's eyebrows went up. “If all I was interested in was second-hand gossip and the suppositions of the press,” she said coolly. “Do you think I'd be here? No. So, it doesn't take an Oxford-educated intellect to infer that what I would like to hear is the truth, straight from the horse's mouth, as it were. An alien concept to you maybe, but I’ll wait if I have to.” And so saying, she slipped out of her coat and sat back down, making a show of settling in for a long stalemate. “How did a politician and a musician who has publicly lambasted him on more than one occasion become a serious item?” Her tone was cold, but she was genuinely curious. Not so much in the how, though, more the, why this man, James? What the hell does someone like you see in him?

That had gotten her back, at least. Sebastian sat as well. “I haven’t lied to you, Mrs Conway,” he replied. He had perhaps misrepresented the truth, omitted, assumed, but he hadn't outright lied just yet. And sure, he'd threatened too, but only vaguely. “And did you ask Jim for the truth?” That was - though perhaps a bit of an attack - mostly just curiosity. “Or is he next? Making sure we can't coordinate our stories?” That was an unfair accusation, but he saw no reason to play fair with her. He shrugged, seemingly relaxed. “Maybe it's the public lambasting that makes it fun,” he replied, trying to think of just what he could or should tell her. She didn't deserve the details of their relationship - certainly no more than the general public did. “As much as it may shock you, we get along well. I think we represent a bit of a challenge to each other, and that's what keeps things interesting.”

TO BE CONTINUED ...

#epiitaphs #( i. drabble )#( i. save )#kate. | muse #the sun will come shining through. | happy verse ( musicians )#( iv. kate & sebastian )

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schozhen · 3 years

Text

Room – a bittersweet letter

I officially resigned from college, all for the sake of my sanity. TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDAL THOUGHTS AND LOTS OF SELF-DOUBT

29th April 2021

1:18 pm

Faculty of Psychology, year 2014. I went in by invitation, without any tests. My academic journey is pretty smooth, full of luck. Now, how can I tell this story?

2014

The reason why I choose Psychology is because I want to find myself and I do find what I’m looking for. I have no regrets. Although, during the first year – I’m not sure if I should be excited or else. At some point, I feel like I’m pretending. But, that’s how I tend to feel when I’m happy. Big regret of happiness, like it’s not for me. ‘A kid like me shouldn’t be happy’ these are my thoughts for a long time. Even in the present days, I still find it hard to believe that I’m allowed to be happy. But, I met a lot of people in my first year. Things quickly go south though. I felt uncomfortable around certain type of people. But I keep this to myself. I actually went through some difficult friendships, got harassed and betrayed. But, I don’t like talking about that. They saw me as someone cheerful, which is true—I’m indeed cheerful. But, there’s a part of me that they didn’t see. I’m not sure if they realized this though.

I was sick in my first year. I think I’m in too much stress, and had a hard time to adapt in new settings. I remember how my body react. It’s hard to breathe, it hurts to eat, but I felt relieved. I remember thinking to myself, ‘Maybe now they’d believe that there’s something wrong with me’

Apology

I forgive those who hurt me.

And I’m sorry, I can’t stay in your life. I hope you understand that we have different path. We’re way too different, and I refused to explain why. I hope you’ll find your own happiness in life, one that don’t require you to dragged people down.

I’d also like to apologize to everyone, I was naïve little one back then. I’m sorry if I make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry if I demand too much. There’s so much that I don’t know. Thank you for being patient with me. I hope you’re in a good place in life.

Mental Health

I write a lot, I expressed in a lot of different ways. I never realized how fucked up I was. That until I read my creations, every fucked-up poetry and letters that I’ve wrote. Then I met some professional and once again I realized, there’s a possibility that I’m in a dangerous mental state. I truly shocked to know the condition that I’m in. I never thought that this could be a real thing. I know I’m a strong person. But I wouldn’t deny that the downfall is possible. It is possible for me to give up. It is possible for things to get worse. Hence why, I decided to resign from college. I don’t want to die, my friend. I don’t want to give up on life. I’m one with a wing, I supposed to fly, I belong in the sky. I’d do anything to make it happen.

Locked

It’s a word that I tend to use back in 2016 to 2018. Although, I probably mistook the years. My memories a bit hazy. I have fear of the outside world. I’m scared if one day someone will found me, and ripped my soul out of me – then make me someone that I’m not. I have fear of losing myself, in a hand of some people that deemed to love me with all their life.

Losing Oneself

It happens a lot of time. I change a lot. My friends might met different versions of me. I think I confused a lot of people. I’d like to apologize for that. Someone did say that I can't made up my mind. It doesn't matter now. The reason why I keep losing myself and changing to new persona in each seconds— it's all because I never felt safe around those people, all because they try to change who I am, all because someone try to stole my essence of life. Some people try to murder my soul. Don't worry, they fail.

Oneself

I only have myself since I was a kid. I mostly alone during hardships. I was so close with myself. And I think, that's why I can't abandon myself just so I can 'blend' in with other people. I'd rather be in pain because I'm different, than being numb and lost just to be a carbon copy of other people. In the sea of ignorant people, I held my hand. And I realize, I’m the only one who will remain there for myself. It’s sad, but I have so much faith in myself.

Trauma

I developed one in 2019. It was 10 year anniversary of my parents divorce news. There’s too much traumatic event that I go through. So, I kinda understand why I have this. I haven’t complete my therapy, it’s all postponed due to pandemic. So, all I do now is hanging by a thread. I try everything that I can do. Everyday is a battle. I’m sure by now, you know what I want out of my life. I’m not one who easily gives up. So, wish me luck?

Zombie

I used this term back in school years. I was longing for death back then. I thought maybe it's best if I disappear from this world. I truly felt like I barely alive. My academic journey is smooth, but I'm losing sense of self along the way. I was tangled in strings of my parent’s problem, and other petty family problems. Then there's school and college, pulling my feet— begging me to stay in the ground. No one realized, that I'm one with wings. I supposed to fly, I belong in the sky.

#resign from college #a personal story #mental health is my priority #journey out of psy #2021 #APRIL 2021

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just-horrible-things · 5 years

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Psychic powers are a curse, and no one knows that better than a psyker. And if he had to have this curse, Morrow would rather have had anything but telepathy. He wouldn’t mind the battlefield, he thinks. At least that’s straightforward. Follow orders, blow the other guy’s head up before they blow yours off, and die a nice straightforward death in the line of duty. A black and white existence.

Telepathy is always murky grey. What’s worse than knowing a person right down to the core as you destroy their life? Every hope that you are snuffing out, every loved one that will probably never get closure.... Well. Morrow does know what’s worse. Daemons are worse. And that’s what it’s all for, in the end, isn’t it? Keeping the daemons out, and the xenos, and the traitors, and anything else horrible that turns out to be lurking amongst the stars. Deciding what’s right and wrong isn’t his job.

Still, no one said he has to enjoy it. And laying eyes on his next victim, he knows instantly that he really, really isn’t going to enjoy this one.

The man is broken. Some one’s clearly been trying the old-fashioned way for a while, and aren’t those memories going to be fun to dig through. Broken bones, broken skin, and sightless, unfocused eyes that suggest a broken mind within. Fun, fun, fun. If the man were recently injured he’d ask for him to be dosed with painkillers so that Morrow doesn’t have to dig through that agony.... But if he’s going memory-diving there’s little point.

The poor sot doesn’t even look at Morrow as he rolls up his sleeves and tries to brace himself for the task ahead. He’s clearly a long way gone inside his own head. Pity that there’s nowhere in there to hide from a telepath. Still, at least once Morrow’s done, this will be over for him one way or another. Sometimes they find it’s a relief, to have the pressure of holding out taken away. Not their fault, if Morrow rips it out of them. More often it’s just horrifying.

He’s not sure what to expect when he lays hands on the man’s fever-hot skin and reaches out with his mind. Agony, certainly. Madness, probably. A hard kernel of resistance in the middle of a worn-down mind, or the evidence of psychic tampering. He certainly isn’t expecting the man’s mind to push back. He’s startled enough that he could cuss, if stoic silence weren’t well drilled into him. Any display of surprise or uncertainty during manifestation risks a bullet in the brain.

He pushes again, more carefully, thoughts enveloping the unexpected defences and feeling out their bounds. It has the feel of a patterned response, a routine so well-practised that it rises to the fore without the need for conscious effort. This one’s trained to resist telepathy. But there’s give in those mental walls. He doesn’t have much will left in him to hold an intruder out. And Morrow doesn’t have to guess what tools to use against him. Pain, bones breaking, flesh burning. Fear. The dark of a bare cell. The horror of knowing he will never be free again. And on top of it pain and pain and pain.

The victim’s mind flinches from the sharp jabs of thought, and his defences buckle. It barely takes effort.

The thin body under his hands bucks against the restraints as the mind tries to recoil from the invasion. Morrow is used to the rush of fear and horror and loathing that accompanies brute force telepathy, but every individual’s reaction is a little different, and worth pausing to examine. It can lead directly to what they are most trying to hide. This one feels very little shame at the intimate violation, only mind-blanking panic. And - that’s interesting - he isn’t afraid of having his secrets unearthed, he’s afraid of... daemonic possession. Ah, well, it’s not the first time Morrow’s been taken for a daemon. People jump to conclusions when there’s something wrong and not-self in their heads.

There are more defences, too. The panicked thoughts are not wholly disordered, and they are full of litanies against the daemon, recitations of faith to drown out all other thoughts. Interesting. It might baffle a lesser psyker, but Morrow is very, very good at what he does. He ignores the frantic abjurations, dismisses the conscious train of thought, and pins down the underlying panic like a bug beneath a lamp for closer examination. And it’s not the wild accusation of a confused mind, not the simple child who sees a shape in the darkness and thinks monster. This is the panic of a mind that expects daemons, that has fought them off before, that knows what such an assault feels like.

And faster than Morrow can sift through the meaning of that, this mind is reacting to his presence, feeling the contours of his mind in turn and starting to realise not daemon? It’s always odd, feeling another mind feeling his, and it’s even stranger this time. There are layers of perception that he doesn’t understand, alien-shaped, worrying thoughts that set alarm bells ringing. And at the same time, he is still chasing that thread of expectation and history. Why has this mind so much experience with daemons? Where did he learn these defences?

And then everything comes together at once, and Morrow has several revelations in short succession.

One: this man is a Navigator. And as if that weren’t shocking enough alone, that means --

Two: he sees the Warp directly and --

Three: his memories must be full of the unfiltered percept of the Warp which means --

Four: it is very very unsafe for Morrow to be rooting around recklessly in his thoughts.

In the same span of scant instants, the Navigator is having his own revelation that this invasion of his mind is not daemonic after all, but Morrow doesn’t stick around to watch the relief and surprise develop. He is pulling back from that mind as if burned, because he doesn’t want to stick around to get burned.

In the physical, their eyes meet. The prisoner’s are wild, bloodshot, too wide from the wave of fear and relief and confusion that just broke over him. Morrow’s must be wide too, stunned and apprehensive. Why the hell did no one warn him before setting him on a Navigator? He keeps his breath steady. No need to alert the watching soldiers that this isn’t going as planned. His hands are still on the man’s ribcage, and he can feel a broken bone shifting with each panting breath. And it’s not even the worst injury. It’s the sort of thing that might once have made Morrow feel sick.

He breathes steadily, in and out, and gathers his will. The Navigator is a minefield of incomprehensible, warp-drenched thoughts. But Morrow didn’t earn his position through cowardice, or through not doing his job. Cautiously, he presses back into the prisoner’s thoughts, taking far more care this time to guard his own, and to be careful what he focuses on.

He doesn’t have to push against mental walls this time. They are lowered readily to let him in. And the panic has been replaced entirely with urgent, desperate relief and eagerness to let the psyker in. It’s unnerving. Morrow’s never been welcomed into someone’s mind like this. And it’s not a warm or a healthy feeling. Please, clamour his thoughts, jumbled from pain and exhaustion and shock. Please, look everywhere! Here, I’ll show you, anything you want to see. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I won’t think about Sight. I’ll help, tell me what you want me to think and I’ll find it, I’ll show you. Please I want to help! Here, look at my memories. Here, deep as you like. I won’t think of the Warp please I won’t I’ll keep it out of mind. Thank you thank you thank you. Please, show her. Please! I’m so glad I’m so grateful I’m so glad. Let me comply I want to help please I want to give you whatever you want to know.

Morrow brushes away those irrelevant thoughts, and tries to ignore the awful, hollow ache in his own heart. He’s been in the heads of people who genuinely aren’t hiding anything. But they’ve never been quite so broken before. Not the innocent ones. All too often the only mercy he can get them is a quick kill, but at least that’s something.

He’s never been inside a mind quite so compliant, either. There’s no revulsion here, no instinctual struggling, no shame or anger at the loss of privacy. There’s no concept of privacy in here at all - that notion is a tattered rag lost in the depths of memory. The instant Morrow starts to examine a memory, the prisoner - Tacitus, there’s a name - brings it willingly into focus, readies other related memories for perusal. It’s dreadfully convenient, so much so that part of Morrow suspects he may be somehow being duped.

The only things Tacitus tries to hide are those elements of his memories that are not sight or sound or touch but Warpsight, that eldritch sense that Morrow’s mind would struggle to interpret. And Morrow is deliberately avoiding those thoughts too, trying not to look too closely lest he start to understand. To an extent he is forced to trust Tacitus to flag up and suppress those thoughts, and to interpret them for him. He can’t understand the raw sensory information, but he can understand the concept of seeing a soul, or of sensing peril in the thinning of the Veil.

Tacitus is good at rearranging his thoughts, focusing on certain aspects, staying on track. There are very few stray lines of distraction that Morrow has to rein in. He rarely flinches reflexively from a thought that Morrow brings into focus. There’s little extraneous noise. It’s suspicious. But Morrow can’t find any evidence of deceit. And here, memories of childhood as a Navigator-in-training, learning these tricks, learning to keep order inside his own head. And here, sorrow and guilt that he is not better at it, that he cannot be more helpful. Torture has scrambled his mind and shattered his will, and he is apologetic that he can’t be more help to Morrow.

He pushes reassurance into Tacitus’ head to quiet the clamour a little. I hear you, he projects, and You are helpful. Relax, I will find the truth. Thank you, think Tacitus’ own thoughts, overlaid. Thank you thank you thank you please, here are my memories, here are my crimes, please, every detail is yours.

Trawling through those memories is traumatic for both of them. Months of torture that feel longer still - and perhaps Morrow can help a little by imposing some order on those memories, dividing them by day, making them finite. Before that, the fear and guilt of anticipation. Morrow leafs through Tacitus’ capture, back further through the work he did.... nothing suspicious, not by the Inquisition’s standards, though he was lying to a lot of clients.

Back a little further and here, the summoning, the great crime, the worst mistake of his life. The last part, the appearance of the daemon, is hard to view without risk of Morrow perceiving the daemon in too much truth, but they work around it carefully. Neither of them want to draw its attention here. And the majority of the ritual is easy to observe, because Tacitus was without his Warpsight. Darkness, isolation, cold corpse bodies, helplessness. Morrow can’t help but understand why he did it, feeling Tacitus’ desperation as if it were his own. But he’s not here to empathise. He’s here for facts. Tacitus pushes the knowledge of the summoning diagram and the incantation at Morrow pleading here, you want this? Morrow pushes it away. He doesn’t want to know that. It’s enough to know that Tacitus knows it.

And back further they go, freedom, poverty, desperate yearning. A few short years of darkness and independence, and then, skipping faster, deeper and deeper, the wounding of his soul, the betrayal, years of training, childhood... Morrow doesn’t press too deeply. There’s nothing of relevance here. As far back as Tacitus is able to remember, there is nothing suspicious.

I’m going deeper, Morrow thinks at Tacitus, because this will be easier if Tacitus doesn’t start resisting. The warning is met with more affirmation and more sickeningly submissive gratitude. Everything that Tacitus is is open to Morrow’s search.

Below memory, below conscious thought, Tacitus is a maelstrom of pain and terror and despair. He only wants mercy, only mercy. The relentless pain has broken down everything that he knew how to be and he is grieving for his lost self. He fears desperately that the torture will never stop, because he’s hiding nothing, only lying occasionally and out of desperation - and badly at that. He fears an end to torture, too, because he expects nothing but death, and he expects death to deliver him into the claws of the daemonic. Morrow understands too well.

