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graphicabyss · 4 years

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?人 NEWS

I wrote an enormous post, or rather an essay, concerning NEWS, Tegoshi, and everything that went through my mind in the past month. Honestly, it’s mostly my way of coping, getting it out of my system and sorting out my thoughts and feelings. But I decided to also post it here for those who might want to read.

It was a long time coming. The rumours were lurking around for years and a month ago they bloomed. And yet, the full realization is yet to dawn on me. When something devastating happens, our mind tends to shake off the pain by either exonerating the beloved person who hurt us, or blaming them and distancing away from them. It's really hard to stay objective. But I'll try.

Coming into this fandom, I prepared myself for disappointment. Once I was a TVXQ fan. You know, the 5-nin TVXQ that was going to be "together forever" and all that. So I wowed never to get that invested in a pop band. When NEWS came along, I tried not to get too attached. I knew it would hurt me, sooner of later. And for awhile, it worked. But, as years went by, I knew I lost the battle. We humans need to cling to something. Thus, nearly 7 years have passed.

To me, Tegoshi has always been a key component. He was the one that led me to NEWS. Or rather, how pretty he looked in a dress. Tegoshi always kept me interested. Sometimes he excited, sometimes he annoyed, but he was never ever boring. He was made of contradictions, both in words and in actions. Nothing ever adds up with him. He made me want to understand him but I could never quite grasp it. Thinking about it now, perhaps it was because he doesn't really understand himself either.

In these years, I had several crisis points where I considered leaving the fandom, all caused by something shitty Tegoshi said or did. But every time I bounced back. Of course, I didn't do it for him. I did it for myself. However, his selfishness has always been offset by his kindness. The last time was him crying at the end of Neverland tour and how sorry he looked. Till the end, I wanted to believe that his common sense and loyalty won't let him do something reckless and stupid. Yet, here we are. The interview he gave to Bunshun led me to believe that he would do the right thing. He said he would show his gratitude to JE and would definitely make his fans happy but now it's the furthest thing from the truth. The fandom is disappointed, confused, angry.

Some people say to get over it, that Tegoshi was meant to leave or some shit. But I think those people fundamentally misunderstand the heart of the problem. It's not that he left that infuriated the fandom. It's how and when he left. Most fans would support his decision to leave if the transition was done properly. He owed us that much. A proper apology. A proper gratitude. A proper farewell. The announcement had me in disbelief. I expected him to at least finish the contract, do the Story Tour, no matter how long it takes, and show the members, staff and the fans the respect they deserve. To cut it short feels like a violation. At the very least, we need a closure. The last goodbye. The last concert. The last something. He just left JE after 17 years like it was nothing.

More than anything, what he did seems so stupid. He had it so fucking good. He was always in the spotlight, both on stage and in TV shows. The other members did most of the offscreen work allowing him to shine. He was supported by endlessly patient members and staff. He had the freedom to choose and all the work he wanted for each of his passions - ItteQ, Soccer Earth, OpenRec. And he had fans that always supported him, no matter how many scandals he had.

What was so important that he had to give up on all the amazing benefits he had? To betray all this trust? And on top of it, at a time like this? When all world is going through so much shit? When the fans need moral support more than ever? What were the "dreams" that he talked about?

The ability to rant on Twitter? Making duckface selfies? Fucking around? Assembling a shitty rock band? Performing with strippers? Some kind of unique business opportunity? He talked for years about wanting to perform overseas or hosting fan events but right now these things are offlimit anyway. Why couldn't he at the very least explain his decision properly? Just that alone will definitely hurt his further career in the long run. The press-conference lasted 2 hours but it answered none of the questions that really mattered and there was no remorse. Though at this point, I can't trust anything he says anyway. He created his Twitter account the the evening it all went down and didn't bother explaining himself. He just jumped off the ship and let other people deal with the damage.

Even now, it all seems like some kind of bad dream. Then again, all of the 2020 does.

When I first saw "手越退社" trending on Twitter back in May I felt like I was spinning into a downward spiral, like all air was sucked out of me. And it wasn't the "oh, no! what will the band do?" I never went to a NEWS concert and never brought any merch. To me, it wasn't really the feelings of a fan whose band faces a crisis but rather that of an entrepreneur who invested too much money into one asset and watched it plummet.

Fandom stuff is a currency that can devalue in a blink of an eye. Its valuable as long as its core message is intact. This is why I can't stand people being petty over scans or videos. I share when I can knowing it will make someone happy because I know that tomorrow that someone might move on. When I stumble upon old closed journals with password-protected downloads they feel like ancient abandoned temples. The treasures in them turned to dust.

4nin NEWS were based on unity, the combination of 4 unique characters. Four components, each of them essential. Now that concept failed. It's like standing in front of a collapsed building. I try to assess the damage. How much of it can I salvage? Repurpose? How much is lost and needs to be cleaned up? Should I even bother?

What do I do with hundreds of live performances and TV shows, in HD, lovingly downloaded and stored?

What to make of thousands of scans, magazines, pamphlets, almost each image edited and sorted? Thousands more stored neatly in folders, waiting to be posted. Countless screens and gifs.

What of the member ai fanvideos that gained over 100k on Youtube bringing joy to so many people? I already got the first heartbroken comment saying "we won't ever see them like that again, will we?"

What to make of my unfinished stories? Honestly, it's one of the things I'm most proud in my entire life. Now their future is uncertain.

Do I take down the poster on my wall? The CDs on my shelf? Soon I will have to looks at my enormous stash and decide for each item. Things that once brought joy now cause pain.

NEWS weren't selling music, they were selling ideas and dreams. The cute band photos now cause hurt and anger. The uplifting songs about unity won't be convincing. All the concerts lost their charm.

Am I being too dramatic? Probably. Perhaps the issue itself may seem trivial to an outsider but our grief is real.

Tegoshi keeps saying he loves NEWS and adores the members. But to me, loving is doing everything you can to avoid hurting the ones you love. Perhaps he means it, but that love will never compare to the love he has for himself. Despite what he says, I doubt we'll even see them together again and I'm not even sure I want to. I knew apart from Koyashige, the members aren't really that close personally. Tegoshi is shallow and seeks popularity more than anything. I'm sure than now he'll hang out with even shadier characters than before. The members used to provide him with the much needed tough love. Now, with nothing and noone holding him back, he'll give in to his overblown ego.

I'm not sure how I feel about NEWS continuing as 3. I mean, I support their decision and that's probably what most fans want but to me, I don't know if it'll work out that well. They were already a band with a lot of luggage and now, just like in 2011, they are a band that induces pity. They would have to rearrange so much to try and fill this huge gaping hole. Not to mention they will struggle vocally. No songs, no choreography can be unaltered. It might be better to go on within the agency doing their own things. But then that would just mean Tegoshi was indispensable and all the work they put in will be wasted. The Story must be competed.

In the past week I went through various stages of grief. The anger was strong and so was disbelief. Now it's finally subsiding, giving way to acceptance. It won't come soon but I'll let all the emotions run their course. The fact is Tegoshi remains very entertaining and the temptation to keep following him and rant about him is strong. I probably wouldn't even fight it if he were to leave with at least a shred of dignity. But with the way things are, I refuse to support him in any way. And I will at least try to phase him out as much as I can as I realize that even my anger is playing into his hands as he wants nothing more than attention, good or bad. Instead, I'll try to focus on those who do deserve support.

I'm not yet sure how to proceed with the blog and everything else but I'll take my time and figure it out. The truth is Tegoshi was one of the two major things that have kept me here for so long. And no, the second reason is not Shige. It's the people. Out of all the fandoms I've been in over the years this one really felt like home. I met so many amazing people here, even though many of them have since moved on. I felt accepted and appreciated.

This week has been an emotional roller-coaster. But today I feel fine. I have a dozen reasons to be depressed. But I'm not miserable right now because of the fandom. I've had about 10 people write to me within several days. Some of them I haven't talked to in months, some I've never talked to before, and some from other fandoms. They reached out to share their thoughts and feelings, and I appreciate it so much. I felt less alone. I felt a sense of solidarity, a sisterhood. Many agreed with me and it was touching but even more touching were the people who didn't necessarily agree with me and still wanted to hear what I had to say.

