#justification is to convince ones own conscience that what he is doing is right when it is wrong

[inthegardenpraying]

But no; that’s not the way it is! To do evil a human being must first of all believe that what he’s doing is good, or else that it’s a well-considered act in conformity with natural law. | Fortunately, it is in the nature of the human being to seek a justification for his actions. | Macbeth’s self-justifications were feeble—and his conscience devoured him. Yes, even Iago was a little lamb too. The imagination and the spiritual strength of Shakespeare’s evildoers stopped short at a dozen corpses. Because they had no ideology. | Ideology—that is what gives evildoing its long-sought justification and gives the evildoer the necessary steadfastness and determination. | That is the social theory which helps to make his acts seem good instead of bad in his own and others’ eyes, so that he won’t hear reproaches and curses but will receive praise and honors. | That was how the agents of the Inquisition fortified their wills: by invoking Christianity; the conquerors of foreign lands, by extolling the grandeur of their Motherland; the colonizers, by civilization; the Nazis, by race; and the Jacobins (early and late), by equality, brotherhood, and the happiness of future generations. | Thanks to ideology, the twentieth century was fated to experience evildoing on a scale calculated in the millions. This cannot be denied, nor passed over, nor suppressed. | How, then, do we dare insist that evildoers do not exist? And who was it that destroyed these millions? | Without evildoers there would have been no Archipelago. | Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr. The Gulag Archipelago [Volume 1]: An Experiment in Literary Investigation (pp. 173-174)

[togamzee]

He put all he had left into consoling her that night. After his panic subsided to rest and simmer beneath the surface, after the no turning back had truly begun to set in–he watched as her soulful lavender eyes started to tremble, the vacancy fading; glossiness akin to tears nearly rising in them as her voice cracked and crumbled. I love you, nothing is going to touch that resolve. Words she needed to hear. Words he needed to believe. Words he did believe; in a sense; the eternal fate of his soul that could not break free from chains shackling him to a beast who wildly sank her teeth into figures carrying a death mark only her eyes could see. 

Mizuo did not want Kaede to kill Matsuo Yuuya. He loathed her for it. Privately, as discreetly as he could. Revealing his tormenting secrets to her was not meant to strike a match that wouldn’t burn out in her. Although, the light of a match seemed too small a flame to account for whatever it was she had done to him–for her to return covered like that, a vile mess of blood and ruin he would never unsee. She hadn’t asked. She hadn’t so much as given a thought towards how he would feel–any words thereafter would fail to convince him otherwise. Worst of all; he hated himself for not asserting himself further with her that night–while she had so deliberately put a profound fear and panic in him, he found himself reassuring her, his heart rate never decreasing, loving lies flowing from his lips that claimed he did not see her as a monster. He did not lie when he told her he hadn’t meant to stir that evil. It was easier to hold her, to breathe lies and half truths to ease her into laying down with him for the night. 

Though normally it’d take a vice to pry him away from her as they slept–he hadn’t wanted to touch her. His actions were expertly crafted to display the opposite. His mind refused to quiet as she slept in his arms; his feral animal he had no choice but to keep close and calm.

He would not tell her any further information about himself. What he did. Who he saw or spoke with. Would she kill his father? Irie? Kawaki? Him? Was he one admittance away from painting another irresistible target for her insatiable bloodlust, another soul for her to snuff out despite his wishes? She had the means, hadn’t she? Using his own words against him as justification in her heart for insurmountable violence that shook him to the bone. He had tried to explain his position to her. He wanted nothing to do with that organization of hers–nothing. Now it loomed and lingered, shadows in the corner of his eyes he’d never get to go away. He had tried to plead with her that his heart and soul were unable to withstand a pile of bodies being spirited away by some entity beyond his realm. 

She only told him that she couldn’t change what she did. 

He should have followed his first biting instinct to scream at her and make her leave. 

Instead he hugged her. And comforted her. And made it about her, his love for her, assuring her. Coward. Actor. Actor. A fucking actor. 

You’re an actor, Mizuo. You are. And you know you are. You’re acting right now. Maybe Yuuya had been the only one to see him, after all. To call him so simply on his intentions; conscious or otherwise. No matter how horrifying a figure he was, Mizuo hadn’t asked for his death. Only distance. Hasegawa Kaede robbed him of his desires without remorse. Remorse for upsetting him, sure. Remorse for slinking around, maybe. Mizuo figured that only amounted to a small blip of guilt on her conscience, because one thing was certain–she did not regret her actions. Only the aftermath she created. 

It was her fault, after all. 

He wouldn’t send her away. Not again. He wouldn’t yell. He wouldn’t so much as breathe a word of this for their lifetime. If she so much as tried, he’d stop her. This one night, this one incident would serve as her scar, her singular painful reminder of the horror and distaste for her she instilled in him. One he wouldn’t mention. One he wouldn’t act on. He’d remain as he was in her eyes, he’d reassure and paint loving words for her and the soul he had known all along would take him under. 

The lengths that spanned between them would be natural, after all. He’d start filming. While he was always intense, his erraticism during the process reached new heights. He hadn’t let up, pushing his actors without break for perfection. Perfection and avoidance. He did not see Kaede much during those months. He’d do his promotional work, his interviews, his press–anything to ensure his daylights remained full. 

Of course, his nights were full, just as well. 

Mizuo’s cocaine usage skyrocketed. Where he used to be careful; riding his tolerance line without crossing; toying with a candle he wouldn’t let burn the skin. His reservations disappeared entirely. He’d lost his will to care. He’d spend most every evening at Kawaki’s until well after midnight, and if he did see Kaede when he got home–if she bothered to question him, he wouldn’t answer. 

This new normal could only last so long, couldn’t it? Truthfully, he hadn’t seen much of a light at the end of the tunnel. Finishing filming, placing his heavy hand in the editor's eyes, the constant barrage of workload that kept his mind busy…it was finite. And every script he read in his freetime made him sick. Were there no good writers left in the world? He’d sooner choke on glass than do a remake. He had snarled at Fujisaki for the work he brought, that small husk of a man who’s script he’d burned on the first night meeting Kaede. A script he told her wasn’t bad, as she peddled along after him. He wondered if she regretted it. Maybe she wished she had taken his advice and fucked off, after all. Not that he’d ask. Though, it had crossed his mind once or twice in the brief instances he did find the will and time to make for her. 

He thought of that seemingly insignificant club party often. He thought of it again tonight, in an all too similar club, a grandiose event taking place the evening before his premiere. He remained seated in his own private booth, passing the time with Kawaki and a handful of others as they had so many times before. Irie had found her way in at some point throughout the evening, demanding his attention in that subtle way of hers that he’d let himself entertain more than he reasonably should. More than he reasonably meant to, before…well.

Before Kaede had broken his trust. 

She smiled up at him, and his direct turn away from Kawaki and the others led the redhead and his gaggle to stand and leave the two alone. Mizuo hadn’t spoken a word about his private life to any of them. Letting their assumptions run wild was far preferable. For the most part, it was only Kawaki who pried, only to raise his hands in defeat as Mizuo’s defenses barred him out with a clash of violent anger. 

Irie hadn’t. He was always grateful to her for that. 

Whether it was the drugs or the liquor, or the pain in his heart that never went away–he let himself go entirely. His hand reached to caress the side of her face, eyes dancing between her mouth and those unremarkable pale brown eyes. He felt himself sink, allowing the dull throb that left him wanting some kind of intimacy from a source that hadn’t shattered him bring his lips to hers the way she so desperately craved.

He didn’t let himself think much after that. 

Even so, he was vaguely aware that his cocaine consumption was becoming entirely too out of hand. Not that it stopped him. The blood trickling out of his nostril didn’t stop him, either. His heart beat in ferocious rhythm, not settling even after he had found his way to the backseat of his driver's car. 

What happened then, he wasn’t sure. Not on the surface. Or the surface after that. 

That hospital linoleum, though. He understood it then. 

That burning and aching in his chest wasn’t going to let up. 

His lungs would continue to struggle and beg for air while he gasped for it. 

Leaving her so soon again, aren’t you? Selfish. A lifetime of suffering should surely have us learning a lesson, all the same. You don’t get to choose. Not with her. You don’t get to will the darkness away. Selfish. Coward. Let’s try a little harder next time. 

Peace.

Peace in his lungs, at last. 

He couldn’t open his eyes. A soft breeze brought along the soft and blooming essence of wisteria, the plush turf beneath his body a gentle comfort giving the idea of his body a home. He could lay here forever, inconsequential, mind quiet for the first time in months. Could life always have been this easy? As easy as death? 

Hours, days, weeks could have passed before his lashes flickered and his lids opened. He laid still, back unmoving from its repose, hands at rest on his abdomen. A silver gaze met his own; pain and dwellings of anger in their depths. 

None of his living strength and annoyance found its way to the surface in his state. Mizuo stared for another unknown period of time before a gentle, “Who are you?” left his mouth. The stranger scoffed, shaking his head some as he tore his eyes away. He kept his spot seated beside Mizuo, legs crossed. The black suit and red tie seemed faintly familiar. “You don’t know?”

“No.”

“I was you.”

“I see.”

“No venom left for me?” The long haired man grinned, weakly, sighing and letting his palms lay flat on the turf beneath them. “Why’d you have to leave her like that, Miyazaki…?”

Kaede. Mizuo let out a sigh, eyes closing once more as he recalled her with such strong, profound fondness–he’d almost forgotten what that felt like. He had no answer for the other. He had no answer for himself, and he certainly had no answer for her. 

“I was taken from her, but you…”

“Which sin cuts deeper?”

A voice in the wind cut him off. Mizuo’s eyes opened again, weakly surveying the surroundings for the commanding third presence that caused the other to slam his mouth shut. He studied the strangers face, unblinking. His expression had warped, brow furrowed deeply, throat bobbing as his head shook and eyes fell; gluing to the foliage beneath them. His voice trembled when he finally spoke. 

“I did this to you. You suffered because of me. And my greatest mistake. We can’t do this again–” Tears welled in his eyes, Mizuo’s lips parting in surprise at the emotional gesture from this incarnate. It took him several (moments? What were they here?) to respond. 

“It…was your fault…?”

Flashes entered his mind. That redhead…she was beautiful. And lucky. How she had survived so many attempts on her life…Kaede’s previous. Only one step away from her core. Understanding entered his mind, as did the owner of the voice on the wind. They were nothing more than vessels for the soul and will of Kamukura Izuru and Enoshima Juno, then. That certainly made sense. The instant of flashes came to a seemingly abrupt end, following the heartache of memories lost.

An apology letter. At least he had left her that much–but if that was true, and his life only amounted to punishment for this one’s transgressions–

He felt hollow. Ryo, too ashamed to face him again–Mizuo, unable to look upon him for any longer. There was no hostility in his voice, only a calm emptiness. “You did this to me.” He moved, shifting up to pull his knees to his chest, resting his cheek upon them, facing away from Sugawara Ryo. 

“I’m so sorry, Miyazaki–”

“Please leave me alone.”

He did not have to ask twice. 

Heart heavy, he would stare aimlessly at this field of soft purple for a lifetime. Eternity. 

He wished he had left her a letter, too.

[oldshrewsburyian]

if u ever wanna dump an essay about edward fairfax rochester to me...I’m here!

Ahh, you must know how dangerous such an invitation is to an enthusiast! It’s a rainy Sunday evening, I’ve poured myself a glass of wine, and I’m ready to do this. I think Charlotte Brontë is doing and exploring some really interesting things in the character of Rochester, which sometimes get flattened/left out in adaptations. To be fair to the adaptations: he’s still compelling as a Brooding Gothic Protagonist.™

Prolegomenon I: I haven’t read the scholarship on Jane Eyre since undergrad, and I haven’t read The Wide Sargasso Sea since graduate school. I make no claims to particular originality here. And of course, literature can and does hold multiple meanings, etc. etc.; this is my take on Edward Fairfax “Self-Delusion” Rochester. The subfields of Jane Eyre criticism I’m most familiar with/informed by are “Jane Eyre + feminist theory” and “Jane Eyre + ‘early 19th-century debates within Anglicanism, pretty wild, right?’” This should surprise exactly no one who follows this blog.

Prolegomenon II: when I get caught up in my Rochester Feelings in conversation, there is inevitably a point where one of my English-major or -professor friends will shout me down and say “He kept a WIFE in the ATTIC” and I know. I know. It’s inexcusable and I’m not trying to excuse it, and everyone should read Jean Rhys. What I am really interested in doing, though, is exploring Rochester as three-dimensional character, not “man whose bad behavior gets hand-waved aside because reasons.”

First off: Rochester is a man of contradictions. He is a man who is generous to his retainers and his tenants. He is a man who shoulders even social responsibilities that are not strictly his, as we see in the education of Adèle (who might otherwise have died in an uncharitable charitable institution, or become a laundress, or become a courtesan.) True, we meet him as an extremely awkward and fumbling and sometimes resentful figure in loco parentis. But he is trying. I think this is perhaps the key thing about Rochester: what we see him doing for most of the novel, almost always badly, is trying to achieve better (more just, more humane, more equitable) results within a system (patriarchal, economic, colonial) that is rotten at its core. It is not everyone who has the moral fiber of a Jane Eyre, to say “this system is rotten at its core and it is better to starve on the moors or live forever unhappy than to be complicit in it.” The second thing we see Rochester doing, almost always badly, and this is where the contradiction comes in, is trying to avoid his own pain. I’ve intentionally said pain rather than guilt. I think that gets closer to the heart of the matter.

I’m going to get back to my essay in a minute, but an interjection of sorts, before I put the rest of it under a cut: I think it is vital to the novel that Rochester genuinely changes. Justification of this argument and More Emotions below.

For contemporary readers, the concept of repentance as a process may feel unfamiliar, trite, irreversibly sullied by hypocrites. But even if we take it out of Brontë’s extremely Anglican framework, I read Rochester’s profound, unconditional acceptance of his own sin (wrong, if you prefer) against Bertha and the losses which he sees as divine punishment for it as absolutely key to his having a chance at a future with Jane. The concept of divine retribution is surely stranger to us even than that of repentance, but having Thornfield, Rochester’s inheritance, sign and symbol and engine of his patriarchal wealth, built on colonial exploitation, literally go up in flames like the wicked cities of the Old Testament, is Not Exactly Subtle. And, of course, he loses his sight: “If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out.” His sight has been, in the most fundamental spiritual sense, diseased. He has been incapable of accurately seeing his own guilt (which is to say, seeing it in proportion to all other things, the other facts of Bertha’s madness, the duplicity of his family and that of the Masons, etc. etc.) So he loses his sight. And then he gains a much richer understanding of, well, everything. Gradually. Not all at once. I have Feelings about the psychological realism of those final chapters, but let me rewind, as it were. [N.B. I’m not arguing that Charlotte Brontë presents all this as a straightforward Divine Smiting. It matters that Bertha gets the freedom to bring all this crashing down (literally), and that she chooses her own end. But I do think that Rochester reads it as Smiting; I think we need to take that final assertion of his seriously. It’s entirely possible to read the Elm Tree Incident, and indeed that bizarre wedding morning, as Rochester waiting, waiting with pounding heart, for the bolt of lightning.]

I believe passionately in Rochester and Jane as a couple for a number of reasons (so many reasons, all the reasons), but perhaps chief among them is that they are both, bless them, raging romantics who have had very little outlet for their rich emotional life or for their unconventional, erudite, intelligent, exploratory spiritualities. OR (sorry, I forgot one) for their intellectual life, come to that! Rochester with his library full of science and his feelings about moths and Jane who becomes a teacher and genuinely loves nurturing young minds. *sobs* I love them so much. But Rochester is far too ready to manipulate others as he has been manipulated, and as others seek to manipulate him. His treatment of Blanche Ingram, for instance, I read as being several things, in shifting proportion 1) an effort to distract himself from Jane; he has few if any scruples about involving the unscrupulous and mercenary Miss Ingram in bigamy 2) an effort to distract the neighborhood and its gossip from Jane; why, after all, has he been at Thornfield so long without entertaining anyone?? very suspicious 3) an effort to find out what Jane’s feelings for him are. We see her ready to sting him into jealousy at the end too, a nice little bit of symmetry. Rochester is, yes, high-handed in the extreme. But I read the conversation under the elm tree not as a cynical test, but a genuine and painfully awkward attempt to figure out what Jane’s feelings for him really are. Yes, they’ve been having High Spiritual Communion and intellectual discussions and mutual teasing and borderline flirting for however many weeks it’s been. But also: he’s her employer. He’s at least 15 years older than she is (I forget the details on this. 15? 20? anyway, point stands.) He is not and never has been handsome, and he knows exactly how little his wealth counts for with Jane. He’s deeply weird and his house is weird and he comes with a French ward and a mysterious attic and a wife. But does she love him anyway? She does! *cries about it* 

Of course, none of this excuses the inexcusable. The proposal-to-wedding sequence shows us Rochester at his moral nadir, in relation to both Bertha and Jane. It also shows him on the knife edge of losing control over his integrity in other ways, now that he has violated this one. (Remember when Jane comes back to Thornfield and says “Reader, I had feared worse; I had feared he was mad”? Yeah, there’s a reason for that.) Anyway, allow me to present excerpts from Chapter 27, which lives in paraphrase in my head at all times:

[W]hile he spoke my very conscience and reason turned traitors against me, and charged me with crime in resisting him. They spoke almost as loud as Feeling: and that clamoured wildly. "Oh, comply!" it said. "Think of his misery; think of his danger—look at his state when left alone; remember his headlong nature; consider the recklessness following on despair—soothe him; save him; love him; tell him you love him and will be his. 

Whew! Anyway, she decides not to despite the fact that she and Rochester feel exactly the same way in this moment:

I am insane—quite insane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs. Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations, are all I have at this hour to stand by: there I plant my foot.

*sobs harder* I think it is vitally important to point out that Jane is not cold or even, in this moment, convinced by her own arguments. She and Rochester are, moments after this, in each other’s arms, the language of fire and flame used for them both, and Rochester releases her first because he wants her influenced by nothing but her own will; not their shared passion, and certainly not his own force.

...Where was I before I got caught up with the unbearable sexual and emotional tension? Oh yes, Rochester after Jane leaves. He embraces an extremely thorough program of self-punishment. The most obvious course of action for him -- the one that Jane, the person who knows him best in all the world, assumes he has taken -- is to run away from his pain again, to leave England. He does not do that. He does the opposite of that. He refuses to so much as leave Thornfield itself except to roam the grounds at night. I love this book so much.  Then, after the fire, which happens only 2 months after Jane leaves, he goes to Ferndean. Now! The only thing we have learned about Ferndean previously is that Rochester refused to have Bertha live there because its bad climate would have (or at least might have) killed her. We learn from Jane-as-narrator that literally no one will rent it, again, because of its “ineligible and insalubrious site.” Rochester has, with heartbreaking obviousness, given up on life. He has, by his own account, been “doing nothing, expecting nothing,” in “ceaseless sorrow... [and] delirium of desire.”

 ...Edward Fairfax Rochester has never heard of chill. Also, as we learn, though he is worried about his disabilities because he is worried that Jane will mind, and because they make him a less eligible potential husband in his own estimation (*sniffle*), what he has been chiefly preoccupied with for the last year is worrying about where Jane is and if she’s all right. Again: the man has never heard of chill. But his impulses are generous. He is the heir to a rotten and a poisoned inheritance, and he begins by blaming this inheritance -- his external circumstances, both his privilege and the choices that he is pushed into by his father and brother -- for his own injuries and the ways in which he has injured others. But I (obviously) vigorously cling to the belief that he genuinely turns away from this, that he confronts his own sins and repents and accepts that he will not, cannot, be reunited with Jane in this life. But then he is. *cries about it* Moreover, in a key reorientation from his earlier avoidance-and-denial coping strategy, he accepts Jane’s services “without painful shame or damping humiliation.” He un-hermits himself! He and Jane travel to see friends and family! They receive visitors! These romantic-hearted science nerds proceed to be shockingly normal... for their own given value of that. I’m also convinced that they have the kinkiest sex in nineteenth-century English literature, and I support them. And part of their happiness is the happiness of others; it’s the opposite of Rochester’s globe-trotting, radically individualistic conduct in the first part of the novel. Of course it’s more than he deserves; he knows that, and he needs to know it. But it’s narratively elegant, and (I think) deeply satisfying. And I love it. And, obviously, him... again, more than he deserves.

[noethicalconsumptionunderdisney]

Hogwarts Sorting Profile: Max Russo

So, confession time: Initially, I wasn’t actually planning on writing one of these for him.  I’m sorry!  I love Max, but he’s often in the background of Wizards of Waverly Place and just has these really random plots thrown in his direction, rather than interesting character-exploration-type shit like the main sibs.  (Which, to be fair, is probably why some of y’all might be curious what I’m going to say about him.)

But I was thinking about what makes Max so odd as a character, and specifically I was thinking about him in comparison to other characters of his archetype in the Disney Channel-verse.  Because we’ve seen the messy, funny, underachieving brother character a lot, but they come in very different flavors.  Part of that for Max is that he shares some of those traits with Alex in contrast to the overachieving, overly serious Justin, but part of that is… Max often seems to be in his own little world, incomprehensible to mortals and wizards alike, and generally takes in the “real-world” around him with a shrug.  He still cares about the “real-world” when it suits him, but he’s often kind of divorced from it, and that discovery fascinated me.  Furthermore, it made his Sorting “click.”

We’ll start off easy: what does Max do?  The answer is… he’ll do pretty much anything.  He’s not a Burned Secondary, though, he just doesn’t give a fuck.  Max is every bit the Slytherin Secondary that Alex is, we just don’t usually notice because he spends most of his time in his Neutral State.

The Slytherin Secondary’s Neutral State is blunt, rough, and often unphased by stepping on people’s toes. It’s easy to mistake this for a Gryffindor Secondary’s honesty, but it comes from a different place: comfort, relaxation, and/or apathy.  It doesn’t inspire or motivate so much as sit back and do as it pleases, and the Neutral State’s honesty is there for convenience rather than necessity— if a different tactic will work better, a Slytherin Secondary can ditch their honesty and change direction far more easily than a Gryffindor Secondary.

Max isn’t exactly shy about saying what’s on his mind, even if it’s usually dismissed as nonsense.  He also does seem to charge into situations without a care sometimes, but that’s the thing: he’s able to charge into those situations because he doesn’t care.  When he tests out the zombies’ No-Fear Ring, it doesn’t work on him because he’s already fearless.  So while some Slytherin Secondaries are nervous about showing their honesty to others and only show their Neutral State when they’re home safe with people they’re comfortable with, Max lives in his honest Neutral State because he feels comfortable and safe most of the time… even in situations where he really, really shouldn’t.

Curiously, one situation where he doesn’t feel comfortable or safe has very little to do with actual danger, but about personal identity: when he’s turned into Maxine.  And in Maxine’s body, he’s a lot more manipulative.

“You know, I can’t help it if people think I’m cute.  Watch how I make it work for me.”

As Maxine, he uses his cuteness to get out of chores, to get revenge on Alex and Justin in karate, to guilt dishonest customers out of cheating his parents, and comes up with a plan to talk his “boy self” up to a girl he likes as Maxine so that she’ll like him when he changes back.  Yeah, can’t imagine why Maxine reminded Jerry and Theresa so much of Alex…

But there are Slytherin Secondary indications from Max in his usual form as well.

He has no qualms about outright lying — inventing a fake illness to get out of P.E., pretending to be “Tom Sawyer” so he wouldn’t be embarrassed by/compared to his family — but he prefers obfuscation, aka confusing people with his “Max-ness.”