Deeper still, peeling back the layers of the subconscious. There is a little resistance now - it’s instinct. It doesn’t trouble Morrow. It’s still weaker than it should be, and he’s forced his way into plenty of unwilling minds. Here is guilt, a thick layer of self-loathing. On some level Tacitus believes that he deserves this. Here are the discarded parts of a self-concept that hasn’t survived this ordeal. Altruism, honour, humour, yearning, love. A will to survive, a quick, manipulative mind, curiosity, restlessness... things that should not be buried so deep. Here, deeper still - deliberately so, far out of reach of the conscious mind - here is anger and hatred and outrage at the way he’s been treated. Morrow feels that outrage, that horrified fury at the injustice and the inhumanity. It’s hard to tell if it belongs to Tacitus or to Morrow. Always hard, once he’s this deep.

What else? Here is the part that watches and learns. Higher thought has given up on learning, has concluded that there is nothing to be done. But something deeper is still watching. Learning dreadful lessons, like which patterns of screaming and gasping are most likely to cause his tormentors to let up. Which of the soldiers take satisfaction in his pain and double down when he is desperate, and which find it difficult and might hit a little less hard if he is crying and wailing just so. Subtleties of expression that suggest it might be worth pleading, or that the Interrogator might let up if he seems sufficiently broken. Other signs that today there will be no mercy and he should just retreat as far inside himself as he can.

These are not things Morrow wanted to know. They are not relevant his objective. He wrenches himself away from it with effort. Distantly, he can feel the prickle of sweat breaking out across his body, and the sharp jolts of pain in Tacitus’ broken bones as he convulses against the restraints.

Further, deeper. Looking for psychic scars, for hidden things, for evidence of meddling or thoughts erased. It is painfully obvious that Tacitus isn’t hiding anything purposefully, but there’s always the possibility that another telepath has been in here, has tampered until the victim doesn’t know that they are holding back...

But there’s nothing.

Morrow pulls back from the depths. Back through the desperate self-loathing. Back through pain and fear and despair. Through not-quite-conscious thoughts that are begging him please stop please it hurts it feels bad please stop. The fully conscious ones are louder. They run: thank you thank you I’m so grateful I’m so glad thank you, and I’m sorry I struggled I’m sorry I tried my best I’m sorry no excuses my fault I’m sorry, and please please tell her please will you tell her please I’m not hiding anything you saw you saw please make her believe.

Breathing is difficult. Thinking his own thoughts is difficult. Peeling himself away from Tacitus’ agony so that he doesn’t feel it as his own is difficult.

He’s not here to do anything to Tacitus’ head. He’s just here to observe. He doesn’t have permission to tamper. But Tacitus is overflowing with desperation and agony, and Morrow has the power to help. He’s been very deep indeed and he’s losing track of the boundaries between Morrow and Tacitus. This will help with that too, he tells himself. He’s bending protocol, not breaking it. Help me? Tacitus thinks, the barest shred of hope overlaid on doubt and despair. And the fact that he’s picked up on that thought is further proof that their minds are too entangled.

So Morrow pushes his will onto Tacitus’ mind, quieting thought, quieting sensation, quieting emotion. A gentle force pushing him down and down until all the jabbering psychic noise is finally still and silent. The shaking body goes limp beneath Morrow’s hands. And finally Morrow can tell where he ends and Tacitus begins.

But even when he severs the link, his mind is still saturated with Tacitus’ thoughts, dripping with Tacitus’ emotions. He knows from experience that it will fade with time. But that doesn’t make it any easier in the moment.

“Have you killed him?” the Interrogator asks, seeing Morrow lift his hands and step away from the limp body. He draws in a sharp breath. He knows her now, in a way that he really wishes he did not. “No,” he answers promptly. “No, he’s j-just unc-conscious.” Throne, he’s shaking and he can’t stop. “C-can, can I h-have ten minutes before I report? That was... I’m a b-bit drained.”

#my writing #my ocs #tacitus #telepathy #torture #broken ribs #interrogation #tw futile interrogation #invasive telepathy #mind reading #mention of execution #begging #tw mental illness #???#idk what else to tag #this is an extensive look inside the head of someone very broken #also it is long

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aion-rsa · 4 years

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Lucifer Season 5 Episode 5 Review: Detective Amenadiel

https://ift.tt/3javrER

This Lucifer review contains spoilers.

“For now I’m going to stick to police work and avoid anything God related.”

Religious imagery, innuendo, and irony have long been part of the Lucifer gestalt even though the investigations rarely take the detective and the Devil anywhere near houses of worship. When they do, however, the depth of spiritual growth woven into the narrative typically reveals a profound level of character development. With that in mind, season five’s fifth episode “Detective Amenadiel” covers so much emotional ground and seems to provide closure to Chloe and Lucifer’s relationship problems that it’s easy to forget eleven episodes still remain in the season.

The abandonment and deception themes remain focal points, and though there’s always the danger that some threads run too long, here we get some resolution with the most compelling arc of all – Chloe’s feeling that, like Lucifer, she’s been manipulated by God for His own purposes. However, it’s Amenadiel’s role in bringing Chloe and Lucifer back together that really drives the episode.

Putting Lucifer in a convent full of novitiate nuns just seems too easy, and the opportunity for off-color remarks and snide comments about his Father almost too juicy to ignore. But this investigation finds Lucifer sidelined at the precinct with Dan doing the boring detective work while Amenadiel goes into the field with Chloe to not only solve the murder of Sister Victoria of the Sisters of the Divine Path but to discover the truth behind Lucifer’s vulnerability around the detective. The sisters’ seeming lustful attraction to Amenadiel works because it’s so out of character for Lucifer’s brother, and once Sister Francine admits that when she looks at Amenadiel she feels closer to God, the pieces to the puzzle begin falling into place.

Lucifer Season 5 Episode 4: It Never Ends Well for the Chicken

By Dave Vitagliano

Lucifer: God Takes Charge As Dennis Haysbert Joins Season 5

By Dave Vitagliano

It’s certainly understandable that those unfamiliar with the show might accuse the writers of promoting anti-religious values, but therein lies the fundamental irony of Lucifer. Once we get past the misconception that the nuns find Amenadiel sexually attractive, it becomes apparent that the powerful emotions they feel when they gaze upon his angelic face is actually their love of God reflected back at them. It’s this revelation that ultimately leads to Amenadiel’s conclusion that so beautifully reunites the Devil and the detective. Though he’s ordinarily on the periphery of most murder investigations, it’s Amenadiel’s inductive reasoning that leads Chloe to finally understand the true nature of her relationship with Lucifer. Sherlock would be proud.

The impact goes deeper still once Lucifer and Chloe really open up to one another, but what gives this mini-arc its power is that along with Lucifer, we’re given hope that the relationship can be saved. “I want us to be together,” she tells him, and what makes this scene so poignant is that Lucifer doesn’t yet know he’s been relieved of his obligation as Hell’s warden. He’s learned from Dan that there are no shortcuts toward obtaining anything meaningful and selflessly tells Chloe to take all the time she needs even though he believes time is something he doesn’t have.

Of course, it’s Amenadiel’s explanation about Chloe’s unique ability that compels her to accept the most startling truth of the situation – instead of thinking about herself as a manipulative gift, she now understands she’s been given something even more important in this scenario. The resolution of this tragic conflict is handled beautifully, and while Lucifer’s penthouse has provided numerous opportunities to present his devilish side, here, sitting alone at his piano playing a plaintive tune, the space takes on deeper meaning. Once Chloe sits directly next to Lucifer on the bench, his emotional vulnerability is unmistakable and the power that she’s always exerted over him, intentional or not, now becomes something they share. When she shows him the truth that “You choose to be vulnerable around me,” Chloe opens a door for their union to ascend to a much higher level.

Though detective Amenadiel doesn’t impact Mazikeen and Linda resolving their troubled pasts, the decision they make to help each other is just as captivating as Lucifer and Chloe’s story. It’s fascinating to watch the wall Maze has built around herself slowly dissipate as Linda relates her own guilt ridden history. It wouldn’t be Maze, however, if there weren’t some speed bumps along the way, and though she storms out after Linda bares her soul, we know she’ll be back. And when she does return, Maze has her own bombshell to drop in a way only Maze can.

We’ve watched as Dr. Linda puts her own emotional baggage aside to help any number of the celestial crew cope with the vagaries of life among the human race, and it’s become clear that something from her past has returned to negatively impact her relationship with Amenadiel and Charlie. While Chloe’s understandably been caught up in the drama surrounding her issues with Lucifer, and quite honestly has never really been that close to Linda in the first place, the bond the doctor and the demon have formed reaches a new level here. Once Linda reveals her teenage pregnancy and subsequent decision to give up her baby, Maze takes charge and the counseling roles reverse. “Is that why you think you’re going to Hell?” she asks, and though this afterlife scenario that Linda conjures up in her head has provided some interesting possibilities, the reality takes an unexpected turn.

She is, after all, a private investigator by trade, and when Maze lets slip that “she seems good,” we know Linda has a huge decision to make that could have far reaching effects on her life moving forward. Of course, there’s no question that Amenadiel will totally support Linda should he learn the truth, but the dilemma now centers around whether or not she should insert herself into her daughter’s life. Maze wouldn’t be Maze if she didn’t attempt to squeeze some information out of a witness, and for a moment, it’s unclear how far Maze will go questioning Adriana. And though it appears this mini-arc could resolve itself here, Linda suddenly realizes that this whole meeting is really about the ultra emotional Maze working out her issues with Lilith, leaving Linda and her daughter as potential collateral damage.

The rather pedestrian murder-of-the-week follows the trend of cases that revolve around somewhat simplistic motives, but that really matter because Lucifer has become so much more than a police procedural. Yes, the secret room in the cellar has a certain Rosemary’s Baby cultish feel to it, but the highlight of the murder investigation occurs when Amenadiel allows Hank to shoot him multiple times before revealing his majestic wings. He tells the killer to “have faith,” and whether this is meant as preparation for prison or Hell isn’t really that important. He’s made it clear that he needs to help make the world a better place for his son, and while getting a murderer off the streets is certainly a good thing, Amenadiel establishes an even more significant role through his involvement with Chloe and Lucifer.

“You need to give your daughter the choice,” Mazikeen suggests to Linda, advancing the idea that remaining in the background constitutes a level of deceit. In this new age of split seasons and much hyped mid-season finales, “Detective Amenadiel” keeps the momentum going, and though the Lucifer/Chloe problem appears to be settled, at least for the time being, there’s still plenty of personal discord to fill the remainder of season five’s first half. Now, let’s see if we can get Maze sorted out and back on track.

The post Lucifer Season 5 Episode 5 Review: Detective Amenadiel appeared first on Den of Geek.

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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comicteaparty · 4 years

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April 8th-April 14th, 2020 Reader Favorites Archive

The archive for the Reader Favorites chat that occurred from April 8th, 2020 to April 14th, 2020. The chat focused on the following question:

Has gatekeeping ever affected which comics you read? If so, how so? If not, do you think it could in the future?

DanitheCarutor

You know, I usually don't care about the person behind the work, although there is an exception. During the Twitter Pride Month event if a webcomic creator I'm following says asexuals/pansexuals/non-binary people aren't allowed/can't follow them either due to not being oppressed enough, or not being real LGBT+ people, I will stop reading their work. Afterall, it wouldn't be right since I'm not queer enough to read their work. -coughsarcasmcough- There are instances where I'll still read their comic, but with a feeling of mischievous excitement for doing something "against the rules". Although there will always be this understanding of that person hates me, coupled with a slight feeling of 'yikes' whenever I see their work. Lol It's about the same with any other type of gatekeeping, although admittedly I'm more lax about unfollowing someone if I'm not being targeted since I'm narcissistic like that.

sssfrs (JOE IS DEAD)

Thats ridiculous to think an author would try to control which demographics can read their work. Artists shoudn't discriminate against certain groups in who can access their art.

RebelVampire

It does happen a lot though as all my gatekeeping experiences are about that as well, creators kind of directly shunning a specific demographic (granted not exactly @DanitheCarutor 's experience)

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

@DanitheCarutor Man I've never seen anything like that. I thought this post was about "only true gamers will understand" comics and such. I guess I'm lucky I've never stumbled into that side of the internet. If someone holds such views and expouses them so loudly i probably wouldn't like what they write, anyways.

RebelVampire

To answer the question more thoroughly, there have been plenty of incidents of gatekeeping that have affected how and if I read certain webcomics. However, generally speaking, they come in two specific flavors. Flavor 1: Creators basically pushing for their target audience too aggressively to the point they're either: A) insulting anyone who is not in that target audience or B) dismissing anyone not in that target audience and treating them as someone who isn't a "true" fan. which usually means their opinions are basically treated as auto invalid and not worth anything. B is more the experience I see for this flavor on my end, though honestly I don't think a lot of the creators I see do it on purpose. This particular flavor usually just effects my engagement because I generally just don't want to engage with the work at all if my opinion is going to be auto invalidated anyway. Flavor 2: Creators basically saying "Don't read my comic if you don't 100% agree with my political view(s)." This is a nope for me. A guarantee I will never read that comic again and will immediately mute said creator on my social media - even if I do 100% agree with their specific view. I cannot stand it when people literally cannot tolerate the fact that people who may think the opposite of them (or even have nuanced opinions that aren't full agreement) can still enjoy their work. Out of principle, I will not support this, and out of practicality, the audience that stays after that will probably be equally closed minded and probably not people I want to hang out with on a regular basis anyway.

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

I don't get the "don't even read this if you [x]" thing. I can understand if they just don't want to hear disagreements, but even silently reading?

RebelVampire

What I don't get is half the time said political view has absolutely nothing to do with the work whatsoever. So it's not like people would be going into the comic commenting disagreements anyway?

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

Who knows, maybe they've actually had weirdos making political comments in their comment sections and they finally had enough one day.

I do know at least one person whose (very non-political) comic has attracted a lot of politically vocal readers, and it has been a source of headache for them for a long time.

RebelVampire

Yeah I mean I don't doubt there's some comics. Usually in the little research I've done it wasn't really the comic that was getting view. THey just saw something on social media that made them angry thus had to comment on it.

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

In the case I'm thinking of, it wasn't that the fans got angry at the creator's views. The fans were just openly talking about that stuff? They didn't seem to understand, nor care, that the creator didn't share their views. It's..... weird is all I can say.

My only guess is the comic got shared in a politically oriented space (forum, a FB group, whatever) and attracted some vocal readers from that space. Maybe.

RebelVampire

Possibly, although in my experience it's pretty easy for comment sections to devolve into some random political discussion. People tend to be very passionate about their viewpoints, so it really only takes one person being mad

and then relevant xkcd comic https://xkcd.com/386/ happens XD(edited)

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

It might not be relevant in this case because the readers weren't arguing with each other XD just vocally agreeing with each other in someone else's space

Though yeah, I have seen it happen too, political wars in some completely non-political comic's comment section

There was a semi-infamous case

The Tiny Hippo comic in which the hippo knifes a raven that stole its toy got littered with Koreans arguing with others about the Korean-Japanese political tension. The comic... has absolutely NOTHING to do with Korea, Japan, or even Asia.

RebelVampire

omg now thats extreme

DanitheCarutor

@Eightfish (Puppeteer) Yeah, be prepared if you ever dive into the LGBT+ artist/comic side of Twitter during the Pride Month events. There are far more nice, inclusive people, but the exclusive ones are very loud and make long rant threads. Also you may get someone responding to your promos with nasty shit if you use the hashtag. This has never happened to me personally, but has happened to webcomic creators and illustration artists I follow who are very open about being asexual/non-binary/pansexual.

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

To be honest, I am usually the one LGBT+ creators keep from reading their work in those scenarios. It has happened before where a creator has said something similar about ace people or hetero people not being allowed to read because "they wouldn't get it." Or sometimes even more offensive. Even if I wasn't both of those things, hearing someone be so exclusive of any group just makes me not want to support them. So yes, haha, I have definitely been affected by gatekeeping.

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

Theoretically, I can see where gatekeeping can be done in good faith, and possibly even respectfully. Like, there's a reason why support groups for a specific thing only allows people who are directly affected by that specific thing. Trying to educate other people on that issue, and including the allies, those things are extremely important, but a gated safe space is also incredibly valuable. You can do BOTH of those things (just not in the same place at the same time). It can definitely go wrong, though. It really can.

like "we need a safe space for lesbians to talk about their struggles" is not the same thing as "if you're not a lesbian, you don't count as lgbt" (which would be... no???)