Perhaps it's patronizing but I feel like right now the best I can do is stay connected and go through this together. If I can help others, through informing, making someone smile, or supporting emotionally, it's all worth it.

#musings

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ajokeformur-ray · 5 years

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Cold hands, gentle soul // Joker x Reader // angst + fluff.

This is a twin piece to Coming Home To You. I wanted to explore a similar scenario with Joker in which his fear of losing you is never too far from the surface and tonight, for reasons you have to figure out, everything bubbles over and you’re left with the realisation that the man you first fell in love with is still right here.

I believe that Joker is just as tortured as Arthur is; his entire performance on the Murray show was an explosion of pain and anger and rage, and therefore I feel no shame in writing for him romantically. I fought it at first but now this is the hill I was die on, I don’t care. I love all of Arthur Fleck.

I hope that you enjoy this fic as much as you liked the first! <3 Let me know what you think; as always, there’s little pieces of my soul scattered everywhere, and my love for Arthur Fleck is laced throughout too. Where else can it go but in these works I share?

TW; swearing, smoking, miscommunication in a relationship and definite unhealthy elements which reader is aware of. Angst and fluff; no smut but there is nudity. Reader has flexible morality. Implied mentions of being sick and nausea; no actual occurrence of this though.

Word count: 4, 869.

Something was wrong.

Something was really, really wrong.

Joker had barely spoken to you all day. He had smoked almost double his usual twenty a day while he sat on the sofa in his eccentric three piece suit and his face dressed in full make up. All day was he staring at the television with one leg crossed over the other. He paid little attention to what was on the television and even when the news reported another riot outbreak did his lips barely twitch upwards in the self satisfaction that he usually felt. Not knowing how to read his painted face, you had stayed away from him. If Joker had known how to speak through the shouting in his mind, he would have asked you to stay beside him. He would have told you that he was so, so scared of losing you that he was stuck on the sofa, unable to stop the tirade of negative thoughts which had smashed through his facade like someone had taken a hammer to a mirror. So reluctant was he to open up to you, however, because he never wanted to go back to the weak days when he had been Arthur Fleck, that he did his best to keep himself quiet... His restraint manifested itself in anger towards his own reluctance, which was projected thus onto you. Today was a mess, everything was going wrong and he didn’t understand why he couldn’t just tell you and that made everything so much worse. Combining this with the fact that he had no control over his mood and actions meant that there was a very unpleasant atmosphere in the cramped apartment.

When you tried to speak to him throughout the day, Joker would take a deep drag on a cigarette - by noon you had stopped counting how many he was smoking each hour - and either stare at you until your temporary bravery faltered and you stuttered out a, “Never mind” or he would ignore you all together. It dawned on you by three in the afternoon that Joker was angry. It was in the way his nostrils occasionally flared. In the way he would randomly clench his fists or in the way he would audibly groan and tip his head over the back of the sofa, like he couldn’t handle whatever was bothering him anymore. It was in how restless he was; often did he rearrange his legs, only to huff and rearrange himself some more. He didn’t stay in the same position for longer than a few minutes at a time. You would do your best to not worry about him until his knees started to bounce, though. That was a danger sign that was left over from before his Joker transformation and it always spelled trouble. It meant that Joker was feeling too much all at once and his nerves, his neuroses and his tensions were getting the best of him. Woe betide you if ever you didn’t take this warning sign seriously.

All day had one thought been in your mind, swirling like a tornado and disturbing the peaceful waters of your mind: if the shoe had been on the other foot, Joker would have literally cornered you into telling him what was wrong by now. He would have backed you into a corner and made you tell him what was causing your bad attitude. He would have barricaded the front door and used his body in all the best ways to make you speak to him. Joker wouldn’t have taken no for an answer. He always preferred to get everything all out into the open as soon as possible so that whatever it was could be resolved; he knew well what it did when one held in their emotions and didn’t act on or even release them. It poisoned one’s heart, made them bitter. Over time did this twist their soul until they no longer remembered who they had been before the emotions had taken hold with a tight and relentless grip.

The way that Joker point blank refused to even look at you for any period of time longer than it took for him to glare at you before he inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to ten under his breath; his lips miming as he did so was starting to piss you off. It was starting to really piss you off. What made him so special that he could act as he liked, whereas if you tried to do it, you would be confronted and held accountable for your actions? It was just rude and you had had enough. You had the feeling that he was trying to protect you from himself. He was trying as hard as he could to not tell you what was wrong for some reason, but the irony was that, in doing this, Joker was doing what he was trying so desperately to avoid. It was nonsensical but the modicum of logic within his suspected thought process was so Arthur that it made your heart ache. He was still the man you had fallen in love with all that time ago. You could feel it and it gave you hope; a dangerous thing for one to possess in a city like Gotham which took everything that you had and more, giving nothing back but desperation and shreds of the person you had been before it all.

You made dinner quietly, spending as much time in the kitchen as you could. You made Joker’s favourite meal, complete with another pack of cigarettes which you had stashed in the bedroom for emergencies, and you had set both down on the living room coffee table with an expectant look towards Joker. You would have taken a sarcastic comment over the passive aggressive way he said “thank you”, like he actually meant the opposite. When you had taken the liberty of lighting a cigarette for him and holding it inches from his mouth and Joker had pulled his head back and snatched the cigarette from you, that had been the last straw for you and you had moodily stabbed at your own food, no longer restraining the urge to glare at him. Underneath your growing anger, however, was worry. It had a hold of your stomach and was making you increasingly nauseous with every mouthful. What the fuck was going on with Joker? You couldn’t help him until he came to you for help, but the way that the grey sky outside had slowly bled into a blacker, more ominous setting made you feel like this would continue into tomorrow; you didn’t think your temper could handle another trying day like this one. You didn’t think you could handle this again in the morning. You had never been great with tense or confrontational situations; most especially when you were being forced to walk on eggshells because you didn’t know why things were strained.

After dinner time, you were just as pissed off as Joker seemed to be. You no longer tried to speak to him. Instead, you holed yourself up in the bedroom after dinner had been cleared away, making your own displeasure known by slamming the door hard, hard enough that the paper thin walls shook and you felt a contrasting sensation of guilt towards your own childishness and satisfaction. You hoped it pissed him off even more; if he was going to treat you the way he had all day then the very least you could do was give him a reason to do so. He had been fine when you had woken up this morning, but by the time you had come out of the bathroom from getting ready for the day had his mood soured. Something had happened while you had tended to your physical and bodily needs and he wasn’t telling you what it was. You had tried many a time to ask if he was all right, but each time did he snap, “Yes, doll. I’m fine.” Any questions you further asked were greeted with the silent treatment and his mood - and yours, subsequently - had deteriorated throughout the day.

You lay curled up on the bed with your back to the door. You were seething and left there to stew in it. It was here, on the bed that you had always shared with the man that you loved, that you could admit to yourself that you weren’t angry. Well, you were, but you were only truly angry about how Joker was hiding something from you. His attempts to protect you from whatever was bothering him were admirable but unnecessary; hadn’t he learned by now that nothing he could ever do or say would take you away from him? You had been with him long enough to know that he was it for you. Never again would you love another. You never wanted to love another again. When you considered his overall mood and the way he very obviously just wasn’t okay but he also wasn’t telling you anything, you were more worried than anything else. It was making you sick to your stomach and you hoped that your dinner wouldn’t come back up; nothing ever tasted good the second time around.

You shut your eyes, curled up even tighter into yourself. You were beginning to feel the consequences of the day’s tension now. You felt sick, you were scared and you were angry at how you had been treated and you were feeling lonely. Joker was just beyond the insubstantial bedroom wall, he was less than thirty seconds away from you in reality, and you felt lonely. Unneeded. You felt inadequate and just wrong, like nothing made sense without Joker by your side. You knew it was dangerous, unhealthy, to place so much of your worth and value as a person into someone else, but you couldn’t help it. You loved Joker too much, you had been there for him, with him, for so long and through so much that without him by your side, your life became cheap. Meaningless. Empty. Your arms felt empty. Just as you realised this, the bed became too big, too cold, too empty and void of everything that had happened here: love, passion, desire and lust and adoration and trust. Trust... Did Joker trust you with what he was experiencing? Did he trust that he could tell you anything and you would listen to him, you would comfort him, hold him and love him and make sure that he knew that he wasn’t alone, that he was seen? Did he know that you loved him?

