#learning how to not hate all my creations through sheer force of will

[iloveuspiderman]

— a dance with dragons

[nintendoni-art]

Oh yeah, there's an OC tournament, isn't there?

So This is Zori, and I'm gonna do my best to answer some questions about them! Shout out to @bunnymajo who alerted me to this OC questionnaire and @bunniibones who I commissioned a while back for this character that I've colored in!! ✨How did you come up with the OC’s name? 

Got stuck and wrote a bunch of "Z" names, and picked out the one that spoke to me the most. Then double checked to make sure it didn't mean anything terrible in other languages and found out that "Zori"/ "Zouri" was a type of Sandal. Decided to roll with it.

🌼  - How old are they? (Or approximate age range) One Hundred and Eleven years old. [Around 14-16, age range]

🌺- Do they have any love interest(s)?

Depends on the continuity I use them in, but in the project they originated from, they do have a small crush on someone. S'just they aren't sure if they're even real...

🍕  - What is their favorite food?

Smoked/Preserved Fish, but they can be bribed rather easily with baked goods as long as they aren't too sweet.

💼  - What do they do for a living? Chao Guardian and General World Protective Services.

🎹  - Do they have any hobbies? They adore learning about new things to the point where they'll "borrow" objects. They also like people watching while doing scouting work, and pranking said people with their powers/skillset.

🎯  -What do they do best? Surprisingly, Electromagnetic Flight. Due to clarification on their species being unavailable during their creation, since nailed down Zeti lore is nigh impossible to find their fine attunement on electromagnetic fields found in nature, they can just straight up fly. It's like how spiders do it. Side note, now you know that spiders can fly. You're welcome.

🥊  -What do they love to do? What do they hate to do? When it comes to things they love, If they aren't taking a lazy flight during dusk/dawn, they'll actively go out and see if anyone they know needs assistance with anything, and if not, put themselves through self-imposed challenges in order for something to do. When it comes to things they hate, it's being forced into fights. It's not that they hate fighting, that can be part of one of those challenges they give themselves. It's being forced into a fight where they know the thing they're fighting could be weaker than them, because it's not a fair fight. They also aren't huge fans of being forced into hopeless fights, but that doesn't mean they'll back down from said fight.

❤️  - What is one of your OC’s best memories?

Another one of those answers that depends on continuity. But generally said memory would be about helping a friend with an important task if it means they follow their dreams. Or hell, making new friends, to begin with.

✂️   - What is one of your OC’s worst memories? Goodness, quite a number of continuity based questions this thing has... But lets see....I suppose in a general sense, it would be ones where despite all their strength or abilities, they're in a situation where they're utterly helpless to do anything.

🧊  - Is their current design the first one? Nope! Original design was far more lanky with more feminine attributes, looked a bit more like Zeena, really.

🍀  - What originally inspired the OC? Several Months of Studying both the Chao systems from SA1/SA2, as well as the A-Life System from NiGHTS. I also needed an antagonist in a thing I was writing. It was literally by sheer chance they turned out to be a Zeti, since when brainstorming, a copy of Lost World was being played nearby.

🌂  - What genre do they belong in? ...Dungeon Crawling Roguelike with Pet Sim Elements? Nah, but for real, they'd do well in either Action or Slice of Life stuff.

💚  - What is your OC’s gender identity and sexuality? Non-Binary Panromantic

🙌  - How many siblings does your OC have?

Biological? None. Adoptive? ....One. Depending, once more, on continuity used.

🍎  - What is the OC’s relationship w/their parents like?

They don't really remember their biological parents, but they do have a good relationship with the gang of violent criminals that have adopted them. It's ok though, they're chao, so they're super adorable violent criminals.

🧠  - What do you like most about the OC? I don't know. Maybe it's the fact that they tap into a part of my psyche that still believes in the inherent goodness found in mankind, maybe it's cause they're really fun to write/draw about, it is a mystery...

✏️  - How often do you draw/write about the OC?

Too Much/Not Enough.

💎  - Do you ever see yourself killing off the OC? ...

Don't worry about it.

💀  - Does your OC have any phobias?  They aren't really scared of a lot of things, but being enclosed/trapped does stress them out a little.

🍩  -Who is your OC’s arch-nemesis or rival? Zori's worst enemy is their own sense of loyalty and inability to stay down when it's obvious that they're outmatched in a fight.

🎓  - How long have you had the OC?

Oof, I think they're around 5-6 years old... ----

I think that's all I got for right now, but I do suggest ya check them out over at the tourney that @sonic-oc-showdown is holding out rn, and vote for them if ya like!

[yeojaa]

( LOVED YOU BETTER. )

You put your love and trust into people not things, you tell him.  

They’ll leave, he says about humanity - about that precarious nature that both beguiles and terrifies him.

But they’ll love you back, you remind him.  

pairing.  kth x f!reader.

genre + rating.   slice of life.  an angst angel food cake with a fluffy, strawberry centre.  general.

tags / warnings.  minor (ish) character death, heartbreak, kim taehyung is bad at feelings, summer romance, abandonment issues, moving on, healing.  idk. 

wc.  4.3k

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​ @snackhobi​ @midnighttifa​ 💖 i love y’all!

author note.  this was written for the 'a long hot summer' event hosted by @thebtswritersclub​.  my member was taehyung (obviously!) with the sense being sight.  this is my first project for a net, so i hope you enjoy it!  💖

He spends most of his childhood in Lyon, skirting the rivers in search of inspiration.  It isn’t Paris, his mother tells him, but it’s just as lovely - quieter and more peaceful.  She insists, one day, she’ll take him home, where his maternal grandparents are buried and she’ll show him all the parts of her world.  

The first time he paints - eleven years old, seated at the edge of the Saône with a brush held between his teeth and pigment smearing his hands - his mother is delighted.  He fills the house with his works: pretty watercolours that mimic the blue of the river, the white of boats, the amber of the sky.  She loves them and she loves him and she tells him day in and day out, offering praise as readily as he offers his heart on canvas.  

He’s sixteen when he migrates stateside, to where his father grew up and his mother’s accent stands out.  He hates it there.  It’s boring and bland and it stifles his imagination.  There are no sail boats, no rivers, no pretty girls.  The days turn grey and so does his mother, as if she’d left the best parts of herself back in France.  She still tells him she loves him, promises that they’ll go back someday. 

At twenty-one, he learns love isn’t real.  His father files for divorce and his mother withers away.  When he goes, he packs his bags and doesn’t look back.  It’s a slamming door in an already abandoned home.  Beautiful as it might be, love is nothing but infatuation - fleeting and easily broken and fit only for the books that line the study.  It exists truly, wholly, only in the blood that runs in his veins.  

At twenty-two, he realises absolutely nothing lasts, for his mother leaves too, taking her lilting laughter and rose perfume with her, buried six feet under soil she’d never called home.  Her death is a nail in the door, sealing his childhood shut.  

His father does not attend the funeral.  Hardly anyone does.  

The paintings - lovely portraits of her wide eyes and full lips, of Parisian sunsets and paved streets - are all he has.  They serve as memories, painful reminders of the woman his mother once was, of the life he’d once lived.   They fill the house that’s no longer a home - hasn’t been, for years - tucked away in a room he refuses to enter.    

His mother had called him her petit choux because he was born with dough-soft cheeks, sweet as pie.  As he grew older, the name stuck - even if the fat hadn’t, slipping off his face with each passing year.  By the time he’s eighteen, he’s uncut edges rather than honey brioche.  At twenty-seven, he’s hardened far more than she would’ve ever expected of her beloved boy.  He is week old bread, stale and hard to the teeth.

But he is still her petit choux and he thinks she’d love him regardless.

So Kim Taehyung promises to go back.  For her - to find all the pieces she’d left behind and fashion them back together.  What he doesn’t expect is to meet you along the way. 

He discovers you on a day that scorches his bones, Parisian sun shimmering pavement and cobblestone.  You are a whirlwind of colour, every shade of the rainbow presented in the glory of your smile.  You treat the Seine like a lover, living at the edges of its shores with bare feet and bare legs and a bare face that begs to be memorised.

You laugh and it’s radiant, pealing bells that ring in his ears long after noon has struck. 

You call him mon chéri like it means something.   

It reminds him of his mother and he wonders whether she ever did these same things, dancing across the grass with an apricot caught between her teeth.  He hopes so. 

“Come, come,”  you coax, with a mouth that threatens to tear his chest wide open.  It presents pretty, in shades of ruby and wine;  it draws him in, sticky sweet, and he’s defenseless to your whims.  He goes where you go, following the flow of your hair, the curtain that draws back and has him seeing in technicolour.  

He laughs when you laugh, smiles when you smile.  You bring him to all the places he’s never been:  the cobbled streets his mother once roamed, the darkened bars filled with champagne, the sunlit warmth of your bedroom where wisteria branches hang low.  He paints you in all of them - sweeping watercolours into the silk of your hair, the curve of your lips, the swell of your hips when his palms grip them tight. 

You’re an ingenue, a muse, everything he’s ever wanted.  But he doesn’t love you - because love doesn’t exist.  Not in the ways they portray on the silver screen, with heartfelt declarations and bundles of overflowing roses.  He can’t give you those things;  he’s grateful you don’t ask.

Sometimes, he thinks you might dare to.  Can see it lurking in the lovely shade of your stare, how you study him when you think he isn’t watching.  Furtive glances, made beneath the thick line of your lashes, behind the brocade of your sun-drenched strands. 

But he’s Kim Taehyung and he’s always watching - always aware.  He hates to miss a single thing.

Don’t ask me to love you, he tells you without words.  

“Should we go to Lyon for the weekend?”  

You’re draped across the bed, drenched in lavender and warm like baked pastry.  Your tongue licks cream from your lips, sweetness touched with honey.  He drinks in your every movement, dedicating them to canvas.  There’s a freckle on your knee and another just below.  One more on your ankle and three along the top of your foot.  A constellation he hasn’t named yet.

“No,”  he answers, devoid of the same delight that frolics behind your teeth.  

“Why not?”  You press, because it’s what you do - forcing each button until you find the one that stirs something to life within him.  A coin-operated boy, rusty and in terrible disrepair.  He thinks you’d be wary of the bright red warning light but you seem almost colourblind, looking through rose-tinted glasses that dress all of his actions in warmth he doesn’t deserve.  

He doesn’t answer, sweeping his brush back and forth.  Lilac filters into water, a lovely shade that grows lighter and lighter with each pass of bristles.  It’s not quite the same as your dress - a silk creation that begs to live on your skin - but it’s close enough.  He’ll settle for it.

It reminds him of the flowers in the garden back home.  Back when his mother was alive and she still breathed life into the greenery, trimming stems and drying petals.  

“I don’t want to.”  A simple enough answer.  

You wait for him to elaborate, pouting and pleading like you might break him down with the sheer force of your beauty.  If he were any lesser man, you might have.  

“Please,”  you purr, too persuasive for your own good.  You’d settle into his lap, twist his honey strands between your fingers, if not for the stare he levels you with.  One that screams be good and stay still because the last thing he wants is you ruining the painting.  He doesn’t want to start all over and the light is already waning, sun lost somewhere behind drooping branches and the gauzy softness of your drapes.

“No.”  

“Please.”

Brush to water, then to colour.  A sweet orange - the flesh of a fresh cantaloupe without seeds.  “No.”

“Mon chéri—” 

He booms out “No!” like a cannon.  It’s akin to being scolded, stilling the playfulness in your hands.  You’re ignorant to all the reasons he refuses to indulge you but you think of it as nothing but selfishness, a cold you can’t weather.  One you refuse to when flowers are in full bloom and the air outside lays a salt-crown  atop your brow.  This is your kingdom, your rightful place - you bow to no one. 

You stiffen, rise from the bed in a motion that disrupts every part of him.  Motions still, knuckles white.  No no no.  You’re ruining it.  You’re ruining—

“Get out.”

Taehyung can’t quite believe his ears - staring at you in such aghast you almost laugh right in his face.  He has the audacity to perform such theatrics after yelling at you?  How dare he!  It enrages you, brings your blue blood to a boil beneath your skin.

“Pardon?”  The sound rolls, trips, and stumbles, dirt on his palms and knees as he stares up at you.

“I said get out, mon chéri.”  You’ve unbuttoned the rumpled shirt - his, with his initials embroidered across the cuff - allowing it to drop from your shoulders and into his lap.  He glares down at it, stained now with the watercolours in his palette.  It’d be pretty if it weren’t so infuriating. 

“I’m not done.”  

You tch, a derisive sound that bites worse than your love, your nails painted in Chanel.  “I don’t care.”

“I’m not done,”  he repeats, perhaps a little lost.  It crawls out between his teeth, a lost man seeking solace.  He needs to finish this.  He hasn’t painted you this way yet, bathed in faded light.  It’s an empty slot in his album of memories.  He can’t let it go.

You’re unrepentant, dismissive.  A table turned.  “I don’t care.” 

He hates you then.  He doesn’t realise how close the emotion is to love.

He doesn’t know when his boyhood waned away, lost itself to the wind and the rivers.  He only knows, suddenly, he was not a boy but a man, a miserable soldier made to walk the plank.  He thinks it might’ve been when she died, taking the last traces of his youth with her.  Gone was the innocence, the gentility, the voraciousness;  all at once, the ease - the glory, the good - had evaporated, leaving in its place a broken boy too angular, too angry. 

He doesn’t know when his boyhood waned away, but he remembers all too well when her death had eclipsed the light, leaving him in perpetual darkness.  

It makes sense then - that his whole life is a charnel house, built on the foundation of someone else’s bones.  It’s only fitting it becomes a memorial to a long-gone mother, a weeping wife, a star burnt out too soon. 

He’s somehow still surprised when his kingdom - formidable, impenetrable, guarded - comes crumbling down, an overgrown old city ruined.  As if he’d expected those skeletons to hold him forever, to carry the weight of his desolation within their hollows.  He begs for absolution when it falls beneath a thousand leagues, lost to saltwater and liquor.  He drowns within it and it seeps, sticks, stirs - catching in his stare and trembling his fingers.  