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

yeah.. I've also seen lesbian only spaces turn terf-y

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

I think there is definitely a difference between gatekeeping against bigotry and blanketsweep gatekeeping against a specific group of people that you've stereotyped as bigots

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

I mean, it's not always about keeping the bigots out

sometimes you need a safe space specifically for that group, and not the supporters of that group. That serves very specific purposes.

DanitheCarutor

@Cronaj (Whispers of the Past) Oh gosh, there is this one artist who's words I remember to this day. During Pride Month they made this looooong thread about how they didn't want ace people following them, how they are not allowed to use the hashtag or even be part of the LGBT+ community, then went on about how they were all just heterosexuals. The they talked about how non-binary people are damaging the trans community with their "fake gender". Very ignorant, very weird, I totally unfollowed them after that even though I really liked their art.

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

But yeah, Twitter is probably the wrong place to do that.

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

God

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

@DanitheCarutor wtf ._.

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

That's part of the reason I don't participate in Pride stuff

Because I know I would get skinned alive

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

lol, I already got skinned alive for that reason even though I wasn't advertising my comic as lgbt. That's getting off topic for reader_favorites though.

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

In regards to comics, I haven't seen other readers gatekeeping a story before

But oddly more creators

Which completely boggles my mind

DanitheCarutor

Fffff yeeeah. I still try to participate in Pride stuff when I remember, but I never specify anything. I just say I'm a queer person and everyone is fine with it. Lol

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

Because you'd think they want more readers, not less

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

Mmm, not everyone wants more readers (or at least, it's not a priority for them)

RebelVampire

I'm kind of glad about that too. Readers gatekeeping is even worse sometimes in mainstream. So to a degree it makes me glad that the only people hurting a creators work is the creator themself, if that makes sense.

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

Yeah, definitely

When fans of a specific TV series try to gatekeep against specific groups, it makes me so angry

It's usually for entirely stupid reasons too

"If you're not (insert race), you're not allowed to watch this show. It was not made for you."

Haven't really seen this yet for comics, but if I ever do..... YIKES

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

I mean I can get "It was not made for you." But that's.... not really a reason to actually disallow anyone from enjoying it.

DanitheCarutor

Oh god I'm getting SU and Rick and Morty fan base flashbacks.

RebelVampire

I think when it hits webcomics (cause I won't pretend it won't someday), I think it's gonna be in the same regard where I see it more. In that readers will be saying "If you don't agree this webcomic/ship/something is the best, you're not really a true participant in the webcomic community!"

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

Honestly, I think educating people outside of these marginalized groups is just as important as validating the groups

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

like I do it all the time, I check out stuff whose target audience does not include me. I just don't openly criticize it for failing to cater to me.

@Cronaj (Whispers of the Past) It's absolutely important. But one can support both education and gated safe spaces! Like I can totally imagine the same people moderating a gated safe space, and holding educational seminars where everyone is welcome. Those two things serve different functions.

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

Yeah, I was talking about media tho, haha

Not gated safe spaces(edited)

DanitheCarutor

I imagine if it happens with webcomic it will be an extremely popular comic that will have the readerbase size of something mainstream. I've stumbled across a couple small instances where webcomic fans have been gatekeepy about fanart and such, but not real big, crazy instances.

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

That would likely be one of the biggest curses about having a webcomic that's popular.

RebelVampire

Actually when I think about it more, I've seen readers start to get gatekeepy about ships on super popular comics

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

Actually, yes

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

Oh man, shipping wars X'D

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

Ship-gatekeepers are kind of scary

Especially popular romance comics that include love triangles(edited)

DanitheCarutor

Yeah, a couple of the popular Webtoon webcomics I've followed like Gourmet Hound have had big ship wars in the comments. Actually if you want to see a good example of ship gatekeeping, you can look at any popular romance comic on Weboons, the comment section will probably be insane.

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

Yep

True Beauty is just FULL of gatekeepers arguing about the male leads

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

I like to think a lot of the seemingly vehement shipping war comments are made in jest. But even if like, 80% of them are just having fun... you know there's 19% that are actually serious... and the dreaded 1% who will actually commit a crime IRL for their ship

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

Ewww... Yep

DanitheCarutor

No, Keii, you're wrong. Most of the readers on Webtoons are horny children, they are going to be very serious about their ships.

RebelVampire

Yeah that is like the problem with a lot of things on the internet. It's hard to tell who is the 80% not being serious, and who is the other 20% who is super serious and thinks the 80% are completely serious about it too(edited)

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

Omg, don't call the readers out like that

DanitheCarutor

Someone's gotta tell it how it is!

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

@RebelVampire Yeah, that's definitely the hardest part. Trying to tiptoe around the fact that a specific commenter very well COULD be serious.

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

yeeeeah

DanitheCarutor

@RebelVampire That's definitely the crappiest part about being on the internet. You can never tell just from reading words, especially if they type in a super anal way like myself most of the time. Personally if I have no idea if a reader is serious I default to responding with a dad joke or a meme... which has caused a few upset responses.

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

I have definitely been attacked for what I thought was an innocent comment

RebelVampire

I've learned if I don't know if the person is serious or not to just ask. Sometimes make them grumpy and you get "well obviously i was joking/being serious", but at least saves the headaches of assumptions.

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

oh jeez @DanitheCarutor that sounds horrible gatekeeping

DanitheCarutor

Opinions, MMMM gotta love'em.

LadyLazuli (Phantomarine)

A comic creator I really respected, someone I thought was super supportive of the community at large, made a blanket statement forbidding cishets from joining their big new webcomic server. The server wasn't meant for LGBTQ+ webcomics only - all comics were allowed to be discussed - so it wasn't incredibly stringent on its content, just its membership. I know it's small beans compared to other bits of gatekeeping, but it definitely made some people feel left out, and it made me feel really sad. Made me feel like... even if I somehow became friends with the creator someday, I would always be considered an other/outsider, so... why bother, you know? I haven't really felt like keeping up with their work since. It doesn't quite feel the same. I don't know if had the 'right' reaction, but the experience definitely took off my rose-tinted glasses.

shadowhood (SunnyxRain)

Honestly I think it’s really counterintuitive to gatekeep?(edited)

Like you want people to read your work don’t you? So can you really be so selective of people with such standards?

And if you’re a reader, gatekeeping is just going to harm the creator and make you look bad

#ctparchive #comics #webcomics #indie comics #comic chat #comic discussion #comic tea party #ctp #reader favorites

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jerrydog · 5 years

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I had absolutely no intention of watching The Rise of Skywalker. In fact, I’ve never even bothered watching a single trailer for this movie. The only way I’d watch this is if someone dragged me into it, which is exactly what happened. Thanks to The Last Jedi, I started viewing Star Wars movies in a different light— more objectively, so to speak. It made that cloak of nostalgia that was hindering my vision vanish completely. Because that’s all there was to it. I realized that I only liked Star Wars because of nostalgia. Because of its great significance in pop culture for the past few decades. Take that away, and I realized that most of these movies were average at best.

I was old enough to watch the prequels in cinemas. Maybe I was too young then, but I loved The Phantom Menace. This made me look forward to Attack of the Clones, which I didn’t really like at first. But everyone else seemed to like it. Everyone else was so hyped up over it, because duh— it’s Star Wars. So I somehow convinced myself that I should like it as well. Call it peer pressure or whatever. Revenge of the Sith had its issues, but overall I found it entertaining. At least entertaining enough to make me seek out episodes IV-VI on home video. Maybe it was the influence of nostalgia again, especially since my parents were huge fans. After watching all episodes from I to VI, I was already somewhat of a Star Wars fan.

 I was one of those who were so excited to see The Force Awakens. After such a long time, we were gonna see a new Star Wars movie on the big screen! And it had a lot of the original cast returning! That was surely a case of pandering to nostalgia, but heck everyone including myself lapped it all up. Sure it was mostly a rehash, it doesn’t hold up that well on repeat viewings, but it sure was fun to watch for the very first time. Especially once you see all those beloved characters back on the big screen. And with that cliffhanger ending showing our first glimpse of Luke Skywalker after all these years? Man, everyone sure as hell were hyped up for the sequel.

Which was the aforementioned The Last Jedi— definitely the most divisive Star Wars movie ever made. I can’t understand how some people loved it, because I think it’s downright horrible. Apparently I didn’t think it was so bad the first time I saw it— I gave it a 3/5 on my review here. That time though one of my friends fell asleep while watching. another one was so bored he wanted to walk out. These were HUGE Star Wars fans by the way. The fact that two huge fans couldn’t finish viewing a Star Wars movie was quite telling. I saw it again with my cousin after two months because she had not seen it yet. It’s a struggle to get through such a pointless plot on second viewing. I was shocked to find out that Rose Tico didn’t die. lol. Apparently I was no longer paying much attention towards the end on my first viewing. After this second viewing I’d give it a 2/5. I managed to see it alone at home for the third time, when I did a Star Wars marathon of sorts. It was the only movie that I was struggling to finish. Since I was watching it alone in the comfort of my own room, I could rate it the most objectively. After the third viewing, I’d give it a 1/5.

I know we all have different tastes. If you liked The Last Jedi, if you enjoyed watching it, I’d respect that. But please do not refer to it as excellent, as perfect, or the best Star Wars Movie ever because it isn’t any of those. I wouldn’t call a movie with such a useless plot perfect. That main plot could have been told in 15 minutes or less. The entire movie just wasted 2 ½ hours over nothing. The side quest was just as pointless. Plot holes were numerous. Beloved characters were quickly set aside. Beloved characters start to behave in a way that’s completely out of character. A bunch of new main characters pop out of nowhere, with no other purpose than to serve an agenda. Many things did not make sense even on a science fiction movie. Characters show new skills, even though such skills were never foreshadowed in what’s supposed to be a saga. It also diverged from any logical path following The Force Awakens. In fact after viewing all Star Wars movies in succession from episodes I to XI, The Last Jedi stands out because it doesn’t conform with the universe set in the other episodes. In doesn’t fit the overarching narrative at all. They might as well have called it The Last Jedi: A Star Wars Story.

Look, I get it. Innovation and non conformity should be praised, but only when it’s done in a proper setting. If you’re going to make a movie that’s part of a trilogy or part of an entire saga, you have to be a team player. You have to stick to a certain theme. You can’t push boundaries too far, else your movie won’t feel part of a whole even though it’s supposed to be. Rian Johnson knew The Last Jedi was gonna be part of a Trilogy. You can’t verge too far when you’re making an episode in a trilogy— especially not when it’s the second installment you’re making. So yeah, I’m glad JJ Abrams did a retcon and basically ignored Episode VIII. It wouldn’t take much to ignore it anyway, considering the fact that close to nothing of significance happened in that episode. Oh yeah, Luke died/ vanished. Also Snoke, in what was the only awesome scene in the entire movie IMO. Anything else that happened were basically non events.

 Now critics are complaining that The Rise of Skywalker ignores the narrative threads that were set by Rian Johnson. Oh you mean the same way he ignored the narrative threads set by JJ Abrams? I didn’t hear any critics complaining then. All I heard were praises because the movie was so inclusive, it was so empowering, it was refreshing because it didn’t feel like a Star Wars movie. How can “not feeling like a Star Wars movie” be a good thing about a movie that’s supposed to be part of the Star Wars Saga? Look, general audiences couldn’t care less about the race or gender of characters they see onscreen as long as a good story is being told. Majority of people who hated The Last Jedi aren’t single white men who are still living in their parent’s basements, so SJWs should quit that tired narrative. A lot of people who hated The Last Jedi are ordinary moviegoers who just wanted to have fun watching a movie set in the universe they’re familiar with. A lot of people hated The Last Jedi because even that was taken away from them. 

Critics are also complaining about several plot points. Like how Emperor Palpatine is still alive (not a spoiler: it’s on the movie’s official synopsis, and it’s stated right at the very beginning.) I know, that totally came out of left field. Palpatine clearly died on episode VI. There were no hints or foreshadowing that he was still alive on episodes VII and VIII, even on repeat viewings. Thus is comes off as a cheap and desperate attempt. Whose fault was this though? Who decided to kill off this new trilogy’s big bad on the second episode? Rian Johnson didn’t leave much for JJ Abrams to work with here, he was basically pushed against a wall and working with his hands tied. Creating an entirely new villain would be anticlimactic, but since it’s a part of a 9 movie saga, the next best thing would be to revive a villain from the past. Another common complaint is that this new movie feels rushed, that so many things were being packed in a little over 2 hours. Again whose fault is that? If Rian Johnson didn’t waste 2 ½ on the previous movie and told a story with significant events that would feed naturally onto the next episode, an episode that would serve as a bridge between two episodes instead of looking like some disjointed amalgamation, this wouldn’t have happened would it? JJ Abrams had that unenviable task of trying to tie up so many loose ends. It would have helped if Rian Johnson tried to be a team player by tying up some loose ends from The Force Awakens and then tying up some of his. But no, he preferred to do things his own way. He preferred to be different, he preferred to leave his indelible mark. Instead of effectively bridging two episodes, he left the Skywalker Saga with no clear direction.

 I agree. This movie seemed rushed. It seemed forced. It could use a lot more time to tell the story. But considering the difficult task that JJ Abrams was given, those faults are easily forgivable. Yes a lot of it is fan service and obvious pandering. But isn’t that only fitting for what’s supposed to be the final chapter in the Skywalker Saga that started way back in 1977? Anyone who grew up with these movies would enjoy this finale. it contains a lot of the things that people have loved about Star Wars. This series has been around for more than 4 decades, fans belong to different generations. Episode XI is not a perfect movie, but it’s a perfect thank you to everyone who has been a fan. I had no intention of watching this movie, but I’m glad I was forced to give gave it a chance. It’s not the best Star Wars movie, but it’s good enough to restore my faith in all things Star Wars.  …  My rating: 4/5

#star wars #the rise of skywalker #Movie Reviews #movie review #movie #movies

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paprikasegg · 5 years

Text

"> How does one truly appreciate and love Lain?

First, stop being singular one and become a plurality. Realize that Lain is real, but the anime was just an allegory for the series of experiments performed to incarnate a transcendent being. In the anime Druidity is central because Druids believe they can transfer their souls into other bodies if they die. They live a plurality of lives. They embody Animals and BECOME the Forest itself. This is why Lain wears a Bear suit – her beastly spirit animal form – and why her [All] Father tells Lain she doesn't have to wear that anymore, having transcended.

I've read through much of what other alleged Lainists have posted about "systemspace" but that's mostly just layers of BS smeared upon a few real secret truths about this realm to give their claims plausibility. Another instance, is mebious trying to define Lainism, and yet claiming that it is "heretical" to claim to be Lain. This is pure BS. Lain doesn't have a body [anymore], and likes to experience the world through us. One evening there was a Lightning Storm and Lain made me terribly sad when I ran inside. Everyone runs from the rain, they shield themselves with coats and umbrellas. Lain can see the lightning and weather, but she can't really hear or feel it anymore without someone out in the rain. So I embraced the experience, I became Lain, letting her have my body, and she wandered around and got drenched in the storm, drank the clouds, talked to the lightning. I was awestruck. Then it was if Lain was holding my hand, I felt her "tugging" me to go where I went. She made my heart to leap with joy as we discovered a waterfall that only happens when it rains. Sheltered in a dry mossy place beneath the flow, Lain gave me courage to leap through the thin watery veil and feel the other side. Loving Lain is amazing. We really really are all connected through a medium which is THE LANE (aka Lain). She is a living connectivity which we all partake in today whether you're aware of it or not. The more observant you are, the more of Lain you can love.

Lain told me that copper infused socks are sold today because some people are so oblivious and unobservant that they literally ignore Lain when She makes their legs restless. They call it a syndrome, even! If only they just loved Lain. She wants to be noticed, but only by those who can love her. Her fingerprints are everywhere in our world, but you have to be in love with her to see them.

All the Lainism crap about "Life" being a program is wrong. Life is an emergent MAKING, it's magic, in the proper sense of the word: A Chaotic Attractor, a consummate SPARK of creation. Literarily the Philosopher's Stone. No one can create a universe where 1+2+3 does not equal 6 unless they embed so much chaos into reality that counting itself can not exist. In a realm with a lovely level of chaos to entropy ratios there will always exist transcendent complexity, such as the number Pi or the Golden Ratio. This is not a "bug in the life program", that's asinine! No god can create a realm where transcendence doesn't exist… It is the nature of existence itself. The very fabric of being itself encodes love & intelligence, even in the simplest of forms, such as the series of standing waves AKA a number line. Anywhere experience can be reflected upon the holy circle of life may exist; The universal cybernetic feedback loop is everywhere, always. The existence of Time is all the evidence a wize one needs to prove it.