“How do you get your brother to say what’s really on his mind?”

“Oh, I use randomness.”

“What?”

“Well, I just say random things and while people are trying to figure it out, they say stuff that’s on their mind.”

One example of this tactic being employed successfully is with the Genie.  While Alex fails to outsmart the Genie using her quick wits, as the Genie is every bit as cunning as her, Max figures out a way to piss off the Genie enough to blackmail her, then talks circles around her and confuses her until she reveals a way for them to undo her wishes.  Alex calls it “outdumbing” her, but in any case, he succeeded where she failed, and showed that he’s more capable than often assumed.

We get another rare moment of clarity from Max during “Alex Tells The World.”  

“Alex, you know you can’t reveal magic!”

“Oh, even I know that. That’s why I just make people think I’m dumb so if I slip up, ehh, they figure, the kid’s an idiot.  And I slip up all the time, so.  Who’s dumb now?”

Max’s admission that he “slips up all the time” isn’t exactly reassuring, but it is telling that he’s the only one who doesn’t reveal magic during both the Season 4 Premiere and the Season 3 Finale.  Perhaps it was dumb luck that got him there, but I think there’s more to it than that.  There’s a method to his madness.  There’s a logic to it, even if Max’s logic often doesn’t follow all the way through.

Which leads me to his Primary— Ravenclaw.  (LOOK I KNOW. HEAR ME OUT.)

Yes, Max is often seen as “the dumb one.”  Yes, Ravenclaws are perceived as “the smart house.”  And while I’ve just demonstrated that there’s a brain under all the Max weirdness, I’m not about to argue that he’s secretly a genius.  He misses the mark more often than he hits it, and oftentimes when he hits it, it’s through coincidence or dumb luck or Insane Troll Logic that’s impossible for anyone but Max to follow.  But I do believe he operates on logic, just his own wacky version of it.

The thing about Max is that he’s neither as dumb as most people think he is, nor is he as smart as he thinks he is.  He’s somewhere in between, and the fact that people never quite know where exactly he falls on that scale is kind of the point.

In fact, part of the reason I struggled with Max was because I was trying to figure out where exactly he did fit in:

He can be selfish enough at times to argue Slytherin Primary, the stereotypically “selfish” House, but he’s missing Justin’s protective streak.  He doesn’t feel that same sense of duty towards his family that Justin does; when Mason breaks Alex’s heart in “Wizards vs. Werewolves,” Justin turns on him instantly because he Hurt His Little Sister And Is Therefore Bad, while Max is the one most willing to give Mason a chance, because he has his own reasons for wanting Mason in his life.  Yet, he still clearly cares enough about his family to rule out the possibility that they don’t factor into his morality at all, not to mention how easy it is for them to influence him.  

His more humble ending of inheriting his father’s sub shop might make people think Hufflepuff Primary, but there’s even less justification for such a sorting upon scrutiny.  As I’ve touched on above, the staunch loyalty to community isn’t all that important to him, and he’s also not all that into traditions.  There’s no compulsion to help strangers, he doesn’t really make enemies but he kind of just ignores people he doesn’t like (or shatters them in a million pieces on accident), and let’s not forget that he unleashed countless monsters in New York City that killed all the Monster Hunters just to win the competition… even if he did do it when his Conscience was separate from the rest of him.  Not exactly behavior you’d expect from the morality system of “a person’s a person no matter how small.”

Speaking of Conscience, it’s notable that he argues with it, rather than accepting his advice. I’m still a little unclear as to how much this matters (there’s definitely room to argue that most of his brain went into Conscience as well, and that whole plotline was… weird), but even with his Conscience inside his body, he seems to lack that moral drive Alex has.  Gryffindor Primaries have this embedded sense of justice deep within their characters. Even when it’s hidden most of the time, like in Alex’s case, or when it becomes twisted into something dark and dangerous, or becomes Stripped of its certainty, there’s still this sense that there is Right and Wrong in this world, that trusting your gut should lead you to the right conclusion, and that it’s wrong to ignore it.  I have a hard time remembering if there’s really any situation where Max gets that gut feeling of Something Being Wrong at all, much less acting on it with a Heroic Plan… at least, not without convincing.

But Max can be convinced, and that’s key.  Alex often takes advantage of this to manipulate him for her own selfish ends, such as talking him into paying her for handing out fliers to her zombie prom, but more often it’s his parents that act as his voice of reason, whether it’s convincing him to go after the “deli robber,” convincing him to give his siblings a fair shot at the Wizard Competition, or convincing him to tell his girlfriend the truth… and then unconvincing him of that when he takes it too literally and tells her he’s a wizard.  

Actually, Max is prone to misinterpreting advice in this way while trying to follow it to the letter— he does this when he tries to sell fountain water with a puppy, as well, because his mom told him to “add something to it.”  I think he is, to an extent, aware of his own intellectual limits.  He knows he misses the mark a lot of the time, so he’s often willing to trust other people’s judgment over his own, so long as they can get it through to him in a way that he thinks makes sense.

But beyond that, he’s often willing to question “common knowledge” in a way the other characters don’t. When Justin tries to tell him he can’t make life out of the stuff from his room, he simply replies, “Where’s it say that?”  In season 4, when there’s a distinct possibility that he’ll win the competition, he expands the sub shop business by making the Wizard Portal into a Drive-Thru, which genuinely worked as a business plan until Jerry took it too far.  Later that season, he saves his siblings by creating a black hole and then jumping through it to pull them to safety from the black hole in Alex’s apartment.  Like, that was his idea.  He came up with that.  It was weird, it was risky, it was unconventional, it could’ve been incredibly stupid… and it worked.

And that’s what I keep coming back to with this Ravenclaw Primary sorting— that sense of ingenuity, curiosity, and the willingness to experiment.  On one hand, you have your System Claws, who are dedicated to The Rules because they’ve been convinced that living by them is The Best Way To Live, and on the other hand, you have those that are willing to challenge conventional wisdom and try new things.  It’s this willingness to question that I personally attribute to a Ravenclaw mentality, rather than inherent intellectual ability or a large knowledgebase.  While Max may not have the latter, he has the former in spades, and that, more than anything, is really what told me that he truly belongs here.

Conclusion:

Max Russo is a Ravenclaw Primary and a Slytherin Secondary.

As a Slytherin Secondary, Max often likes to confuse and obfuscate to get what he wants, is flexible in his methods, and can even be manipulative when he wants to be.  He’s also relatively comfortable with himself, thus he often lives in a Neutral State where he says whatever’s on his mind without thinking much about danger or whether he’ll be understood.

His Ravenclaw Primary is as curious as it is undefined, and operates on a logic that only Max truly understands.  While this leads him astray more often than not, this also allows him to break from tradition and try new things, and this unconventional thinking can sometimes lead to better solutions than anyone else could’ve come up with.  However, it also comes with a set of brakes in the form of taking input from others.  It’s not always easy to get through to Max, but he can be reasoned with, which in his case, is probably for the best. 

In this combination, we find a character who truly dances to the beat of his own drum.  As the most flexible Secondary and Primary, respectively, Max is a conundrum to most who meet him, confusing even to those who know him best.  That said, being the Russo who “goes with the flow” the most often, he’s also probably the Russo that has the most fun.  He’s certainly more fun to write about than I was expecting him to be!  I’m glad I did, and it’s good to be back.

[anakinisvaderisanakin]

Lifeline - aka Ahsoka reaching out for Anakin post Malachor Oneshot

There was a sudden flicker.

So distant, so weak and wavering a gleam that she just might have thought it to be a fallacy, a trick of the mind. Her imagination willing it into existence. If that had been all, she might have ignored it. Might have denied it, might have told herself it was only an illusion. That it was only her weary state conjuring hope into her aimless life.

Until it sparked again.

Persistent, as it traced the periphery of her senses like the appearance of an unexpected, old friend. Not calling out to her in particular, but rather to anyone. To anything familiar, perhaps even unknowing of the fact that its was writhing in despair. Screaming for recognition, for comfort, for notice. Stumbling in the dark for a lifeline to cling to.

Ahsoka's chest felt inexplicably tight, as she allowed herself to taste the presence, so size it up. From afar, it seemed so much more like the man she'd once known. The man she remembered, the man she no longer recognized.

Anakin.

She hesitated, knowing that to invite him meant danger. Meant he may be able to locate or pinpoint her, however well she'd conceal her tracks. Opening up to the Force these days, with the Empire's shadow looming over the Galaxy, always came with horrible repercussions. Yet, even with that in mind, she couldn't deny him. She had promised him she’d stay.

Ever since Malachor, ever since she'd lost touch with the Rebellion, she'd found herself restless. Unable to stay in one place for too long, constantly glancing over her shoulder. On alert, highly strung. Barely able to sleep, for fear of Inquisitors finding her in the night. At the same time, she had expected to die that day. Had been set on staying beside him til the bitter end, even if it may be by his hand.

His hands were drenched in figurative blood. His conscience black and charred with sin, bearing the weight of countless innocent lives snuffed out. All for what?

She couldn't understand how the gentle, sensible, nurturing man she'd once known could have fallen so far from grace. But, as the tainted yet distinct Force signature she'd once felt such a kinship with reached out blindly for aid; she responded. What else was there to live for, if not him? He was the last link to her past; their shared past. As if reaching out her hand, she grasped at his unseen, extended conscience. When a cold, sodden weight settled at the pit of her belly she was convinced she had made contact.

"Anakin."

She breathed the name, trepidation colouring her tone as the words carried over the established bond. She felt the tremor as the connection wavered, as if the man himself was now hesitant. Or perhaps her initial assumption that the cry for solace hadn't been intentional had been right all along. Still, she shut her eyes as she latched firmly onto his signature, to his aura.

It was so much colder than she remembered it, so much darker. All harsh edges, and prickling tendrils of agony sinking deep into her core like grappling hooks. Daggers, greedily burrowing into whatever they could find. None of the warmth he had radiated in the past persisted. The only thing remaining a constant was the uncertainty, the bottomless anguish.

'I’m not good enough, I will never be good enough'; he had once said in a moment of emotional overload. His entire Force signature seemed to be vibrating with that unspoken sentiment now. As if his entire psyche was made only of suffering and pain and doubt, as if that was all there was to him. All that was left of him.

"Anakin," she attempted again, firmer this time - demanding.

She refused to let him slip away.

She knew he wouldn't want her to call him by his real name, so few of those who knew his secret left alive. She should be proud that she had lived to see another day, if only by the help of a friend. Had Ezra not found a miraculous way out, she too would pile onto the heap of his victims.

Her shoulders slumped in near relief, as some of her tension wore off when she was greeted more openly by the presence. So he was intending to stick around. She allowed him to pry into her mind, channeled distinct happy memories towards him. Albeit buried deep beneath the surface, she knew he too must be able to recall the moments when presented with them. Memories of them together, fighting side by side or throwing teasing quips at each other. All while she was still under his tutelage. While she would still look upon him as her older brother, as her guardian, as her master.

"I no longer respond to that name."

That stung.

Ahsoka had known he would reject it, but she'd hoped he would accept it for what it was just this once. They both knew his new name was nothing but a title, nothing but a mask to hide behind. Nothing but a facade. It helped make him anonymous, helped in washing away all his crimes. He had been a hero once, before donning the suit and mask. Before the Dark Side sunk its claws into him. Before he was twisted into but a shadow of himself.

Even worse, was the fact that his voice came out clear now.

Without the use of actual sounds and syllables, without the vocoder translating his words for him. Without the forced diction, much less monotone. Even with the different speech pattern he’d picked up, the differing pronunciation - the voice was human.

Distant, icy, dismissive. But it was not the mechanical baritone - it was the voice of the terrified, insecure young man she'd once known. The same voice that had spoken to her on Malachor, as one blood shot, golden Sith eye peered through the cracked face plate of his mask.

"It's the name your mother gave you."

There was no response to that, only a wave of pure rage accompanied by the undercurrents of hurt and distrust. Indignation, as if he was questioning how she dared bring up Shmi Skywalker so casually. She had said that with the intent of wounding him, of reopening his scars. She had succeeded, but she took no pleasure in that knowledge. She wasn't out to harm him, although she probably should.

"What do you want?"

Now, it was Ahsoka's turn to squirm. She wasn't sure what she wanted per se. She had responded to the cry, perhaps expecting him to deny her. Perhaps expecting him to turn her down, to turn away, to shut her out. Now that he was acknowledging her, she found herself lost. She had so many questions, but none seemed reasonable to ask. She didn't imagine he would reply to them even if she tried.

"You knew I survived," she found herself blurting out, an overpowering melancholy clouding her judgment before she could reign herself in.

A pause, as if he was contemplating. Or perhaps, it was a silent admission of guilt.

"I could not be entirely certain."

He was lying.

She knew he was, she knew him too well. She could feel it, could sense the dishonesty behind the careless statement. He was dismissing it as a lapse of faith on his part, but she knew better. She shook her head into the emptiness, he must know she wouldn't believe him.

"Why? I know who you are. Both who you were before, and who you are now. It's not like you to keep those aware of your identity alive."

“A simple oversight on my part. It shall not be repeated, take that into consideration. Be grateful.”

“You’re lying. I know you are,” she pressed.

"You are mistaken. You have never known me."

"That's not true. You know it's not true, you're only denying it to yourself," snapped Ahsoka sharply, her frustration slipping through the cracks.

She'd known he would behave this way, known he would be stuck in denial. Why had she hoped for anything else? She suspected he dreaded what might happen if he did admit to who he was, if he did admit to the fact that even now, he was the same man. That there was no phantom of malice possessing him to commit atrocities.

That it was all on him.

Ahsoka herself had wanted to ignore the truth for so long, had been desperate to accept his proclamation of having killed her old master, had longed to stay blissfully unaware. Had tricked herself into believing he was right, that there was nothing left of the Anakin she'd loved.

But she knew better, she'd stared into his uncovered eye. Into his bared soul. She'd looked into his mind, peered behind the fortified walls of torment and turmoil - and there hid the same, frightened boy who'd grown up as a slave on Tatooine. She feared he denied because admitting the truth would destroy what was left of his sanity, as much as it had crushed hers when she'd allowed herself to take in reality.

There was no Darth Vader.

There never had been. There was only the pitiful being Palpatine had twisted Anakin Skywalker into, more machine than man. Less than human, so much less than he had been.

There was only Anakin. And he must sense her stubborn wish to force the same epiphany onto him.

"Still as foolish, and naïve. You cannot appease me with your affections towards a dead man. Skywalker was weak, indeed his apprentice appears to be no better off."

In another lifetime, such a degrading statement would have insulted Ahsoka. When she was still quick to anger, following the whim of her rebellious emotions before reason. Now, all the words inspired was sorrow. The fact that he was referring to himself as weak, as feeble, as insufficient. The jab at her meant nothing; the one aimed at himself not as easily overlooked.

"You weren't weak. You never were. I may not know or understand why you've become... this, but whatever the case, I refuse to believe it was a choice you made out of your own volition. I refuse to believe you could commit to such evil without a good cause, without sensible justification. You always had a way out of trouble, Palpatine must have manipulated you beyond comprehension. He must have backed you into a corner, and extorted you!"

"You know nothing."

It was a warning Ahsoka didn’t heed to.

“What did he say, Anakin? What did he do to put you of all people on a leash?”

“Silence.”

Another tremor through their bond, and this time she feared he would block her out. That she had crossed the line too far; that she had been too bold, too daring. That she would once more appear only as a dot on his hit list, as an enemy of the state. Up for elimination, standing to be eradicated. The command was no longer an insinuation, as much as a promise. The one word urged her to recuperate, and try again coming at him from a different angle.

Still, he hadn't rejected her use of his real name this time. The importance of that wasn't lost on her.

“I just don’t understand. You were always so kind, so caring. You were invaluable. To me, to Rex, to the entire 501st, to Obi Wan...” she paused before adding, “to Padmé--"

"Do not speak her name, you do not deserve to take it in your mouth!"

Ahsoka shuddered and recoiled as if slapped when he raised his voice.

“You know nothing of her, or of me. Learn your place and watch your step closely. You have crossed the line more than once, you do not wish to press me any further.”

The delivery was so vile, so full of livid fury and loathing that it made her stomach reel. Made her feel dizzy, nauseous, faint. Her forehead clammy, her chest tight. The fact that the mere mention of Padmé's name could conjure up such unbridled rage was both shocking, confounding, and heartbreaking.

Ahsoka had been outright aware of the involvement between senator Amidala and her former master, had caught hints at their intimacy. She'd liked the senator, viewed her much as an older sister and a good friend. Her master's high opinions of her had been enough for Ahsoka to accept and appreciate the woman. She wasn't stupid, she'd understood there was more than a friendship between the two. Even when the senator tragically passed, the event made public to the Galaxy after the fall of the Republic, she had mourned a friend and a fellow candidate of democratic justice. She suspected the sudden death had more to do with what Anakin had become than would ever be revealed.

"What happened?" she finally softly inquired when she spoke again.

"It is beyond your concern, and shall remain that way."

His arrogant, uninterested approach was back. Dismissing her offer of comfort, of consolation, of someone to listen to his side of events. Of forgiveness. Ahsoka couldn't say she'd be unbiased, but she longed to understand. Longed for that final puzzle piece that would put it all together. That would explain his descent into what could only be described as madness.

"Please," she pleaded, aware of the disappointment and forlorn sadness she was radiating into the ether, pouring into their Force bond.

"Please, Anakin."

Just for a moment, something shifted. The change so vague, it would have been undetectable if she didn't know him so well. So closely, so thoroughly. His carefully composed facade cracking, just enough for her to glimpse what lay inside.

“I can’t.”

The bitter, freezing cold of darkness that had pierced every fiber of her being throughout their conversation abated with those words. Left was only a void; so vast and deep and harrowing that it would haunt her nightmares for the remainder of her life. A loneliness so stifling, a guilt so crippling, it left an excruciating, hollowing ache in its wake. She blinked rapidly against the involuntary tears welling up to blur her vision, choked up and speechless. This torment wasn't hers, it had only been lent to her, extended into her psyche. Laid bare for her, as a truce. As a silent plea not to ask any more.

The searing wound left behind, however; that was her cross to bear. She had wanted him to share, and this was the price to pay.

"You cannot save me, Ahsoka," he begged with such regret, that she could almost see his pained expression.

Before Ahsoka could protest or properly process it, before she could cling to him and keep their connection up - he was gone. Those steadfast, blue eyes of her memory etched into the back of her head. Along with the fading touch of his Force signature. Trembling, she heaved an unsteady sigh before covering her face to weep, grieving the man who would not mourn for himself. There was no one else to put the blame on.

There was no Darth Vader.

Only Anakin Skywalker, who suffered in constant anguish.

And that was the worst part.

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

This was intended as another chapter for Mask of Death, but I believe it works better as its own standalone piece. I wanted to write something for Anakin/Vader and Ahsoka, and Ahsoka’s POV is always fun to play around with - especially since she’s the only one besides Luke to really accept that Anakin is still Anakin, even while he calls himself Vader.

So, I hope you enjoy my spin on the idea of them conversing post Malachor!

Link to Ao3 version below, and subsequently my account:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/25578304

Lose Companion to Ablaze:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/25636756

https://stuffilikeipostno2.tumblr.com/post/634786811339816960/ablaze-aka-obi-wan-learns-the-truth-about-what

[ivory--raven]

Analysis: Albus Dumbledore

Dumbledore is a very, very questionable character.

His years with Grindelwald influence what he does much, much later on in life. Albus wanted power, he craved it. He says to Harry (if we believe that that was indeed really him)

I too sought a way to conquer death

and of his relationship with Gellert,

It was the thing, above all, that drew us together. [...] Two clever, arrogant boys with a shared obsession.

We know he defeated Gellert in 1945, but did not kill him, instead locking him in Nurmengard. JK said post-books that Albus was on love with Gellert, and it's hinted at in Crimes of Grindelwald ("oh, we were closer than brothers").

Even many years later, he says

"Me. You have guessed, I know, why the Cloak was in my possession on the night your parents died. James had showed it to me just a few days previously. It explained much of his undetected wrongdoing at school! I could hardly believe what I was seeing. I asked to borrow it, to examine it. I had long since given up on my dream of uniting the Hallows, but I could not resist, could not help taking a closer look... It was a Cloak the likes of which I had never seen, immensely old, perfect in every respect... And then your father died, and I had two Hallows at last, all to myself!"

His tone was unbearably bitter.

Harry asks:

So you'd given up looking for the Hallows when you saw the Cloak?

Dumbledore forces himself to meet Harry's eyes and says

oh yes. You know what happened. You know. You cannot despise me more than I despise myself.

At this point he is talking about the death of his sister Ariana. But although he says he had long since given up on my dream of uniting the Hallows he never says it was no longer his dream, implying that it still tempted him in 1981.

Of Ariana, he says that Harry should despise him, and

you know the secret of my sister's ill health, what those Muggles did, what she became. You know how my poor father sought revenge, and paid the price, died in Azkaban. You know how my mother gave up her own life to care for Ariana.

Another mother sacrificing herself for her child!

I resented it, Harry.

I was gifted, I was brilliant. I wanted to escape. I wanted to shine. I wanted glory. Do not misunderstand m, I loved them. I loved my parents. I loved my brother and my sister, but I was selfish, Harry, more selfish than you, who are a remarkably selfless person, could possibly imagine. So that, when my mother died, and I was left the responsibility of a damaged sister and a wayward brother, I returned to my village in anger and bitterness. Trapped and wasted, I thought! And then, of course, he came...

Grindelwald. You cannot imagine how his ideas caught me, Harry, inflamed me. Muggles forced into subservience. We wizards triumphant. Grindelwald and I, the glorious young leaders of the revolution.

Oh, I had a few scruples. I assaged my conscience with empty words.

Of the ressurection stone, he said

To me, I confess, it meant the return of my parents, and the lifting of all responsibility from my shoulders

He says that he was

offered the post of Minister of Magic not once, but several times. Naturally, I refused. I had learned that I was not to be trusted with power.

Before 1945, then, Dumbledore has the idea in his head that he should not have power, that he is too easily tempted by it.

it would not be unreasonable, I think, to wonder if he saw another boy, gifted, brilliant, clever, arrogant, and decided that he ought not have power either, that he was too similar to Albus himself and Gellert, who during this time was wreaking havoc in the wizarding world.

He says that he despises himself, and it's possible that that was the root of his dislike of the next child he met with similar traits: Tom Riddle. An orphan, a dislike if those 'less than' him, a penchant for cruelty he was seemingly unbothered by.

The greater good drove much of what Albus does. He knew Tom was a Parselmouth, and did not come forward even when Myrtle died - instead choosing to inform Tom that the school would close if it didn't stop, thus bringing an end to the basilisk's hunt... Perhaps he hoped Tom would be legally disposed of, a threat gone, and the lives of a few students were an acceptable sacrifice - the 'any harm done' he mentions - for the well-being of the people he feared Tom would kill if allowed to roam free - the 'benefits he talked about'.

Albus often seems to make justifications like this.

He was witnessing, after all, another boy with a cruel streak, lofty ideas of himself, ambition and dislike of the idea of dying, wreak havoc on the Wizarding World.

Years later, he traded Harry's life for others. Severus finds out in a rather unpleasant way: Albus says

We have protected him because it had been essentiitk teach him, to raise him, to let him try his strength. Meanwhile, the connection between them grows ever stronger, a parasitic growth: sometimes I have thought he suspects it himself. If I know him, he will have arranged things so that if he does set out to meet his death, it will truly mean the end of Voldemort.