How had things spiralled so far out of control in just one day?

You let out a soft noise of pain, just wanting to alleviate the ache in your heart, that palpable sensation of love and loss, loneliness and grief. It seemed as though your entire being was bleeding from the inside out for Joker, for the man that he was once, that sweet, pure man of sunshine and light and goodness despite all that happened to him on a daily basis. Your heart bled for the man that he was now; how he obviously felt that he couldn’t be honest with you about what was going through his mind. You had only ever wanted to help him. What good were you to him if you were incapable of doing so at the most crucial moments? You knew you loved each other, and you clung to that knowledge just as surely as you were gripping the duvet beneath your body, your fingers wrinkling the material which still had lines from where it had been folded. You had only changed it this morning and you allowed the scent of fresh laundry to wash over you, soothe you and still the chaos inside you that had been put there by the man who usually brought you nothing but peace and solace.

All thoughts left your mind when your ringing ears picked up the sound of the bedroom door cracking open. You stayed completely still. Your eyes were open now as you stared at the wall, hardly daring to breathe. You were suddenly conscious of your heart pounding in your head, of the way you could feel Joker’s presence in the room. You knew not where he was, only that he was in the room with you, and it seemed to set your entire body alight with love and affection, worry and fear. It was so conflicting to be in love with a man such as Joker, but you wouldn’t trade it for the entire world. You had tasted total liberation in his soul and you would be damned if you ever went back to the way you had lived before you knew that such a man existed. You had always craved, in the deepest parts of yourself, someone who made you feel like you could create chaos, that you could do anything and everything you wanted to without fear of the repercussions, without fear of judgement. In Arthur Fleck, in all that he was, had you found complete and utter acceptance and understanding. That had never been any different, even now. You had always been able to be your naked self around Joker and he had been the same with you - you were each other’s home, each other’s safety. No matter what either of you did, you were safe with each other. You were whole and happy and alive. Joker made you feel alive and that was more valuable to you than anything else.

The silence stretched impossibly far. It mirrored the way that the skin on your hands was pulled taut across your knuckles; so tightly were you gripping the duvet upon which you rested.

The bed dipped behind you and instantly did you tense up. Slowly did curly green strands of hair descend over you, marring your limited vision of the darkened room. You bit your lip as Joker leaned down further still to press a kiss to your cheek. You shut your eyes, feeling a sad smile spread across the corners of your mouth. Unconsciously did you sigh and lean into the touch.

“I know you’re awake.” Joker’s voice was deep, raspy from the way it hadn’t been used for a long time. He hadn’t spoken for hours and if your eyes hadn’t already been shut, they would have slid closed blissfully at the sound of his voice. Oh, help you, it was your favourite sound next to his heartbeat. Just knowing that he was alive, that he was beneath you in those moments, meant more to you than the knowledge of your own continued existence. During those nights that he couldn’t be with you did you suffer the most with sleeplessness, and when he came back in the mornings to find you wide awake and too worried to sleep was he reminded of the depth of your love for him. Sometimes he stayed out all night on purpose, aimlessly wandering around Gotham, just so that he could come home to you in that state. He dearly loved tugging you over to the sofa so that you could fall asleep on him, your head roaming his chest until you found that spot. Oh, how he adored you. You were his entire world and he was yours. Together, your worlds did collide into a universe full of love and light, challenges and triumphs.

You didn’t move. Joker’s breath washed warmly over your cheek and you just enjoyed the closeness. You hadn’t been this physically close to him all day and like he was a drug had you experienced withdrawal. With a huff that carried the weight of unshed tears did Joker put a strong hand on your shoulder, tugging you so that you were lying on your back, your legs still bent. As his face came into view, you saw the tears in his eyes, the way his makeup was smudged; the blue triangles had become physical markers of the tears he had already shed. You lifted both hands slowly, so slowly, and Joker watched you with some hidden depths of pain in his eyes. But you knew. You knew him even better than you knew yourself, and as your fingertips just gently grazed his face did he finally shut his eyes and allow his tears to fall. You didn’t bother to wipe them away. Instead, you tugged him down to you by sliding a hand around to cup the back of his neck, pressing kisses all over his painted face. Joker was beginning to tremble, and you took the initiative to pull him down on top of you fully.

Again and again did you kiss his face, his neck, his jaw... anywhere and everywhere you could reach with his face in your hands did you rain kisses. You had always kind of liked the taste and smell of the face paint that he used, so it was of little consequence to you when it started to smudge on your own face in a strange combination of red, white and blue blurs. You looked like a work of art to Joker.

You opened your mouth to speak and the resounding inhale you took to announce this had Joker’s eyes snapping open as you lured him back to reality. His face was hot under your hands, his body the most welcomed weight. He was like a security blanket in that moment, giving you the strength and the courage you needed to face the very issue which was also giving you comfort. “You’re still the man I fell in love with. Nothing has changed.”

A broken sob. His hands gripped your hips tightly. He would probably leave bruises but you didn’t, wouldn’t care. Anything was better than the sense of emptiness he had begun to instil in you.

Again were you forced to wonder just what was going on in Joker’s mind. Unless... unless that was the issue: Joker was scared that you didn’t love him anymore and in an effort to keep you safe from what was hurting him, he withdrew to the point that you wondered if he still loved you. He thought that, because he had changed, because he had succumbed and dropped any and all sense of responsibility and shed the shackles that were holding him down, because he had transformed from Arthur to Joker, that you didn’t love him anymore. And because you didn’t love him anymore, that meant that he couldn’t tell you what was bothering him even though he desperately wanted to.

In a twisted way did it make sense. You silly man.

You cooed quietly and tugged him down into a proper cuddle; his face resting in the crook of your neck. You rubbed his back, played with his hair, stared up at the ceiling and allowed yourself to cry. You decided to take a wild stab in the dark and just talk. All of those things that you thought of late at night that you dared not tell Joker did you tell the ceiling, needing the man in your arms to understand just how critical this entire situation was. A change in your relationship would occur this night, but it would be for the better. From rock bottom could you only go up; you would drag each other up in the sunlight if you had to, hand in hand and triumphant. “Don’t you know that I’m not afraid of you, of what you do. I’m afraid for you.” Joker stiffened in your arms and you felt him holding his breath, his heart beating a wild tattoo against his rib cage. “If something ever happens and you get taken from me - death or prison or hospital or something - I don’t know what I’d do. If I ever lost you, I couldn’t... mm.” You cleared your throat, raised a hand from Joker’s back to swipe your hand across your face before putting it back where it had been.

“Let them try,” Joker snarled and you smiled. You just smiled. He was talking again. He wasn’t snapping at you, he wasn’t glaring at you. Finally had he accepted the help that you had been trying to give to him all day. “I would rip this world apart to get you back.”

I know you would, Arthur. Only in the safety of your own mind did you dare to call him by his real name. You were unsure of how he would react and so you didn’t risk anything. It was better to keep quiet than to raise questions which he himself had no answer for.

“Will you tell me now?”

“No,” Joker sighed. He sounded so much like his old self that your tears fell hotter, faster, and you couldn’t stifle the sob that left your lips for the life of you. He raised himself then to look at you, supporting his weight on his elbows as he gazed down at you in consternation. It seemed in that moment that he realised what he had been doing to you all day, and the most sincere apologetic look flashed across his face and settled into one of love as he bent his head to kiss your tears away. You leaned into the touch, wanting more of everything that he was giving you. He pulled back just to say “I don’t need to. You love me.”

You grinned. You couldn’t stop yourself. Help you, you did. You would follow him into Hell just to stay by his side. It was with an unspoken mutual decision that you decided to put today behind you. Bottling his emotions up hadn’t worked and you had only fed off of each other’s discomfort. You had somehow managed to figure out what it was that was bothering him and without his even needing to tell you had you soothed his fear in the end. He wasn’t going to lose you because he was Joker now. You still loved him. You weren’t going to leave. You were going to stay by his side and that was all he had ever needed; to be needed.