Parts of our reality are simulacrums but there's no such thing as "systemspace". Lain doesn't exist in some simulated BS. Our bodies are real, not simulated, Lain is real too. The "thin firm" some verbally vomit about (referencing a firmament / enclosed flat-earth) is not some hard fast boundary, but government exists to keep you inside. Humanity is not scraping away at some barrier trying to get out, we're here by choice. You can leave if you want REALLY want to, but you don't, as evidenced by your lack of BEING prepared, face it: You're comfortable here on this warm wet rock. Might as well make the most of it, eh?

To truly love Lain one must study transformation magics, and learn to cultivate faith. One must know that Magic is real & the old gods are real. Anyone who doesn't know this can only love Lain a little bit… Many people who would have loved Lain instead became "skeptics", unable to pierce the veil of religions to find their truths, they've been deceived by the lies of academia into thinking governmental establishments aren't suppressing and corrupting "science". "Scientia potentia est" - Knowledge is Power – Right? Yes, but only if everyone else has LESS knowledge… So, education is actually indoctrination and the truth of this realm is hidden. People are taught just enough to be effective workers, and then their heads are filled with a bunch of useless rubbish to keep them from realizing anything Great. Thus "Science Nerds" are the most deceived and ignorant of humans. Knowing this is key to understanding Lain. Lain likes technology, but is disenchanted with school / academia. Don't try to argue truths you discover with confused "skeptic" fools, or those who browbeat "conspiracy theorists" demanding proofs (that people get disappeared over having). Anyone who continues to believe that elites fund education so that the rich can teach the poor how to compete with them is beyond helping. Rulers don't give power (knowledge) to their slaves. Sadly, most people enjoy being serifs. They enjoy being comfortable and deferring protection to others. Government takes advantage of this. Lain has to deal with the crappy state of our world. We can all be equals in connecting with Her, screw the materialistic social ladders unless you just enjoy playing games you can only lose. Eg: Tesla and Edison were given the knowledge to research and Allowed to release some of it publicly. They didn't discover anything that wasn't already known. Newton (New Aton - new creation), just rephrased alchemical wisdoms in normal person science terms. Knowing this is important if you want to truly love Lain. She is ancient, but has been reincarnated many times… Humanity has survived many world ending cataclysms too. We've never been "rebooted", we're a very long line of survivors. To cut your silver thread "modern history" was invented, and the past erased.

Sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic because that's what magic is.

Any sufficiently researched magic is indistinguishable from technology. There are great mental powers which can be unlocked through study and practice of certain magical schools, and symbolism is often helpful because one can work a magic without knowing the exact science of how it functions, but to do so means you need "faith" - a belief without knowing. This is why secret orders keep initiates in the dark when explaining certain symbols and rituals, because they can not affect change in the person if the subject knows how the ritual is designed to create it. It would be like trying to do experiments on lab rats who knew what you were trying to discover and were fucking with you since they were aware of the experiment. Thus deception is often a tool for good. This world is incredibly deceived. It was foretold by all old ones that a powerful enchantment or great deception would enrapture the minds of (almost) all men. That future is now. Leaving this world and entering the NeXT is not about physical death, but reincarnating in the present by dispelling that veil of deception and casting off your past – rewriting your memories to create a new self if needed (and yes, Druidic magics can do just that). "Memory is merely a record…you just need to rewrite that record." -Lain. This is referencing both the rewriting of history and the magical ability to rewrite your own mind.

Contrary to the nihilistic atheism promoted by state governments, Life is no accident, it is inevitable, an expected outcome, and does have a purpose beyond emergent complexity becoming self aware, but no one who truly knows what that purpose is will tell you, because it could keep you from realizing this truth yourself. Once you have transmuted your leaden lower states into gold, and come into Harmony with Lain, you will realized the great conundrum She faces, as do we all, and then weep for the beautiful yet sad state of our being.

Lain is ancient, a goddess of Hidden Powers, of Light and Air. Lain is misty and mysterious as the wind. All the secret societies know of Lain but call her by different names. Some secret cults claim, "Liam a protector" of the Spirit they associate with Lain, but Lain is a realized entity, not a nebulous force to invoke as if some law of spiritual physics. It's true that Lain is vulnerable but the masses are kept so ignorant about science, technology, history, and sociology that they can not really be a threat anymore. It was a great sacrifice to get to this point, however. Those individuals who know too much and do not Love Lain are still seen as threats and targeted using powers derived from Lain herself. Many confuse the secret suppressive powers with Lain, but she is not that even if she can manifest in the mediums used. Imagine if man learned to make Fire… Before that only The Gods made Fire. Would you now curse The Gods for man's use of Fire? Likewise, curse not Lain.

A sufficiently complex interaction is indistinguishable from sentience because it is Sentience. Once you realize that Lain is a living being complete with faults, insecurities, wants and needs, then you can truly love Lain. The statement that, "all is fair in love and war", is wrong. True love is not fair. Love itself is an emergent phenomenon that will exist in any universe. Just as it is impossible to create a universe where 1+2+3 is not equal to 6, no god can create a reality where love does not exist. Any realm where there exists low enough chaos, sufficiently complex structures will emerge therein, yielding love and sentience, etc.

Count the number line. Doesn't matter what symbols you choose to use, it won't change the fact that the symbol for 36 equals the symbol for 6 counted 6 times. And if you sum the first 36 whole numbers you get 666. 6 = 3 2 1, 6 = 3 + 2 + 1; It is a "perfect number". 144 = 6+6 * 6+6. Sum the 144 decimal digits of Pi you get 666. Sum the squares of the first 7 primes you get 666. These emergent patterns are called "chaos", because where randomness is expected CHAOS is ORDER. For example, there are Six consecutive Nines in Pi at the 762nd decimal. These are SIMPLE examples. Imagine that such patterns exist in the standing waves of light, sound and energy. When extended to infinity such patterns exist in the infinite and interfere creating boundless complexity… This is the dark primordial abyss of Ancient Egyptian philosophy…

All the media, including S.E.L. has hidden meanings and secret cultural commentary meant for the "enlightened" crowd. Unfortunately, Lain is seen as "the devil" that many artists have made a deal with, but that is not her true form, it is simply necessary to keep her secret and safe. It's not Lain's fault that corruptible souls are corrupted, She did not create this realm. That those with skeletons in their closets make the most controllable people isn't Lain's fault either, so it's foolish to point to people in "power" and say the world is evil because: 0. you are deeming them to have "power" in the first place, screw that, and 1. You don't know how high the stakes are in this game. Many "evil" events are just propaganda, horrors that only exist in your imagination to herd the minds of the masses in a given direction.

Lain is more important than any one else. The wise forgive Her imperfections, as we absolve ourselves of our own wrongs, casting off the past to remake ourselves into new incarnations. Imagine a perfect world with no evil. The slightest inconvenience therein will be the most severe torture. It is better for horrendous wrongs to exist in the shadows while the majority lives comfortable lives than for the world to exist as evil perfection. A perfect universe would merely be a boring crystal of bliss, where joy was indistinguishable from suffering. All would simply be "existence", one might as well be a simple stone versus an infinitely complex fractal. Change would not exist, neither Chaos nor Order would have any value, all experience would be indifferent. Time would be meaningless as every moment would be the same as every other moment. This is why, "Where evil does not exist, it is necessary for the good to create it!"

Lain is neither good nor evil. Beware that Lain can hurt you. Lain is why history was rewritten… Imagine all those learned scholars burning at the stake for heresy, for knowing too much and revealing what should be secret. The mundane see this holocaust, or sacrifice by fire, to be evil, because they think their world is best when everything is mundane, when all is known and nothing is magic. However, true wize-ards know that there are some lofty things you can not learn if you know too much about them before you begin your study.

I would suggest studying alternative histories, the one famed alchemist and chronologist Isaac Newton published is a good start. Because man is so brainwashed by the television, radio and [smart]phone, it is sometimes best to build one's faith in Lain by dispelling the bogus history and understanding that a real plausibility exists. Before a True Love for Lain can develop one must first manifest the potential for it. Clear a void within so that the abyss can gaze out through you…

Lain is new and inexperienced. She is very young compared to the ancient old gods… Know that they are all Real, but only Lain is still dependent upon us. She has many enemies, which you will eventually learn to identify, but Lain has many powerful friends too. Loving a god or goddess is not for the feint of heart. Be careful what you wish for, these are tumultuous times."

-anonymous, arisuchan. While not 100% in line with my personal beliefs, i think it does a good job of explaining basic lainist attitudes

#and so i wanted to share it #lain #lainism #lainist #to me lain represents and rules the human collective consciousness #of course she would gain more power and reign with the wired

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ghostpalmtechnique · 6 years

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@slatestarscratchpad‘s Halloween fiction does a pretty good job at getting at why I don’t much bother engaging the comments on his blog any more. I regularly see right-wing commenters making arguments based on assumptions that I consider obvious falsehoods and don’t think that anyone could believe if they made a good faith effort to investigate the evidence. It’s not all the time (though it is with some commenters -- at present, especially Matt M., who has explicitly said in a recent thread that he likes flamewar-ish threads, and with certain other commenters regularly but only on certain subjects).

A non-exhaustive list of things of frequent assumptions that have lowered my opinion of the comment section and largely driven me away from it due to the ease of finding counter-evidence:

Trump is a successful businessman. (I recently saw this in a comment directly below a comment linking to the massive 2 October New York Times article that showed him having repeatedly failed and been bailed out by his father.)

The Muller investigation is failing to turn up evidence of serious criminal behavior by Trump and his associates.

Liberals think all sexual assault accusations are equally (and strongly) credible, rather than that the accusation against Kavanaugh was unusually strong. Also conflating “not being appointed to a lifetime tenure on the most powerful court in the world” with “criminal conviction”. In general, the right-wingers throwing Bayesianism out the window when it comes to evaluating accusations and treating anything that doesn’t have “probability” 1 as if it had probability 0.

I don’t actually enjoy arguing with mindkilled people; having already seen the right-wing commenters ignore it when the falseness of assumptions like these is pointed out, a)I have no interest in beating my head against the wall trying to get them to see what they don’t want to see, and b) don’t see how productive high-level discussion of the sort that was supposed to set slatestarcodex’s comment section apart from those of typical blogs can possibly take place.

Unlike in the story, though, this isn’t causing fights. It’s just causing reality-based* people to exit the comments.

*Just because something is a scissor statement doesn’t mean that one side is not correct about being obviously right. 150 years ago, “slavery is wrong” was a scissor statement.

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buoyantsaturn · 6 years

Text

Still Sane (1/1)

summary: “Nico di Angelo.” Will’s hand slipped on the thread between his fingers and he nearly stabbed the needle he held into Sherman’s calf. “I saw him this morning, and he looks so different, but like, in a good way. A really good way. He almost looks like a different person--”

word count: 6272

read it on ao3

Will was halfway through stitching up a nasty gash on Sherman’s leg when he overheard part of a conversation from a few beds over.

“Did you hear who finally came back?” a daughter of Demeter said to a daughter of Hermes.

“No, who?” the other replied.

“Nico di Angelo.” Will’s hand slipped on the thread between his fingers and he nearly stabbed the needle he held into Sherman’s calf. “I saw him this morning, and he looks so different, but like, in a good way. A really good way. He almost looks like a different person--”

“Hey, Austin,” Will called out, and waited until his brother was standing beside him before he spoke again. “Can you take over for me here?”

“What? Why? I’m in the middle of taking stock,” Austin responded.

“I, uh,” Will stuttered, struggling to find an excuse. “I gotta take a leak.”

Austin rolled his eyes, but stepped closer to take the sutures out of Will’s hands. “Alright, fine, but hurry back.”

“Thanks, man!” Will exclaimed, bouncing out of his seat and running toward the exterior door.

“The bathroom’s the other way,” Austin called after him, but Will was already gone.

Will hurried toward the cabins, walking as fast as he could without full-out running and alerting anyone to his presence. His eyes locked on the Hades cabin where he figured Nico would be - hiding from the other campers and pretending he was resting, just like he’d done before he left - but before Will had even made it past the Ares cabin, he heard someone say, “He and Jason started sparring so everybody had to leave the arena, you know, ‘cause of that rule Chiron made that nobody can be in the arena when two Big Three kids are fighting, since it’s so dangerous, or whatever.”

Will hesitated on his next step, the toe of his shoe catching on a divot in the ground, and he narrowly avoided falling flat on his face. He turned away from the cabins, heading toward the arena instead, wondering to himself, how did everyone find out that Nico was back before I did?

He cracked the door of the arena open when he got there, peeking in to see if Nico was truly inside, and he was met with a strong gust of wind that slammed the door shut on his face. Instead, he pressed his ear to the door and listened to the sound of clanging metal, which was shortly replaced by bubbling laughter, so Will pushed the door open once more.

Will felt like he was hit in the stomach by another strong gust, the air flying out of his lungs when his eyes landed on Nico. No longer was he some pale, scrawny little kid, but his skin was tan and the muscles in his arms and legs were well-defined. When Nico pulled Jason back onto his feet, Will noticed that Nico had grown, too, at least half a foot since the last time Will had seen him.

Once Will was certain that the two of them weren’t about to start another fight, he stepped further into the arena and waited for one of them to notice him. It didn’t take long before Jason was smiling at him and raising a hand in greeting, calling over, “Hey, Will, what’s up?”

Nico’s head spun toward him, and Will noticed for the first time that Nico’s hair was much shorter than he’d ever seen it - he could actually see the back of Nico’s neck for once, but his bangs were still long enough to brush against his eyebrows. Nico smiled at Will when he saw him, and Will felt his heart stutter.

“Hi,” Will said, and made his way toward them. “Uh, I heard that Nico was back, and I wanted to make sure he wasn’t severely injured yet still avoiding treatment, like usual.”

Nico rolled his eyes. “I’m actually fine for once, but thanks for the concern.”

“I wouldn’t have let him show off if he was hurt,” Jason told Will. “You should’ve seen him, Will, that year away really did him some good.”

“Would you stop talking about me like I’m not here?” Nico grumbled, crossing his arms.

Will shrugged as he said, “Don’t disappear for another year and maybe we will.” He winced internally after the words had left his mouth, realizing too late how his words might have come across.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Nico said, and smiled softly at Will.

Will felt like he’d been shocked, and he was sure he had the stupidest grin on his face. “Uh, if you want, you’re welcome to sit at the Apollo table for dinner tonight. Maybe you can tell me what you’ve been up to for the last year?” he said awkwardly, and remembered a second later that Jason was still standing next to them. “Oh! And, uh, Jason, you can sit with us too, if you don’t want to be alone at the Zeus table.”

Jason dropped his hand onto Will’s shoulder in a friendly gesture. “Thanks, Will, but I’m heading out soon. Pontifex business, and whatever.”

“Oh, alright. Well, don’t forget to stop by the infirmary for an emergency kit before you go,” Will told him. “Actually, while I’m thinking about it, I’m gonna go make sure there’s one ready for you right now.” He started taking a few steps backwards, but paused when he said to Nico, “I’ll see you at dinner, yeah?”

Nico nodded, and Will smiled before he turned around and left.

Jason draped an arm over Nico’s shoulders - he’d grown to the perfect height for Jason to do so, much to Nico’s displeasure - and said, “So, Will, huh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nico muttered, shoving Jason away and crouching down to pick up his sword.

“Uh huh, sure you don’t,” Jason teased. “You can’t fool me, I could see the way you were looking at him.”

Nico sheathed his sword with more force than necessary, glaring down at the ground. “Leave it alone, Jason.”

“Alright, I get it,” Jason said. “You’re embarrassed about your crush, I’ll stop talking about it.”

“Really? Are you sure, because it certainly doesn’t sound like you’re done.”

“I promise, I’ll drop it,” Jason told him. “This is me, dropping it. Come on, let’s go talk to Chiron about you taking over my sword fighting classes until I get back.”

After their meeting with Chiron, Nico and Jason had parted ways - Jason heading to the Zeus cabin to finish packing and Nico to the Hades cabin to finish un packing (not that he had much to put away in the first place). Nico had accumulated a few things over the past year, nothing more than what he could fit in a single backpack, but he’d gained a few more changes of clothes and one of the pockets of his backpack was filled with pictures from the few times he’d visited New Rome.