We have protected him because it had been essential teach him, to raise him, to let him try his strength. Meanwhile, the connection between them grows ever stronger, a parasitic growth: sometimes I have thought he suspects it himself. If I know him, he will have arranged things so that if he does set out to meet his death, it will truly mean the end of Voldemort.

Severus is horrified:

You have kept him alive so that he can die at the right moment?

Albus says,

Don't be shocked, Severus. How many men and women have you seen die?

And...

Harry understood at last that he was not supposed to survive. His job was to walk calmly into Death's welcoming arms. Along the way, he was to dispose of Voldemort's remaining links to life, so that when at last he flung himself across Voldemort's path, and did not raise a wand to defend himself, the end would be clean, and the job that ought to have been finished in Godric's Hollow would be finished: Neither would live, neither could survive.

Harry feels terror. He wonders if dying will hurt. It does not occur to him that he has a choice, that he could try something else... and he thinks

Dumbledore's betrayal was almost nothing.

Harry thinks through Albus' plan, and is not angry. Instead, he considers himself 'foolish' for not seeing the big plan. He thinks he has failed because Nagini lives. He wants to do what Albus would have wanted even now.

To reach that point, he had ten years of belittlement, ten years of living, underfed, in a cupboard, malnourished - in the first book it is mentioned that he is short, scrawny and had knobbly knees because of a lifetime spent in confinement.

And then the bearded, wise wizard, a grandfatherly man, cared for him.

Harry doesn't remember caring adults. He craved approval. When Albus puts his life in danger, (and Albus himself admits that they were tests to prepare Harry for his death) Harry says that it is good of Albus to allow Harry the choice.

It isn't a choice, not really. Harry has been conditioned not to think of any options.

Harry is trained up just as Albus planned. And in the end, he did what Albus wanted.

He arranged everything because, on Albus' orders, Severus told Harry about Albus' idea that Harry would have arranged everything!

Even from the grave, his portrait was manipulating Severus into living a lie and risking his life again and again, no longer for the woman he loved, just because Albus wants him to and has convinced Severus to do it..

The power Albus had was not the power he had feared, but it was power nonetheless

Harry did one thing differently. One thing Albus had not planned

And that was offering Tom the chance to redeem himself. Again and again, Harry tries to explain, tries to tell Tom about what he doesn't know - and strips Tom down to his very core, to the arrogant, gifted, so very brilliant boy, a boy clever enough and arrogant enough to catch himself in a complex trap.

Harry asks Tom to redeem himself.

Albus didn't think Tom could be redeemed.

Tom refused.

And why wouldn't he, when nobody who knew of his ambitions believed he had any chance of loving, of empathy? He had been taught nothing. Even Harry had a loving family to observe, and later on the Weasleys showed him that love, but Tom? An orphan among many others, hated for his powers, someone presumed to be a muggleborn in Slytherin, returning year after year to deadly, war torn London? It isn't hard to see where he got the idea that he was not cared for, not loved, not really... And if he couldn't have it wasn't worth having!

Albus' downfall was believing too much in war and absolute power, and not truly embracing the love he preached. Albus is a man of sacrifice and trade offs. In the ghostly station, Harry sees a crying baby and feels bad, and Albus sees a vanquished enemy and is satisfied. He convinces Harry to believe that he is right - Albus believes himself. Harry, a boy told again and again that he was worthless, a liar, a boy who had had everything he believed in ripped out from under him multiple times, finds it easier to be convinced then to believe his first instinct.

Albus didn't believe in forgiveness. He did not forgive himself, he did not forgive Severus. He kept bringing up Severus' past actions to control him. He was unwilling to try and give Tom a second chance.

And perhaps it can all be traced back to a blonde boy whose darkness be thought could be overlooked, but could not, and a redheaded boy fascinated by things he would later condemn, whose past haunted him forever.

[suits-of-woe]

Top 5 Edmund moments? Thank you!

Thank you! I can literally never talk about him enough and honestly it was hard to pick just 5 but honestly if I’d written any more even about these ones tumblr probably would have been broken by the sheer word count so here we go.

(edit: forgot to tag @princess-of-france if you’re interested)

1. “Call by the trumpet: he that dares approach / On him, on you, who not? I will maintain / My truth and honor firmly.” AND “In wisdom I should ask thy name / But…What safe and nicely I might well delay / By rule of knighthood, I distain and spurn.” aka The Duel

I don’t actually know if I’ve ever talked about this but I think this is one of the most likable in Edmund moments in the play. Reasons I love it:

a. He is SO ready to fight. This is what I was talking about when I said Edmund is such an impulsive disaster compared to other villains he often gets compared with, he doesn’t hesitate here, he’s ready to go. And you can’t convince me he couldn’t have found a way out of this – Albany’s all like “I dismissed all the soldiers so now there’s no one to fight for you” but like? This is the same Edmund who got a random captain to agree to kill the literal ex-king and his daughter (who’s also a queen!) basically just by telling him to man up; you can’t convince me Edmund couldn’t find a single champion willing to fight this super poor and sketchy-looking guy for him. But instead he’s all in, he gets into a fight or flight situation and his brain just goes FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT and he does it without a second thought. Amazing.

b. He really doesn’t care about status at all. Like sure it’s all well and good to dismiss social distinctions when you’re a bastard and have been disinherited for it but this scene shows it’s not just opportunism – Edmund SO believes in what he’s been advocating the entire play. He doesn’t care who he’s fighting, even now that he’s risen to the top, he knows the rules of knighthood don’t mean shit. He’s taken everything with the justification that if you can manage to take it then you deserve it and he doesn’t abandon that philosophy here, he sticks to it, even though it ends up costing him everything. How is that not so admirable? Am I actually supposed to not love him or?

c. I LOVE the fact that he clearly could not believe less in the idea of trial by combat. This is a me thing but it honestly makes me so happy. He’s lying through his teeth here with zero remorse, he’s 100% happy to let his innocence be decided in a fight all because he clearly thinks there is no divine intervention here. In his head there’s no reason why fighting for a just cause should have any impact on who wins, and even though the text goes against him on that idea…it’s still great. Because it’s not that he doesn’t have a conscience, he SO does as I’ll talk about later, but it’s not tied at all to to spirituality or the idea that he’s going to be cosmically punished for his actions. It’s all him, and I think that makes it so much more powerful.

2. “I should have been that I am, had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardizing.” aka The Best Speech

*gasps of shock* Wow who would’ve guessed? But yeah. This is THE defining Edmund moment for me. (I put the other one first bc I’ve said all this stuff before so I don’t care if it gets hidden under a cut, but yeah, this is #1) Like I love it because it’s one of the few moments in Shakespeare that aligns with my irl beliefs without being cartoonishly evil, but also like, it’s more than that, this speech is just SO GOOD. It’s about the FREE WILL okay, it’s about the fact that he takes FULL responsibility for his actions, that’s my SHIT. But it’s also what makes him a villain because he has no delusions at all about what he’s doing, he knows it’s wrong and he still does it but like…I’m still so obsessed. And other things too, like the pointed, razor-sharp references to adultery are everything, I’d love to see this whole speech done as just a scathing and furious condemnation of Gloucester too…okay this is gonna turn into a whole essay if not careful but basically YEAH BEST SPEECH.

3. “Yet Edmund was belov’d.” AND “Some good I mean to do / Despite of mine own nature.” aka The Repentance

Anyone crying yet? I sure am. I had to include both of these quotes here bc “Yet Edmund was belov’d” is definitely another all-time fave but also it’s less of a moment and more just the one line and also I can’t justify not including the WHOLE CULMINATION OF HIS CHARACTER so yeah. Like okay though, sometimes I forget just how radical this moment is, but like!!! This is almost entirely unique in the canon. A villain who actually goes back and changes his mind and his heart and tries to make it right. But it’s not just that, it’s the way he does it, like I’ve been saying. It’s not because he thinks the gods are watching; it’s because he’s listening to Edgar talking about what he and Gloucester went through together and then he finds out that Goneril and Regan died for him and suddenly he remembers that there is love in the world and he was loved despite everything and just because it’s too late for him doesn’t mean it has to be too late for everyone and AHHHHHH. And he’s still pushing back against the limits set for himself while he’s doing it, he starts off the play rejecting the idea that the stars have any influence on his nature, but here he’s even rejecting that, defying the fact that he has to be one thing, he’s still fucking up his idea of the status quo even as he does this one last beautiful good thing. Just…holy shit.

4. “Yours in the ranks of death.” aka I Had To Pick At Least One Sexy One Cause I’m Too Sad

So this wouldn’t be an Edmund post if I didn’t talk about how hot he is. So yeah. This scene. Honestly this is maybe more of an iconic Goneril moment than an Edmund moment because she’s doing almost all the heavy-lifting dialogue-wise but still. I talked about this way more in that one post about how Edmund is lowkey a sub but the power dynamics in this scene okay, the tension. I’ve seen this scene done anywhere from a decently quick kiss to a full-on sex scene – the potential to get really intense is there. And I just love Edmund for it, he’s really out here, sleeping with a princess, making out with her on her husband’s doorstep – ICONIC. The BDE is just through the roof. Also for that line specifically I love how it comes back in 5.3 with “I was contracted to them both: all three / Now marry in an instant” akdlhglkhglaksdg. This is the peak Sexy Bastard moment.

5. “Now gods, stand up for bastards!” aka The Invention of Bastard Energy

Idk how Edmund’s most famous soliloquy is just making the bottom of this list, but I think I spend so much time defining my entire life around his second one and giggling at “Both????” in his third that I sometimes neglect this one a little. But it is That Good – it’s up there with the most iconic character intros in the canon. It’s everything. It’s so GREAT and VILLAINOUS like you get “Well then, legitimate Edgar, I must have your land” and all the set-up for him in all his smug evil glory and it’s HEARTBREAKING with the repetition of “Why brand they us / With base? With baseness? Bastardy? Base? Base?” like you can just hear how often those words have been thrown at him, how much they hurt and it’s SUBVERSIVE like we get Edmund’s whole philosophy here and we see he could give two shits about birth and status and he’s ready to turn the world on its head. My only complaint with this moment (or with any of these moments) is if Shakespeare really wanted me to dislike Edmund then he frankly did a terrible job.

[daywillcomeagain]

I don’t understand the idea of finarfin choose peace? There is no peace to be had with Morgoth, he made that clear. Either he was gonna die or you were gonna be enslaved by him, if more people had followed finarfin’s lead it would have meant leaving men, dwarves, other elves to rot: I don’t think that’s peace I think that’s the same weak justification the Valar use to justify their gross inaction when it comes to beleriand and middle earth.

Oh man I have SO MANY FEELINGS. okay. (clears throat) 

(sorry for taking this as an ARGUMENTATIVE ESSAY PROMPT i just. the feelings.)

So…. Finarfin has no way of knowing this. As far as he knew, that might be true, but it might also be true that all the elves and dwarves of Middle-Earth were already dead and Men wouldn’t exist for thousands of years–in which case the clearly right thing to do is “stay and build up strength until you can actually defeat Morgoth instead of just slowing him down”. They don’t know. None of the Noldor know! And it’s made pretty clear that the Noldor who do go to Middle-Earth are, by and large, not doing it from a motivation of “wanting to help Men” (the rousing speech that helps convince them to leave Valinor includes “No other race shall oust us!”, it’s remarked that both Fingon and Galadriel want to see the world and have a kingdom of their own, there’s the obvious motive of revenge and taking back what was stolen, etc.). The concern for the dwarves, other elves, and Men all comes later. I love reading and writing stories where that is a primary concern of the Noldor leaving Valinor, to be clear, but I just want to be clear that they are–not really on anyone’s minds, quite yet.

It’s also really relevant to me that the Valar disapproved and refused to help from the beginning. Finarfin wanted to help, he wanted to come, he wanted to join and do good.

And then he saw what people do for the sake of action and a worthy cause. He watched his neighbors fighting his family, his wife on one side and his brother on the other. None of them were Morgoth. He saw people say “let’s leave Valinor and fight Morgoth” and he said “yes, count me in”; he saw them stab innocents, and then he said “…wait, no, maybe not that, maybe let’s go with Plan B.” I understand and have argued on behalf of the Noldor, including Feanor, for making choices that were reasonable given their circumstances, but– “massacres are never okay actually, I am not going to follow people who claim they want to fight Morgoth but in fact have done nothing but kill civilians” is not a weak justification, IMO! It is a valid stance that makes a lot of sense! That is also a reasonable choice given the circumstances!

And… Finarfin didn’t choose inaction. He fought in the War of Wrath. Finarfin chose waiting. Finarfin chose to repair the peace of Valinor–alone, because he had a Telerin wife and his children left for Beleriand–rather than lead his people to what he knew would be their deaths. Repairing a community, comforting the grieving–this is not inaction. Fighting and war is not the only action that counts. You might argue that he shouldn’t be focusing on minor problems when there were bigger ones to hand, but that’s a fully general argument for never caring about any problems that aren’t the Worst Problem In The World. If my sibling were to massacre my town ~for a good cause~ and I were to build a memorial instead of volunteering for a charity that promotes the relevant cause, it would be a douche move to be like “oh but that’s the same weak justification that the government uses to not promote [good cause]!” 

I think that it’s fair to say that the Valar had an obligation to help; Manwe positioned himself as King of all of Arda, and that comes with an obligation to all of Arda. They do have information, and they have reason to believe that they would be able to win or at least give a good fight (they did it before!). I don’t feel that anyone else, ever, has an obligation to go to war. (Similarly, I can be like “x government should go to war with y government” without supporting a draft; I feel like the Valar are more analogous to a government in this situation than an individual, and that if they do not want to do the things that being-the-government obligates them to do then they should step down.) Nobody ever has an obligation to do things that will almost certainly kill them for the sake of other people. It can be a brave thing and a beautiful thing to do voluntarily, but it should never, ever be the bare minimum Requirement To Be A Good Person. That’s something I feel very strongly about; I made a post about that here. He’s not King at this point; he’s a prince, and not even the Crown Prince. For most of his life, he’s expected to be–let me count this–fifteenth in line for the throne, in a land where nobody dies (this can be brought down to ‘fourth in line’, depending on who you count, but it’s still pretty far from ‘next in line’). He’s told, flat-out, in a prophecy from Mandos, that if he goes he and all of his people will die. His job, unlike the Valar’s, is not “protect everyone, promote good things in full generality”–it’s “protect my people and do what my conscience calls me to do”. He does that.

Also: the Valar have a lot more power than Finarfin in this situation, given that they can do things like “sink all of Beleriand” when they decide to help, whereas if he were to go help, he would’ve done–what? Held a territory, protected some elves, and almost certainly died. In the Bragollach? In the Nirnaeth? Before then, on the Ice, in the battle of the Lammoth, in the Aglareb, in the Fall of Nargothrond? It’s impossible to say–honestly, it’s hard to tell if those later battles would even have existed in the same form if Finarfin had come to Beleriand, politics in Beleriand were very fragile–but I’m pretty sure that he wouldn’t have single-handedly defeated Morgoth. (Though he could single-handedly unite the Noldor of Valinor and work out peace with the Teleri, such that the elves of Valinor are ready to come and help when the Valar decide to help defeat Morgoth. Comparative advantage is a thing!)

I also feel that it’s relevant that Finarfin has just had, like, five traumatic experiences in a row. His father dies; he joins a rebellion; he watches his family, I repeat, massacre his neighbors; his wife and children leave him. I judge decision-making under those circumstances significantly less harshly than I judge “a panel with much less intense personal connection debates for a while and comes to a conclusion”. People make mistakes in intense circumstances! I love characters who make mistakes like that! (gestures wildly at feanor & sons, at turin, at half the characters in this book)! “Finarfin made a mistake” is something I think is absolutely a valid argument, though I don’t personally agree. But I don’t think his choice reflects badly on him, or that it was selfish/cowardly/callous; I think that he made a hard choice in a painful situation, and that he was trying his hardest to do the right thing, and that there are lots of basically good and reasonable people who would do the same thing. (I am willing to defend this as a possible interpretation for every single character in the silmarillion except for outright villains such as Morgoth, incidentally.)

[nezzyk]

Fiduciary Duties

A Fiduciary as the definition describes it seems like quite a simple concept, however as you begin to look at all the fiduciary duties that are owed to the principle and vice versa it seemingly is far more complex. As described in Sukys (2020), “A fiduciary relationship is a relationship based on trust. Such relationships exist—for example, between attorneys and clients, guardians and wards, trustees and beneficiaries, and board of directors and corporations” (p. 255). For this blog, the focus will be slightly more on principal—agent relationships. Also further described in Sukys (2020), “Agency is a legal relationship in which one party, the agent, transacts business for and under the control of the second, the principal…The principal must indicate in some manner that the agent is to act for and under the control of the principal” (pp. 609-610). Important to note is that all agency relationships are considered fiduciary relationships and that agency relationships are always consensual (Sukys, 2020, p.610).

           All that being said, there are some clearly defined fiduciary duties that an agent is said to owe his/her principal whether they are mentioned in the agreement or merely implied to include: obedience, loyalty, judgment, prudence, and skill, account for all property, and to perform work personally and communicate fully with the principle.

Fiduciary Duties an Agent Owes the Principal

Obedience

           As far as obedience, the agent must comply with any instructions given by the principal so long as they are reasonable and legal instructions and they relate to the agency agreement. That said, there is established boundaries in the relationship that the agent must act within referred to as the scope of authority. There are many examples in which if the agent acted outside those boundaries, they would be liable to the principal for any damages or injury suffered by the principal.

Loyalty

           The agent must always act in the best interest of the principal by maintaining loyalty and avoiding any conflict of interest. Further, ensuring that any confidential information acquired through the relationship be kept as such and not used to the benefit of the agent. You would think that the concept of acting in the best interest of the principal would be common sense but, agents might attempt to convince themselves that they are acting in the best interest of the principal when perhaps they are not. As mentioned in Samet (2008), “To minimize the risk of self-deception is to eliminate the process of deliberation that is most prone to be infected by it; that is, to prevent fiduciaries from asking themselves whether a transaction that serves their own interest is also good for their principals. When the law makes it clear that any (unapproved) conflict is illegitimate, the process of reflection which is so prone to being subverted by self-deception is stopped before it can even start its destructive course” (p. 765).

Judgment, Prudence and Skill

           This set of duties would seemingly be self-explanatory however, there are some differentiators from an agent who possesses the skills and knowledge required to carry out their obligations to the principle and someone who claims to be an expert. If someone is an expert for example a doctor or an attorney, they would be required to carry out their duties by using expert judgment, prudence, and skills such as those that would be possessed by others that previously had been admitted into those professions. The important thing to note is whether the agent is considered an expert or not, they still may be held liable for losses or injuries caused to the principle due to negligence or incompetence (Sukys, 2020, p. 626).

Account for All Property

           The agent must keep the principal’s funds separate from his/her own funds. This also seems like it would be a regular business practice however, because it is specifically written within agent requirements it must be something that has been breached often in agreements in the past. Additionally, any funds or property that the agent receives or disperses on the principal’s behalf through the agency relationship must be held in trust and an accounting must be given to the principal within an adequate amount of time. Commingling is the term used to describe when an agent fails to keep funds separate (Sukys, 2020, p. 626).  

Personal Service and Communication

           Since often agency relationships are agreements for personal services, the agent may not delegate certain duties to someone unless those duties do not require the knowledge, skills, and abilities the agent was hired for in the first place. Therefore, simple tasks or duties are OK. However, the agent is obligated to notify the principal of all facts that would materially affect the subject matter of the relationship due to the assumption by the law that if an agent receives information or attention to, it will also be communicated to the principal. Important to note that due to this fact, the principals rights and liabilities to a third party also known as an individual with whom the agent deals for the principal would be the same had the principal been notified personally so long as the agent is acting within the scope of authority (Sukys, 2020, p. 626).  

           There are many examples of fiduciary relationships that occur in our every day lives. The fiduciary/agency relationship that I personally can think of that I have had is hiring an attorney to get custody of my nephew when my sister passed away. As I was reading through the duties owed to the principal by the agent, there certainly was no breach that took place in my agency relationship. Her services were worth every penny and she always acted in my best interest while carrying out many of the duties described above. One way I can think a breach could have occurred is if she had not been competent enough to understand the case as she had implied and not been prepared in court to ensure that I received custody. In my case, my nephews’ father was unfit to care for his son, my nephew, as he was incarcerated. Because she was so well prepared and knew the law and my circumstances, she quickly requested to vacate my order for guardianship which I had filed prior to hiring her and immediately filed for emergency custody.

           Fiduciary duties are so important, especially when hiring a professional because it is so important that the principal is confident in hiring them and can trust that the agent will carry out the services for which you hired them. Further, equally important is that if the agent breaches their duties, they may be held liable for any loss or injury by the principal. It does not matter what the justification for the breach may be only that a breach occurred. As mentioned in Rotman (2017), “A breach of fiduciary duty is a breach of fiduciary duty, regardless of why it occurred or whether there are subjective reasons for this breach that are alleged to justify it or mitigate its severity. Breaching a fiduciary duty is not a question of degree: it is a binary definition either a breach has occurred or it has not" (Linking Traditional section, para. 25).

  Rotman, L. I. (2017, June). Understanding Fiduciary Duties and Relationship Fiduciarity. McGill Law Journal, 62(4), 975+. Retrieved from https://link-gale-com.proxy.davenport.edu/apps/doc/A529222978/AONE?u=lom_davenportc&sid=AONE&xid=56e690c2

Samet, I. (2008). Guarding the fiduciary's conscience: A justification of a stringent profit-stripping rule. Oxford Journal of Legal Studies, 28(4), 763-781. doi:10.1093/ojls/gqn029

Sukys, P. (2020). Business law with ucc applications (15th ed.). New York, NY: McGraw-Hill Education.

[freetheworms]

Richie Tozier is drunk, standing outside some shitty dive bar, waiting for a cab.

There’s a girl standing next to him. They made small talk for a minute when she first walked out, but the conversation has died now, as conversations do.

She pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “You want one?” She’s probably 10 years younger than him. Still naive. Still kind. She mentioned waiting for a taxi to meet her friends at another club, but at the moment, she’s holding a pack of Pall Mall’s out to Richie, whose name she doesn’t even know.

He shakes his head. “Nah, haven’t smoked since I was a kid,” he winks. “Thanks anyway, hun.”

She just smiles and shrugs as she turns her focus to lighting one for herself, leaving him to sink into his jumbled thoughts.

He hasn’t smoked since he was seventeen; that much, he remembers. What always seems to elude him though, is the actual reason he quit.

He’s thought about it on a few occasions with no success, so he knows it’s not just the cheap beer clouding his memory tonight. Not that it’s helping.

No, for the life of him he just can’t recall his last cigarette.

He decides this time, he’ll go through all the usual reasons people quit. Narrow it down. After all, he’s got nothing better to do right now than let his mind wander.

Well, he knows it wasn’t a money thing. He vaguely remembers stealing more than a few packs from the local pharmacy when he was a broke kid. He’s not sure where he’d learned that trick from, but he decides he must have seen it in a movie or something.

He moves on.

There are vague memories of smoking at school dripping down the back of his throat. With a friend? Or was it more than one? Not sure.

He tries, but he can’t picture them, these maybe-friends.

Instead, he finds himself thinking of birds. The colour orange. Of poetry and petting sheep. He thinks of a little paper boat, and it all feels bittersweet. He couldn’t say why.

The street lamp above him is out. The cigarette between the girl’s fingers glows like a beacon in the darkness.

His mind continues wandering.

