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bubonickitten · 4 years

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Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: An examination of endings and how to realize them.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 24: brief claustrophobia; some RSD/fear of abandonment stuff; extensive discussion of death (this chapter’s all about Terminus, babey); allusions to past suicidal ideation on Jon’s part; mentions of eye gouging/blinding (not graphic); some internalized victim blaming; anxiety symptoms; spider mentions; swears. Let me know if I missed anything!

Chronic fear has been Jon’s baseline for so long, it’s difficult for him to conceptualize what he would be were it to abandon him. In some ways, he’s become acclimated to it. On the other hand, fear is a volatile, prolific thing, its many shades relentlessly coalescing and mutating to form new strains. It all but guarantees that the Eye will never truly be sated: there will always be some heretofore unknown species of terror to discover, experience, and add to its collection.

Sprinkled in amongst the more noteworthy moments of abject terror and the constant background pressure of existential dread, there are smaller fears: everyday anxieties; pervasive insecurities; acute spikes of panic and adrenaline. Each discrete instance may pale in comparison to life-threatening peril, but muddled together and given time to ferment, they compound. They feed into one another. Sometimes, they come to attract the attention of larger, far more forbidding monsters.

In this way, Jon is no different from the average person – and one of the oldest, most deep-rooted of those comparatively banal fears is his fear of rejection, of disappointing, of being seen and found lacking. It guided his path long before his first supernatural encounter, and in many ways, it still does. His self-awareness of that fact does little to dampen its influence.

So it’s vexing, but not surprising, that the foremost concern vying for his attention right now is whether this might be that final straw that chases Georgie away for good. She sits with her hands clasped in front of her mouth, eyes closed and brow furrowed as she gathers her thoughts. The longer she remains silent, the more time Jon has to run through all the worst-case scenarios.

It’s already difficult for him to capture a full breath under the crushing weight of anticipation. It doesn’t help that his intermittent claustrophobia has decided that right now is the perfect time to manifest. A tunnel collapse would probably damage the Archives above it, though, and there’s no way Jon would be so lucky. He isn’t sure whether to consider that a consolation or not.

Finally, Georgie takes a breath, opens her eyes, and leans forward.

“Okay.” She tilts her folded hands towards him in an indicative gesture. “Explain, please.”

“Right,” Jon says, rubbing one arm nervously. “S-so, Oliver –”

“I knew his name wasn’t Antonio,” Georgie mutters.

“No. That was an alias he used when he first came to the Institute to give a statement, back in 2015.”

“The prediction about Gertrude’s death?” Martin asks.

“The same.”

“And what was a harbinger of death doing looming over you while you were in a coma?” Georgie presses.

“I don’t know that I’d call him a harbinger –” Jon’s mouth snaps shut immediately when Georgie shoots him an impatient glare. “He wasn’t – he wasn’t trying to – to reap my soul or anything like that, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Then why was he there?”

“He was called there,” Jon says. “By the Web, according to him.”

“Oh, and you don’t think that makes him dangerous?” Martin says, throwing one arm out in a surge of exasperation.

“He isn’t allied with the Web,” Jon replies, fiddling with the hem of his jumper. “It just… got into his head, and it was easier for him to go along with it, rather than fight it indefinitely. Oliver tends to have a fatalistic outlook. If he sees something as inevitable, he’s not inclined to try to stop it.”

“So, what – he’s serving an evil power not because he’s sadistic but because he’s just apathetic?” Georgie couldn’t sound any more unimpressed if she tried. “How is that any better?”

“It’s, ah… it’s really not that simplistic,” Jon says, adopting a delicate tone. “And I don’t think I’d call it apathy so much as…”

“Acceptance,” Georgie says stiffly. “Everything has an ending.”

“Yes. Oliver is an Avatar of the End, and the End is characterized by its certainty–” Jon pauses when he catches a glimpse of Georgie’s hands, fastened to her knees and trembling with tension. “We don’t have to talk about this.”

“No, I –” Georgie sighs, relaxes her grip, and flexes her fingers. “Just – tell me why you invited him here.”

“It’s like I said upstairs – there were things I couldn’t tell him about outside of here.”

“Why do you feel the need to tell him anything?” Martin asks.

“I just thought… he might be able to help us.”

“Why would he,” Georgie asks, “if he’s so fatalistic?”

“Because, he…” Jon hesitates, biting his lip. “I suppose I thought that maybe – maybe he’s like me.”

“He’s nothing like you,” Martin says vehemently.

A flicker of a smile crosses Jon’s face. “You don’t even know him.”

“What, and you do?”

“Not well,” Jon admits. “But I do think I understand him.”

Martin crosses his arms, transparently miffed. In an attempt to suppress his amusement, Jon presses his lips tightly together. It doesn’t work, evidently.

“What?” There’s a flat, defensive edge to the demand, highlighted by a suspicious scowl. “What’s with the smirk?”

Jon already knows the answer to the question he wants to ask, but he can’t help himself: “Are you jealous?”

“No!” Martin yelps. “Why would I be jealous?”

Jon shakes his head, chuckling softly. “Well, you don’t need to be.”

“I’m not!”

“If you say so,” Jon says with a shrug and a sly grin.

“I am not jealous,” Martin insists – and now Georgie is snickering, one hand clamped over her mouth to (unsuccessfully) stifle the sound. Martin glowers at her, betrayed.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says. “Just – didn’t realize you were quite so jealous.”

“I’m not,” Martin says for a third time. “But – but even if I was, I would be completely justified.”

“Because he woke me up,” Jon says, toning down the smugness now.

There is an uneasy boundary between affectionate teasing and perceived mockery, and here in the past, he hasn’t quite mapped the shape of that line. Between seeing one another in the Lonely and anchoring each other through the apocalypse, he and Martin had been forced to confront long-held insecurities about themselves, both as individuals and as a unit. That shared history no longer applies. While Jon has no desire to repeat that chain of events – there are happier, healthier pathways to a relationship than bonding via trauma, or so he’s heard – it does mean that this version of Martin hasn’t yet had the same epiphanies.

Much like Jon, Martin struggles to take a declaration of love at its word. People lie; they mislead; they say what they think others want to hear – whether out of self-interest, sympathy, or simple social ineptitude, the results are the same. Sometimes they start out sincere, but little by little, their tolerance dwindles and they recognize their mistake: what they thought was genuine affection was at best a passing fancy for someone who turned out to be far more trouble than they were ever worth. Or worse: a caring façade born of pity or guilt or obligation, only to turn rotten and toxic when the burden grows too tiresome.

Add all of those deep-seated convictions to the lasting influence of the Lonely, and Martin needed proof before he could entertain the possibility of being loved. Following him into and then leading him out of the Lonely was a fairly convincing statement. Absent another life-or-death gesture to act as a catalyst, Jon suspects that this time around, building that confidence will come down to time, practice, and repetition.

“Okay, yeah, about that – what does that – what does that mean, he woke you up?” Before Jon can get a word out, Martin barrels on: “I mean, what makes him so special? I spent weeks – weeks – begging you to come back, and nothing. He visits you once and suddenly you’re fine?”

“I really did try to come back on my own,” Jon says – not accusing, not pleading, not even self-flagellating. Just plain, sincere assuredness. “I heard you calling me. Not at first, but – the last time you visited. It was the first time I’d heard your voice in… in so long, I – I never thought I’d hear it again, and then you were there, and I was – I was so relieved, so… so elated.”

Martin sulks quietly, glaring at the floor, but there’s a noticeable flush staining his cheeks now.

“And then – and then I heard you on the phone with Peter, and…” Jon swallows hard, the despair he felt in that moment still stark in his mind. “I tried to call out to you, but you couldn’t hear me. The Lonely was drawing you in, just like before, and there was nothing I could do. I wanted to wake up more than anything, but I just… couldn’t figure out how. I still don’t know why – I don’t know the exact mechanics of it all – but for whatever reason, I wasn’t able to wake up until Oliver’s visit. Same as the first time.”

At that, Martin seems to deflate somewhat, finally looking up to meet Jon’s eyes.

“If I could have come back sooner,” Jon continues, smiling sadly, “I would have. In a heartbeat.”

Martin pouts for a moment longer before surrendering, his rigid posture slackening as the rancor drains out of him.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah, I know.”

“So you think you owe him,” Georgie guesses. “For waking you up.”

“Partially,” Jon admits. “But that’s not why I invited him, really. He just seems… I don’t know. Lonely, I guess?” Georgie rolls her eyes. “He never – he never asked to be a death prophet. No more than I wanted to be a – a trauma leech. And arguably – arguably he was even less to blame for what happened to him than I am for what I’ve become –”

“Jon,” Martin says warningly.

“No, just – just listen.” Jon takes a measured breath as he puts his thoughts in order. “Oliver started having prophetic dreams several years ago. Just – out of the blue. As far as I know, he did nothing to tempt fate. Eventually, those dreams carried over into the waking world. Everywhere he went, every single day, he could see the evidence of imminent death. There was no escaping it.

“In the beginning, he tried to help people. But it never worked. When he was unable to save his own father, he stopped trying to change fate, for the most part. I think the last time he tried was when he dreamed of Gertrude. He saw how far-reaching her death would ultimately be, and he tried to warn her, even though he didn’t have much hope that it would make a difference. And he was right, in the end. He couldn’t save her, and he couldn’t prevent what came after.”

“So he just… gave up,” Martin says flatly.

“When you fail over and over again to do good in the world, when you witness horror after horror with no recourse to stop it, when you try again and again and again to escape and never even come close… at some point, you burn out,” Jon murmurs. “Lose all hope. It becomes your new normal. Exist like that long enough and you start to become numb to it all.”

“You lived through an apocalypse and you didn’t give up,” Martin counters.

“I did, though,” Jon says quietly.

Martin frowns. “What?”

“After I lost you.” Jon averts his eyes and folds his arms tight against his middle, holding his elbows. “I was lost. I couldn’t save anyone, I couldn’t change anything, I couldn’t even look away. I wasn’t allowed to sleep. I wasn’t allowed to die. So I just… survived, even though I wanted anything but.” When he glances up, he sees that Martin’s expression has softened. “You were my reason. Then you were gone, and I was alone.”

Jon hadn’t known that the world could end a second time, but there it was. With Martin gone, what little that remained of Jon’s own microcosm shattered. Yet the Ceaseless Watcher’s world dared to continue turning, to go on churning out horror after horror as if nothing at all had changed. And Jon was just another cog in that machine, going through the motions and fulfilling the purpose for which he was cultivated.

It wasn’t truly ceaseless, of course. Everything has an ending. But it felt like an eternity – and for Jon, indefinite waiting has always been a special kind of torture.

“So what changed?” Georgie asks, her tone gentler than before.

“For a while, nothing,” Jon says. “I sort of… drifted. Wandered aimlessly through the domains for… I don’t really know. When nothing ever changes, keeping track of time becomes pointless. The Panopticon kept trying to draw me in, of course, but I – I suppose there was still enough spite left in me to make a show of ignoring it.

“At some point, I got lost in a Lonely domain. Which was fine, really. Or – it would have been fine, had I been allowed to succumb to it. I wanted to just – fade into it, let it in, but” – Jon breathes a bitter laugh – “it wouldn’t take me. Wouldn’t let me go numb, wouldn’t let me forget – didn’t have the decency to let me disappear, no matter how long I stayed.”

No one got what they deserved in that future, but this was a rare exception to that rule: to be allowed to simply forget his role in creating that nightmare world, to sink into blissful ignorance, would have been a miscarriage of justice. Not that the Eye cared about what was just or fair, of course. No, it simply would not – perhaps could not – deign to relinquish its hold on its Archive.

“But the longer I stayed,” he continues, looking at Martin now, “the more I thought about you. In retrospect, maybe that’s why I didn’t want to leave. And maybe that’s part of why it wouldn’t have me – I couldn’t let you go. But being there, it kept reminding me of the first Lonely domain we came across after the change. We were separated, and I was – I was so afraid you wouldn’t come back to me. But you did.” Jon smiles to himself, remembering the relief and gratitude and awe he felt in that moment. “You rejected the Lonely all on your own. Found your own way out – found me, and… every time I thought about that, I imagined your voice in my head. Telling me off for wallowing. For giving up.”

“Sounds like I would have been justified,” Martin says delicately.

“You would have,” Jon confesses with a contrite half-smile. “I was in peak brooding condition. Eventually I wore myself out wallowing there, though, so I left to go wallow somewhere else. I needed a change of scenery, and – well, I got one. Stumbled into a Spiral domain. Ran into Helen, and… funny enough, that was the last straw.”

Jon can still recall the encounter down to the smallest detail.

‘Still drifting aimless, are we?’ Helen bared an unsettling number of teeth as her grin stretched – literally – from ear to ear. ‘Exactly how long do you plan on moping about, Archivist?’

Jon did not answer; did not even meet her eyes, instead staring vacantly over her shoulder. The incessant reel of horror scenes playing in the back of his mind made it difficult to focus on any one thing at a time, and there was nothing he cared to see so much that it was worth the effort it would take to grant it his undivided attention.

‘You know,’ Helen said, tapping an elongated, crooked finger against her lips, ‘I wonder what he would say, if he could see you now.’

It didn’t matter. Martin was gone. Those parts of the world that hadn’t already been thoroughly razed were slowly but surely withering. There was nothing left to salvage.

‘Disappointed, I imagine,’ Helen continued, distant and muffled by the din of a splintering world. (Somewhere deep below their feet, a man was screaming himself hoarse in a labyrinth made of mirrors and fog.) ‘But not surprised. It’s not the first time you’ve let him down, is it?’

Jon gave a listless shrug. Her words stung, certainly, but they were a far cry from some of her more artful jabs. A pointed insinuation to send him spiraling into his own self-destructive conclusions would always be more corrosive than outright disparagement.

(The man in the maze gazed into mirror after mirror, hoping to find himself within. In every one, his reflection had no face.)

That said, Helen wasn’t wrong. Even as a child, Jon had always been a burden. He never did manage to prove himself worthy of all the many unwilling sacrifices made on his behalf. Never measured up; never put nearly enough good into the world to balance out the cost of having him in it.

(The man in the maze had misplaced his name. Did he drop it somewhere? He checked his pockets only to find holes. Yet another eyeless reflection stared back at him from beneath his feet.)

‘You were always headed here, weren’t you?’

Yes.

(The man in the maze tried to retrace his steps, but everything looked the same: an endless, recursive corridor of mirror images. He asked one of the doppelgängers for directions, only to realize that the man in the mirror had no mouth with which to answer.)

‘To think – all that time he spent coaxing you along, and you crumble the moment you don’t have a prop to coddle you.’ Helen cackles, high and cruel. ‘What a waste.’

She wasn’t telling him anything that he didn’t already know.

(The man in the maze was scouring the mirrored ground, searching for… something he’d lost; he couldn’t quite remember, but he knew that it was important. He checked his pockets, only to discover that he had no pockets.)

‘Although, I guess the blame doesn’t fall squarely on your shoulders. He was naïve. It isn’t your fault he was foolish enough to hope for–’

The words jolted Jon back to the present like an electric shock. Whatever else Helen had to say, he’d never know. He tuned her out, and he started walking.

“She was having a go at me – nothing new there – but then she brought you into it, and…” Jon shrugs. “I don’t think it was her intention, but it nudged me back on track. You and I had a plan, before, and… honestly, I didn’t have much hope that it would work, but you had. That made it worth trying.”

It wasn’t like Jon could break the world more by parleying with the Eye. At worst, it made no difference, but at least Jon did something to honor Martin’s memory; at best, it put Jon out of his misery, one way or another.

“I’m glad I did, because… well, it changed things, obviously. You were right.”

“Sorry,” Martin says with unmistakable self-satisfaction, “could you say that again?”

“You were right, Martin.” Jon rolls his eyes, but the effect is undercut by an indulgent smile he can’t quite repress. “You often are. All of this is to say – I’m only here because you gave me a reason to be. If not for that, then… well, I meant what I’ve said before, about needing a lifeline in order to stand any chance against the Fears. I was – I am lucky enough to have one.”

More than one, he thinks with a sense of wonder. The support he has now is such a far cry from the ostracism he experienced the first time he was here. It still gives him pause every time he dwells on the contrast. Sometimes, it almost seems too good to be true.

“Oliver didn’t,” Jon continues. “It’s hard to begrudge him for resigning himself to fate, especially considering how the power that claimed him is defined by fatalism. He never asked to be chosen, he was given no hope of escape, and he had no one to reach out to, let alone anyone to reach back. It’s unsurprising that he would come to accept the inescapable when the only anchor he had was the certainty of oblivion.”

“‘The moment that you die will feel exactly the same as this one,’” Georgie says quietly.

Jon nods. “And without a dependable reason to see the moments in between as significant, it’s… well, it’s hard to see the point in anything. I’ve been there.”

As has Georgie, Jon knows. She exhales heavily, massaging her temples, visibly conflicted.

“I still don’t think you should trust him,” Martin says.

“I’m not suggesting we trust him wholesale,” Jon says, “but I’m certain that he isn’t an enemy. He might not resist the End, but he doesn’t work to end the world in its name, either. He’s… thoroughly neutral.”

“Then what makes you think he’ll lift a finger to help?” Martin asks.

“I doubt he’ll go out of his way to help,” Jon admits. “He might be willing to trade information, though. I just thought… Avatar of the End – he would have more insight into the limits of Jonah’s supposed ‘immortality’ than I do.”

“You think he can tell you something about the dead man’s switch,” Georgie guesses, rubbing at her forehead.

“That’s my hope, yes. He can see the route that a person will take to their end. Or, he can when their death is imminent, at least – I’m not sure how far into the future his foresight stretches these days.”

In the hospital, Oliver implied that he could see something in Jon’s vicinity. Whether that suggests Jon’s own end is near enough for Oliver to foresee it, Jon does not Know. Given his proven resilience, he suspects it’s just as likely to be a quirk of his strange existence. There’s no shortage of idiosyncrasies that may mark Jon as an outlier: he’s the Archivist; he’s traveled through a rift in time; he’s the primed and practiced focal point of the Watcher’s Crown, and the fate of the world hinges on his ability to keep that potential in check.

And if his situation is an exception to the rule, perhaps Jonah’s is as well.

“Maybe he’ll be able to see whether our routes flow into Jonah’s, so to speak,” Jon says. “When Oliver dreamed of Gertrude’s impending death, he saw how much of the world’s fate was intertwined with hers –”

“– the veins, whose domination of the dreamscape had only ever been partial before, had thickened and now seemed to cover almost the whole space of every street – the destination – into which all the veins flowed – The Magnus Institute – choked with that shadowed flesh – following that red light that would now pulse so bright that I knew were I to see it awake it would have blinded me – and every one of those veins – where they ended – a person sitting at that desk and it was them that all of this scarlet light was flowing into.”

“Gertrude,” Martin says.

Jon nods, then holds up one finger: Wait. The Archive has more to say; Jon can practically feel the words bubbling up his throat and crowding behind his teeth. As discomfiting as it is to have it hijack his voice, sometimes it’s easier to ride out that compulsion than to tamp it down.

“I have no responsibility to try and prevent whatever fate is coming for you – such a thing is likely impossible – but after what I saw I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least try – there is something coming for you and I don’t know what it is, but it is so much worse than anything I can imagine. At the very least, you should look into appointing a successor.”

Statement ends, Jon thinks, working his jaw to soothe the unnatural tension that has taken root there. Happy now? Anything else to add?

As expected, it doesn’t answer. He’s well aware that addressing the Archive essentially amounts to talking to himself, but carrying on an internal dialogue with the more frustrating aspects of himself was a habit long before he took on the mantle of Archivist.

After a few seconds, he feels the Archive’s imposing presence start to recede, releasing him from the compulsion. It’s still there, of course – it’s always there, looming over him like a vulture, as impossible to ignore as a knife to the throat – but for now it seems content to fall back and observe once more.

Georgie sighs. “That’s why you’re sympathetic to him.”

“He tried.” Jon shrugs. “He didn’t have to, but he did.”

“That still doesn’t mean he’s going to help this time,” Martin says.

“No, but he has no incentive to hurt us, either. There’s no harm in asking him questions. He’s not going to run to Jonah to inform on us. The worst that happens is he says ‘no’ and goes back to minding his own business. But if he agrees to talk… well, it might be our best chance to determine how much of what Jonah says is true.”

Georgie chews on her thumbnail for a few seconds before looking back up at Jon, a pensive frown on her face. “Why’d he go out of his way to come here at all, if he has no motivation one way or the other?”

“Honestly? Curiosity, I think. But… I suppose I’m also hoping that there’s a part of him that might sympathize.”

“Do you really think there is?” Martin asks.

“I don’t know. In my future, probably not. He wasn’t enjoying himself like some of the other Avatars – I mean, he was feeding on the fear produced by his domain, but even then, he didn’t strike me as cruel. It was just… acceptance in the face of a conclusion at ultimately stayed the same regardless of the path leading up to it, and…”

And maybe it speaks to Jon’s mental state at the time, but there were a few points in Oliver’s statement that struck him as almost merciful. After all, in the face of seemingly endless torment, death was a covetable escape.

“I have no power to stop it,” the Archive recites, “and even if I did, I would not do so. For to rob a soul of death is as torturous as its inevitable coming – I fear the annihilation you would gift me as little as I desire it – perhaps once it might have horrified me, or given me some sense of pursuing the ultimate release of the world that you have damned – I am now, as the thing I feed, a fixed point, that has neither the longing nor ability to change its state of existence – even you, with all your power, cannot keep the world alive forever. All things end, and every step you take, whatever direction you may choose, only brings you closer to it.”

“That Oliver again?” Martin mutters tetchily. “Doesn’t sound to me like he’ll be particularly inclined to help.”

“Well–” The word comes out as a rasp, and Jon has to pause to clear his throat before continuing. “That was – that was the Oliver of the future. After the change, he was too much of the End not to live its truth, just as I was too much of the Eye not to walk its path and archive its world. We were both conduits, inseparable from the powers that laid claim to us. Here and now, though, I’m hoping he might still be…”

“What, benevolent?” Martin says incredulously.

Jon is quiet for a long moment, trying to find the right words to explain.

“At my most hopeless,” he says slowly, “I still cared, even though there was no meaningful way for me to put it into practice. I don’t think I ever managed to reach the level of acceptance that Oliver did – and sometimes I envied him for that. But embracing the End as a foregone conclusion doesn’t necessarily mean he’s completely unmoved by what happens in the interim. Not yet, anyway. And as of right now, whether it’s out of curiosity or compassion, obviously he still interacts with the world from time to time, even if he prefers to exist in the background for the most part.”

Martin and Georgie both look unconvinced.

“I’m not asking him to help us change fate,” Jon goes on. “In his view, there is no obstructing fate – not in any way that genuinely matters to his patron. Oliver isn’t particularly concerned about when the End will come – he’s just secure in the knowledge that it will happen eventually, with or without the interference of any mortal actor. Passive or active, nothing he does or doesn’t do will change that. But I’m thinking it’s been a long time since someone has asked him for help that he actually has the power to provide, and… I know what that’s like.”

Despite the immense power that Jon could exercise after the culmination of the Watcher’s Crown, he was ultimately powerless to change things for the better. It’s why he leapt at the chance to help Naomi in her nightmare: even a small, low-effort act of kindness after so long without the opportunity was overwhelmingly liberating.

It was insignificant against the vast backdrop of the universe, perhaps, but it still left a mark. It prompted a cascade of little changes that completely rewrote their dynamic; it curtailed some of the suffering in which Jon had previously been so unwillingly complicit; it's even acted as an inoculation against the loneliness that had permeated both of their lives during this stretch of time when Jon was last here. Those little changes mattered to him, and they mattered to Naomi – not only in that first moment, but in all the time since.

All of that had to count for something, right? It took fourteen ill-fated marks to end the world, after all. With any one of them missing, the Ritual wouldn’t have worked and the world at large would never have noticed. But that didn’t make any one of those marks wholly insignificant on its own. They scarred him and the people around him; every encounter changed him, whittled away at his sense of self, left him progressively vulnerable and set him up for successive marks.

The repercussions still linger. They probably always will.

In his sporadic moments of cautious optimism, Jon cannot help but wonder: If a series of little cruelties can create such a perfect and terrible storm, is it really inconceivable that a pattern of little rebellions could keep it at bay? And Jon has long since come to the conclusion that compassion in the face of unimaginable cruelty is its own form of rebellion.

“As much as Oliver talks about fate and inevitability,” Jon says, “he still seems to believe in free will to an extent. That we all make choices. When he last spoke to me, he offered me a choice. Now I’m offering one to him.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…” Georgie releases a weary exhale and tosses her head back to stare at the ceiling. “You’re sure this won’t come back to bite you?”

“We have nothing to lose by asking,” Jon says. “And he has nothing to lose regardless of what choice he makes, but… it feels right to at least give him the option. Whatever he decides, I won’t begrudge him for it.”

“Fine,” she says tersely. “Do what you want.”

Jon just barely suppresses a wince. “Georgie?”

“Sorry, that came off as –” Georgie heaves another sigh. “I’m not angry with you. I get it. It makes sense. I just don’t like it.”

“I know.”

“Just… be mindful, alright? You don’t owe him any answers you don’t want to give. And he doesn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt just because you relate to him.”

“I know,” Jon says again.

“I mean it, Jon,” she says sharply. She takes a steadying breath before continuing, more diplomatically this time. “It’s… sweet, I guess, that you want to empathize with him, but you have a tendency to…” Georgie pauses, weighing her words. “I mean, I’ve seen you compare yourself to Helen, too. And Jonah.”

“Well, I don’t think anyone would deny that there are certain… similarities,” Jon says, not quite under his breath.

“Yeah, you’re always going to have something in common with other people if you look hard enough. But sometimes you see the worst in people and you fold it into how you see yourself. Like you’re looking into a funhouse mirror, but you can’t see how the reflection is distorted.” Jon avoids meeting her eyes, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear it, but you have a history of comparing yourself to your abusers. Sorry,” she adds when he flinches, “but it’s the truth, and you need to hear it. Just… think about it, okay? Ask yourself whether this is compassion or if it’s just another way to dehumanize yourself.”

“I –” Jon swallows around the lump in his throat, his mouth gone dry. “Okay, I – I get your point, but – I swear that’s not what this is. With Helen, and – and – and Jonah, it’s – they’ve actually gone out of their way to – to manipulate, to cause real harm. Oliver is different.”

“You were marked by the End,” Georgie says pointedly.

“Yes, but that wasn’t Oliver’s fault. He didn’t hurt me, never tried to trap me or trick me – never pressured me into making one choice over another, even at the end of the world. I really don’t think he’s evil, or sadistic, or – or scheming, weaving some grand web. He’s just watching things unfold, because he had a crash course in the stages of grief forced onto him and the end result was… well, acceptance. He doesn’t fear the End, but he doesn’t worship it, either. He just embodies it, openly and authentically.”

Georgie is silent for nearly a full minute, scrutinizing Jon intently, before she capitulates.

“Alright. I’ll… trust your judgment, I guess,” she says, but she shares a knowing glance with Martin – who looks just as leery as she does – when she says it. “Still, be careful.”