You hesitated on your next words. Could you say it and get away with it? Would he allow you to bring up his past, to bring up his most vulnerable and weakest part of him? Would he take it at face value and understand that you said it with only the best of intentions? Would he run? Would he get angry? Woulds, coulds and shoulds threatened to choke you but just at the point Joker was going to ask you if you were okay did you say,

“I love you, Arthur. I love you so much.” You allowed all of your love, all of your affection and devotion, trust, respect and need to show on your face and it was with some kind of released tension that Joker smashed his painted lips against yours, kissing you again and again and again.

“Show me. Please, show me,” Joker suddenly seemed almost frantic in his movements to get the both of you undressed, and you grabbed his hands in yours tightly, tugging lightly so he knew to look at you.

“Relax.” You murmured, holding his face in your hands. “Let me take care of you, Arthur.” You rubbed your thumbs across his face in soothing motions, willing him to understand that there was time. Nothing had to happen right now, nothing had to be done before a certain time limit. There was no getting up for work in the morning, nothing that urgently had to be done. You had time.

Carefully did you roll so that he was under you. Softly, gently, did you undress him, making sure to keep your eyes on his body language. The way he inhaled shakily when your hand brushed over his crotch, the way his eyes focused on the way you easily unbuttoned his shirt with deft fingers, the way he arched into your touch. You put so much care into everything you were doing, trying to use your actions to convey just how much you still loved him, even after everything. Truthfully did you know that there was nothing Joker could say or do that would turn you away from him. You were just in too deep to be able to pull yourself out of the life that you had built together.

When at last you were both naked, your clothes scattered carelessly about the room, did Joker begin to take initiative again as he rolled so that you were under him.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I - “

Gently did you shush him. “It’s okay. I understand.” You reached up and kissed him tenderly, keeping only love at the forefront of your mind. Desperate were you to soothe his pain with your love, your patience and your understanding. Your anger had melted away now as though it had never been there in the first place. You could never stay angry at him for too long; it hurt you too much and often did you just let it go, accepting each moment as it came. “I know you.”

Joker seemed to lose all trace of lust and want as all the fight left his body. He tucked his head back into the crook of your neck, pressing dry and warm kisses to the skin there as he snuggled into you. He just wanted to be loved. Clumsily did you attempt to pull the duvet out from underneath your bodies. Joker huffed the first genuine laugh of the day against your skin and it made you laugh too. Joker pulled back to gaze at you, galaxies in his eyes as a slow smile spread across his face. His makeup was now smudged all over your face, your chest, your clothes, and he looked more like his bare faced self, now. He was ethereal no matter what state he was in.

“Look at you.” His voice was quiet, his eyes shining with that same spark that Arthur’s eyes had always had, and you heard his words for what they were; an apology and a promise. A promise to try to be better in the future. A promise to try to be more open, to allow you to see his vulnerability without leaving you on eggshells and uncertainty. It was a promise to try, just try, and that was enough. You both knew that you would be fine together if you continued to try every day, as it came. Sometimes one of you had to try more than the other, and sometimes it was more of a balance. But no matter what, you couldn’t give in, you couldn’t give up. Each day did you choose each other and each day did you fall more in love. You completed each other and offered balance to the other’s personality traits. It was written in the stars, you liked to think.

You blushed. “Speak for yourself.” You booped his nose with a delicate finger and he smiled at the old, familiar gesture as he caught your hand in his, held on tightly and pressed a reverent kiss to the palm. The gesture had made him think of the day he had come home shattered by the truth, and you had showered with him and gently put him back together; you had always been there for him, always, and nothing he did would ever be enough to repay that kindness, that goodness in you. He would spend the rest of his life being the best version of himself, if only to make everything you did for him, everything you had sacrificed for him, worthwhile. Even now, even after all of this did he feel most unworthy of you. If you knew, you would tell him that in feeling unworthy did he become worthy, but he wouldn’t understand or be able to accept that he was already more than enough. All he had to do was to be himself and in that would you love him.

“I love you.”

A soft murmur against the skin of his neck. “I love you too.” Again and again did you kiss him, as if you were trying to kiss his tormented soul better. As if you could reach the deepest parts of him and soothe them. Love them. Heal them. Heal him. If love was enough to heal someone’s hurts and torments, then the strength and depth of yours would mean that Arthur Fleck would never feel an ounce of pain or hurt ever again.

In the end, it would never matter who or what Arthur became, what he did or even what mischief he caused in the city. He was yours and you loved him, cherished and treasured him. You were still just as fiercely protective of him as you had always been, and though there were more challenges now than there had ever been in your relationship, you were still able to reach the rawest parts of him. You were still able to bring his vulnerability into light and you could still quiet his rage. So long as you could reach his core self, his goodness, you knew that you were still needed. No matter what happened, you would never leave. Not for all the money in Gotham.

The Arthur Fleck/Joker Defense Squad @writings-of-a-gen-z @x-avantgarde-x @mapreza1 @insomniabird @mavalenovaninagavi @itwasrealenough @morrisonmercurymalek @rand0ms-fand0ms @rafaelina-casillas @aclownthing @rebs-doom @vivft @help-i-am-obssessed @autumnaffection @taintednihilist @vladtoly @mg-woolf99 @misstgrey92 @that-s-life @dopey-girl-blogs @seeking-dreamland @sweetheart-syndrome @heartxfdesire @xmusichealsthesoulx @0callmejude0 @the-one-that-likes-riddles @hannibalsslut @folliaght @freeeshavacadoo @bingewatchingmylifegoby @unlovedbyeveryoneandeverything @okamiredfoxx @sp0okysp0oky @the-pandorabox @mardema @jibanyyan @honeyflvredcoughdrop @emissarydecksetter @jokerfleckk @epidendroideae @chuuntas @stillmabel @pumpkinpeyes @onehystericalqueenposts @the-jokers-wolf @nalsswa @justahyena @arianatheangelworld @soullessblondbitch @gothamslittlejester @twentyonestarrynights @sirianfromsixties @kissmeclownman @joker-is-my-hero @lazyloosah @lovesickkloxx @ladylovelyluna @live-love-loki @clownerybbxx @tragicarthur @anmach123

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x you #arthur fleck x y/n #joker #joker 2019 #joker 2019 imagine #joker imagine #joker x you #joker x y/n #todd phillips #joaquin phoenix #Joaquin phoenix joker #joaquin phoenix x reader #joaquin phoenix imagine #phoenix!joker #phoenix!joker x reader #phoenix!joker imagine

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folerdetdufoler · 4 years

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I have a question about Magic Eight Ball--I'm confused about Emma's role and whether or not we should accept Isak's opinion of her as gospel. I've just never had the experience of not quite knowing how I'm supposed to feel about a character in your stories, which always read like carefully planned narratives. Do you have a specific plan for her? Are we meant to distrust her? *asterisked in case you prefer to answer privately

i don’t think i have a specific plan for her. right at this moment i’m writing their second “date,” and there’s one more, contractually, to come. i’m using these as like...a grounding for isak, most of which we’ve seen: emma doesn’t change, her relationship with isak doesn’t change (much), and isak can still trust her as the friend that she’s been all these years. i think he’ll crave that a bit more as he develops his relationship with even too, because that will be a different kind of friendship, and he can use what he has with emma as a comparison tool. it will help him see what he wants more of from even that he knew he never had with emma.

she’ll also be the closest person to him who is in a homosexual relationship, and it’s something that will be pointed out to him (i don’t know by who yet) when he gets critical of the idea of himself in a homosexual relationship. why is he angry about his own attraction and not about emma’s? especially when it was started in infidelity? surely that meant it has two strikes against itself, and yet isak isn’t bothered by it as much as you would expect him to be. you’ll also see a public response to emma’s new relationship that will be generally positive, and that is something isak will be able to witness, which will help tip his scales. they tried to talk about it during their first date but it was kind of danced around and didn’t give much clarity besides making it more obvious that they need to talk about it.

in general though, emma is a tough character and one i don’t feel like exploring too much because she was a villain from the start. no one likes a cheater (especially in this fandom, where the canon actions of even and sonja and isak and emma have been moralized to shreds). i tried to soften the blow by making the infidelity feel...useful? it gave isak a reason to look at their relationship and end it. it gave even a tool to get isak’s attention and let us see his intentions (as well as how he tends to execute things). it gave emma a bigger life outside of isak’s girlfriend, who continued to exist once that definition no longer applied. i do know that none of those are excuses for cheating, but it felt natural to me that it happened like that. i think people tend to stay unhappy and unfulfilled longer than they would like to because the situation is also safe. it can be difficult to see if you will be happier alone than happier together, so you’ll stay unhappy together until you know you’re happier with someone else. i don’t want to spend time trying to justify this in the story though, or dig up other excuses to turn her into a tool for my preaching, which is probably why she feels so vague.

so, i don’t have a plan for her. you can distrust her because she’s a cheater but i don’t want her to be a villain to isak.