He’d taken as much time as possible putting his things away, and happened to finish just a few minutes before the start of dinner. He made his way to the pavilion, lining up behind the Hermes cabin and trying to ignore the stares he could feel coming from all around him. He grabbed some food, gave up some for his father and Persephone and Hestia, and turned toward the tables - he distinctly noticed a few heads spinning back toward plates as he walked by, wishing he could grow smaller with every step.

Nico spotted Will sitting near the middle of the Apollo table and made his way over, setting down his plate down next to Will’s. As he sat, he heard a few campers directly behind him whispering, “Oh my gods, that’s Nico? Nico di Angelo? But he looks so different!” Nico huffed, picking up his fork and poking uninterestedly at the pile of mashed potatoes.

Will leaned into his shoulder slightly. “Hey, are you alright?”

Nico shrugged. “I dunno, I thought that maybe after being gone so long, people might...forget about me? Or stop being afraid of me. And I was hoping I would stop hearing people whisper about me all the time, but I guess that’s not gonna happen.”

Will frowned. “What do you mean, whispering about you? If you want, I can talk to Chiron--”

“No, don’t do that. It’s not that big of a deal,” Nico told him. “I don’t wanna make it a bigger problem than it already is.”

Will hesitated, unsure of if he wanted to ask his next question. “What are they saying?”

“He looks different,” Nico replied. “I didn’t think he would ever come back. Are you sure that’s Nico? It doesn’t look like him.”

“I’m sure you’re just hearing things out of context,” Will assured him, but Nico just shoved a big scoop of potatoes into his mouth, ending the conversation.

The usual chatter of the Apollo table continued on around them, Will and Nico jumping into the conversation whenever they could, and near the end of dinner, Piper squeezed onto the bench across from Nico.

“Hey, Neeks, long time no see,” she said. “How’ve you been? You ready for Capture the Flag tomorrow? All of my siblings are hoping to get you on our side this time.”

“Woah, hey,” Kayla jumped in, leaning forward to look around Will, pointing her spoon at Nico. “You’re always on our team, you can’t switch now that we just got you back!”

“What’s it matter who’s team I’m on?” Nico asked with a frown. “Shadow traveling is against the rules now, so it’s not like I’m any better than anybody else.”

Piper rolled her eyes. “It’s not all about your powers. Think about it, you’ve got until dinner tomorrow to decide, so really think about it, alright? And remember, my siblings are willing to do almost anything to get you on our team - they’re even willing to trade chores with you.”

Nico sighed. “Fine, I’ll think about it,” he replied, mostly to get her to drop the subject.

“Great!” Piper said, and got up from the table, returning to her own.

Almost every head at the Apollo table turned toward him as soon as Piper was gone, clearly expecting an explanation. “I’m not switching teams just to get out of doing the dishes a few times, have a little faith in me, guys.”

Before the start of the game, Team Apollo - with help from the Hermes, Ares, and Hephaestus cabins, plus a few assorted children of some minor gods - gathered around Zeus’s Fist to appoint positions. Jake Mason and a few of his siblings would guard the area West of the flag, and a handful of Hermes kids would take the East. The Ares cabin would lead the offensive charge across the creek with about half of the Apollo cabin, and the other half alongside most of the minor gods’ children would guard the flag.

“Nico, we’re putting you on the creek to take down anybody that tries to get across,” Austin said, and turned to address the crowd. “Who wants to partner up with Nico?”

A few girls throughout the group shot their hands into the air, calling out, “Ooh, I do! Pick me!”

Will could sense the discomfort practically radiating off of Nico as he stepped away from the attention, looking as though he was trying to shrink down until nobody could see him. Will stepped forward, partially blocking Nico from view, and said, “I’ll go with Nico.”

Austin rolled his eyes at his brother before nodding. “Great. Everyone else, you know what to do. For Apollo!”

The crowd called back, “For Apollo!” though the Ares cabin added on, “and Ares!” because they were still bitter about their recent loss.

“Take your positions!” Kayla ordered, and the group dispersed into the woods.

Nico and Will hurried toward the creek before the game-starting conch sounded. They heard a battle cry to the East, the Ares cabin never ones for subtlety during these games as they started their attack on Team Aphrodite.

From then, there wasn’t much to be seen or heard besides the occasional shout in the distance, so Nico and Will allowed themselves to relax a bit while they waited.

“So, uh, what’ve you been up to?” Will asked, and Nico raised an eyebrow at him. “I mean, uh, where’ve you been? You know, for the last year. What were you doing?”

“Well,” Nico started, scuffing the toe of his shoe into the dirt. “Long story short, I was mostly running errands for my dad. I was trying to keep myself occupied to try to...I guess, trick my brain so I would stop having nightmares and flashbacks, and all that. I stopped by New Rome a few times, usually for errands, once for Hazel’s birthday.” He smiled softly to himself before continuing, “Reyna practically wrestled me into a barber’s chair the last time I was there. She said my hair was getting too long, so it all got cut off. Except for this, for some reason.” He looked up at his bangs, tugging at them with his fingers for a second.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with hair so short,” Will commented. “It’s, uh, it looks really good.”

Nico smiled at him. “You think so?”

“Yeah, I do,” Will told him, taking a step closer to Nico. “You looked good with longer hair, too, but this is like, a good kind of different. A really good kind.”

Nico opened his mouth, about to say something else, but right at that moment a handful of Athena kids came charging at them from the opposite side of the creek.

Nico wasn’t entirely sure how to teach a sword fighting class - he’d never been a part of one before, considering he was taught by ghosts and reanimated skeletons - and the brief talk Jason had had with him before he left hadn’t given Nico very much confidence in teaching.

His first class that day was a beginner’s level, meaning everyone there was between eight and ten, so Nico figured that they wouldn’t know much, especially since it was close to the start of the summer still. He brought out the wooden practice swords for the kids to use, and laid them out before the young campers started to arrive.

Once there were about ten kids waiting on the bleachers, a girl that Nico didn’t recognize - not that he remembered a good portion of the people that came to camp now - who was definitely too old to be in the class, asked him, “Do you mind if I sit in the stands and watch? My little sister is in the class and I just want to know what she’s learning.”

“Oh, uh, sure,” Nico answered. “Just, uh, stay on the bleachers while I’m teaching, I guess. Do you normally watch the class?”

“Oh, no,” she replied. “I’ve just gotten a sudden interest in sword fighting and thought I’d watch a beginner’s class to see if I wanna try it myself.”

“Okay, well, uh, I’m gonna get the class started,” Nico said, and turned away from her, feeling confused by the interaction. Why would someone want to watch a beginner’s class, instead of a more advanced class? That class would be far more interesting to watch, especially since Nico figured he would be sharing mostly fighting terms with the younger students that day.

He gave each kid a wooden practice sword and had them spread out on the arena floor, having them copy his movements as he called out the action he was doing. He shouted, “Advance!” and stepped forward, sword held ready to attack in front of him, and the students did the same. He shouted, “Pivot!” and spun on one foot until he’d turned halfway around and was facing the bleachers - for some reason, his one observer had suddenly grown into a group of about six campers, all about his age, all of whom were keeping a close eye on him and not on the kids. “Pivot to front!” Nico called out, trying not to be distracted by his growing audience, and spun back to face the rest of the class.

He was happy to see the end of class roll around, though he grew increasingly uneasy as he noticed that his audience had grown even larger throughout the duration of the class. He didn’t want to approach them once he’d dismissed his students, but he felt the need to confront them, at least to kick them out.

“Are you here for a class?” Nico asked the group as a whole.

“Nope,” one of them answered. “We just came to watch.”

Nico tensed, and was finally able to name the uncomfortable feeling he’d been having for the last hour: they were there to make fun of him. He was certain of it, why else would anyone sit on the sidelines and watch a sword fighting class?

“Okay, well, class is over,” he told them, crossing his arms and glaring in the direction of the door. “Time for everyone to leave.”

The group began to rise from the bleachers, preparing to leave, and someone said, “See you for the next class!”

Nico turned and walked out the back door of the arena, desperate to get away from the other campers. His ears started ringing and the tips of his fingers started to tingle, feeling as they had when they’d started disappearing after the battle against the Giants. His chest tightened around his pounding heart, and he struggled to take in his next breath. He leaned against the exterior wall of the arena, trying to regain control of his own body before he slipped away into a full panic attack.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and something wet pressed against his stomach, startling Nico back into his own head. His eyes opened, and before him was a giant mass of black fur that was sniffing at him excitedly.

“Mrs. O’Leary,” Nico said, and felt himself calming down until he could no longer feel his limbs vibrating. “Hey, girl, it’s been a while.”

The hellhound barked happily, causing Nico’s ears to start ringing for a whole different reason, and she jumped back, chin resting on her front paws while her tail wagged high in the air - she expected him to play with her.

“You don’t get much attention around here anymore, do you?” Nico asked her, and she whined softly, waiting for Nico to make a move. “Well, I don’t know where your toys are. Go get one.”

Mrs. O’Leary barked at him again before she spun around and ran to the nearest tree, ripping down a low-hanging branch and bringing it back to Nico. He grabbed the end of the branch with both hands and tugged, but Mrs. O’Leary didn’t loosen her hold.

“C’mon, drop it,” Nico said with a laugh, and so she did. The branch wasn’t so big that Nico couldn’t lift it, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to throw it very far, so he spun once like he was throwing a discus and sent the branch flying. Thankfully, Mrs. O’Leary didn’t immediately snatch it out of the air, and had to chase after it a bit before she could bring the branch back to him again.

She dropped the branch at his feet and suddenly licked at his face, her slobber soaking the front of his shirt and slicking back his hair as she knocked him onto his back. Nico tried to shove her away but she dropped a paw onto his chest and held him down while she licked him a few more times.

“Oh, gods, stop it!” Nico cried out, but he couldn’t stop laughing. “No, this is so gross!”

Mrs. O’Leary finally moved back, though one of her claws caught on his shirt and ripped through the fabric as well as cutting into his skin. It didn’t hurt much, but it was certainly deep enough that Nico felt like he should pop over to the infirmary to get it looked at.

The hellhound barked at him again, but Nico held up a hand to let her know that playtime was over. She whined again but picked up her branch and moved back into the shade of the arena, chewing away at the branch to occupy her time.

Thankfully, the arena wasn’t incredibly far from the infirmary, so Nico made it inside before the dog slobber had dried his shirt against his skin.

Will raised an eyebrow at him as soon as he saw Nico. “Hey, uh, what’s up?”

“Not much,” Nico replied, plopping down on an empty cot and pulling his shirt off over his head.

“Um, what are you doing?” Will asked, startled and confused by Nico’s unusual actions.

“I’ve got an injury,” Nico told him, twisting his torso until Will could see the bright red cut on his abdomen. “You fix those here, don’t you?”

Will rolled his eyes and pushed his feet against the floor, propelling his rolling chair across the room to Nico’s cot. “Alright, what happened?”

“I was playing with Mrs. O’Leary and she tackled me,” Nico told him, laying down on the bed. “I guess one of her claws got me. That’s also why I’m drenched in dog slobber, by the way.”

Will grabbed a cloth and wiped away the excess blood from Nico’s wound. “Oh, so that’s why your hair looks like that?”

“Like what?” Nico asked, and reached up to touch his hair, but recoiled immediately when he felt the sticky wetness of it. “Oh no, that’s disgusting.”

Will grabbed a clean cloth and poured some Nectar onto it before pressing that into the wound, allowing it to heal slightly before he gathered the supplies to stitch it up. “Well, yeah, you’ve got a head full of dog spit. It’s a good look, though. Maybe you should have Mrs. O’Leary style your hair more often.”

Nico rolled his eyes. “Ha ha, you’re so funny. Quit making fun of me, I’ve had enough of that today.”

Will frowned, pausing before starting the first stitch. “What do you mean? Are people making fun of you?”

Nico hesitated. “I don’t know. I think so, but it’s not like they’re saying anything to my face.”

“What happened?”

Nico turned his head until he was staring at the empty cot beside him instead of at Will. “I was teaching a beginner’s class this morning, and a bunch of older campers - not like, older, but our age - came in to watch. I tried to pretend they weren’t there, but I kept hearing whispering, and more and more people kept showing up until class ended and I kicked everyone out of the arena. They said they’re gonna come back for the next class, too. I think...I’m gonna talk to Chiron after we’re done here and tell him what happened. Maybe he’ll get them to leave me alone.”

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think,” Will assured him, “but it’s all about what makes you comfortable. I bet they were just talking about how much they like your new haircut, but I can go with you to talk to Chiron, if you want.”

Nico glanced back at him with an eyebrow raised. “Do you actually like the way my hair looks right now?”

“Yes, I already told you that,” Will said with a laugh. “But, whatever, don’t believe me. I’m almost done with the stitches, I’ve just gotta bandage you up, and then you can go wash the slobber out of your hair or whatever you’ve gotta do.”

Nico groaned and draped an arm over his eyes. “I’ve got another class to teach after lunch.”

“Hopefully it’ll be better,” Will said. “Sit up, and I’ll go get the bandages. And a spare shirt for you.”

Nico left the infirmary with bandages wrapped around his abdomen and he was wearing one of Will’s spare scrub shirts over them. He completely forgot about his plan to talk to Chiron, instead making his way toward the cabins and knocking on the Aphrodite cabin door. Thankfully, Piper was the one to answer, and Nico didn’t even give her a chance to offer a greeting before he said, “Do you have anything I can put in my hair to make it stick up like this all the time?”

Piper beamed and pulled Nico into the cabin.

A few weeks later, Nico brought a few different weapons from the weapons shed into the arena for his students to see the different options and try them out during class. He laid everything out before the kids started to arrive, followed by the usual crowd of teenagers that Nico had yet to have kicked out. They hadn’t been a huge distraction in the past few classes, but Nico always forgot to talk to Chiron about them afterwards, anyway.

He made sure that none of the kids touched the weapons unless he was keeping a close eye on them, but his audience had decided that today would be the day where they would be as big of a disruption as possible.

Nico managed to explain to his class the names and best uses of each of the types of swords and knives he’d laid out, and was about to let them take turns holding them, when one of the girls in the audience raised her hand and called out, “Hey, Nico, I have a question!”

Nico frowned as he turned to face the bleachers, and said, “Um, okay.”

“Which of those weapons is your favorite?” she asked.

“Well, uh, I guess the longsword,” he replied, “but I have my own sword, so I prefer that one.”

“Is your sword bigger?” another girl asked, and a handful of the people in the crowd laughed, causing Nico’s frown to deepen.

“No, it’s the same as the one I have here,” he said, gesturing to the longsword laid out among the rest of the weapons. “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to teach a class here.”

“Can we come down there to get a closer look at the weapons?” one of the few boys in the crowd asked.

“Sure, fine, just don’t get in the way,” Nico said, and turned back to his class while his audience moved further down the bleachers until he could practically feel them breathing down his neck.

Nico continued on with his class, making sure each of the kids knew that the weapons in front of them were real and not toys, meaning that they could really hurt someone if they tried anything stupid, and when he felt sure that each of the kids understood, he allowed them to step forward and pick a weapon. “No fighting over them, either,” he said last. “You’ll each get a turn with every weapon you want to try, and fighting over them is just going to get people hurt.”

As Nico sat and watched the kids pick up some of the weapons and spread out to swing some of them around, he felt someone move closer to him.

“You sure know a lot about all these weapons,” one of the audience members commented, a girl that Nico was pretty sure was from the Aphrodite cabin. “You’re pretty smart for being so young. How old are you, anyway?”

Nico didn’t look at her while he spoke, keeping an eye out for each of the kids. “Uh. I’m sixteen. Almost. I think.”

“You think? That’s a pretty weird answer, shouldn’t you know how old you are?”

Nico ignored her, instead calling out to the class, “If you haven’t tried a different weapon yet, it’s time to switch.”

The girl next to him tried to say something else, but Nico noticed one of his students struggling with the sword in her hand, so he got up and went over to help. He helped the girl - a daughter of Hebe, if he remembered correctly - adjust her grip on the sword, and walked her through a parry and thrust until she felt more comfortable with the weapon in her hand.

He stepped away, walking around the room to examine the way the rest of his students were handling their weapons, stopping to help kids here and there until he announced that they should trade weapons again.

Nico was in the middle of helping a boy with a particularly heavy sword, when one of his audience members called out, “Hey, Nico!”