“I, uh… I imagine you don’t want to be here when I talk to him?” Jon ventures, though he’s certain he already knows the answer.

“No,” Georgie says summarily.

Jon releases a breathless chuckle. “Fair enough.”

“I really should be getting home to Melanie, anyway. It’s stay-home date night. Pizza and a movie.” Georgie offers a tentative grin, her shoulders relaxing minutely. “She hasn’t seen the new Ghostbusters yet, somehow – something about having been preoccupied with real paranormal bullshit for the last few years – but I checked and the DVD version has audio description, so I bought a copy. She’d be cross with me if I stood her up for the grim reaper.”

“I imagine so.” Jon tilts his head. “Although, Oliver isn’t actually the–”

“Jon,” Georgie sighs, “I was being facetious.”

When the three of them leave the tunnels, they find Oliver still waiting awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs out of the Archives, Basira standing sentinel nearby. Daisy leans against a far wall, eyeing him from a distance.

Georgie gives a long, doubtful look at Oliver before turning to Jon and offering a hug that he gladly accepts.

“Text me later tonight?” Georgie says. “And keep me updated on your travel plans.”

“Will do. Tell Melanie I said hello. And tell the Admiral he’s a national treasure.”

Georgie snorts at that, shaking her head in amusement before turning towards the stairs. Oliver nearly jumps out of the way as she strides in his direction, but she doesn’t stop to confront him beyond a glare as she passes. A prolonged, awkward minute of silence passes after she leaves, charged with suspicion and tension.

“Tunnels,” Basira says eventually, her tone and expression giving nothing away. She doesn’t wait for a response before stalking off down the hall, Daisy falling in line behind her.

Basira barely waits for the others to take their seats before she launches into her interrogation. Although her eyes remain fixed on Oliver, her first question isn’t directed at him.

“Why is he here, Jon?”

“Like I said, I invited him.” Jon glances at Oliver, apologetic. It feels odd to talk about him as if he isn’t present.

“Why?”

“Mutual curiosity, I expect,” Oliver cuts in, inclining his head towards Jon. “You have questions for me.”

Jon returns a nod. He has ulterior motives, and Oliver knows it. To pretend otherwise would be pointless, not to mention insulting.

“Oliver is an Avatar of the End,” Jon tells the others. “There might be a chance he could tell us how much of what Elias says is true.”

“And what’s the price tag?” Basira asks.

“He has questions of his own. He could tell in the hospital that there’s something… wrong about me. Obviously, I couldn’t talk about it where Elias could hear.”

“You shouldn’t disclose it at all,” Basira says. “If any of it gets back to him –”

“Oliver has no reason to betray our confidence.” Jon’s gaze flicks to Oliver. “Right?”

“Consider me a neutral party,” Oliver replies.

“You’re going to just… take him at his word,” Basira scoffs.

“The End has no Ritual,” Jon says, “and it has no reason to prevent any of the other Entities from successfully pulling off their own Rituals. No matter what happens to this world, the End will claim everything eventually. The when and how are irrelevant to it. In the meantime, the world as-is suits it just fine. It has no desire to postpone or hasten the end of all things.”

“Terminus is what it is,” Oliver agrees. “I have neither the power nor the desire to contradict it.”

“Then why would you help us?” Basira asks.

“I never said that I would.”

“I’m not asking you to actively intervene,” Jon says before Basira can offer a retort. “I just want to talk. That… is why you came here, isn’t it?”

Oliver hesitates for a moment before answering. “Your curiosity must have rubbed off on me.”

Unbidden, Oliver’s statement rushes to the forefront of Jon’s mind: I still remember the first time I tried to touch one…. I don’t know why I did it; I knew it was a stupid thing to do. But I just… maybe I wanted it this way.

“Don’t know about that,” Jon says quietly. “Curiosity is only human.”

And the worst part was that, somewhere in me, I – I liked it, the statement plays on. Underneath all that awful fear, it felt like… home.

“Perhaps,” Oliver says, noncommittal.

“So you’ll tell us what we want to know,” Daisy finally speaks up. Despite her veneer of calm – leaning back in her chair, arms crossed – her bouncing leg belies her agitation.

“It makes no difference to me.” Oliver shrugs. “Though I can’t promise my answers will be satisfying.”

“I still don’t like this,” Basira says, glaring askance at Oliver.

“Look,” Jon says, “this is the only way I can think of to figure out what stakes we’re working with. Jonah has been cheating death for centuries–”

“Jon!” Basira hisses.

“It’s important context,” Jon argues back. “And anyway, it’s going to come up when I tell him my story. It’s not exactly a detail I can gloss over; it’s central to the plot.” He sighs and looks at Oliver. “Elias is Jonah Magnus, the original founder of the Institute.”

Basira throws her hands up with a frustrated snarl. She turns to Daisy for support, but Daisy only offers a sympathetic grimace and a half-shrug.

“I thought there was something odd about him,” Oliver says blandly. “He’s long past his expiration date.”

Daisy snorts at that. Judging from the bemused, almost startled expression on Oliver’s face, he hadn’t expected to garner anything other than aggression from her.

“Whenever one of his vessels is… compromised,” Jon elaborates, “or nearing the end of its usefulness, he takes a new one.”

Recovering from his fleeting bewilderment, Oliver turns his attention back to Jon. “He wouldn’t be the first.”

“Maxwell Rayner and Simon Fairchild,” Basira says.

Oliver nods. “Among others.”

“Does that… I don’t know – offend the End?” Martin asks.

“No,” Oliver says. “They can’t outrun it forever, as so many have discovered firsthand.”

“Like Rayner,” Daisy says.

Once again, Oliver looks thrown off-kilter by Daisy’s diminishing hostility, but he does offer a wary nod in response to her contribution to the conversation. “And in the meantime, their fear of their own mortality ages like a fine wine.”

“Is an unnaturally long life somehow tastier for the End, then?” Martin asks. “I think most of the statements I’ve read about it involved somehow cheating death.”

“Perhaps. If my patron has a conscious mind, it has never spoken to me directly. Everything I know to be true is just… feeling.”

“So it’s as cagey as the other Powers, then,” Daisy says with a derisive chuckle. “Good to know.”

Oliver smooths his hands across his coat, draped across his lap, before glancing at Jon for guidance.

“I gave you a story,” he says reticently. “I would like to hear yours. Then I will answer your questions.”

“Fair enough,” Jon says – and abruptly realizes that he has no idea where to start. “You, uh… you don’t need to hear my whole life story, do you?”

“I did give you an outline of mine,” Oliver says with just a hint of amusement. “I admit I’m curious as to what led you here, but I imagine if you went into detail, we would be here for hours.”

“Much of it doesn’t bear repeating, anyway,” Jon says. “Just the highlights, then?”

“If you please.”

“Right,” Jon mumbles. He takes a deep breath. “Had my first supernatural encounter when I was eight, never got over it, and a combination of lifelong obsession and unchecked curiosity brought me to the Institute. After Gertrude died, Jonah chose me as her replacement because he knew I would be easily molded into the catalyst for his Ritual, and I was.” He looks up. “Is that enough?”

“Which of the Powers marked you first? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“The Web.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you seemed… entangled.”

There’s something… off about you, Oliver had told him when they last spoke. The roots, they look… sick. Wrong. And the threads are – tangled.

It’s possible that Oliver was speaking in metaphor – alluding to the threads of fate, so to speak – but the question has been simmering in the back of Jon’s mind for months…

“When you visited me before,” he blurts out. “You said the Web sent you.”

“Yes,” Oliver says candidly. “Not an explicit command, of course. It was more a… well, a feeling. A tug. The Web usually prefers subtlety, but there are times when it wants its marks to know the hand that moves them.”

“S-so, when you said the threads around me were tangled, was that figurative, or could you… see the Web’s influence?”

“The Spider might make its presence known sometimes, but Terminus doesn’t give me the ability to see the shape of its web any more than the Eye does you.”

“Not unless the Web allows itself to be Seen,” Jon says absently.

Despite how much he could See in his future, the Web always remained something of an enigma. It wasn’t until after his standoff with the Eye that he was able to follow the Spider’s threads.

But then, the Eye hadn’t been the only watcher lurking in the Panopticon. The Web had woven itself into the foundation of that place from its conception, and the Spider made no effort to hide. More than once, it stationed itself where he was sure to notice it. The more he thinks on it, the more he suspects that the ensuing ability to See its threads, to Know where they converged, was as much an allowance by the Web as it was due to his communion with the Ceaseless Watcher.

“When I spoke of threads, I meant more…” Oliver opens and closes his mouth a few times as he struggles with his phrasing. “Well, I’ve not yet found a perfect description for it. Think of a life and fate as… a jumble of intersections. Some people feel like thread-and-nail art. Others feel like a snarled ball of yarn. You,” he adds, looking at Jon appraisingly, “are something of a Gordian knot.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Martin demands, a protective edge in his voice.

“It’s not a compliment or an insult,” Oliver says mildly. “Only an observation. Come to think of it, Gertrude was much the same way. The fates of many hinged on the routes she took. Less of a butterfly effect and more of a hurricane.”

“So you can see fate?” Basira asks. A genuine question, but the flat skepticism in her tone makes it sound rhetorical.

“To a limited extent,” Oliver says haltingly. “I see the near-future as it relates to death specifically. When people near the ends of their routes, I can make out the details of their–”

“Seeing those awful veins crawling into them, into wounds not yet open, or skulls not yet split – they sneak up and into throats about to choke on blood, or lurch into hearts about to convulse – webbed over the face of a drunk old man stumbling into his car – one snaking along the road, over towards the railing – I’ll never forget seeing a field of cows the week before they were sent to the abattoir…”

Jon trails off with a tired groan, rubbing his eyes furiously.

“You have a good memory,” Oliver says.

“Sorry,” Jon mumbles. “Archivist thing. Can’t always control it.”

“S-so,” Martin redirects, “if any of us were about to die, you would be able to see it, right?”

“Yes. But I don’t make a habit of telling fortunes,” Oliver clarifies before Martin can ask. “Knowing your end is coming does nothing to prevent it. It only ensures that you will live your final days in fear.”

“Wouldn’t your patron like that?” Daisy asks.

Basira immediately latches onto that thought. “We have a statement here about a book that tells you how and when you’ll die.”

“Case number 0030912,” Jon cites. “Statement of Masato Murray, regarding his inheritance of an untitled book with supernatural properties. Each time the reader rereads their entry, they’ll find that the recorded date of their future death draws closer and the cause more gruesome.”

“Thanks, spooky Google,” Basira says sardonically. “Who needs an indexing system when we have a walking, talking card catalogue on staff?”

“One of my predecessors in ancient times once filed a complaint with the Eye, aggrieved by all the terrible powers it foisted upon him,” Jon says matter-of-factly, not missing a beat. “Being a benevolent patron, it granted him and all future generations of Archivists a convenience feature as compensation.”

“Smartass,” Basira says, but it sounds almost amiable, and Jon allows himself a tentative smile.

His tolerance for making light of this part of himself tends to be variable. Unpredictable, even. On good days, shared gallows humor is a balm, bringing with it a sense of solidarity and camaraderie; on bad days, even the gentlest dig feels like a barb.

He also tends to be selective about whose teasing he can weather. Martin and Georgie are safe more often than not. Daisy can usually get away with it; she’s prompt to let him in on the joke whenever he doesn’t pick up on her sarcasm. Given how blunt Melanie can be, it at least tends to be obvious when her pointed comments are meant in jest or in umbrage; and anyway, he hasn’t yet spoken to her directly since she quit.

Basira, though – she’s always been difficult to read. They have a similar sense of humor, but part of his brain is still living in a time when she saw the worst in him. No matter how many times he tells himself that things are different now, he can’t quite shake that feeling of being on indefinite probation. Hostile attribution bias, he recognizes, but having a label for it doesn’t make it any easier to silence those perennial fears. It’s only recently that he’s been able to take such joking from her in stride. Not always, but sometimes.

“Anyway,” Basira says, looking back to Oliver, “I take it that book is affiliated with the End. It feeds on the reader’s fear of knowing the details of their death.”

“Almost everyone has some degree of fear regarding mortality – their own or that of others,” Oliver says. “For some, that primal fear permeates their entire lives. Others only spare it any thought when it closes in on them. Terminus feeds on all of it equally. I suspect that active encounters with it are more about…”

“Flavor?” Basira suggests.

“So to speak,” Oliver says. “Welcome variety in its diet, but not necessary to sate it.”

“Which is why its Avatars have such wildly different methodologies,” Jon says, nodding to himself. “Justin Gough was allowed to survive a near-death experience, but acquired a debt that had to be paid in the lives of others, killing them in their dreams. Tova McHugh was granted the ability to prolong her own life by passing each of her intended deaths onto others, adding their remaining lifespans to her own. Nathaniel Thorpe was cursed with immortality after trying to cheat his way out of death. He was only one of many gamblers who played such games of chance–”

“Jon,” Basira sighs, “you don’t have to go through the whole roster of personified death omens.”

“Sorry.”

“So what kind of Avatar are you?” Basira asks, looking Oliver up and down. “How do you feed your patron?”

“For me, Terminus has not been particularly demanding. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s because I never attempted to cheat my way out of death. It simply… chose me – or I wandered across its path – and it never left. Thus far, it seems content to have me play the observer.” He glances at Jon. “You can probably understand that.”

“The Beholding isn’t satisfied to have its Archivist simply observe. It wants its knowledge actively harvested, recorded, curated.” Jon huffs, not bothering to contain his disgust. “Processed.”

The conversation lapses into a tense silence for several seconds before Basira changes tack.

“About Gertrude,” she says. “You tried to warn her about her death.”

“Yes,” Oliver replies.

“Why?”

“The evidence of her death snaked its roots all across London – as far as I could see, and perhaps further. At the time, I’d never seen anything like it. Such a sprawling web of repercussions stemming from a single death – I felt like I had to say something. As I expected, it made no difference in the end.”

Jon worries his lower lip between his teeth. “You said the roots surrounding me seemed sick.”

“You saw roots around Jon?” Martin says urgently, jolting up ramrod-straight in his seat.

“They’re… different from the ones I’ve grown accustomed to,” Oliver says slowly. “There’s no light pulsing within them, no life flowing to or from them. And looking at them, it’s almost like…” He frowns, squinting down at the floor as if it might offer up the words he needs. “It’s like they’re there and not there simultaneously. Faded, like an afterimage – one that can only be seen from a certain angle.”

“Okay, and what does that – what does that mean?” Martin asks.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I was hoping Jon could shed some light on it,” Oliver says, raising his head to meet Jon’s eyes. “I may not have the same drive to know that you and yours do, but I find myself returning to the question frequently over the past few months.”

“R-right,” Jon says. “Let me just, uh… where to start…”

Jon rubs at this throat with one hand, the other clenching into a fist where it rests on his knee.

“Jon,” Daisy says, “are you sure about this?”

“Yes, I just, uh –” Jon breathes a nervous laugh. “This never gets any easier.”

“Do you want me to say it?” Martin offers, schooling his tone into something approaching calm. His posture remains rigid, though, hands balled into white-knuckled fists in his lap.

“No, it’s fine.” Jon takes a few deep breaths and then looks Oliver in the eye. “In the future, I ended the world.”

Oliver raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t think the Beholding gave you any precognitive abilities.”

“It, uh – it doesn’t. I didn’t foresee the future, I lived it. For… for a long time, actually, so I –” Jon exhales a humorless chuckle. “I probably meet your definition of past my expiration date.”

Oliver tilts his head, considering.

“Hard to say,” he settles on. “You’re… a bit of a paradox. Feels as if you exist in multiple states at once, and it’s difficult for me to tell which one is true.”

“Maybe all of them are,” Jon says distractedly. “But, I, uh – I eventually found a way to come back to before the change – or, to send my consciousness back, anyway. But only as far back as the coma. I… I wish it had taken me back further – back to the very beginning, though I” – Jon huffs – “I suppose it’s hard to say what counts as the beginning.”

“It depends on how you want to define a beginning,” Oliver says. “In a way, the advent of existence marked the beginning of the end. Everything since then has been just another domino.”

“Well,” Jon begins, but Daisy cuts him off.

“Nope,” she says bluntly. “You go down that semantic rabbit hole and we’ll be here forever.”

“Fine,” Jon says with a petulant sigh. “Anyway, I couldn’t figure out how to wake up on my own, so just like the first time I was here, I had to wait for you to come along and help.”

“I still don’t understand why,” Oliver says.

“Neither do I, I’m afraid.”

“Not to encroach on your sphere of influence, but I think in this case, not knowing the answer might bother me even more than it does you.” Oliver releases a quiet sigh. “So you came back to stop yourself from starting the apocalypse.”

“It’s not like he chose to end the world,” Martin says, immediately leaping to Jon’s defense once more.

“Apologies,” Oliver says with an earnest nod in Martin’s direction. “I didn’t intend to imply otherwise.” He glances at Jon. “I’ve known of many who seek to bring on the end in the hopes that they will be able to choose what shape it takes. You don’t strike me as the sort.”

“No. But Jonah is.” Jon ducks his head as he speaks, fingers twisting in his jumper. “He wanted – wants to rule over a world reshaped in the Beholding’s image. He needed an Archivist with particular qualities to serve as the linchpin of his Ritual. So he created one. By the time he showed his hand, it was too late. I was the key, and Jonah didn’t need my consent in order to open the door.”

“I imagine it didn’t go as he planned,” Oliver says.

“No,” Jon says with a grim laugh. “No, it didn’t. He suffered as much as anyone else did in that reality. It all started because he was afraid of his own mortality, and yet – in the end, he met a fate worse than death.”

“Whatever it was, he deserved it,” Martin mutters.

“Maybe so,” Jon says. “But it was never about deserving. There was some poetic justice there, seeing him brought down by his own hubris, but… at the end of the day, he got the same treatment as anyone else. Just – pointless suffering, utterly divorced from the concept of consequences. Had a way of… diluting the schadenfreude, honestly.”

Martin’s spark of vindication appears to fizzle out as Jon speaks, his shoulders slumping and his eyes softening.

“Regardless,” Jon continues, “Jonah wanted to be a god, but at his core, he was no different from any other human. Fodder for the Fears. And the one he feared the most – it was in no hurry to finish the meal. I imagine by the time Terminus finally came for him in earnest, he would have welcomed it.”

“Those who seek immortality always come to see it as a curse in time,” Oliver says sagely. “When they come to terms with the fact that there is no such thing as a truly immortal existence, it comes as a relief.”

“I walked through your domain once,” Jon says after a pause. “You gave me a statement about the End’s place in that world. The domains were reluctant to let their victims die – they’d bring them to the brink, then revive them and repeat the process – but the Fears are greedy. Eventually, they would suck their victims dry –”

“– bones – every one of them – picked clean and cracked open – desperately gnawing – trying to reach whatever scant marrow might have remained inside – sucked from them to leave nothing but dry, white fragments – the hunger he saw in their eyes–”

Jon bites down on his tongue. That’s quite enough of that.

“You alright?” Martin says, leaning over and putting a hand on Jon’s knee.

“Sorry,” Jon says gruffly. “That one was…”

“Grisly?” Daisy says.

“Yeah,” Jon huffs. “But – not necessarily inapt? That reality was a closed economy. No new people were being born. The ones who already existed were destined to die, no matter how unwilling the other Fears were to grant that release.”

“As has always been the order of things,” Oliver says.

“You predicted that eventually the Fears would start poaching victims from one another’s domains – and they did. There were…” Jon grimaces. “There were a lot of territorial disputes, towards the end there. Domains encroaching on one another, monsters fighting over scraps. The Eye got its fill Watching it all play out, of course, but given enough time, it would have starved, same as all the rest.”

“And once the world was rendered barren,” Oliver says, understanding, “Terminus itself would die.”

Jon nods. “And until that happened, both you and your patron were content to let things play out.”

“Terminus is patient.”

Too patient, Jon thought at the time.

“I don’t think it was your intention,” he says, “but your statement did come as a relief. I already expected as much – that eventually it would all end – but having it corroborated by an authority on the matter was… very welcome.”

“People may fear death,” Oliver says, “but anyone who outruns it long enough finds that there is a much deeper fear hiding underneath – that of having the release of death withheld from them.”

“We have a lot of statements to that tune,” Basira says.

“I imagine so.”

“So,” Daisy says brusquely, “is that enough of a story for you?”

“I suppose,” Oliver says. “Although it raises more questions than it grants answers.”

“Our turn for questions, then?” Basira asks. She doesn’t wait for an answer. “The… veins, or… roots you saw around Gertrude. You’re saying they didn’t just foretell her death, but showed how it would impact everything else. So, what about the ones you saw around Jon?”

“It’s difficult to observe them for any length of time, but they do seem… more sprawling.” Oliver studies Jon for a moment, considering. “Like you are the heart of a watershed moment destined to happen.”

“So that’s it, then,” Jon says dully. “I’m still the spark for it all.”

Pandora’s box with a ‘use by’ date, he thinks to himself, somewhat hysterically.

He already knew it to be true, but that doesn’t make the confirmation any less harrowing. Everything hinges on his ability to keep his head above water, but the fate of the world weighs ever more heavily on his shoulders, pressing down, down, down –

“Does that mean…” Jon hugs his middle, slowly curling in on himself. “Does that mean it’s going to happen again?”

“I cannot say.” If Jon’s not mistaken, Oliver sounds… almost sympathetic. “This is unprecedented. I can only theorize. It’s possible that you’re like Gertrude, and what I see is a premonition. Or maybe the reality you came from still exists, parallel to this one, and it still clings to you. Perhaps it’s a Schrödinger’s cat, and it both does and does not exist, right up until the point where you do or do not bring it into being. Or maybe it doesn't exist, and the roots I see are only… imprints, so to speak. Echoes of a time and place that this world will never overlap.”

“Like trace fossils,” Jon murmurs. “Ghosts.”

“If you like.”

“Could you – could you follow them?” Jon can feel his pulse quicken, his heart thrumming in his throat. “See where they originate?”

“They originate from you.”

“O-oh.” Jon’s gaze darts uncertainly around the area before fixing on Oliver again. “Then, uh – can you see where they end?”

“You have a suspicion,” Basira says, watching Jon carefully.

Jon swallows around the breath caught in his throat. “What if they go back to Hill Top Road?”

“As far as I can tell, they reach out in all directions,” Oliver says. “There may not be a single end point. Regardless, I have no desire to visit Hill Top Road.”

“Oh,” Jon says despondently. It’s not like he expected Oliver to go out of his way to help, but…

“Would it really tell you anything of value anyway?” Martin asks.

“I don’t know,” Jon says, running a hand through his hair, one finger getting caught in a knot and pulling hard at his scalp. “But – but it feels like something I should at least check –”

“To what end?” Daisy asks. Jon looks at her blankly. “No offense, Sims, but the most likely outcome is you get no real answers, you lose yourself obsessing over theories, each more catastrophic than the last, and you spend the next few weeks compulsively checking yourself for spiders. Some things aren’t worth chasing after.”

“I just – I feel like I should know one way or the other –”

“Is that you or the Eye talking?” Martin asks.

“What’s the difference?” Jon says flatly. He immediately regrets it when he glimpses the expression on Martin’s face – a very familiar mixture of concern and frustration. “I’m sorry. Just… I don’t know. I don’t Know.”

Jon tugs on his hair once more, focusing on the dull ache it produces. He’s always had trouble letting things go. Letting questions go unanswered; letting mysteries go unsolved. The Beholding just nurtured that obsessiveness, encouraged that impulse to proliferate in his head like a weed and choke out his inhibitions.

“You’re here now,” Martin says firmly. “You can’t go back, so you may as well go forward.”

“Yeah,” Jon says, guilt heavy and searing in his chest.

“Like I said,” Oliver says, rubbing the back of his neck, “my knowledge of the future is narrow. I can’t tell you anything about parallel universes, or branching timelines, or the ability to alter history. The only certainty is that anything that begins will have an end, one way or another. All the rest is just… details.”

Martin folds his arms across his chest, examining Oliver with narrowed eyes. “You say that like the details are irrelevant.”

“I wonder about that,” Oliver says softly.

“Well, I think our experiences matter,” Martin says. “The fact that we were here at all, it’s… it’s not nothing.”

“Even those who make the greatest impact are forgotten in time.”

“So what? It will always have happened, even if no one is alive to remember it. And – and you never know when something little will have an impact on someone, which contributes to them doing something that makes a greater impact – that changes history.”

“Even time itself will end eventually. History will be forgotten, and nothing will remain to register its loss.”

“And?” Martin persists. “We won’t be around to see it. In the meantime, we’re here. We’re alive. If we’re going to end no matter what, why not make it worthwhile? Sure, there are no equivalent powers of hope and love to counter the Fears, but – but who cares? That just means that we have to make up for that absence.” Jon smiles to himself as Martin builds momentum – shoulders pushed back, chest thrust out, head held higher, speech growing more impassioned as he argues his point. “If a few mistakes and some asshole with a god complex can end the world, who’s to say a few deliberate kindnesses can’t save it?”

“Am I the asshole with the god complex?” Jon says drily. Judging from Martin’s disapproving scowl, he is not in the mood for self-deprecating humor. “Sorry, sorry. But, uh – in all seriousness, I think it was more than a few mistakes on my part–”

“You know what I meant, Jon,” Martin snaps. “And – and fine, maybe a few kindnesses can’t save the whole world, but – but they can save someone’s world. They can save a person. Doesn’t that mean something?”

“Yes,” Jon says with a small smile. “Yes, it does.”

“R-right.” Martin blinks several times, momentarily stunned by the lack of resistance. “It doesn’t change the world – except for how it does. Just – the universe might not care, but we can, and that’s exactly why we should. It’s… it’s what we owe to each other. That’s what I think, at least.”

Martin goes quiet then, arms still folded with a mixture of self-consciousness and sullen defiance.

“How long have you had that rant queued up?” Daisy teases.

“A while,” Martin says, rubbing his arm sheepishly.

“You’re quite the romantic,” Oliver says. He says it like a compliment, albeit somewhat wistful.

“Yeah, well.” Martin blushes at the praise in spite of himself. “Someone has to counter the fatalism around here.”

If you ask Jon, there are many reasons to love Martin Blackwood. This is doubtless one of them.

“Besides,” Martin recovers, apparently on a roll now, “it seems to me there’s as much evidence for fate being changeable as not. Yeah, sure, eventually everything dies, but who’s to say that the details are set in stone? Like – like that book, the one where the details of a person’s death change every time they read it.”

“But does their fate actually change, or is it just the book messing with their heads?” Basira says, tapping her fingers against her lips and looking down at the floor pensively. “If the End has foreknowledge of a person’s death, maybe the last entry a person reads before dying was always their fate, and all the previous accounts were just lies intended to seed fear.”

When Jon opens his mouth to chime in, the Archive seizes the initiative, unceremonious as ever.

"When did it change?” comes the cadence of Masato Murray. “Was it when I turned back to read it again? Or perhaps when I had made the decision to never visit Lancashire? If the book knew the future, then how much did it know me? My decisions and choices were my own, so was it responding to them or simply to the fact that I opened the book again? Perhaps it changed every time I opened it, even if I didn’t read the page, every interaction changing my fate…. When I close the book I wonder: are those same words still there, squatting and biding their time, or have they already changed into some new unknown terror that I can neither know nor avoid, waiting to spring on me.”