#magic eight ball #kerrywrites #well now i'm like SHOULD I BE GIVING HER MORE DEPTH #but at the same time knowing i won't because i don't like how i wrote her from the start #extra effort feels exactly that: extra #also dear god i'm only idk...halfway?#the story is already too long #i know i have to get to september so we have another two months to go #putting the slow in slow burn #idk if it can handle more emma #and i know i still have a lot to work on with kari anne and elias's friends too #ugggh #i don't like this simply because it made me aware of how deep a hole i've dug for myself

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cero-blast · 5 years

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Your post about Gin "messing with people's heads" makes me think, doesn't this also apply to Ulquiorra? He also psychologically tortured Inoue, don't you think it's hypocritical to say Gin's actions don't nullify the bad things he did, but say that UH is good/not toxic? I'm not trying to hate on you, I don't ship anything in Bleach, I just wanted to know why Gin is considered a bad inexcusable guy but Ulquiorra's relationship with Inoue is glorified?

This will get… really long. I’m genuinely sorry it’s this long.

I never said Ulqiorra did nothing wrong (though it’s fair to say I didn’t happen to specifically point it out), or that UH is a ship with many positive feelings associated to it. That would be… an interesting take. I hope you don’t think I think that. But I also need you to understand that I don’t base my taste in ships on what I desire/consider healthy in real life. They exist in the context of the canon — not interchangeable with reality considering the existence of superpowers, ghosts, semi-human creatures and time warping — and that’s where it ends for me. Applying the dynamics in my ships to any situation other than the precise one of Bleach’s canon would make them fundamentally different.

I’ve wanted to mention this about Ulquiorra for a while now and I’ll take the occasion to do so. It’s a mistake to put him in the same framework as a human or shinigami. (The latter two also have their differences but based on observation shinigami seem to behave in a much more human-like manner compared to hollows/arrancars.) He’s practically incapable of understanding what empathy is or find any good reason not to hurt other people, which is why it’s surprising when he manages to grasp even a shred of the concept right before dying. Hollows are born from experiencing such severe pain that it distorts their whole ‘essence’, so something has gone terribly wrong with them emotionally by definition, whether they evolve to arrancar form or not. Ulquiorra’s aspect of death, his ‘theme’, is emptiness — characterized by complete neutrality towards everything. Since a person with a healthy mindset tends to focus on danger and negative events, neutrality often comes across as immoral for being equally conceding towards moral right and moral wrong. The point is, Ulquiorra’s motivations for provoking Inoue had nothing to do with him taking joy in causing pain to her. In fact, it’s hinted he’s not even fully aware he’s doing it, like the scene where he tells Inoue he’d laugh at her friends’ foolishness in her place. He’s unaffected by most things AND has difficulty placing himself in others’ perspective, which results in him assuming everyone around him would be unaffected. The only thing that factored into him doing just about anything was curiosity, the need to fill the void, however you want to put it. If a human or shinigami behaved the same way he did around Inoue, it would come across in a vastly different way and I’m not sure it would even interest me as a ship. Ulquiorra is not only a hollow, but a hollow with a particular impediment in understanding how others feel, and this is an integral part of him as a character, of his interactions, of UH, of anything regarding him. I know it’s funny as a fandom meme to act as if he were human, but he’s NOT and this needs to be kept in mind.

This applies to any arrancar or espada, really. It’s tempting to judge them on the same basis as enemies who are closer to humanity, mainly because of their appearance and intellect. But this is the trick itself the narrative plays, a progression that has been present in Bleach since the start: it created a human/monster (shinigami/hollow here) dichotomy, then spent the longest arc deconstructing it by blurring the lines between the two. It doesn’t matter how smart and eloquent the espada manage to get, the only productive way of interpreting them is as people who are missing a very core part of their personality, so someone severely psychologically ill. (I say this as someone who has their own problems, before it gets misinterpreted as condescension.) Should this absolve them from punishment? Bleach says a very clear no. They almost all get killed by shinigami, in Ulquiorra’s case Ichigo specifically — Ichigo, who, by his own admission, empathized with everyone he fought and even gets angry at Yammy for speaking ill of Ulquiorra after his death. (I don’t want to start arguing about how he was in hollow state when he defeated him. He would have killed Ulquiorra either way if he continued to stand in the way of protecting his friends.)

In summary, the espada aren’t human. Ulquiorra isn’t human. It’s unrealistic to expect him to behave like a human. You’re free to pick who you want to have compassion for among Bleach’s positive and negative characters and if you decide Ulquiorra is irredeemable in your opinion, that’s fine — many characters would agree. But at the very least it can be objectively said that Bleach spends a lot of time presenting ‘evil’ characters’ perspectives as nuanced and explicable instead of writing them off. It gives the audience a choice in the matter. A core message of the entire story is that we’re subjective and maybe we’ll never manage to see the world the same way as someone else, but that’s fine and it doesn’t make us all that different; hollows can become *almost* shinigami, shinigami can become *almost* hollows, and they both have ways to relate to one another while retaining the insurmountable differences and even fighting and killing each other.

Now, onto Gin. First off, you seem to be under the impression that I don’t like him as a character. That couldn’t be further from the truth; I only said it in the tags because I figured saying it in the post would have sounded like making excuses, which is not what the post was about. I don’t know if I would call him a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ person. All I know is that I really enjoyed him as a character and I could see how he evoked sympathy — in the tragic way antagonists do when they get some sort of redemption. I noticed it’s a common tool in fiction to make an impact on the audience, I suppose because we’re happier when we see ‘bad people getting fixed’ rather than someone already good doing more good things. It’s a Prodigal Son type of thing; can be argued about but it definitely makes an impact.

Gin is a quintessential ‘mysterious type’; he has a long-running plan that he executes throughout almost his entire life without ever consulting with anyone (an important detail). He had a hypothesis on what would be the most effective way to kill Aizen and constructed a convoluted plan based on it — a plan where the ends would have justified the means in many, many situations, and that required causing problems to a lot of people. He had, however, no certainty that what he was doing would lead to the desired results (which it then didn’t…). A lot of his provocation was a means to create a certain image of himself and there’s a big question of where to draw the line there, whether all of that was absolutely necessary. Leaving to Hueco Mundo and technical demonstrations of loyalty were, sure, but mocking Rukia on her way to being executed? He considered keeping everything a secret a prerequisite for things to work out — presumably because if he talked to anyone, Aizen could have noticed — but was it, really? Many of his actions were based on his personal judgement on what would and wouldn’t have ruined the façade, subjective and hunch-based since he didn’t know the outcome for sure.

Gin isn’t inexcusable, but I noticed a lack of emphasis on the damage his actions caused among fans, both because of the chronological order of the story and his affiliation with the protagonists’ side. Because the last thing he did was a good thing, that’s what he’s remembered by, without taking into account the sum total of his interactions with others. He posited himself as vicious until the last moment and did so consciously. Ulquiorra had a very, very gradual progression in the way he talked to Inoue, which doesn’t make it less rude and traumatic, but there’s a difference between him showing up and telling her she ‘has no rights’ and later taking an active interest in her views on the Heart. It would be equally reductive to interpret him by his last moment and nothing else, but all he did before led to that moment progressively, while Gin’s was a very abrupt twist.