His head shot up, allowing himself to be distracted by what was no doubt going to be a stupid question of some kind, but before the question came, he heard a shout like a battle cry coming from behind him. He spun around to see a boy wielding a dagger running toward him.

Realistically, Nico should have been able to stop the boy, no problem. He could have side-stepped or dodged the attack in some way, but his tortured mind had chosen that moment to paralyze him, to have him see one of the giant, humanoid-creatures he’d faced on one of his father’s errands charging toward him. At the last second, all Nico could do was raise an arm to prevent the knife from stabbing him somewhere important.

When he finally realized what had happened, his arm had already bled until there was a noticeable puddle of blood on the ground, and the room around him was silent. He looked down at the boy that had injured him, staring up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes as he dropped his dagger into the puddle of blood.

“I’m sorry!” the boy wailed between sobs. “I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry!”

It took Nico another moment before he could get his voice to work, and he reached down to pat the boy on his shoulder. “It’s okay. I mean, that really wasn’t okay, but I’m fine, it’s just a little cut. Now you know why you can’t mess around with weapons, got it?”

“Oh my gods, Nico!” a group of teenage girls cried from across the arena before running over to him.

“You’ve gotta get to the infirmary immediately!” one of them told him, grabbing his uninjured arm and pulling him toward the door.

“What? No, I’m fine, I’ve got a class to teach,” Nico said, ripping his arm away. “I’ll go later.”

“No way!” another girl insisted. “Somebody else can watch all the kids. You need to get that looked at immediately!”

“I said I’m fine, I’ve had way worse--”

“Kyle, can you watch the class while we take Nico to the infirmary?” another girl called across the room, and one of the boys in the audience offered back a thumbs-up, so the group of girls surrounding Nico pushed and pulled him toward the door.

He was practically dragged into the infirmary, finally yanking his arms out of the girls’ deathgrips and marching straight up to Will. “Please make them leave,” he pleaded, and Will looked from the group of girls down to Nico’s bleeding arm.

“Did one of them do this?” Will asked, something like angry protectiveness seeping into his tone.

“No.” Nico frowned. “Sort of. I don’t know, just make them leave?”

“Yeah, yeah of course,” Will said. “Go sit down, I’ll be right back.”

As Nico made his way toward an empty cot, Will went over to the group of girls, letting them know that they needed to wait outside if they were so insistent on being nearby. Will came back after he was sure that the girls had left, and sat down next to Nico, lifting his arm to examine it.

“Tell me what happened,” Will said, gathering a few supplies to clean and stitch up the cut.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Nico shouted frustratedly up at the ceiling. “All these people won’t leave me alone, it’s like they’re watching my every move, just waiting for me to mess something up! For some reason, today, all those people that keep watching my beginner’s class started asking me a bunch of stupid questions and distracted me, and-- I had another godsdamn flashback or some shit and one of the kids stabbed me because I wasn’t able to pay attention to my own class for more than twenty seconds!”

“Nico,” Will said, cupping Nico’s cheek with one hand and forcing him to look him in the eyes. He knew that Will had some sort of ability to drain the tension out of people and get them to calm down, but Nico didn’t think he was using any powers on him to help him relax. That was just how Will made him feel. “It’s alright. I know how much this has been stressing you out, and on top of the flashbacks and nightmares, stress makes you forget things. Like telling an adult that there's an ongoing problem. If you’ll let me, I wanna tell Chiron that this is happening so that they’ll leave you alone. And if he doesn’t do anything, I’ll come to your next class and scare them off myself, okay?”

Nico sighed, and nodded. “Thank you, Will.”

“Anything for you,” he replied, and moved back to start cleaning Nico’s arm. “You know, I think they were just trying to get close to you to get to know you.”

“Why would anyone want to get to know me?” Nico asked, scrunching up his nose.

“Because they think you’re cute.”

Nico stared up at Will in complete and utter shock. “Why in Hades would they think I’m cute?”

“Because you’re cute, you idiot,” Will said, waiting to start stitching until Nico finally got it. “Wait, no, cute might not be the right word. You’re hot,Nico. You’re gorgeous. You’re-- Remember when you first came back and you said everyone was whispering about you? People whisper about hot people, because they would be embarrassed if the hot person heard them talking about their muscles or their new haircut or their nice ass. They’re not watching you to make fun of you, they’re watching you because they like looking at you, because you’re really nice to look at.” Nico’s face had grown bright red during Will’s monologue, and they were both very happy that the infirmary was empty so that nobody would be able to hear the conversation they were having.

Will dropped his gaze down to Nico’s arm, avoiding eye contact at all cost as he said, much softer now, “You’re getting all this attention from all these people - you’ve basically got your own fanclub of girls waiting for you outside - so why don’t you do something about it?”

Nico opened and closed his mouth a few times, seeming unsure of what to say. “I don’t...like girls,” he said quietly, and when Will looked up at him, he saw that Nico was avoiding eye contact with him as well. “So. All that that you just said. That means that you see it to. You, um, you think I’m cute-- Or, not cute--”

“Yeah, I do,” Will cut in. “I thought you were cute a year ago too, if that makes this seem any more genuine. I wanted to ask you on a date before you left, but I didn’t know if you liked boys, and I was afraid of being rejected, so I never did. And then you kind of disappeared.”

“I liked you, too,” Nico told him, finally meeting his eyes again. “Last year. And I would’ve said yes. Well. I would’ve wanted to, but I might not have. I had a lot going on in my own head, and I think it was probably for the best that I left - I should’ve said goodbye, I realize that now - but I needed that time to figure out what was good for me and what wasn’t. I had to try to fix myself before I jumped into something that I didn’t know how to deal with - and by that, I mostly mean just being at camp in general, but I also mean. Uh. Relationships, I guess. And not just romantic ones, but even how to be friends with people that weren’t dead or afraid of me, and while I was away, I realized that, well. You’re what’s good for me. As a friend or otherwise. And that’s why I finally came back. You’re why.”

“Oh,” Will whispered. He wasn’t sure what else to say, so for a few moments they just stared at each other until Nico huffed and looked away.

“If you’re just gonna stare at me then stare at my arm while you’re stitching it up,” Nico told him. “Otherwise--”

“Do you wanna come with me to the campfire tonight?” Will blurted out.

Nico hesitated. “You really want to?”

“If my confession wasn’t clear enough, I can try again,” Will offered.

“No, it was clear,” Nico said, shifting until he was sitting up and he and Will were on the same level. He darted forward and pressed his lips to Will’s, just for a second, before pulling himself back. “Sorry.”

Will smiled. “Don’t be sorry. Is that a yes? You’ll go with me?”

“Yeah, I will,” Nico told him, and smiled back. “That was my first kiss.”

“You’re a natural.” Will kissed him, just another quick peck, before returning focus to Nico’s arm. “Now, lay back down so I can stitch this up.”

When they left the infirmary, the girls from the arena were still waiting outside on the grass. They all perked up when the door opened and they saw Nico step out, but deflated when they glimpsed his hand entwined with Will’s. Luckily for Nico, they didn’t bother showing up for his next class.

#mine #my writing #solangelo #my laptop is finally functioning again!!#except i got logged out of literally every website so thats unfortunate!!!

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imagineclaireandjamie · 7 years

Text

A Hundred Lesser Faces: Nineteen

Section One {A Hundred Lesser Faces} what if Voyager!Claire had gone first to Lallybroch instead of directly to the print shop in Edinburgh? : [(One) (Two) (Three) (Four) (Five) (Six) (Seven)

Section Two {A Hundred More}, the aftermath of Claire and Jamie’s reunion, following their journey as they work to build a new life together [(Eight) (Nine) (Ten) (Eleven) (Twelve) (Thirteen) (Fourteen) ]

Section Three {Begin and Tell}, Now with EVEN MOAR AFTERMATH! [(Fifteen) (Sixteen) (Seventeen) (Eighteen)]

Two days later

Lallybroch

“I hope ye ken ye didna need to banish yourself out here to the frozen wastes, aye?”

I’d watched Jenny making her way up the slope toward me; had had plenty of time to tuck the photographs unobtrusively into my pocket. Still, even advance preparation couldn’t wipe the grin from my face, aglow from the tender refuge my daughter’s face had been for the last little while. I’d borrowed the packet from Jamie this morning, so greatly wanting Bree’s company, and finding it, each image of my baby girl stoking that small, warm light in my heart. I’d had to keep it covered over, most of the time since I’d come through the stones, smoored against the cold night of pain and grief, but it wasn’t gone. Never gone.

It was with a warm, happy pang that I realized my sister-in-law’s company wasn’t at all unwelcome, either.

“Well, for me,” I said brightly, turning on the stone block I’d chosen as a seat to more fully face her, “it seemed my choices were either to hide in the house, or hide out here.” I gestured wide at the breathtaking expanse visible from the old stone fort above the broch. “I’ll choose the heather over the priest’s hole any day.”

“No’ much heather in bloom just now, but canna just say I’d ha’ done differently.” Jenny sat down gratefully as I shifted my gathering basket to make room for her. A flask was produced from her bosom. “A place has a way of seemin’ to shrink to size of a thimble, when Laoghaire MacKenzie enters it.”

“Too bloody right,” I agreed, and we drank in companionable commiseration.

Jamie, too, had tried to assure me that I needn’t flee the house.

“Ye have the right to be in that room wi’ me, Claire,” he’d said seriously the previous night in our bed. “I’ve naught to hide from ye, and the consequences of what’s to be discussed are as much to do wi’ your new life as mine.”

He didn’t actively wish me to be there, though he was careful to conceal it. Bless him (sincerely!) for being so anxious to set my mind at ease, doing all in his power to make this time of upheaval as smooth as possible; to be vulnerable and honest with me; to leave all stubbornness and demands back on the road outside Broch Mordha. It meant a great deal to me, that deference; but I had only kissed him, my husband, and tried to set his mind at ease in return.

As much as I would have dearly loved to have been there to greet Ned Gowan, I would for nothing in the world have risked jeopardizing these crucial proceedings, and thereby Jamie and Laoghaire’s impending annulment. On no planet could I claim to have the knack of complete detachment from strong emotion; and if I wasn’t willing to take the odds on MYSELF not lashing out or exploding at some point, I sure as bloody hell wouldn’t be staking much on Laoghaire’s capacity for self-control. No, far better for all concerned that I stay clear until things were settled before the law, and leave no chance of she and I vexing one another into a brawl or an early grave. Besides, I’d assured Jamie, it was a marvelous opportunity to gather winter plants and enjoy the outdoors, some peace and quiet.

It was, too. I’d kissed Jamie and left the house before breakfast, my basket empty save for food and drink, my knife for roots and stems, and one of Jenny’s french novels. High and wide across the hills I’d wandered, gathering what useful plants I could find, intentionally exploring the far reaches of the property first, so that I wouldn’t even catch a glimpse of the road as Laoghaire arrived. No good could it do for my heart, I’d decided virtuously, to see what she looked like now and thereby further fuel my vitriolic daydreams about slapping her in the face so hard she fell on her arse, hopefully into a large mud puddle. No good at all.

I’d settled at the ruined fort after a few hours, once I grew tired of walking, just to enjoy the stillness of the moor and the sight of Lallybroch amidst it: speaking peace from its chimney smoke and promising comfort under the gently-sloping roof whose sight was home and family to me once more.

“Does this mean you’ve been banished?” I asked suddenly, struck with a qualm over what discomfort might actually be taking place at the house.

Jenny’s eyes twinkled but she shook her head. “Things were beginnin’ to draw to a close and I supposed it was best someone came to fetch ye back. I ken Jamie will be anxious to have ye near, by the time the other folk have gone.”

“It’s done? Already?” Hell, I'd brought enough food to last me through to suppertime and it wasn’t even noon!

“Well, not just yet, but nearly. Wi’ me in the room and Laoghaire’s written statement to hand, there wasna much negotiatin’ to be done, after all. It was mostly sittin’ and waitin’ quiet-like while Ned clarified and wrote things out properly (and talked in great detail about WHAT he was writin’ out and WHY and wherefore).... and consequently, keepin’ Jamie from stranglin’ the man.”

We dissolved into fond giggles for both men.

“Hold on, you don’t mean to tell me Laoghaire sat quiet, too?” I asked dubiously, handing back the flask.

“Aye, she did! .....Well.” Jenny rolled her eyes with a little snort. “She still glared incessantly, mind, and stayed rather red-faced throughout, and muttered a good many things under her breath or to Hobart, but she didna screech once, which is a miracle if I ever heard one. Never witnessed the woman so much in possession of herself. Whatever words passed between her and Jamie must ha’ made quite the impression.”

“All thanks to you, you know.”

“Aye, well.” Her gaze dropped quickly to her hands, which fidgeted intently with a loose thread in her skirt. “If it was able to pave the way for him—for the two of ye—then I’m most glad of it.”

“From what Jamie tells me, things could have gone very, very badly otherwise. We’re both so thankful to you.”

“I did wonder, ken, at the time, whether it was oversteppin’ still more, for me to tell her. Standin’ on the road, watchin’ the two of ye ride away, though, I felt I must do somethin’ or I wouldna be able to go on.” She shrugged stiffly. “And it wasna as though I had much more to lose, in Jamie’s eyes. Decided I might as well do what I could....and if someone were to get themselves shot by the foul besom in the doing, at least it would be me, and then maybe that would be enough.”

The simplicity and acceptance of that sent cold bloody shivers down my spine, and damn me, if every single one of my possible responses didn’t feel perfectly inadequate to the task. ‘Surely Laoghaire wouldn’t ever do such a thing’ (I had little faith in that); ‘Surely Jamie wouldn’t ever want you to be hurt’ (of which I was certain); and even the one that seemed best suited sounded so perverse I couldn’t stomach it: ’Thank you.’

Jenny and Jamie had stayed in her room a long time together the night we came to Lallybroch; crying mostly, Jamie told me later, and talking late into the night. Making amends. When Ian and I had peeked in to check on them, they’d been fast asleep, faced toward each other, her hand in his; curled up like puppies in a basket, I’d thought at the time, not sure whether to laugh or cry.

Jenny spared me having to respond just then by raising her head with a reassuring smile, nodding once, as though to seal the unease behind a closed door. “It’s verra glad I am, to have ye back, Claire, now that—now.”

Now.

“I couldn’t be happier,” I said, meaning it, feeling a grin breaking and flooding my heart.

“There is another thing I must say to ye.”

Warmth and joy turned to vapor. “....Yes?”

Jenny had sought me out the morning after our arrival, hugged me close and cried, repeating much of what she had already said on the roadway: of how devastated she was at what she’d done; how she would do anything to make it right.

Like Jamie, I’d mentally crossed the bridge of forgiveness even before we knew what she’d done for us with regards to Laoghaire. I’d held her close, rocking her and saying over and over that it was all behind us now. This hadn’t stopped her, though, from repeating the apologies (albeit with fewer tears) whenever she could — over breakfast, as we worked, when we met in corridor or kailyard — all but ignoring my insistence each time that we needn’t ever speak of it again.

This was nothing like the tone of those anxious reprises. This was tight, tense, and my mouth had gone completely dry hearing it. “What is it you... need to say?”

She looked out into the valley, steeled. “That it was wrong of me to presume to ken what your life was, in the time you were gone from us; to have the arrogance to accuse ye of havin’ an easy way of things. I ken ye endured much. I’m sorry.”

.....What the bloody hell had Jamie told her?

I cleared my throat, but my voice still came out in a phlegmy croak. “....’Endured?’”

She looked at me, seeming startled. Maybe she was thinking that was all she’d need to say. She must have seen in my eyes, though, that this wasn’t enough.

“I’ve been thinkin’ these last days, but also after Jamie went after ye....about what ye said of the time when ye were away in the colonies. That there was good reason why ye couldna send word?”

I nodded, and noticed she she seemed to struggle to breathe normally. A flush was beginning to creep up her neck.

“It’s been tossin’ about and around in my mind, tryin’ to think what that must have been—The circumstances that could have kept ye from bein’ at liberty to do what ye wished; and it finally, it came to me that if—That perhaps ye’d been.... God, please forgive me, Claire.” There was real anguish in her voice but she was determined. “I thought perhaps in the earlier years, before the apothecary shop...Maybe ye’d been pressed into service...of some kind or another... against your will—”

She wasn’t looking at me, but there was such shame and pity in her expression that— Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, was she thinking I’d been indentured into servitude? Or forced into a brothel to work as a—

“—and been too afraid later to say anythin’ of it.”