Jon holds his breath in anticipation. After a few seconds of suspense, the pressure recedes, the Archive having spoken its peace.

“Archive’s talkative today,” Basira observes.

“Apparently,” Jon grumbles. “What I originally meant to say was that I’ve wondered the same thing – whether the book was really telling the future or simply playing on the fears of the reader.”

“Maybe offering textual support is another convenience feature?” Daisy keeps her tone carefully neutral, gauging his mood.

“The Beholding is known for being exceedingly generous,” he retorts.

Basira ignores the banter and speaks directly to Oliver. “Do you know?”

“I’m unfamiliar with the book in question,” he replies. “All the deaths I’ve personally foreseen have come to pass so far. That says nothing about whether or not the End always reveals the truth to all who cross its path.”

“Right.” Basira shakes her head. “Not sure why I expected a straightforward answer.”

“Maybe there isn’t one,” Martin says. For a fraction of a second, Basira tenses. Jon suspects she’s just as repulsed by such a prospect as he is.

“Whatever,” she says curtly. “It isn’t important right now. What I want to know is how to deal with Jonah Magnus. So” – she pins Oliver in place with sharp, unblinking eyes – “what can you tell us about his mortality?”

“In short? He won’t live forever, regardless of how much he wants to deny that reality.”

“Yeah, you’ve said,” Daisy says, tossing her head back with an impatient groan. “Him dying eventually doesn’t help us now.”

“I’m not a mind-reader,” Oliver says. “If there’s more to your question, you’ll need to elaborate. What are you actually asking? How to kill him? For me to tell you whether his death is on the horizon?”

“Jonah claims that he’s the ‘beating heart of the Institute,’” Jon explains. “He says that if he dies, everyone else who works here dies as well. You were able to see the ripples created by Gertrude’s death. I suppose I thought – maybe you could tell us if there’s something similar with Jonah.”

“If his death was imminent, perhaps.” Oliver averts his eyes as he twists a ring around his finger, growing increasingly tense under such concentrated scrutiny. “But as I said before, I don’t make a habit of telling fortunes.”

“So you won’t tell us,” Martin says.

“To be frank, this place is rife with potential.” Oliver casts his gaze around the area, as if seeing something the others cannot. “It would be… difficult to untangle it all.”

“Fine,” Basira says tartly. “Then can you tell us whether it’s possible for him to set up a dead man’s switch in the first place? Seems to me something like that would be the End’s domain, wouldn’t it?”

“It would.”

“Then would he be able to exercise any real power over it?” Basira persists. “There’s nothing inherent to the Eye that suggests its Avatars should be able to bind others’ lives to them. Even the Archivist doesn’t work like that – we’re linked to Jon as far as being unable to quit goes, but we won’t die if he does. I think it’s more likely that Jonah did something extra to bind the Institute to himself.”

“Assuming he’s even telling the truth,” Daisy says.

“So, is there an artefact that could let him do it?” Basira asks, still staring Oliver down. “A ritual? A favor from an affiliate of the End, maybe?”

“Terminus has a variety of ways in which it operates,” Oliver says cagily, “same as all the other Powers. I don’t seek out instances of those manifestations. Given the sheer number of statements collected here, it's likely you’re all more familiar with the breadth of its influence than I am.”

“You’re very helpful,” Daisy scoffs.

Oliver hunches his shoulders, chastised. It’s an odd sight – Jon wouldn’t have expected him to be particularly affected by such an accusation. Oliver never promised to be helpful; does not owe them his cooperation. Before Jon can pursue that thought any further, though, Oliver continues.

“I will say that Terminus is its own master. Those who believe they have tamed it are only fooling themselves. Orchestrating their own misery. The moment in which they finally realize that fact – that they have never had the upper hand, that the entire time they have never strayed from the route to which Terminus binds them…” Oliver chews the inside of his cheek, considering. “The existential terror that moment creates – I wonder sometimes whether it’s a delicacy to my patron.”

“Sounds a lot like the Web,” Basira says. The suggestion must pique his interest, because Oliver sits up straighter and leans forward ever so slightly.

“Except the Web reviles its extinction as much as the other powers, and as much as any mortal mind,” he says – not quite excited, but more engaged than before. “Terminus, on the other hand – its eventual oblivion is part and parcel of its existence. It does not fear the conclusion of its story. The Web will never surrender to such a fate. It will always seek an escape route, some way to appoint itself the weaver of its own ends. Its threads can never stray from the confines of the routes dictated by Terminus, but the concept that it may itself be under the guidance of another… such a thing is incompatible with its definition. Still, the shape of the Spider’s web will always mirror the blueprints of a greater architect.”

“And you think the same is true for Jonah,” Jon says.

“I know it is.”

“Okay, but – but Jon changed fate,” Martin protests. “In a million little ways – some we probably don’t even know about – and some big ones, too. So who’s to say that every step of the route is part of the End’s blueprints? What if – hold on.”

Martin stands and moves to Jon’s makeshift desk, rummaging around for a few seconds before coming up with a pen. He snatches one of Melanie’s therapy worksheets from the top of the pile and turns it over to the blank side.

“What if the only things set in stone are – are certain points along the route,” he says, scribbling a scattering of dots across the page, “but all that matters is that the route eventually intersects with those points?” Martin connects two points with a wavy, sine-like line. “Maybe it doesn’t even matter how convoluted” – he draws another line, this time with several loop-de-loops – “or long” – yet another line, this one traveling all the way up to the top of the page and making several winding turns before plunging back down to connect with the next dot – “the path is.” He holds up the finished product for everyone to see. “As long as the dots connect, the rest is free reign.”

“I like to think that choice plays a role,” Oliver says. “That fate is less of a track and more of a guideline. But honestly, there’s no way to know for certain. I only know the end point. The rest is speculation.”

“It’s also possible that the rift brought me to an alternate reality,” Jon says, eyes downcast. “If the reality of my original timeline still exists, I haven’t changed fate at all. I’ve just jumped to a different track.”

“Okay, and if that’s the case, and this is a different dimension,” Martin says heatedly, “then that means it has its own timeline and its own future, and whatever happened in your future has no bearing on ours.” Martin glares, daring Jon to argue. He doesn’t. “So it’s a moot point. If we can’t know one way or the other whether the future is already written, then let’s just act as if it isn’t. Prepare for the worst and hope for the best. At least then it will feel meaningful.”

“The worst isn’t something you can prepare for,” Jon says darkly. “Trust me, I know.”

“If I want ominous proverbs, I’ll let you know,” Martin immediately counters – and Jon loves him for it. Daisy chokes on a startled laugh; Martin ignores her, instead pivoting to face Oliver. “We want to kill Jonah Magnus. Or, at least make it so he can’t perform his Ritual. But preferably kill.”

“Never realized you were so bloodthirsty, Blackwood,” Daisy says approvingly.

“The world will be a better place without him in it,” Martin says without a hint of indecision, not looking away from Oliver. “Jonah’s original body is in the center of the Panopticon. Except his eyes, because apparently transplanting them into innocent people is how he cheats death, because of course it is, why wouldn’t it be some messed up–”

“Martin,” Basira sighs.

“Okay, fine, moving on,” Martin sasses back. “It makes me wonder, would destroying his original body hurt him, or do we need to destroy his original eyes as well, or would destroying just his eyes be enough? And – and would it kill him, or just – blind him, disconnect him from the Beholding? Or – or would that kill him, because the Beholding is what’s keeping him alive?”

“Your guesses are as good as mine,” Oliver says. “Much of this really does come down to speculation and thought experiment, and it seems you’ve done plenty of that amongst yourselves already. I’m afraid that the only certainty I can offer is the certainty of an ending, and I don’t think that’s as much of a consolation to you as it is to me.”

“No, it’s not,” Martin says.

“But, uh – thank you for your honesty,” Jon jumps in. “For trying.”

“I really do wish I had better answers for you,” Oliver says, not quite meeting his eyes. “The End is… somewhat of an echo chamber at times. When you’re already on the inside looking out, it can be… difficult, to shift perspective.”

“I wouldn’t be able to offer many straightforward answers about my patron, either,” Jon admits.

“Wait,” Martin says. “Could you… could you at least tell us whether you can see anything about our deaths?”

Oliver draws in a deep breath and releases it slowly. “In my experience, there’s nothing to be gained from such knowledge.”

“Tell us anyway,” Basira says.

“Why?” Oliver says tiredly, his hands curling into loose fists. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because if you can see something, it could help us narrow down possibilities,” Basira replies. “If you see all of us dying in the same way, maybe it means we all die when Magnus does.”

“Or it just means you all die in the same freak accident.”

“Wait, do we?” Martin asks, his voice pitching higher in alarm.

“It was just an example,” Oliver says, scrubbing one hand down his face. “I’m just saying that this kind of knowledge doesn’t tend to give people the answers that they want.” Met with nothing but four determined stares, his shoulders sag in defeat. “Are you all certain you want to know?”

Everyone nods. Oliver equivocates for a full minute, rubbing at his forehead in complete silence. Eventually, he releases a long, low sigh.

“Right now,” he says, “I don’t see death closing in on any one of you.”

“Shit,” Martin says on a heavy exhale. “The way you were putting it off, I was sure you were going to predict a massacre.”

“Honestly,” Daisy mutters. “Bury the lead much?”

Jon ignores them, preoccupied with the implications of Oliver's revelation. If they were planning on killing Jonah tomorrow, it would say nothing about whether they were to succeed, but it would suggest they don’t die in the process, which would at least offer some reassurance going in. But Jon has no idea when they’ll be able to execute any sort of plan. This only confirms that none of them are likely to die in the next few weeks – and that’s assuming that Oliver’s premonition is accurate. Up until now, his predictions have come true, but there’s a first time for everything.

Judging from the contemplative frown on Basira’s face, she’s running through the same calculations.

“How far out can you see?” she asks.

“It varies,” Oliver says. “Weeks, usually. Sometimes months.”

“And it could change in a few weeks,” Daisy says.

“It could change tomorrow. It could change an hour from now.” Oliver looks between the four of them with a faint, melancholy smile. “I did warn you that it wouldn’t offer much sense of security. It only makes you want to know more.”

“Look where you are,” Basira scoffs.

“Point taken,” Oliver says with a startled laugh. “But honestly, ask yourself whether it’s all that different from Masato Murray and his book. If it’s worth living your life around the question of when and how – especially when the answer, should you receive one, will never put your mind at ease.”

“Just to be clear, ah – was I included in that prophecy? Or do you still see the veins around me?” Jon asks. Oliver raises his eyebrows. “I know, I know – the answer won’t satisfy me. Just – humor me?”

“Yes,” Oliver sighs, “I can still see them, if I look for them, but as we covered quite exhaustively, they look atypical and wrong and I don’t know what to make of them.” A tinge of indignation breaks through Oliver's characterisic mild manner – and then the moment passes. “I don’t think they indicate an imminent demise, but much about you is an enigma.”

“And there’s nothing else you can tell us about Jonah Magnus?” Basira asks.

“It isn’t a matter of if he can be killed, but how. Unfortunately, you’ll have to figure that part out for yourselves. As for whether or to what extent he could bind his fate to the rest of the Institute… there are any number of strange phenomena and improbable feats in this world. I would never claim to be an authority on the scope of it all.” Oliver offers another wistful ghost of a smile. “I’m afraid you might just have to take a leap of faith.”

Again, Jon thinks with an inward sigh.

But at least he can say he’s had practice.

End Notes:

Citations for Jon’s Archive-speak are as follows: MAG 011; 011; 168; 121; 156; 070. The “I still remember the first time…” & “And the worst part was that…” Oliver quotes are from MAG 121.

Yes, “what we owe to each other” is a nod to The Good Place.

So. This… was a beast of a chapter, and the last half of it really kicked my ass, which is why it’s taken so long to finally finish it. Still not sure how I feel about it – it’s a bit of a digression, but I’m hoping it still fits in thematically. Either way, next chapter we’re moving on to Ny-Ålesund.

Hopefully it won’t take me an entire month this time to write the next chapter, but… we’re down to two episodes left, folks. Chances are, next time I update, we’ll have heard the series finale. Are you all ready? Because I categorically am NOT. aaaaaaaaa

(That said, I already have a handful of epilogue standalone fics planned for this AU once the main story is done. Because hurt/comfort and recovery fics are going to be at the top of my hierarchy of needs once Jonny Sims destroys me in two weeks, I s2g.)

Thanks for reading!

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma spoilers #long post

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skybird13 · 5 years

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Why I Think Fair Game Works

So we’re coming up on the midway point in this mini RWBY vol. 7 hiatus, and I have a serious addiction to Fair Game. With no more canon content coming out for another week (😭), I thought I’d provide some self-indulgent rambling in-depth analysis as to exactly why I think Qrow and Clover work so well together. I’ll be pulling off of what we have in the show so far (because I tend to base my ships off of canon context), but I’ll also be making some reasonable assumptions regarding Clover’s character since we don’t have a whole lot on him yet.

[Note: I’m not really trying to sway anyone with this post, so if you don’t agree or don’t like FG, feel free to scroll right on by and have a nice day. I’m all for discourse but that’s not the point of this particular post. Make your own and invite me to engage and we can have a convo.)

That being said, and without further ado, here are my top reasons for being Fair Game trash. Be forewarned, this is loooong. Damn thing turned into a dissertation.

Reason #1: Clover is a source of stability

One of the biggest criticisms I’ve seen aimed at Fair Game (aside from the more inane ones, which I will not dignify with an acknowledgment on this post) is that Qrow hates specialists. And people are right. It’s one of the first insights we get into his character in his volume 3 debut episode, right after the fact that he’s an alcoholic. I completely agree that if these two men had met in volume 3 or even 4, there is no way they would have gotten along. Clover is a soldier. A military man. He goes by the book and, in his mind, there’s not a lot of wiggle room when it comes to doing things the right way (see: his conversation with Robyn). He would have driven volume 3 Qrow up the wall, and not in a sexy way.

But the fact is, Qrow has been through a hell of a lot since then. He lost Ozpin twice (once to death and once to the lies Oz himself told), lost his way and sense of purpose because of it, almost died on multiple occasions, fell into deep emotional darkness, came under the influence of the Apathy, and had to finally acknowledge his own depression and poor coping mechanisms, or lack thereof, as a result. Shit like that changes you in deep and fundamental ways and, while I would have loved for a bit more in-show focus on this transition, I think RT gave us enough to infer the rest.

Thanks mostly to Ruby, Qrow is finally in a place where he is trying to heal for the first time since we’ve known him. He started the show as an impulsive– albeit manipulative and brilliant (see: him baiting Winter into a fight)– alcoholic who had no problem whatsoever with getting under people’s skin. The only relationships he really seemed to value were the ones he had with his nieces and with Ozpin, and everyone else could take a flying leap. Now I can’t deny that there was a certain charm to that. It’s one of the reasons I think he became such a fan favorite so rapidly; a lot of us can relate to that desire to not give a shit. But the underlying implications of that type of behavior are, I believe, pretty damn dark and serve as the earliest signs of Qrow’s depression and emotional isolation. Consider: his only functional relationships were with people who were incapable of really knowing him on a deeply personal level. Oz couldn’t because he was the one to give Qrow a purpose, thereby establishing a certain power imbalance in their relationship, no matter how close they were (I love Oz despite his mistakes before anyone comes after me for that statement and have nothing against Oz x Qrow, these are just my thoughts). And Ruby and Yang couldn’t, and still can’t, because they’re his damn nieces and being the adult in a relationship with kids means you maintain a certain distance between them and any insecurities or struggles you might have. Anything else is just not okay. He bungled that in volume 6 but he has clearly been trying to re-establish that supportive adult role in volume 7, which is amazing all by itself.

This brings us to Qrow’s emotional and mental state at the start of volume 7. Again, he’s in a place where he’s trying to heal. I don’t know how many people can relate, but that place is friggin’ terrifying because it’s the place where you have to stop lying to yourself about your problems and commit to dealing with them. But it also comes with a weird level of mental… stillness? Peace isn’t the right word, but when you’re not constantly fighting yourself anymore, you are able to breathe a little and that’s worth a lot to someone who has been trying to suffocate themselves for most of their lives. I think this has a lot to do with his shift in outlook. He’s less antagonistic because it no longer serves to feed the self-loathing monster inside him. Or rather, he’s trying to make sure he doesn’t feed it. The fact that he comes into Mantle, gets arrested for doing his job, and doesn’t immediately get in James’s face, or Winter’s for that matter, attests to the fact that he has changed. Qrow isn’t the one to call James out on the embargo or the state of things in Mantle. Instead, he steps into a role that we have never seen him in: the gentle voice of reason. He points out that James doesn’t need an entire military presence to build and launch the communications tower, and when James reveals his plans to tell the world about Salem, Qrow doesn’t outright disagree or go after him for it (as he certainly would have in earlier volumes). He simply points out that Oz spent every lifetime he had keeping that secret and then lets James explain his reasoning (flawed as it might be).

In short, all that outward anger he displayed in earlier volumes was most likely a manifestation of the self-hate storm he had brewing inside. Now that he’s decided to try to move away from that, he’s different. Of course he is. It would be completely unreasonable to expect otherwise.

Enter Clover Ebi. By sheer virtue of being who he is, Clover provides a source of stability for Qrow that he both sorely needs and has severely lacked up to this point in his life. Healing is an internal and independent process for the most part, and Qrow is going to have to sort out his issues on his own, but having someone in your life during that process who is solid is invaluable. And so far, Clover has been nothing but solid. He has been the one to pull Qrow back from bad old habits (self-deprecation and self-hate regarding his semblance). He’s been the one to take Qrow’s semblance in stride and even to get him to joke about the whole concept of having luck, good or bad, for a semblance. And so far? He’s done all of this with absolutely no strings attached. He’s not like Oz, who needed Qrow to be functional enough to carry out his spying missions, and he’s not like Ruby or Yang, who reasonably need Qrow to be solid for them because he’s their uncle. Clover is the first person who doesn’t need anything from Qrow, and so he is able to offer the type of emotional support that Qrow has never received from anyone else. They’re not even official battle partners, despite them being paired quite a bit. The lack of strings, of ulterior motives, of complicated and messy ties, and even of familial bonds, means that Clover can be the solid one. He can be a safe place where Qrow can fall apart and put himself back together if he needs to, because nothing is going to cave in if he does. Qrow won’t be putting too much weight on his nieces or on someone who relies on him for information and support. He can lean on Clover without having to worry about any repercussions.

Reason #2: Qrow is a source of disruption

Now for the fun flipside of my first point. While Clover provides a source of stability for Qrow, Qrow has the very real potential to provide a much-needed source of disruption for Clover, thereby balancing out what we have gotten of their relationship dynamic so far.

Being a military man, stringent structure and unconditional loyalty to his superiors are likely major aspects of Clover’s character. We have enough in the show so far to assume that’s accurate about him even if it hasn’t been blatantly stated.

Clover carries out his orders without fail, to the point of arresting a bunch of kids and Qrow in Mantle for operating outside of official parameters. His conversation with Robyn is also extremely telling. He doesn’t have a problem with what she wants; he has a problem with how she’s trying to get it. He doesn’t believe that the ends justify the means and, in that same vein, probably also believes that institutions are there for good reason. He is the epitome of lawful good.

Qrow, on the other hand, has never operated within official parameters. He was a spy, for god’s sake, and therefore is intimately familiar with the inherent grayness of the world. He’s not someone who is going to see things in black and white, and because of this, he could offer a sort of push back against Clover’s blind loyalty to Ironwood.

Not only is Qrow not in the military, and therefore not bound by its restrictions and dictates, but he has known James for a long time. He, more than anyone, is in the perfect position to call James out on his crap, and he’s probably the one with the best chance of actually getting through to him. Not with the same aggression and vehemence he displayed in volume 3, but with more of a tough-love approach. I fully expect this to happen at some point (and will be very sad if it doesn’t. I like James and want him to snap out of all this).

So how does this relate to Clover? Well, it forces him to acknowledge that, military or not, always trusting that the people above you are doing the right thing or the best thing is never a good way to go. He would have to step back and re-evaluate his general approach to life, which is the core of character growth. Clover never questions authority (that we’ve seen) whereas Qrow’s existence has always been in stark contrast to it. If anyone is going to act as a catalyst for Clover’s potential evolution from strict military man to a more free-thinking, free-acting individual, it’s going to be Qrow. And I think the pieces are set-up for that exact thing to happen.

Obviously, we’ll have to wait and see where CRWBY takes this one (if they take it anywhere) but the potential for growth from Clover is there because Qrow has come into his life. One of the best things couples can do is challenge each other, and these two are primed to do exactly that.

Reason #3: Opposites attract for a reason

We’ve all heard the phrase, right? Opposites attract. Sometimes I think this statement falls victim to a lot of misunderstandings so let me clarify what I mean by this. I don’t mean their chosen routes in life (rogue and spy vs. structured military man), or their semblances, or even their different combat styles. I’m talking about the complementary nature of their personalities.

Qrow has always been a bit impulsive. It’s been established that he sometimes doesn’t fully think things through, or if he does, he doesn’t care about the consequences and is willing to deal with them (see: his battle with Winter again). Don’t get me wrong. The guy is brilliant. He baits Winter knowing it will give him the opportunity to pick a fight with James as well and call him on his shit. But I’m pretty sure he also does this knowing full well that’s all he’s going to get: a fight. He’s not going to convince James not to bring the full Atlas military presence in for the Vytal Festival by shouting at him. He knows this and does it anyway. In his fight with Tyrian, you can see more than one instance where he’s planning his moves so his semblance has the chance to work on his opponent, but it’s at the risk of his own safety as well (see: the roof stunt). There are plenty of other examples throughout the show. Qrow runs off instinct and momentum.

Clover, on the other hand, strikes me as someone who exercises a bit more caution in his life. He thinks through a situation before he steps into it and overall just seems a little slower to take action. This is true in combat situations, as the whole mine mission was meticulously planned out beforehand. You can also see this approach mirrored in the way the Ace Ops work on the whole. Vine and Elm definitely don’t rush in when they encounter Grimm in the mine, and while Marrow and Harriet might be a bit faster to go after the main target, they don’t do it without a fully formed plan. It’s not foolproof, obviously. Marrow does cut off that piece of Dust with no one there (that he knows of) to catch it, but the point is still valid.

This tendency to go slow and feel his way is also true in Clover’s personal life. In the truck scene, you can see him watching Qrow while he talks, gauging his reactions, trying to find the best way to reach him. Nothing he says is mere chitchat. It’s all meant to pull Qrow into a conversation, which Clover tries to keep focused on Qrow himself. His opener might be Ruby but he ditches that line of thought as soon as Qrow gives him the opening to do so and shifts his attention to where he really wants it to be: getting to know Qrow.

Then you also have Qrow’s penchant for falling into dark mental places balanced against Clover’s good mood and playfulness; Qrow’s willingness to be a little more open with his emotions and Clover’s tight emotional control; the fact that Qrow feels things fully and deeply while I suspect that Clover might have emotional walls he hasn’t learned how to lower yet; Clover’s ability to follow orders and Qrow’s ability to question. And that’s all out of only 3-ish minutes of total interaction between them so far. I think as the volume goes, we’ll only get more insight on the ways in which they balance and round each other out.

Reason #4: Shared semblances

So this has been the biggest kicker for people so far, and I’ve seen it as a point both in favor of and against FG. Some people theorize that Clover’s semblance might have some balancing effect on Qrow’s, making it much safer for Clover to be around him than it is for others. Others think that it might be more of a trade-off: good luck part of the time and bad luck the other part (I’m in favor of this). And yet others seem to see Clover’s semblance as a negative thing for Qrow, somehow dampening his own semblance or countering it to the point that it’s mentally or emotionally detrimental for him. I personally don’t quite see the logic behind this given what we’ve seen so far, but I’ll just make my point and get out of this debate because the truth is that we still don’t quite know how their semblances function together.

What we do know is that they are two sides of the same coin, and as such, are not nearly as far apart as they might have seemed at first. They both carry around luck semblances, which I assume is pretty damn rare. Almost every other semblance we have seen has existed more in the practical realm (Yang’s damage absorption, Blake’s shadow self, Weiss’s glyphs, Ruby’s rose petal thing, Marrow’s ability to slow time, Tyrian’s ability to rip through Aura, etc. etc. etc.) And then we have these two who operate in the realm of chance, something intangible and completely unpredictable. They are fairly unique in the RWBY-verse in this sense, and uniqueness usually breeds a certain degree of separation.

A ton of theories are floating around about how Clover’s semblance has affected him throughout his life. I’ve posited a few myself. We obviously have no idea what the canon backstory for Clover is, and while I do think it’s pretty safe to assume that while Qrow has dealt with ostracization because of his semblance, Clover might have experience with some sort of idolization or even over-reliance (which can be damaging in its own right) because of his, there isn’t a whole lot we can speculate on without more information.

So where does that leave us? With the scene depicted above. Regardless of how their semblances might play off each other or what these two have suffered (or enjoyed) as a result of them, one thing is certain: they understand one another. Qrow may not know what it’s like to be able to draw good luck to himself, but he knows what it’s like when his semblance does work in his favor and screws over an opponent. Clover, by the same token, probably doesn’t understand what it’s like having to constantly watch out for misfortune, but he most likely does know what it’s like to have his semblance flip on him and give the edge to his opponent. Additionally, them both having such similar semblances means that learning to look for signs of each other’s being at work won’t be much of a stretch for them. They would be able to adapt pretty fast to working together. Note, I’m assuming their semblances function in the same way and that Clover has no more control over his than Qrow does because it just makes narrative sense.

This puts them in the unique position of being together in their semblances, even if they’re on opposite ends of the spectrum. Qrow has not exhibited any jealousy or bitterness towards Clover because of his semblance, and Clover sure as hell hasn’t put any distance between them out of concern for Qrow’s semblance. They get each other, and after only half a season, they have developed a level of comfort with one another that already allows them to joke about it. An inside joke that no one else could possibly understand. And that is some powerful shit for two people who have potentially (one person we know for certain has) been isolated in one way or another because of their semblances throughout their lives.

Reason #5: Clover is new

Okay, if anyone partial to a different Qrow ship has somehow made it through this monster of a post, you might want to skip this bit. Because I’m going to make an argument for why bringing in a new character to be Qrow’s love interest is actually a good idea. This is not to hate on I//ronqrow or S//nowbird or any other popular Qrow ship, but it might annoy the shit out of you so… fair warning. I’ll keep it brief, though.

I think Qrow getting involved with someone who he has no past connection to would be insanely good for him. When it comes to James or Winter or, really, anyone else who knew him before this volume, there is a lot of baggage there. And I mean a lot. At this point in his life, Qrow is dealing with enough of his own internal shit that throwing external interpersonal baggage on top of that probably wouldn’t help him in any way. Sometimes, you just need to start over somewhere (especially when you’re trying to pick up the pieces of yourself and figure out how they go together), and Clover offers Qrow the perfect opportunity to do that. There are no preconceptions that Qrow has to deal with, nothing he has to make up for or prove. Clover won’t be hovering over him anticipating a relapse or using his past behavior to interpret his current actions, or wondering why he’s changed, or holding things against him. He can figure out who he is now without the pressures of who he was hanging around his neck. And that, like so many other things these two have going for them, is unbelievably powerful.