Nostalgia comes like ghosts - old men lost at sea.

They’re dim, twilight, held behind a heavy fog.  Old memories on a carousel ride, spinning in perpetual motion.  They’re snapshots of his mother, his youth, his home.  They pass too quickly;  he can never catch them.  

Years old misery claws its way up his chest and he chokes on it each night, lying awake listening to the city groan, straining like a dying beast on its last legs.  He misses her, he misses you, he misses the person he used to be.  He aches for it - a nameless thing just out of reach.  

Something Taehyung begs and cries for until he’s blue in the face.

Something you’d given him, in the form of kisses and promises.  Something he’d only shoved you down into the dirt for - right where she was.  Because no one kept promises, and he didn’t want to hate you later.  (For loving, for leaving.)  

Instead, he hates himself, and that is a neater, cleaner way to end the story.  

He is bereft, drifting between days he has neither the desire nor wherewithal to consider. 

He sees women just like you - girls that run barefoot through the grass, fancying themselves dancers, muses, inspirations.  They laugh, they kiss, they cite vague poetry.  They preen when he asks to paint them, throwing exaggerated shapes with the lines of their necks, the flutter of their lashes.

Still, none of them are you - too soft and rounded. 

None possess the same insolence, polite phrases toeing the line of sophisticate and street urchin.  They are all wind-up ballerinas, dancing on rotation, with smiles not right, too tight.  They’re too flat, too freckled, reminiscent of rotting cherries and mint-green Ladurée bags you’d scoff at.  They leave his canvases better off bare, boring and one-dimensional.  Taehyung resents them. 

But he doesn’t love you, and he tells himself that whenever he misses you.

A victim of ennui, he slips into a pattern he abhors.  Supine lounging in the evenings, preceded only by listless wandering during the long hours of the day.  He drifts with the rise and fall of the sun, eyes blind to the beauty around him. 

Nothing feels quite right anymore - not in the way it used to.  There are no memories of his mother, no sweet tales told by a ghost.  It’s empty empty empty, only shit-stained streets and hollow bodies.

He prays for an answer, a sign, anything. 

It comes in the form of you - nearly three weeks later, beneath a stream of sunlight that casts you in chiaroscuro.  For the first time, he itches to paint.  The need thrums in his fingers, a million little nerve endings firing off.  He itches to touch you too, but he ignores that, shoves it into the deepest, darkest recess of his thoughts as he can.  He needs to focus on one thing and one thing only:  doing what he came here to do.

“Bonjour.”  It comes bare, undressed and vulnerable.  By the look on your face, it isn’t what you want.

You twist away, entire body angling uncomfortably in your effort to ignore him.  “What do you want?”  You’re cruel, capricious - a god looking upon a lowly farmhand with no offering.  It stings in a way it shouldn’t, pulls his expression into a frown before he can mask it. 

That’s better, you think.  He can practically read the smug emotion dancing in those pretty irises.

“You haven’t called.”  

“Neither have you.”  

“You told me to leave.”

“And you left.”

For every excuse, you have a rebuttal.  It’s a game of chess he’s bound to lose.  It’s as frustrating as it is enticing, stirring something warm and heavy in the cavity behind his ribs.  A little hummingbird come to life, wings beating relentlessly and kicking up all the dust of his childhood trauma.

“I’m sorry.”  It’s hardly an apology, too greedy to come the way it should.  Taehyung does this for himself, for his promise, for memories he refuses to let go. 

You see right through him.  “Are you?”  

“I am.”  

“You’re not.”

“I am.”  

“Tell me what you’re sorry for.”

The words I am are poised on his tongue and reduced to ash with your question.  He’s never had to try so hard a day in his life.  It feels wrong, messy, awful.  Every part of him compels him to rebel - to wax poetic about the things he’s done right, how what you’re asking is too much.  I cannot love you, he thinks.  

“I thought so.”  There’s nothing but disdain in your stare, turning it sharp like a knife that threatens to glide through his armour.  “You’re selfish, Kim Taehyung.  All you want is to take and take and take.  You refuse to give.”  

You’re not wrong.  He wears his sadness like a solid steel plate;  it curls around his vertebrae, writhing in his belly until he’s full, aching, complete.  He doesn’t know how to exist without it, apart from it.  It keeps him safe, satisfied, out of harm’s way.  It’s both a blessing and a curse.  

As you leave, he wonders whether it’s worth it.

Six long days pass.  Six too many, drawn out and miserable.  He aches to create, to sketch, to paint.  He calls you in a moment of weakness;  you come, nonetheless.

“What do you want?”  You repeat, mouthful of thorns and scar tissue.  

This time Taehyung has an answer.  He’s ready, confident in his recital.  It spills forth loosely, with abstract brazenness.  “I want you.”  There’s no room for uncertainty, zero leeway to be found in between the syllables.  It’s the most sincere he’s been all season, made true by the summer sun and your focused, unyielding stare.

“You want moi?”  It’s a dance with the devil - question poised like a hand.  “Do you even know what wanting someone means?”  You’re steady, unwavering, just as he is. 

He hesitates then, just barely, with a tick of his jaw, fingers curling around nothing.  You take that as weakness, delicate mouth curling into a sneer.  He sees it - all the I told you so’s poised on the tip of your tongue, ready to silence him.  He beats you to it, crashing his mouth against yours with a recklessness that thrums in his veins, sending his heart on a wild chase for that something.

He’s spent his whole life in pursuit of a feeling, a spectre, a bittersweet memory.  He thinks he might’ve lost himself along the way.

“I want you.  I want you - and us.”  

What he means to say is he wants all the things that come with it:  the bratty rebuttals, the early morning eagerness, the taste of you every night.  He wants the eyelashes on his pillow case, the lipstick stains, the scent of your perfume - citrus and nectarine blossom, cocoa butter, fresh cream.  He wants the trips to the countryside, the new memories, the paintings full of you.  He wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything.  He needs it like he needs air, light, art.

He needs you - his muse.  

He tells you, shamelessly, around a lump that forms in his throat and makes it hard to breathe.  “We’ll go to Lyon.  If you want to go, we’ll go.”  

The place where he grew up is different, wrapped in ivy and devoid of light.  Windows are drawn and everything leans grey, weeds sprouting beneath his expensive leather loafers.  They curl around his ankles, creep up the back of his knees;  they threaten to crush him beneath their weight.  He imagines his insides look the same - neglected and vacant.  

He wishes he hadn’t come.  This isn’t his home, his kingdom, his heart.  Not anymore.

“Come, mon chéri,”  you hum, stirring him from his reverie, pulling his thoughts through the seven circles of Hell until he’s back in the present, stiff at your side with your fingers interlaced.  You offer an affectionate smack of your lips - wine-stained and pretty - to his cheek.  He does not soften. 

“Let’s go.”  It comes despite himself, before he can help it, in a voice that isn’t his.  It’s too soft, too unsure - fifteen years younger and vulnerable.

You regard him closely, with a careful narrow of your stare.  He can read the pity there, the frustration that swims in the depths - circling sharks seeking out the scent of his blood.  It’s inescapable.  He wishes you’d stop.  He doesn’t need you to lecture him.  

Misery rises, licks up his throat like bile, and he worries it might spill out, red as the crimson sea.  Part of him wants it to - a defense mechanism he can’t control;  the other part of him knows he should swallow it down.  He has no reason to fight you.

“Come,”  you repeat, and he’s defenseless, lost to your siren song.  He steps back in time, white-knuckled and terrified. 

There are no longer peonies in the kitchen, nor roses in the front hall.  Dust settles over every surface, dry soil kicked up beneath his feet.  

Taehyung tries to recall the way his mother would busy herself in the garden, bent over her flowers like an altar.  How her knees were perpetually scarred, dirt caught beneath her nails, dark hair a braided wreath worn like a crown.  It was the only time she was anything but composed - full of light and laughter and a love for the alive.  He’d eat breakfast with her in the front yard, a shadow that would follow her every move.  Back and forth, he’d go - on his feet, with his brush, in his thoughts. 

Every painting was of her - of tulips and daisies, bare ankles and sun-kissed skin.  The shape of her mouth, the freckle on her nose.  Her delight when his father would come home. 

He swears he smells her perfume now, standing in the place he’d grown up.  He’s reminded of hot coffee and fresh bread, her fluttering laughter and brass watering can.  He’ll dream about it for days, memories rolling like a Super 8 film through his mind.

He cries I’m fine when he isn’t.  You hold him until he is. 

You sleep together on a Sunday afternoon.  

When you wake, the sun is low on the horizon and you’re the prettiest Taehyung’s ever seen you, features thrown in stark relief.  You’re salt-sweet and striking, dressed in linen whites and the shape of his mouth.  

He paints the pale soles of your feet, drawn against your leg, and the shade of your nails, a pretty colour he attributes to springtime and sonnets.  He indulges in the sound of your voice, soft and hazy in his ear.  You kiss him like he isn’t broken and you taste like memories - ones he hasn’t made yet, but desperately wants to.  He is both sinking and floating, as if you’ve taken his heart from his chest and hold it, beating, somewhere high above his head. 

He carries your perfume for weeks after, heavy on his skin.  Lingering, like you’ve become a part of him, like he’s fallen in love. 

Kim Taehyung had once surrounded himself with beautiful things - paintings and drawings and girls.  He’d thought if he fenced himself in with all things good, there would be no cracks for the outside world - the real world, full of misery and deceit - to seep through.  He’d kept his hands occupied by brushes, by thorns, by a million little material things.

He hadn’t realised all he needed was yours, warm in his. 

You put your love and trust into people not things, you tell him.  

They’ll leave, he says about humanity - about that precarious nature that both beguiles and terrifies him.

But they’ll love you back, you remind him.  

The confession comes at the end of summer, edges past the cage of his teeth into the quiet of the evening.  It comes and comes, so softly he thinks you might laugh, corners of your eyes wrinkling like the sheets in which you’re bare.

Maybe it’s the way your hair falls over your shoulders, a curtain he aches to part, to feel beneath his hands.  Maybe it’s the way you look at him with hungry eyes and wet lips and teeth that could crumble all of his walls as if they were made of papier-mache.  

Maybe it’s just you, skin like silk and eyes like the night sky.  

“I think I love you,”  Taehyung states, careful, with his entire heart in his hands. 

“You think?  

He nods, although he mustn’t.  He can’t, he reminds himself.

And yet he does, because there is no denying how well you fit each other’s curves, the truth that you are two pieces of the same puzzle.  He wakes up early each day with the taste of you still on his tongue, the memory of you seared into his palms.  Your body has become his home and it is real, flesh and blood, not broken bones buried six feet under.  

You fill his silence with your laughter;  it sounds like redemption and feels like hope.

Before he knows it, seasons change.

Autumn becomes a waiting room, a time between the unyielding heat of summer and the unbearable cold of winter.  Taehyung loves the quiet of it, the progression as steady as the chill that creeps beneath his clothes, within his bed - everywhere but in his head.  

He remembers his mother, his home, all the things he’s lost.  He pays homage to the woman who had raised him right but left too soon.  He finds the places she’d told him about and folds secrets into their corners.  He creates new memories, introducing his present to his past.  You call her mamman and tell her not to worry, promising that you’ll take care of him.  

He lives beneath the fading leaves that serve as a benchmark for which to measure the growth he’s undergone.  He imagines his life in film, in rolling scenes laid out in sepia tones.  He imagines weeks passing by and versions of himself doing the things he loves most.

Laid out under the copper sky, your head in his lap and a brush in his hands.  He doesn’t need to look at you - can fit you among the pages purely from memory.  The turn of your smile, the twinkle in your stare, the little freckle just beneath your lip.  He sees you in his dreams and he commits them to paper, filling his sketchbook as you fill his thoughts.

Wandering the streets, hand in hand, guided by your laughter and the smell of warm pastry.  Bare legs, echoing footsteps, the sight of your smile when he’s said something particularly funny.  You cry Mon chéri! and force a cherry between his lips, savouring the tart taste under the afternoon sun.

Upon your balcony, skin searing beneath high noon and the feel of your mouth.  He lets you paint him - sits terribly still as you show him who he really is - stripping his pretenses with each pass of your brush.  He is bare but not broken, a beautiful boy painted in earth tones and paired with intense eyes.  

Taehyung tells you your painting is beautiful and that he loves it - that he loves you.

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice​ @youwannabelostandnotbefound​ @snackhobi​

[bestworstcase]

Your opinion on diadem au zhan tiri ?

😭 my beloved

oh boy

further thoughts under the cut because i have some highly controversial™️ things to say

& to be clear. yes i read the entire fic.

so. the premise here is there are “mythics,” a group encompassing both magical creatures and human mages, and at some point an indeterminate amount of time prior to the beginning of the story, the kingdom of corona drove its mythics out and pressured five of the other seven kingdoms into signing the “mythic accords,” which made it illegal for mythics to exist in these countries. diadem—the dark kingdom analogue, this is a dark prince cassandra AU—was the only country to abstain.

zhan tiri’s family (henceforth zitifam) were among the coronan mages forced out of their homes. they, and six kingdoms worth of other refugees, sought asylum in diadem. the zitifam pledged fealty to the crown of diadem and ultimately became established as a family of court mages and advisors. further notes:

1 - a fan wrote an epistolary fanfic of the fic that is an account of a group of child refugees coming from corona to diadem, which reveals in the end that these children are the orphaned offspring of mythics whom corona disappeared when they resisted the forced exile. this is directly referenced as an in-universe text in the final chapter of diadem proper, so it can be considered as ‘canon’ within the universe of the au.

2 - while it’s unclear precisely when all of this happened, it began a long time ago; in chapter 18, zhan tiri describes her family’s desire for vengeance as “centuries-old.”

3 - diadem’s streets are evidently “overflowing with mythic refugees with nowhere else to go.”