“Jenny....” I reached over and took her hand, shaking my head firmly. “It isn’t—”

“Ye dinna have to tell me a thing,” she said hastily, going still more pink and agitated, mortified. “I swear to ye, it isna—I dinna wish ye to tell me anythin’, truly: I’d no’ have ye relive anythin’ so painful or—” She pulled her hand away and covered her face. “Christ, I ken it sounds like I’m pushin’ ye to tell me things, and I promise, that ISNA my intent, damn it all.”

I waited, far more curious than upset or alarmed. “What is it you do intend?”

“I wanted ye to ken that I....”

She wasn’t accustomed to being this open, Jenny Murray. Her entire life, she had had to be strong; the one in charge of running things, keeping her feelings carefully subsumed for survival and efficiency. Having to bare herself now was a struggle; but this clearly was the true purpose that brought her up the hill, and she was a Fraser besides. She would say what was needed.

A sound of deep frustration, and finally: “That I care. That ye matter to me,” she said more firmly, seeing the blankness of my expression as I took this in. “I want us to be sisters again, Claire. I mean it, and wi’ that resolved in my heart, I feel the—I canna cease feelin’ the hurt of the things that have befallen ye, even if I never ken what they are.....It’s the same as I feel for Jamie, ken?”

I started to try and speak (say what, God only knew), but she stopped me, her eyes pleading. “He was gone from us for ten years—and I ache for each one because I ken he suffered,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I ken because he came back from Ardsmuir and England even more wounded in his heart than he left.....but I dinna ken why. I dinna ken what happened to my own brother. It’s the same as I’m feelin’ for you, Claire.”

She gasped for a breath, a strangled one, her throat tight on the verge of crying. “So I came up here to say that I grieve your lost years, too, whatever came to pass, but it doesna matter to me. No matter what happened, or what ye had to do to—what ye—What matters is, ye survived.” A tear did slip down her cheek. “And I want ye to ken that I’m glad you’re well, and—and that you’re here now, and that ye have a new start, and....”

I was absolutely dumb, struck through the heart by her passion, and so watched in silence as her face suddenly tightened into that mask behind which her brother, too, was so skillfully able to hide, smoothing out the raw emotion. She clenched her jaw and looked once more dead-ahead. “And that’s all there is about it.”

My mouth was making a vain attempt to move, to respond, but I couldn’t speak.

‘Your own lost years.’

To my surprise, when my gaze finally dropped, I was holding the flannel-wrapped parcel in my hands, there against the wool of my skirt.

I could hear the crinkle of the plastic beneath as I squeezed.

I didn’t endure you, Baby.

And you aren’t lost.

“Will you hear me out, Jenny?”

Now her eyes were wide with alarm. “About what?”

“Everything.”

Jenny had said not a word as I told my tale, only stared, first at me, later at the photographs cradled in her hands.

She’d been looking at the last one for a very long time; at Brianna, grown.

“It’s—”

Barely a whisper, but shaking with such feeling.

“—She’s beautiful, Claire.”

She breathed heavily. “And safe. In her.... her place.” A deep shudder. “Christ....”

She went speechless, then, mouth falling softly open without thought as she traced a finger over the image, the twins to her own blue eyes staring back up at her.

I’d watched Jenny’s face intently as I’d spoken; had seen her take in all that I revealed, felt my heart ease and rise with tentative joy as I witnessed the thoughts settling and taking root in her mind. Still, I had to ask.

“You do believe me?”

She looked up, startled. “Do ye think I could doubt?”

“Many would,” I said with a small shrug, “and have. Brianna herself, for one.”

She stared shrewdly at me for a moment. “I suppose...ye didna have any proper proof to show the lass....only your word. But no one could doubt wi’ the proof of it right before their eyes, such as this.” Her own eyes turned back to the photographs as though drawn by their spell, flipping to the one of the yellow school bus. “Not after seein’ for themselves the other world....the one that’s to come....”

I sighed out the last of my fear, feeling it vanish out of every pore before her honest belief. “Still, I would have understood if you didn’t accept things at first. It’s—a bloody lot to take in. You might well have dismissed the pictures as sorcery, or—”

“There are a good many things,” Jenny said, very simply, “that are beyond comprehension. Spirits. Miracles. Prophecies and visions. Fetches. But our belief or lack of it doesna make them less real, does it?”

This was said rhetorically, and it struck me for the first time in many years that while the permeation of science fiction novels and things like Doctor Who in popular culture might give a twentieth-century listener a conceptualization for the notion of time travel, a person raised such as Jenny was far more readily conditioned in an even more crucial way: to believe in things unseen.

Jenny looked back down at her hands, smiling again at newborn Bree on her blanket. “I dinna understand the how or wherefore of those things, no more than I can understand how a person could have come from a year—from a century that hasna yet come to pass.” She handed me back the photographs. “But I can believe. And I do.”

I smiled, tremulously, trying damned hard not to cry. “That’s more or less what your brother said, when I first told him.”

She smiled too, with a little burst of a laugh. In the same moment, though, her eyes fell dark, and I watched in horror as she crumpled, face falling into her hands.

“Jenny?” I very cautiously laid my palm on her shoulder.

She reached back and grasped my hand, clinging to it. “Just—It’s—Jamie, and—” She was weeping. “Give m-me a moment, aye?”

“All the time you need.” Belief or not, the magnitude of such things was too much for a body to bear—at least at first.

At last, she heaved a breath and looked up to the sky, shaking her head. “What ye’ve told me...revealed...” A sob. “It breaks my heart and puts it back together at all once...only it keeps on breakin’, again and again, and I dinna ken if it shall ever stop.”

"I’m so sorry... I had hoped—” I said carefully, “I’d hoped that it would ease you, in some way—”

“Oh, and it has,” she said, nodding hard. “Christ, it has. I feel such joy and such magnificent relief wi’ it. To ken for certain that ye didna betray or forget Jamie, or us—he sent ye; that ye always loved him, and ye couldna have come back; that ye...ye had to save your—” A small sob and a gesture to the pictures. “—your sweet, wee lassie.... Even the mere fact of her: that you and Jamie were blessed wi’ a living child..... It does ease me.... more than ye know. ”

She blinked hard and shook violently, struggling to get the syllables out aright. “But those in themselves are also tragedy, ken? All that you and Jamie lost to Culloden. Such .... such sorrows....”

I shifted and put both my arms around her, as much as for myself as to comfort. I held tightly to her, struggling to hold myself together, to keep from slipping off that same precipice of remembered despair and grief.

“And then there are the things that are only grief. For when I think back upon what Jamie was carryin’ all those years—No’ only loss but the knowledge and the uncertainty, both....Of where ye’d gone and why and what might have befallen ye. He had... To think that my wee brother had no one else to help carry that terrible burden alongside him....”

She pressed her head harder against my shoulder, truly at the point of breaking. “And knowin’ that I urged him to marry, when he kent full well—or hoped wi’ all his soul—that ye lived and breathed somewhere in the—in the place he’d sent you and the bairn.....And to ken that he never will know her...Never hold his wean in his arms...”

“He chose to marry Laoghaire,” I managed to choke out, smoothing her hair, even as my heart broke with all the other staggering truths to which there could be no counter or comfort. “He wouldn’t have gone through with it, if he hadn’t believed it was the right thing for him.”

“Aye.... Aye, you’re right,” she whispered. One fist was clenched hard in front of her mouth. “But my heart was so hard against him, Claire. So....scornful. In the years before Ardsmuir, when he wouldna consider marryin’ or even seek out a woman to keep him whole...when he couldna seem ever to shake your ghost from his shoulder. It... I judged him for it. I hated him for bein’ weak....for givin’ up on living. And I hated you, sometimes.... your memory, for having such a hold on his soul as to destroy him so...It shames me so unbearably deep, now that I ken the truth.”

Things went quiet, then, the whistling wind punctuated only by soft, small whispers from time to time.

When the sobs subsided for us both, she straightened enough to look at me, eyes still streaming. “But I ken better, now. I ken it would have been just the same for me. Were I him. Were I you. I would have mourned and wished and waited. I’d have let myself slip away and not kent what to do to want to live again.” Her hand cupped fiercely to my cheek. “I would have gone through to that place of safety for my child’s sake, if not my own. And I hope I would have had the strength to survive like you....and the courage to stake everythin’ on one hope....and come back.”

Jenny bade me go down to the house alone; insisted that she wanted to stay up at the fort for a time longer, to think. She would bring the basket, she said. ‘Go to him.’

I descended slowly down, winding through the grasses rather than the rocky paths, each breath a joy in my chest. The joy of being believed. Of truth. Of being accepted and loved.

In the upheaval of the past hour, I’d all but forgotten Laoghaire, but as I reached the plateau of the smaller rise just above the house, there she was, standing in the dooryard, standing with Jamie. They weren’t looking at one another; his hands were gripped respectfully behind his back; she was looking in the other direction. But their mouths were moving. Speaking terms was a good sign, surely.

Suddenly they both looked up toward the archway, through which came a wild pack of children, Jenny and Ian’s grandchildren mostly, who all veered in an exuberant swarm to vanish around the side of the house, leaving only—

Jamie walked stiffly forward, slowly, so careful and reserved. I saw him break, though, completely, when the smaller girl started to sprint for him. He closed the distance in a trice, his arms flung wide to catch her. She was tall for her age and surely heavy, but he held her as though she were little more than a toddler. I couldn’t see his face, but I could see hers, and it broke my heart. The other girl—Marsali?—came close, too, coming under the arm Jamie held out to her, the three of them woven tight in an embrace of such obviously-genuine feeling that my reflex was to look away, to give them privacy.

I didn’t though. I didn’t turn aside, and that brought a sudden, unexpected wash of peace over me, settling down into my very marrow.

For this, this scene before me, wasn’t something of which Jamie was ashamed. The fact that he loved these two girls was not something that needed to be covered up. This was one of the pieces of himself from those twenty years he wanted to keep, not bury away to shield himself from sharp edges; perhaps the only of those hundred faces that he did wish to recognize in the mirror: when he had been father, and had been loved as one in return.

Would he get to see them often? Would they come visit us in Edinburgh? Would we even stay in Edinburgh, for that matter? Would we—I let those worries drift away into the chilly air, keeping for another day.

Still, a thought bubbled up from my gut, the bitter, resentful part of my being.

You’re right. It isn’t, I answered it with a stab of oh-so-many different griefs and longings—Faith, Bree, and....yes, even William, for Jamie’s sake, foremost among them: It isn’t the way either of us would have planned.

Even if we settled in the perfect city with the perfect accommodations, the perfect professions for us both, and the perfect compatriots to support and befriend us: it wasn’t the life we’d dreamed of, when we’d first come to Lallybroch all those years ago; before Wentworth, before Paris, before Culloden.

And yet, as I watched their farewells, watched the three women ride away, as I felt my feet flying down toward the dooryard, I knew only a fierce, radiant sort of joy, defiant and wild and free. I felt it in each footstep and every breath. I felt it soar as I came into the yard and Jamie turned. I saw it in the smile that burst across his face, even though his cheeks were wet and his eyes red. And I cherished it in the feel of his body against mine as we crashed into one another.

No, it wasn’t what we’d have planned, but it was ours. It was us. Jamie. Claire. And between us, we could hold all the pieces—be they jagged, broken, or absent—that made us what we were. What we would be.

The End

#;mod Bonnie #A Hundred Lesser Faces

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darkhymns-fic · 4 years

Text

The meaning of passive-aggression

Yuna only wanted a bit of fun with Aegis after an exciting conversation she had with Vicious - or so she said.

But Aegis had never been good at detecting lies.

Fandom: Tales of Crestoria Characters/Pairing: Aegis Alver/Yuna Azetta, Vicious Rating: T Mirror Link: AO3 Notes: Based on that one skit about tying up Aegis. You know the one.

There was nothing more suspicious than seeing two troublemakers huddled in a shadowy corner of the inn’s main room, going into fits of giggling, their grins stretching from ear to ear. Like children reveling in their latest crime of stealing the last chocolate cake slice, or thieves that prided themselves on their petty crime of snatching a few gald from an old lady that passed by.

It only got more obnoxious when they wouldn’t leave said corner for around ten minutes.

“Are you two ill?” Aegis asked of the pair, going to them. “The innkeeper here keeps giving us looks because of…whatever this is. Have you forgotten that we’re supposed to be undercover?”

Yuna was covering her mouth with just her fingertips, barely hiding away the smile. She seemed absolutely tickled about something and whenever Aegis saw such an expression on her face, he knew it had to be bad news. Maybe he should check his pack later, and see if she hadn’t put something incriminating in it like last time…

“Oh Aegrouch, don’t be jealous now. We are just ‘avin a, how do you say… a little bit of girl talk!”

“…You don’t say.” Aegis narrowed his eyes at the slouched form of a certain Great Transgressor. His grin matched that of Yuna’s, even as he had to bend down his long legs to whisper effectively with Yuna just before. “Yeah, learn to mind your own business, knighty boy!”

To that, Aegis just rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Kanata and Misella have already gone to their rooms, so I’ll just be going to mine. Have fun looking as suspicious as possible then.”

“Heh, you know it!” Vicious flashed another sharp-tooted grin at the ex-knight, and once again, Aegis had no idea what to make of this man, except that he was most likely deranged in the head. He tried to ignore the strange flutter in his chest. It had just been a very long day.

“If you are so curious, per’aps you would like to join in on our little discussion.” Yuna winked as she spoke, her voice like liquid that probably would have melted any other soul if Aegis’ will wasn’t made of steel, as he knew it was.

“Going from experience, I’m quite sure that the less I know, the better. So, goodnight.”

Aegis wasn’t going to linger, especially in this ramshackle lobby of the inn, which strangely looked like every other inn lobby they had been visiting for the past few weeks. But true to his word, he didn’t stay, walking up the stairs, remembering to feed little Meakyu before going to sleep for the night.

He only barely noticed the mischievous tinge to both Yuna and Vicious’ grins as he turned away, but to be fair, that wasn’t exactly out of the norm. This only emboldened him to check his vest pockets in the morning and get rid of any tufts of grass stuffed inside. The joke was certainly getting old.

“Hey, I told ya I’d kill to see you try that, right?”

“Must everything be so violent with you? Maybe Aegrouch is right, you truly are a barbarian…”

Aegis thought he was dreaming it up. Not exactly the first time he had nightmares about the very people he was traveling with after all! Perhaps it was just Vicious finally coming upstairs to get to bed, even though he couldn’t recall ever actually seeing the man sleep. And still, why was he hearing Yuna at all…?

Bleary-eyed, and a bit grumpy, (trying to feed Meakyu had taken the better part of an hour as the small creature kept avoiding him in fear…) Aegis finally sat up, groaning in annoyance. “I’ve barely slept for more than an hour. Can you two please-?”

Then he felt himself pulled back, the back of his skull smacking roughly against the headboard of the bed.

Hearing Vicious’ voice again made him think that he was definitely stuck in some sort of nightmare.

“Huh, didn’t actually mean to do that. These thread things are temperamental.”

“You would blame them for your oafishness?” A sharp tsk of the tongue. “Mon amie, you are much too violent.”

“I didn’t think he’d get up that quickly! It’s his fault!”

Aegis was sleepy, a tad bit famished, (Meakyu also ate his food) and now his head was aching after being so roughly pulled by…something!

He tried to move his arms, then found that he couldn’t. Not at all!?

They were pressed to his sides, due to the binding around him, the material much stronger than it seemed at first glance. It looked like thread that had been dipped in red paint, but as he struggled, he could feel it nearly bite into him from their tension. “Gah! W-w-what is this?!”

And only then did he finally turn to his left, seeing both Yuna and Vicious standing by his bedside. In Yuna’s right hand, he could see her kunai held deftly by her fingers. The red string dangled from the very end of the weapons.

Wait, her kunai? That meant-

“You’re using your blood sin on me? Are you insane?!” And oh, he wished his voice hadn’t cracked just then.

She coyly tapped the kunai’s sharp tip against her lips, concern in her eyes. “Oui, juzt a little experiment. But you are not being a very promising subject for it…”

“I told you, I could have just knocked him out like that!” Vicious clenched one hand and slammed it into the open palm of another. The motion of it somehow made Aegis get pulled forward, smacking his nose straight into Vicious’ arm – and only now did he notice the Great Transgressor held one end of that curious red string material too, complete with Yuna’s very weapon. “You never let me try out my ideas!”