Reason #6: They already have the nonverbal thing down

This one is more for funsies than anything, but come on. They’re already communicating non-verbally?

It took me a while to pinpoint that expression on Clover’s face but I finally got it: his brows don’t lower in annoyance or anger. They furrow: the universal sign of concern. What exactly he’s worried about, I’m not completely sure. It could be any number of things at this point, from a hint that he’s not totally supportive of this particular order he’s getting (bringing Robyn into custody) to a concern that he and Qrow might be approaching a clash point (not so far, though if Qrow is going to be the disruptive force Clover needs, that point is probably coming). Either way, this look speaks volumes. I’m just not entirely certain how to read it yet.

But in the interest of keeping up on the analysis, note his answer to James. It’s not a “yes sir” or a “whatever you say, sir”. He says “we’ll figure it out”. Qrow looks at him and only then does Clover shoot him that sideways glance thing. Is he making it clear that he means to include Qrow in this? That he wants Qrow’s help? That he knows they’re all in a crap situation but the Amity project is stalled and they need to try something so they should at least try this? They’re communicating something here and just because I don’t know what it is yet doesn’t mean this is any less significant in terms of their relationship. This kind of thing only happens when you click with someone and these two definitely click.

Bonus: They’re just so damn cute together

If you made it through that nonsense, congratulations! Have some Fair Game goodness as a reward. These two are adorable together and you will never convince me otherwise:

#fair game #qrow branwen #clover ebi #lucky charms #fairgame #rwby7 #rwby #holy shit this became a thing #it's seriously a behemoth of a post #enter at your own risk #cute pictures at the end #analysis #maybe a little too much #i don't care this was fun #took me all afternoon but whatever #enjoy!!!

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kosdaoziro · 4 years

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On Boredom

Boredom is a fact of human existence, and one that at first seems to be something purely negative. However, it exists for a reason, and that reason is more connected to the Desire to Create, and hence Arceus, than at first it might seem.

Evidence suggests that boredom is an incredibly powerful force, enough so to make people do things they swore they’d give money to avoid as a distraction from it. So, how do we harness this power? More below the read more.

First, what do we not do when bored? Things that are “Productive”.

This is our first hint that it is not about just “not doing things” but having difficulty putting attention to the things before us. Research on the topic has shown that it can arise from something being too easy or too difficult to understand. Paraphrasing, if we are bored, the task before us is not presenting the appropriate challenge. We look to find a new things to do when bored.

and, guess what?

That’s a big part of the urge to create things

So, in a way, boredom is a symptom of the First Desire (that to create) not being fulfilled. When we are bored, we want to create something, even if that something might just be making memories of a video or trying a level in a game.

Taking Advantage of Boredom

While it is easy to fall into timewasters when bored, boredom can be harnessed for gain, even if that gain seems silly or irrelevant.

It is important to know that any task that expands your creativity is not pointless, even if it is not a skill you know if you will ever use again. Take it as a sign of some new ability you have discovered, like the gif above showing off a skill for planning and visualization that can have a use with other tasks (think of how they had to think about the spacing between thumbnails and their size to make this image trick work, in addition to naming them all to end up in the right grid)

There are however times where you’ll be able to control what you focus on in boredom, and with those times, try to think about ideas you’ve already considered to see if they still spark your interest. It can be surprisingly helpful to look around at what you’ve thought about before to see if you still want them, or if they are clouding your path forward. This is part of the destruction element of creation, and hence Giratina’s domain. As I’ve talked about before, They were created by Arceus to remove creations that have served their purpose and return them to energy.

Think of Arceus and Her (or other pronouns, They really don’t care) creation of the Pokémon world.

(yes, that’s Arceus behind that, I understand that you can’t see her)

Why did She do it? Was it an external compulsion? Was it to rule over a realm?

No.

She created the world of Pokémon because of Her boredom with nothingness. She made it to see what would happen, to let others experience joys themselves, and to leave their own marks, their own Creations. While our glimpses into the world do find that some people worship Her or other Legendary and Mythical Pokémon, Arceus helps where She is needed, regardless of if those who need Her have prayed to her. She has not shaped the world in Her honor, and many don’t even know She exists.

(Ya’ll need to post more Arceus gifs to Tumblr)

And She’s fine with that, because to her, Creation is its own reward.

Boredom as a Warning

Of course, frequent boredom may be a sign of other problems, such as depression or other kinds of mental or situational problems, that in turn might be a sign that outside help is needed. If one of those is or might be the cause of frequent boredom, please find someone that you are comfortable discussing your situation with to get help.

However, in the case where it is not a symptom of a mental health condition or situation where relief from boredom is not under your control, then it might relate to problems in the creative Workspace for yourself.

First, think about the time you can spend on Creation in contrast to other things. Time management is important (and the domain of Dialga). Are there times you could use to think of ideas to return to when bored? Are there tasks you don’t really need to do? What eats into the time you do leave aside for such things, if any?

These are all questions to consider when re-evaluating time management as a whole, especially when you feel frequently bored. Perhaps there also might be things to try related to boring tasks that could be related, or a new, more interesting perspective, beyond the boring surface.

Second, consider where you do creative pursuits. Do you have one? Is it mental or physical? Does it feel distinct from when you are doing required tasks, or does it feel like work?

All of these may be a sign your workspace is part of the problem, and I suggest looking at my “The Space of Beginning” series to see what can be done through the example of Palkia to improve a space for a beginning creator.

If neither of these help, the boredom might be a sign that it is time to try something new. This can be stressful, as you may fear losing your skills in what you are already doing, and/or your audience.

If you can, start thinking about your craft as soon as the joy from it has dulled. Do not quit it on the spot, or take anything too drastic, but examine why it has started to dull, and if there are new techniques or similar crafts to try for variety. These might not be things you end up partaking in, but even so, their purpose is to prevent further “tarnishing” of your current craft.

Sometimes though, this boredom can hit suddenly, or appear sudden as the warnings have been suppressed. Then, you are left to try something new, with no solid knowledge if they will hold your interest, or if you will be able to return to your original craft with the same skills. Even though this is daunting, you should do something new. To continue to suppress the feelings will lead to burnout, which drains a person mentally and physically, and may forever tarnish the thing that burns you out.

In that moment, you must accept that moving away is for your own benefit, and not blame yourself in the moment for ignoring the problems. Try to proceed unclouded, and only when emotions have settled, return to what brought you to that space, and think of how to avoid it.

In Summary

Boredom is more of a force away from itself than apathy or an emotion. While feeling the effects of it can be negative, it is important to pay attention to it, and decipher what it is telling you, to harness its power. Doing so correctly can help your life in ways far beyond simply feeling better in the moment, and may help save a passion of yours from being ruined.

#arceus #giratina #boredom #pokepagan #pokemon paganism #creation trio #acts of creation #not ask #religon #The Desires #dialga #palkia

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gingermcl · 3 years

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Raising personal frequency and why it matters.

I am not a love and light person. As in we must be positive all the time and negative feelings can’t exist. No. As someone who can literally feel a persons energy, I will say that negatively charged energy has a heavier feel to it. You literally can feel the density in the air in a room shift when an extremely negative person walks in. There is some truth in all programming. Even in psychological operations like the new age movement. The new cage movement. Earth is a realm of duality; good and bad exist here. In a realm of duality, the goal is balance. One must innerstand darkness does exist in all of us and that is ok! Too many people want to pretend darkness doesn’t exist and by ignoring evil, it grows. Don’t let the darkness control you. Anyone pushing that we have to make the darkness go completely away or that it shouldn’t exist is misinformed and I would be cautious listening to advice from said person. I would be leery of anyone attempting to tell another how to live. Pushing your will on another is the definition of black magic. With anything I ever discuss, if you don’t agree that’s cool. I’m always open to hearing new ideas and perspectives; please don’t approach me in a nasty manner. I won’t engage someone unable to have an calm conversation. Engaging and regularly interacting with negativity or negative people is a good way to lower your own frequency. We often tend to carry a frequency similar to our friends, this is why so many outgrow friends after having a spiritual awakening. We literally outgrow people on an energetic level.

Raising personal frequency is important. Lower vibrational energies literally cannot affect folks on a higher frequency. I made a conscious effort 7 years ago to change who I was. A girl in a rehab therapy group told me about myself and I did not like what I heard. She said I was one of the most negative people she had ever met and as I began to examine my behaviors and my words, I realized she was right. It took a couple years of conscious effort to change my mindset from negative to positive. I can say today the results have been priceless. I am very appreciative of her giving me a wake up call.

If what we are told is correct and atoms are in fact what compose matter; everything in this universe is sound. Atoms are said to be made of waves and vibrations. At the molecular level atoms don’t actually touch. Atoms get extremely close to one another but they never fully touch. They’re independent energy fields and when densely packed together atoms form matter. Matter is dense....which goes along with my observation of negatively charged energy being heavier. Higher dimensions are said to be heavenly and they also do not have dense physical matter. I’m not entirely certain that physical existence isn’t a prison for the spirit. Our bodies are made of cells, prisoners are put in cells. It is blatantly obvious that those in control of this realm would like humanity on the lowest frequency possible. One intention of mind control programming is to lower the frequency of mankind, keep man in a angry, fearful, depressed, lower vibrational state. It is highly likely there are malevolent beings harvesting humanity’s soul energy. This energy is called loosh. All emotions create loosh; for some reason negative emotions generate more or more desirable energy.

The negative humans and other unseen beings/energies who have been in control of this realm for thousands of years now feed on what is known as loosh. Loosh is the life force energy created by humans when they experience emotions. Low vibrational emotions such as anger, sadness, depression, and even apathy are preferred by these negative energies than the loosh generated by positive emotions. Feeding these malevolent energies is why so much programming is done to divide the people, to make us hate our lives and ourselves, to blame mankind for the evil here, and many other trauma based mind control tactics are in place to keep humanity in a lowered state of existence. There are individuals who feel a deep seeded guilt in the heart just for being born due to this programming! The moon is thought to be emitting a low frequency in order to mind control humanity. Hence why when at full power a.k.a. a full moon humans act crazier and even violent. A full moon is when the Saturn moon matrix broadcasts the strongest signal.

If you are a person who has discovered that evil is running this realm, the best thing you can do is to do the exact opposite of what the controllers want; work on making your life peaceful, exposing the evil, healing your trauma and reprogramming yourself, disengage from the “matrix” every way you can. Be mindful of where you spend money, try not to use money, watch your words, push out negative thoughts, and love yourself. Anyone “awake” should absolutely strive for a higher frequency, honestly everyone should strive for a higher frequency. Existence is much more enjoyable and calmer when you are on a higher frequency. The law of attraction is legitimate. We attract back to us exactly what we put out into this world. Putting out positivity attracts pleasant situations and focusing on negativity creates unpleasantries.

Extremely high and extremely low vibrations do not mix, they tend to separate themselves from one another instead. Society is currently being divided. Those who are fearful are going one way and those of us who want unity are going another. How this ultimately will play out, time will tell.

Sleep paralysis is potentially based solely on frequency. Sleep paralysis occurs when your frequency is too low. I’ve heard folks say sleep paralysis is necessary for astral projection; that is not true. Sleep paralysis is unnatural and caused by a weapon of some kind. A frequency weapon. Those on a too high frequency cannot be manipulated by such technology.

In my opinion being on a higher frequency is better is because you have access to more spiritual information and any metaphysical ability you possess functions exponentially better on a higher frequency. When my frequency goes too low, certain abilities vanish. Frequency fluctuates regularly. It typically stays in a a range normal for you, but extraordinary events like a crisis or confrontation can dramatically drop one’s frequency; it can take days, weeks, or even months to recover from some circumstances. Recognizing how important frequency is and learning how to raise your frequency are important to spiritual development. When on a higher frequency you have a better connection with your intuition, are less susceptible to mind control programming, and psychic attack.

How to raise frequency.

Meditate regularly - at least three times a week for 15 minutes to start

Spend as much time as possible outside in nature

Daily Grounding/Earthing. Walking barefoot on the earth for 15 minutes every day. Weather permitting.

Positive thoughts, actions, words, and deeds. Developing positive mantras to repeat throughout the day is helpful.

Breath work

Engage in as little conflict and negativity as you can.

Avoid alcohol and prescription drugs.

Don’t be too serious or have too many expectations for this will create resentments. Events will never unfold as we expect them to, people are much better served by going with the flow and observing how events unfold as they happen; don’t anticipate events ahead of them occurring.

Work on conquering fears. Especially the fear of death.

Practice compassion, empathy, and kindness towards everyone. Humans are equal; one isn’t better than another. Our life choices and luck is often the only thing that separates us.

Laugh

Exercise. Make sure you do something you find fun, not something you dread. Any kind of physical activity where one is having fun will raise his vibe. Dancing is a personal favorite.

Take a break from technology

Be mindful of how much time you spend on technology. Put the phone down during dinner or when you should be engaging with the people literally in front of you.

Wear and decorate with crystals. Black tourmaline and obsidian are good for negativity.

Decorate with high vibrational plants jasmine, aloe vera, or a snake plant

Be mindful of what information you watch and listen to. Movies, TV, music, social media, etc. It is best to just turn off the TV for good. Television is a weapon. Be very conscious of what information you allow to enter your mind.

Minimize interaction with toxic people. Keep conversations short, topics shallow, and have an exit plan if at an event where the environment may get unpleasant. For example drive your own car, have a friend or the babysitter call and oops I have to go….boundaries to protect your energy aren’t bad.😉

Thank your food for its life and sustenance prior to consuming it (plant or animal.) Doing this changes the food into higher vibrational intake.

Regularly cleanse negative energy from your personal spaces. Energy cleansing methods are decluttering, letting fresh air and light in, clapping loudly in the corners of a room to move stagnant energy, smudging, epsom salt baths.

Aura cleansing, visualization, cord cutting meditations

The above tips will have a positive effect on your frequency. Remember your thoughts create your reality and you get back what you put out into the universe. If your thoughts are consistently negative be prepared to have negative experiences. If you are hopeful, have faith in your ability to manifest & the universe’s ability to make things happen for you, have generally positive and laid-back nature, you will reap great rewards and experience feelings of happiness, contentment, and abundance.

I feel it is obvious by the state of the world today that humanity has been in a very negative state of mind for quite some time. There are millions of us (if not billions) that are here to change this reality, not to adapt to it. We have been called Starseeds, indigo children, and light workers; regardless of label the intent is the same - to create a positive reality on earth, to rid this place of evil, to liberate humanity from enslavement, and teach them a new way to think. We are here to help humanity realize humans are powerful creator beings and these powers have been stripped away by literal genetic manipulation. It is time for the devolution of mankind to end and for humanity to begin ascending back to the higher dimensional consciousness we once were.

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thesxmmersword · 4 years

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DETAILED BACKSTORY

Early life (8:89 - 9:03)

Cauthrien was born into a family of two elder brothers and in the years that came she gained another six siblings. As a child, she lived through the last thirteen years of the Orlesian Occupation. A dirt-poor farmer’s daughter, always hungry and in danger of some Masked Noble deciding that she was worth more as sport than as labour. It was a clawing and desperate existence with little to no moments of joy, a constant fight for survival and one that many of Cauthrien’s siblings lost.

Those losses hit the young girl hard, her mind and, at times, her father, calling her responsible. The impact of the Occupation was indescribable on her. She was trapped, abused and helpless. Her family were killed off around her and she saw only doom and death in her immediate future. Everything she suffered was out of her control. She still had good influences and good principles from some and she would often go greatly out of her way to help others, risking her life for people she hardly knew. But Cauthrien was very young when she realised how powerless she was and it had a lasting and irreconcilable effect on her for the rest of her life.

It was in her thirteenth year that the young King Maric routed the Orlesian forces and freed Fereldan from their tyranny. However, even with them gone, Cauthrien’s life did not become significantly easier. Less dangerous perhaps, she felt the freedom she had never known, but the influx of banditry was immense and immediate. Cauthrien found herself fighting off men twice her size on an almost weekly basis, but at the very least now she had a chance of winning.

Early Military Service (9:03 - 9:11)

It came to pass that in her fourteenth year she found a man being beset by a large group of bandits. She had still managed to hold onto some instinct of self-sacrifice throughout childhood, despite it all, so she quickly came to the man’s aid, picking off some of the bandits with her bow before charging in with a stolen Orlesian sword and hacking until none were left.

To her great surprise, the man she ‘saved’ turned out to be Loghain Mac'Tir, Hero of the Battle of Riverdane and one of King Maric’s personal friends and advisors. Cauthrien was awestruck. The feeling was apparently mutual because Loghain offered her a position in his Military. It didn’t even take thought, Cauthrien wanted to fight, wanted a purpose, needed a reason to continue on after everything she had seen and done. She wanted to feel like she was useful, that she deserved to exist, that she had control and power over her life. She could think of no one she would rather pledge herself to. Loghain was a saviour to her. If not for him, the Orlesian Monsters that had dogged her childhood and killed her family would still be abusing and infecting her homeland now. She would have died along with them, eventually. Now her life might mean something and if she spent it, it would be for a good cause.

And so she entered the Gwaren army as a new recruit, her commission and equipment fully paid and her housing dealt with. Still, initially she struggled. Cauthrien’s teenage years were entirely transitional. She was a mess of conflicting personality traits, opinions and capabilities. She could feel a boil of anger in her but was restless and confused about how to deal with it. All her trainers agreed, she was skilled, but they found her hard to control, hard to tire. It wasn’t until Lieutenant Rikke took her on that Cauthrien found the real rigid and all encompassing structure that she could settle on. Having strict rules, expectations and timetables counterintuitively gave her the freedom to explore more of herself. At the end of her apprenticeship, Rikke wrote this letter into her dossier;

FROM: Lieutenant-Captain Rikke of Redcliffe

SUBJECT: Soldier Cauthrien of West Hill, 9th Infantry Battalion

SUBJECT BORN: 8:89 of the Blessed Age, 27th of Wintermarch

DATE: 9:05 of the Dragon Age, 6th of Guardian

A description of the Soldier’s career and suggestions as to her assignments and promotions hereafter.

Cauthrien shows remarkable endurance of every extreme. Natural strength and height gives her an advantage on the field of battle and she is still young enough to be expected to exceed these attributes in the years to come. She outmatches all of her peers currently on simple physical levels and hand-to-hand sparring combat has seen her as the Champion for this year.

She has mastered Shield and Longsword at levels far above her peers and exceeds most of them in almost every other manner of battle, bar duel weaponry. Her abilities on horse-back still leave something to be desired and she has little to no literacy in any language.

As a Soldier she shows promise. She follows orders precisely and without complaint. Her understanding of positions and combat movements is advanced due to specialist training and all of her Commanders have reported, at least, that she has never failed in her duties.

A LETTER IS THEN INSERTED HERE

To whomever this might concern,

Cauthrien is a true asset, there can be no doubt of her potential. I do not think I have trained such a promising recruit in the whole of my career. Her tolerance to pain alone has seen her battle three men whilst trailing a dislocated arm and thinking nothing of it. I have seen a number of similar individuals, admittedly. Many Children who survived through the Occupation have emerged durable and committed to our Country’s defense.

However, Cauthrien shows extremes in all this, as well as the side effects. She holds a fury and a fear that I doubt she will ever be rid of. I have discovered little about her family, but from what I do know she has lost as much as any of us to the Orlesian’s swords. She has a drive to prove herself that, while it might be considered perfect for a life of service, I would advise not encouraging. She has made it plain that sacrificing her life for her Country is her intended end and, Ser, it is disturbing to hear a pup of seventeen say such things in such a tone.

I would suggest that any commander wishing to take her on in a full time placement should be aware of these factors and keep in mind she works best under strict timetables and orders.

Her Loyalty will be well worth the effort spent to earn it.

In conclusion, Cauthrien is a candidate for greater promotion and I believe would thrive in a Captaincy of her own in years to come. For now I suggest offering her greater responsibilities and assigning her to a fixed Battalion with a steady command. I agree with my Teyrn’s recommendation of introducing her to Commander Torvin of Maric’s Shield.

Torvin, the old elf in charge of Maric’s Shield at the time, was suitably impressed. Young though she was, the members of the battalion were eager to welcome her. Perhaps because she was young. Quite a few lacked the vitality she possessed, nor could sport the kind of endurance she had any longer. She was welcomed and she was valued and with Torvin reporting directly to Loghain, she even saw more of him. And when she truly began working towards the betterment of Ferelden, bleeding and fighting for her country and winning alongside comrades who felt the same fervour, she realised she was powerful. And it viscerally delighted her.

Now that she was no longer a cornered animal, but a formidable predator, quivering fear and crippling grief became roiling fury and stoney apathy. The extremes that she switched too shocked everyone. Suddenly gone was the quiet and defensive and stiff girl, she was an avenging angel of persecution, no Orlesian was safe behind Fereldan borders and she made absolutely certain it stayed that way. She and her comrades would goad visiting chevaliers into ‘friendly competitions’ that never ended well, but always ended with Cauthrien’s bloody victory. She was more unstable. Violence came to her easily and quickly. Everyday felt like an endless battle to keep control of her emotions when outside of her duties, a war she won the majority of the time, but those slips were cataclysmic in nature. Emotion she had been forced not to feel was returning to her, stale and bitter and poisonous after being left to ferment for so long.

But crucially, her comrades in arms accepted this all as part and parcel. Many were old veterans to the occupation themselves, or indeed youths who’d grown up in it, Cauthrien’s turmoil was no stranger. They learned where not to touch her, they learned how to take her away from fights, they learned how to steer her out of trouble as though it was a natural part of duty, something they would and did do for anyone else. It was necessary, for her, to feel such rage, to validate how terrible it truly was. There was always too much fury inside her to fully release, but she managed to get some of the way there, she found a little calm place to settle and her new sense of family helped.

Military Command (9:11 - 9:20)

Even better, at twenty one Loghain was suddenly placed as Regent to Ferelden and he knew he needed a trusted second to aid him in the turmoil of Maric’s sudden disappearance. Cauthrien was initially surprised to be requested, but it did not last long and she committed herself to those duties without reservation. With new responsibility and a new importance placed on her own reputation, she found even more calm and control and by the end of the year she had changed dramatically once again. Now she flexed and grew into herself, her initial rushed excitement of power tempering to a lionine contented confidence, her manner exuding and intimidating kind of comfort that made her perfect for command. Which helped greatly when she joined Loghain in besieging the Circle Tower and once again foiling an Orlesian plot to retake the country.

She retained her position as Loghain’s second after Maric returned, though she also returned to her duties within Maric’s Shield. An easier task than it sounded when Maric’s Shield followed their Teyrn so closely and received their orders from him directly. Still, it allowed her and Loghain to truly get to know each other. Cauthrien spent time with his family, became known and liked by Lady Celia and gained confidence in her right to stay at his side and exist in his circles. They came to trust one another too, in a more personal way, the trappings of hero worship finally discarded for genuine understanding and respect. They learned each other’s reticent and restrained languages.

And with Torvin’s retirement from command, Cauthrien was the natural choice to succeed him, though she was only twenty four at the time. It was well earned and well received within the regiment and Cauthrien herself felt heartily ready for the commission. A fact which she summarily proved a few years later. With her own alertness where Orlais was concerned and the information she was now able to access, realisation that the empire was beginning to once again test their borders came quickly and chillingly. Troop movements beyond the mountains, scout ships in Storm Coast waters, it felt dangerously familiar. But they could not risk any overt combat, trying to preserve the fragile ceasefire whilst Ferelden was still recovering from the occupation.

Through a complex and intricate web of plots and misdirections, Cauthrien managed (using only her own forces) to draw some of Orlais’ emboldened forces over the mountains. With their crossing, an act of war in itself, Cauthrien no longer needed to show restraint. Maric’s Shield spent three months in the Frostbacks, crafting ambushes and disrupting camps, ensuring the emperor’s soldiers never left the mountains and culling any reinforcements that arrived. In the end she lead a crucial final onslaught that saw the snow painted red and finally drove any hint of a second invasion back. She sustained a near fatal blow to her chest in that final engagement and Loghain was at her side when she awoke.

No one but Maric was made aware of anything surrounding the incursion, which was by specific design and Cauthrien had always known she would see no recognition for it. However, a year later, King Maric declared that Commander Cauthrien would be knighted for ‘dedicated service rendered for king and country’. And truly, though Cauthrien would have been content to simply do her duty, her knighthood was one of her proudest accomplishments and a true moment of success in her eyes. Even her parents came to witness it, though they did not stay long.

However being Ser Cauthrien brought other challenges. Where classism had always been a factor in her life, her inclusion into the noble classes by way of her knighthood was not viewed favourably by all. She gained enemies within the nobility and her right to the title was often covertly questioned, though never in Loghain’s presence. But still, she was well prepared to deal with such petty issues by then and manage her frustrations when it became an obstacle to her goals.

At thirty one the Gwaren forces were fully recovered and had become one of the largest and best kept armies in the country. Loghain’s duties took him often away from Gwaren and with his forces so large, he gave Cauthrien the title of General over their barracks. It was a point of amusement to them both that not a month after this was announced, Emperor Florian was found dead and his niece succeeded him. The girl had not held the throne long before official peace was declared between Ferelden and Orlais. It was a kind of victory, one that was celebrated quietly among Cauthrien’s circles. Loghain gifted Cauthrien the summer sword shortly after, something to mark the year. She accepted it with fondness and thoughtfulness both.

The Fifth Blight (9:30-9:31)

After a truly gruelling four years, Cauthrien and Loghain both face the news of a new darkspawn threat with an embittered and weary kind of dread. Maric’s sudden loss shocked everyone and Cauthrien was still worn from the search when Lady Celia suddenly and unexpectedly died, a further crushing loss to compound the hurt. She had been as present for Loghain as she could be, but she was aware this was a grief he had to contend with for as long as necessary and her true aid could come only with guiding his days and nights. Which had been her intent, until the next threat had arrived.

Cailan had never been a man who inspired much faith in Cauthrien, though she treated him still with all the deference a King deserved. But the fact remained that Cailan was not ready to lead them all alone through this crisis and Loghain was needed, whether he was ready for it or not. And it was that kind of severity of purpose that she knew they both shared that made Cauthrien allow Loghain to push himself as he did. First their request for the Orlesian warden’s aide was met by a completely laughable demand, next Cailan became enamoured by Duncan’s charm and he became even less manageable, and all throughout the constant tension of Cailain’s treatment of Anora became harder and harder to bear.

It also brought an unsettling amount of chaos into the Banns and Arls, the political climate unstable and growing worse by the day with Arl Eamon’s encouragement. All in all, Cauthrien was aware that they were sailing into dangerous waters and it only grew worse from there.

With the disaster at Ostagar, Cauthrien could say she was disappointed but not surprised by Teagan’s idiotic dramatised rebellion. The landsmeet was perhaps a more horrifying failure than Ostagar had been, suddenly all of Ferelden was in danger of splintering apart at the worst possible moment. Blight or no, a darkspawn attack without opposition would see the country brought to its knees and thousands dead. And with the knowledge that at least half of the nobility were motivated in their insurgency just because of Loghain’s common birth, it ground Cauthrien’s teeth and dragged in her a very sharp kind of cold. She came with Loghain to the final meeting between him and Bann Bronarch, which could have stalled the fighting in it’s tracks if it had gone well.