4 - 18 years ago, there was a “peaceful advocate group” of mythics known as the nightingales. their approach to reversing the mythic accords involved “lend[ing] their magic to anyone who needed help,” with the intention of “showing the people that magic is nothing to be afraid of and encouraging them to open their minds.”

king frederic turned to them for help when arianna fell ill whilst pregnant with rapunzel. their leader, an unnamed sorceress, agreed to help in exchange for the lifting of the accords in corona. it’s a little unclear precisely what happened, but the story as recounted by rapunzel (who learns of this via a vision) seems to imply that frederic intended to execute this woman after arianna was saved, and she chose to kill herself first and, in the process and unbeknownst to frederic, bequeath her magic to rapunzel.

after the apparent murder of their leader, the nightingales planned an uprising—but rapunzel was kidnapped before they could enact this plan, and frederic assumed they were to blame and raided their homes, arresting and imprisoning or exiling every mythic the guards could catch. lady caine was among the children orphaned by these raids; her father fled to diadem without her, settled down and got married, went eighteen years without trying to contact her, and kept on with the “peaceful advocacy” thing because he is a useless bootlicking centrist.

anyways,

5 - the pertinent part of #3 and #4 is that the situation in corona is ongoing. the original purges and creation of the accords happened centuries ago, enforcement appears to have lapsed for a while, and under frederic’s reign corona’s persecution of mythics ramped up again, resulting in a second purge around eighteen years ago and subsequent decades of extreme hostility. when rapunzel is outed as a mage, frederic sets the royal guard on her, that’s how bad it is. even the literal princess of corona is not safe.

6 - further, in chapter 8, it is implied that the mythic accords may have required that participating nations intercept mythics fleeing through their borders (to what end is unclear; imprisonment or execution seems likely, but we learn this by way of arianna noting that antipe chose *not* to intervene when mythic refugees passed through en route to diadem, in defiance of the accords). antipean scholars recorded the stories of these refugees and collected artifacts and enchanted heirlooms from them which are now housed in the spire. it is worth noting that when the accords are repealed in the final chapter, these items are not returned to their rightful owners.

7 - arianna, who is antipean, privately thinks the accords are bad and expresses that she has “no personal grief” with mythics and “looks back with fondness” on mythic friends she met as a young woman, but she has done nothing about this because “that matters little when you are the queen of Corona.” her hands are tied—until frederic chases rapunzel out of corona, at which point she finds the wherewithal and public support to stage a coup against her husband within a matter of days. rapunzel is a mythic and likewise just kind of sits on her ass doing nothing except pining for cass and occasionally angsting about how her father hates mythics, until the point where she’s driven out of her home, at which time her first priority is reconciling with cass and her second priority is making sure corona doesn’t face any consequences. she can understand genocide but she draws the line at going to war to stop genocide. and prince cass i’m pretty sure isn’t even aware that there’s a refugee crisis happening in her own kingdom because she is an ignoramus. our heroes, ladies and gentlefolk.

hokay. i’m pretty sure that covers everything.

it is never referred to as such in the text of the story itself, but… calling it what it is, the premise of the diadem au is that corona instigated a centuries-long genocide of mythics, resulting in a massive refugee crisis in the one kingdom that refused to participate. the zitifam escaped this genocide, eventually secured a high station in the country that offered them asylum, and now seek to use their influence to persuade diadem’s queen edith declare war against corona and end things once and for all. this is framed, in the story, as a cruel and selfish desire for revenge, but like.

um.

corona is actively doing genocide? hello??

anyway, diadem zhan tiri.

she gets her first POV section in chapter 10, which establishes her basic goals (inciting war against corona to avenge the lives destroyed by corona’s genocide and put an end to it) and also establishes that she is viscerally terrified of her own family because she will be “disowned or worse” if she fails to accomplish this. (she is also baffled to discover that prince cass actually cares about someone, which is funny because she’s completely right, considering how utterly miserable, paranoid, and unpleasant cass is in this au)

she discovers at this point that cass’s mysterious “friend” is the princess of corona and that they’re meeting up every couple weeks to fuck in the woods. she is, understandably, alarmed by this, and takes immediate and drastic steps to interfere with their relationship before cass can do something crazy like pursue a closer alliance with corona, the kingdom that is engaged in genocide against zhan tiri’s people,

which is to say, zhan tiri makes a pact with demons to grant herself enough power to singlehandedly incite a war, in exchange for her own life. it is…pretty clear that she considers this to be a desperate last resort, and she psyches herself up for it by thinking about the anguish of her family and the plight of all the impoverished refugees living in diadem. i. i’m not even exaggerating here:

Zahn Tiri closes her eyes, breathing deeply as she disrobes. Her heart pounds in her chest, as though begging her to reconsider this desecration, but she tightens her grip on the blade’s hilt and banishes her doubts. She thinks of the sorrow in her elders’ faces when they speak of their regrets that they will likely not live to see their homeland again. She thinks of Diadem’s streets, overflowing with mythic refugees with nowhere else to go. She thinks of the stubborn queen, of how she only needs one good reason to send her warriors marching on Corona. She thinks of the day that King Frederic falls on a Diadem blade, repaying the debt of blood that he owes.

in chapter 13, we learn a bit more about what exactly zhan tiri does to herself:

This ritual is irreversible, and corrupts the magic and the very life-force of the caster forever. Such practices are incredibly dangerous, and have historically been attempted only by the very desperate. In addition to risking their own lives, mythic clans and societies do not hesitate to banish practitioners of dark magic.

and she uses this power to - rapid fire plot summary:

1 - cast a decay spell on cassandra’s hand a la RATGT in such a way that it appears to be a failed assassination attempt by rapunzel

2 - persuades queen edith to declare war against corona

3 - does her damnedest to manipulate cass into going along with this

4 - when she’s caught, flees and transforms into a massive monster a la Plus Est to attack corona by herself

which. like. good for her? good for her.

she’s canon cass with a heroic motive. she’s canon cass if the reason cass took the moonstone was to literally stop a genocide. i… i don’t know how else to say it SKDJFKSKS

1 - self-sacrificing to the point of self-destruction

2 - burning up with rage over the real injustices done to her (& her people)

3 - only “friend” is a prince(ss) with no empathy who never listens to a word she says and doesn’t give a damn about her problems

4 - out of sheer desperation turns to a dangerous and destructive source of power in order to achieve her goals

and the key difference between them is that when canon cass loses her shit it’s because she’s trying frantically to prove that she matters and when diadem zhan tiri loses her shit it’s because she is TRYING. TO. STOP. A. GENOCIDE.

meanwhile the “heroic” characters suggest that hating corona is just as bigoted and wrong as corona’s genocidal hatred of mythics, that going to war is wrong because it would be “catastrophic” and “people are going to die,” and that the right way to end literal centuries of genocide is to politely ask the people in charge to please stop because anger is bad and violent resistance is never okay.

and then like after she turns into a monster and attacks the coronan palace, cass and rapunzel kill her and everything is okay because arianna staged a coup and they can just repeal the mythic accords! and at the end when rapunzel feels vaguely uncomfortable with the fact that they killed zhan tiri, cass is like don’t be! she was awful and deserved to die! and it makes me want to yeet myself into the stratosphere.

i just 😭😭 diadem zhan tiri

she deserved so much better my heart aches

[sh-rare-pair-exchange]

For if they return they were always yours

For @aceon-ice​

Summary: The tightness in her chest, the coiling coldness in her gut, the force in her lungs, preventing her from exhaling properly; it’s been a blessing framed as a curse, or a curse disguised in pleasure. Even now, she’s not sure.Her head is; stubborn, proud, unwilling to sacrifice another part of herself. Unlike her heart; brave, but foolish, vigorous, but vincible, always hoping, close to unhinged surety that the next person she offers it to, will not strike, crush, or break it.She longs for that someone by her side, someone she can trust, count on, be comfortable with, and know, no matter the troubles, hardships, or challenges they'll face, they won’t forsake her.

A/N: Hello AceOnIce, I chose a fic for Lydia/Izzy, because I adore them, and I hope you can enjoy this. It's my first fic where they are the main couple, and I was hesitant, scared to mess up, but I really enjoyed writing it. <3

Read it on ao3: HERE

The shine of the blade hits her eyes as she moves it to polish the other side, her motions stilling as her mind drifts to memories, treasured, but painful.

Her fingers brush long blond hair from her lover’s naked shoulder, her skin shining golden in the candle light. She trails her fingers along her spine, down to the small dent of her lower back, and follows with her lips the same path upwards again.

She can feel the tremors in her lover’s body, hear the small sounds of pleasure, even the smile on her lips. She shifts around towards her, gray blue eyes locking with her own, a hand cupping her neck, pulling her closer, and she loses herself in fervent kisses.

The tightness in her chest, the coiling coldness in her gut, the force in her lungs, preventing her from exhaling properly; it’s been a blessing framed as a curse, or a curse disguised in pleasure. Even now, she’s not sure.

Her head is; stubborn, proud, unwilling to sacrifice another part of herself. Unlike her heart; brave, but foolish, vigorous, but vincible, always hoping, close to unhinged surety that the next person she offers it to, will not strike, crush, or break it.

She longs for that someone by her side, someone she can trust, count on, be comfortable with, and know, no matter the troubles, hardships, or challenges they'll face, they won’t forsake her.

She wants someone like Magnus, or Clary, devoting themselves to her brothers, unconditionally.

No one has ever given themselves to her unconditionally, and it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, a toxic fracture in her heart, and endless thoughts of self-doubts, and feelings of inferiority. As if something inside her is simply wrong, and somehow, everyone knows, and leaves after taking her apart, a little at a time.

Lydia was never going to be hers. Everything about them was doomed from the start. She was a typical product of The Clave. Actually, she was a rather perfect creation. And Izzy hated her, for all the obvious reasons, but even more so, for the way she saw her own faults, prejudices, and failures reflected in her.

Thanks to Magnus, Luke, Raphael, and other Downworlders, Izzy realised that she had a long way to go before she could truly pride herself in an ally. She knew she couldn’t have escaped The Clave’s visions, not her parents’, not every Shadowhunter’s she ever had dealings with, had to learn from, but she always thought she was somehow… better.

Oddly, only through meeting, and getting to know Lydia Branwell, did Izzy really see her own shortcomings, and misconceptions. She was, and still is, grateful for that. She’s done more growing in the past year, than in all her life before that.

And she realised how exhausting, and excruciating taking yourself apart bit by bit is. To be brutally honest with herself about herself, everything she’s done, and even more so, the things she failed to do.

She’s especially thankful to her friends who helped her along this harsh journey, taught her, and opened her eyes in many ways, as well as her family, and some other Shadowhunters who felt that the old ways weren’t as golden as they were made out to be.

But she hadn’t expected Lydia Branwell to be one of them. Izzy had almost playfully cursed her beauty, because even though she was determined to hate this Clave envoy with all her might, she had two very well functioning eyes, and Lydia was sheer gorgeous.

When Izzy felt particularly petty, she even cursed her for that. But things changed, too fast for her mind to catch up. Suddenly, Lydia was on their side, and with that, on the side of innocent Downworlders they wanted to protect.

Izzy was never especially good at letting hate consume her, which some said to be one of her greatest strengths, and so animosity turned into sufferance, turned into acceptance, and surprising affection.

And soon her heart throbbed the moment Lydia entered a room, talked, smiled, and accidentally, or purposely, touched her. Even when they argued, and they did that a lot. But it helped them work out their differences in many aspects, and she just felt closer, and more drawn to her.

And when she found that she wasn’t the only one who made up reasons to spend more time together, she leapt into the feeling, into her arms, and bed.

And she was determined to have no more regrets.

She feels a blissful heaviness throughout her body, permeating her wholly, arms closing around her, rolling her over on her side, her naked body pressing into her lover’s, sheen with sweat.

Soft, thin strands of blond hair are sticking to Lydia’s face, she tries to blow from her eye, her face changing into mesmerizing laughter as she fails.

Izzy grins, and caresses all of her disturbing hair away, leaning in to press a kiss on the corner of Lydia’s smiling mouth, just to be hugged tighter, and kissed harder.

“You know,” Izzy’s head is comfortable on Lydia’s warm stomach, an arm wrapped over her, Lydia’s fingers gliding through her long, unruly hair, sending prickles along her neck, down her spine, she delights in.

“We’ve spent every night together for almost ten days.” Izzy continues, not sure why this thought took hold of her, but there’s always a reason.

“Yes, we have. And it’s been good.” Lydia says, her forefinger slowly running down Izzy’s brow and nose.

“Mmmm, yeah. Wouldn’t you like it to stay this way?” Izzy asks, sudden surprise and realisation taking her breath away.

“Even if I did, Izzy, it won’t. We won’t be here forever. Nothing is ever certain in our lives, but that things will always change.”

Izzy knew she would say something like that, there was no other option, even. Not for them. And, yet, a flicker of hope for something else was born the moment she asked, now extinguished, casting a shadow in her mind, chasing away her rare moment of levity.

She never said anything regarding this topic again afterwards, knowing how Lydia would react, knowing that hearing it from her lips would hurt even more. They were… something, but not everything, and once again, she had to accept that. She just wasn’t enough, for Lydia, or anyone, or maybe, what Alec and Jace found, was simply too rare, and most other Shadowhunters wouldn’t. She had to accept it.

Even when she knew she fell in love with Lydia, completely, she still had to accept that she was the only one, and that she was the one who would have to nurture another broken heart, once Lydia broke it off, or was sent away.

Or accepted a higher position at the Institute in Rome, with a very good chance to be promoted again.

Izzy knew that it was Lydia’s greatest wish, and ambition, and that she would always choose her head over her heart, and her career over a relationship. Izzy even understood it, to a point, but it still crushed her bone-deep to hear the words.

Lydia was leaving, and she would be happy with the decision. And Izzy had no say in the matter, and she couldn’t ask her to stay, would never plead, would not show how much it hurt, more so than she had anticipated, but it may as well.

She wished her all the best, smiled somehow, and left.

That was four months ago, and a lot had changed, again, just as Lydia said. Izzy was going to be the new Head of the New York Institute, because she too, had to put her career before anything else, because, again, she was proven wrong to want something else.