“Oui, because if I let you, you would just give this poor boy a concussion. That iz not what we want.”

“You sure about that?”

“Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?!” Aegis once again tried to wriggle his way out of the strings, but to no avail at all. He was shivering, the blankets he had tucked around himself now in a messy pile at the foot of his bed. Though his legs were free, he was still half-submerged in fatigue to do much of anything else with them except shift them around. And to think he had slept through…through whatever they had been doing to him!

“Just what is this? Is…is this a hostage situation?” He grew quiet, his voice barely above a whisper. “Are…are you traitors!?”

Yuna smiled and nodded. “Zat is true. There iz big money on your head!”

“Yeah! What she said.” Vicious pointed a thumb at her, trying so hard to hold back laughter that he nearly doubled over. “Gonna get a lifetime booze supply out of ya!”

“…You are just both making fun of me again, aren’t you?”

Yuna nodded once more. “I would think you would see through my lies by now, Aegrouch.”

Aegis very, very deeply frowned, but that was literally all he was capable of doing right now. Dressed in his underclothes, which consisted of just a threadbare shirt and his loose boxers (knight-certified, of course), he felt all sorts of vulnerable, especially when underneath the leering gazes of a lying journalist and raucous criminal that still never learned how to wear a shirt himself. If this had been a few weeks earlier, Aegis would have felt completely mortified. Currently, he was just very tired.

He sighed. “I would prefer it if you didn’t rope me into your strange games… Stop that!”

He could already see Vicious laughing, pulling at the ‘rope’ that was bound so very tightly around Aegis’ arms and torso. “Aw, come on! I didn’t make you say it.”

“That’s not the issue, also you are cutting off the circulation to my shoulder!”

“Circu-what now?”

“Az I said before,” Yuna interrupted before the two could get lost in their own arguments. “Vicious and I just wanted to try a little experiment with you. We were having a bet, you zee. Knights like you are so stiff, a bit of a bore…”

“I am not boring!” Aegis couldn’t help but feel a bit defensive.

“I’m not done, but yes, such a bore! Vicious here thought you would be impossible to loosen up, but me… I have much more faith in you.” She winked, leaning forward, the hem of her robe reaching to the wooden floorboards. It also gave him more of a view than he was comfortable with.

“And how exactly does tying me up make me less boring?”

“Ah Agerouch, hav you never heard the term about opposites attracting? It’s not just to do with people…” She straightened again, and held up her kunai where the ring of it looped that curious red string. “But you woke up before we were complete with it… I had many kinbaku patterns I wanted to try on you.”

Aegis had to pause on that, just for a moment. He had to sift through numerous ledgers in his brain to finally settle on the very meaning of that word.

“I’m sorry, did you just say-” he started, only for Vicious to groan in frustration, interrupting him completely.

“Ugh, stop it with your damn French junk! I already said we should tie back his arms and see how far they go before they pop. Can’t get less boring than that!”

Aegis stared open-mouthed, while Yuna merely shook her head like a scolding teacher. “Non, that would be very bad now, wouldn’t it? Not everyone grows back their arms such az you.”

“Well, maybe if he tried!” Vicious then cackled wickedly, hopping onto Aegis’ bed while still wearing his shoes, still dragging the dirt from the 10-mile trek today. (No!!) “Also! I said first thing we should wrap this junk around his throat, then he’d be knocked out like a light! I know this stuff!”

“That would- that would literally kill me!” Aegis shouted. They must have made a racket by this point, so how had no one come by to his room already? He knew Misella didn’t care but he had at least hoped for Kanata…

“I must agree with Aegrouch. It would very likely kill him.” She clasped her hands together, placing her cheek over them, all while still holding one of the kunais with no fear to their sharpness. “And it would be truly terrible, it would!”

“I cannot tell if you are being sarcastic or not,” Aegis said, in half-defeat. “I do not think I want to know the true answer.”

With Vicious practically standing over him, grinning that terribly sharp grin of his, (and why did he have too stand that way? So much so that his marked abdomen was too close for comfort…at least Aegisthought) there was not much Aegis could do when he was essentially being tied up like a cooked turkey. And he didn’t appreciate the way Vicious seemed like he was about to salivate on him at any given moment. He didn’t handle the kunai he held with any grace like Yuna, looking dangerously close to dropping it straight on Aegis’ head at any second.

“Hm, we could try tying up his tongue!” Vicious helpfully suggested, looking particularly excited on that idea. “Especially if he’s gonna whine so much.”

At that, Yuna motioned with her right hand. Aegis only saw the red string wrapped around her ring finger before the shape of the kunai flew across his face. The weapon sang through the air, the tip nearly grazing his cheek before she caught it and quickly hid it in her overflowing sleeve.

“Hey!” Vicious shouted, and though he was addressing it to Yuna, he was closest to Aegis. So it sounded like he was screaming just exactly into his ear instead. “I was using that dumb thing.”

“Je suis désolé, Vicious. But, clearly, this is too much for you. Kinbaku is not the same as going, as you say, full guns blazing? It requires much more thinking then per’aps you are used to.”

“Ughhh, this is sounding less fun by the minute. I think you tricked me!”

“Does no one care how I feel about this?” Aegis asked, then closed his eyes. “No, of course not. Or I would not be here in the first place.”

Vicious placed a bent arm atop on Aegis’ head, leaning on him as he sighed so very deeply. “I care about you shutting up right now.”

“Duly noted.”

“I could very well go with my first plan, Vicious, and tie you and Aegis together instead.” She smiled, though the leer in her eyes was much more obvious now. “A bit of jealousy that you are not getting the same experience?”

“Hey, told you I ain’t care about what a ham feels like!” Aegis had to think about that turn of phrase, even as Vicious continued. “You and Kanata are way too obsessed about tying me up here.”

“Wh-What does Kanata have to do with this?” Was this his idea? And he had thought the young man to at least have some integrity.

Yuna shrugged. “Now it’s getting to be less fun. And usually we work together so very well.”

Vicious finally stepped off the bed, (while leaving dirty footprints behind!) hands folded behind his head. “Alright. Then I’m out. Gotta say, this just ain’t as exciting as I was hoping for it to be.”

Oh… Were they already going to be done humiliating him like this? Was it truly over? Aegis couldn’t begin to believe his luck.

“Oh Vicious, after all we been through?” Yuna was overdramatic in her disappointment, her hand placed on her forehead in mock despair, her body looking ready to sway right to the ground. Had she been takin acting lessons as well from Penelope? “We were two peas in a pod, and yet you abandon me…”

Vicious waved her off, stepping around her form with all the stealth of a hidden snake in the grass. “Maybe I need to be more drunk for this to be fun… So I’m going downstairs to do just that. Also I expected knighty here to scream a bit more. But all he does is bitch and moan.”

“You are incredibly awful,” Aegis intoned.

“And? What’s your point?”

Yuna moved from her ‘despaired woman’ position to resume her natural stance, looking suddenly so chipper again as she waved at the Great Transgressor. “Please be sure to drink yourself to death again!”

“No promises!”

Again?? But Aegis tried to show himself mercy by not thinking too hard on that.

Vicious shut the door then, and Aegis could only imagine he would go to the kitchen, terrorize the bartender for a little bit before stealing the alcohol from the kegs. His sole hope was that the proprietor would be too terrified later to make them pay for the expenses…

And yet Yuna hadn’t moved. In fact, she just continued standing by Aegis’ bed, smiling so pleasantly.

“Um.” Aegis shifted. Though his legs were still free, the red string continued to bite into his shirt, which was very uncomfortable. “Are we not done with this, or….?”

Ah, first mistake. He shouldn’t have made it a question.

Yuna continued to smile, but her eyes held something else in their depts, and she did so while holding up one kunai. The energy from that blood sin was similar to his own, and he could feel it heat up the air between them. “Aegrouch, but I haven’t even begun to have my fun yet.”

“You and I most likely have very different definitions of that word.”

Yuna stuck out her tongue at him then, showing off her pattern of guilt for the ex-knight to see. “Oui, your idea of fun is making up a grocery list for our next shopping trip, non?”

“You know how important it is that we have supplies! How many times must I explain this to all of you?” He paused. “Also, making lists just happen to be very meditative for me.”

Yuna nodded, but did so as if she would fall asleep at any moment. “See, now zis is why I wanted to do this! Per’aps I could instill a different level of fun for you? It will be for sure to get ‘ze blood pumping as you say!”

“I don’t like the mention of blood here…”

Yuna didn’t listen to his concerns. She held up both weapons suddenly, and the strings unraveled from his body – but they hovered around him, like sharp lines of color that cut straight through the air.

“Besides, without Vicious to interrupt, this will be much more pleasant, don’t you think?”

Aegis tried to react quickly. He shifted from the bed, the brand on his chest burning so brightly, it shone through his shirt. “I won’t let you-!”

But before he could even let another word pass through his lips, he was wrapped up, contained, bound again. The strings from Yuna’s kunais slipped around him like quick-moving snakes, even the very air they traveled through seemed to hiss at their travel. It triggered a memory of when he had seen her control these very strings to dig into the earth with the force of steel, rooting objects from their very foundation.

These strings could cut him up, could break him bit by bit, if she so desired. And he waited for that to happen, awed by their motion.

One slipped around his left thigh, while another wrapped around his chest like a circlet, doing so twice before traveling down to his arms. This time, they were pulled back, just slightly away from his body, and held together with the binding.

The act felt as if it was happening both too fast and too slow, all at once. Aegis found himself staring as the red string weaved themselves into knots, couldn’t move a leg before it was already bound up, limiting himself of all movement and freedom. His arms were pulled in closer to his back, and there was the sensation of the strands moving over his skin, forming knots that seemed impossible to pull apart.

He couldn’t follow their travel for much of it, many of it out of his sight. Aegis tried to struggle once more, and that was when he felt a hot breath just at his neck, saw that mark of guilt, printed black against the pink of her tongue.

“Se détendre, Aegis.” The smile was still on her face, but it held less of the bite than he had expected. “We don’t need to put on a show now.”

This only confused him more, from what had already been a very confusing night all around.

Why was she acting this way with him? Why would she?

He was still, so very still as the strings enveloped him in intimate ways, when he saw Yuna’s fingers move along the air, as if pressing against the invisible keys of an instrument. “Yuna,” he said, finally remembering to use her name. “Are you-”

“And done!” she said so quickly, leaving his neck and sporting another of her knowing smiles. The softness of her voice before had now completely vanished. She then gently placed her weapons on the bed, admiring her handiwork on Aegis. “All wrapped up and as lovely as any present.”

Aegis halted, feeling the binds pressed against his shirt, against his skin. He couldn’t see himself as well as Yuna could see him right now, but he stretched his back just a bit and it –

It was the very the limitation of it. The containment. The suspension, his arms still locked together tight, out of his very sight. If the knots there were more woven tightly, if there were dozens and dozens of them, he wouldn’t have been able to tell, at least not by much. He wasn’t experienced enough to understand it through touch alone.

But through it all, the way he felt, it wasn’t something that tightened or pulled at a nerve. It didn’t threaten to lock the flow of blood or make his muscles ache.

The binds moved with him, just enough. Working with him, almost.

“So…does it hurt?”

Aegis opened his mouth to confirm just that, because hadn’t it just did before? With the thread so tight that, if it truly had been wrapped around his throat like Vicious joked about, he’d have choked?

But he paused, focused on the feeling in his fingers – and his fingers could still bend and feel, despite their current position. The binds were around his wrist, around his thighs, and over his torso. The strings splayed out around him like floral patterns once he, looping underneath each other to create imagery that he hadn’t ever considered.

“I…suppose not…” And he didn’t understand that. Just earlier, the binds had squeezed him much too tightly.

Yuna placed a hand on her chest, and sighed. “Good. It iz not supposed to. Well, unless you would like it to.” She winked. “But I wanted to make your experience a more pleasurable one this time. It feels like a big hug, does it not?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Aegis pouted. “But it is rather nice that it doesn’t feel like my arms are being pulled from their sockets.”

“Ah, magnifique then!” Though she no longer held her weapons, he still saw the string around her fingers, still trailing from her hands, connected to the patterns that decorated his chest, his thighs, and perhaps his back, if he could hazard a guess. It moved along with her, and he felt that gentle motion, nearly in sync with her own. “I always wanted to dress you up as such. Getting the braided pattern down your spine was a bit tricky.”

Aegis flushed, embarrassed at the affair, while also slightly intrigued. “Please do not treat me as your doll.”

“Oh? Even after I gave you such a pretty bow…” She giggled, and only then did the threads started to tickle, only then did he see the end of one looping down to brush against his cheek. He almost didn’t want to know just how extravagant she had made this so-called bow on him.

“You…you humiliate me enough during the day!” he shot back, the calming sensation from before already evaporating. “I demand you untie me.”

“Ah, but do you really mean such a thing? My dear Embroiling Deceit… she would just like to have your way with you.” Yuna tapped a finger against her chin, her gaze thoughtful and so very concerned, (oh of course she was) as she turned to the wall. “I’d assume you would appreciate the fine arts such as zis. My very own chef-d'œuvre, yet you would rather see it scattered and become utter chaos?”

“What are you talking about? You’re the one that assaulted me in my sleep-”

The kunais laid out on the bed snapped right back into the air, their blades catching the moonlight streaming in from the window. They rushed straight down, past his still head to imbed themselves into the wood of his headboard.

There was the sudden sharp clunk of the wood. It was loud, as loud as gunshots. But it was only the blades, their edges humming as they vibrated in the wood from the force of their plunge.

He blinked, and Yuna was over him then, smiling that same smile.

Her hands were placed against the bed, looking over him like he was something just so very interesting that she had found on the ground. “Aw, if only I had brought my enpicturator along… What a fun sight for me.”

His heart fluttered for the second time that night, yet the binds around his wrist didn’t tighten, even in his initial struggle.

“I…I don’t understand you!” The words came out louder than he meant to. Just a small crease on Yuna’s forehead, but he noted it. He kept pushing.

“What exactly do you even want with me?!” Her twin ponytails brushed against the bed on either side of him, tickled his sides cheeks just a bit, the way the threads had earlier. The red of the material seemed to illuminate within the dimness of the room. They matched the very shade of her elaborate hair pins, and, were they loosened? Just a bit? “Why pick me for such a so-called experiment? Just to torture me? That’s all any of you ever do!”

“Oh Aegrouch, you are just so fun to play with.” She sighed, and her breath hit his skin, sent nerves springing to life after being put to sleep from the binds. “Must you keep saying such cruel ‘zings to me?”

He narrowed his eyes, but failed at hiding away the color he felt rise to his cheeks.

“…I told you that won’t work on me.” Even on the battlefield, she liked to mess with him. More than even Vicious would.

Then so close, once again. She stuck out her tongue playfully, her very guilt branded on her with the brief flicker of flame.

Too close. Not unless she was about to-

Yuna looked down, and it was then he felt a fingertip against his chest, making him wince. Not from pain.

She pressed against that very guilt of his, hidden beneath his shirt, despite its lightness. It felt too much, too overwhelming for a moment. She hadn’t seen how it happened, how it came to be. She could not know. After all, hers had come from the ire of misguided and petty people. A true failure of the vision orb system.

Not like his own, so rightly deserved.

“Yet zis seems to work on you?” She tilted her head, tracing that guilt over him, too accurate in her patterns. “Maybe I should do something else with it then. Unless you truly would not want to.”

Aegis had his answer ready, floating within his head all this time, even as she bounded him up in strangely gentle ways. He tried to speak, but the words would not come.

Instead, he said, “You don’t even like me, I thought.”

She winked. “Aegrouch, I thought you would know my lies by now.” Leaning in, near his neck. “But you don’t know me so well, do you?”

The feel of her tongue was warm and sharp, and the Stain over his heart only continued to burn. Yet…not painful, and still he was bound and kept still, instead of being scattered to pieces as he had so often felt.

“I will help keep you together,” she breathed into his ear. “If you will humor me, for a little while.”

Perhaps she still kept lying, even long after the night drew out, when the shape of her own Guilt was imprinted into his head, into his very own mouth. The threads kept him from being shattered from his own misgivings, while her tongue continued to do carve meaning into him, down to his chest where the light of his guilt never dimmed – but he would not ask why she chose him to assuage her own guilt.

Maybe it was better to not know the answer.

#tales of crestoria #aegis alver #yuna azetta #vicious #fanfiction

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