It had not. And Bronarch had been beheaded by Cauthrien herself. The battle was won and the crown gained the upper hand, but it did not feel like a victory to her.

After that Cauthrien was mostly kept away from Denerim, risen to Captain-General alongside Loghain’s regency and fighting a bloody civil war for the eventual peace of the realm. She knew Howe to be a snake, she knew Loghain was slowly slipping under the weight of so much grief and horror, but there was little she could do. There were just too many fires to put out. And she admitted, she had lost her patience too. Bann Grainne had been so satisfied with herself, standing in front of a full years worth of burning harvest, and Cauthrien had lost her temper. They lost allies, even as they won victories, and though Loghain succeeded against terrible odds at wintersbreath, and Cauthrien clawed victory from defeat in both Oswin and the Lachus Valley, they soon realised it would not be enough.

Arl Eamon’s recovery from their careful poisoning saw the end to their campaign and Cauthrien returned to Loghain for the Landsmeet. She found a thoroughly broken man. Others perhaps could not see it, but Loghain was so changed to Cauthrien that she sometimes could not recognise him. She found Howe’s influence so entrenched that there was no way for her to dig him out. Anora was wary of her now. The world was changed and, once again, for the first time in a very long time, Cauthrien was powerless to help.

Loghain had told her not to accompany him to the Landsmeet. Cauthrien understood why, but that did not make her oaths or convictions any less binding, nor did she trust that either Eamon or these green wardens could successfully pull the country back from the brink. And so she had to stand between Loghain and death one last time. But her faith was shaken and she was wounded, weary and aching from all the harm she had caused to a people she had sworn to protect. In the end, when faced with the Warden a second time, she finally left it all up to fate.

#To those for who still follow me.... I am sorry for this monster #/cauthcanon/

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casual-eumetazoa · 4 years

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i’m a perpetually broke grad student so instead of buying gifts for Christmas and birthdays i write fanfics or short stories for friends. Christmas 2019 i asked my best friend to pick up to three genres for his gift story and he told me political drama + classical literature + self-help. i added steampunk sci-fi to that and took that as a challenge...

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

A Yule Anthem

(or how to end the monarchy and overthrow the government in twelve* simple steps)

a memoir by Erasmus Waynard Smith, a once royal circuit keeper

Season’s greetings to you, dearest reader. Although I have no way of verifying this, it is quite likely that you are starting this book on the dawn of a Yule, as this is the date my memoir is set to be released. If that is the case, then happy holidays! I wish you all the best. May the spirits of old Earth guard you and support you in all of your endeavors in the upcoming cycle of the Suns.

It is with an unsteady hand that I begin this story, for I have never intended for it to be heard. Indeed, the book you are projecting onto your cornea as of this very moment would not exist if it wasn’t for the efforts, diligence, and, if I may be so frank, stubbornness of a certain someone.

Thirteen months ago, you see, I was approached by Theodosia Pruce – a talented and perceptive lady from the distant, exotic shores of the planet Zanzibar. Miss Pruce was the one who convinced me to put my memories into words, for the sake of future generations. And although I do not give as much as half a bitcoin for the future generations, I was, nonetheless, swayed, by the most generous offer of a personal mansion on a resort world and a fully paid pension for the rest of my physical existence. And so, I am sitting here now, a tall glass of rapidly cooling Roomas juice by my side, and a touchscreen quill pressed tightly in between my fingers, trying to jolt my memory and produce exactly as many words as I was asked for, not a word more, not a word less.

Conveying all the truth and nothing but the truth about these events is an earnest challenge for me. I am an old man of a hundred and fifty now, dearest reader, and 2237 seems centuries away from the present. Back then, I was a young lad of hardly forty, and my mind was full of foolish desires, far-reaching ambitions, and cotton candy. I worked as a royal circuit keeper in her majesty’s planetary servers - a skillful but simple and honest occupation - and, like so many before me and around me, dreamed of preposterous things. Dreamed of success, and money, and love, and a glorious revolution…

Lean back, dearest reader, adjust your mindscreen settings, and let me bring you with me on a trip to the past and tell you how to accomplish what I have somehow accomplished.

step 1: identify your project

This story begins on a dark, uneasy, snowy evening, on the first day of Yule of 2237. The shifts down at the factories and the river banks were rolling to the end, and the work hours just came to a close for all the royal employees. I – your faithful servant – had only about arrived at my usual spot, the Drunk Mongoose pub, when a roar of thunder shook the ground and shattered the glass in the liquor cabinet.

-The forecast didn’t say no thunder snowstorm. - Said my best friend Arabella, as she fell down into a lumpy seat beside me. – I left Boy outside. If he will get struck by lightning again, I’ll never get the money to replace his burned-out batteries.

-Chill. – I advised, and took a generous sip of my drink. – It don’t seem to be a big one.

As if to disavow my word, the thunder crashed again, with twice as much strength this time. It pulsed through the floor, crackled in the walls and shook the roof above our heads.

-I ain’t likin’ it. – I whispered.

The lights and sounds of the pub were starting to flicker.

-Same. – Arabella retorted, clutching the rackety table with utmost strength.

Side by side, we watched as every single candle and kerosene lamp in the building lingered and died, blown out at once by a rush of electromagnetic wind. A low, irritating murmur reached my ears, and I realized that the entire holographic engine must have gone caput. For the second time this lunar cycle.

-Not again! – Came the exasperated moan of Octavius, the pub owner.

I sighed, and forced myself out of my seat, intent on helping the man with the machine.

-The entire network’s down. – Arabella informed, pointing at the blank projected screen of her pocket watch. – I’m so sick of this, Ersh. They’d promised to fix this back during the wet season!

-Sick of the government? – Yelled some drunken gentlemen from the other side of the pub. – Sick of his majesty’s empty promises?

-Yeah! – Another random visitor of the establishment supported the man enthusiastically.

-Well big mood, I tell ya. – The first man snorted. – Everyone hates them, but ain’t no one gon’ do a thing about it. So get back to your work.

Now I cannot put my finger on why that simple remark had such a profound effect on me… Was it the man’s voice, so full of despair and apathy and subdued anger? Was it my own exhaustion, the quiet rage at the thought of coming back home by foot, through the howling thunder and snow, in the absence of a sky bus? All in all, something must have short-circuited in my mind, as a sat back down, looked Arabella in the eyes and said, in a voice most confident:

-You know what? Let’s overthrow the government.

step 2: define goals and objectives

On my way home, I was drowning in feverish frenzy, drunk without wine and hopeful beyond reason. Oh, for how long I have dreamt of this! Many a morning I have spent imagining what it would be like to live on a planet fair, unburdened, free from the thralls of corrupt government and incompetent king. I knew that I wanted it, and I knew that every one of us wanted it, and, somehow, despite all common sense, I knew that I could do it.

I stumbled out of the pub and wondered on unsteady feet towards the docks. The snow swirled and raged around me, and my blurry eyes struggled to focus on my surroundings. I stopped at the slope of the northern canal and gazed into the clouded sky, feeling the snowflakes land on my eyelashes and the wind slash my face. I cannot tell you why, dearest reader, but I felt so utterly happy.

-How much for an uber these days? – I announced cheerfully as I approached the line of carriages waiting by the canal.

-Three fifty for a mile. – Echoed one of the drivers – an older lady, who was stroking the head of a white, shabby-looking horse.

-Steep. – I whistled, and swung myself into the carriage. – Hampton Hall please, down at the cross of Richmond and Westby.

She nodded at me, and pushed the minute counter switch. One word to the horse, and I could hear the sound of its metal hooves striking against the cobblestone. I half-sat, half-laid in my seat, staring at the hole-ridden ceiling of the carriage, and listening to the sounds of the dreaming city.

‘Alrighty then’, I thought, pulling out my notebook. It had hardly any charge left, so the bleak night mode would have to suffice.

“Tasks for tomorrow”, I noted down, and drew a flower on each side of the line. “Destroy the government from the inside. Make King Edmund step down from the throne. Profit”.

step 3: define tasks

It was only at noon next day when the realization of what I just committed myself to hit me like a bolt of lightning. I was enjoying my Roomas (the good kind – they don’t grow it right anymore) with my colleagues at the servers, and suddenly it dawned on me – I was going to take this planet apart, bit by bit. So powerful that was, so profoundly terrifying, that I had to excuse myself and sit in a locked bathroom stall, wheezing, my heart pounding in my chest. A few girls and a man must have heard me, as I was asked repeatedly whether I was okay.

I was not, but I was going to be.

I went straight home after the workday was over. I forced myself to gather my thoughts, and look rationally at this situation. This task, though ambitious, no doubt, could surely be accomplished. I knew this planet, knew it through and through. I knew politics too – it was the first thing I ever studied in university, and I hated it, I’ll admit, but it was useful nonetheless. All I needed was to sit down, think it through, and draft a plan.

And that is precisely what I did.

step 4: build your team

We met in the abandoned park by the lakes at dawn the next morning. The air was bity with cold and static electricity, and the seven of us could not help but shiver as we walked towards our gazebo. It was buried underneath a thick layer of snow, and I laughed as Arabella pretended to push the fluffy heap onto my head.

-Good morning, everyone. – I greeted, inviting them inside before myself.

-Skip to the important bit, please. -Arabella yawned, and took her seat at the table.

-Fair enough.

I took a deep breath in and gazed upon my freshly assembled crew. Arabella, a fellow circuit keeper and the fastest hacker I have ever met. Ambrose, a talented but not extensively successful journalist. Cecilia, an up-and-coming politician herself, but currently a secretary to one of the most famous politicians on the planet. Wilhelmina, a social media manager with hundreds of contacts at her fingertips. Josiah, an artist and designer, currently one of the official dressmakers to the king. Euphemia, a policewoman in the past, now a social activist and respected public figure. Matthew, a writer and a poet, who happened to be the lover of three separate government figures, all of different genders, all filthy rich. And me, a humble sysadmin with a dash of organization skills and arrogance to spare.

-Esteemed guests, - I said, and paused to clear my throat, - you all know why we are here. Now allow me to explain to you exactly what we will do.

step 5: create a timeline

-This is flippin’ insane, Ersh. – Wilhelmia exclaimed, glaring, and I was forced to shush at her.

-Quiet. – I reminded, and she swallowed hard, remembering that anyone in the building was at liberty to overhear us.

The upcoming revolution was now two days old. On the surface, we continued to lead normal lives, working, complaining, gossiping, and counting the minutes to the end of the shift. In truth, we were right in the middle of action. Meeting all over the city – in undiscovered pubs and inns, in unguarded computer cellars, on the rooftops of nuclear boilers, and in the dead-ends of dark alleyways. We communicated over quantum radio and made sure to burn all of our transmissions after every call. We were brave, and vigilant, and determined, above all else, to bring this to a close as soon as possible.

-But that is too fast. – Wilhelmia insisted in a hoarse whisper. – You don’t seriously believe that this will be over before the Yule ends, do you?

-Indeed, I do. – I replied, and had the displeasure of being poked in the ribs. – What’s more, it is the only way to accomplish what we set out to do.

-How so? – She questioned.

-Conspiracies are short-lived. – I elaborated, and shifted in my tight, deeply uncomfortable sit.

The server ventilation shaft was far from a pleasant place to be inside of.

-The longer it goes on, the more likely it is to fall apart. Especially as we begin to bring more people into it.

-But ten days, Ersh! – Wilhelmia repeated. – How would that ever work?

-Simply and elegantly. – I smiled. – Remember, my friend – I am brilliant under tight deadlines, especially when said deadlines are self-inflicted.

Wilhelmia chose not to argue with me – for she knew, deep down, that I was right.

step 6: adjust your plan accordingly

I did not get a wink of sleep on the fifth night of the revolution. The visions of failure haunted me like vicious yet intangible ghosts, and I tossed and turned in bed until the second moon grazed the sky. Giving up on sleep altogether, I got up, mixed up a glass of dehydrated water, and turned on the radio. I expected to be lulled back into calm by its soft, crackling static – but instead, I had my anxieties validated.

-Thank heavens, Erasmus. – The voice of Josiah erupted from the speaker. – I’ve been trying to reach you for hours!

-What is it? – I asked, and slumped down to the floor, my head dizzy all of a sudden.

-It isn’t working. – Josiah confessed, and I could practically taste his desperation. – Not a tad. He is listening to me, but he doesn’t believe me in the slightest, I fear.

-Okay. – I said, though I was as far from okay as one could be. – It’s fine. – It was not, in fact, fine. – Roadblocks happen. Let’s talk. We’ll think of something, I am sure.

And, unlikely as it was, we did.

step 7: be flexible

The sixth day flew by so fast; I hardly noticed the night arriving. Eleven pm, and I found myself on the top floor back row of a double-decker, moving smoothly on its set path, the electric engine buzzing and murmuring somewhere far below. Outside, the snow was replaced by a thick fog, with neither of the moons in sight. The bus was almost empty and deathly quiet. I sighed, turned to my left, and met eyes with Matthew.

-How many in total? – I inquired, my voice down, still aware of the potential danger of being overheard.

-Forty-seven. – He informed, and the hint of a smile touched his lips. – Which makes it almost a third of the entire government.

-Not enough. – I shook my head, unsatisfied.

-Not enough? – He pouted.

-Time is not in abundance. – I said, and he looked away, avoiding my gaze. – We need to accelerate. Do you agree?

He sighed, but nodded.

-Good. – I glanced sideways, and drew a spiral on the mist-covered window. – You know what to do, Matthew.

-Yeah. – He said, smirking. – Unleash them memes.

step 8: communicate with your team

All of us gathered together again on the afternoon of the seventh day, in a tacky, brightly lit and empty tea room. The forecasts mongered another thunderstorm, and the atmosphere was heavy still, but, somehow, it did not bother me in the slightest. I smiled as the maid droid placed a tray in front of me, and the smell of cinnamon and lemon zest reached my nose.

-We’re on the right track. – I proclaimed confidently, and took my acai rice pudding bowl and a steaming hot cup of Earl Gay off the tray. – Cheers.

-Cheers. – The team echoed, and we clanked our china cups together.

We spent the hour discussing the current affairs, congratulating each other, chatting, laughing, and feeling oddly optimistic about the whole endeavor. My step was light as I was leaving the tea room. We had a few challenges ahead, sure – but, overall, everything was going according to plan.

step 9: address any problems before they occur

Then the eighth day arrived, and, all of a sudden, nothing was going according to plan. News rushed in through the radio one by one; they piled all on top of each other, and right as I was leaving the server maintenance room to enjoy my well-deserved Roomas break. I felt drops of sweat form on my neck and roll down my spine as I scrolled through the message feed of my wristwatch. Nothing terrible has happened so far, I admitted – but it could. So shaky. So many opportunities for it all to go to hell – and in rapid succession. Three seconds later, and I was overtaken by fierce, unwavering panic.

It must have been twenty years at least of sitting in the memory cube closet, hugging myself and trying desperately to remember how one was supposed to breathe, when someone knocked on the door. The first aid droid, I realized.

-I have detected alarmingly high levels of adrenaline and cortisol. – The droid’s voice sounded even sillier than usual, obstructed by the door. – Would the gentlemen like some treatment? I can offer morphine drops or deep brain stimulation.

-No. – I yelled back through the closed door. – No, thank you.

-Very well, sir. – The droid responded. – If you will need me, I’ll be at my re-charging station.

-Yes. Fine. Now leave me, please. – I groaned, and gently bumped my forehead against the wall.

I cannot tell you why, but somehow, that brief exchanged kicked some sense back into my mind. I let go of my shoulders, took a deep breath in, and told myself – “think”. Yes, the opportunities for disaster were plenty. Yes, we were on shaky ground now, even more so than before. Nevertheless, not all was lost. In fact, nothing was lost yet, I realized. You see, dearest reader, the benefit of having anxiety is that you can foresee potential problems and overcome them before they arise.

Fifteen minutes later, I had a solution for every single issue that could occur in the last phases of the plan. I thought about it further over my Roomas (with just a few drops of morphine), then found an excuse to leave the server buildings for a brief pause. Outside, it didn’t take me long to find a kid aimlessly wandering the streets.

-Any spare change, sir? – The kid asked, big blue eyes full of sadness. – I am all out of coins to buy Fortnight mods.

-Just your luck, your little rascal. – I smiled, and ruffled the kid’s curly hair. – I’ll give you a tenner – if you can bring this, - and I handed him a memory stick, - to lady Euphemia O’Malley. You will find her somewhere in the city center, most likely close to the town hall.

-Alright, sir. – The kid said, and snatched the memory stick out of my hand even before I transferred the payment. – I sure will try.

I nodded, said my farewells, and felt completely tranquil at once. Whether it was the effect of having dealt with the problems, or the morphine kicking in, I had no clue.

step 10: learn to say ‘no’ and accept help

I took a break on the ninth day, knowing that the revolution was beyond my grasp at that point, and all I could do was step back and watch the dominos fall into place. I ended the shift early, and went to the ice rink up at Thatchley Square. It was full of preschoolers and noisy beyond tolerance, which prompted me to push my airpods deeper into my ears. I would take the majestic, sophisticated sounds of Ed Sheeran, Gwen Stefani, and other classics over the offensive modern chaos they played in public places any day.

Half an hour of skating back and forth across the artificial crystalline surface, and my muscles were starting to betray me. I sighed and leaned against the nearest wall to rub my aching thighs and ankles. Alas, I had not been built for physical labor. I was about to leave the rink, when something – no, someone – rammed into me at subhuman speed, making me cry out in shock and stumble backwards into the snow.

-Oh lord, - the someone exclaimed, - I am so sorry!

And I mumbled something incomprehensible in response, for there, in front of me, covered in snow and helping me get up from the ground was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Tall, lean and bright-eyes, she had bubblegum pink hair and a pierced nose and a tattoo of a rose on her neck. And she was staring at me… goodness me, she was staring at me as if she knew me.

-Erasmus Smith? – She asked, frowning, and my face lost all colour.

-Shush. – I said, immediately on guard. – Come to the dressing room with me.

We sat there, talking and drinking those awful food machine concoctions out of cellulose plastic cups, and she told me everything she knew about the revolution, and how she came to know of it. It brought me concern at first, but soon enough it left my mind, for I was told that she had no intention of upsetting our plans. And what’s more, she even wanted to join in – and take it up a notch.

-Out of the question. – I responded immediately, once she had laid out her scheme for crashing the entire political system. – We are not risking the original plan on a dare.

-But… - She protested.

-No. – I shook my head. – We’re sticking to our goals.

-Oh well. – She sighed. – It was worth the shot. Say… can I help you out, at least?

I considered it for a moment, then gave her a singular nod. It made her eyes glow with excitement and pride. Such a stunning smile she had…

-I have a different proposition for you, though. – I found myself saying. – What do you think about going to the holographic theater next week? With me.

-Oh. – She looked away, and a soft shade of blush touched her cheeks. – I’d be honored.

And thus, the exchange was not all in vain.

step 11: write tomorrow’s task today

On the dusk of the tenth day, all – now as many as fifteen – of us gathered together by the docks, next to the roaring powerplant, where the moons were shining, making the freshly fallen snow glow and sparkle. We drank warm beer, talked, and watched the dodo birds and the pterodactyls play and chase each other on the canal slopes.

-All set to run. – Arabella concluded, after we revised every minute step over and over again. – Shall we?

I paused, took in a full lung’s worth of fresh cold air, and said yes.

We followed the first sparks of the fire on social media, observed as politician after journalist after king’s man turned all against each other, throwing accusations, spilling dirt, and digging political graves for each other – and we thought it lit. I did not wish to stay there at the docks for the entire night, so I brought the meeting to a close.

-One last thing before we go. – I announced, just as the people were turning to leave. – Write down a tweet for me, people.

“All political parties on the planet have fallen apart. The entire government has resigned. King Edmund is stepping down from the throne to marry a commoner. Bitches, let’s party.” I finished, and every single one of us cheered.

step 12: celebrate milestones and victories

And bitches did, indeed, party the next day – party day and night as the biggest scandal of the century shook the planet to its core. I do not recall where I was for most of the Yule Tide. All I know is that by midnight I ended up in the town hall, which was utterly wrecked and overflowing with people. I came to my senses sitting on the floor, wearing nothing but booty shorts and an undone tie, and smoking weed through a pipe. It was the most splendid party I had ever attended in my life.

-To the revolution! – I shouted it, and half a hundred people – most of whom I have never met in my life – joined in cheerfully.

-All hail Ersh, - Ambrose added, - for without him, this wouldn’t have happened.

-All hail Josiah, - Arabella interrupted, - for if he hadn’t sucked the king’s dick, this wouldn’t have happened either.

-Oh leave it. – Josiah dismissed. – I’ve always wanted to do that anyway.

-When are you gonna tell him? – I asked. – That you aren’t marrying him after all, I mean.

-Well. – He shrugged. – I think I might actually like… do that.

-Wouldn’t that be funny, - Euphemia said, - if Josiah became a prince.

-Anything is possible now. – Arabella pointed out.

-Yeah. – I agreed. – Anything’s possible.

And that’s when yet another crucial realization dawned upon me, and made me instantly sober.

I have accomplished my goal – no question about that. Brought down the government, destroyed the monarchy, did away with every major political party – all like I had imagined. But the more pressing question was – what are we going to do now?

And here comes *step 13, dearest reader, which no one had the courtesy of warning me about. The step is to ask yourself: what in the name of holy fuck you are doing in the first place, and why.

I advise you to complete this step before all the subsequent ones, for it took me all but twelve days of the Yule to bring my entire planet into chaos, and more than twenty years to carry it out of it and back into order.

Which is why I always say to the young, overly ambitious people who seek my wisdom – before you fuck some shit up, you better come up with a plan of how you will unfuck it – or do not go fucking it up in the first place, my child.

Signed, Erasmus Waynard Smith.

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #original fiction #short story #steampunk #sci-fi #paradox nerd post

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emblemxeno · 5 years

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Something I liked from watching fma: brotherhood is how they used the deadly sin homunculi as characters.

The 7 deadly sins are pride, wrath, sloth, gluttony, lust, greed, and envy and to me, each sin has kind of a... scale of how bad they truly are.

Pride and wrath are both pretty bad and it's hard to find good things about these sins.

Pride COULD come as a result of hidden insecurity leading to one overvaluing themselves, but is usually a heightened sense of self worth that is undeserved and has the person also undervalue everyone else. wrath COULD be justified in the sense that one is violent in retaliation, but typically is just someone is violent for the sake of being violent. Both homunculi that represent these sins at times show signs of having deep stuff that would make you feel for them, but most of the time, they're arrogant assholes that you want to see defeated just as much as the main villain.

The sloth, gluttony, and lust sins are harder to judge because they are the most base of the sins; sloth is laziness and apathy, gluttony is desire/hoarding of food and drink, and lust is carnal desire for sex. The reason they can be hard to judge besides being simple is that they all relate to the needs of humanity as a whole; you NEED relaxation and leisure to avoid overworking yourself/shutting down completely from exhaustion, you NEED food and drink to live, you NEED people to have sex to procreate. How hard these wins are to judge is reflected by their respective homunculi; ultimately the sloth, gluttony, and lust homunculi are hard to judge in the show because they're the simplest in terms of character and personality. They're very basic and border on one note at times because they all just follow orders and use their respective skills to carry them out.

Then you have greed and envy. The homunculi that represent these sins are the ones that the show makes you feel for the most, for very interesting reasons.

Greed as a sin, is kind of a broader gluttony. It's about wanting as much as you can, especially the finer things in life like power and money. Ultimately, greed comes from a place of selfish desire. Which is what fma: brotherhood does by having Greed be the one homunculus that frequently goes against Father because he's so selfish. He is concerned with himself above all else, but the thing is, since he IS greed he can't stop his natural inclination for wanting friends and bonds as having lots of human and emotional connections is just as valuable as having lots of money and power. And that's how the show sells you on Greed and having you feel for him (aside from him being a loveable bastard that's on the good guys' side), in that he says the things he wanted most were friends, and in his final moments he got them.

Envy, to me, is the sin that is generally then most forgivable. The reason why is because it's the son that's the most pervasive in humanity. Pride doesn't really show too often in people, wrath can get you in trouble with the law depending on how bad it is, sloth, gluttony, and lust are all about gross excess which most people don't have, and greed is something that's naturally demonized all the time so again, most people avoid it.

However, envy is not like that. ANYONE can feel jealous of ANYONE for ANY reason. The pang of jealously you feel when someone gets a promotion you feel like you deserved, how you feel when someone gets the lead in a song/play instead of you, how people are jealous of celebrities for wealth and fame, how celebs are jealous of "regular" people for simpler and more private lives.

What the Envy homunculus is jealous of, is humans having relationships and friends to live and fight for, have lives of happiness because they have people by their side at all times; a life that isn't just serving a higher power for and ultimate goal. And Envy is internally conflicted by this because as a homunculus, they were designed to be above humans but since they ARE Envy, they can't help but feel jealous of the beings they are supposed to be superior, too. And I like this because its analogous to the real life sin of envy, where no matter how hard you try to be assured and confident in yourself, jealousy will almost ALWAYS find its way back to you.

Anyway, yeah. The show is pretty old so I'm sure some type of analysis like this has been done like this but these are my thoughts.

#fma #fullmetal alchemist #fullmetal alchemist brotherhood #greed #envy #lust #wrath #gluttony #sloth #pride #greed fma #lust fma #envy fma #gluttony fma #wrath fma #pride fma #sloth fma

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shireness-says · 5 years

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If I Could See Your Face Once More (5/6)

Summary: This time, there’s no celebration at Granny’s when the latest crisis has been resolved. Instead, they’re left to deal with the body of Killian Jones. A 5B canon divergence where Killian dies in Camelot, never becoming a Dark One. Rated T for language. Also on AO3. ~9K. Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

A/N: Remember how I said I’d fix the angst? This is me fixing it. I hope you enjoy how it pays off. We’ve just got the epilogue left, which I’ve already got written and just need to tweak, so that will be posting in the next couple of days.

Thanks to @snidgetsafan for betaing despite any residual anger from the last chapter. I love you, babe.

Tagging: @thejollyroger-writer, @profdanglaisstuff, @captainsjedi, @ultraluckycatnd, @superchocovian, @snowbellewells, @killianjones4ever82, @wellhellotragic, @ohmakemeahercules, @let-it-raines, @lifeinahole27, @kmomof4. Shoot me a message if you want to be added to the list!

Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

Killian moves about the Underworld in a daze after Emma and her family leave. What’s the point of anything without her?

He’d promised he wouldn’t let Emma and their what-might-have-beens be his unfinished business, but he doesn’t feel ready to move on yet either. Call it madness, or hopelessly waiting for a sign, but he still feels that buzz of anticipation running through his empty veins, like there’s still something’s coming - even if he can’t put his finger on exactly what that is. From what he understands of this light to the other side business, it won’t work until he’s ready anyways. There’s no point in forcing it.