Maybe he had a guilty conscience? Or some kind of health scare that made him stop? He has faint thoughts of an inhaler, but no real memories of sickness. Besides, he was an idiot back then. Hell, he’s an idiot now. He knows no rational justification would have stopped him from blowing o’s all the way to the morgue.

Richie chuckles quietly at the idea of making responsible decisions, and the girl spares him a quick glance. She doesn’t say anything.

So, if not rationality, maybe somebody else had convinced him to give it up. Would he have quit to make someone else happy?

No, he thinks. That would take someone very special; more special than anyone he can think of at the moment. He would remember someone that important, surely.

The sudden pain in his chest almost knocks him sideways, then.

It’s like a million emotions hitting him all at once. Like a tidal wave crashing over him, he’s suddenly awash with sadness; with this overwhelming, all-consuming need for something he can’t name.

Some...thing?

Someone?

His thoughts shift to comic books and cream soda of their own volition. To strict parents and doctors visits. Shorts that are way too short. Summer days that never end and nights that are never long enough. He doesn’t understand. But when he thinks of warm brown eyes, his knees nearly buckle. He can’t breath.

The girl next to him doesn’t look over. Doesn’t notice the now gaping hole in Richie’s chest. Doesn’t notice that there’s suddenly no oxygen left in the space around him.

Richie Tozier is collapsing right there, right beside her, suffocating under the weight of something he can’t fucking remember, and no one can even see it.

Fuck.

He wants to forget what he’s already forgotten.

She takes another drag.

He needs forget.

Another drag.

...Cigarettes, that’s right. That’s what he was thinking about. Why he quit... why did he quit?

There’s a dull ache deep in his chest, but he forgets exactly why.

It almost feels like... yearning? Like he’s missing something important that he can’t seem to place. Almost like a craving.

He’s not sure what to call it exactly, but he knows he needs it gone. Kill the craving before it kills him.

And it is killing him.

“You know what,” Richie turns to the girl. She’s in the middle of lighting another cigarette. He hadn’t noticed her finish the last one. His taxi is late. He hesitates, and she looks up at him with warm brown eyes.

Warm brown eyes.

Ache.

“Maybe I will have one,” he croaks, and pulls a cigarette clumsily from the pack she holds out to him.

Her taxi’s here. She says something to him, but Richie doesn’t hear it. He isn’t listening. For the first time in fifteen years, Richie Tozier is too busy lighting himself a cigarette.

He’s alone when he looks up again.

Alone, as the smoke fills his lungs, and the head rush takes over his tattered mind.

He’s alone, but for a moment, he almost forgets to feel so fucking empty.

He takes another drag.

Honestly, he can’t remember why he ever quit.

[hellyeahomeland]

How about explaining all of the episode’s titles? Would you? Maybe one a day/week.

“Ok, here we go. This is only from memory and if any of this is wrong or contains typos please don’t @ me I didn’t edit! 

Season one:

“Pilot: twas the pilot! 

“Grace”: Brody prays at the end 

“Clean Skin”: I think this is because Nazir lets Brody take a bath

“Semper I”: it’s a play on “Semper Fi” which is short for “Semper Fidelis” which is a Marine motto which means “always faithful”

“Blind Spot”: Carrie thinks Brody uses the blind spot in the safe house to slip Hamid the razor blade plus her growing attraction for him is kind of her blind spot!! 

“The Good Soldier”: almost undoubtedly a reference to a novel about a love triangle between a woman and two soldiers

“The Weekend”: because it’s THE weekend, duh

“Achilles Heel”: Saul’s Achilles heel is that he always answers when work calls, Tom Walker’s is that he loves his wife and kids… Carrie’s is literally every aspect of her existence

“Crossfire”: Issa gets stuck in the crossfire

“Representative Brody”: it’s the episode where Brody decides to run for Congress lol

“The Vest”: Brody tries on a vest! 

“Marine One”: *FORGET ABOUT BEFORE, THIS IS NOW. I SAW THEM! WHO? BRODY… THEY HUSTLED IT RIGHT THROUGH THE METAL DIRECTORS ALONG WITH THE VICE PRESIDENT. DO YOU EVEN REALIZE WHAT YOU’RE SAYING. YES. HE’S PLANNING ON TAKING THEM ALL OUT. THAT IS WHAT’S COMING. WE’VE BEEN HEARING CHATTER FOR DAYS NOW, MARINE ONE, MARINE TWO. IT’S NOT THE PRESIDENT’S HELICOPTER. IT’S ACTUAL MARINES. BRODY. AND WALKER. THEY ARE MARINE ONE AND MARINE TWO THEY’RE WORKING TOGETHER THEY MUST BE.  **transcribed verbatim from memory

Season two: 

“The Smile”: CARRIE FUCKING SMILES FOR FUCKING ONCE

“Beirut Is Back”: I could have sworn that there was a tourism campaign for the city of Beirut and this was the slogan but now I can find no evidence of that online

“State of Independence”: idk if this is a reference to the Donna Summers song or just a reference to Carrie being on her own again

“New Car Smell”: Brody gets a car wash to get rid of the odor of tobacco and murder

“Q&A”: Carrie asks some questions

“A Gettysburg Address”: play on words with Abraham Lincoln’s speech and the fact that Quinn & Co. literally go to a physical address in Gettysburg

“The Clearing”: I think this has multiple meanings: Carrie meets Brody in the clearing in the woods, Dana clears her conscience, Brody attempts to clear his

“I’ll Fly Away”: a reference to the 90s TV show that Henry Bromell (and, hi! Barbara Hall!) both wrote on but a more literal reference to Brody being whisked away on a helicopter at the end (lmao s2 is wild)

“Two Hats”: so many people wearing hats in this episode!! 

“Broken Hearts”: lulz Walden’s breaks at the end 

“In Memoriam”: because Nazir dies (fact: this episode was originally titled “The Motherfucker in the Turban” but was changed last minute, thank god)

“The Choice”: Carrie must choose between red and white wine JUST KIDDING IS ANYONE STILL READING THIS???

Season three: 

“Tin Man Is Down”: someone says this during the weird Wizard of Oz op

“Uh… Oh… Aw”: phonetically it sounds like “fuck… you… saul” if you were drugged out on thorazine

“Tower of David”: Brody’s residence 

“Game On”: because it’s when Carrie and Saul’s spy-came-in-from-the-cold operation is revealed 

“The Yoga Play”: it’s Carrie’s very unoriginal name for an espionage scheme in which a lady with blonde hair attends a yoga class in her place

“Still Positive”: Carrie takes a 47th pregnancy test and is still positive #scarredforlife

“Gerontion”: ugh this is a poem I don’t know more go find Jacob Clifton’s TWoP recap

“A Red Wheelbarrow”: Carrie texts this to the Franklin man, it’s like spy code for “i’m the one answering this not some other dude” 

“One Last Thing”: Saul to Brody: “you will do this one last thing” (literally though!) 

“Good Night”: more spy code. I think it means “we’re fucked!”?

“Big Man in Tehran”: Brody becomes one of these when he denounces America for terrorism! (but only for show!)

“The Star”: probs dual meaning and allusion to the literal star Carrie draws and Damian Lewis’ stature on the show

Season four:

“The Drone Queen”: we stan one! 

“Trylon and Perisphere”: a reference to the two structures at the World’s Fair and I can’t remember where I read this but I think it’s a reference to Quinn and the Landlady which is 100% horrific and offensive 

“Shalwar Kameez”: this is the national dress of Pakistan but beyond that I got nothing

“Iron in the Fire”: Carrie says this about Aayan

“About a Boy”: think this is not a reference to the book/film but rather just to Carrie trying to figure out Aayan’s dealio

“From A to B and Back Again”: possibly a reference to the circular nature of the episode? They go from thinking they’ve got Haqqani to being back at square one by episode’s end 

“Redux”: Carrie hallucinates Brody

“Halfway to a Donut”: Duck says this about some pastry. Like 4.06, they think they’ve got Saul and end up back to zero (donut)

“There’s Something Else Going On”: well there was!! 

“13 Hours in Islamabad”: reference to the Benghazi attacks, which the episode basically lifts from directly and which also lasted ~13 hours

“Krieg Nicht Lieb”: Carrie meets a German spy woman! This means “war not love” (not perfectly translated), so an ironic take on “love not war”

“Long Time Coming”: Carrie and Quinn finally have sex!!!!!!! (just seeing if anyone is still reading this)

Season five: 

“Separation Anxiety”: I think this a meta reference to the time jump and also to Carrie’s anxieties about being out of the CIA but back in that world

“The Tradition of Hospitality”: I believe this is a reference to Carrie + Otto being guests at the UN refugee camp and how… un-hospitably that trip ends

“Super Powers”: Carrie believes she has super powers when she’s off her meds

“Why Is This Night Different”: these words at said at Passover seder, which starts out the episode 

“Better Call Saul”: horrifically embarrassing title that is a reference to Carrie calling Saul as well as the Breaking Bad spinoff starring Bob Odenkirk

“Parabiosis”: I honestly don’t know. It’s a scientific term and I haven’t rewatched those middle season five episodes since they aired and also don’t care to! 

“Oriole”: this was Carrie’s code name with one of her assets in Iraq

“All About Allison”: this episode centers on our Lord and Savior Allison Carr, Queen of Online Handbag Shopping! 

“The Litvinov Ruse”: I think this describes the trick they played on Allison thinking she was blown when she wasn’t 

“New Normal”: some military or CIA person says this about ISIS or Russia and Quinn being gassed 

“Our Man in Damascus”: this is the title of a book about a man who infiltrates a foreign government at the highest levels so I’m pretty sure it’s a reference to Allison 

“A False Glimmer”: lifted straight from Quinn’s letter! 

Season six: 

“Fair Game”: was surely sad by Keane or Dar or Saul or someone else about something (sorry, haven’t rewatched these episodes either)

“The Man in the Basement”: it’s where Quinn threw that mug at Carrie

“The Covenant”: believe this is a reference to the scene with Saul and his sister and Palestine/Israel

“A Flash of Light”: Etai says* this to Saul: “And the question I keep asking myself is this-- should we [the Jewish people] pack up and leave before it's too late? All eight million of us? Should we go back to the ghettos of Europe and Asia and wait for the next pogrom? Or just pray it doesn't happen here first, in a flash of light?” *not recited from memory

“Casus Belli”: apparently this was the actual name of meat face?? The phrase actually means a justification for war, so...

“The Return”: isn’t the episode where Javadi comes back?

“Imminent Risk”: Carrie is this to Franny and Quinn is this to.... himself?

“alt.truth”: I think this was someone’s sock puppet handle or website name or something? Idk it was about online trolls I think

“Sock Puppets”: Max finds ‘em! 

“The Flag House”: the house where meat face lives has a flag out front

“R is for Romeo”: there was an R on the white board at the flag house which I think meant eastern time?? It was spy code I can’t remember!! 

“America First”: term that used to mean non-interventionist policy but has been today co-opted by the American right to mean that we gotta put America ahead of all other interests (moral, humane, rational, etc.) because... AMERICA!!! Typically used to justify fascist policies

Season seven: 

“Enemy of the State”: Carrie’s power of bun have put her in the crosshairs (is anyone still reading this?) 

“Rebel Rebel”: I remember this being a play on words and it’s a verb, not a noun. Said by those gun crazies with Brett O’Keefe.

“Standoff”: Saul and O’Keefe

“Like Bad at Things”: definition for “incompetent.” Said by Carl, who deserves a Best Supporting Actor Emmy

“Active Measures”: term for actions taken by Russia to undermine America

“Species Jump”: another science term to describe the jumping of a pathogen from one host to another... I’m thinking this might be Carrie understanding who Dante really was but it’s a Chip Johannessen title so anything is possible

“Andante”: it’s how Carrie ends the episode! (that is a joke and it is 100% another meaning for the title but it also refers to a moderately slow tempo which is basically this episode’s structure until, y’know, the ending!) 

“Lies, Amplifiers, Fucking Twitter”: it’s one half of a haiku Carrie is writing 

“Useful Idiot”: see: picture of Carrie in a PowerPoint presentation

“Clarity”: Carrie gets it (kinda)

“All In”: what Carrie must convince Saul she is for the 650th time because Saul remains trash

“Paean to the People”: a reference to Keane’s speech

[balioc]

Once upon a time, @slatestarscratchpad talked about “Conflict Theory vs. Mistake Theory.”  His particular take on this idea always struck me as a bit odd, for reasons largely having to do with its being super-focused rhetorically on one particular issue suite (distributive macroeconomics). Regardless, the dichotomy is a helpful thing to have available in your philosophical toolkit. 

For general-purpose use, I’d suggest a refinement: replace “mistake theory” with, uh, let’s say “solution theory.”  There are, roughly speaking, two analytical lenses you can use to examine a given debate.  You can say “people are trying to figure out the Overall Best Solution [by whatever criteria], and their arguments represent either empirical disagreements-of-fact or genuine disagreements over the values that determine the Best Solution.”  Or you can say “people are trying to advance their own interests against the conflicting interests of other people, they have formed alliances and coalitions in order to do this more effectively, and their arguments should essentially be understood as gambits and rationalizations within a power struggle.” 

Each of these lenses is obviously going to be helpful sometimes, depending on the circumstances.  Some people have a natural proclivity towards one, some towards the other, etc.  We all know how useful conceptual dichotomies work.

OK.  All that said, let’s talk for a minute about the kind of collective-grievance-driven identity politics that have taken over mainstream culture for the past five years. 

If you want to understand how these arguments are working for the people making them, and why they have the particular effects that they have, I think it’s very helpful to try looking at them through a conflict-theory lens. 

Which is to say:

Identitarians make claims like “members of the Oppressor Class act in ways X and Y and Z, it totally sucks and makes us miserable, the world is so unfair, justice must be done.”  And a lot of people -- in particular, a lot of the sort of people who Take Arguments Seriously -- read this as having its obvious surface meaning, which is something like “the current ruleset is bad for us, we should change to a different social equilibrium where a different ruleset is enforced, a new Overall Best Solution is hereby proposed.”  In the saddest cases, this leads to bewildered nerds screaming, “PLEASE TELL ME WHAT TO DO!  I DON’T WANT TO BE A SEXIST CREEP / RACIST IMPERIALIST ASSHOLE / WHATEVER-IT-IS!  I’LL DO ANYTHING!  JUST LIST THE RULES I HAVE TO FOLLOW THAT WILL MAKE IT ALL OK!” 

Which of course never works even a little, which breeds a lot of resentment.  It especially breeds resentment because there doesn’t particularly seem to be a correlation between “people who make the identitarians mad” and “people who counteract the identitarians’ stated desires.”  (As has been pointed out time and again, many of the most-admired men in feminist circles are pretty traditionally masculine, in exactly the ways that come up in discussions of “toxicity.”  Visibly trying hard to avoid Doing A Racism will at best make you a punchline and at worst get you hit with serious accusations of actual racism, whereas people who breeze right through the stated norms with a cheeky grin often get away with it.  Etc. etc.) 

But -- as @bambamramfan has recently noted, correctly -- it’s dangerous, and wrong, to read that lack-of-correlation as an anti-correlation.  It’s not like the confident jocular straight white cis asshole is safe from potentially getting slammed by the wrathful end of identity politics.  He’s just as vulnerable as anyone else, probably more so, the moment anyone gets upset enough with him to make an actual move. 

The only real difference is that, because he’s a confident jocular asshole and therefore conventionally-likeable, he’s not making people upset quite as easily. 

This bizarre circle can be squared, and the facts of the world accounted for more cleanly, if you drop some of your discursive charity and put on your conflict-theorist goggles.  All those arguments about oppression, all those claims about what exactly the Oppressor Classes are doing in order to make the world horrible for the Oppressed Classes, are...beside the point.  I’m not even commenting on whether they’re right or wrong, I’m saying it often doesn’t matter, because the people making them often don’t really care except insofar as they can win points by convincing people through logic or sympathy. 

The actual “claim” underlying it all is something like: In conflicts between Oppressed People and Oppressor People, the Oppressed People should get to win more often and more easily.  The very-generalized justification is something like, “life is overall very unfair to Oppressed People and therefore they should get to win more.”  And there’s a real argument that the very-generalized justification is true, at least to some extent. 

(...but of course it’s impossible to separate “I believe I should get a handicap because life is genuinely unfair to me” from “I believe I should get a handicap because, well, I’m a human being with cognitive biases and therefore it seems intuitively obvious that life is unfair to me.”  At some point the justification stops working, and there’s absolutely no reason to believe that that’s the point where it will stop being employed.) 

Anyway.  Most of the time you can’t just say “I should get a ‘Win an Arbitrary  Fight Free’ card,” because that doesn’t play well, everyone knows that justice doesn’t work that way.  You have to say “I am being wronged in these specific ways and the following changes would make it better.”  But of course the changes mostly won’t make it better.  If that were the actual effective medicine, then people who sedulously followed the alleged rules would be rewarded for it.  The actual effective medicine is -- 

“ -- I get that job/promotion/award I want so desperately, instead of one of the other people who might get it, many of whom are white/male/straight/whatever.”

“ -- when my boyfriend and I break up messily, everyone agrees that he is worthless slime and I am a Very Tragic Heroine.”

“ -- when some hopeless loser displays too much interest in me, I can extract myself from the situation cleanly without having to feel mean and without having to put in too much effort.” 

“ -- when I get into an argument at a party, everyone will know that I am very wise and enlightened and that my interlocutor is a hopeless bigot.” 

Or, in other words, “I should get some number of ‘Win an Arbitrary Fight Free’ cards.”  That is what conflict theory looks like, on the social micro-level.  That is claiming your share of the spoils, not because you can somehow prove before God that you deserve them, but because you’re going to stand up for yourself and your own and it’s not like those assholes in the other tribe deserve them any more than you do.  Don’t you get the short end of the stick way too much already?  Isn’t life just one long testament to that? 

This is actually really bad.

I realize that, by putting it solution-theory-versus-conflict-theory terms, I’m kind of implying “this is just how the world operates at a fundamental level and we should wise up to it” -- but, no, it’s a cultural disease, and we’re already infected, and finding the right antibiotics is critical.  It probably is “just how the world operates at a fundamental level” for a sufficiently narrow understanding of “the world” (globalized, atomized, multicultural)...and yet we used to be holding it at bay almost completely, and right now we’re definitely not.

It’s really bad, in part, because it poisons the well of discourse.  If your opponents don’t mean the things they say, if they’re just trying to rack up enough sympathy to get another ‘Win an Arbitrary Fight Free’ card, eventually you’re going to notice and stop paying attention to their arguments; and then, on the occasions when they’re actually right and you’re wrong, everyone is screwed.  Debate is important if we want to fix the problems.  That means we have to be able to have it, for real. 

But even more so, it’s really bad because there’s no obvious place for it to stop once it starts.  This is how group grievance politics work generally; this is why Lee Kuan Yew sold his soul to the devil to ensure that Singapore would not divide politically into the obvious ethnic factions.  The goal is peace and harmony and stability, but individuals are always going to feel aggrieved in ways that can be theoretically traced back to group membership, and we’re not going to find a [viable][compromise] equilibrium so long as people think it makes sense to keep pushing for more spoils.  Which in the end is equivalent to total war.  

So...solutions?  What does the antibiotic look like?

Shit, man, I don’t know.  If I did, I’d be out saving the world, not writing this Tumblr post. 

The best I can give you is: don’t let yourself get sucked into this game.  Don’t honor anyone’s claim to a ‘Win an Arbitrary Fight Free” card, and don’t ever think that you yourself deserve one.  If someone proposes a new social rule, follow it or don’t as your conscience dictates, but don’t imagine that doing so will actually mollify anyone.  Try to evaluate right and wrong by the standards of the actual rules/principles/virtues/whatever that you espouse, not by simple demographic heuristics.

And if you’re reading this, you probably didn’t need me to tell you any of that.  So great.

It’s worth putting in an addendum to say:

At this moment, as it happens, the cultural left has the particular kind of dominance that allows it to play identity politics and actually accomplish things sometimes.  But it’s not as though the right hasn’t been positively eager to play the exact same horrible games when the constellations align differently...or as though the slimier parts of the right aren’t trying to play the exact same horrible games right now. 

[anonthenullifier]

An Auspice of Scarlet - Chapter 5

A Scarlet Vision Victorian AU

Chapter title: In which information is shared and life moves forward

Chapter summary: After he awakens, Wanda and Vision must come to an understanding about the seance.

AO3 Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12184758/chapters/31298556

Word count: 15k 

Note: Since the last chapter only had one, tiny conversation between Wanda and Vision, I am compensating with the longest chapter yet that is filled with numerous conscious interactions between the two.

Hope you enjoy!

The first day after the séance moves so slowly Wanda worries her actions may have broken time itself, a concern that is only intensified by the inevitably forced introspection. It is inconsequential if she is walking, sitting, stirring a pot of thrown together stew, or staring into the abyss of the darkened hallway leading to Vision’s room, her mind is overwhelmed by a menagerie of memories. The cycle spans the entirety of her life, a rapid churning that weaves together blissful recollections of running after Pietro, the half-hearted scolding of their mother never stopping their disastrous chase, and the way he’d grow giddy at outrunning her again with the harrowing reality of the reflection of light in the metal plates of Vision’s body. The subdued ecstasy of touching Vision’s hand, staring into the gentle cerulean of his fascinated eyes intertwining with Pietro’s hollowed, lifeless gaze and the way her scream echoed off the buildings. She recalls the curious excitement of the first time she connected with Pietro’s mind, the pure rush of affection that she used to anchor herself to the real world, but this contrasts with the nauseating drop of her stomach each time she harnessed her powers for less seemly deeds, the sickening clout that would fill her as she curled scarlet ropes around errant thoughts, rendering the mark cognitively useless. But more than anything she battles her own instinctual attempts to rationalize her behavior by using Stark’s utter disregard for others as a justification, instead forcing herself to reconcile with her conscience.  

Wanda understands she could leave the manor, these thoughts, and Stark behind, the pure, unmarred sunlight streaming through the crack in the curtains more than enough to guide her on the path to freedom. Yet she remains, even dutifully follows Stark’s edict that she can only occupy her room, the main room, and the kitchen. No matter where she resides, her powers always reach out for Vision, desperate to assess the weak, orderly waves of his unconscious mind. This serves to help ground her amidst the deadly quiet of the manor, the majority of the noises a result of her own movements and shuddering breaths, though occasionally there are the fleeting glimpses of Tony entering and then leaving the kitchen, his hands never occupied by the meals she pieced together, yet she can not bemoan him this or even muster a spark of anger. If someone vowed to destroy her, she too would wonder what extra, noxious ingredients might have been added.   This listlessness continues the second day, her body taking up residence on the leather couch still pushed under the window, legs crossed and body angled to allow her an unobstructed view of the path to Vision. The only issue with her choice of vigil is that when the muscles in her neck inevitably grow tired and her eyes droop, she is forced to reckon with the debilitating embarrassment of the table, still cloaked in white, chairs in varied positions, and the candles askew, charred wicks frozen in place, perennially feeling her dramatic gust of scarlet that concluded the séance. She considers leaving the main room, inching her sentinel existence closer to where her mind resides, even gets as far as contemplating how Stark would react if he found her sitting in the hallway, but she tempers this desire, for the most part.