She hadn’t really talked to anyone about it, but she knew her brothers, and friends, knew, and she knew she could have cried and be comforted by them, but instead, she was grateful for Jace, and Clary’s willingness to train with her every day, and Alec’s insight into her new position, as well as Magnus, and Raphael’s teachings of more she had yet to learn, wanting to be the very best role model she could be, especially for the new generation.

Izzy blinks, the shine of the blade she’s gripped in her hands before her eyes, irritating them suddenly. She inhales, exhales, and puts the blade away, then cleans her work station.

She’s been here, on her own, for the past five evenings, just cleaning weapons, thinking, trying to unravel some of the knots in her mind. She knows she’ll be okay, generally. She knows what she has to do, must put forward, and still learn, and she knows it will never end.

And maybe, the void, sometimes filled with sadness, sometimes anger, sometimes loneliness, guilt, or pride, will become smaller in time. She can’t but try, one day at a time.

The door is suddenly pulled open, Jace storming inside, his expression grave, letting her know something bad happened.

Lydia is here, and she’s badly hurt. She was brought by two Shadowhunters who had been working with her in Rome, but Izzy can’t focus on that. She races to the infirmary, Jace on her heels, blood draining from her face as she sees her lying on the white bed, her face ashen, bruised, and bloody.

“She made us promise to take her here should anything happen to her.” Izzy isn’t able to look at the other two women in the room, her brain barely catching up with their words.

There was a demon attack, a big one, and Lydia got hurt. Izzy feels paralyzed, unable to do anything but keep staring at Lydia’s face, her eyes shut. She doesn’t even know if she’s breathing.

She suddenly feels a hand on her shoulder, and becomes aware of Jace behind her. “Iz.” She shakes her head slowly, forces air into her lungs, and steps forward, her whole being trembling.

People are rushing in and out, but she hardly notices, unable to take her eyes and mind off of Lydia’s face. Izzy’s hand shivers as she touches Lydia’s wrist, to find her pulse, weak. But alive. Time loses its meaning.

She blinks, warm, dark eyes meeting hers, a soft, compassionate smile. Magnus’ hands are moving slowly above Lydia’s motionless body, light-blue magic curling around them, into her.

Izzy doesn’t know who called him, or since when he’s been here, her eyes filling with unshed tears, her chest tight with gratitude, hope, and fear. She doesn’t know if she’s breathing herself.

“Give her some time now, darling, she needs lots of rest.” Magnus leans down, kisses her head, and makes to go, but Izzy catches his hand, clutches it tightly, looking up at him, feeling small, and fragile for a moment, not knowing what to say, her lips quivering.

“Thank you.” She thinks she might break down and cry, but she doesn’t, and he smiles at her, squeezes her hand, and leaves her alone with Lydia sleeping like before.

Except, Izzy notices finally, there’s more color in her cheeks, and the cuts and bruises have healed. There’s just some crusted blood. She gets a warm, moist cloth, and carefully wipes it off of her brow, and temple, suddenly stopping as her eyes swim with hot tears.

She moves backwards, turns away and takes a few deep breaths, fighting for composure. She puts the cloth away, and sits down again on the chair she’s been occupying for hours. She just can’t seem to move away.

She startles, not having realised she’s been drifting, her eyes taking in Alec’s face, bent down next to her. She blinks, fatigue keeping her mind hazy.

“Go get some rest, Iz, I’ll sit with her.”

Izzy turns, a rush of memories clearing her mind, staring at Lydia’s face. She’s sleeping, Izzy hopes. She’s breathing. That’s all that matters for now.

“Go on.” Alec prompts her, takes her hand gently, and pulls her off of the chair. Her body feels stiff and cold.

“No, I- I want to stay, I-”

“Just for a little while, I’ll call you immediately if anything changes.” She meets her brother’s gaze, warm, concerned, probing. She nods vaguely, but she can’t agree completely.

“I’ll just take a shower, then I’ll be back.” She knows he wants to argue, but changes his mind, smiles softly, and nods.

Her shoulders sag as she leans against the closed door outside, her head low. She feels surreal, exhausted. But there’s no time to waste. She walks the halls to her room, her boots the loudest sound around a quiet institute. It’s 1am, she notices as her gaze passes a clock, but she doesn’t care for that.

She strips, fastens her long, straight hair in a high bun, and steps under the warm water. She waits for a minute, turns it hot, waits another minute, and turns it cold, the shudders all over her body waking her up more.

She hasn’t really been able to think, but now, as she’s lathering soap over her body, her mind wanders to the start. To those Shadowhunters that brought Lydia here. She made us promise to take her here if anything happened to her.

It’s more than unusual, curious. Why would Lydia make them promise that? Why would she want to come here? It’s too strange. She can’t ask them now, as they had to leave right away. She wonders how their superiors reacted to their report. Or why no one tried to contact them - or, they might as well have, but no one told her. That’s more likely. She doesn’t care right now.

She only cares for Lydia to open her eyes, and talk to her. Explain. Just as long as she’ll be okay. Izzy rinses herself, steps out, grabs a towel and flings it around her body, walking back to her bedroom to find some casual, warm clothes.

She glances at her bed for a moment, but even if she wanted to, she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Instead she takes her stele and activates her runes to get herself through the night awake.

She slips into sneakers, fastens her hair in a neat ponytail, and heads back to the infirmary. Alec looks up, not really surprised to see her back so soon. He would do the same, be the same, so he has no leeway to reprimand her, anyway.

He stays with them for a while, quietly. She knows she could talk if she wanted to, and there are things she might want to ask him, should even, but she really only wants to stay here like this. Not talking, listening to Lydia’s quiet breathing, watching her chest rise and fall.

At some point she reaches for her hand, and tenderly takes it into hers. Her skin feels warmer, not as clammy as before. Izzy feels relief. But she has to wake up, yet.