(Now, stuck alone in the Underworld for the foreseeable future, it seems unbearably optimistic to have promised he would move on when he has to spend the rest of his eternity knowing that he has a child he’ll never meet. That’s the very definition of unfinished business. And yet, he’ll still do his very best to find a better place, if only because Emma asked it of him.)

When he’s not consumed by self pity, Killian tries to throw himself back into a routine. He bites the emotional bullet and dedicates his days to closing up both the Charmings’ loft and Regina’s mansion, making sure that everything is cleaned and the drop cloths are replaced on all the furniture to protect it - from what, he’s not sure, considering they don’t particularly have to worry about sunlight fading the fabrics, but it seems important regardless. That’s how they’d found things, after all. Eventually, he’ll focus on repairs to his own home as well, but first things first. He’s back to working evenings at Liam’s bar as well - just as much a distraction for himself as to reassure Liam that he’s as well as can be managed. It’s not pleasant, and there are still moments where it feels like a wave of pain for all he’s lost is trying to drag him under, but he’s muddling through. He has to.

Even in his haze of pain and loneliness and apathy, it’s impossible to miss the changes that suddenly hit the Underworld, only days after the departure of his friends and family. Despite the red tint to everything and the overwhelming state of disrepair, there’d been something of an order to the underworld, even if just in the way it mirrors Storybrooke above. Now, however, it’s chaos, elements from different realms springing up willy-nilly - vines he recognizes from Neverland and streets turned to the distinctive golden paving of King Midas’ kingdom and Camelot’s stonework, all constantly shifting and changing from day to day and hour to hour. There’s no order anymore, no constancy - like whatever, or whoever, was controlling the Underworld has abruptly stopped doing so.

He goes to Liam’s out of habit, sidestepping yellow bricks as Wonderland mushrooms sprout from the curbs. Even after the disillusionment he’s suffered in the past several weeks where his brother is concerned, Liam is still older and possibly wiser, and it’s hard to shake centuries of instinct after all. He’s been down here longer, anyways, and information tends to trickle into the bar one way or another. It doesn’t hurt either that Liam has a clearer head to process things than Killian does at the moment.

Unfortunately, Liam doesn’t have any more clue than he does, and is far too concerned trying to cut down the Dreamshade bush that’s ironically decided to sprout just outside the bar to spend his own time digging further. He’s not without ideas of how to find out, though, and that’s almost as good.

“Your lad left his storybook behind, didn’t he?” Liam asks. Killian’s a bit too emotionally weary to bother with the correction - and it’s not strictly wrong, anyways. “I know it was writing itself before. Maybe it can tell you what’s going on now, too.”

It’s a brilliant idea - one Killian is shocked that he himself didn’t think of sooner. He’s choosing to blame the worry and distraction and melancholy for that. It’s easy enough to run back to the Victorian house and up the stairs to the room that should have been Henry’s, where the leather-bound volume waits patiently on the desk where the lad had left it before his departure. Part of Killian wants to look right away, but whatever is happening to Underbrooke effects Liam just as much as him. Best they both find out together.

Liam has just finished with the damned bush when Killian gets back, not that he’s confident it will last. The place that the Dreamshade chose to sprout in this new, chaotic state of the realm is a little too ironic for Killian to believe it’s a true coincidence. At least it can’t poison anyone down here, not when all the inhabitants are already dead. He’s more than happy to set aside the gloves and pruning shears, though, to follow Killian back into the bar and take a look at the book.

“What have we got here,” Liam mutters as he flips to the last pages. Blurs of words and glimpses of colorful illustrations flash by before he lands on the desired pages. Both Killian and his brother fall silent in concentration as they read the words. Killian can only truly speak for himself, but he thinks they’re both anxious to find out what’s going on.

What they discover, however, is so much worse than Killian ever expected.

He’d expected to find out that the portal had somehow skewed the environment of the realm of the dead, or that his and Emma’s true love test had set off some kind of delayed reaction. Hell, maybe even that they’d somehow managed to link all the different realms up above for some inexplicable reason, causing that to be suddenly mirrored down below. Somehow, the truth is simultaneously more ridiculous - and infinitely more terrifying.

As it turns out, Hades was able to turn his and Emma’s failure in their quest for the ambrosia to his favor. As it turns out, true love can do some pretty powerful things. And as it turns out, Hades has managed to untether himself from the Underworld, escaping to wreck his havok instead on Storybrooke and the world beyond with the Olympian Crystal at his disposal.

Killian can’t help the sense of growing horror as he reads about how Hades had collected one of Emma’s hairs from the loft and combined it with Killian’s blood from his stay in Hades’ torture chamber to create a vial of pure true love. Now, after the fact, Killian faintly remembers reading about the Crocodile doing the same thing with Snow and David, but had never stopped to think about all the things that pure essence could do. In that moment, though, both of them were so happy just to know that their love was true; would anyone truly think about the dangerous potential this love held?

They couldn’t have known, anyways. It’s a surprise to both Killian and Liam that Hades wasn’t ruling over the departed souls by choice, but by curse, tied to the in-between world against his will and longing to return to his home on Olympus. Perhaps with a stop to take over the Land Without Magic first. And with the combination of the Crystal and bottled true love, he’d done just that. Now, with its ruler having severed his ties to the realm, the Underworld was effectively left unchecked, the landscape trying to adapt to all the different souls within its bounds all at once and dissolving into chaos instead.

“Oh, this is bad,” Liam mutters as Killian frantically flips to the next page of the book. He’s desperate to see what’s happening, to see if everyone he loves is alright, but he’s met only with blank white paper and a rising sense of panic. If Hades is planning something, Emma, her family, and all their allies will undoubtedly try to stop him, putting themselves in grave danger in the process. God, he only hopes they haven’t already. The book is his only window into their world up above, and with the page stubbornly blank after detailing Hades’ appearance in Storybrooke, he’s in the dark.

“Aye, this this bad, Brother,” Killian agrees. They’re talking in circles just repeating each other, but what else is there to say?

“Maybe it will all be fine,” Liam suggests unconvincingly. “He doesn’t need to necessarily be... plotting anything more than getting out of here. That’s possible, right?”

Killian doubts it - it seems out of character for the god who beat him into a pulp for daring to bring some semblance of hope here in the Underworld just to be in the Land Without Magic for a little sightseeing tour.

Before he can say any of that, however, King Arthur bursts into the bar, disrupting whatever semblance of peace they were pretending to possess and likely proving Killian’s point.

Instead, Killian groans, dreading the inevitable confrontation. “I need a drink,” he mutters, stalking around the bar. Unfortunately, he doesn’t move quick enough for Arthur to miss seeing his face.

“You’re dead,” he says, somehow managing to make the words sound like an accusation. “You’re supposed to be dead, I’ve seen the stone myself.”

“Aye, well, you’d know, wouldn’t you?” Killian fires back. “Seeing as you’re the one who killed me.” He quickly throws back the drink he’s poured , not at all sure what he’s actually swallowing. It hadn’t mattered at the moment - dark and alcoholic being more important in the moment than the specifics, and damn the fact that it’s not even two in the afternoon. 5 o’clock somewhere, or whatever absurd saying David and Leroy were so fond of.

“That’s right, I did,” Arthur replies, sounding disgustingly almost proud of that fact. What an arse. “But if I killed you… how am I still seeing you?” he ponders. Almost immediately, though, his expression turns from confounded to dangerous, and he harshly grabs Liam by the front of his crisp shirt. “What kind of trick is this?” he demands, shaking Liam (much to the other man’s consternation, if his brother’s expression is anything to go off of). “Tell me, demon!”

“If there’s any demon here, it’s you,” Killian bites back, moving back around the counter to try and separate the two men.

“It has to be a trick,” Arthur continues to insist. “You’re dead!”

“Yes, well, if you’re here, so are you,” Killian finally snaps, finally reaching his brother and the disgraced King. Arthur’s grip loosens in his shock, making it quite easy to pull them apart. There were probably - okay, definitely - more delicate or considerate ways he could have gone about breaking the news, but it’s hard to care too much when faced with such an absolute arse as Arthur.

Quickly, though, he pulls himself together and becomes confrontational again. Damnit. “You’re lying,” he hisses.

That’s somehow the words that mark the end of Killian’s patience. “Fine. Don’t believe me if you don’t want to, but it doesn’t change the fact: you are dead. As a doornail.” And with that, he turns back to the book, ready to sweep it back up and get as far away from Arthur as possible.

Liam, for better or worse, is more understanding. “Look, what’s the last thing you remember?” he asks, managing to put on a patient facade. Killian will give him points for that, at least, even if he’s faking it - it’s more than Killian has managed.

“I was on the Troll Bridge in your charming little town,” he snaps, “and then I was here.”

“Obviously, you’ve missed something in between,” Killian mutters under his breath, stretching over the counter to snag the bottle of whatever again. Liam flashes him an unamused look at that. Only when he raises his eyebrows, a move Killian first picked up centuries ago, does Killian understand; maybe he knows something.

He tries a little harder to suppress his knee-jerk sarcastic reactions after that, even if Arthur does deserve them.

“Think harder,” Liam coaxes. “Did you see anything else in between?”

Maybe Arthur is even more childish than Killian thought, as Liam’s encouraging yet authoritative voice actually makes him settle into thought like a scolded boy, a frown marring his face with the effort. “There was a man,” he finally says, “a tall, thin man in a striped suit.”

“Hades,” Killian supplies impatiently, only to earn another dirty look from Liam for his efforts. Git.

“Yes, that’s what he called himself,” Arthur agrees, less confrontational now that he’s concentrating. Thank the gods. “He was carrying on about having a realm to conquer, which of course I had to correct, since Storybrooke is mine —” (Killian can’t help but snort at that, Liam’s disapproval be damned - it’s just too ridiculous) — “and then he…” Arthur cuts off abruptly, sinking into the nearest chair. It’s hard not to realize what the mad king remembered.

“And then he killed you,” Killian finishes. “Snapped your neck? Crushed your heart? Smote you with the Crystal? Regardless, welcome to Underbrooke.”

Liam huffs a bit at Killian’s indelicacy, but there’s a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as well. “Regardless,” he says pointedly, “what are we going to do about the Hades situation?”

“We?” Arthur scoffs. “I don’t remember agreeing to help you… gentlemen with anything. We’re here, Hades is there; I don’t see any problem.”

Killian grits his teeth to suppress the urge to snap at Arthur. “The problem,” he grinds out, “is precisely that Hades is up in the living world. Where he has already killed you, and gods only know what other plans he has for the world at large. Tell me, don’t you have a pretty little wife in Storybrooke? How do you know something won’t happen to her if Hades is left to his own devices?” As Killian talks, he allows some of the old pirate drawl to creep back into his voice, a casual sense of danger he hasn’t had to call upon for a while. Frankly, he’s rather out of practice.

Thankfully, it still seems to work well enough on Arthur, who blanches at the words. “Fine,” he hisses. “What do you suggest we do, then?”

That stumps Killian, leaving the three men in an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Liam cuts back in again.

“What about the pages?” he suggests. “Hades obviously didn’t want anyone looking at them for a reason. Maybe it wasn’t just about the Crystal - maybe the key to defeating him is in there too.”

“Yeah, but Liam… we don’t have those pages. You threw them down the well at the Apprentice’s house, remember?”

“That doesn’t mean they’re gone,” Liam points out. “Hades was very specific that they were put in the well - not destroyed in any old fashion, specifically put in the well. I’d bet you anything he got a hold of them fully intact, it’ll just be a matter of finding them. And that’s where you come in,” he shifts to address Arthur. “You’re some sort of monarch Killian’s said, or at least you were. Where would you keep the one thing that revealed your weak spot?”

“Right where I could see it,” Arthur replies immediately, like it’s obvious. And maybe it is - Killian can’t say he wouldn’t do the same thing.

“His throne room,” Killian says immediately. “It’s the only place that makes sense.”

“I agree,” Liam replies. “I say we get down to the library as soon as possible.” When Arthur makes no move to leave, both Jones brothers waiting to make sure that the disgraced king doesn’t try to run off or double cross them again - though Killian doesn’t know who exactly Arthur would betray them to in Hades’ absence - Liam gestures sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “After you, Your Majesty.”

With the two of them glaring at him, Arthur doesn’t have much of a choice, it turns out, and reluctantly sulks to the door. Killian chooses to believe that the end justifies the means.

It’s not exactly smooth sailing getting to the library and its elevator to Hades’ cavernous lair, as they’re accosted by an unexpected and unwelcome face.

“Where are you boys off to?” Cruella simpers, striking what she must think is a seductive pose. It’s not even remotely close to that; between the bizarre dye job and the disturbingly tight pants on her chicken-like legs, not to mention the enormous fur coat of unknown origins, that was never an achievable goal.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business, madam,” Liam says in that one tone of voice Killian has long since learned is just a cover for his deep-seated irritation. It makes Killian wonder what kind of interactions his brother has had with the odious Ms. DeVil in his absence to earn such an immediate response.

“Well, as the new ruler of this realm, I’d have to disagree with that,” she says, poking a flirtatious finger into Liam’s chest. Liam looks like he’d rather break the damn thing off, if his stone face and flashing eyes are anything to go by. Killian might share that sentiment, or at least feel more confident in expressing disgust, if he wasn’t so shocked by her words.

“You are not,” he scoffs. “I’m fairly certain Hades is still the ruler.”

“Ah, but he’s not here, is he? He’s off gallivanting in the living world, the lucky bastard. What I wouldn’t give for a proper new coat, not that you can get one down here.” She’s got a point - about Hades’ absence, not whatever this nonsense is about outerwear. “I saw a power vacuum, and I’ve never been against a little sucking to get to the top,” she winks. As if this whole interaction needed another level of disgusting. That’s a mental picture Killian never needed.

“Not much of a kingdom,” Arthur mutters under his breath as he looks around at the disintegrating realm around them. This never was paradise, but something about the way beanstalk vines ramble down the street, uprooting paving stones and creating tripping hazards really drives that home.

“It’s Hell, what did you expect?” Cruella tosses back flippantly. “Not my problem.”

Killian and Liam share a look at that. There’s bigger fish to fry first, but they’ll need to do something about Cruella - and especially about the chaos now running rampant in their environment - eventually. Even Arthur looks disgusted by her carelessness, and that’s really saying something.

“Anyways, I just wanted to warn you two to stay out of my way,” she continues blithely. “I remember hearing about the trouble you two gave Hades, and I won’t tolerate any of it. Unless, of course, you want to form some kind of stubble sandwich. Your new friend can join in too,” she nods to Arthur, “make it a double decker. There’s more than enough Cruella to go around, darlings.”

Killian has never considered himself to have a weak stomach, especially after a lifetime spent on the ocean waves, but those words have the impressive ability to immediately make bile rise up in his throat. Gods, he’s not sure anything has ever sounded more unpleasant.

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Liam manages to somehow spit out past the disgust twisting his entire face. “Have a good day, Cruella.”

“Is she really the ruler of this place?” Arthur hisses as they walk away. He hadn’t been safe from Cruella’s wandering eyes and hands either, collecting an unfortunate slap to the arse as they’d walked past.

“Gods, I don’t even know,” Killian huffs wearily. “Makes as much sense as anything else down here, I suppose. Come on, the library’s this way.”

Maybe Killian should feel more hesitance stepping off the elevator into Hades’ lair - after all, he’s about to reenter a place he’d rather never see again, a place where he’d been subjected to unbearable tortures - but he only feels relief. This conveyance is far too similar to the one that took Emma away from him forever, and with that event still far too fresh in his mind, he’d rather face any other memory, even if it’s a bad one.

“Keep an eye out for traps,” Liam warns before they properly venture into the throne room. “I don’t trust Hades to have left this place unprotected, especially if the pages are really here.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Killian mutters sarcastically as he wanders over to investigate a collection of shelves bolted into the rock walls. It’s not like Hades’ traps can do much - they’re already dead, after all. At this point, Killian can’t even bring himself to care too much about the potential for pain, as long as one of them succeeds in finding a way to stop the crazed god.

Liam must have a sixth sense, however, because not even two minutes later, a deep growling echoes through the chamber, instantly setting them all on high alert.

“You didn’t mention anything about a hellbeast!” Arthur hisses angrily, the pompous prat. What a coward.

“Aye, well, I didn’t know there was going to be one,” Killian fires back. “I’m flattered that you think I know everything, but I assure you, that’s not the case.”

“Would you two shut up?” Liam whisper-shouts. Somewhere in the last few moments, he’s grabbed a fire poker as a makeshift weapon, though doubtless he’d rather have a sword in his hand. “Just find the damn pages, I’ll try and drive this thing off.” With those words, he darts into the tunnels stemming from the throne room to face whatever creature is supposed to be guarding this place. Personally, Killian thinks they should have offered Arthur up as bait, but then again, maybe Liam has the better idea. After all, at least Killian can be certain Liam won’t betray them or run off and leave them to their fate.

The search turns frantic with the sound of barking and growling echoing in the background. Killian abandons all pretense of careful searching, tossing things every which way and tearing the place apart in his effort to find the damn pages. You’d think there would only be so many places they could be hidden, but the possibilities prove to be endless when he’s standing in the middle of the room, looking around at all the little nooks and crannies. It doesn’t help to hear Liam swearing profusely at the far reaches of Killian’s hearing.

“Search faster!” he all but roars, darting back in to fetch a long log from where Hades keeps a woodpile by the enormous hearth.

In desperation, Killian turns to Arthur. It just doesn’t sound like Liam can hold out much longer. “Look, you may have been a shitty king, for lack of a better phrase, but you were a king,” Killian concedes. “If this was your throne room, where would you keep the book pages?”

“As close to me as possible,” Arthur replies without hesitation. “I’d want them within immediate reach in case something happened.”

“And what does that mean?”

Killian can practically see Arthur calculating as he looks around the now torn-apart room, analyzing each spot before finally settling. “The throne,” he decides, nodding towards the almost medical-looking chair Hades used for that purpose.

It takes a little tearing - alright, a lot of tearing, Killian rather taking out his aggression on the leather upholstery - but sure enough, sewn into the side are the two pages they’ve been looking for. He almost can’t believe it, but right now isn’t the time to overthink things or even read through their find, not when he can still hear the hellbeast chasing Liam around the tunnels.

“We’ve got it!” he calls, ready to get the hell out of the cavern. Even if the ceilings lift to a tall vault, being this far underground still makes him feel claustrophobic, with or without demonic animals hounding them.

“It’s about goddamn time!” Liam shouts back, sounding audibly winded. “Get out of there, I’m going to try and trap this bloody dog in the throne room.”

It sounds a little bizarre for a dog to be chasing Liam, and a bit too on-the-nose at that, but there’s no time to think about that when he and Arthur book it back through the archway and down the tunnel towards the elevator, just before Liam rounds the corner with the beast hot on his heels. Somehow, his brother manages to lead the creature in and make a tight loop before sprinting back out again, Killian barely managing to slam and bolt the metal gate behind him. As it turns out, Liam somewhat understated the matter by saying a dog was chasing him, as three snarling heads snap at the bars. Technically, a Cerberus is a dog, he supposes.

Arthur is less quick on the uptake though, peering with confusion and squinted eyes back towards the beast. “Is that…”

“Yes,” Liam says shortly, clearly in no mood to talk about the matter any further. “Let’s get out of here.”

Somehow, Killian manages to keep the missing pages in his pocket until the trio makes their way back to Liam’s bar, though he’s not sure how. He understands why - they can guarantee privacy if Liam closes the bar, unlike in the library, but that doesn’t make it any easier. At least the dimness of the elevator had made it easy to keep from caving; in the comparatively bright light outside, it’s much harder to hold out. Finally, though, they’re in the deserted bar with the doors locked and the book right next to its missing pieces.

“Alright, let’s take a look,” Liam prompts.

Seeing the words on the page is a shock though, sending Killian crashing onto a bar stool and leaving Liam rubbing a hand over his face.

“For the Olympian Crystal holds the power of life and death, mighty enough to destroy the very soul and obliterate a being into nothingness, mortals and gods alike,” Arthur reads, blissfully oblivious to how badly they’re all screwed. “Does that mean something to you?”

“It means that we delivered our only weapon right into his hands,” Killian says softly, trying not to sound quite as defeated as he feels.

“Even if things aren’t looking good, Emma and her family still deserve to know their best chance of victory,” Liam reminds him. Killian kind of appreciates the attempt to stay positive and pragmatic despite it all, even if it’s a weak attempt. “Do you know how to get this to them?”

“Henry has his own version of the storybook back up above,” Killian relates, reaching for the object in question. “I don’t know if it’ll work, but I thought if I could somehow reattach the pages…”

“I’ll grab thread and glue,” Liam immediately offers, catching on quickly. It’s unnecessary, though; as soon as Killian places the pages back where they’d been removed, he can see the paper fibers somehow knit themselves back together like they’d never been torn out.

“What now?” Arthur asks as the book’s magic recedes.

This is the hard part - admitting that there’s nothing more any of them can do. “Now, it’s up to Emma and her family.”

Killian has the highest faith in all of them, and Emma especially, but he’s not afraid to say that this may prove the greatest trial of his long existence.

———

It’s a waiting game, after that. The ever shifting environment keeps him plenty busy, trying to reassure all the souls of Underbrooke and work towards helping them move on. Arthur is a surprising help, on both fronts; though Cruella is still technically the self-proclaimed ruler of this place, Arthur seems to be attempting to fill that role more responsibly. He’s already set up a committee at the library to help people find out their unfinished business, as well as establishing a volunteer force to report daily on topography and landmark changes, where portions of the Underworld may have suddenly acquired characteristics of the Enchanted Forest or Neverland or anywhere else. Stability is much needed at the moment, and the former king’s efforts prove to be a much needed beacon of order, no matter how personally surprised Killian is to see Arthur filling that role.

“It was foretold that I would unite a broken kingdom,” he tells the Jones Brothers one night at Liam’s bar. “It just now strikes me that maybe that wasn’t Camelot after all.”

Killian’s just settling in for the evening in the rickety old house after a long day helping souls uncover their unfinished business when it happens - a wave of energy and light sweeping through the town. He’s been around Emma and her family long enough to recognize a breaking curse when he sees one. Peering outside through the front windows, the red tint has disappeared from the sky and the Neverland vines retreated from the streets again, making the place look like a peaceful replica of Storybrooke.

It’s over.

The storybook lays quietly, conveniently on the coffee table, and Killian doesn’t waste any time reaching for the tome for confirmation. Quickly flipping through to the end, the proof is there on the page - the tale of how Regina, of all people, defeated the god Hades in retaliation for the death of her sister. Killian should probably feel worse about Zelena’s demise, her soul obliterated by the power of the Crystal, but he just can’t muster it; after everything she’s done and everything she’s put them through, especially Regina and Robin, dying to save her infant daughter is probably the best redemption she could have reasonably hoped for.

Turning back a few pages, he’s relieved to see that Arthur and Zelena are the only casualties at Hades’ hands. Killian takes a moment to pause on the illustration of Emma discovering the pages he sent, stroking the page tenderly with his fingertips. His poor Swan; even in the drawing he can see her red eyes. It breaks his heart, knowing they had true love in their grasp and didn’t know it until it was too late. He’d give anything to be with her, to hold her in his arms once more, to meet their little one when he or she takes their first breath.

Still, he promised Emma he’d move on, and he intends to keep that promise for her. It’s the last thing he can give her, really.

Though it’s late, he takes a final tour through town. It’s not the same as his adopted home in the upper world, but there are recognizable features - the corner where he’d meet Emma with coffee in the mornings, the cafe so like Granny’s Diner where he was welcomed to so many family dinners, the docks where he was teaching Henry to sail. Each landmark is imbued with not-quite memories.

His final, most private goodbyes however are confined within the walls of the house that will never be a home without Emma by his side.

Will he remember all this, Killian wonders, when he’s moved on? He hopes so, never wants to forget a single second of the the far-too-short time they spent together, but who knows what paradise - or damnation - might grant him. Killian tries to imprint ever memory contained in the house into his very soul, both old and new. He relives their first real kiss one last time as he trails his hand along the patio furniture. The kitchen now holds the precious memory of learning of their child for the first time, the living room evoking visions of Henry scribbling frantically with his newfound author’s powers. Despite the memories of her time as the Dark One, Killian makes a special stop at the photo in the front hall of him and Emma dancing at the ball in Camelot, attempting to catalog every detail. She’d been so out of her element, but so beautiful with her long trailing sleeves and flowers in her hair. She’d looked every inch the angel, his angel, and Killian hadn’t been able to help but imagine another white dress and another event sometime in their future.

The upstairs bedrooms hurt the most, each full of unrealized potential and obliterated futures. The nursery with its pale yellows and greens looks ready for its tiny inhabitant, but he won’t be there to bring their little Bean home, will never rock his babe to sleep in the cushioned rocking chair. The only nights he’ll ever fall asleep with Emma in his arms in the big comfy bed in the airy master bedroom have already passed; neither of them will ever know that comfort again. He’ll never get to see the way she looks when real sunlight falls upon her face in that bed, blonde hair scattered across the crisp white sheets. Henry’s room looks ready for the lad to move in, but he’ll never get to see posters on the walls and comic books scattered on every flat surface. It’d drive Killian crazy, but he’d welcome even that if it meant more time with the ones he loves. The possibilities of what might have been seem infinite in these rooms, even more than in the rest of the house, and Killian’s sorrow at not realizing any of those daydreams is just as endless.

All too soon, Liam is at his side when Killian is fingering the intricate carvings of the crib. He hadn’t even noticed his brother come in; Liam has had a key from almost the first day, and Killian was too lost in his thoughts anyways.

“It’s time, Killian,” he says, more gently than Killian remembers hearing since they were both children. He knows his brother is right; with Hades defeated and all his loved ones safe, there’s nothing keeping him here any longer. Tonight’s goodbyes have all been leading to this moment. “Are you ready?”

“No,” Killian replies honestly, “but it’s time all the same.” It’s never going to be easier, he knows, but he’s taken the time he needs to say goodbye. There’s no sense in delaying the inevitable.

Killian had expected that they’d make their way back down to the cave Liam had brought him to before, but instead his brother leads him to the beach. When Killian asks why, Liam just shrugs.

“Something just feels right, I suppose,” he replies. “I can’t really explain it.”

Considering they’re looking to move on from their unfinished business to something better, Killian supposes that’s fitting - just following right feeling wherever it leads. He’s curious to note, too, that this stretch of beach appears so similar to the shore he and Liam washed up on after the sinking of Captain Silver’s ship, where Navy sailors discovered them straight out of indentured servitude and their lives were changed forever. This is another turning point in their lives - or afterlives, more like; it only seems appropriate to come back to this same place.

The stretch of sand seems never ending, but somehow, the monotony brings Killian a sense of peace. It breaks his heart to know that his family, his love, his children are so permanently out of his reach, but Emma’s last request had been for him to move on and find peace. He finds a semblance of comfort instead in knowing that he’s following her wishes.

As that settles into his soul, a warm glow of light engulfs their stretch of shoreline.

It’s well and truly time to move on, and Killian has finally accepted that.

———

As the blinding light recedes, Killian’s eyes can discern through the haze what appears to be a classical temple, complete with marble columns and open walls. It’s a small comfort to see Liam still standing beside him. In a realm of unknowns, his brother’s constant presence has a calming effect, Killian only barely resisting the urge to grab at his hand like they’re children again. There’s only a cloudscape beyond the columns, oddly enough, but that’s a question for another time. For the moment, Killian is more distracted by the young man in draped linens standing up to greet them.