It’s when the sun sets and the manor is shrouded in darkness, that Wanda finds herself unable to control her mind, memories still streaming, flashing image after image of her life, a process she always presumed would happen when she was dying, yet, as has been the path of her existence, she cannot rely on such an easy escape for her heartbreak. Wanda heaves in a breath, fingertips congregating into steeples in above her palms, the backs of her hands resting gently atop her knees, yet she cannot chase away the temptation chipping away at her resolve. At first it was simply a fleeting thought, but the longer she stares at the hallway, the more she attempts to squash the burning embarrassment of replaying for the hundredth time the look of abject horror on Vision’s face when she likened him to Friday or the resolute submission of his body in the rain, the harder it becomes to deny the rebellion clawing at her chest. Foolishly she reasons it won't hurt to test the waters, the crescent moon on her index finger rising as she extends the reach of her powers outwards just enough to determine Tony’s alertness. When she cannot feel the erratic and lively buzz of his attention, Wanda finds herself standing, legs wobbling at the scurry of prickles attacking her calves, and hesitating as she considers her next actions. The cogent decision is to sit back down, resume her unhealthy meditative trance, and yet her body refuses. Instead a flick of her wrists sends scarlet twining around her boots to muffle her footfalls as she climbs the stairs and traverses the blackened hallway, Stark seemingly incapable of refilling the gas lamps on the wall. With even greater care, she leans against the door, ear pressed to the unpolished wooden beams, breath evening out with each wave of fitful sleep lapping across Stark’s mind. A tentative and steady cloud of scarlet eases the door open, her body tensing as she waits to see if the small creak of the hinges (which would certainly not happen if Vision was awake and capable of oiling them into submission) stirs Tony from his slumber. When there are no stern words or volleyed threats, Wanda steps into the room, eyes adjusting quickly to the soft glow of the lamp on the butler’s desk.

The room is messier than before, clear signs that someone has been living in the quarters, yet her mouth descends into a morose frown at the knowledge this someone is not Vision, his mind slow, thoughts shallow yet blessedly even, and his body unmoving on the bed, only the tubes still running into his arms spasming with life as fluids flow into his arms. Ten achingly tedious steps bring her to the chair at his bedside. She knows this is dangerous, being in his room, the repercussions unfathomable if Stark were to wake up and find her like this, yet she can’t seem to obey the screaming logic from her mind, instead listening to the command of the furious pumping of her heart and the anchor of guilt that pulls her down into the chair, her hands folding anxiously in her lap.

Wanda’s lips part, a comforting, uneasy hello forming on her tongue, but she stops herself in time, her voice most certainly would rouse the man draped over the cot on the far side of the room. The greeting is transfigured into a silent heave, the air sucked back into her lungs before being let out in a soundless stream of apology, her thoughts racing as she attempts to decide what, precisely she is doing in the room. The first notion she settles on is reassurance, a convincing argument that she needed to see his chest rising and falling, hear the whispered breaths escaping his lungs, feel the warmth exude from his body to know he was alive. Yet this is hogwash, her powers a far more parsimonious source of tracking the difference between living and dying. Which brings her to the second notion, one that feels right though she is uncertain how to accomplish it. Whenever she was ill or injured, particularly the time when she attempted to race Pietro across the frozen river and ended up with a broken arm, there was always someone there for comfort. Vision presumably lacks this, Stark doubtfully providing anything more than an antsy, self-important aura. The idea is unfounded, yet it persists in her mind, her palm growing itchy with a need to feel useful, perhaps even more so, a usefulness that might start the process of atonement. One more sweep of the room with her powers provides her with a sense of safety, her hand reaching out, hovering just over the scarred skin of Vision’s hand, his muscles completely relaxed for the first time she’s seen, fingers curled slightly inward.

A wheezing startles her, hands lifting protectively in front of her chest as scarlet shimmers in the air, but then she eases back when the noise happens again, the source the odd machine humming away at the bedside. Wanda watches with interest as the valves of the contraption seem to function independently, the constant swish of fluid through the tubes stopping momentarily as something clicks in the back of the machine, then everything resumes as before, the only change a shift in the density of Vision’s thoughts, the tenuous link filling her with a terrifying sense of instability. Wanda scans the man, searching for some sign as to the change in his mental state, conflicted on whether she hopes this means he is rousing or if she would rather he not wake to see her face first. His body remains still, but his mind races, and she realizes she recognizes this feeling, an image of Pietro laying on his side, eyes shut, breath rapid and uncontrolled, mind screaming even though outwardly he appeared at peace . After the experiments his body couldn’t handle the changes, a litany of curses interspersing his description of feeling discombobulated, as if whatever made up his muscles couldn’t decide which direction to go in. The one time her brother truly gave up, when the pain was too much and his tears stained his cheeks as he whispered his apologies for not being stronger before passing out, Wanda gripped his hand, centered her own spasming thoughts around a solid, unshakeable sense of calm, and bathed him in scarlet. Whatever it was she did, seemed to work, his body and mind stabilizing.

Recklessly Wanda reaches out, grabs the man’s hand with both of her own, and lifts it just enough so that it touches her forehead as she bends down. “Please,” the words are silent, a plea she collects in her mind, wrapping it in layers of serenity, of hope, of regret, of redress, of a conviction that if she can sooth him now then she will finally drop all thoughts of retribution, turn her eyes solely to the future. Scarlet blossoms around their hands, seeps between her closed eyelids as she breathes in, holding the raging fire of her powers captive in her lungs until it is tamed, and then she breathes out, pushing every last spark of scarlet into this hand, sending with it the words she has wanted to tell him, was waiting to tell him when he awoke, but, if she fails, she wants to make sure he heard her at least once. “I never meant to hurt you.”

When the room is no longer dyed with red, she sits back, his hand still clasped between hers, and she can feel his mind settle, falling back to mimic the tranquility of his slumbering body. The relief filling her body causes a tiny smile, one she doesn’t want to fight and so she allows it brief residence on her lips before squeezing his hand in reassurance and standing. Scarlet streams from her body, creating a path along the floor for her to leave the room in silence, and she sleeps that night for three hours before the usual nightmares descend.

It’s early on the third day when there is a shift in the atmosphere of the manor, an excitement vibrating from Stark’s mind and then, much to her surprise, a new dizzying sensation of pain colliding with a whirlwind of confusion coming directly from Vision. Wanda’s body tenses on the couch, mind reeling at the very clear alertness and wakefulness of the butler. Her hands begin to tremble uncontrollably for yet another day, only this time it is more than the recoil of recollection, a surge of joy tumbling quickly into anticipatory rejection, certain if he actually wants to speak with her (something she highly doubts), that she will have to verbalize her actions, fight against overly rationalizing her motivations, and be candid because it is the only thing she has left to offer him.   Seconds pass, then minutes, then an hour, the two minds upstairs still active, alive, and yet no sign or acknowledgment of her existence. Wanda allows twenty more minutes to pass before she determines idleness is ineffectual. The manor has not fared well in the days without the butler’s attention, the task of rectifying the regality of the manor something she herself views as insurmountable for one person, though Vision will, no doubt, disagree, but he is not downstairs, should not be worried about such things, and so she decides to be useful.      Once Wanda returns from the closet she watched Vision enter and exit several times while shadowing him, she kneels on the ground, sleeves rolled up, and hair twisted into a tight, efficient bun. On the floor in front of her is a bowl of soapy water, fifteen candlesticks, a large horsehair brush, a smaller brush, two felt pads, three square rags, and a pair of gloves. Wanda is certain the water is correct, recalling the oddly thick gloves Vision wore for the demonstration, but she cannot determine the appropriate cleaning aid, her hands hovering over each one, flashes of recollection mixing together as she attempts to sort through what to use. Hesitantly she grabs the smaller brush with her right hand, her left gently lifting one of the impressive silver candlesticks. Wanda dips the tips of the bristles into the water, experimentally lifting it before shaking her head, a quiet, “No,” directing her to the next option.

The rag feels wrong the instant she grabs it, and so she drops it to the ground before pinching a square of felt between her fingers. Wanda stares at how the brown fabric looks against the posh candlestick, a familiarity in the contrast enough confirmation for her to move to the next step. Vision had instructed, quite vehemently, the appropriate direction of cleaning (a gamble between clockwise and counterclockwise, or perhaps it was vertical versus horizontal swipes) and he had emphasized something about either the top or bottom of the object, but Wanda cannot remember. The only visuals readily available to her are the way his eyes shone in amusement when a candlestick slipped from her grasp, causing a small tidal wave in the bowl, and the blush that threatened to bloom along her neck at the sincerity of his, “Well done,” after her first successful attempt. Neither of which is particularly useful right now.  Wanda shrugs, dipping the felt into the water and clenching her teeth as she lightly wipes the candlestick in a counterclockwise pattern. Nothing horrific occurs, the silver is even slightly shinier, and so her movements grow more confident.  

Wanda is four (mostly) gleaming candlesticks in when she hears a slamming door from upstairs followed by plodding, annoyed steps that eventually reveal an untidy Stark. The rate at which he descends the staircase, unhurried and calculated, certifies his displeasure, but what’s more telling is the coldness of his usually upbeat voice. “Wanda.”

The felt splashes into the mucky water, her other hand carefully placing the candlestick on the ground before she stands to face the man. “Tony,” she emphasizes both syllables, determined to challenge the power differential he’s trying to utilize against her, yet his face remains impassive, hands sliding into the safe haven of his front pockets.

“He’s awake.” The confirmation of the news awakens her heart, a rapid flutter ramming against her ribcage as she digests the realness of the words. “Just so we’re clear this is against my better judgment,” he frowns, eyes downturned to study the scuffed toes of his shoes, then releases an exasperated breath out and meets her eyes again, “but he wants to talk to you, alone.”

If the revelation of Vision being awake and presumably okay was an elixir to her morbid thoughts, the realization of what this conversation will require of her draws her back into the squalor of remorse. But she cannot expect penance if she avoids admitting her wrongs.  “Okay.” Wanda wipes her damp hands on her skirt, fingers tingling with the nervous undulation of her powers as her emotions run rampant. “I’ll speak with him.”

She can feel Stark’s eyes follow her as she approaches the stairs, his thoughts swirling just out of reach, but she dares not connect with his mind when they are this close, all desire to enter the frenzied network of his past gone. “Wanda.” Her journey comes to a halt on the first stair, hand resting on the circular top of the rail. “I’m going to be in the hallway. If you do anything to him-”

The threat is unneeded, though she doesn’t fault him with distrusting her, she’d react exactly the same. “You will contact the sheriff.”

“No,” the single syllable is drawn out with a haughty chuckle, “No, you get the Black Widow if something happens.” Whatever this means is insignificant in the face of the seriousness of his voice, one heavy enough to nail a coffin shut. “Understand?”

“Perfectly.”

The annoyance exuding from Stark falls away with each halting step in her ascent, but as his diminishes it is replaced by her own annoyance once she turns down the hallway, her heart pounding in an attempt to convince her to run, but she tightens her fists and continues to the room. The door is open, which means she doesn’t get a last chance to settle her nerves or force her expression into a carefully crafted mask of concern and confidence before their eyes meet. He is sitting up, not straight, a support system of a pillow leaning against a stack of books almost gives him a casual appearance, but the dark circles under his eyes, the uncharacteristically disheveled hair, and the loose, unironed nightgown betray his continued ailing. “You,” his polite voice startles her, her eyes dropping in discomfiture at staring at him for some, likely quite unsociable, amount of time, “may come in and have a seat.”

“I-,” whatever she planned to say flees, leaving her to mutely nod, feet carrying her the same ten steps as the night before, though this time she moves the chair, places it several inches farther from the bed, fairly sure he would appreciate some physical distance between them.   Wanda had assumed he would lead the conversation, foolishly believed his butler ways of waiting for her to speak would be discarded in circumstances when status and position no longer matter. Truthfully a butler should die from the sheer impropriety of being in bed, in a nightgown, in front of a young, unattached woman. Yet he simply stares at her, face impassive beyond a small, pained bunching just above his nose. Wanda attempts a smile, but knows it fails, instead studying her fingers as they lace together in uncertainty, and when he still does not speak, she glances to her left to study the room in daylight. “You know,” her voice begins its journey long before her mind catches up, left hand rising to point at a small cup and a quaint, wooden toothbrush*, “I have not seen one of those since moving here. I,” the strength of her vocal chords wanes as she continues, “spent three months trying to find one before giving up.”

Vision’s eyes narrow as his head develops a small, curious tilt. “They do have truly barbaric views of dental hygiene**.” The dryness of the comment is comforting in its similarity to how he spoke with her prior to the séance, yet the absence of joviality is keenly felt. “I have a crate shipped in from London once a year. You are welcome to take some, if you like.”

“Thank you.”

The amount of things she’d like to say to him is immense, explanations and justifications, long histories of why she used his kindness in such a heinous way, careen through her mind, yet she can’t determine where to start. A simple apology seems far too empty, devoid of complexity and onus, and the last thing she wishes to do is harm him further with trivialities. Yet the idea of being truthful is petrifying, her heart caving in at the likelihood of his skepticism. “Miss Maximoff?” Her head snaps up, eyes meeting the eddy of disquiet in his gaze, and she can feel the air around them shift as he takes in a deep, steadying breath. “How-,” the word rushes out with his exhale and Vision breaks his stare, concentrating instead on the intertwining of his fingers atop the cream-colored blanket draped over his lap. The fact he is as unsettled as she is should lessen the fidgeting of her fingers or the shuffling of her boots along the wooden beams, but instead, it serves to increase her desire to leave, his presence, since she first met him at the river, has always been a source of comforting consistency devoid of anxiety, until now. “How did you know?”

Wanda dips her head at the question, her rumination over the past three days often came back to this, accepted he was going to ask it, because so would she, if their positions were reversed. The response has been practiced, refined, demolished, re-created, practiced some more, and cemented. Yet in the moment, the brilliant blue of his irises boring into her soul, she finds her mind shifting back into old habits of sidestepping uncomfortable truths in order to escape unscathed. Her heart disagrees with her mouth, but she cannot stop the faux playfulness imbuing her voice as she responds, “I commune with spirits.”

This expression is new for him, the droop of his eyes matching the downturn of his lips, accentuated by a soft, almost pained sigh prying itself free from his lungs. If she had to describe it, it might be disappointment. His response confirms her supposition, an invisible, albeit monstrous, boulder of guilt descending on her chest. “Please,” it is the same please he used when they were standing in the rain: confused, imploring, and achingly desperate, “I need to know.”

A sentiment she fully agrees with, but that does not make revealing the truth any easier nor does it alleviate the frustrating, and arguably startling, realization of how much she does not want him to think less of her, to doubt her. “You will not believe me.”

“Why not?”

Very few people, Wanda imagines, would readily accept the ability to read minds and move objects with a wave of a hand, but someone such as the butler - built of well-thought out, irrevocable logic - is most definitely in the section of the population that would never prescribe to such things. “You were not willing to believe in spirits.”

His hands calm long enough to lift into confused gesticulation, a tiny undercurrent of annoyance developing in his intonations, “To be fair you were not convening with spirits. Please, tell me.”

Despite his statement being true, the irritating reasoning only underlies her hesitation, “If you can’t even pretend to consider the existence of spirits then there is no way you will accept the truth.”

“Wanda,” her resolve is eradicated on the second syllable of her name, his conscious, deliberate breaking of her request a clear sign of the depth of his desperation. He could easily stop simply with her name and she would finally admit the truth, but he does not, instead continuing in a hushed manner, all irritation gone, replaced by a heavy, palpable sense of surrender. “Since you came to this manor, you have urged me, provoked me even, to cogitate on my own wants and independence, so I do not understand how you now suggest I am incapable of determining what I believe.”

Wanda remains mute as his words wash over her, eyes locked with his own, and she knows she cannot run anymore, but more importantly, she doesn’t want to. Her chin dips as she collects her thoughts, spying the glint of metal in the opening at the top of his shirt, and her decision is finalized. Calmly she lifts her chin, once more meeting his eyes, channels all of her energy into maintaining a calm visage despite the scarlet prickling in her closed fists. “I,” her voice stumbles, seizes up at the confession. Vision doesn’t push her though, face softening into encouragement which only creates confusion in her mind as to why he is the one comforting her. “I can read minds.”   His “Oh,” is not quite disbelief, nor is it denial, instead it is an odd mixture of surprise, contemplation, curiosity, and (perhaps she is wrong in her perceptions), relief.   Now that one half of her secret is out, Wanda finds herself revealing the rest, anxious to place all her truths between them at once. “I can also,” a demonstration is likely far more convincing than a statement, Wanda’s hand ascending, engulfed with her powers, as she sends a tendril of scarlet out to grab the toothbrush from the cup and hover it to the butler’s hands, “do that.”   Vision reaches out for the toothbrush, one hand below it, swiping for hidden mechanisms or strings, while the other cautiously enters the cloud of red to grab the wooden handle. “This,” his eyes have not left the toothbrush, the bristles rising up into the air to point towards her as he talks, “means I was not hallucinating during the séance,” he pauses, glances out the window and then down to his arms which no longer have the tubes and needles attached, “unless I am still hallucinating.”   This is not the reaction she suspected nor did she imagine her lips teasing into amusement at the wonder on his face. “You aren’t.”   “I see.”  The stillness between them is not uncomfortable enough for her to shatter with further explanations, instead she sits back, allows him to process the information, and waits, anxiety slithering in her stomach, for his response. Eventually he wets his lips, hand falling back into his lap before he reasons through the information. “You always knew when I was at your door.” She tilts her head in assent. “You found me when I had not left instructions as to my location.” Another slow nod meets his words. “And your spirit,” Vision swallows, an elongated second between his words, “followed the perspective of Mr. Stark’s own memory of that evening.” On the last word the fingers of his left hand curl around his right wrist, the sleeves of the shirt inching up to expose the metal cuff embedded in his skin. “Your spirits are memories.”   Wanda had underestimated how logic could be used to deduce her actions, how it could marry so well with the unbelievable truth of her powers, yet she still waits for this uneasy calm to fall away from the butler, certain that he will soon reason away from her apparent mysticism. “They are, they always have been.”   His next words are slow, each one carefully chosen as he goes, creating a hesitant staccato, “Did you know it was me?”   If Stark had apprised the butler of their conversation from that night, he either left out her admissions of ignorance or included it but with an overlay of incredulity. “No, Vision, I had no idea,” he refuses to look at her, even though she’s staring directly at him, attempting to will his face to turn up, see the utter, bare-faced honesty in her features, “If I had known, I wouldn’t have used it.”   “But you still would have completed the séance with an equally horrific memory of his?” The complete absence of warmth from his voice sends a chill through her limbs.   “Yes.” Now he watches her, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted in horror at the admission, all traces of the butler and his unwillingness to show emotion gone, which only amplifies the guilt clawing at her chest. “I wanted,” she amends this, determining that if she is going to be truthful then she has to go full tilt into honesty, “I needed to destroy him, to make him feel what he had done to me.” Wanda is now the one unwilling to meet his gaze, terrified what her unconscionable deeds have done to his face, whether they have hardened it into a statue of judgment or, far worse, drained all empathy, all kindness from his eyes. “The moment I saw his face, I was overcome by my desire for retribution.”   His voice is gentle, not condoning per se, but it lacks the bite of admonishment she expected. “Would you do it again?”   “No,” a firm shake of her head sends the tight knot of her hair wobbling, “I am done allowing Stark to dictate my life.” The reason for this lays reticent on the tip of her tongue, teetering back and forth as she weighs the utility of saying it, but then she feels a touch of warmth on the top of her hand, recognizes the source as she spies his arm retreat, fingers journeying back into his lap, and she looks up. There is a sheen to his eyes, a sorrow, but also a deep, abiding compassion that shouldn’t be there, her treatment of him, of Stark, of so many others in her life deplorable, yet he does not show any anger. That’s when her words finally reach a conclusion, eeking out of her lips with a strained breath as she fights the tears building in her eyes. “Vizh-” his name comes out half-finished, but she cannot force her mind backwards to complete it, words flowing out as a raging river, “I hurt you, and if I continue to be driven by revenge, I will undoubtedly hurt you again and you,” a shuddering breath in gives her a chance to slow the words, guide them so that the meaning is clear and undeniable, “of all people, you do not deserve to be treated like that.”   Vision breaks the link between them, a hand running nervously through his untamed hair, finishing her thought even though he is wholly incorrect. “Because of my condition.”   If he had not touched her before, had not established such an action as being acceptable, then she would never have had the bravery to reach out and grasp his hand, firmly holding it in place and not once flinching at the feel of the cold metal against the pads of her fingers. “Because you are kind and that,” her grip tightens momentarily around his hand, needing him to accept her words because his face is unconvinced, “is so rare in this world. I’m sorry for what I did.”   She follows his eyes as he takes in her hand entangled with his own, hopes that he notices the beauty of how their skin differs,  her’s slightly darker,  but she’s certain, when she flicks her gaze to his face, notes the frown on his lips, that he is far more focused on the way the metal contrasts harshly against his pallid skin. “Thank you,” the removal of his hand from her own physically hurts, muscles aching to stay that way just a bit longer, “for your honesty. I,” a shy smile curves his mouth up as his eyes dart side to side, “have more I wish to discuss but, to be frank, Miss Maximoff-”   “Wanda.”   The smile fills out briefly, the skin around his eyes crinkling at her correction, “Wanda, I am very tired and would like some time to process all you have said.”   Leaving this room is the furthest desire from her mind, but she cannot deny him his request, not now when their communication is tenuous, balancing on a minuscule thread that could either repair the friendship they had been building or create a long-lasting divide between them. So she acquiesces, a tight smile as she stands, “Thank you for listening to me.” Wanda steps away from the bed, pauses with her skirt clutched between her fingers, “sleep well, Vision.”   “Thank you.”

Wanda attempts to withstand the temptation to reach out for Vision’s mind and assess where he stands in his consideration of her information. In order to do so she busies herself in the manor, moving from the candlesticks to the plates, sweeping the floors, dusting the grates, feeding the chickens (which are quite assertive in their pecking of her skirt, bricky beasts indeed), but none of this can calm the worry twisting tighter in her abdomen. His reaction was far more subdued then she had feared, but now that she is removed from the situation, the lack of anger or even terror is unsettling. Those are emotions she has encountered and has developed methods for handling, a nonplussed, empathetic response puts her on edge. What she is firm on, however, is that she will not, no matter how strong the temptation, force him to speak with her until he is ready.