She sends Alec home after an hour, promising to let him know if anything happens, or if she needs him. She should be the one to be here with her. She wants to be, needs to be. No matter the outcome.

~~~

She becomes aware of something touching her hair, startling her into an upright position. She didn’t exactly fall asleep, but put her head down next to Lydia’s torso, closing her eyes, her mind drifting here and there.

Newborn daylight floods in through the windows, but Izzy blinks several times, though Lydia’s eyes are open, focused on her, her fingers slightly touching her hand.

“You’re awake!” Her mind is excited, anxious, suddenly on overdrive, trying to tell her what to do, what to think, but all she’s able to do is stare at her.

“I am.” Lydia’s voice is rough, and quiet, but alert, and Izzy knows she knows who she is, and where she is, and probably also what happened.

“Are you hurting?” It’s all Izzy can ask while she’s trying to catch up. Her mind is reeling, and there is so much she wants to know, but she has to reign herself in, one thing at a time.

Lydia thinks for a moment, her body moving lightly in places under the blanket. “A little sore, much better than I should be. Magnus?”

Izzy just nods, unable to take her eyes off of Lydia’s face. She’s not as white as the pillow case, but still paler than she usually is. But she will be alright. She’s really… okay.

Izzy can’t prevent herself from grasping Lydia’s hand, holding it tightly in both of hers, for a moment unable to breathe. She exhales slowly, her chest aching.

“I’m sorry for the trouble, I’ll make sure to apologize to everyone.” Lydia sighs softly as her head slinks deeper into the pillow, her gaze falling away.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to worry about that, just- why?” She didn’t mean to end her sentence here, but she’s overcome with so many thoughts, and emotions, and she wishes she could keep a cool, calm head right now, but all of this has gotten to her a lot more deeply than she realized, and inwardly she’s stiff, and trembling.

Lydia licks her lips, and Izzy thinks she should get her something to drink, but her hands are gripping Lydia’s, and she can’t seem to let go.

“I’m sorry.”

Izzy doesn’t understand, and she hopes Lydia will explain everything, right now, or she might burst. She shakes her head, slow growing desperation winding up her stomach, chest, and throat.

Lydia clears her throat, shifts her head slightly, and glances up into Izzy’s eyes. “It was my last day, I wasn’t going on any more missions, but they came out of nowhere.” She swallows with some effort, and Izzy knows she needs water, that she should get her some, but her words are stuck in her brain, and she’s unmoving.

Her last day? She doesn’t comprehend anything anymore.

“I hoped to see you again, whatever happened.” Her voice sounds hoarse, and she’s coughing lightly, shaking Izzy out of her stupor. She turns quickly, glad the table with the water is within her reach, grabs the jug and fills a glass while keeping hold of Lydia's hand.

Lydia takes the offered glass from her, and, propping herself into a more upright position, slowly swallows half of it. She gasps, sighs, and sinks back down, giving the glass back.

“Thank you.”

Izzy puts it away quickly, and gathers her thoughts. “I still don’t understand, are you saying you-”

“Quit. I quit.” Lydia’s eyes are trained on hers, and Izzy feels a shudder rushing all along her spine. What?!

“I told them that I would come back to New York, and that they had no say in it but to accept my decision.”

Izzy notices the tiny, sad smile in Lydia’s eyes, and somehow, she still doesn’t understand anything. “But you wanted to leave, you are determined to have your own institute.” So, why would she ever want to come back? Why would she get in trouble with The Clave?

“I was- am, but… I found out I’m also a fool. Just like Jace said.” She’s smiling a little more, coughs again, and Izzy is fast to help her up, stroking her back gently until Lydia gives her a nod, and she carefully lets her lie down again.

“Jace?” Izzy’s mind, and heart, are all over the place.

“He said I was a fool to leave, and Clary agreed. Alec didn’t say anything, but he gave me that look of his, you know, the one that makes it very clear he thinks you’re wrong. I understood their view, but I wanted to be right. I needed to be.”

She sighs softly, and reaches out her free hand towards Izzy’s face, her fingertips tracing her chin. “Max once said that he liked having me around because you were always smiling when I was there. I had forgotten about that, but I had many sleepless nights, and I remembered. But I still needed duty, and career, and hard work, to determine my life, and my future. That’s what I thought, despite everything I had witnessed from all of you, I couldn’t let go of that part of me. I was too scared to, I was even ashamed, and I didn’t fully understand why.”

She drops her hand, and closes her eyes for a moment, visibly emotional, and exhausted. Izzy is letting her words process inside her mind. But she’s too scared herself, to come to a conclusion on her own, she needs Lydia to tell her everything.

Lydia opens her eyes, and focuses again. “Sorry, I feel a little dizzy, but I’m alright. All I wanted was to see you again, and talk. I didn’t expect it to be like this, but it’s maybe more than I deserve.”

She shifts a little, seeming in discomfort, but when Izzy makes a move towards her stele, she holds her back, taking both of her hands into hers. “I also realized that I needed to leave. Or I wouldn’t have understood any of this. I thought I had to fight, and defeat my emotions, my heart, but in the end, I fought, and defeated my head, and my fear, and shame, so I could come back, and be sure.”

She moves onto her elbow, upwards to be face to face with Isabelle. “I never promised you anything, because it would have been a lie, and I made sure to keep a part of us separated, because I could only allow for one outcome, for us to be apart. And I had to be away to understand everything you’ve all been showing, and teaching me, all this time. I couldn’t let it in back then. But when I was alone, finally a step further towards my goal, with every day everything felt a little stranger, until it all felt wrong. And I did try to convince myself of the opposite, but even then, somehow I knew I didn’t really mean it.”

She pauses, shifts again, and sits up properly, her long hair falling into her face, but she doesn’t let go of Izzy’s hands, merely shaking her head to make it move.

“Once I understood what was happening with me, or rather, what had happened in me, it was almost easy to let go of the set ideal of myself, and my life. And I had to agree with Jace, I was a fool.” She smiles softly, her eyes glistening.

“And I’m so sorry for making you collateral damage in my journey of finding myself, I guess. I can’t vow that I would have got here if things had been different, but I wish I didn’t have to hurt you in the process.”

She kind of slumps into herself, shutting her eyes, full of regret, and Izzy can’t but keep watching her face, so dear to her, Lydia’s words repeating over and over in her head.

She shuts her eyes, as well, gathers herself, looks at Lydia again, and slowly pulls her hands out of hers, making her startle and look at her in alarm, but Izzy soothes her quietly, and pushes her gently back down into bed, staying seated on the edge of it, her hand caressing a few strands from Lydia’s face.

“You really are a fool, a pretty great one.” Izzy smiles, her eyes burning with hot liquid.

“But I’m going to let you in on a secret.” She leans down a little, Lydia’s expression surprised, curious.

“We’re pretty much all fools here, with very few exceptions.” She smiles softly amidst realising what Lydia has been saying. She came back, she wants to stay here, she doesn’t want to be the head of some institute, she wants…

“But some of us have followed our hearts, and weren’t led astray. So, is that what you’re saying?” She leaves her hand covering Lydia’s jaw and cheek, piercing her gaze, needing certainty, because she knows her own heart, and who she wants the last person to be to give it to, and take care of.

Lydia’s eyes widen slightly, and Izzy can feel both of their hearts beating faster in the space between them, and she’s hoping, trusting it completely, to not make an even greater fool of herself.

Lydia exhales suddenly, her lips curling into a lovely smile, her eyes shining. She nods. “It would be an honor to rank amongst the fools at the New York Institute.” They’re both giggling quietly for a moment, tension falling off of them, tired, surprised joy remaining.

Lydia turns her head, cupping Izzy’s hand on her face with her own, kissing her palm, inhaling her scent, her eyes closed.

Izzy’s fighting with a sob, deep down still a little apprehensive, not yet able to chase every last shadow of doubt from her.

Until she locks eyes with Lydia once more. “I missed you.” And Izzy hears the pain in her voice, sees it in her eyes, and before she can say anything else, she leans down, touching her lips, kissing her sweetly, until Lydia’s arms fold around Izzy’s body, and she’s suddenly moved down and around, almost falling off of the bed, if not for Lydia holding her close, side by side.

“I’m not letting you go again.” Lydia smirks slightly, and Izzy, though concerned for her not fully recovered state, can’t but smile, and give in, wrapping her arms around Lydia in return, their noses brushing together.

“Then you better never scare me like this again.” She gives her a reproachful look, and Lydia’s expression softens. “I’ll do my best.”

Izzy has to be satisfied with that. “I have some news to tell you, as well.” She smiles a little, leading her mind to a safer topic, but for a split second, a crack opens inside her, fear striking her. What if she already knows I’ll be the new head of the institute, and that’s why-

“What is it? I haven’t heard any news in forever, tell me.” Lydia’s words close the crevice immediately, calmness, and happiness settling inside Izzy’s body, warming her from deep within.

“It’s not that important right now. I’ll tell you later.” She smirks, and Lydia seems regretful for barely a moment as their lips slide together, hands stroking over one another’s body, tangling through hair, and caressing the little skin that’s revealed.

Izzy feels Lydia’s lips wandering along her cheek, soft caresses, and touches, to her temple, eyebrow, and forehead, suddenly whispering right above her ear, her breath stuck, her heart stuttering.

“I love you, Isabelle, for certain.”

A tear slips from Izzy’s eye, every part of her brimming with bliss too vast to comprehend, but, finally, she feels that she’s enough, because this feels right, like she’s been found, finally able to let go of everything else.

[dicecast]

The Paradox of Draco Malfoy

Or: Why do People like Draco Malfoy

      Who are the most important characters from Harry Potter?  If you were a marketer and had to design a set of I  don’t know, candy for each of the main characters, who do you include?  You only have 9 slots.  The Trio obviously are the main characters, and then Voldemort, Snape and Dumbledore. Neville, Hagrid, and then in the last slot you’d probably put Malfoy.   And the question is…..why?

(character looks much cooler than he is)

See Draco Malfoy is an iconic character of franchise, easily one of the most memorable and beloved characters, certainly he has received the most fanfiction, but looking at the books…Malfoy isn’t that important.  He only majorly effects the plot in the first and 6th book, and even then he is never the central forces of either story, his role in the story is usually just him showing up, being kinda of a dick, and then something bad happening to him.  Barry Crouch jr and Sr, are in every way more important characters to the plot and themes of the story, and yet they aren’t really registered as major characters.  

(this character matters a lot more)

And it isn’t just that he is iconic, I mean Boba Fett is iconic and he barely does anything, but Malfoy is loved.  I mean there is a Tv Trope “Draco in Leather Pants” for a reason, in fact in many ways he is more beloved and admired than Ron, who is an actual character who does stuff.  And I can’t empathies this enough, the sheer amount of Malfoy fanfiction out there is overwhelming, I know fanfiction will elevate any character given enough time, but there is a reason why I know about this, despite never reading HP fanfiction.  I mean the Very Potter Musical makes Malfoy the secondary protagonist on equal billing to Harry Himself, and honestly gets more of an arch.  Which is particularly puzzling because again

Malfoy isn’t that important of a character.  

   Almost every Malfoy scene actually in the books follows certain beats, and you can break them down.  Malfoy approaches Harry, Harry’s friends, or some helpless weak kid who Harry feels obligated to protect, Malfoy is a colossal asshole, and he either leaves smugly or is humiliated.  Or Malfoy actively tries to do something dickish like dress up like a dementor, or ambush Harry &co on the train, which inevitably back fires and he ends up humiliated.  Even random lines that mention him basically boil down to “Malfoy did something dickish”.  Occasionally you will have a scene where some element of the world is explored by something bad happeing to Malfoy, like Harry using the invisibility cloak to fuck with him, or Malfoy being forced to go into the woods, or Malfoy getting turned into a ferret.  Until book 6, he is basically just a bit character, who shows up, does something dickish, and then usually gets the shit beaten out of him.

In short

Malfoy in Fandom

Malfoy in the Books 

Now there are many reasons why we like Malfoy, some to do with his design (especially in the movies), the fact that Slytherin has the best color scheme (snakes are cool yo), our societies complicated feelings toward aristocracy, and the overall popularity of villians over heroes, the latter point could be its own video.  But I’m going to narrow in on three main points, which as an academic, I’m required by law to spell out to you before I explain them

Reader Rebellion and Slytherin’s appeal

Malfoy’s status as “the Bully” vs. his actual character

SHIPPING

(trying too hard)

   See, part of the reason why people like Malfoy is because what I call “Reader Subversion”, basically when the audience rejects what the text is telling them to do.  The most obvious example is watching bad movies for fun, these movies want to be seen as serious or dramatic, and instead we are just laughing at how bad they are (The Dungeons and Dragons movie is one I recommend).  So when the narrative is telling us “Hate this character, look how unlikable we made him” its very tempting to just be like “Screw you, I’ll sympathize with the character”.  Another example of this in HP is the embrace of Slytherin, which at least memetically is tied with Ravenclaw for most popular house.  Its associated with sexiness, coolness, ambition, and cunning but frankly…those traits aren’t really on display in the books.  

(Slytherin in the Fandom)

The vast majority of Slytherins we meet are…kinda stupid, just selfish cruel vindictive spoiled assholes who only care about protecting their status.  Its less sexy vampires, and more Trump administration entitlement.

(Slytherin in the books)

 But because the books are telling us so much how bad this house is, how much they suck, how much they are the “bad guy house” it’s pretty tempting to reject the narrative and find reasons to like them.  Topic for another video, but I notice this is popular when the narrative is very obvious about how much we should hate an antagonist ,and when the antagonists are more annoying than actually threatening.  

This instinct is especially important because that is one of the major themes of the book in the character of Snape.  Everything about the character is designed to make us dislike him, he is cruel, selfish, petty, vindictive, and is actively abusing his position of power to psychologically torment children.  He is given all the “bad guy” physical characteristics, he dresses in black, and pretty much does something dickish in every scene he is in.  And critically…he is the good guy.  The point the book is making is that even if somebody is a massive asshole, that doesn’t necessarily mean they don’t possess positive qualities.  This is arguably the main theme of the series, that people have more to them than we first imagine, we see this with Neville, the Crouches, Dumbledore, McGonagall, the Marauders, REB, Fudge, and Dudley all relate to this them.

The inverse of Snape is James Potter, who is revealed to have been an arrogant bully (and incidentally my second favorite characters in the series).  Now this is a topic for another video, but I think that the greatest failing of the HP series is not really following through with this theme, for every character who learn more about, there are others who stay the same, Lilly Potter and Voldemort being the worse examples.  But this finally gets to the problem of Malfoy 

See from the start Malfoy is coded as somebody who isn’t just a bad person, but also a simplistic one, he has a very clear role as a character, of “The Bully.”  Basically, the Bully exists to be a minor antagonist to the hero, and possibly embody the writer’s childhood issues.  This character is like the terminator of petty spite, he will go out of his way to make the protagonists miserable in the most needlessly cruel way possible.  They will relentless pursue fucking with the protagonists at the expense of even their own basic self-interest.  This is one of the most overdone, tired, and uncreative roles in fiction, I’ve always hated bully characters and I feel they make the problem of childhood bullying a lot worse because it doesn’t recognize where the instinct to bully comes from, and how complicated it is.  What the stranger in a ski mask is to understanding rape, so this character is to understanding bullying.  Bully characters exist to be generic antagonists, so they are almost anniversary awful.  The only examples I can think of who are good are Cordelia from Buffy…and Draco Malfoy.  

Cause when you break it down, Malfoy has motivations, relationships, goals, ideals, insecurities enough to make a full character, or at least a resemblance of one.  He truly loves his family, he has some massive set of issues and he loves his family.  Its honestly kinda compelling how he like “yeah I’m going to be evil when I grow up” but that same wimpness that makes him less threatening to Harry is also his greatest virtue, he simply isn’t strong enough to be truly evil and that is kind of a good thing.  Honestly its sort of the anti-Neville, while Neville is a giant coward except when the chips are down and that is his greatest virtue, Malfoy acts tough until shit gets real and that is also his greatest virtue.  Cowardice makes him a better person, in contrast to Crouch or Riddle who are extremely brave and cruel.  