“Liam and Killian Jones,” he declares, “We’ve been waiting a long time for you.”

“Yes, well, I wasn’t aware I had an appointment, Mister…?” Killian trails off. Liam elbows him in the side for that; the words were most likely saucier than strictly polite, but sarcasm and wit have always been Killian’s defense, and he’s far too old to abandon it now.

The young man smiles in amusement, though, making Liam’s fretting for nothing. Until, of course, he opens his mouth. “I am Zeus, King of the Gods,” he tells them.

Oh.

“Pardon my brother, sir,” Liam cuts in with a pointed look at Killian. “He often speaks before thinking.”

“Worry not - I already know, and did not take any offense,” the god assures. He’s so much younger than Killian expected, practically still baby-faced, but he supposes that makes sense. Zeus was always fabled to be the youngest of his divine siblings after all. “We’ve seen what you two have accomplished from here on Mount Olympus. You’ve done us a great service, ensuring the downfall of a tyrant. You have my thanks for that.”

(Personally, Killian thinks that if the Gods found Hades to be such a tyrant, they should have done something about the matter themselves, but it’s no his place to say. There’s no sense arguing with the god who’s thanking you, anyways.)

“It was our honor, sir,” Liam replies, bowing his head respectfully. Killian follows suit a second later; his older brother always was the more proper one.

“As a token of our gratitude,” the god continues, “I’d like to offer you both a choice. If you’re ready to move on, I’d be happy to personally guarantee you both a spot in Paradise. It’s the very least we can do, after the great service you’ve done us all.”

It’s been years since Killian thought himself worthy of eternal reward, and he must admit, he’s sorely tempted to accept the offer. He’s still a pirate, though, and the pirate within him wants the best offer he can get - if not everything offered. “A choice, you say? And what’s the other option?” Sod Liam if he thinks he’s being rude, Killian wants to know.

“The other option is a second chance. We’ve seen how hard you and your family have fought to bring you back to land of the living, and I’d like to offer you the chance to do just that, Killian. And you as well, Liam,” he adds, nodding in the elder Jones’ direction. “That would reset the slate,” he warns. “Guaranteed paradise is a one time offer. Who knows what you both might get up to in the next fifty, sixty years.”

(Killian thinks he sees the god wink in his direction on that statement, which is very… disconcerting. If valid. Still; the gods aren’t supposed to be nearly this… teasing, and Killian isn’t sure he likes it.)

All the same, his heart leaps with hope at Zeus’ offer. “You can do that?” he asks, trying not to sound too eager, trying not to let his hopes soar too high if there’s going to be untenable strings attached.

“Of course I can do it,” Zeus replies - scoffs, if you can imagine a deity doing such a thing. “I’m all-powerful. This may not be something we offer routinely, but it’s certainly within my powers. That is, if you want it.”

“Yes,” Killian rushes to reply, the time for hesitation long past. “Yes, that’s all I… yes. Yes.” In a rush, all the dreams he bid farewell to come flooding back. He’ll get to properly move into the Victorian home with the picket fence with Emma, get to see Henry become the talented writer Killian can already see budding… Gods, he’ll get to meet his child: hear their first cries and see their steps and find out whether they take after Emma or himself. He’ll get to buy Emma a proper ring and grow old together… He’ll get a lifetime. That’s all he’s ever wanted from the first time Emma kissed him and changed his world.

It suddenly sinks in, what Zeus is offering, that Liam could be granted a second chance as well, and that… well, that’s more than Killian ever even thought to dream. When he whips his head around to face his brother, though, Liam wears a gentle and apologetic smile.

“I think I’ll take your offer of Paradise, sir,” he tells Zeus, still looking at Killian. “After 300 years, I’m ready for a rest.”

“Liam…” Killian tries to start, but his brother just clasps him by his shoulders.

“I know what you’re going to say, Little Brother, what you’ll try to convince me of. But I’m tired, Killian. Maybe I could take the offer, try again, but I’m tired. It’s been so long, and I’m ready to move on. I never was particularly good with change anyways,” he jokes. It falls flat though, considering that Killian can see traces of tears at the edges of Liam’s eyes.

“You could try, though,” Killian replies, almost pleads. He’s just been reunited with his brother again after all this time; it seems impossible to say goodbye again so soon.

“Maybe, or maybe not, but it’s time, Killian. It’s time.” Stepping forward, Liam draws him into a tight hug. Killian tries his best to catalog and remember every moment, knowing this is their last hug for… Gods only know how long. Likely a very long time. This will have to tide him over for all the years to come, so he imprints ever sensation of the embrace - the exact way Liam smells (clean soap and salt air, like always, but now with a trace of the spicy rum scent he must have picked up at the bar, all meshed together in a scent that feels like childhood and comfort and home) and the exact pressure of his arms and that little divot between his shoulder blades and spine that Killian has always slotted his own arms into when hugging his brother, taking comfort in just that little height difference that lets Liam lean his head on top of Killian’s and makes him feel protected. It’s not enough time, never enough time, but it will have to be enough.

When Liam draws back again, he clasps Killian by the shoulders again, smiling and making sure to meet Killian’s eyes. “I am so proud of you, Little Brother. You hear that? So proud.” Killian smiles weakly in return, nodding as best he can until Liam seems satisfied. “You’ve got a beautiful family to get back to, with a loving lass and a son and new baby. Don’t you dare waste a single minute fretting about me.”

“But we won’t be together,” Killian reminds him. “That’s all I wanted, for so long. I still want that. Are you sure you don’t want to come with me, try a life back in Storybrooke? Otherwise, I suppose I could —”

“Absolutely not,” Liam interrupts, not even letting Killian finish his thought. “Don’t be daft.” His smile softens the words. “I’ve lived all the life I was meant to live and then some. You, on the other hand? You still have a lot to live out. We’ll meet again, hopefully many many years in the future,” he laughs, “and you can tell me all about my niece or nephew. Remember, Liam is a fantastic name for either sex.”

Killian laughs a watery chuckle at that, but nods all the same. “I’ll miss you, brother.”

Liam draws his head down for an affectionate kiss to the crown of his head. “And I you. But I promise you won’t regret it.”

Zeus must sense a shift in the conversation, as he steps back into the conversation again at that moment. “Are you ready for your reward, Killian Jones?” He asks.

Liam’s the one who answers, though, his own voice firmer as Killian still tries to put on a brave smile. “Aye. He’s ready.”

With a wave of his hand, Zeus conjures a warm circle of light to appear behind Killian. Liam squeezes his shoulder one last time as Killian turns to face the portal to his future. All he has to do is walk forward into the light and he’s got a whole life ahead of himself. Before he does, though, he twists around one last time to face his brother. “I love you, Liam.”

“I love you too, Little Brother,” Liam responds.

And with that, Killian walks forward into the blinding light.

———

It might be hours, or days, or years, but when the warm glow of Zeus’ gift recedes, Killian is standing in the cemetery.

The first thing he notices is the unmistakable beating of his own heart. After so long with nothing but a hollow emptiness sitting in his chest, a physical representation of so many lost hopes, it’s jarring to feel it thudding away again, the rhythm almost painful in its sudden return. There’s no mistaking what that pumping muscle means - that this is real, this is a second chance. He’s alive.

At a small distance, he spots a small figure sitting in front of one of the gravestones, the stripped scarf and tousled hair easily identifying them as Henry. As Killian moves closer, he spots his own name on the stone. Before he can speak, however, he hears Henry talking, apparently to the marker.

“I wrote your story last night,” he tells the stone monument, “about everything you’ve done since you got to Storybrooke.” Looking closer, Killian can see that the lad holds his beloved storybook cradled in his lap. “You saved me, you know, when you came to Neverland. I know you’d probably try to deny it if you were here, but that’s the way I see it. I think you saved Mom too, just by making her so happy.” Henry pauses for a moment, and Killian almost jumps in, but the boy continues before he gets the chance. “I just wanted to let you know that it’s over. Hades is dead, or banished, or something. We’re all safe. I know you promised Mom that you’d move on, but I bet you wouldn’t without knowing we were safe, and we are now. It’s okay, if you’re ready to move on.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, lad,” Killian finally cuts in, unable to hold back any longer. Henry twists his body around, eyes wide with shock at hearing his voice again, before scrambling to his feet in a mess of gangly, growing limbs, sending the book flying in the process. Still, Henry waits, not rushing over to him as he might have under other circumstances. Killian understands; it’s hard for him to believe this is possible either.

“Killian? Is it really you?” he asks, the eagerness in his voice tempered by hesitation - hesitation Killian is more than happy to dispel.

“Aye, lad, it’s me,” he smiles, blinking back the wetness starting to gather in his eyelashes.

That’s all the validation Henry needs as he rushes to wrap Killian in a tight embrace. He’s gotten so tall, his boy, Killian thinks as he clutches Henry tighter, now able to comfortably rest his head atop Henry’s without crouching nearly in half to do so. Somehow, in the mess of these past six months, Killian didn’t notice it. It’s easy to vow to pay closer attention now, knowing he’ll get the chance to do just that. Probably break the vow too, as he knows how busy life can get. That’s okay; he can afford it now.

“I think there’s still a few more chapters to write in that book of yours,” he chuckles as they pull away from one another. Henry’s grin splits his face nearly in two, wider than any smile Killian’s ever seen on the boy’s face. His own probably looks similar, if the almost painful tugging at the corners of his mouth is any indication.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Henry mutters into Killian’s shoulder, before suddenly pulling back with a confused look on his face. “Wait, how are you back? No, double wait, does Mom know you’re back?” When Killian shakes his head, Henry abruptly springs away, only to start tugging Killian by the arm back towards the street. “We’ve got to go, right now, then! C’mon, Killian, she’s going to be so happy!”

“Slow down, lad,” Killian chuckles. “Don’t forget your storybook.”

“Who cares? This is more important,” Henry insists, though he still lets go of Killian to go pick it up before running on ahead again. “Are you coming?” He demands impatiently, jumping on the balls of his feet.

“Lead on, my boy,” Killian laughs, “lead on.”

It’s not a long way back to the house, especially at the brisk trot Henry sets for them. Storybrooke’s a small town anyways; there’s only a few neighborhoods to choose from, and all of it very close together. Truthfully, the walk probably seems longer than it actually is due to Killian’s own eagerness to reunite with his Swan, to hold her and kiss her and know he’ll never have to let go again. Henry provides a play-by-play of the confrontation, but Killian barely hears most of it, simultaneously giddy and nervous at the prospect of this reunion. This isn’t at all what he imagined when he set out from the Underworld with his brother this morning, but it’s so much better - a dream come true, in every way - and he’s elated beyond any words to describe it.

The house here in Storybrooke (the real Storybrooke, not the convoluted version that Hades had created in the Underworld to attempt to mimic the genuine article) still looks a little like it hasn’t been lived in for far too long, but the difference here is that it also looks loved. In the Underworld, the Victorian he’d chosen for them had always looked run down and a mere inch away from collapsing around his ears. Here, the house looks strong and sturdy, merely in need of sprucing. Good bones is the phrase he thinks he’s heard Dave use before. Maybe it’s silly, and maybe it’s just a product of Killian’s renewed hope alongside his new lease on life, but he can look at the house in front of him and imagine it with a swing in that big tree and toys in the yard and a couple of rocking chairs on the front porch. In short, he can see it as a family home for years to come, just as he’d hoped back in Camelot when he and Henry had first started scouring the classifieds.

He has to trot up the front stairs two at a time to catch up with Henry after his little reminiscent moment, the teenager too impatient to wait. “Mom, you’ll never guess what happened!” Killian hears him call through the house.

Emma comes around the corner from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel and saying something to Henry. Killian doesn’t catch the words at all, too distracted by the sheer beauty of the scene before him to even move inside the doorway. Even in leggings and a t-shirt, she’s stunning, the most welcome sight he’s ever seen. Her shirt stretches just so over the bump of her stomach where their child grows, and it’s all so beautifully domestic, so perfect in its sheer mundanity that it nearly brings tears to his eyes.

There’s no time for that, though, as Henry gestures in his direction. The dish towel drops to the wayside, easily forgotten, as Emma looks up to meet his eyes.

“Killian?” she whispers with a note of disbelief in her voice.

That easily kicks him into motion, and Killian crosses the threshold in a handful of strides to meet Emma and cup her cheek to draw her into a kiss. It’s fierce in many ways, fierce with passion and longing and all the what-might-have-beens that have a chance to be again, but the desperation of their last exchange has disappeared. Now there’s just lips meeting, first in a deep press of lips and then in progressively more gentle exchanges until they finally draw apart. They probably gave Henry quite the show, but Killian can’t bring himself to care, not when he’s holding everything he ever dared to want within his arms.

“How are you here?” she asks through the laughter and the tears - happy tears, this time, tears of joy that he’s found his way back to them against all odds.

“Zeus,” he laughs right back. “A bloody god sent me back to you, back where I belong. Liam and I were ready, and when we tried to cross over —”

“I don’t care,” Emma interrupts, pressing a flurry of kisses to every inch of his face. “You’re here, and I love you, and —”

“I love you too,” he vows, over and over again. “I love you. I love you, I love you, I’m never saying goodbye ever again.”

“You’d better not,” she tells him, huffing out a happy little laugh. “We’ve got plans for you, me and Henry and baby girl.”

Killian sucks in a breath. “Baby girl?”

“Yeah,” Emma nods right back, tears spilling from her eyes. “I went to the doctor when we got back, and when he did the ultrasound… baby girl. We’re having a baby girl.”

“A girl,” he breathes in wonder. As if this day isn’t amazing enough.

“So no more heroics, alright?” Emma teases. Her tone is joking, but her eyes show her to be at least half serious. “She’s going to need you around. Henry and I too.”

“I can’t promise never to put myself in danger, especially if it’s a matter of protecting you or Henry or the Bean,” he says, moving her hand to rest over his heart, “but I promise never to leave you again if I can at all help it. I vow it, Emma.”

“Good,” she says, so reminiscent of that moment so long ago at the town line as she and Henry drove off into the unknown. That was the first time he allowed himself to embrace the full extent of his feelings and have hope that she might feel the same. “Welcome home, Killian.”

Welcome home, indeed.

#cs ff #captain swan #cs angst #my writing #If I Could See Your Face Once More #chapter 5 #there's a happy ending y'all #ouat s5b #canon divergence

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sd1970x · 5 years

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Someone suggested I try posting my fics to tumbler

So... here goes! Summary: Marinette is certain she finally has things mostly figured out: Whether it's having a secret life as a miraculous-holding superheroine, saving Paris together with her trusty partner or standing up to Chloe. Whether it's by herself, as a part of a pair or even a team, she knows it through and through. Then one day, Gecko appears, and nothing is ever going to be the same again. She might need to cast aside everything she thought about teamwork, relationships and what it means to be a miraculous holder. What's going to happen between her and her partner now? What's that strange new superheroine hiding behind her mask? Chapter 1: Yamori. It was just a regular workday. That’s exactly what it was. He was a normal boy with a normal life, even if other people have their kind of a normal life. His simply involved working in construction at high height. Hamad still went with that pointless, mock helmet-placing gesture. It helped him feel better for some reason, despite having no real helmet to go with it. The strapping point part, that he couldn’t even play-pretend. At least he knew one was supposed to exist, just like the railings that were meant to prevent him from falling. While these actually did exist occasionally, their reliability has left him wondering more than once. Would they stop him if a moment of truth came? He’d rather not think about that one at all. The other thing he would have rather not thought about, but couldn’t get out of his head, was that he finally knew why all of that was happening. That day when he saw the money change hands, out in the clear… and they didn’t even care he saw it!

No one would have believed him or any of his co-workers. That much felt almost like a universal truth. He was in a foul mood just thinking about it, and thus escapism drew its lure again. His favorite choice of escapism? Taking a sneak peek at the view of Paris from the 20th floor he’s working at. The clear sky and the look of the Eiffel tower brought about some comfort. He imagined the smell of a home-cooked meal on the stove, the warmth of a family that would definitely dwell here in two or three years, with someone living a perfectly happy normal life here. “Hey, get back to work!” He heard the voice of his superintendent, as the smell of soup made way in favor of the acrid smell of cement that needed mixing, of dust particles filling the air, of planks lying about and steel rebar being welded. The view was not his to enjoy, he remembered now. He quickly tucked the smell of soup into a deep corner of his heart before returning to mixing the cement again in numbing, repetitive motions, a blank look on his face. --- Light shone on Hawk Moth’s lair as its window expanded, triggering a fluttering of the numerous butterflies waiting for their turn. An almost inaudible flap, like bristling of leaves, mixed with the pacing of shoe soles against a concrete floor. He stopped and relished that negative feeling he was picking up. At first, it tasted like apathy of the bland and boring kind. But upon further inspection, a lacing of venom appeared. At first a trace, and then a mouthful. Like popping a caviar egg to salty goodness. And he, Hawk Moth, would be the one to help that spread its wings in the most spectacular fashion. A piece of art, indeed. “Those who are numb of fearing for their lives may yet hold the most emotions of all, simply waiting to be unleashed.” His voice intoned it as if an onlooker was there. Occasionally Nathalie would be there to listen to him. Not this time, though. He kept the habit nonetheless as it greatly entertained him. “Go forth, my Akuma, and help him realize his burning desire for justice.” He called his power as he infused the butterfly with dark energy and sent it off towards its target, A look of appreciation following its trail. He turned around and rubbed his hands together, anxious for the butterfly to make rapport again, small shivers of delight passing through his body in anticipation of the conversation he was about to hold. --- Hamad noted his superintendent was missing again. He always felt short-changed for his hard work, so stealing yet another glimpse of the view made him feel no remorse. He couldn’t see the Akuma butterfly casually making the slow ascent towards him, as his foot hit the smallest of bumps on the concrete floor. Losing balance, he quickly grabbed at the railing, only for the thing to crack. Looks like it couldn't hold him after all. He felt the acceleration, the rush of wind as he spun downwards, the resistance of air building up against his momentum. He dreamed this would happen one day, and that day now came. He closed his eyes and braced for the impact. But then, a firm grip caught him and he heard the ‘twang’ sound of a yo-yo string. That wasn’t a part of his dream, but from that day onward he’d embrace that and never let go. He felt his descent slowing down gently as he opened his eyes to find himself in the hands of a certain red-clad superheroine. But then, he felt another thing. A pair of greyish-blue eyes prying into his very soul. A warm male voice soothed into his mind.“ Mixalot, I am Hawk Moth. Isn’t it time someone mixed the cruel reality of construction safety with the serene reality of otherwise blissful Parisians?” He uttered a soft, barely audible “yes” before he felt a rush of power, and then nothing. --- Ladybug watched in horror as the person she was holding quickly got engulfed in black-purple mist and sent an indiscernible appendage towards her earrings, before even completing the transformation. She cocked her head to evade his grab and tried to push herself away. Her yo-yo got tangled and she barely made it, a few meters above ground, only to fall a second later. Only lightly beaten, Ladybug found herself facing an unharmed Akumatized victim at a disadvantaged reclined position. Her mind tried to assess the situation as quickly as feasible. The thing in front of her was similar to Stoneheart to an extent but made more of concrete plates and protruding steel rebar. His shoulder was composed of a steel beam and his second hand was now a jet hole spouting cement mixture. The ground shook a little with every step he took, combined with earth-shattering noise and the smell of wet cement. The iron scaffolding around her looked like that creature’s preferred home turf to pick a fight on. She felt two quick bursts of viscous cement hitting both of her arms, pinning her to the ground. Given enough time she would have been able to move her joints and recover, but this was time she simply didn’t have, as Mixalot charged for a much larger shot of cement, one aimed straight at her face. He’s going to choke me and knock me out. Ladybug braced herself for the impact as much as she could given her situation. “Ladybug, watch out!” A female voice called at her. The source of the voice suddenly appeared between her and Mixalot. Not slowly or gradually, but as if she had always been there. As if she materialized or decloaked at this exact point in space, by a feat of magic or miracle. She was rapidly rotating what looked to be some sorts of a hoop, with four spokes completing a cross form inside. Ladybug could only see her back, clad in a bright cyan bodysuit, a long and wavy honey-colored hair running up until the waist. Is she… a new superheroine? The cement shot sprayed in all directions as it encountered the rapidly spinning hoop. The smell of cement intensified considerably as she felt the touch of a few errant mixture drops collecting at her suit. “Quick, run away!” that same voice quickly returned her to the reality on ground. An Akuma battle was not a good time to properly reconcile such news. Instinctively responding to the cry she took advantage of the opening to dart to safety, and only then allowed herself a moment of composed thought. How can there be a new superheroine? Any more than that would probably take a lot more focus out of the problem at hand. Ladybug watched the cyan-clad superheroine engaging Mixalot, trying an attack by rotating her hoop angled above her head and extending it. So her hoop extends and contracts, similar to Chat’s baton. That’s an odd weapon to wield. Being experienced, she could foresee the inefficiency of that move and indeed, all it took Mixalot was a plain crouch to evade the attack. She could also guess what would come next, Mixalot firing a shot of cement towards her leg. While a short hop backward saved that girl from being hit by the first one, the second one hit her other leg. Now it was Ladybug’s turn to return the favor from a moment ago. She grabbed her by the yo-yo and pulled as hard as she could to get her out of harm’s way. She now had a quick frontal view, noting green eyes which mismatched her bright cyan mask and garb. The miniature hexagon pattern on both her mask and bodysuit confirmed her to be a superheroine. Otherwise, her figure was pretty much similar to Ladybug’s own, somewhat short and relatively thin. She watched with concern as the new superheroine ran tried to redo her hoop extending maneuver again, charging forward then jumping backward. Quickly noting her own safety was at risk, she tried to evade the move, but eventually, the only thing stopping her from being hit was the hoop being contracted. This isn’t going well. At all. The sound of her partner’s voice gave her hope that this tide would now turn, having little confidence in her ability to work in sync with the newcomer without getting hurt. “Chat Noir! Thanks for dropping!” “Hey, blockhead, why don’t you set for a bit? I wouldn’t want to cement our relationship just yet.” She heard the taunt aimed at Mixalot and for once, the puns were significantly appreciated. It was easy for her to see just how displeased Mixalot was at being taunted like that, charging towards Chat with careless fury. This should make him easy prey for her competent partner. A nimble flip and a baton strike later, her prediction became true. The concrete spade was pinged out of the akumatized victim’s belt, right towards the new superheroine. Come on… break it! The confused look on the newcomer’s face wasn’t boding well, evoking in Ladybug memories of her own early career. “Break it!” She cried, only to see Mixalot grab it from the newcomer’s hands. The girl’s face twitched as she crouched and lunged forward while spinning her hoop, aiming for the center of mass. Again this resulted in little more than forcing Mixalot to jump and evade it with ease. She’s letting her emotions get the better of her… is this her first real fight? That hoop is also one heck of a weird weapon. I wonder if there are better ways to use it. She watched Mixalot respond by sending two shots in opposite directions, one towards Chat Noir and the other towards the cyan superheroine. Chat evaded the one aimed at him with ease, while the other shot crashed against the rapidly spinning hoop. At that moment, the realization that she wasn’t being targeted dawned upon Ladybug. Such a rare event did not occur much when fighting as a duo, but having three targets did make for this difference. Not being under any pressure, there was ample opportunity for her to summon an item. “LUCKY CHARM” She called, presented with an oversized four-way rotating water sprinkler. A water sprinkler? What am I going to do with that? As she surveyed her surroundings, she saw her own yo-yo, the construction scaffolding, the extendable hoop, the cement mixture jet hole and the sprinkler. Maybe I can construct something here... “Keep him busy! Cyan-girl, On my mark, make sure he can’t touch the ground!” Now that would be good use of the hoop, creating a dead-zone which he has to avoid. She began running around the area, practically weaving a net with her yo-yo’s string amongst the scaffolding, as she tossed the sprinkler towards Chat. “Now!” She cried. Chat lunged towards Mixalot, fitting the sprinkler on the mixture jet hole. At the same time, the cyan superheroine crouched and began to spin her hoop, forcing everyone else above the ground. Mixalot jumped to avoid it and attempted to shoot another cement ball. The sprinkler rotated very quickly, spraying his eyes and the entire surrounding with cement but more importantly, giving him rotational acceleration which entirely threw off his balance. As she planned, Mixalot now had to choose between landing into the fast-rotating hoop on the ground and clearing the yo-yo string trap, with barely any maneuverability or eyesight available. Such a feat was beyond his ability and soon enough he found the sprinkler tangling with the yo-yo string, slamming him to the ground and dislodging the concrete spade. This time, it was Chat that grabbed and broke it, releasing the Akuma for Ladybug to capture. Ladybug whipped her yo-yo and swiftly captured the black butterfly before it could get too far. --- "Bye bye little butterfly!” Ladybug and Chat Noir fist-bumped each other while the new superheroine panted for air. Relieved, she finally turned to address the newcomer. “Hey… thanks for the save. That was very brave of you. But you really took a great risk appearing out of nowhere like this.” Her gratitude was inherently mixed with the difficulties the unexpected fight posed. This certainly wasn’t the preferred way to make an acquaintanceship. “Th-thanks.”She noted the girl was still panting for air, placing her hoop on her back and having it just fit there, as if by magic. She asked Chat to tend to the poor overwhelmed construction worker so she could exchange a few words with the newcomer. “I have to tell you that we are used to fighting in tandem and we change our tactics when there’s a third superhero.״ She paused to observe how the newcomer would react. However, that girl appeared to be still busy reorienting herself. “You’d have to get some training and match the tactics. Um. How should we call you?” She wanted to have a name, at least. “Call me… Yamori. or Gecko, if you prefer that name.” “Okay, Gecko, so… um…” Yeah, now what exactly? She stood there thinking where all this was leading. Then Gecko spoke. “Well, since that happened… shouldn’t I be joining you?” She stared at Gecko and suddenly she felt disoriented by the upheaval these simple words caused. It’s simple, isn’t it? And yet it’s anything but simple! I mean, we don’t work with Rena or Carapace or Queen Bee on a regular basis. We don’t need to! And if we did have such a need… I’d like to have Alya as my partner, wouldn’t I? And then again… she is here. How could we not make use of a new superheroine offering her help? But… don’t the people of Paris deserve the most efficient combination to safeguard them? And who’s to say what that would be? Or that my own personal preferences aren’t interfering with my thoughts regarding it? Her head spun, she opted to consult with her partner. “Ok, Gecko. before we rush into this, or anything of kind… I’d like to have a moment with Chat in private. There are decisions us two need to make.” She and chat stepped aside to discuss as Gecko nodded her approval. “So, what do you think, Chat?” she whispered to her partner, hoping to get him involved and perhaps mitigate what seemed to be a growing burden on her. “I say, We already have a yo-yo and a baton. Do we really need a third wheel -” No no no. keep your humor to other times! He deserved a good stepping on his leg for that one, and he yelped as she did. His face twisted in pain. “Chat, That was terrible! Akumatize-her-terrible! She didn’t appear here just to have us mock her like that, she clearly looks up to us!” She chided him, then paused and sighed, deflated. “You’re right though, Chat. We don’t actually have a need for someone else, much less a rookie. Then again, if we don’t train her, she will forever be a rookie. We also can’t call her on demand as we do with Rena and Carapace.” A quick glance at Chat showed him having a more serious and contemplative look. She finally got him where she needed him to be at this moment. “Sorry about the pun. for what it’s worth, I felt almost as bad making it. With regards to Gecko, you call it. I’m actually happy to be second in command right now.” So, payback for that comment at the puppeteer incident, huh? But he did apologize for the pun. And he does trust me. She noted his smile and loosened up a bit. The thought he trusted her judgment on this very big question with important ramifications, made her feel a bit more at ease. “I guess honesty would be the right thing with… wait, what did you just say? That I’m her commander?” She balked at the suggestion, but the Cat went on. “Looks like you got yourself a trainee. I’m sure you can handle it.” She felt a pat on her back and couldn’t tell if it’s out of support, out of gloating at her predicament or a bit of both. Either way, her sense of responsibility made the distinction moot as she focused on making progress towards a decision. Sincerity is key. I will not lie to her. For it to have any chance of working out, I must trust her and she must trust me. She and Chat turned back to her, looking at Gecko who caught up her breath by now and seemed to be anticipating what they had to say. Ladybug broke the silence. “Here’s the situation, Gecko. Me and Chat Noir are a team. Other miraculous holders serve as backup. That’s how it has been so far and I just don’t see it changing.” She paused for a moment to check how Gecko responded to that, but she couldn’t quite discern it yet, so she went on. “But… we would really appreciate a reduction of the workload. You will patrol alone while one of us will be on standby. once a week your patrol will be with me and once with Chat Noir, as we can’t have you stay a rookie forever. I’ll also supervise your training. Let’s meet here in two hours to check out your skills, as I need to recharge. We have a lot more talking to do, too.” There was an awkward silence. She eyed Gecko, trying to guess her thoughts from her expression yet again. How is she going to take it? Will she be disappointed? She then noted a small smile slowly crept to Gecko’s face as she heard her answer. “I would expect nothing less than such wise words from you.” Gecko bowed her head and followed it with a hand motion. “I’m happy to serve under your guidance.” Wait… Serve under my guidance? Oh my god, what exactly have I gotten myself into?