  Thankfully, for her own sanity, Stark finds her early the next morning, as she bustles around the kitchen, combining the last of the fresh vegetables with the eggs she cautiously retrieved that morning into a dish that resembles a meal slightly above the typical fare Wanda would eat. “Hope you made enough for everyone.”   Wanda turns to find Stark leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and his vapid, emotionally devoid gigglemug***. “You are eating as well?”   An indifferent shrug goes along with a dismissive sniff, “I’ll wait until Vision eats it, see what happens to him.” Wanda places the plate on the counter more firmly than intended, the thud loud as she glares at the man who quickly uncrosses his arms, hands raised in appeasement. “It was a joke.”   “You are not nearly as humorous as you think.”   The mock hurt on his face is more aggravating than the deathly glares he has been sending to her, and Wanda cannot help but be suspicious of this change in behavior. “I’ll have you know that my reputation for being a nanty narker**** is based on years of finely crafted eccentricity.” Finally his grin drops when she doesn’t bother expending energy to respond. “Listen, V and I have been talking this morning.” Wanda’s body comes to a standstill, hands frozen over the plates as her eyes strain to the right to study the man. “He insists you aren’t going to hurt him-”   A flutter develops in her stomach at the implied decision Vision reached concerning her confession. “I won’t.”   “Well I’m not convinced, but,” Tony runs a hand over his goatee, a movement that contains all the elements of a nervous tic, which is curious given his normal persona, “if I miss one more high society tea then I’m officially out of consideration for Pep so Vision,” his tone slides into annoyance, though whether it is at having to follow courtship procedures or what Vision told him, is unclear, “has assured me he will be fine if I leave him alone and that he trusts you can help him if he needs it.”   The tension in her lips builds as she struggles not to smirk at Tony’s distaste for the idea and the increasingly crystallizing notion she will be speaking with Vision today. “I am happy to help him.”   Stark continues without acknowledging her, “I sent a telegraph to Rhodes, he’ll be stopping by later to make sure Vision is still alive and then I’ll be back as soon as I can escape.”     A man she’s never seen before steps up behind Stark, the well-tailored yet simple suit and the quiet, business-like stance immediately reminds her of Vision the first time they met, so she assumes this is another of Tony’s servants, though where he has been this whole time is unclear. “Mr. Stark.”   Tony flinches at the voice, a satisfying image Wanda will keep locked away for moments where she needs to laugh, just because she is no longer bent on revenge does not mean she has to like Stark, “Happy, just as sneaky as ever I see.”   The similarities with Vision stop, the man, Happy (apparently all butlers are required to have odd names), grinning broadly in pride. “Miss Potts is not appreciative of surprises, so I make sure to save them all for you.”   “How very thoughtful.” The sheer amount of snark infused into three words means Stark has recovered, falling back into his usual self seamlessly. “Well,” he pivots on his heel to face her again, “I will be back. If you hurt him-”   “The Black Widow.”   With a long, serious stare and an exaggerated dip of his head, Stark leaves with the man. Once the echo of the heavy front door dissipates, Wanda arranges two plates on a tray and grips the handles as she walks through the manor.  Unlike the last time she came to see him, this time there is only a sliver of space allowing her to see into the room, so Wanda wraps the tray in scarlet, freeing up her hand to knock on the door. A polite “Come in,” encourages her to nudge her way inside and she is slightly astonished to see him standing at the desk, his nightshirt replaced with the clean, well kept lines of dress pants and a crisp white button down shirt. It is still a casual appearance, no waistcoat or jacket and, perhaps the most unusual aspect of the overall ensemble, his typical polished loafers have been replaced by black velvet house shoes.   Regardless of the shock at how healthy he seems, particularly compared to the day before, Wanda feels a smile burgeoning on her lips merely at seeing him. “Good morning, Vision.”   Instead of a greeting, his face is overtaken by awe, head tilting to the side as he stares at her, the intensity of the gaze forms the beginning heat of a blush under her cheeks. “That must be immensely useful.” The words are odd until she follows his eyes and discovers the tray shrouded in red, her hands free and hanging at her side.   “Incredibly useful,” Wanda grabs the tray with both hands, extinguishing the scarlet. Although he seems unphased by it now, she cannot help but worry how long until her powers make him uncomfortable, how long until his intrigue collapses into fear and then into hatred, because it always happens. “I,” she disperses these concerns, presenting the tray to him with her thrown together meal, “made you breakfast, if you are hungry.”   “I am quite ravenous, thank you.” Rather than do the expected, which is to either take his plate or sit down and allow her to pass it to him, Vision shuffles his hands along the desk, collecting several sheets of paper and then turning towards her with a half-raised smile. “I-,” the papers move with his thoughts, rising to point just over her shoulder, “have been confined to a bed for three days and was intending to spend my time on the,” the papers shake in emphasis, and she takes note of the persisting tremble of his arm, “balcony for fresh air. If you would care to join me?”   The tentative tango of their conversation has at least reached the evidentiary threshold that both are amenable to speaking further, so Wanda determines a smile might be the best answer before turning and walking from the room. She traverses a quarter of the hallway towards the balcony and then stops to wait for him. His amble is calming and reassuring, no signs of the stuttering steps from before, the lines of his face are relaxed, no furrows of pain forming in his forehead, and his breathing is even. The only sign of his continued recovery comes when he sits down, a wince and sharp intake of breath when his weight shifts momentarily to his arms as he eases himself into the wicker chair. “Vision?”   “I am fine,” a deep breath and raised hand further iterate his desire to handle whatever is occurring on his own, “Wanda.” Not quite convinced but unwilling to push him on the issue, Wanda takes the seat next to him. The last time they were on this balcony it was too dark to see anything beyond the small perimeter afforded by the gaslamp, now that it is daylight she allows herself a moment to study the surroundings. The balcony itself is small, well-kept (which is not a shock), and sparsely furnished, only two chairs, a footstool, and a table, suggesting it is, unlike the veranda and its numerous seating options, a location meant for intimacy and solitude. Briefly she wonders if he ever has guests out here or if the second chair is part of the code of etiquette. “This is my favorite view from the manor.” His comment directs her examination outwards, taking in a similar panorama as the veranda, with sloping, tree covered mountains, but from this angle there is also the pond and a small, meandering stream cutting across the emerald lawn. “In the autumn,” a subtle slide of her eyes to the side allows her to take in the peace on his face, a wistfulness perking the corners of his mouth into a youthful, carefree smile, “the mountains are variegated and it is truly breathtaking.” She longs to reach into his mind and peek at the image, feel the soothing familiarity and wonder she can glean from his face, and live the moment with him. “It,” Vision tears his eyes from the mountains, inspecting the scars covering his hands, and then proceeds, voice timid and yet his tone implies an invitation for questions as he shares his thought, “reminds me of before all of this.” It is unnecessary, his meaning clear, but he rolls the cuff of his shirt up enough to present a sliver of metal, an open and trusting motion Wanda appreciates deeply.   “Vision-”   The trance-like atmosphere of his comments fades with a friendly, forced smile as he picks up the fork for breakfast, an action she follows though her eyes remain on his face. “I am certain you have several questions for me,” the matter-of-fact, dissociative rhythm is meant, she presumes, to mask his nervousness, but the darting of his eyes and the extremely careful poking of his fork into the eggs is enough to demolish his attempt at impassivity.   Wanda is confounded by the offer. He is correct, there are dozens of inquirious pathways she’s considered since the séance, but she never fathomed being permitted an unfettered opportunity to ask him, at least not this early. “I assumed you had more questions for me.”   “Oh, I do.” This time his smile is smaller, but loosened by the genuineness of his admission. “But given the apparent peculiarity of our lives,” a very polite way to describe her powers and his industrial physique, “it seems considerate and more conducive to honesty to rotate between asking and answering.” Despite the numerous questions in her head, Wanda does not immediately ask him anything, preferring to cycle through all of the options and determine, as he did the day before, what the most pressing issue is and go from there. “Breakfast is delectable.”   It requires several moments of staring at him before his words make sense, her mind far too focused on what she wants to know. “Oh, thank you.”   “Did the chickens cause you any issues?”   She flashes back to the sharp beaks and the distinct, ominous rushing sound of a coop full of wings flapping. “I believe my skirt has developed some new holes.”   Vision shakes his head in empathy, “It is my anecdotally based conclusion,” the qualifier brings a smile to her lips, most people would be content to share information based on experience and yet he seems to view it as slightly distasteful, “that avians are bitter and indignant creatures.”   Tony’s pointed comments from what feels like a lifetime ago rises to the forefront of her mind, “This have anything to do with swans?”   Perhaps it is the relaxed environment, the slightly humid breeze blowing the tamed, though unstyled strands of his blonde hair, but he seems at ease, lips locked together as he attempts not to betray his good-natured embarrassment. “Is that the question you wish to ask me?”   Momentarily, and foolishly, she almost says yes because this easiness of conversation, the spell of his carefree, very un-butler like banter is intoxicating, but, she also realizes it is a strategy to delay the inevitable. Perhaps, she hopes, at the very least, once they have traversed the darkened hallways of their pasts, they can return to this moment and start a future. “No.” The admission dampens the mood, but his continued stare and the nod of his head informs her he is ready for her actual question. She is torn about when to start in his life, whether she focuses on the fire and his injury, or if she gathers intel about who he was before. “How,” she stops, realizes she has a fairly firm knowledge of the how based on Tony’s memory, and amends the path of her sentence, “Did you know Tony, prior to the fire?” There was a sense the night of the séance, in Tony’s remembrance, of a genuine surprise at the presence of Vision in the inferno.   “No.” She is about to probe for more, already feeling exhausted if he is going to respond in a simple yes-no dichotomy, but he doesn’t allow her to continue. “I was actually arriving for an interview.”   “To be his butler?”   A troubled expression dashes across his face as he bends his head, picks at the eggs, and takes a small bite as he formulates his words. It’s in this action that she understands his willingness to answer is not synonymous with his comfort in sharing his life. “No,” Wanda sits up straighter at this, “I,” he shoves the carrots around the plate, eyes never leaving the food, “was in consideration to be the head engineer of a new endeavor in Stark Industries concerned with harnessing electricity to more efficiently power the machinery in his factories.”   She assumed, when he admitted to knowing what went wrong at the factory in Novi Grad, that it was only because of his status as Stark’s butler. “You were an engineer for Stark?”   “Not yet, technically,” he finally looks at her, a rigidness developing in his movements that creates a need in her to reach out, sooth the disquiet of his past. “I was still attending the University of London,” a fact that raises at least five more questions, higher education usually reserved for the most privileged and yet this man has never shown any signs of that upbringing, his suits impeccable but his actions and treatment of others a far cry from people like Stark. He seems to sense this quandary, a shrug and tap of his fork to the plate, “I was on a scholarship with a sponsor, and I had been focused on improving the conductance that Mr. Henry had achieved with his redesign of the electromagnetic coil.”   “Is that why Stark wanted you?”   A confirmatory nod occurs in time with his explanation, “My interview was to inspect one of the coils he had extracted from his Brussels factory. He wanted me to identify the malfunction in the device.”   Wanda‘s lungs squeeze shut, cutting her body off from air, at the same moment her heart drops at the sheer number of lives ruined by one small, seemingly safe device. Equally troubling is the sudden and startling realization that Stark almost died in the same method as her parents, a far more fitting end to his life than any other she could imagine. The next question is not meant to be angry, but she cannot stop the bitterness or the accusatory tone, because she knows, from the memory, Vision was not there from the start. “Why did you save him?”   The butler’s face hardens, no doubt at the implication, but three calm breaths evens out the edges of despair on his forehead, replacing his negative affect with a confident, well reasoned response, “It took me over an hour to walk to his manor, the fire brigade was at least that far away and the fire was already quite fearsome when I arrived.” He waits until she meets his eyes, “I had no other option.”   Immediately her mind answers with you could have let him die but she can predict his response, has experienced Vision’s utter willingness to put his health last, and so such a retort would be futile other than for emotional catharsis. Wanda shoves the first thought away, retaining her resolve to not focus on Stark’s demise, and redirects the conversation by asking the same question she had during the séance. “Why did you go back inside?”   The question had to be anticipated, just as she has a running log of all the things she expects him to ask once her turn is over, but he still removes his attention from her, becoming unnaturally fascinated with the half-eaten plate of food sitting on the table. “A week prior,” the explanation is halting, almost indecisive as if he is still attempting to rectify the decision he made with the consequences of it, “Mr. Stark had delivered an address at the University, he spoke,” a hitch in the smooth intonations of his voice catches her off guard, her fingers curling in pantomime of grabbing his hand as he pushes on, “he spoke of the legacy of his father. The last connection he had to him was the arc reactor.” Vision glances up at her, allows her to take in the clear touch of water at his eyelids and she almost insists he stop, but the redirection of the thought, the dip into a past she never asked about but has wanted to explore, encourages her silent curiosity. “My father died when I was three.” The gut reaction is to apologize for such an admission, but Wanda withholds her condolence, understanding that it is not always helpful, can, in fact, be infuriating to hear such things. “I,” the words fall away as he stares out at the mountains, which allows her to study the lines of his face while he rearranges his thoughts and determines the best way to share information she assumed would be far too personal for him to deem worthy of providing. “The only remnant I had of my father was a broken threshing machine, and I,” he raises his hands up, fingers spreading apart as he stares at the puckered and discolored skin of his palms, mouth falling as if his hands had betrayed him, “devoted every spare minute of my youth reconstructing it, which, consequently gave me the skills to be noticed by the foreman of the factory and gain my scholarship.”   He stops talking, arms collapsing against his chest as he rubs his eyes and this time she reaches out to brush his arm, “You couldn’t let Stark lose the reactor.”   “Wanda?”   “Vision?”   “I believe,” believe is drawn out and uncertain, his voice wavering as he finishes and it causes a scurry of nervous energy, legs uncrossing and then recrossing at her ankle as she waits for him to keep talking. “It may be easier for you to read the rest yourself.”   Wanda first looks at the stack of papers on the table, but he is aware she cannot decipher the writing, leaving one interpretation. Only Pietro ever willinging offered this which is why she has to clarify his statement, ensure he is aware of the full meaning of his acquiescence “Are you asking me to read your mind?”   “I am.”   There are various types of surprise, the giddy kind when finding something long desired, the subdued but curious spark when information is learned that, though new, was somewhat expected, there is the calming nature of discovering a long lost joy, the harrowing chill of learning of an unexpected loss, but this kind, the one that acts like a cat, rotating deep within her body as it settles itself, is new. His words are clear and unhindered, firm in a way she never considered, not a single trace or shadow of fear on his face. “Why?”   Apprehension finally waltzes across his face, eyes turning downwards to study his hands as his upper body sways with thought. “I believe in science,” when his attention returns to her, she is mesmerized at how much bluer his eyes are on a sunny day but more so at the adamant sincerity of his unblinking gaze, “which requires proof. Though I wholeheartedly,” the three syllables are enunciated with equitable force to raze any doubts she might have about his willingness to trust her words, “believe you. I also feel myself drawn to experience it.”   “You are not afraid?”   His eyebrows arch in confusion, wrinkling the skin between his eyes. “I have no reason to fear you.”     A statement she could counter with numerous instances that should lead to at least a healthy level of apprehension, except she’s hesitant to encourage him away from the confident stance of accepting her powers. “Okay.” Wanda has tracked his mind before to find him, even delved into his thoughts in the rain, this, however, is different because he will be aware of her presence. An antsiness develops in her fingers, heart beating rapidly and a knot forming in her stomach at merely considering the intimacy of his request, a feeling that is surprising (a good, warming, unexpected and yet wholly expected kind) and slightly worrisome. She smooths her skirt in an attempt to calm her voice. “It is easier to maintain a connection if I can touch you,” a mostly true statement, the closer she is to a mind the less onerous it is to keep the flow of her powers going, the deeper she sifts through someone’s thoughts the more power she needs, ergo, if she can touch him, eliminate all distance, she will eliminate all extraneous variables.   Now he seems apprehensive, a flutter of successive blinks and a polite, uncertain cough seem primed to backtrack the offer. “If that facilitates a successful experience then I oblige.”   Wanda smiles at him as she stands, scarlet pooling from her hands helps her move the table from between them and her chair as close to his as it can go, the wide armrests gently touching. Then she sits down, ankles crossing in the same motion that pivots her knees in his direction, body leaning against the armrest to bring her nearer to him. Without even reaching yet, she can feel a frenzy in his mind, one that does not match the expertly controlled muscles of his face, an incongruence she finds fascinating and endearing. “May I?” Her hand hovers just above his cheek.  His hand, would, in theory suffice (as it did for Stark at the séance), but a hand is not ideal, and if he is willing, Wanda feels emboldened to create a more intimate experience.   “You may.”   Gently her hand molds to the curve of his jaw, fingertips coming to rest on his high and defined cheekbones, her palm tickled by the hairs of his sideburns. She offers another smile, one he reciprocates along with a slight widening of his pupils, a detail she would never notice if she was not mere inches from his face. “If you,” Vision ducks his chin to watch her, “are ever uncomfortable.”   “I will inform you.”   Scarlet forms just beneath her skin, powers expanding in a steady, deliberately easy pace so as not to startle him. Once he seems amenable to the feel of her powers against his skin (his eyes locked on the scarlet as it grows, a wave of intense and calculating interest filtering into the weak link she had already established), she enters his mind, a soft, amazed gasp tumbling from his mouth as she spreads her fingers, guiding her powers deep into his conscious. “Vision,” it is unusual to experience not just the physical manifestation of his attention (neck bending to the side and his eyes locking on her face), but also to feel his thoughts center around her, a sudden rush in his mind, pulling from every corner until he is only thinking of her and her face, the glint in her eyes, the softness of her palm, and the slight, friendly smile on her face. “I won’t pry for your memories, I will only access what you give to me.” This calms the subtle, yet noticeable, tremble that had been sending minuscule shockwaves through the branching network of his brain   The first image he proffers is of the mountains, not as they were today, but ablaze with oranges and reds, a gorgeous fire that can never mar nor burn. The trees do not remain for long, morphing into a hellscape of untamable flames, the room, or what once was a room, devoured by blinding light and ebony smoke. She can feel the heat on her arms, flinches when a chair topples to the right, and sweat begins to congregate on her brow. The image keeps moving, a desperation filling her chest with each turn in the hallway, each room searched, and then they are back in the laboratory, the only change from Stark’s own memory is that by this point, there is almost nothing left, yet somehow he manages to find the arc reactor, nothing more than an azure crystal inside a cage of frayed and intertwined wires. Then there is a loud pop from the barely existent table against the wall, the one Vision had found Stark at the first time in the room, and Wanda bends her fingers, increasing the pressure of her hand to Vision’s face to steady herself. The fear dripping in her mind is hard to pinpoint, it might be from the memory, it could be from Vision as he sits in the wicker chair, but it also might be her own, unprepared for what is to come despite recognizing the sound. She heard it not only in Stark’s recollection but also in Sokovia, seconds before the factory erupted.   All at once there is a creak and then everything collapses, a petrifying realization weighing her limbs down, drowning her in the crystal clear, undeniable realization that she is going to die. Yet she can feel her feet moving along with the long, frantic gait of the memory, but it’s not enough, an object slamming into his back, body tumbling to the ground. That is when an immense pressure builds, a feeling of being smothered and crushed, but the image itself is dark, smoke consuming the light and then it goes black. “At this point,” his voice is far steadier than hers would be right now, an apologetic cadence the only hint of emotion, “my clothing caught fire, but, I suppose fortuitously, I fell unconscious. My body,” a cracked breath pries her eyelids apart, revealing the painful tears that drop down his cheeks, “was shattered - my arms and wrists, my clavicles, my sternum, my hips and legs, even the majority of my muscles were decimated. Though they insisted I was overall lucky,” for the first time his voice is rancorous, disagreeing with the semantics of whomever informed him of his fortune and his own perceptions, “my head alone escaped harm.” Now her own tears start and she considers removing herself from his mind, but a new image forms, one that is blurry, scattered, nothing more than contrasts between light and shadows, voices in the distance, a feeling of weightlessness, and a crushing, undeniably debilitating pain. The next memory starts the same as the first, only this time the room is lighter, feels clean and open, a window allowing sunlight to stream into the room. Then the muscles in her arm tighten as he, well past Vision, raises his arm, is confused at what appears to be a metal bracelet, his other hand moving in an attempt to slide it off, fingers scratching vainly at the edges but the thing will not budge, and then he notices a matching cuff on his other wrist. This is when the pain resurfaces, thousands of points throughout his body, a nauseating sting deep in his skin and a tinny waft.   “Did you,” Wanda is overwhelmed by the flashing memories, a sense of vertigo at how quickly each one comes and goes, realizing only after the tenth one that this is all he has, fading in and out of consciousness, “know what they were doing?”   The memories stop as he answers, voice low, “Not at first, but Mr. Stark explained all the details to me once I was capable of being awake and alert for more than five minutes.”   Wanda opens her eyes, removes herself from his mind though her hand remains on his face, “What did he tell you?”   “He apologized,” Vision pauses, allows her a chance to doubt the claim, but she can’t find the energy to be snarky about Stark. When nothing is said, he continues, “After he learned I survived, he located me in the hospital. Apparently I had been labeled as a fatal case, one not worthy of treatment, and so I had been laid out onto a bed and shoved in a dark corner, far removed from other patients and ignored by even the nurses and aides.” Anger builds in her chest at the information. “Mr. Stark purchased another home and immediately converted one of the rooms into a medical station for me. He consulted the best surgeons in London, from my understanding offered enormous amounts of money for a feasible solution.”   “Are you trying to make me think highly of Stark?”   The comment is weak, an attempt at levity as a way to stop herself from throwing her arms around him and crying, something she thinks might terrify him. A small, mildly amused arc forms on his mouth, “My intention is not to persuade you, though I do hope it illuminates the nuance of his character.”   Wanda shrugs, “I will save my final judgment for later.”   “That is fair.”   The flow of information seems to stop at their change in conversation, so Wanda gently nudges it back, “How did they decide to use metal?”   “Oh, it was an experimental treatment, one Mr. Stark crafted himself based on a military contract, something concerning what they deemed an exoskeleton.” Vision leans back, too far for her hand to remain on his face, so she reluctantly drops it, curiously watching as he extends an arm, meticulously folding his shirt sleeve until his forearm is visible. The daylight provides a better view of his body than the gas lamps, the metal more polished and brighter than her last glimpse and it is oddly beautiful, the flow of metal stemming from the cuff at his wrist. “From my understanding, for which I have been purposely left ignorant of the details, I believe Mr. Stark might have stolen the vibranium.” This is an interesting development, one that, if it was anyone other than Stark, she would condone, because if she wanted to save a life, she too would steal whatever was needed.   “Can I-” Wanda points at his wrist to finish her thought, hoping her intention is not only clear but acceptable.   He stares at his arm, brows knitting as he bites the inside of his bottom lip, and then he drops his shoulders, arm extending out towards her with a nod. Delicately she curls her fingers around his palm, not unlike their last time on this balcony, only today her focus is beyond his hand, no longer needing to read his lines to determine his traits, because now she has his mind and his trust, which are far more indicative of his character. The metal is cold, refreshing in the humidity of the summer. Her fingertips follow the rods embedded in his forearm, moving along the curved edges and marveling at the construction and placement. “It took six surgeries for my body to accept it,” the only physical reaction to her touch is the way he intently watches the journey of her fingers on his arm. “Though, as you may have surmised, my body is still not wholly content with the invasive materials, the rivets are a different material from the rest and they,” as he says it she taps the hexagonal head of one of the bolts holding the metal in place, “oxidize and break down after three months-“   “Or sooner if you are reckless.”   “Yes, Miss Maximoff,” the name regression is playful, a sharp use of etiquette to undermine his agreeance with her mock admonishment.   Wanda rotates his arm to better examine the hinge hiding underneath the rolled up cuff of his sleeve. “Can you feel this?” A swipe along the rod only elicits a shake of his head, confirming her suspicions. “This?” Lazily she walks her fingers over the metal, brushing along his skin, the flexing of his fingers enough of an answer.   “Yes, that I can feel.” Now that she’s established his sense of tactile perception, Wanda moves from metal to skin, testing the texture and warmth, intrigued at the interplay between the two. “Do you mind if-“   “Seems like I might be interrupting something.”   Vision immediately removes his arm from her grip, shoving it behind his back as he stands with a wince, greeting the dark-skinned man from the séance. “Officer Rhodes.”   A knowing, suggestive smile spreads across the sailor’s face, “And Tony was worried you’d be uncomfortable.” He folds his arms behind his back, standing up straighter with a wink in their direction,”I’ll leave you be, just don’t go beyond doing the bear****, Tony’s heading back now.”   “Thank you, Officer Rhodes.” The moment the other man leaves, Vision rolls his sleeve down, limbs tightening as he reverts to a more butler-like stance. “I must prepare for Mr. Stark’s return,” methodically he arranges the papers in a stack, tapping them three times against the tabletop to even out the edges and then turns towards her, “If you wish to join me, I had some matters to discuss about your new residence.”   The world for the past days has been small, her existence encased by a bubble that did not reach beyond the manor. Somehow Wanda had forgotten her sojourn at this estate was merely a visit, a chance to regain her footing. It should be thrilling, to return to independence, travel far from Stark and the residents of a town who believe justice  lies in the ebb and flow of a river. But leaving also means the possibility of never seeing Vision again, of deserting the, to her at least, the existence and connection with a kindred spirit. “I will.”   She walks mutely beside him, their steps synchronized as she follows him into his room where he ignites the lamp on the wall and the one on his desk, the sun having crossed to the other side of the manor. The papers are placed atop the cherry desk, Vision stepping effortlessly around the room, removing a bowl from a cabinet, a small burlap sack from the bottom drawer of his desk, a jug from the closet, and then a wrapped cloth package, all of which are placed in a specified order based on the care with which he arranges everything. “I believe,” the words arrive as a muffled sound, her concerns distorting the environment around her, “I will be well enough to travel tomorrow, if you are prepared to leave.”   Wanda needs more time to allow the words to clear, identify the meaning and search for subtextual information. “Vision there is no need to rush, you are allowed to heal.”   “I assure you that I will be fine,” a statement in conflict with the tremble of his hands while opening the jug, the liquid sloshing as he pours it into the bowl. “Honestly, I become quite despondent without some purpose in my day.”   The conversational intonation is amiable, should be filling her with joy but she cannot exorcise the creep of despair at the implications. “Do you want me to leave?”   This stops his progress, hands coming to rest on the cloth bundle as he stares at her, calculates precisely how to respond. “I truly relish your company,” the opposing side of this comment hangs in the air, a clear, unquestionable but coming in the most polite, yet infuriating, way to express bad news to someone - start positive, end negative. “I,” Vision stands, turning his body to face her, eyes focused on the velvet tips of his shoes before they snap up to connect with her own stare, “am certain, however, it is not in your best interest to remain at the manor, given the proximity to Mr. Stark.”   “What he’s trying to say,” just as pestilence descends without much warning, they both turn to find Stark leaning against the doorframe, his haughty smile infiltrating and infecting the air around them, “is that I am insufferable to live with, you agree V?”   The butler’s response is far more honest than Robert Roberts would allow,  a two-handed shrug and a nod of agreement, “It is not effortless, by any means.”   “And he,” Tony marches into the room, clapping a hand to the butler’s shoulder (producing an instantaneous cringe), “unlike you, adores me.”  An unsubstantiated claim given Vision’s un-enthusiastic agreeance with the strong terminology, but that appears not to phase Stark, who squares his body up with the butler, other hand coming to rest on the man’s shoulder as he scrutinizes him. “You ready?”   Vision breathes in before answering, fingers flexing and a slight bend developing in his knees, “I suppose.”   “Shoulders?”   “Correct.”   The routine of whatever is happening seems set, a silent dance as Tony steps around Vision, finishes laying out the materials the butler had collected, and in time with this, Vision takes a delicate, though rigid seat on the edge of the bed, hands shaking as he starts to undo the button at the top of his shirt. Wanda is torn between backing away and exiting the room, her presence seeming inconsequential to their actions, but she is also thoroughly intrigued which roots her feet to the ground. Tony begins inspecting a set of gleaming, well-cared for tools, fingers running along the edges of a scalpel, opening and closing a set of pliers, and then he blows on the tips of a tiny brush, it reminds her of the surgeon’s pre-torture habits, and Wanda’s stomach sinks and churns. “Do you,” the only thing she can think to do to counteract the increasingly horrific memories boiling up from her past, is to not remain idle, “want help?”   “We’re fine, thank you.” Tony’s response is immediate and dismissive.   But Vision’s is tentative and, perhaps, contemplative, “Mr. Stark, it is quite extensive this time.”   The pliers he had been opening and closing, drop onto the mattress as Tony turns towards the butler, eyes narrowed and face serious. “Which we’ve dealt with before, alone. You’re,” an accusatory finger is directed at Vision, “the one who insists no one know,” and then it swings towards Wanda, “and you are the one who did this so I think it’s in his,” back to Vision, though it is now less accusatory and more obnoxiously paternalistic, “best interest not to have you around for this as I’m sure you’ll just weasel it in to another séance.”   “Mr. Stark,” Wanda remains quiet, understanding Vision’s consent and wishes are the only thing of importance here, but it does not stop her arms from crossing nervously, a movement that happens along with Stark placing his hands impatiently on his hips as the butler speaks, “I appreciate your vigilance of my well-being, but from my understanding, Miss Maximoff, while helping you, has already experienced the extent of my injuries.”   He stops talking, the two men silently communicating with a long, weighty stare that ends when Stark produces an overly dramatic, chest puffing out, hands flying to the side, sigh. “Fine, but only because you have a tendency to writhe.”   The comment widens Vision’s eyes, a satisfied grin puckering Stark’s lips at the response. “Mr. Stark-”   “What? That’s vital information.” Tony sends her a suggestive wink and she feels nauseous for an entirely different reason now, “This one’s,” he nods his head towards the increasingly red face of the butler, “not much of a talker, lets his body do that, for future reference.”   “Mr. Stark, please.” Where Tony’s lack of social acumen is disheartening, the pleading ignominy in Vision’s voice causes her to smile, finally experiencing what it takes to demolish the guardedness of his persona. “Can we continue?”   Wanda approaches the bed, hovering awkwardly as she watches Tony concede to the butler’s question with, “Fine,” and then he sits next to the man, swats away his trembling hands and begins unbuttoning the shirt. “You are going too slow.” The explanation is, contrary to what she thought would happen, not challenged, Vision simply dropping his hands to the mattress as Stark undoes each of the pearlescent buttons of the shirt before helping the man ease it off. Just as on the balcony, the view today, in a slightly better lit room and with less swirling, all encompassing guilt, is more detailed, the pathways of metal distinct and dizzying, not a single part of his body is left without some trace of hardware. “Maximoff.”   She forces her eyes away from the butler’s body, refocusing on the annoyed glare from Stark. “Pay attention. I need you,” he waves impatiently at her, hand directing her to sit behind Vision on the bed, “right there. Good, now,” the directions are accompanied by lots of pointing and demonstrative hand movements, “Your job is to hold him steady, if he pushes against you, push right back, understood?”   “Understood.” The network of metal is just as extensive on his back, something she had reasoned the first time she saw him, yet the reality of plates stretching along his upper back and the cage around his chest extending and fusing with the dual strips of metal along either side of his spine is overwhelming, the melancholy of his admissions earlier and the anguished memories far more impactful now. This reverie is broken when she feels his body lean forcefully against her palms and she has to ignite her powers to withstand the sudden weight.   “We really,” Wanda cannot see what is happening on the other side of the butler, but Tony’s voice is strained, still sardonic, but it is clear he is struggling, “should have done this earlier.” The lack of response from Vision is concerning, the clenching of his muscles beneath her hands the only indication that he, too, is having difficulty. “So,” Tony’s voice changes, a forced congeniality moving him into a conversational, strained tone, one she imagines is being utilized as distraction more so than him believing now is the time to discuss business matters, “given any thought to why our little engine is failing?”   Now Vision speaks, words stuttering out as if his teeth are clenched and must be pried open for each syllable, “Other than the punishment for bypassing Corliss’****** patent?”   “Oh don’t,” the tension in the butler’s back eases as Tony sits up, shifting his weight to place something in a bowl, “go all moral high ground on me. I’m not the only one tinkering with it in this house”   The deep, gasping breaths expand his back, Wanda’s hands rising and falling, her eyes locked on the unmoving metal, wondering if he can always feel the inflexible material when he breathes. “I believe it is either the shape of the valves or, from my,” another deep breath runs through his body, “understanding, he has modified the flywheel, though none of the materials explain precisely what he modified.”   “Well that’s why I have the best mind working on it,” for once Tony’s voice isn’t laced with subtext, there is no hint of sarcasm or derision, simply a genuine, affectionate reassurance. “Maximoff?”   Wanda rises up onto her knees to glance over the butler’s shoulders, “Yes?”   “Be ready, I’m about to put the new rivet in, it’s, well V how’d you describe it once?”   His body moves against her hands as he turns slightly to peek over his shoulder, “One of the most primal and purest forms of agony imaginable to mankind.”   The description seems odd until the process starts, the pressure of Stark inserting a new fastener into Vision’s body causes the butler to, not writhe exactly, but certainly respond viscerally and immediately to the pain, her powers streaming along his skin as she holds him steady, clamps down on the despair rising in her own chest because she knows it will not be useful. As Stark continues to work, a cycle of light tension (accompanied by more idle conversation) moving into bursts of agony and decreased bodily control, Wanda realizes the extent of what is happening, eyes trailing along the eight tarnished rivets securing the plate in Vision’s upper back.   Eventually it stops, momentarily, Tony standing up, wiping his hands as he stares sympathetically at the butler, and then Wanda is directed to switch places, now sitting in front of Vision, her hands cautiously laying against his chest, just under the shoulder-to-shoulder metal strip. “Vision?” His downcast eyes slide up to stare at her, the gaze forlorn and suffering, no gentle Wanda or even Miss Maximoff, only a silent indication he hears her. “I can help.” The offer is whispered, her hand rising to brush his temple to convey her intent, a motion small so as not to attract Stark’s attention as he begins his work on Vision’s back.   The “Please” is plaintive and weak, a heartrending embodiment of the pain he is feeling. Without any other words, she moves her hand back to his chest, bracing his body as he tries his best to temper a groan, and then she leans forward, resting her forehead against his and closes her eyes. The flow of her powers into his mind is steady, a practiced, perfect calming pattern that she used on Pietro during the excruciating months of experimentation and coping with their newfound abilities.  She discovered, rather quickly, it was not so much the thought or the image or the words being transmitted, but the emotion, which requires her to minimize her own misgivings, quell the concern billowing at each ragged breath she feels against her face, remove the guilt nestled deep within her mind that she is to blame for this, and instead be the sense of order his mind currently lacks. Scarlet snakes through his mind, guiding the erratic, uncontrolled flashes of his consciousness back into the calm she has come to associate with him, craves to feel, and she does this by centering his focus on a pulsating, soothing ball of red energy. Though his muscles are still tight under her hands, the rushed breathing dissipates along with some of the pain-induced tumultuous thoughts. Wanda is surprised when she feels his hands along her waist, fingers gripping the fabric of her dress as he grimaces at the next rivet placement, but his mind remains mildly at peace and that is enough to bring a mild sense of pride.   The remainder of the procedure continues on this path, occasional spikes of pain in the forced calm of his mind, either a wince or a sharp intake of breath, and a clench of his hands followed by an evening out of the blustering waves of his emotions. It is only Tony’s confused and uncertain, “I’m done,” that breaks their connection, Wanda removing herself from Vision’s mind as the man sits back, hands pulling away from her waist while he nods at Stark. “Okay,” the word is lengthy, questioning, but when neither of them offer an explanation, Tony gives an exaggerated nod, “Guess I’m going to clean up, you,” this is directed at the butler, “rest and you,” this time at her,  “let him rest.”   Vision stares at his hands for several minutes after Tony’s exit, fingers interlocking in various patterns and then his eyes wander up, glancing at her meekly as he whispers, “Thank you.”   “You’re welcome.” His eyes drift down and to the side, this inability to maintain eye contact unexplained, though she suspects it is either that he is overwhelmed, embarrassed, or perhaps both, the only sounds from him are small, breathy sighs that expand and contract the muscles of his chest  The silence is unsettling to her, and so Wanda seeks to eliminate the rippling uncertainty between them with a question requiring a concrete answer. “What was that?”   Another deep inhale and he sits up straighter, though he continues to falter in maintaining eye contact. “I explained the course of break down earlier, if the corroded rivets remain in my body it will only continue to poison my blood.”   “You have to replace all of them,” her eyes bounce from rivet to rivet, forfeiting her attempt to count the number once she reaches fifty (and that is only on his chest), the knowledge of what changing sixteen did to him just now distressing, but to think of what the process must entail to change all of them is too much for her to comprehend as tears build in her eyes, “every single one?”   His voice is far too calm and devoid of emotion, “Every three months.” In the rain he had told her his life depended on remaining with Stark, at the time she had thought it was an exaggeration, that he was sidestepping and justifying his poor life decisions, but now she realizes the seriousness of the remark. “It is why,” the placidity of his demeanor cracks slightly, a vibration instilling itself in his words as he proceeds cautiously but with undeniable conviction, “what I want is unimportant.”   Wanda’s head snaps up at the comment and the surrender in his voice, “I understand why you are with Stark,” this she is finally willing to concede but refuses to allow the furtherance of his despondency beyond that, “but it still does not negate your wants.”   “Wanda,” the firmness of her name is jarring, the usual softness removed, “my life can only be dictated by what I am, not what I want.”   There are far too many implications of his answer for her to readily combat, so she focuses on the one she deems most pertinent, “Nothing about you dictates you must be Stark’s butler, you have other skills you could-”   The sentence ends when he counters back, anticipating the rest of her rebuttal, “I no longer possess the dexterity to handle the small parts of machines and,” it is unnecessary to draw attention to his still bare chest, but he does so with a wave of his hand, “my work was with electricity, there is no greater conductor than metal. I would surely die.”   “But that does not mean you cannot pursue the field or that you cannot work in some other capacity for Stark.” Vision rises from the bed, the mattress sinking beneath her at the displacement of weight, and reaches the desk in two strides, his hands sifting through the papers until he finds the appropriate piece for his next point. A slightly discolored newspaper clipping is offered to her, one she takes, eyes roaming the text she cannot comprehend, certain there is some information she can decipher for him to deem it important to show her this. He resumes his position on the bed, his stare serious as he allows her time to study the paper. There are dates at the top, but far more chilling is the detailed hand drawn portrait of a young man, hair longer, less tamed, with slightly bushy sideburns, and a serious stare. “What is this?”   Vision glances at the paper, at the depiction of his face, “I made a conscious decision to sever all ties to my former self, Mr. Stark had this printed and distributed while we were traveling across the ocean to take up residence in this manor. Victor Williams,” he stares at the ghost in her hands, the name faltering on his lips, “perished in a horrific house fire, survived by no family, and thus erased from time.”   The intent is to solidify the depersonalization of his existence, the infuriating regression away from admitting he is more than the metal embedded in his flesh, but Wanda refuses to allow him to continue on this path, tossing the paper to the floor dismissively. “It is fortuitous that I have never met Victor Williams then, because it means there is little doubt that the caring, intelligent, frustratingly polite man I’ve become quite fond of is Vision.”   Vision falters, mouth trapped in a state of half-opened surprise. “Wanda I cannot,” the progress of his thought stops, reorienting as he continues his attempted rally against her confession, “I am not,” he drops his gaze, fingers picking at the folds of his pants before he settles on the argument, “human anymore.”   “If you are not, then neither am I.” Immediately his resolve solidifies, defiance darkening the blue of his eyes at the similarity she draws between them. “You had six surgeries, I had eight,” she leans forward, shoves the sleeve of her blouse up and offers him her arm, pointing out every scar created from the needles and the scalpels, at times bullets and knives, “this is only a small portion of my disfigurement, my mind was twisted, my body tortured and now,” a scarlet inferno bursts from her hand, flickering in the metal on his torso, “I am this.” She extinguishes the red, fills the void left by his lack of response with more self loathing, “Unlike you, however, I chose this, volunteered for it. So perhaps I am even less human than you.”   Gingerly he wraps his hand around her wrist, thumb running along a scar she doesn’t have the heart to tell him was self-inflicted, an act of desperation in the first day her powers formed, the onslaught of thoughts and emotions too much. The confident, eerily normal thoughts of the soldiers and doctors intermingled with the horrified screaming of the other patients, every emotion, every stray thought, every feeling inundating her and, at that time, she lacked any knowledge or skill to temper the reach of her powers. “Wanda, I-”   “When you can look me in the eye,” an action he does as if commanded by her words, “and inform me I am not human, then I will concede to your own views and I will leave you be.” Vision stares at her aghast, a shake of his head denying her these words, for which she is thankful, because if he proceeded with the dared action, she doubts she’d be able to hold back the despair threatening to form rivulets down her cheeks. “You need rest.” Wanda twists her wrist from his grasp, rubbing at the warmth retained in her skin from his touch, and then she exits the bed. “I think,” the decision is not easy and is contrary to her own wants, something she won’t admit now lest he logic his way back into the abyss from before, “you are correct, I can’t stay here with Stark.”      His face drops, at which part is hard to tell without delving into his thoughts, yet that is not a place she desires to be right now. Painstakingly he removes the sorrow from his face, replaces it with the neutrality she has come to expect from him in instances where emotions may be too much. “It is for the best, you, at least, are able to be independent.”   Wanda bites her tongue against challenging him back, curls her fingers into tight, scarlet imbued fists and leaves the room, shutting the door perhaps a touch harder than necessary because she can feel the tears dripping onto her skin and taste the hint of salt on her lips. “Day four is a rough one.” This is the last voice she needs, particularly the pity-filled inflection of his words. “Every single time he just flops right back into his whole,” Tony attempts an English accent, one that is insultingly awful due to being too high-pitched and overly dramatic, “I am not human, do not look upon my twisted flesh, I am worthless.”   It is not humorous and yet she laughs, her ability to regulate emotions stripped bare, her mind exhausted. “Every time?”   “Like clockwork, but unlike you,” she expects the rest to be condescending and is pleasantly surprised when it is subdued and far too personable for Stark, “I’ve had plenty of time to get used to it, I’m actually here to fix it for everyone’s well-being.” He lifts a crystal carafe of amber liquid and a single, matching glass.   This does not seem likely to work, given what she has gathered about the butler. “You are planning to get him intoxicated?”   “Oh, no,” Stark slips effortlessly back into his overly confident, nonchalant persona, “he won’t touch it, it’s for me,” he shakes the container at her, “my antidote to his morbs.******* I’m just here to remind him it could be much worse.”   A tactic she finds odd without more information. “How so?”   The typical beaming Stark smile takes on a self-deprecating note, “He could be me.”