Also when compared to his father, you realize Draco is basically desperately trying to be something he isn’t, a cross between a Lannister and a Bond villain and he just can’t quite manage it.  And his frustration with Harry comes in large part because Harry kinda has everything Malfoy desperately wants all without “earning it”.  Draco is obviously somebody who is pressured a great deal by his family to succeed and has a lot to live up to, and deep down doesn’t’ really think he is up to the task.  And as we see in book 6, he isn’t.  Harry meanwhile basically has what Malfoy wants the most without even trying, which makes Malfoy risk thinking about his own inability to live up to his father’s standards which leads him to lash out.  It isn’t a super complicated character but there is potential, which is never really explored in the books because Rowling doesn’t like him.  

There is potential for a fully character there, and it honestly reminds me of Snape, we are given a character whose every action is coded bad but if we pay attention we realize there is more personality there than our initial impressions give credit for.  But unlike Snape, we don’t actually get rewarded for looking closer to Malfoy, if you pay close attention you realize there is more to him but the narrative basically doesn’t care about him.  The reader isn’t rewarded for taking the book’s advice and examining the character beyond the trappings of his presentation, which is one of the most frustrating experiences you can get as a reader, feeling all the work you put in was for nothing. And that frustration is, along with radiation poisoning, the greatest impetus for the creation of fanfiction, which is basically the result of stories cockblocking the audience.

(did this happen in the movies I don’t even remember)

This goes to the shipping thing. Full up, I don’t ship Harry/Malfoy, in large part bceause of how much of Harry’s character is determined by his internal narration, and that to me disproves any indication that Harry likes Malfoy.  He spends so little mental energy on Malfoy, when ever he encounters him he is like “oh yeah that guy is a shit..I bet he likes Thatcher” but when Malfoy isn’t on screen Harry doesn’t really care, he has more important things to worry about like being British and having a shockingly high pain tolerance.  The only time when Malfoy seems to occupy Harry’s thoughts its the 6th books, and only when there is a plot reason, and in the 7th he doesn’t care again.  Compare this to how he thinks about Cho Chang, where he spends mental energy on her even when she isn’t on screen.  Harry just doesn’t care.

BUTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT

Malfoy does.  Malfoy over the course of the book goes dramatically out of his way to fuck with Harry Potter, he dramatically inconveniences himself in order to fuck with Harry.  in the first book he sneaks out at night to try to fuck with Harry Potter for its own sake and gets caught for it.  He dresses up in dementor robes to mess with him, he waits in hallways to make fun of him, he designs a bunch of badges to mock him, like Malfoy seemingly goes out of his way to fuck with Harry above and beyond the norm.  So...why

(I”M AN ADULT)

Well the actual reason is that Malfoy is the Bully character and that is what Bullies do, which is why bullies in fiction are often so boring and don’t resemble real life bullies, who are much closer to Snape or James Potter.  But this doesn’t work with Malfoy because the character is just well written enough that you have to ask “wait why is this guy acting so obsessed”

(WTF is he doing in this shot?)

And that is where some of the shipping comes from.  Its not necessarily true, since you could just read it as Malfoy being super insecure and envious, but you could easily also read it as just “Malfoy has a crush on harry and is a shithead”  Repressed homosexual lust is as good explanation as many for his weird fixation on Harry.  It certainly makes more sense than “he is just evil” which 

seems to be the canon.  

TLDR, Malfoy is interesting because the writer seems to actively dislike him and dismiss him like the Tory punk that he is, but the fandom loves him so much that they have turned him into a whole new character the reason why is that he is just well written enough to be intriguing but has no follow through.  

Also who names their kid Scoripus Hyperion Malfoy jesus christ this guy is the Jacob Rees Mogg of the HP series.

[river1983]

Identity

I HAVE RETURNED! I’ve been gone for a while and I’m so sorry, I have not been in the best place mentally yikes but!!! I back in my element! This was in the works before my hiatus, so I feel like it kind of disconnected towards the end but I hope it's okay!

Special thanks to @booboomuffin , who’s helped me with this story! They have a fic series coming up that you guys should look at! :)

--

An angel, with ginger hair and bright, sparkling green eyes stood in the middle of the Void, feet standing on nothing as she looked out at the abyss. She wasn’t really a she, in technical terms, but she chose this form.

The angel, whose heavenly name was never to be mentioned, was in charge of creating Stuff to fill the Void, little balls of gas and colors, to fill the emptiness that God had left the angels to tend to.

She didn’t mind, the angel. She found comfort in the darkness, in the softness of the surrounding emptiness. Heaven was too bare, too boring, and here there was so much potential.

She lifted her hand, twirling her fingers together, creating little strands of purple and pink and blue, then pulled her fingers apart to create the first nebula. It was so beautiful, to the angel, unlike anything she had ever seen down in Heaven, with it’s white and grey walls and dry atmosphere. 

She lightly pushed her creation into the Void, which took it and swallowed it, shooting it out into its vast emptiness, where somewhere it lit up the empty space it filled.

The angel closed her eyes, then descended back into Heaven, being called by her brother, Gabriel. She landed softly, her entirely white suit engulfing her body, replacing the light blue dress she was forbidden to wear in Heaven. Her heels clicked as she landed, looking up at Gabriel’s unnaturally blue-borderline-purple eyes. Her hair fell around her, sticking to the gold emblems on her face, outlining her eyebrows and cheekbones. Her lips pursed.

“Hello Gabriel,” She said, her voice loud in contrast to the too-quiet lobby of Heaven.

Gabriel nodded to her in response, somewhat terse. “What have you been doing?”

“What does it matter?”

“It must be perfect, sister. It’s all apart of the Great Plan.”

“What does a few stars and nebulas and planets have to do with the Great Plan?” She asked. She always asked.

Gabriel eyed her warningly. “It is not our business to know, sister. It is only Hers.”

The angel with the ginger hair and green eyes rolled her eyes. “I should get back. Stars won’t make themselves, you know.”

Gabriel nodded. “Be careful, sister. Wouldn’t want you to do something you’ll regret.”

She had already left.

--

The angel with the name that is never mentioned stood in the middle of the void, looking up with a slight smile. After millennia of twisting gasses together to create stars like Alpha Centauri, balling rock and ice and water together to create planets like Neptune, punching some stars already created to make black holes, and intertwining her fingers to create nebulas, she had finally finished creating the Universe. She felt proud, a feeling she had never felt before, and for some reason...love. She loved how bright the sun shined against the darkness, how the deceivingly little dots twinkled in the not-so-emptiness. She liked the coldness of the Void, how it prickled her skin and made her feel what she had created. It made her happy.

But then she Fell.

--

It was so sudden it would have given her whiplash if she were human. Her invisible platform seemed to have disappeared beneath her, and she started to Fall at the speed of light, her skin peeling away at the sheer speed she Fell. She was so confused, so terrified, as she was ripped from the Universe and her comfort. Her wings burned and her hair smelled of sulfur. She felt her eyes melt from the bright, sparkling green to a wily yellow with black slits. Her wings burned until only bone was left, then painfully grew to be the deep ebony she learned to hate.

It hurt, it hurt so much, and she with the no longer sparkling green eyes was so confused and hurt and in pain she felt hysterical as she crash landed into the Pit, soaking in the evilness that existed there.

She was in Hell.

--

She was then deemed Crawley, in the blue dress she had been wearing as she always did when she was in the Void, meant to be the snake that drove humanity to evil and sin. Hell was crowded in a way that made her long for the emptiness of the Void, of the Universe she had created. It was just as dull as Heaven, but more moist and full and black. She was immediately assigned to Earth, meant to tempt the first humans to eat of the Forbidden Fruit. Everything moved so fast she could barely keep up. 

She missed the stars.

--

Before she took her place on Earth, she couldn’t stand how much everything she was and wore reminded her of Heaven. She couldn’t take the memories, she felt as if she would fall apart. So she changed her entire self, from the inside out.

She switched from blue to black and grey, deciding to only wear the most casual she could possibly wear during the time period. The blue reminded her of the stars and the nebulas she had created.

She grew colder, withdrew her heart so it didn’t leave itself wide open on her sleeve. She felt so deeply still, but no one can know about that, can they? She was a demon now, and demon’s don’t feel, they don’t know happiness, pride. Those feelings had to get lost among the stars, where she could never reach them again.

Lastly, she changed how she presented herself. She became he, because she reminded him of the sister he once was, of the angel he used to be.

--

When he took his place on Earth, coiled around the branch of the Forbidden Tree, he spotted an angel, studying the little snail making its way across a log. He had never seen this particular angel in Heaven before, but then again, he was hardly in Heaven. His withdrawn heart ached.

The angel stared at the snail as it made it’s way as if he was admiring it. The newly demon felt the sudden urge to talk to the angel, but forced himself to stay perched on his branch. His tongue slithered out curiously. He would someday.

--

“Didn't you have a flaming sword?" Said Crawley, staring at the angel's empty hand.

"Oh, um," Aziraphale stuttered, looking everywhere but Crawley's face.

“Yeah, you did. It was flaming like anything, what happened to it?”

Aziraphale looked down at his feet.

“Lost it already, have you?” Crawley chuckled.

“I gave it away,” Aziraphale muttered, staring off at a distant tree. 

“You what?” Crawley drawled out, taken aback.

“I gave it away!” Aziraphale said louder, anguish filling his voice. “There are vicious animals!”

Aziraphale continued to blubber on about his reasons for giving away the sword, but Crawley stood in awe at the white-haired angel. There was something different about Aziraphale. He smiled for the first time since falling into the pit.

--

Crowley (formerly known as Crawley) looked softly at Aziraphale through his dark sunglasses as the angel smiled at the stage as Hamlet played on, eating his grapes with joy. He still wasn't used to it, seeing an angel show how they felt so outwardly, who wanted to experience as much as he could, to feel as much as he could. It was unheard of. As Crowley stared he thought of Heaven, in its sterile and holy glory, and wondered how anyone as perfect and fully feeling as Aziraphale could have come from such a place of apathy.

--

“What in the deuce are you doing locked up in the Bastille? I thought you were opening a bookshop.”

Crowley had found the angel locked up, dressed in aristo clothing, face visibly bored.

“I was...I got peckish. You can only get decent crepes in Paris.”

Crowley shook his head as he snapped his fingers to let Aziraphale free.

--

Their hands touched lightly and too quickly as Crowley handed the brown briefcase full of Aziraphale’s precious prophecy books to the angel.

“A little demonic miracle of my own,”

Crowley saw Azirpahale’s eyes for a split second, but that's all it took. The look of pure love radiating from those golden eyes as the angel took the case gingerly from the demon’s hands.

Crowley had fallen in love with something other than the stars.

--

At the beginning of the rest of their lives, the end of the end of the word, as Crowley raised his glass to meet Aziraphale’s with a clink, Crowley knew he had found his identity again. Not as the green-eyed angel who lived among the stars, but as a wily demon in love with a bastard angel.

--

The end! Stay tuned! I hope to have more fics out soon! :)

-river

Prompt List  | One Word Prompt

[cloudbattrolls]

Zenith

Etuuya Vannyn | Present Night | Depths of Imperial Space

You have to shut your eyes as it approaches.

Even as a jade and a light-loving drinker, the ship is too huge and bright - you know very well you’d have to waste energy regrowing new ones from the sheer pain and damage of the glare.

What’s happening? 

You have a million questions, but mostly you find yourself annoyed. 

The whole scenario is damn silly, like the sort of beetle dreadful novel folks write for wrigglers about old colonization eras. You hope Karina got your message, at least, though perhaps she’ll wonder if you’ve gone insane.

You hear the ship groan, ears flicking as you grip the arms of the seat you’re buckled, and you realize you’re moving again. It’s not a random teleportation like before - rather a slow, deliberate pull, like being towed by a gravity beam. 

Who wants you this badly? Who would go to all the trouble you now suspect they went to, in such a showy and unnecessary way, just to capture you? You doubt it’s for your snail care expertise or what you can do with a needle and thread. 

Either whoever’s doing this is stupid, which is a comforting thought, or they have enough energy and resources that it’s all fun and games to them, which is significantly less comforting since anyone like that is going to be very hard to reason with.

You hear the distinct sounds of your ship docking, apparently without any say on your part. Well, at least it sounds like they’re being careful about it - on the off chance you get out of this alive, Tulais won’t cut your pay for damages. Silver linings.

It’s tempting to be ready with a gun, or try to set up traps when you can open your eyes again (the glare is still too bright, intense even with shut eyelids) but if these showy fools had wanted you dead you would be already, and it seems unwise to give them a reason.

So you just check your sylladex and make sure you have got everything in case you need it, tapping your fingers as all you can do is (unfortunately) wait. 

You’re not kept doing so for long.

The glow dies, and the second it does, your eyes snap open and so does the door to your quarters, something pushing it aside.

It is definitely a something.

Whatever’s walking toward you has a troll’s basic shape, but no troll has horns covered with glowing veins, or eyes that look like lava. No troll has skin with what looks like glowing fluid swirling underneath it, pulsating back and forth in tune with their movements, with heat radiating off them like an oven. 

No troll smiles at you with teeth black as obsidian - which might be what they’re actually made of, you’re not sure.

Their clothing is weirdly boring by comparison - standard issue gray and black wear - but it has an odd texture and consistency to it, looking more like armor. 

“Hello.” You say after your moment of shock, sticking your hands in your pants pockets. “What’s your name, mysterious stranger? Or am I the mysterious stranger in this scenario. What a conundrum.”

“Come on. You’re expected.”

“You just hauled my entire ship in.” You drawl, following nevertheless as this entity turns, obviously expecting you to follow. “If you weren’t expecting me, I’d wonder what was going o - ”

The word dies in your mouth as you walk out into a shimmering white world.

It’s the white of marble, which could well be what you’re walking on, though perhaps it’s just some metallic or plastic alloy. You can see, barely, but you’re squinting as your head darts back and forth, absorbing the apparent palace you’ve been nabbed by. 

Columns and webs of wire and metal intersperse the immaculate white, and plants ranging from small to jungle-size are everywhere. Why not? The heat of this place must be amazing for them.

Vines curl around columns threaded with gold, and pretty much everyone you pass looks at least a bit like your travel guide here.

They’re not all the same - their traits vary from patches of stony skin to stranger things like long antennae, or oversize obsidian claws - but all of them have those glowing eyes, and all of them radiate yet more heat in this already sweltering environment. 

It’s a true novelty, being the most thoroughly normal person in the area. You wish you could bottle up the sensation and take it with you.

Most of the people - if that’s what they are - barely spare a look for you, which is nice, but also unhelpful. A bit of gossip as to what’s going to happen in your near future would be appreciated.

Nope, everyone’s silent, even your escort, who hasn’t looked back at you once since you started following them. 

Wait. Why are they all silent to each other? Don’t they have news to share? Shopping lists to discuss? What do weird fire-people buy at Slayer’s, anyway.

Smoothing your hair back, you open your mouth to ask your not-really-a-good-guide a question - 

- and nearly bump into them as they stop short in front of a door that just feels a tinge ominous to you.

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s on fucking fire.

Red, orange and purple flames dance around the huge white slab, but they don’t move. You’d think they were illusory if you couldn’t feel the heat, hear the hiss and crackle. Yet they burn with nothing to fuel them, as far as you can tell. 

Glow-horns puts their hand on the door and sucks the flames out. At least, they burn for a moment with purple flames and then are back to their usual state.

What you assume is usual for them. Who can say.

You’re just glad you don’t sweat, you would be a mess right now.

The door swings inward and you hear what sounds like...singing?

Wordless singing, but still, it seems to be a troll’s voice.

Curious, you step in and blink repeatedly at the sight before you.

At the center of the room is a fountain. It’s shaped like one, anyway, but instead of water, it’s surrounded by steam. It has to be at least thirty feet tall, though it’s hard to tell through the haze.

The woman doing the singing is perched at the top.

Literally, because she has bird legs, also wings, and really can this night get any weirder?

Never mind, you don’t want to know.

She looks both more and less like a troll than the others - her legs are scaly from the knees down, with talons - and she has massive shining wings in too many colors to name. Gold, purple, red, orange and every hue in between.