My post was a comment on psychology on the most basic, technical level, not a moral judgement. The two are separate in the way we process trauma and that’s exactly what I find interesting. Having strong negative emotions associated to a memory (what I think Kira, Hinamori, Hitsugaya or Rangiku could have had with Gin’s betrayal) creates a very subconscious reaction that can hardly be fixed by suddenly finding out it was necessary for a positive cause, which is why healing from trauma requires years of therapy. Because *in that moment* you didn’t have that knowledge, the pain remains in your memory and it’s not a matter of logical reasoning. Now, I’m not saying Ulquiorra’s interactions with Inoue were numerous or productive enough to properly process the trauma he caused her — the canon info is ambivalent on how comfortable Inoue was around him towards the end of her captivity because there’s both scenes like the famous slapping one *and* her seeming more light-hearted towards Ulquiorra in Unmasked, plus no one has any idea of which came before which. All things considered, I think repeated discussion and an attempt at mutual understanding does a better job at elaborating something traumatic than one single piece of information on why what traumatized you was justified. And note that the *only reason* the understanding between Ulquiorra and Inoue could have been mutual is because Inoue was exceptionally patient, empathetic and willing to face discomfort, way beyond the base level or what should be expected from anyone. Even if it was a *small amount* of *not very productive* discussion, it’s better than one act in my opinion (which most of the people who had some sort of issue with Gin didn’t even directly witness). Which of them is *morally worse* depends on how you draw the lines and define morality and that’s not something I feel qualified to decide.

So, in the end;Ulquiorra:-working towards enemy goals overtly-motivated by curiosity, which can be considered self-oriented-gradual improvement-not fully conscious of the emotional impact of his actions-Inoue considers him an ambivalent presence but “Isn’t afraid”, in her words-half-succeeded, as in: failed the goal of killing Ichigo but sated his curiosity

Gin:-working towards enemy goals on the surface and soul society goals covertly-motivated by attachment to Rangiku and/or revenge, less self-oriented but still focused on close acquaintances -long-running façade of being a terrible person followed by a sudden twist towards the good side-completely aware of everything he’s doing, plan laid out hundreds of years in advance-Gotei 13 don’t interact with Gin throughout HM arc, consider the traitors a lost cause-failed to kill Aizen

Instead of this encyclopedia I could have just written “Gin isn’t irredeemable, I just said he did bad things before”, but I thought too much about it. And I might go through spelling mistakes once I wake up.

#anon #ask #long post

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heartslogos · 8 years

Text

send the morning [18]

“But what if Mother and Father don’t approve of him, Maxwell?” Evelyn wrings her hands together, “I want them to approve. Cullen is such a good man. Not a word, Cole.”

Dorian glances at Cole who ducks his head down and murmurs something to himself.

“Who cares what they think, Evelyn? You’re the Inquisitor of Thedas,” Maxwell waves a hand, “You’ve killed how many high dragons? Demons? Foiled how many plots? Give me a refresher because I wasn’t there for some of it because you are terrible and told Josephine she could send me off to discuss things with people. As an aside - are you out of your mind about that? Me? Discuss things? With people?”

“I know, Evelyn, Maxwell can’t hold a discussion on any one particular topic to save his life,” Dorian snorts, “Are you going to finish writing that letter anytime soon? I know you wanted me around for moral support and such, and I do want to be supportive, but there’s only so much time in a day and watching you stare at a pen and paper like they’re going to kill you loses its charm after about an hour or two.”

Evelyn grimaces. “I just. How do I even start?”

“For one thing, I’m pretty sure most people know that you and the Commander are engaged in the most respectable and fictitious - in that it seems like it came out of a work of incredibly cliched theater, rather than it being false - courtship. Chances are this isn’t news, more like a formality,” Dorian says.

“A formality that will open the gates to a conversation that may end up very, very poorly,” Evelyn says.

“What does it matter?” Maxwell frowns, “They sent you to prison when you were twelve.”

“The Circle wasn’t a prison, Maxwell.”

“And they used me as an excuse,” Maxwell continues, voice gaining an electric edge.

Evelyn closes her eyes, “We went over this, Maxwell. They were right.”

“Well we haven’t come to terms of agreement just yet on that one,” Maxwell scowls.

Dorian looks between them, “Is this where I leave? Getting a little too personal?”

“It’s fine,” The Trevelyans say.

“Point is, who gives a shit about what your parents think?”

“You know, Maxwell,” Dorian says, “I know it sounds like a myth but apparently there are people in this world who care very deeply about what their parents think. Unlike you. I, for one, am a very reluctant example. Evelyn seems to be a more enthusiastic one.”

Maxwell waves his hand, “On the contrary, Dorian. I care deeply about what my parents think. I’ve just realized they don’t care about what I think at all. And that makes all the difference.”

Bull moves between Skinner and Dorian and a rage demon - he’s keenly aware of the fact that a giant hole opened up somewhere near the back of the fortress, and that a giant Arch Demon flew into it, and that the chances are that the Inquisitor was right in the middle of it are stupid high. That woman is a walking danger magnet. But there isn’t the time to think about how far down south this entire situation has plummeted.

“Alright?” Bull yells, and maybe Adaar is right and he is getting old because the bones of his arms are beginning to ache from holding off the blows of swords and maces with his own weapons.

“Working on it,” Dorian yells back, hauling Skinner up, “Dalish, where are you?”

“I’m out,” Dalish yells, twirling her staff and slamming it into an unfortunate Warden’s head, “I’m flush out, Pavus. Don’t you look at me.”

“Well I’m out, too,” Dorian yells back, “Fuck.”

Bull feels the stone of the ramparts tremble.

“What the fuck now?” He turns and grunts because he’s so busy staring like a novice that he misses the fear demon that just narrowly misses probably shredding his shoulder to pieces because a warden is thrown into it and both go over the ramparts.

“Maker’s fucking cock,” Krem says over the almost sort of silence that descends in the face of that, “Please tell me that thing is on our side.”

“Creators,” Dalish breathes, “The Dread Wolf laughs at us all.”

“Is that a fucking bear?” Rocky says, “Ancestors damn it, Trevelyan, how bad is your luck that you’re attracting bears in the desert?”

“I think,” Bull says as the bear that takes up almost the entire path with its girth swipes out with an angry bellow and sends demons, wardens, and Venatori - who slipped in somewhere between the Arch Demon and the giant green hole - flying over the walls, “It’s on our side.”

Then the bear sees them and roars, and begins to run - charge - in earnest. And this bear. This bear is probably as big as the bears at the Graves.

Bull swears, and the bear barrels straight past him and tackles a pride demon head on, bellowing so deep it rattles Bull’s brain.

“Tell me one of you has potions,” Bull glances back and sees Mahanon dragging Cole behind him with Solas laying down cover fire behind them. “Because Cole is falling apart and Solas is down to his last lyrium potion.”

“All out,” Dalish says, “Is that Ellana?”

“Sometimes,” Mahanon says, and then cryptically, “Not for much longer.”

Bull turns back towards the bear, that - this close and without the distraction of Wardens, Venatori, and demons clogging the area; funny how a giant angry bear can clear out a fight so fast - on the black fur he can make out lighter lines that vaguely remind him of Ellana’s vallaslin.

“Fucking hell,” Bull says because this makes sense.

Ellana’s fangs are firmly dug into the pride demon’s neck as she physically drags it down to the ground and begins to rip into it in earnest.

“Maker,” Dorian breathes.

“Not your Maker,” Mahanon snorts, and when Bull turns to look he’s clasped a hand to the side of Dorian’s neck and is checking him over, “Anyone seen the Cadash and Adaar?”

“Kaaras is on the opposite ramparts with Varric and Hawke’s group last I saw, and I know the Valo-kas were supposed to be holding the gates with Blackwall and Sera but they might have moved around,” Rocky says. “We need to get to Stitches.”

Mahanon looks them over, “Stitches is outside?”

“Yes,” Dalish says.

“Ellana will hold the rampart,” Mahanon says, “I’ll get you down to him and come back. Dorian, will you stay with her?”

“Dorian is out, too,” Bull says, “I’ll stay. Grim, go with them.”