The next morning there is a steaming copper pitcher, white towel protectively swaddled around the handle, waiting at her door.  She gleefully takes it, almost ashamed at how ecstatic she is for the last luxurious experience of hot water in the morning that requires no work from her to heat, but deems it the manor’s parting gift to her. Once she has washed up she is not surprised to find tea at her door, but is shocked that it is being held by a polished, three-piece suit clad, leather gloves on his hands, and hair swept precisely to the side, Vision. “Good morning, Wanda.”   A tendril of scarlet snakes around the cup, lifting it from his hand, an action that leads to a faint smirk on his face. “Morning.”   “I,” his hands travel behind his back without a wince and only a touch slower than usual, “wished to apologize for my dour and deplorable temperament yesterday.” Maintaining his carefully cultured air of refinement dictates he apologize, a fact that almost erases the gesture, but his eyes are sincere and remorseful.   “Thank you.”   The soft click of his polished heel denotes his intention to leave and her signal to shut the door, until he pauses, body stiff as he revolves to face her once more with the weighty stare of a butler, though she now knows it is also the man. “Is your intention still to depart today?”   Sleep, as has been its relationship with her throughout her life, was fleeting the night before, analyzing every word, touch, and breath in order to string together what might be the best outcome for her. The supposition is correct that she is predisposed to dip back into murderous rage if she remains in Stark’s presence, and so she is at peace with leaving, delighted even, to discover the next era of her life in a town far removed from the whispers of her witchcraft and a punitive river. “I am.” The decision is not entirely enthusiastic, because she recognizes that, though she would be thrilled to remain in contact with Vision, it must be a mutual decision. If he is not motivated to seek her out, then she cannot expend the emotional energy to continually draw him out.   “Very well.” The finality of the word breaks her heart before the shards sprout wings at his lips curling into a bashful smile. “I learned recently that the market in Normanskill is renowned for its carrots.”   “Is that so?”   A nod and a shuffling of feet, his gloved fingers tapping lighting against each other, “I believe, after I inspect it, of course, that I may be changing my weekly routine to visit the market every Wednesday and would be,” his hands part, one journeying up to tug at his ear lobe, “delighted if you wished to join me.”   The grin breaks on her face without resistance, “Only if it’s what you want.”   “It most certainly is.”

Translations and Historical Facts *Toothbrushes were common in Europe in the early 1800s but didn’t become common in the US until the late 1800s **The term dental hygiene was coined in 1844. ***gigglemug – An habitually smiling face ****nanty-narker: great fun ***** doing the bear: courting that involves hugging ******Corliss’ updated valves that revolutionized the steam engine were first  patented in 1849, but Corliss (understandably) was very vigilant about people trying to steal his patent. *******Morbs (The actual terms is Got the Morbs): temporary melancholy

Note: Here ends Part 1 of An Auspice of Scarlet! 

[madewithonerib]

Hath GOD Said? P1: What Is the Standard of Truth? | RC Sproul

    Mankind has been living the fallout of the wrong response     to GOD’s authority since Adam & Eve.

    Today we’re not surprised when the world disregards the     authority of SCRIPTURE, but what happens when the     Church questions GOD’s authority?

    Beginning this series, “Hath GOD Said?”

    Dr. Sproul will help us understand many things about     SCRIPTURE, starting with the question,

        “What is the Standard of Truth?”

            The Christian Church has been on             this planet now for almost 2K years.

    And for the first 1,800 years of Church history, the     Church has enjoyed virtually universal confidence     about her source, her primary source of the     written authority, namely the sacred SCRIPTURES.

    But for the last 200 years, the Church has endured an     unprecedented period of crisis.

    A crisis that reaches to the very root of the life of the     Christian as it relates to the question now:

            "Can we trust the SCRIPTURES?"

    So much academic & scholarly criticism has been leveled     against the trustworthiness of sacred SCRIPTURE in     the last 200 years, that we've experienced not only in the     Church but in the culture an evident loss of the whole     sense of authority.

    One theologian at the turn of the 20th century made this     observation: He said, "The days of biblical criticism have     reached such a peak that where we are now is in a period     of biblical vandalism." [1:29]

1.] Historic Crisis of Biblical Authority

    Now to understand this question of the     crisis of biblical authority, I'd like to take us back a     little bit for a historical reconnaissance & go first of all to     the 16th century to the Protestant Reformation.

    I think that most Church people realize that the central     issue of the 16th century Protestant Reformation was     Luther's doctrine of justification by faith alone.

    The slogan of the Reformation because justification was     the central point of the debate, was this simple Latin     phrase: "Sola Fide," which means, "by faith alone."

    We've heard this story of Luther on All Saints' Eve tacking     up the 95 theses at the Church door at Witenburg.

    And we follow then the rapid expansion of the controversy     beyond the confines of that University, sweeping across all     of Germany, & producing such an uproar, & ultimately ending     in the greatest fragmentation of the Body of CHRIST     conceivable.

    In fact, when Luther was finally excommunicated by the     Pope in Rome, the Papal bull that announced Luther's     excommunication was entitled: "Exsurge Domine,"

            which means in Latin, "Rise up, O LORD"

    (Those are the first words of the Papl encyclical), followed     then by this observation:

            "There is a wild boar loose in your vineyard."

    While this wild boar, of course, was Martin Luther, who     turned the world upside down over this controversy of     justification by faith alone. [3:28]

2.] Question Final Authority

    But what is often overlooked about that dispute in the     16th century, was that there was another controversy that     perhaps was as serious to the life of the Church & to     future generations as was this debate over justification.

    In fact, the Church historians like to use an old archaic     distinction that was first introduced by Aristotle in ancient     Athens.

    A distinction between what is called, "Form" & "Matter."