Yet as she stops singing, spreads said wings and swoops down (nearly buffeting you backwards as she lands) you can see that while her eyes glow and she has feathers around their edges, they don’t look like lava. Nor does she have any patches of stone on her body - you can see quite a bit of her skin between her skimpy teal clothing, cut up to accommodate her extra limbs and shoulder feathers. 

Her teeth are obsidian, though, as she too smiles at you like someone brought her the world’s best wriggling day present.

You are not meant to be smiled at. It would be nice if they all stopped. They can be odd lava creatures all they want, but some things are just plain uncomfortable.

Still, you extend a hand. 

“Hi, I’m Tuuya, to what do I owe the pleasure.”

“I know who you are, little Vannyn.” She says, and as she stands up fully, wings folded, she must be eight feet tall, at least. Why is everyone a bloody giant these nights?

Stepping toward you, she ignores your hand and puts her own under your chin, tilting your head up as she looks down at you.

You go rigid, not from the heat of her that feels like it’ll burn you, but because - because - 

“Please don’t do that.” You manage to choke out. “I promise, you don’t want to.”

She can’t know who you are, if she’s doing this.

“Don’t I?” She says, with amusement. “I spent three lives to find out who I was dealing with. I was very impressed, though a touch put out - you’re so restrained. You think so much of people who only see you as their pet. What a curious troll you are.”

You can’t think. Your mind is buckling from the weight of what she’s saying, what it means.

With a jerk you take your head away from her palm and look up at her, eyes brimming with hate.

“You made. A drinker.” You say, even, but your claws dig into your clenched hands as you shake slightly. “You sent a troll to a fate worse than death.”

She tilts her head, her feathered ears twitching as a smile plays across her lips.

“Every creature is meant to spread, reproduce - why does it bother you? Haven’t you been a sire before?”

Sire. What an attempt of dressing up a despicable act in pretty language.

“Don’t you feel some joy at your creation?” She queries, now going to your largely forgotten guide and putting her hands on their shoulders. They glow more brightly when she does, practically incandescent. “Why so miserable, Etuuya? I gave you a fledgling. I thought you liked being a lusus.”

It’d be better if she was mocking you, but there’s honest curiosity in her voice, mixed with a hint of disappointment.

“That troll.” You say slowly. “Is being forced to adjust to an existence they didn’t ask for. They are now a parasite to every living person, a threat by existing. They hate me, and they should.”

You haven’t actually talked to them, or asked anyone if they’ve said anything about you. Wester is their name, you later learned. It’s been too difficult to absorb anything else about the snake troll.

Especially since they had to talk you out of mercy culling them.

She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. Her hair is long, long enough to go down her back past her wings. How does she ever have time for anything else, between washing it and - can she preen those wings, with no beak? Does she have someone do it for her? 

“Also - why are you troll Alfred Hitche’s daymare. Why...all this. What’s it about.” You wave a hand.

You’re not really expecting an answer (not a helpful one) but maybe it’ll buy you some time to think while she monologues, or cackles and talks about her evil plans or something.

Instead, she plucks you up by the collar of your shirt, there’s a flash of heat and light, and the pair of you are standing on what can only be an alien planet.

The three moons in the sky and the setting twin suns are a bit of a giveaway. 

As are the vast volcanic structures towering in the distance, beyond the plain you’re standing on. Hardened lava flows that must be hundreds - maybe thousands of miles long - formed into impossible loops and spirals.

Big Bird’s archnemesis sticks out her arm and the whole sky erupts into a combination of fireworks and the northern lights, enough flashy colors and bright patterns to give you a headache, so you look at the ground.

“It only matters what we do with our gifts, little Vannyn. It’s painful watching you fetter yours, as if you were some common beast.”

“Just once -” You comment, with a touch of acerbity, “- I’d like to be in high demand for something I do. I make excellent clothes, and if you weren’t a veritable sun, I’d offer you something that covered more boob, ma’am, for fear of you catching a chill.”

She looks down at you as the lights continue to go off, a slightly annoyed expression on her face that gives you the idea she doesn’t appreciate your helpful commentary.

“You may call me Firebird.”

It takes everything you have to not double over laughing, so you compromise.

“I’m Carmen Sandie! Guess where I am.”

“This is a serious conversation.” She snaps.

“Oh, it would be, except I’m talking to a woman who’s a spicy chicken entrée, and she sent three poor bastards after me because she wanted to, I don’t know, get a feel for how I worked.”

“I could burn you to cinders with a thought.” She warns, blue flames dancing around her body.

“And I’m sure your lusus is very proud of that, but if you wanted me dead I would be.” You say, arms crossed. “So why am I here?”

Her dark teeth spread in a smile that plummets your moderately chipper mood right back down below sea level.

“Don’t you see the resemblance?”

You want to ask her if it’s to a KFC meal deal, but you manage to hold your tongue as a hot wind picks up some ash on the plain and swirls it around. 

“No. Care to enlighten me? Never mind - I’ll do it myself.”

Her blue-gold flames and your white glow both flicker, and despite the situation, your eyebrows raise and you smile slightly.

Said smile is extinguished as your thinkpan comes to a screeching halt.

That moment on Tulais’s ship when you did the same to match her lantern. Firebird’s warm as a blaze, but her clothing is teal...

The avian woman chuckles as your ears flatten.

“Welcome to the Outer Limits Settlement Company’s headquarters, little Vannyn. Let’s go fetch my descendant.”

END

[thehedgelabyrinth]

[Chapter 0] Morningstar

What is a god? An idol that is worshipped. An omnipotent being that is both celestial and divine. They tend to be the creator of all life as we know it. We are their creation. Mortals, golems made come to life by fusing atoms, cells, organisms, living tissue merging with the ethereal "soul". A human being is what we became, and the plain we thrive on is the mortal realm, where nothing is permanent. Earth compared to Elysium, is a wasteland of sin and terrors with scattered oasis of peace and order.

The creation of humanity became self sufficient, they could reproduce, build and provide. However, with time, a dark stain would consume the innocence of man as they became more self aware. They became self serving, selfish and arrogant, questioning their own creator and turning their back on the enlightened ones. This made my god, Eos very sad, left with little choice but to let them walk freely unto a stormy world of unruliness and chaos. Mankind would soon learn what took my god aeons to understand, pain.

And so, mankind in defiance continued to thrive, to live the life they thought they wanted but soon would learn that on this side of the realm, everything had a price. Weakened by discord from one of his subjects, and casting out a beloved vessel of light, this was the last straw. Eos, needed time to heal old wounds, but a beast stirred in the bowels of hell, slithering around in the abyss, waiting for the day to strike the heavens. The outcast now made a strong whisper to the ancient beast all the encouragement it needed, it sprung from the depths of darkness with the outcast riding on his back and an army of darkness behind them toward the celestial gates. There, while the good of man was being tested below, celestials and infernals fought in the heavens. The outcast broke through defenses until reaching the holy sanctum. He found our god Eos sitting on his throne, listening and replying to his tiny creations. The communication suddenly stopped. Prophets will remember this day as the day God left us all alone. Faith would become even more vital now for mankind.

Meanwhile, upon a throne carved out of white stone, a river of blue flowed from an open wound. The outcast had stabbed our beloved Eos straight through the heart. "I know this won't kill you but it will buy me some time…" the defiler said as he plunged his blade deep into the gap. "I will find "your children" and break them. Bring them to my side, fill them with my darkness and at last my will shall be done. I will be the new god your creations will adore. You will wither and turn to dust. The wise bearded god looked up at his once proud child. "What has become of you Lucifer? You had it all but this greed, this hate, this pain...where did you get these things? You lived in heaven, a place where there is nothing but peace and happiness, my child, even as ancient as I am, I do not know how you became so tainted."

Lucifer simply smugly smirked at the weakened Eos. "I met someone else who showed me the way. The truth. I was but a tool to you."

Eos shook his head with eyes shut. "My child you were always loved. Please do not do this."

Lucifer hopped off the throne,leaving the blade in place. "Any moment now my brothers and sisters will break through my forces and disintegrate them where they stand. Their power is divine, because of you of course. So I will leave them a present, they will never be able to forget about their brother again. The massive serpent appeared from the shadows casted by Lucifer upon the throne. The snake coiled around Eos locking him in place.

The archangels Gabriel and Michael rushed through the hordes. The armies of hell banded together and created a tidal wave of terrors, abominations and monsters that crashed against the celestial's cavalry but to no avail. Seraphim stood at the forefront, casting powerful spells that disoriented the infernals. Allowing Michael's forces to strike at their flanks, while Gabriel followed with his own angels and cleaned up those that ran off the battlefield.

Through the sheer chaos of war, Gabriel stretched his wings out and jumped into the air, spearheading into a gathering of powerful demons. Legionmakers, is what they were called. Before the infernal captain of the guard could say the word, Gabriel had chopped his head clean off. He looks to Michael now standing in a putrid, foul stench pool of demon's blood and points at the sanctum. "UP AHEAD BROTHER, OUR FATHER NEEDS US." Michael signaled his archers to rain holy fire upon the monstrosities. To us mortals this battle went on for days but for immortals it was only half a day. When Michael stepped through the big doors he felt the cold blood of Eos flood the room. He ran in without hesitation until he reached the throne. What he saw broke dear archangel Michael, the warrior. Eos was still alive but he had no limbs, nor eyes. Lucifer was long gone. He retreated with what little army he had , riding on the back of his favorite beast.

Archangel Gabriel arrived to comfort Michael, he held him in his arms. Gently patting the back of his head. "We must bring the vessels to him Michael. We have to." Michael bitterly sobbed, screaming in despair. Gabriel looked on with the light in his eyes fading fast. Numbness was taking over him. Their creator was barely breathing, and no heirs to continue his legacy. Michael and Gabriel finally stood back on their feet, they called upon the Seraphim to heal what they could. They purified the wounds, closing them up.

"He is stable for now, but he needs much rest." The leader of the Seraphim said with much gravity. "In this state, our creator is vulnerable."

The two brothers quietly stood by watching the somber ritual of locking away their divine father in a box made out of marble, protected by a spell to ward off all evil.

Michael stepped forward toward the holy reliquary and placed his hand over the glass pane, where he could still see his creator, peacefully dormant. "I promise, their obsidian towers shall crumble...their false king will die by my blade.... Forgive me, father."

And thus begins this dark tale of the fall of a god, heralding a new dawn of chaos... But there is hope, in the form of seven souls, chosen by the creator himself that will bring forth, the age of Enlightened....

[To be continued]

[ser-yolomere-of-swagalore]

Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race myself, bitch.

James Joyce -- Ulysses (with some much needed editing)

I haven’t written here in a long time. In fact, after this post, I don’t really see myself writing here every again-- and no, before any of you (if there is, in fact, any one who will see this) jump to conclusions, this isn’t some kind of weird suicide note, or plea for help. What this is, is a sort of manifesto, or a summation, of everything that I’ve felt, and am feeling at the moment, and in a way, hopefully, purging myself of these feelings forever. It’s a goodbye, but also a new opportunity. A creation, as well as a destruction. A final litany of things that I have to say, or wanted to say, and a final exorcism of numerous antagonistic little ghosts that have been rattling around in my head for God knows how long. 

I’ve always been struck by the concept of a sort of Joycean paralysis. Maybe because it’s true-- that Irish people are, in a weird way, struck with a sort of deep, abiding, spiritual malaise, a psychological and emotional paralysis, as a sort of weird, post-colonial hangover-- or maybe because it simply hits too close to home. The narrative of a sort of genealogical, archaeological torpor is one that is all too easy to believe, because it is something that I have experienced quiet viscerally throughout my entire life, but also in a way that is difficult to articulate. The sense that you’re fundamentally at odds with the world around you because of some fundamental, spiritual displacement resulting from years (centuries?) of imperialistic and religious abuse isn’t something that goes well over dinner, after all-- especially when dinner is a hurriedly bought Burger King and the sound of mopeds careening up and down the Cardiffsbridge Road muffles the sound of Coronation Street on the television. 

But it’s a feeling that has stuck with me so long. Longer than I can really remember. This sense of being held back. By myself, by the world around me, by the people around me. Dreams of leaving, of emigrating, have been a consistent fantasy of mine. Occasional spurts of creative writing have always been characterized by the theme of a departure, whether through the realm of some childish Tolkien-esque fantasy or through a plane ticket that randomly fell into the protagonist’s (read: my) lap. That feeling of momentary, ontological vertigo, when the plane leaves the ground and you can feel yourself lifted in that miniature pocket of zero-gravity, is a sensation that I’ve craved and chased (either literally, or figuratively) whenever possible, with varying degrees of success. I even had, at one point, a bit of a miniature breakdown (you know those ones, where they creep up on you, where you have this vague sense that at any minute things are just going to collapse all around you, and nothing will ever be the same) and I started doing some pretty illegal things to get money (fill in the blanks there however you wish) in order to essentially run away, get a plane ticket to somewhere, and just start afresh. But that did crash down, either way-- I started having some viscerally severe panic attacks; I felt like I was going to be trapped here, forever, that I was going to die here, that all the dreams and aspirations I had of doing something worth while were just gonna be swallowed up the dull, plot-less relentlessness with which life here seemed to drive itself--arguably into the ground. I attended counselling, got a professional, objective perspective, and was able to get to grips with things. The anxiety stopped. The borderline insane drive to escape was lulled, and while the gnawing sense of there being a sort of hole, at the center of everything, dissipated, it didn’t quite disappear. I was, once again, able to manage, and plod right along. 

Over time, I’ve come to terms with the fact that my sense of malaise is not, in fact, the result of some kind of literarily prescribed sense of paralysis-- or, at least, not entirely. It is the result of years, perhaps arguably even decades, of mistreatment. By a family and a home that is so deeply dysfunctional that it is, legitimately, tragic. By an early upbringing so neglected and isolated that, to look back and take an earnest look, is genuinely pathetic. By a mindset and by people who see who I am and see something to laugh at. I’ve slowly come to terms with the fact that my family have never quite seen me seriously, as someone incompetent, flowery, soft, and not worth paying attention to. Years, again, potentially decades of subtle gaslighting, invalidation, negation, criticism, patronizing, condescension-- all compounded by shitty, so-called friends, who were all too happy to take advantage of my desire to please and turn it around on me-- had resulted in a person who had so much self-doubt, such a negative self-image, such a horrible sense of failure that, to further disappoint, would result in self-harm. Decades of having my life dictated to me, taking up responsibility and accepting the burden of my family’s terrible choices, of having my potential and my opportunities circumscribes by what seems to be the endlessly unfolding soap opera of my extended family’s self-inflicted pain.  And the worst part is that I simply thought all of this was normal. The concept of Joycean paralysis was able to help me understand, in a vague sense, what was really wrong, but only hindered me in truly understanding its origin.

I worry that if I go on like this I’ll only end up sounding like some kind of serially self-pitying asshole, one of those people that advertises their personal trauma and tragedy as a means to win the Sadsack Olympics, or obtain sympathy, or blame their lack of success and fulfillment on their past. But in the end, that isn’t what this is about. That isn’t the reason why I’m writing this post. In fact, the reason why I am writing this is far more joyous, written with a deep smile spreading across my face. I’ve spent my entire life orientating around myself around other people, of pleasing other people, and I’ve gotten very, very good at figuring out what is that people want, and giving it to them. What I’ve learned, an what I’ve finally gotten the balls to do, is do what I want. I’ve learned to say no. I’ve learned to pursue what I want, to accrue self-confidence, self-love, self-esteem. I’ve learned to deny people, to put myself first, and tell people who need to be told what for. I’ve learned that to be “good” is to give in, to do as I’ve told and take it all on the chin, and I’ve learned that to be “bad” is to pursue what I want, and to rebel. And, fundamentally, I’ve learned that when I am good, I am very, very good, but when I am bad I am FUCKING FIERCE. 