“I will stay,” Solas says, “Bring back a few lyrium bottles and I will be fine.”

Ellana roars, throwing the pretty much dead pride demon to the side with her jaws and turning towards them, rising on her hind legs and grunting.

“Stay,” Mahanon yells at her, “I’ll be back for you.”

Ellana lets out a low rumble and swipes a paw out, a loud crunch following when she makes contact with a Venatori fighter who got too close and didn’t have the sense to crouch.

“Keep her here,” Mahanon says, and when the Iron Bull looks Mahanon is looking directly at him. “Keep her. Please.”

There is meaning behind those words that the Iron Bull doesn’t have the context to understand.

“I got her,” Bull says anyway, and it feels true; not a lie. “Go. I’ve got her.”

Blackwall wakes up to a touch of something cold on his face, and he jerks into movement - fist swinging and hitting nothing but air.

As his vision clears and sorts out shadows, he sees -

“You?” Her name slips from his mind for a moment before it resolves itself - “Lavellan?”

The woman crouches, out of reach - eyes glowing in that strange fashion elf eyes tend to do in low light.

She tilts her head.

How did she get so close without him noticing?

“What are you doing here?” He asks, cautious and uncertain. He’s never seen her talk. She’s a peculiar sort of woman. “Is something wrong?”

She sits, head tilted for a while and Blackwall runs a hand down his face. He’s never had the patience for this sort of thing.

“What are you doing here?” Blackwall freezes, looking back up at her. She continues to stare at him. “You,” her voice is deep, low, and it slowly pushes through his chest and presses against the bone there, “Are not a Warden.”

It’s like a bucket of ice was poured directly into him. His ears seem to ring and fill with silence at once.

“What?”

“You,” She repeats head tilting to the other side as she looks at him, “Are not a Warden.”

“That’s a serious accusation to make,” He says.

“That is a serious lie to spread,” She replies, “I will not say anything. There is a reason why you are lying. There is a reason behind this secret. I will keep it for you, not-Warden. But if you ever wanted to escape this trap you have made for yourself, simply ask. We all have secrets. I will help you out of yours.”

She slowly stands, eerie and quiet, and leaves.

He stares at the place she was.

How did she know?

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

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ampharos-writes · 4 years

Text

Memoir

Archivist’s Note: The text from the following statement is excerpted from a historical document - an old letter, discovered in the attic of a condemned home and delivered to the Institute for archiving and analysis. The contents of this letter should make it clear WHY it was entrusted into our care. Details regarding the “statement” have been filled in by institute staff.

Statement #9191101 Author’s Name: John Hawthorne Nature of Incident: The nature and circumstances of his death Date and Location: Letter dated November 1st, 1919; recovered from a home in Lexington, Virginia, USA on March 5th, 2020

Statement

Dearest Father,

I write these words to you, of course, knowing full well that there is no way that you will ever be able to read them. Once I was young and idealistic and believed in the great Kingdom of Heaven, but over the course of my life and the events that have transpired within I have become convinced that God and His Kingdom are nothing but the wishful thinking of so many hopeful fools atop this doomed rock, and that all that awaits us at the conclusion of our time upon it is an eternity of cold unfeeling nothingness, a sheer black Void which at the end of our days does consume all that once lived and breathed and grew and flourished and prospered and withered and faded and died.

You must forgive me, as I am getting ahead of myself. No, I am of course aware that you cannot read these words, but in writing them I am perhaps hoping for one last shred of blissful hope myself, one last tiny morsel of catharsis, as I feel my own time drawing near, and I cannot help but dread it down to the deepest part of my soul.

Have you ever died, father? I suppose that’s a foolish question. A better one might be, “Do you know what it feels like to die?”, as I imagine that at this current juncture you’re much incapable of knowing much of anything at all.

I know what it feels like to die. I know it all too well.

I knew it first when Tom and I ran and played by the old creek, when play-fighting turned decidedly more real, when rough hands shoved my lighter frame down into the rushing rapids and a hidden stone lodged itself deep within the back of my skull, when blood rushed out of my head and water rushed into my lungs, when everything went white with pain and then black with nothing, and I was no more.

And then I wasn’t. I woke up the next day, half-blinded by pain, too stiff to move. The poor doctor hovering inches above me blanched as if he’d seen a ghost, and perhaps he had. I remember him shakily asking me to roll over, remember laying on my side for what felt like forever, listening to him hem and haw and poke and prod and examine and ask “does this hurt?” (yes) and “how do you feel?” (bad) and eventually clear his throat and wander off.

Behind a door they thought was thicker than it was, I heard the doctor discussing in hushed tones with mother. He said that I was bleeding much less than I should have been, that the wound looked much cleaner, that I should make a full recovery after copious bedrest. I remember my mother saying that it must have been a miracle, that we had all truly been blessed. I do not believe anything could be further from the truth.

I know that you knew nothing of these events, father, as mother decided that she would rather not worry you, nor did she wish to inspire anger towards Tom, for both she and I knew that what had happened was not his intent, and that his crying at my bedside for the entirety of my confinement was proof enough of that. I must belatedly apologize for this deception, and further admit that while it was the first, it was certainly not the last.

I recall the first time Tom died, too, though I obviously know not what went through his head during the events that transpired. What I DO know is that his recovery from that illness he underwent as a teenager was not nearly as ordinary as we both convinced the hapless physician overseeing him to tell you that it was. In truth, Tom could have, should have, and did in fact pass away from his disease, but the unfeeling end rejected him as it had me, and his condition improved rapidly with no scientific or medical explanation to back it.

Admittedly, as young men this did contribute to our more… reckless endeavors. How could it not have? I know you saw us both as foolhardy braggarts keen to rush into danger for even the slightest chance at glory, but it was all an act, for neither of us relished the thought of fighting an overseer we never knew for a country we barely cared about. No, it was not brashness that drove us to enlist when the minutemen came calling, but a grim sense of duty. We had each died once or twice more by then, enough to know that for whatever reason our lives refused to be cut short, and we felt a moral obligation to harness this towards a purpose that, for whatever reason, people seemed to believe to be righteous and true.

I fell but once in the battles that ensued, to a bayonet wound that grew gangrenous. I hid my discomfort from the others in my regiment, of course; I imagined it would be more tolerable to fight through the pain for the few days I had remaining than it would be to explain away the aftermath of such a wound. Tom claims to have fallen three times, but I was only personally witness to two of them: a musket ball right between his eyes, and a dozen horses briefly reducing him to a tattered facsimile of a human being, before he opened his eyes and quite literally put himself together.

He was always the more brazen of us, Tom was. I was ever-cautious, equal parts humbled by our apparent gift and fearful that it might one day fail us. Tom was under no such compunctions, and after receiving a taste for danger in that great war for freedom he remained something of a frontiersman and a daredevil, constantly venturing out into the wilderness with nothing but his old musket and a canteen.

You knew all of this, of course, just as you knew that I settled down and attempted to put the past behind me, to make something of a normal life. Tom and I stayed in touch, of course, but I have no idea how many times he perished on his expeditions, and that was perfectly fine by me. I had steady employment and a family to look after. The prospect of pushing my luck in a manner such that he had was completely antithetical to my entire nature.

Of course, all the caution in the world is useless against the ravages of our TRUE father. One can evade death as many times as they wish, but their body shall nevertheless weaken and wither with age, their once-bright eyes growing dimmer, their once-proud posture stooping ever lower, their once-unending vigor suddenly draining away with every step they take, until finally they are no more. Ironically enough it was I who father time came for first, as Tom was evidently in better physical condition than I and remained spry well past the age of 80. You and mother were of course long gone by this point, and my sons had both been killed in the second British war, so the only people I had left to comfort me were Elizabeth and Tom.

Both were with me as I lay in bed, too exhausted to move and barely alert enough to speak. Both were with me as my hands dropped from theirs, as the blankets began to feel as if they were enveloping my very soul, as the world began to go dark. Both were with me as faint whispers danced on the edges of my hearing, bearing secrets I could not hear and would not comprehend, as the edges of my mouth crept upwards into a smile, and my eyes finally allowed themselves to close.