    The matter is the stuff of something & the form of course,     is the structure in which this stuff is poured or is molded.

    And so, we make a distinction in philosophy between the     formal & the material.

    The historians, when they look at the 16th century, say,

            "The material issue of the Reformation, the stuff of             this controversy, was the debate over Justification."

    But the formal issue of the 16th century, the structure in     which the whole debate ensued was the question of     final authority in the life of the Church & of the Christian.     [5:07]

3.]  Church Council & Pope

    After Luther posted his Theses at Wittenburg, & attracted     the attention & notice of the authorities of the Church in     Rome, & got himself in no small amount of ecclesiastical     hot water, he pled for an opportunity to engage in debate     & even to be involved in what's called, "Public Disputation."

    And as the word disputations suggests, means to involved     himself in a theological dispute with representatives from     the Church to try to arrive at a peaceable solution over     this issue that was threatening the unity of the Church.

    Of course during that period, Luther had two such     disputations, with perhaps the two greatest Roman Catholic     theologians of the 16th century: Martin Eck & Cardinal Cajetan.

    But what happened, interestingly at least to me, in these     controversies is: As they were disputing the question of     justification, these great theologians of the Church pointed     out to this Augustinian monk from Wittenburg that his views     on the subject of justification differed significantly from some     of the official teachings of the Church.

    And these authorities reminded Luther of what the Church     had taught in their great councils when many minds of the     Church came together & mulled over theological questions,     & they came to an official definition of a doctrine &

    set it forth as they so called, "De Fide," explanation of the     official doctrine of the Church, which made it binding on any     constituent member of the Church.

    And not only did these theologians call attention to former     Church councils, but they also stood up & gave their     recitations of papal declarations related to questions of     justification.

            And they were able to show that Luther was             disagreeing with the Pope & with the             Church Council both. [7:42]

    And at this point in the deliberations, Martin Luther was     perceived by some of the clergy of the Church to be the     most presumptuous arrogant person imaginable.

    And they were asking the question:

    “Who do you think you are?

    That you know better than Church Councils or the Holy     Pontiff who is in Rome?

    How dare you teach your doctrine of justification when you're     on a collision course with how the Church has defined these     matters officially in the past?”

    And so, in these debates Luther was asked:

    “Do you stand against the Pope & Church Councils?”

    Luther admitted to the shock of those who were present,     that he indeed did question some of these teachings of     the Church; & he admitted to those who were gathered that     in his opinion (which did not appear too many to be a very     humble opinion) that in his opinion, Church Councils can err.

    Church councils can make mistakes. [8:59-9:10]]

            Not only can the Church in Council make an error,             in theology, but the Pope himself can be wrong.

4.] Recant vs. Excommunication

    Well at this point, Luther was likened to the Bohemian heretic     John Huss—who had been burned at the stake for similar     observations a century or so earlier.

    And at that point, Luther was excommunicated & a price     was put on his head, as he was a wanted man. [9:48]

    Finally, because so much furor had spread throughout the     whole world now, an attempt was made for one final     resolution.

    And the Imperial Diet was convened at Worms in Germany,     where the officials of the Church, together with the officials     of the State, gathered for one last opportunity to discuss     these matters.

    Luther was given a safe conduct pass (meaning that he     could come freely to this dispute without fear of being     arrested or of being killed).

    And so the ban on him was lifted momentarily, & he made     his way to Worms.

    And you know the historic moment when he was called     upon to recant of his position on his teachings of     Justification & so on. [10:35]

5.] Sola Fide

    Luther made this statement when they said,     "Brother Martin, will you recant?"

    He said,

            "Unless I am convinced by sacred SCRIPTURE             or by evident reason, I will not recant."

    And then he went on to say these words, which had such     an impact on the world ever since,

            "For my conscience is held captive by the             WORD of GOD. And to act against             conscience is neither right nor safe.

            Here I stand, I can do no other. GOD help me,"

    ....& so on. And he rides out into the night, gets kidnapped     by his own friends, goes to Wittenburg Castle & translates     the BIBLE into German. [11:32]

6.] Sola Scriptura (SCRIPTURE Alone)

    But in any case, at Worms, at this historic moment the 2nd     slogan of the Reformation became established.

    In addition to the "Sola Fide" that I already called attention to,     now came the banner, “Sola Scriptura.”

    Again, the word sola means “alone” & “Scriptura” obviously     refers to the BIBLE or the SCRIPTURES. [12:14]

    So this slogan, “something is by the SCRIPTURE alone!”

    Well, what is “by the SCRIPTURE alone?”

    Luther was saying that the only written source in this world     that has the level of authority to actually bind the conscience     of a person is the BIBLE.

    Luther had enormous respect for the insights, the wisdom, the     collective teaching of the great theologians of the past.

    He said, “We can certainly be instructed by Church tradition.     We can be led by Church Councils, the creeds, & confessions     of our faith are not to be despised.”

    And one would indeed be unspeakably arrogant to just simply     create their own theology without any reference whatsoever to     the work of the past.

    “But,” he said, “as much as we respect those things, & as much     secondary level of authority they may have to regulate the affairs     of the Church, & so on, no written document of men, no confession     of faith, no creedal statement, no conciliar expression can bind     the conscience absolutely.

    The only PERSON that has that kind of authority to simply utter     the words & say, “So let it be said, so let it be done: is     GOD HIMSELF. [14:04]

     And only the WORD of GOD carries that kind of weight & authority.

7.] Crisis of Authority

    So what we see here now is a crisis of authority.

    Is the authority vested in a book?!

    Or is the authority vested in the institution, the Church?

    That was the formal issue of the Protestant Reformation.     And of course, the debate went on from that point.

    The Roman Catholic Church responded to “Sola Scriptura”     in two general ways. In the first place they reminded Luther     & Calvin & the other reformers of the 16th century that the     Church wouldn’t even have the BIBLE except for Church     Councils early on in Church history that defined what the     BIBLE really is, when the canon of the BIBLE, & of the NT     was established by Church Councils. [15:16]

    Now we’re going to have a separate lecture on that question,     on how the canon of SCRIPTURE actually became compiled     in Church history. [15:28]

    But the point that Rome was making now, in response to Luther     was this: That since the BIBLE is established by the authority     of the Church, then the Church must have at least equal authority     to the BIBLE it establishes. [15:49]

    Or as some argued, even greater authority than the written     documents of sacred SCRIPTURE.

    Do we see how that question now is getting developed here?

    If the Church is the institution that declares the BIBLE to be the     BIBLE, wouldn’t that indicate that the Church or the institution     that does that would have at least as much authority as the     BIBLE or even more? [16:19]

    Of course, Luther & Calvin responded somewhat indignantly at     that, & reminded the authorities of Rome that the word, the key     word, that the Church historically had used when it did indeed     define the contents of the BIBLE, was the Latin word recipemous.

                Which means by being translated, “We receive.”

    That is when the Church declared the list of books that were to     be included in the NT, the Church said,

                “We receive these as sacred SCRIPTURE.”

    Let me make an analogy here the way Luther would do it, & Calvin     would do it. The NT uses the term “receive” with respect to be the     believer’s relationship to JESUS.

                We are called to receive HIM.

    As many as receive HIM, to those HE gives the power or the     authority to be the children of GOD.

    Now when I receive CHRIST, as my LORD & SAVIOR, my     reception of JESUS certainly doesn’t give any authority to JESUS.

    JESUS has that authority whether I receive HIM or not receive HIM.

    HE’s the LORD, whether I acknowledge HIM as LORD, or don’t     acknowledge HIM as LORD.

    Is that not obvious?

    And what the 16th century reformers were reminding the Church     was this, that in earlier Church history when this word was used     (recipemous), actually what the Church was doing simply humbly     acquiescing & acknowledging their submission to the authority     of the BIBLE. [18:30]

8.] Counter Measures

    Now the 2nd response of this came in the middle of the     16th century, after the Protestant Reformation began & swept     across the world —the Roman Catholic Church did not go to     sleep or decide to just disband.

    The Roman Catholic Church engaged itself in a rigorous     response to the Protestantism called the Counter-Reformation     (CR). [19:07]

    One of the things that the Church did in the Counter Reformation     was take seriously some of the criticisms that had been made     about the moral scandals that were ghastly in the Church.

    And there really was a genuine moral reformation of the     Roman Catholic Church in the CR.

    It was very important & is often overlooked.

    But probably the most significant even of the CR was an     ecumenical council called by Rome at a place by the     name of Trent.

    This Council of Trent was the Roman, at a place by the     name of Trent. This council was the RCC’s official theological     response to the Protestant Reformation. [20:05]

    And several issues were discussed in great depth & in great     detail at this Council, not the least of which (of course) was     justification by faith alone.

    But before they even discussed justification, which took place     in the 6th session, in the 4th session of Trent, the question of     authority was addressed.

    And in this 4th session, the RCC at the Council of Trent made     it quite clear that there are two sources of divine authority in the     world today. 

    Those two sources (I wont’ go into the details here, I do in     another lecture series, & I don’t think it’s on video. It’s an audio     on RC theology). But the two sources are:

             SCRIPTURE & Latin of the Council et (and) Tradition.

    This indicates what we call a dual source of special divine     written revelation; if you can find it here in SCRIPTURE & in     the tradition of the Church.

9.] Meaning What?

    Now what does that mean?

    It means this, the RCC has always had an extremely high view     of the BIBLE. The RCC was by no means denying the authority     of the SCRIPTURES. [21:52]

    The RCC then & now, officially holds that the BIBLE is nothing     less than the WORD of GOD—inspired, infallible, & so on.

    They were not denying that; but they said, “In addition to that     source, we have another infallible source of the Truth of GOD.

    And that infallible source is tradition.

    Now here’s where the catch comes. [22:18]

    What if there appears to be a conflict between the two?

    This is what Luther was going through.

    He said, “I know what the tradition teaches, but I can’t see how     the tradition squares with what Paul teaches on justification in     his letter to the Romans.”

    And the Church responded that it is the function of the tradition     to give not only a source of information that’s not found in     SCRIPTURE, but also to give the infallible interpretation of     the BIBLE. [22:58]

    So that Luther by denying the tradition, in Rome’s view, was also     denying the BIBLE. Because Rome says,

            “The tradition & the BIBLE agree.”

    And that dispute, of course, goes on to this day.

10.] What Now?

    Now the few minutes that I have left, I want to do some more     ground work for this series.

    You can see here what this debate is all about, & I’ve spent     this much time on the 16th century because it’s the same basic     debate formally today.

    The debate in the life of the Church is:

    “What is the authority? Is it every man for himself? We embrace     cultural relativism, philosophical relativism?” [23:49]

    Even this morning’s paper, I read one of the editorials by     Charlie Reese saying that we live in a society today that has no     morality. It’s not immoral, it’s amoral.

    There is no standard! [24:01]

    No absolute authority, & that’s the crisis that we’re have today.

            “Is there an authority?” [24:11]

ligonier.org/learn/series/hath_god_said/what-is-the-standard-of-truth/ —

[aion-rsa]

The Sister Ending Explained: The Paranormal Thriller’s True Horror

https://ift.tt/32emVyL

Warning: contains spoilers for The Sister

What a sweet story. The baddie was dealt with. Poor Holly finally got closure on Elise’s disappearance, and she and loving husband Nathan had the baby they’d been trying so hard for. Yes, granted, he’s now haunted by her dead sister, but what else is new? The important thing is that it all ended well. Togetherness. Baby. Lovely.

Except, hang on, what? Unlovely. There was nothing sweet about The Sister’s ending. It showed a dangerous liar getting away scot-free with – essentially – murder, and his only punishment coming from the ghost of the woman he buried in the woods a decade earlier. Hasn’t dead Elise been through enough? She deserves to spend her afterlife haunting a plush stately home nestled in manicured grounds, not spooking it up in the back of Nathan Redman’s hatchback.

Nathan may wear the extremely likeable face of Russell Tovey, but it’s a disguise. Underneath the kind eyes and everyman vibe, he’s an unhinged liability who only looked sane in comparison to Bob ‘fired from a fairground ghost train for laying it on a bit thick’ Morrow. Bob killed Elise, but Nathan violated her when he inveigled his way into the Fox family.

New Year’s Eve 2009

A quick recap of the facts: on New Year’s Eve 2009, Elise and Nathan met in the woods on the way home from a party, where they were picked up by Bob, who parked the car in a ‘haunted’ hollow, gave them a bag of what they thought was cocaine and left them alone. Elise did a line, and then started to do Nathan, before having a fit, banging her head on the car window, and dying. 

When Bob returned, he convinced Nathan not to call an ambulance, and together, they buried Elise’s body in a shallow woodland grave. We later learn that Bob had deliberately given Elise and Nathan cyanide, intending to kill them in order to prove the existence of spectres once and for all by creating his very own. According to Bob, the circumstances of such a death – young woman, sex, close to running water – were ripe for ghost-making. 

Read more

TV

The Sister Cast: Russell Tovey and Bertie Carvel’s Best-Known Roles

By Louisa Mellor

Bob turned out to be right. He spent the next decade being haunted by the ghost of Elise Fox while Nathan spent them successfully scheming to become her brother-in-law.

That’s right. Driven to the brink of suicide by his guilt, Nathan decided that the best way to make it up to the Fox family wasn’t to, you know, tell them what happened to their loved one but to infiltrate their ranks, marry Holly and make up a four at Pictionary.

To a mind as addled as his, it must have made a certain kind of sense. You’ve destroyed someone’s life? Now fix their life by marrying them and becoming the protector of their happiness! 

“All I care about is you”

Had Nathan and Holly fallen in love by accident, with him unaware that she was Elise’s sister, that would have been another matter. But The Sister was playing a different game. It distracted us with Dickensian cartoon baddy Bob, so we were blinded to a much more plausible villain in Nathan. He’s the nice guy whose lies are only ever to protect his partner. Everything he does is for her sake, because she’s all that matters. 

As obsessions go, it sounds benign, but with every repetition, Nathan’s ‘I only care about your happiness’ line rang less and less kind and more and more like the justification for a whole lot of manipulative, controlling, arse-covering behaviour. His fixation with saving Holly was unhealthy to the point of neurosis. As she joked, “He might seem pretty sane on the outside. Underneath, he’s basically mental.” Insensitive language aside, that’s the real horror of The Sister summed up.

When Bob tried to blackmail Nathan to come clean about what they’d done (hiding Elise’s DNA-covered dress and remains to use as leverage), Nathan refused because – he said – finding out the truth would destroy Holly. 

He was probably right, but by that stage, it was a bit late to start worrying about things that would destroy Holly. If the monstrous Bob’s conscience finally pushed him to do the right thing, what does it say about Nathan that his didn’t do the same, and that he stood in Bob’s way?

To protect Holly (himself), and spurred on by the realisation that Bob had intended to kill him with the cyanide too, Nathan planned and executed Bob’s murder. He went to his house with a bottle of Temazepam-laced whisky, pretended to drink it with him, then donned rubber gloves to pour the rest of the sleeping pills down Bob’s neck. When Bob attempted to call 999, Nathan thought fast, pretended the call was from him, and suffocated Bob with a cushion until the paramedics arrived. 

Bob was left in the kind of coma you don’t wake up from, according to police officer Jacki, who knew exactly what Nathan had done, and helped him to cover it up. What Jacki didn’t know was why Nathan had killed Bob, assuming that he’d done it as an act of heroic revenge on Elise’s murderer and not to ensure that his secret remained under wraps. “I’ll make sure she knows what you did for her,” Jacki told Nathan, and it was surely down to the honey she poured into Holly’s ear that reconciled the now-pregnant couple. 

Justice served?

In the end, the role Nathan played in covering up Elise’s murder stayed hidden, with Holly now falsely believing him to be her sister’s avenging hero. His reputation was only improved by his attempted murder of Bob, his sole punishment coming from his own guilt and Elise’s ghost (which may well be one and the same). Nathan was last seen driving home to prepare the house for the return of Holly and their new baby daughter, with Elise’s staring-eyed corpse riding along in the back of the car. 

Fair play to ghost-Elise for turning up to haunt Nathan. If she does a good enough job, perhaps he’ll do the honourable thing and scarper, leaving Holly and the baby to a life free of him. If this is how far a man like him will go to ensure the ‘happiness’ of his wife, what might he to ‘protect’ his daughter?

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The Sister is available on ITV Hub now.  

The post The Sister Ending Explained: The Paranormal Thriller’s True Horror appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[stevedonnellyfaith-blog]

A Bear Returns to Brooklyn (Post 122) 12-30-15

It was a Christmas where I thought about keepsakes and their value quite a bit.  I guess my understanding of keepsakes has formed that something is really a keepsake only when its personal value exceeds its monetary value by a factor of ten. For instance, the keepsake that reminds me most of my grandfather is a sales trophy that he won years ago selling Electrolux vacuum cleaners door-to-door in Boston.  He never gave me the trophy, it was in my parents’ house and it was not displayed prominently … with pretty thorough justification.  The statue is in the shape a gilded man like and Oscar with arms extended on high as if he is displaying a heavy weight champion belt, except he is holding a vacuum, one of the old-fashioned kinds that you pulled along behind you until eventually the plug pulled out of the wall.

Certainly the trophy is saleable; I have watched enough episodes of American Pickers to know that there is a market for oddball relics of the prosperity boom of the 50’s, but  I won’t be packing it off to Dayton, Ohio or wherever Antiques Roadshow holds their next swap meet disguised as a soiree. I know I am not depriving Natalie of a year’s tuition to Notre Dame or Ohio State, by keeping the statue.  It means more to me than the $20 that Mike Wolfe or Frank Fritz would offer due to its outstanding funkiness monetized.  Nor will the statue ever probably bask in the soft glow of a recessed spotlight as the centerpiece of my mantle, but neither will it languish in a box in the attic.  Each time I spy the Electrolux Oscar as he resides like a gargoyle on a bookcase above my desk, I will think of my grandfather fishing with me on his dock in Winter Harbor on Lake Winnipesauke in New Hampshire.  In my mind I consider the statue to be a major award, more modestly displayed than the ill-fated leg lamp in A Christmas Story.

My few keepsakes and their importance to me made the bear in the basement a problem to my conscience like the buried pulmonary organ in Poe’s story The Telltale Heart.  The keepsake bear has no place of suitable prominence in my home currently with nothing promising in the near future either.  I don’t have a lot of places to display a large-sized stuffed animal that was probably very special to my wife, but about which I had no knowledge whatsoever.  He isn’t a giant grizzly by any means.  Overall he is about the size of Natalie’s American Girl doll.  The most obvious and easiest cop-out solution would have been to add the bear to Natalie’s bounteous collection of stuffed critters.  She offered to house him several times, but her room is already near bursting with curios.  Natalie could outfit an entire battalion with various pellet filled frogs, over-stuffed ursine playthings and dolls or all sorts.  All of them are named and cherished, but they are legion. This bear had been particularly loved by Pam and he didn’t seem to deserve second-teamer status, like Kobe Bryant as an eighth man.

The bear had all the signs of being special to a kid, despite the fact that Pam never told me his name or relayed anything about his origin and history.  The bear had a tag that identified him as a Knickerbocker product.  That the tag was still affixed was truly wondrous because the bear was well worn.  His pelt was looking pretty spotty; he would have been a good candidate for a fur club purveying whatever treatment the Donald or Joe Biden have procured for their cranial rugs.  On the whole, though, that wasn’t the big problem.  The bear looked to have suffered what they termed in the navy as a sucking chest wound. His back left side rib cage had been kind of blasted to shreds by shotgun  so that the best emergency treatment option would have been wrapping him in Saran-wrap or a plastic bag to continue minimal lung function until a corpsman or a priest arrives to provide a better solution.

Anyway, no sheet of cellophane was necessary for the bear, as he had been sewn back together by a seamstress of rudimentary skill that could only have been a ten year old Pam.  A dog must have gotten a hold of Pam’s treasured toy at one time or another, which is exactly the dilemma I worried about if we brought him up into the house.  The bear was safe from dog attack in his plastic container residence in the basement utility room, but he might as well have been in a stuffed animal morgue.  I do keep some keepsakes for the kids there that I don’t feel are necessary to display continuously:  Wonder Woman lunch boxes, school memorabilia, souvenirs from long ago trips and old clothes that were once favorites.  The bear, on the other hand, had been a first teamer of some sort.  Each of my children has had a special stuffed animal, but never have I seen one as worn out as this bear.  There had been a lot of love poured into this particular keepsake, by a very special person to all of us.

Pamela bear is the only keepsake that I would put in a higher class.  She is Natalie’s bear, but only by inheritance.  With Pam home under hospice care at her last Valentine’s Day, I bought her a pink bear that smelled like the chocolate that she loved but could no longer eat.  Short of items to give to a six-year-old girl at the passing of her mother two days later, I gave Natalie the pink bear that had sat in bed with her mother as she slept her last few hours away before leaving us for a better place.  Pamela bear has been Natalie’ constant bed companion ever since and it shows.  The bear in the basement had been loved on the same level.

In the weeks after Pam’s death, I sent a few things to her sisters that I thought they might have wanted. A carving of her name and a Garfield doll that all of our children had tried to steal from Pam at one time or another.  Pam was an eldest child and considered here stuff to be her stuff, so I always imagined that her sisters probably had an eye out for Garfield as well.  I imagine that the little stuffed animal sits somewhere special in Pam’s sister Annette’s house where it catches her eye occasionally and reminds Annette of her sister Pam at the age when they grew up together. For so much of their adults lives the sisters were separated by miles and commitments that didn’t exist in their little four bedroom house in Brooklyn, Maryland where they had just been close family, not far-flung siblings.

I guess that connection through time was what finally convinced me that the bear should travel back to Maryland to Pam’s other sister Stephanie.  So I packed him up last Saturday along with Natalie’s, Stephen’s and my overnight bags for the six hour pilgrimage back to Kramme Avenue near the Annapolis snack bar where I first met Pam and began our life together.  It seemed the right decision:  either store the bear, risk the bear to Natalie and her doggies or return the bear to someone who would recognize him immediately.

As expected, Stephanie provided the name for the bear and stories about how an elder aunt had tried to separate Pam from her bear and blanket as officious adults sometimes do.  Stephanie let me see her imitation of the scowling freeze stare that Pam used on any of her siblings that attempted to touch the bear, blanket, Garfield doll or any other possession of their eldest sister.  

It is a pretty universal visage that I am sure my older brother used on me once upon a time.  It interested me greatly that the bear’s name was the same one that my oldest boy called his own favorite bear that remains in its own plastic container in the utility room of my basement.  I guess I will now consider the remaining animal who Walt Disney like awaits rediscovery to be Bear Bear Junior going forward.  As for Bear Bear Sr., in my estimation, the decision to repatriate Pam’s bear to Maryland was the right one.  I think Stephanie will cherish the keepsake because she has few reminders of Pam.

This ends my discussion of the Christmas of the Keepsakes. Some would chide me for even bringing up all this materialistic stuff in a column about Christian family life, but I don’t really see it that way.  Although we are cautioned against collecting material possessions, I think that refers to more worldly items.  In the Catholic faith images, relics and sacramentals are very important not because of their earthly value but because they draw our soul towards what they are spiritually connected to.  Stephanie will not worship Mr. Bear Bear Sr, anymore than I worship my Electrolux trophy, and neither of us are likely to worship our family members that have the Pilgrim Church to assume their places in the Church Triumphant.  It is helpful for us to think of them still because we all remain parts of the Body of Christ together.  By keeping the trophy where I can see it, I maintain a stronger bond to my grandfather than I would otherwise hold.  My pictures of Jesus and Mary work likewise.