#miraculous ladybug #fanfiction #fanfic #slow burn #wait for it #this is going to sport the entire lovesquare #happening at the same time #shipper on deck #shipper with an agenda #and rena rouge as never seen before #and a kwami swap #but not the one you think

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notesondeltarune · 6 years

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A brief note on Susie’s bullying (will be expanded later with screenshots)

Why is Susie a bully? We don’t get to explore much of Susie’s past (at least, not from what I could find yet) but hints to why she acts this way can be picked out from how she bullies the player.

Spoilers below.

What kind of bully is Susie?

Let’s start with a rough formula for a psychological profile of a general bully character, which goes something like this: Take a vulnerable person and put them in an environment where they are constantly reminded of their vulnerability. This results in an insecure person. If they aren’t totally crushed by the insecurity, then they try to deal with it by renewing their self-esteem, whether by validation from others (exhibition bullies, those who bully to impress others) or from themselves (individualistic bullies, those who want to impress themselves).

Since Susie doesn’t have friends at the beginning of the game, when her bullying is at its worst, she’s not in it to impress anyone. In fact, she seems to horrify most people around her. She even acknowledges that her actions (deliberately eating the chalk, threatening to mutilate the player) may get her expelled, further alienating her from society. She’s well aware that her bullying is not for societal prestige.

So the bullying must be for herself. But what kind of motive--what void is she trying to fill with it? This is a trickier question than it usually appears, since her bullying is not directed against a specific person, but to all of her classmates generally. Her attack on the player character isn’t for evidently racial or qualitative reasons that she targets. In fact, she doesn’t seem to be focused on any specific property about her victims. So what kind of insecurity is she compensating for?

Is she interested in power?

When she encounters enemies (and attempts to kill them) she tells the two other party members that the enemies were trying to kill them. Fair point--but her attitude isn’t pained necessity or tragedy, but glee. This sadism might make one guess that she does this to feel powerful, and she does seem to be chasing a kind of empowerment or thrill from acts of violence.

But this seems odd when you think that she seems to acknowledge the fact that her actions could potentially backfire on her (and undermine her power). Even the most power-hungry people try to avoid getting expelled or imprisoned. She simply doesn’t care at all.

If she was looking for power, then why is she so apathetic? If we take her response to the prophecy, told by Ralsei. A power-hungry person might start thinking about the potential gain to be had from being a hero, how much of a risk the quest entails, express factual skepticism, or refuse out of cowardice. Anything that would give them power, or at least a display of fear or doubt.

Susie doesn’t clearly display any of the above. Rather, she disinterestedly plays with the idea that she’d allow the world to be destroyed. It’s not obvious how serious she was about this statement, but in the very serious context she says it in, it’d be a display of callous mockery on one hand and abnormal apathy at another. She openly displays her lack of care for the world--which stems from a lack of care for herself.

What is Susie’s deal, then?

It’s that apathy, in fact, that describes Susie for the first half of the game. Throughout the game, Susie rebels against any kind of normally good things. She eschews duty, she rejects advice even in its humblest form, i.e., she doesn’t want to get better. This is unlike Lancer, who simply does not know how to properly relate to other people and need to be taught how one should behave or act. Susie is well aware that she is a terrible person. Not only is she skeptical that anyone would want to be her friend without some ulterior motive underneath it, she seems to take it as a kind of natural law that no one likes her.

Susie’s fundamental insecurity, if any, is with herself. At some time before the game, perhaps after a long period of sustained mistrust from others, she has embraced her depravity, and attempts to change that depravity would be an attack on her very person. By embracing her depravity, she also thinks that she renounces being worthy of friendship, and can only greet kindness with severe skepticism. There’s a quote from Soren Kierkegaard in The Sickness Unto Death that captures something of this kind of despair that Susie has:

“Just as the weak, despairing person is unwilling to hear anything about any consolation eternity has for him, so a person in [demonic] despair does not want to hear anything about it, either, but for a different reason: this very consolation would be his undoing; as a denunciation of all existence. Figuratively speaking, it is as if an error slipped into an author's writing and the error became conscious of itself as an error; perhaps it actually was not a mistake but in a much higher sense an essential part of the whole production, and now this error wants to mutiny against the author, out of hatred toward him, forbidding him to correct it and in maniacal defiance saying to him: No! I refuse to be erased! I will stand as a witness against you; a witness that you are a second-rate author.”

How does she change?

Ralsei, despite his lovable demeanor, cannot convince someone as deep in despair as Susie is because he ultimately demands a change of attitude from someone like Susie, who has made her bullying a very part of her own identity. To tell her to avoid violence or to lecture her on what she ought to do is to deny her very nature, and naturally she rejects it completely like one rejects an insult.

Now, while I’ve made it seem like Susie is hardened, it’s not to say that Susie no longer feels fear. The fear she feels is instinctual rather than having any cognitive justification. She can brush off the thoughts of killing people or the world ending-- so long as it’s in conversation or in her head. But at the face of a pure, less definite feeling of danger like being in a dark or a strange new world, she is just as vulnerable to fear as anyone else.

On one hand this is a kind of weakness--her failing to live up to her own image of a callous villain. On the other hand, her ability to feel these primordial feelings of danger (and later, love) is what ends up redeeming her as a person.

It’s for this reason that, ironically, what gets her to change her ways is that she finds someone who accepts her for her depravity. When speaking of evil, Lancer thinks of some kind of coolness, charm, or something glorious with no strong sense of moral concern attached. Seeing elements of this “evil” in Susie, he takes her threats as advice on how to become truly “evil”. This ignorance (or perhaps innocence) shows, for Susie, that Lancer has no desire to change Susie at all, and this is what allows the two to become friends.

What allows her to finally become heroic is that, having experienced and knowing what friendship is like, she becomes interested in maintaining that friendship with Lancer, and later the other two party members. In a sense, she stumbles upon being a hero; As she begins to value her friends, her priorities must change to accomodate this new interest, namely, love.

#deltarune #deltarune spoilers #undertale #susie #ralsei #lancer

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makeste · 4 years

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some brief musings on why Kacchan is still going to lose his quirk

(and why that may ultimately be a good thing.)

so first of all, let me just say that Deku and Kacchan are still very much in danger. much as I hate to say it. thing is, Horikoshi didn’t go to the trouble of separating them from the others for no reason. so while it may be a few more chapters until they fall under the cool, calculating gaze of our bloodthirsty mangaka once again, they’re definitely not out of the woods yet.

and in the meantime, while their encounter with Tomura was so brief you almost have to question whether it was completely inconsequential, it did accomplish several things of note:

it scared the absolute SHIT out of the both of them and maybe now they will take this seriously???

it gave Endeavor the chance to learn that there is a thing called One for All, and that whatever the hell this thing is, apparently Midoriya might have it...? kids these days and their nonsense.

it gave Aizawa the same opportunity. ‘Midoriya and Bakugou... is he... after the two of them...?!’ and seeing as those are his kids, it’s a pretty safe bet he’s not going to drop this until he actually gets an answer. (which, honestly, about time??)

and last but not least, it allowed Bakugou to give a rousing speech and to have an internal monologue about how he’s been keeping up with Deku so far and he intends to keep doing so.

which brings me to the main subject of this post.

sorry kiddo. but having an entire scene devoted to establishing that you’re still full of pride, and still keeping pace with your rival, and how you won’t lose, and how he’s still trailing in your shadow same as always...

...doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence that all of that optimism isn’t about to come crashing down around you.

he has come so far. he has grown so much. he’s learned how to save others. he’s learned to acknowledge his own weaknesses. he’s learned how to work alongside his childhood friend rival. and he’s learned how to be selfless in the heat of the moment, even if he doesn’t realize it yet. slowly learning the meaning of “my body just moved before I could think.”

but his ego is still holding him back. his pride, and his desire to win, which I should stress is not at all a bad thing in and of itself (on the contrary, it’s what spurs that very growth I was talking about. it motivates him to keep striving forward, and inspires the others around him to also do their best). but what is bad about it is the way that it’s consistently at odds with his better self. how it hinders his compassion and empathy. because he sees those things as “weak”, and weakness = losing. and nowhere is this more starkly apparent than in his relationship with Deku.

even now, even after all the progress the two of them have made, he still stubbornly persists in doing this bizarre and ridiculous thing of framing every single aspect of their relationship, and every single one of their interactions, solely in terms of rivalry and power levels. of winning and losing. like, it is wild, though. to better illustrate this, please consider the following sample selection of Bakugou Thought Processes.

working together with Deku = losing to Deku (so I won’t do it)

oh no wait, working together with Deku = passing the exam = getting stronger = beating Deku (so I’ll do it)

getting kidnapped = being weak = losing to Deku (so I will be very sad and frustrated about it)

Deku being chosen as All Might’s successor while I bring about the end of All Might = ...do I really need to explain this one lol

[new input!!]: learning from Deku = getting stronger?? = becoming the best hero = beating Deku!! (so I will do it!)

feeling guilty about being a giant shit to Deku = needing to ask for Deku’s forgiveness = losing to Deku (...shit)

worrying about Deku = admitting that you care about Deku = see above = (so I won’t do it) (I won’t) (I won’t)

I really am grateful to this latest chapter for providing that rare bit of insight into the workings of his mind. lulz.

so yeah! that’s where we’re at, apparently. where we are still at. so how, then, do we eventually move forward from here? and if you look at all of Katsuki’s previous breakthroughs (after his loss to Deku; after he was forced to team up with Deku in the final exam; and after Kamino), all of them only happened after he was brought down a peg. after his walls of ego and pride were cracked, and he was humbled and forced to look at things from the perspective he hates more than anything else. the perspective of “losing.”

and so now his relationship with Deku is being thrust back into the forefront again. and we’re being shown that for him, all of the things he��s learned about What it Means to Be a Hero and What Our Strength is For and etc. etc. etc. are all still jumbled up in this tangled web of thoughts about beating Deku, don’t lose to Deku, I’m keeping up with him, I’m not gonna lose. and again, the problem isn’t that he wants to win! the problem is that all of his own self-worth, his entire self-image, is completely caught up within this one concept.

winning is who he is. being the best is who he is. but that’s all he is. his thought process still doesn’t go any further past there. he can’t answer the question of “what is your strength for” because he doesn’t know. his sense of self is so intricately tied up in the concept of strength because he has always been strong. his fears are so intricately tied to the concepts of losing and weakness because he has always been strong. because he doesn’t know the answer to the question of: but who are you if all of that strength is ever peeled away?

and if he ever wants to be able to answer that once and for all, he needs to gain perspective once again. he needs to lose again. just this one last time.

Deku was once quirkless. Kacchan becoming quirkless would be the ultimate karmic act of balance between them, the ultimate humbling experience. it would force him to shed his remaining pride once and for all, the pride that’s still blinding him and preventing him from figuring out what it is that he’s missing. he’d be forced to reckon with the feeling of being powerless in a world where everyone else has power. forced to try and understand what it is that gives worth to people beyond just strength. forced to finally acknowledge that there are different kinds of strength, something he has always intuitively known since he was a young child (otherwise he would never have feared Deku), but was never was able to fully understand. because Deku’s strength was forged by him growing up in a world where he had no choice but to look within himself in order to find those core, essential qualities that truly make one a hero, with or without a quirk. compassion. selflessness. persistence in the face of doubt. kindness in the face of apathy. hope and courage in the face of fear.

so yeah. it may just be that in order to finally realize what true strength means, Katsuki needs to first let go of his old ideas of strength entirely. and I’d be lying at this point if I said I wasn’t excited about the possibility that this kind of storyline might really be about to happen now. not just because of the angst (although I won’t pretend that isn’t also a part of it because let’s be real), but because no other character in BnHA has come further than Bakugou. no other character has started from such an insane place of “holy shit they’re really doing everything wrong”, only to acknowledge that, and to say “okay yeah, I get it, I want to do better, show me what to do and I’ll do it”, and then to actually do it.

and I want him to continue to grow. I want him to successfully reach the end of his character development journey. and so if this is what needs to happen next in order for him to do that? to reach his goal? to understand what he wants to be, who he wants to be? then fuck it. bring it on.

#bnha 275 #bakugou katsuki #midoriya izuku #bakudeku #bnha meta #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #bnha manga spoilers #makeste reads bnha #quirkless!bakugou #bakugou meta

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estrangedocean · 5 years

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To whomever it may interest.

I recall a vivid memory in which I was in the living room with my parents and family. Being about four years old, my mom was speaking about the things I would do as I grew up. I would finish school; then I’d go to university, get my bachelors, then I’d finish my masters, and finally complete my Ph.D she said. All of this would take quite a long time, perhaps as much as 30 years. Funnily enough, as I heard closely every dreamed aspiration she had for me, I spurted out a slowly looming question that lingered in my head and said, “If that’s the case, then, when will I marry?” The sting of desire was alien to me, and it didn’t mean much to me back then. However, out of all the questions a kid would ask, why would I ask this one?

Love shared by two people for each other is intense, passionate, scary, and an all consuming fire. When I fall for someone, it is a cathartic process by which I empty myself so that I can fill my being with the object of my desire. For “where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” If I truly love someone, I empty my heart and being (existence) for them; if I truly love someone, I live for them, and everything else comes afterward and is of little importance in comparison to my burning desire for the object or person. Once I’m burned with the insignia of love, I am truly and wholly theirs. This innate desire that props up for different objects in my life is an essential aspect to understand who I am.

I love God, I love philosophy, and I’ve devoted my whole life to them. Someone asked me “How do you wish to live your life?” I replied by saying, “by studying philosophy and theology, and spending my entire time thinking about them.” This is how crazy I am, greater than this motivation, greater than the desire to live for that which I love, I have nothing. If I do fall for a woman, it would be no different, my entire life would be forfeit; and it would not grieve me, it would make me happy beyond compare, as it would fulfil the deepest desire which lingers throughout my deepest crevices in my being.

The Snares of Language

Today, failure is widely considered unacceptable, and it is necessarily frowned upon. For most, “failure is not an option.” These are not cliches that people believe in, these are the core and fundamental values which make up many people today. In my take, the most important commandment in the Bible is “Be Holy, for I am holy.” Propositions like this can be found throughout the Bible, and there is a counter narrative that goes against the language of success that you find therein. God has plans for Israel to prosper, he wants her to multiply, and be fruitful. Being fruitful and being successful are the same thing, but a tree that is premature and has failed to grow can bear no fruit. Growth is a necessary part of begetting fruits; and fruits doesn’t necessarily mean children (just a reminder).

One can imagine being in a relationship that seems to have utterly failed, but failure is part and parcel of life. Failure is not the end of all things, it is an instruction from God that there is something that needs to be attended to. This is more important than merely gaining success from having a stable relationship with seemingly has no blemishes. For scars and imperfections are easy to hide, but they are very hard to embrace and ratify. For this reason; failure is essential most endeavours in life, and they don’t have to big ones, little ones count too, as any kind of failure is an opportunity to teach us something. This doesn’t mean that successes are irrelevant, it only means that failures are important aspects which signify an area that needs work, so that you may grow and finally succeed in being fruitful: that is success, and it cannot be had without the sweat of the brow.

Sacrifice & Love I

According to the modern practitioners of the distortion of the term sacrifice, they think it means to “give something up, for something else.” To give an example, if you wish to sacrifice yourself for someone, it means to give up something that you love, so that you can satisfy someone else. This interpretation has had terrible consequences on those who truly seek love. Consider for a moment that a woman who wishes to “sacrifice” herself for her man, and so she notes, that even though the man is deceitful and cheats on her, she has to give up her ideal of loving a man who loves her back just as much, in order to satisfy him. Here we see that she has a desire for an ideal, something that he fails to live up to, but she nonetheless uses her will to make a choice and abandon that ideal for him.

The curious dynamic here is that her will necessarily separates itself from her desire, and it moves to diminish her desire and aspiration to love and be loved by a man who loved her back just as much or more. She has “given up” her deepest desire, and her will has taken the forefront, even though she may not feel anything for the man anymore. This shows everything that is wrong with the idea. For there is a clear desire that the woman clings to, however, she has to abandon it for the sake of a promise made purely by the will. Naturally, this will become incredibly harder for her overtime. While such an act indeed takes a lot of courage, it is ultimately doomed to fail.

Courage is no substitute for the limitations of man. Torture him enough, and he will give. This is the nature of mortality, and it is the reality of things achievable with torture. By this definition of sacrifice, the wife has to give up what she desires in order to stick with a promise of marriage to the man. The word takes precedent, but it cannot substitute desire. If this continues, without the grace of God, her will will weaken and slowly fade; and even if it doesn’t, this paints for us a picture which divorces desire from the will, and makes love; an act of sacrifice, subordinated purely to the will of the human.

Although her choice to make the promise of marriage and seal it with a kiss is something that could only be done with her willing it, it couldn’t have been borne without love. Courage is underpinned by love, even if men and women are afraid to the brink of collapse, their bodies and feet move, because it is love which fuels their action. It makes no sense to say that a man is going to stand up for a woman because he simply wants to. A man stands up for a woman because he is motivated by something; either by virtues of justice and truth, or by love. Any man or woman who is not motivated by desire to do these things, is but an irrational being who does things purely on the basis of their whim, or something far worse: apathy. Justice, truth, love, these virtues motivate act, and action does not precede virtues and desire. Similarly, the seal of marriage and her kiss is posterior to something prior, to the desire tempered in the fires of love. It is ultimately this, that the modern definition which uses the language of “giving things up for what you want,” fails. It fails to capture the reality of love, her power of influence as a desire, and it eviscerates desires from will completely.

Sacrifice & Love II

Consider another scenario: suppose we raise a being in a cave, although we give him or her everything she desires, we deprive her of food and any knowledge of it. We shoot nutrients through her veins, and she has no concept of the notion of food. She might be inclined towards something; an outward movement from her soul would be present, but we couldn’t really say that she is ever hungry, or that she has ever felt what it is. Inclinations are such movements, which have no specified object, no goal.

Desires are different. When I desire, I desire “something.” There is always an object attached to the end, and my desire directs and leads me towards it. The job of the desire is to necessarily lead you to her object. Once we do know what we want, there is a final aspect to the puzzle, our dear friend will. The activation of choice is the final part which determines whether we indulge in our desires, or we overlook her force and change our course. The term sacrifice comes from two words, “sacer,” and “facere.” Sacer, means “sacred,” whereas “facere” means “to make,” and “artefact.” When conjoined, it means “To make sacred.” Although the term sacred has religious connotations, it doesn’t have to. For all it means by sacred, is “to set apart for specific use, purpose, or person.” Lots of things can be sacred, including persons. To love, means to sacrifice, to sacrifice, means to make sacred, to make sacred, means to set yourself apart for that which you love.

When in love, then, the desire one has for something will be overbearing, and it could not be merely willed away. This is why love is usually considered to be a desire that transcends and overpowers the will; you cannot merely will to fall in love, and similarly, will to fall out of it. It is an overarching desire that directs both your being and your will towards the object. If then, the woman truly loved her husband, then she desires to see him happy above all things. If that is the case, then she will not be “giving up” anything, it will be subservient to seeking happiness for what she wants the most: to love her man and make him happy. She will set herself apart to get what she desires above anything and everything.

Fencing

But what then should we say about her feeling upset? The infidelity of her husband will necessarily make her upset, and what place does it have in our philosophy? Jealousy is a strong tool because it means to be deprived of something that is rightfully theirs. After marriage, her husband is rightfully hers, and she is his, the good of both these people lie with each other, and not other men and women. For if other men and women have not set themselves apart for them, how then, can their efforts of desire surpass one who has literally forfeit her life for the happiness of her husband? They can’t.

One could now argue that we see that more than one person can pledge allegiance to a flag, and similarly, more than one person can swear their love for another person; however, now I turn the question on to the one who has ever felt such a thing as love. Why would you entrust the object of your deepest desires, someone or something you feel so strongly for, in the hands of someone else? Is your desire not strong enough to make you believe that the goodness of the object lies in your hands? Is your desire not strong enough to make you fiercely attack someone who wishes to threaten your man or woman, or your relationship? Don’t you know that you should have the task and that only you could make them happier than anyone else? If you don’t, then you should thoroughly question how strong your love is.

Can we honestly trust thing that we hold dearest to our hearts to someone else? I don’t, and I wouldn’t. This feat requires an extraordinary faith in other human beings, more faith than you’d have on what is necessarily in front of you, i.e., your desire for someone, and I refuse to have this faith. For if I love someone, I refuse to leave it someone else to make them happy. People are untrustworthy, and I have no reason to believe that the person who challenges my love with theirs will make the one I love more happy than I can. This is the battle of love, and only a defeatist with a confused faith in humanity would abandon their dearest in the hands of others. If you want to do something right, you do it yourself. You can only assure yourself that this task can be done by you, leaving it to others is playing Russian roulette, if you are cynical enough to do this; then indeed, you shouldn’t have ever loved at all.

Guarding their heart and directing their will, guided by the desire for their beloved everyday is the only way a strong relationship can be maintained. Only the ones who truly feel such a burning desire can raise their hearts and feet to have courage and act. Anyone’s hearts which hasn’t been raised to the level of action, is still young and their love has yet to mature. However, when it does mature, rushing with their feet will hardly be a problem; what will be an issue, is how jealous this will make others feel, as this will radically change your life and transform you, and it will keep changing you, making you stronger everyday as you grow deeper in that love.

Who do we love, and how do we know it?

Growing up, I always desired the ideal of helping a girl who is need. As a man, I’ve been taught to protect people, especially women. There is a natural attraction that occurs between the damsel in distress and the knight in shinning armour. However, this doesn’t tell us the full picture. We live in a world which is inhabited by more than 7.5 billion people, and there are many people in distress. If one is to choose who they love simply on the basis of need, then they’d have to love everyone, there’s only one problem: you can’t love everyone, you cannot be in more than one place at one time, and you will always have a priority in your heart. Being in need is a common attribute, lots of people need help. The bane of the knight in shinning armour is that he pours his heart out for that which is commonplace and everywhere.

Suppose that a man confesses his love to a beautiful woman, because she is beautiful. Beauty, although definitely desirable, is not that uncommon in our world. We see men and women with beautiful appearances everywhere. If the man decides to pour his heart out for a woman for this seemingly common trait, then, what if someone who is equally beautiful or more comes up towards him? Given that we do not control our desires, the man will not be able to control his desire, in the sense that it will plant itself in his heart, and there will be a war of attrition. This is an entirely undesirable state of affairs, and it is for this reason that one should be discriminative with love. One should love things which are noble and rare.

For if you love things which are rarer to find, there is less of a chance that this desire can be uprooted by other temptations in this world. The harder it is to find a man or woman who has a trait that you are attracted to? The harder it is for someone else to replace the object of your desire and uproot your beloved from your heart. This is not to say that beauty is irrelevant; if you are not sexually attracted to your partner, that is a decisive end to romantic aspirations about passion and love. While sexual attraction and physical beauty are important, they shouldn’t be the primary things you should be attracted to. When you’re looking into a person, you should be searching them for virtues. For these are rarer and harder to cultivate, and as for physical appearance, we have everything under the sun that can fix and rectify; and though important, it is of secondary importance to the primary traits that we are attracted to.

A kingdom needs to be defended from outside attacks, for this we have foreign policy, a peaceful way to resolve disputes. However, if a kingdom loves her own people, she shouldn’t be afraid to take necessary action in order to save them. The question is not whether it is justified that they should protect their people, it is rather, whether the actions it takes upon the rest is necessary to protect her people. Letting go of some people forever might be a necessary action in order to save a relationship, these are the hard facts about life. No heart can serve two masters, it will either hate the one and love the other; or vice versa. We can draw a scenario in which you are contacted by your best friend and by someone you claim to love, where your decision to save either one of them will necessarily lead to the death of the other.

This is what I call the victory of priority, and the heart can only ever have one thing above all else. Similarly, it is in times like these that we realise who we truly love. These are times of test to help us grow and see where our happiness really lies. Anyone who wishes to save both the friend and the one they claim to love, is but fooling themselves, and others. For no human being can be present in two places at once, and no one can be there for two distinct people, at all times. You cannot set yourself apart for two distinct things, where serving either one deprives the other of your aid. You can only ever set yourself apart for one thing, whoever hasn’t come to this realisation is living but a false and confused dream, and isn’t strong enough to love. That is to say, they haven’t loved. Only the ones who love can set themselves apart, to the exclusion of someone or everyone else. The moment you say “I do,” to someone, you’re saying, “I don’t,” to everyone else, this takes courage and is built upon the strong desire of love.

I for one, am attracted to courage and passion, something that I don’t see in most women. This saddens a part of me, but it also gladdens my heart, since if and when I do fall for someone completely, she will be very special and won’t be easily uprooted from my heart from he wiles of the world. In order to discern that you love someone, you should sit down and think of the person you like, then, write in the order of priority, the things you like about them. Then, consider whether the qualities that you like about the person are rare, and if they are incredibly rare? Then be assured that you’re very close to love; indeed, this kingdom is worth living, fighting, and dying for.

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