Of course, given that I’m here to tell of it, you may correctly assume that this was not the end of my story, and indeed my eyes did not remain shut for long, as the gentle warmth I bore within me suddenly swelled into a searing inferno, sending shooting stabs of agony into every fiber of my being, and my eyes snapped open, and I screamed. It lasted an eternity. It was over in an instant. It matters not. The concept of time itself, I have come to conclude, is as vague and fluid as anything else we like to assume we know about this world.

Whatever the case, what had started did in fact stop at some point, and the first thing I noticed was that I felt… different. Different, but not unfamiliar. It took me a moment to pinpoint what exactly this feeling was: I felt strong. Able. More able than I had in a long time.

I looked at my hands. Gone were the folds and spots of age. Here were the hands of a young man, able to do the powerful work necessary for a young man to succeed in this life. The same was true everywhere I looked, everywhere I examined upon my person. I hadn’t just died. I had been reborn.

My dear sweet Elizabeth had fainted, of course, and poor Tom was too busy gaping at me to help her. We got her into a chair and got her some water, and after confirming that she was still of sound mind and that I wasn’t some demon or malevolent spirit, we explained to her all that had brought us to this point. I didn’t expect her to believe me, but… perhaps there are some miracles in this world.

It was an… odd next few years. Tom had all but moved in with us, waiting for his OWN rebirth, which none of us had any reason to disbelieve would be coming. Elizabeth and I remained madly in love, of course, but there was this strange sort of distance that had cropped up. I would occasionally catch her staring at me with a look that I couldn’t quite place, or shooting glances at Tom that were outright hostile. I of course attempted to make inquiries about the nature of this, but was repeatedly rebuffed, as she insisted that of course everything was fine, and that I was worrying far too much, and should be enjoying my newfound youth. This prospect, frankly speaking, was tempting enough that I tended to agree with her, and spared little thought to my previous concerns.

The darkest day of my life dawned bright and cold. Winter was fast upon us, and Tom had been up before the sun in an attempt to fetch some firewood. Personally, I suspected that he was intentionally trying to wear himself out, in an effort to speed up his own rebirth, but I saw no reason to try to stop him. Elizabeth was already out of bed when I awoke, and I contented myself to simply lay atop the sheets and enjoy the gentle rays creeping in through the window, listening to the love of my life puttering around in the kitchen. In a moment of weakness, I permitted myself to slip into a bit of a flight of fancy, imagining that my lifelong connection with this woman had perhaps extended my curse to her as well, and that she too would be reborn, for us to jointly enjoy a life eternal. It would be… nice.

My daydreaming was interrupted by a terrible, gut-wrenching scream.

I’ll admit to only remembering flashes of the rest of the day. The shock of an event so terrible would do that to anyone, I think. I recall bolting from bed and running through the house. I remember Elizabeth, lying on the ground, her blood pooling atop her chest where a pale and trembling hand still clutched the kitchen knife. I remember the look on her face, equal parts anger and melancholy and regret. I remember she said something as the last of her life slipped away, but I don’t remember if I replied.

I don’t remember Tom returning home, but he must have. I assume he would have found me still standing there, just… looking at her. I don’t remember him guiding me out the door or across town to his own modest lodgings, though I do have vague images of his own rebirth a few short days later. His face was much the same as I recalled it, though tinged with the unmistakable wisdom of age.

To this day, I don’t know why she did it.

The next few years passed in a blur. There wasn’t much I wanted to do except drink and mope, and Tom was of no mind to stop me from doing so. They say that time heals all wounds, but I think that gives time too much credit. I find that wounds deep enough will always leave a scar - enough that you’re not actively bleeding out, but still weaker than the surrounding area, and cementing the memory of the events that created it deep within one’s psyche. So after a few years of my sullen stupor, the wound did indeed began to scar, and I attempted to figure out what I was going to do with what appeared to be my now-unending life.

Of course, at this point Tom and I lapsed into the hedonism one would expect of any two men in their physical primes who believed themselves to have truly and permanently cheated death. We drank, gambled, traveled, hunted, partook in all sorts of activities that sane men would have balked at a hundred times over. Tom fought for the south on a lark, the smug bastard, and you’d be fool to believe that I haven’t lorded our victory over him ever since. We performed odd jobs when we needed money and lived like vagrants when we didn’t. For the first time in my afterlife, I felt like I was truly living.

It was when the Grand Columbian Exposition came to town that we finally learned more of the nature of our situation. Not from the event itself, of course; the nature of our anomalous qualities bears only a tenuous connection to what most people know to be reality, and thus an exposition of such prestige would nary venture to go near exploring it. The prestige and attention that the event brought to Chicago, however, brought with it a fair number of hangers-on hoping to absorb some of the prosperity they figured would be in fair abundance, and it was in the dimly-lit stall of one such vendor that we sought our wisdom.

She claimed to be an oracle from the slopes of Olympus, able to divine the threads of fate and feel out their general trajectory both past and present. Of course, I assumed this was all fairly nonsense - though it was fairly plain that she was at least telling the truth about her Mediterranean origins - but it had been Tom’s idea, and we had nothing better to do. I recall jokingly confiding in Tom that our cover was about to be blown. As it turns out, I was right.

There was no crystal ball, no light show, no smoke and spectacle. She simply sat us down at a small table and stared, hard, at the both of us, fingertips slowly tracing lines we could neither see nor feel. A heavy stillness filled the air, and despite it being a warm summer’s day I suddenly felt very, very cold. When she finally spoke, it was as if she was looking right through me, and I realized with a start that she was very clearly blind.

“Never have I seen the strands of fate so closely intertwined. When one strand is cut, the other patches the gap, until both are so thoroughly entangled that they cannot progress any further. Fate shall not continue Her weaving unless one severs the knot.”

Her voice reverberated through my ears, their meaning clear as day. I shakily slapped a bill down on the table and the two of us fled into the now-too-bright afternoon.

So this is the crux of my tale, father. While Tom lives I cannot die, and the reverse is true as well. We were born together, have lived together, and must die together. Confident as we were at the time, we believed this fate avoidable, and easily so: we would simply have each other’s backs, protecting each other from dangerous circumstances, and we would be fine. Given that this was how we had been living anyways, it seemed almost trivially simple to continue to wind our knot.

But these are curious times, father. The Great War came and went, and out of an abundance of caution neither of us served, but it may spell the end of us anyways. We learned of the Black Plague in the schoolhouse, of course, but this isn’t that. This is something far more insidious. It doesn’t make itself evident with boils and pustules and the overpowering smell of rot and decay. It begins as a common cold, one that simply refuses to go away, that buckles down and ingrains its presence within its host, until it simply saps the life out of them. Dehydration, starvation, breathing problems - no matter the method, the end result is the same. And it’s the one outcome where having each other’s backs may have done more harm than good.

As I write this, Tom lays in the bed next to me, his forehead slick with sweat, his sleep restless, his breathing shallow. My own hand trembles as I write, and were I not writing to a man over a hundred years deceased I would fear for the legibility of it all. I can feel the plague doing its insidious work all throughout my body. Everything hurts, and I know that it will not stop hurting until the end, and that this time it truly will be THE end.

I would say that I lived without regrets, but Tom has always been better at deceiving you than I have. If I am wrong about everything, don’t bother to pass on my regards, as I shall give them myself. If I am right... well, I could do with a rest.

Forever Yours, John

Statement

Historical documents tend to be very, very good at piquing my interest, but this one has been a bit of a dead end. Public record keeping tends to be rather haphazard this far back, and the name Hawthorne is a bit too common in colonial America to truly be of any use. Beyond verifying that the letter truly is as old as it claims to be, there’s little we can do here.

I DID ask Lissa to speak with the man who delivered this, a Mr. Nathan Finch. He read the letter and claimed no knowledge of any family or acquaintances by the name Hawthorne, though he admitted that his mother, one Persephone Theopoulos, had passed away when he was young, and that he knew little to nothing about that side of his family.

It’s worth noting that Mr. Finch discovered the letter through his work with the American Historical Society, and has no personal connection to Lexington, Virginia or the house therein. He himself resides in Chicago, Illinois.

-Amy A. Ampharos, Head Archivist June 1, 2020

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