So I am leaving. In fact, I’ve been planning on leaving for quite some time now. Since March, roughly. I am moving to the U.K, getting away from this place, to spend time with people who I have chosen to spend my time with, that I have build up relationships purely of my own choosing and initiative, and whom I trust. To build a life that I choose to build, for myself, and shirking off as much of the trauma, pain, insecurities and self-doubt as I can. Psychiatrist Harry Stack Sullivan believed that the core motivating force in all human behavior was anxiety, and not just anxiety, but the creative and ornate ways we go about avoiding or managing it. According to him, a personality was simply a collection of habits and strategies people gathered over time to “avoid or minimize anxiety, ward off disapproval, and maintain self-esteem.” What I’ve learned, personally, is the sheer liberating power of identifying and deconstructing the aspects of my own psychology that are life-limiting, and taking great joy in completely and utterly destroying the ones that are build up anxious defense mechanisms. I would be lying if I said that it wasn’t scary, because when these mechanisms fall I’ll be thrust, head first, into facing the things I am most deeply afraid of—social rejection and abandonment, unworthiness and failure, unlovability and isolation, to name a few. But it is liberating because I’ve come to realize that, yes, our defenses serve a function, but no, we don’t actually need all of them to survive-- and then, suddenly, an entirely new life is possible. I’ve come to realize that I actually CAN tolerate anxiety; I CAN live with not being liked, I CAN be misunderstood, I CAN make mistakes, I CAN feel bad. And let me tell you, it is a relief. God is sometimes understood as a creator, but he can also be understood as a destroy-- And I am choosing to be the God of my own goddamn life, and taking great pleasure in destroying that which I don’t like.

I’ve ended up prescribing some great, symbolic significance to the act of me leaving. It is me righteously striking back at all the things that had made me hate myself in the past, because they couldn’t simply tolerate hating themselves and needed to destroy me in order to feel better. And so, to them, I say: 

Fuck my family, who have done nothing to actually foster and cultivate who I am as a human being

Fuck the people who have turned my own kindness against me and made me doubt myself

Fuck the people who have made me feel as though my command of words is a weakness-- I am a fucking fantastic writer, and I dare any of those people to challenge me, because I’ll write them into the fucking ground. 

Fuck the people who made me doubt my intelligence; I am more than smart enough to figure things out for myself and smart enough, at least now, to see them for the self-hating, jealous troglodytes they are.

Fuck this place that has made me feel that who I am is wrong, and lesser, and subordinate-- I am worthy, and powerful, and capable.

Fuck this country, and its backwards, stagnant, repressive culture

FUCK

YOU

And that’s it. There’s my gigantic, theatrical display of radical self-acceptance. In a way, what I want to do is leave, and never come back. To delete all my social media, and start afresh. But I know that’s not realistic. I know I have to tether myself to “home”, as much as I disagree with the idea this place is truly home. I will say this, however-- there are parts of my experience here, and my life thus far, that have been wonderful. I’ve got a handful of genuinely fantastic friends, and I’ve forged some very important memories with them. To burn those bridges would be unforgivable, and I would never be able to do that to them. 

It’s 2:16am. I was already exhausted but I had to write this and get it all off my chest. But this is it-- me signing off, forever. Let this be a testament to everything I want to be, an will be, from here on out. 

-Ian.

[arkus-rhapsode]

Fairy Tail 100 Years Quest Chapter 12 Review

Oh my god... What the heck is even going on?

So our cover page is Natsu and Lucy, and Natsu I hope you enjoy that brain freeze.

So we open on Jellal confronting Touka. We learn like how Avatar was devoted to black magic there was a group devoted to white magic. Now this is cool, but literally if you watch the anime recently, that arc was done in 5 episodes. So this feels really odd on how much effort is being put into it.

Like if there was like something tying into Tenrou or hell edolas, that make more sense, given all thee time on it.

So Jellal describes White magic as a philosophy of nothingness, which that doesn’t make sense. Fans of yugioh gx might compare this the darkness and light in that series and how darkness led to creation while light was subjugation. But Black magic is clearly about ending life or manipulating life. I guess you could dumb it down to all life, but literal Ankherseram black magic is portrayed as nothing but death. So wouldn’t white be about life? I guess nothingness as life without personality isn’t wrong,  but this feels like a stretch.

Also, Mashima said anyone could learn any type of magic. So why is that an abnormality? Like if this was Black Clover where you are assigned a single affinity that be one thing.

Suddenly Laxus steps in, and want to make this clear. I don’t exactly hate the idea behind this. That Laxus wants to defend someonew ho is a part of his family, given his new found view on FT, and its using the family aspect of FT on its head. Someone bad could be using FT’s family mentality for personal benefit. Which is interesting.

Okay, well Jellal has a reason, she is  suspect and as a guild master he has authority to take her in. However, Laxus you of all people know that people in your guild will still harm it.

On the one hand im torn, the shounen loving half of my brain wants to see this fight. But the logical half says that these two are mature adults with enough common sense to take this to the run knights. And confrontation is over after this page.

Yeah for a chapter named after the two, its got very little to do with theem. Instead.... The worst thing in the chapter happens. We cut to Diablos’ ship and we see this.

Yes you are seeing this right. For people who were saying I was to harsh, calling this a submissive Erza fetish that Mashima is putting out, I ask you read this chapter.

You know I can’t tell if Skullion means this is temporary as in terms of magic, or temporary as Kyria will grow bored, but I do know that this is nothing but sick and tastess. Also props to Madmorel for having some class to be disgusted by the perv in the group. Like that is becoming a rarity these days.

We are guided down to the lower deck where natsu and wendy are being held, the motion sickness keeping them in check.

I’ve been putting this off long enough, its time to rant. This is bull shit. People told me, i was too harsh on mashima, but at the least I thought this was some sort of temporary thing that was meant so Kyria could get a win in a fight, but this might be some permanent magic effect feels disgusting.

Now, people say that this happened cause people would rag on Erza, called Erza fights awful, and that now Mashima is going in the complete opposite dirction. You didn’t like strong erza, fine! Here’s weak Erza, you happy cynics?

But that’s not the case. People didn’t like Erza because she was “too strong” she was someoone who went from this amazing badass female character, to this static friendship speech spewing tool that never truly got any development. Its painful for people to see a character like Erza not grow after she had developed so much in ToH, but it just was never followed through. All the times she won just felt like a poor spectacle without any character behind it.

Now you could say an erza who needs to get her strength back could be character development. No. Cutting away a person’s strength with “magic” is not character development, its forced regression. Its the author literally creating an unrealistic situation bcause he has no idea what to do with her  after ToH, hell he can’t even fully commit to a love story between her and jellal.

When Erza came onto the scene, she was cool, in control, yet could over react at times. To see her be pushed to her lowest by ToH and then recover and face midnight in OS, is peak Erza character shining through. That this is how erza’s development deserved to be treated. But Watching Erza crawl on the ground, be spanked, and cry for mercy like a hentai doll, all because of plot convince magic is so gross to me. Its ejecting the Erza that we all love and stripping her of all that personality just for this.

So if you blame this development on people who were too hard on Mashima about how he was writing Erza, I, a critic and very judgemental person, find this worse than any of the nakama power or skimpy armors.

Erza being trapped in Kyoka’s sex dungeon was bad, but you know what, EErza actievly resisted it. She didn’t want to be there aand tried to fight back. It wasn’t handled well, but that t least felt like whatt her character would do in this situation. But this was forced upon her and this is nothing more than an Erza made for this arc.

Also, lets step out of this and look at this from the meta perspective that this is also extremely lazy. In Eden’s zero there’s a villain who is all about subjugating women right now, and Mashima couldn’t be bothered to not let that bleeed into his other work. If that doesn’t scream creately lazy, than I don’t know what will. Also that frog thing in Eden’s zero is actuaally better giveen the fact he’s not mind bending away personality, he’s forcibly turning them in statues to do with what he pleases against their will.

Im not saying this cause im anti ecchi or that im anti  mashima, im anti such a hack story writting device that weather you stuck it out as a fan of erza’s till the end of FT or liked her at first but than soured on her, I ask, would you tolerate this? I’m not claiming ownership of the character of Erza, but I am asking do you think that this is worth a character arc because our author couldn’t think of anything better to do with her. You know if you knew Erza was so strong,Ad that in actuality she would sweep away most threats, why did you bring her? I honestly would’ve preferred Jellal and Erza being out of the action cause they had a kid or something. Erza having to pick between biological family and her guild family seems like a better direction to take her character in than this.

To see Erza cry because someone’s magic made her into a slave is so lacking in power than say the sheer emotional weight of watching simon die. Like this is shit is just awful.

We cut to Luccy and here is where I get to credit thee art. Sure Lucy is in a bikini, but what matters in frame is the wounds on her legs. Which is a nice us of having aa skimpy dress and not sexualizing it.

We get a flashback of Lucy realizing Kyriaa took her friends and this is where I give Caramille a big fuck you. Oh sure, this did happen after they showed up, but Diabolos clearly was going to find the place eventually and more importantly, you did fuck all. Like, go screw cause you have contributed literally nothing.

We find out that there is another ship in the area and that Gray is okay because he was saved by you can guess who...

Okay on the one hand, this definitely seems like Brandish’s kind of entrance, but on the other. Fuck you, Hiro. Like she just passed by and saved Gray? Hw? The entire ocean was either freezing or evaporating, what is your range? Also, who is in charge of Alverez? Yajeel? Oi...

Post Chapter Follow up: Its easy to say why I don’t like this chapter. I feel so sick by the sheer amount of laziness and disgust in the slave Erza plot. Like, my god this is so wrong. Not because of the subject, human slavery makes sense in a series aimed at teenagers, but the sheer disrespect that Hiro treated this character, made my blood boil. At the very least in Alvarez, Erza still seemed like she was the same character from beginning of the series.

People who follow me weekly on this review series are probably going to ask when I will stop harping on this Erza thing. Well each week, it  somehow get worse and more gross.  First time it felt like a cheap win, second it was bad use of domination, now this is full blown fetish material.

As for the brandish thing, I know why she is here, Lucy is literally not strong enough to handle 3 DE’s by herself with a few exceeds, and I’d accept that Brandish reentering the series. But maybe leave out Gray? I guess you could say that this is a subversion of the Musica captured by Doryu, but this feels lazier. You could’ve just made this a big “step up Lucy plot,” but no, had to save Gray, even though Skullion should’ve notice when his magic didn’t actually ash up Gray. Plus think about, if they save save Natsu and Wendy this arc and beat these three dragon eaters, wouldn’t some added bit of tension to the quest be finding diablos’s hideout and saving Gray from the “dinner table?”And I was cool with the kidnapped gray thing, but no, we had to have kidnapped everyone else.Also if he was made small how did he survive the water? Like he’s the size of a pin, he’d drown.

Now the stuff with Laxus and Jellal is actually fairly good Its an interesting take on FTs standards vs the consequences of their past when we are suppose to be rooting for Touka to be extracted. And involving two characters that really have been in the moral gray spectrum make them the most qualified for this subject matter. While i definitely didn’t like the Touka plot at first from how disconnected it was from everything (and it really is kinda shoed in on this point) it still is the more interesting plot. It has more intresting ideas than, “more dragons” and is involving the characters that come off as the most interesting.

Final Verdict: 3/10

There is clearly some interesting idea at work here

However, the way the plotline for the dragon portion of this arc has become a mess

I don’t use this phrase lightly, “Erza literally deserves better than this”

Plot convince playhouse at its finest

[coeurvrai]

Malachiasz goes on a rant about godhood and whether or not the Gods actually care about individuals, about whether or not they are actually “gods” or humans ascended to godhood.

“Because there’s no proof that mortals have ever reached higher than what they are?”

I hate this foreshadowing. I hate it.

“Isn’t that what everything is, though? Concepts that we give unnecessary weight. For all you know, you’re merely communicating with incredibly powerful beings, but they are only that. Not beings that had any hand in this world’s creation, or beings that determine the course of your life. Our kingdoms are falling apart, have been at war for a century, and it’s because of these things.”

Yes, that’s what a holy war is about. Differences in religion to the point that y’all will wage war about it. The thing is, considering that they are powerful enough to make all of the stars in the night sky go dark, “being that determine the course of your life” doesn’t seem that unusual. Powerful people can certainly influence the lives of many. Just look at real life. And then, ofc, it all depends on your definition and what you consider to be and not to be a god.

She ground her teeth. “Who would remove the beings of power, then?”

“Another being of equal or more power, clearly.”

“And what will that fix? Remove a foundation for how thousands of people structure their lives—for what?—the chance for blood mages to stop having their feelings hurt when we call them what they are?”

“Kalyazin is dying,” Malachiasz said, and Nadya shivered as their hypothetical conversation stepped too close to reality. “Tranavia is, too. And you expect me to believe that removing the forces that have toyed with us for thousands of years wouldn’t save us all from the ashes of what our kingdoms will soon become?”

I hate this fucking argument though. Both of you are so fucking wrong I actually want to kermit. That would’ve been the PERFECT time for Malachiasz to rebuke her protest of how the people of Kalyazin’s lives would be affected by double downing on the whole “blood magic is a part of the basic living of practically all Tranavians”, and be like “see?” but instead he’s just revealing more of his evil villainous plan and being a hypocrite.

Killmonger vc: Is this your ship???

ALSO, where is Anna??? Isn’t she an “ordained priestess”??? Isn’t the gods and religion an important part of her life??? SHOULDN’T SHE BE HELPING NADYA WITH THE SHRINES? It’d be one thing if Anna spoke up and was like “I’ll do it with you Nadya” and Nadya was like “no, it’s fine, walk on ahead!” but that’d mean Malachiasz and Nadya wouldn’t have an excuse to be alone with each other and talk about religion - even though I don’t see why Anna wouldn’t at least REACT and give Malachiasz a death glare and double down on the “are you sure you don’t need help because I AM NOT LEAVING YOU ALONE WITH THE TRANAVIAN MAGE AND “FORMER” VULTURE” but nope!

He was referring to witches—apostate magic users outside the gods’ approval—but there had been no witches in Kalyazin for decades. Their route of magic was considered just as heretical as blood magic and they had all but been eradicated by the old clerics during the time of the Witch Hunts. How did he even know about that? The chill of discomfort was gone and now she was righteously heated again. He was talking circles around her and she couldn’t keep him still for long enough to show him how he was wrong.

Okay so Pelageya is a Witch, as we’ve learned, and now we’re learning from Nadya that witches are indeed A Thing but how do they exist? Also Nadya, boy, do I have a surprise for you that is basically public knowledge among Tranavia. But also glad to know that witch hunts were a thing; glad to know that there isn’t any specificity on when this happened beyond a general idea that it happened more than 30 years ago because that’s when the Vultures murked all the other Clerics. But Pelageya is fucking 90! So, who the fuck knows.

Also, I know Nadya was Sheltered, but you’d think it’d be news even in their fucking monastery that there was still a Witch around and she is the companion to the Tranavian queen, considering Nadya conflates witches with “heresy” and they’re supposed to be HYPER RELIGIOUS people in a religious country, all about that religion. 

“You’re using heretics as an example,” she said. Witches and blood mages, it was all the same. “It’s not particularly compelling.”

“It’s proof that your holier-than-thou attitude about magic isn’t all there is!”

“I don’t have an attitude about magic.”

“You keep calling me a heretic.”

“You are a heretic. You just laid out sheer heresy in front of me. And my power is divine; calling me ‘holier than thou’ is just trite.”

Where is the empathy, ED? Where is the understanding? I’m more than a third of the way through the book, about 20 or so pages away from the half way point of this book and Nadya has not developed to be more empathetic and/or understanding towards the Tranavians whatsoever.

He sat down beside her and she stiffened, suddenly acutely aware of … him. The way he folded up his lanky frame to sit, one knee glancing against her leg because he was so close. She swallowed. He took her wrist, his touch unbearably gentle, and pushed her sleeve back, exposing the still visible cut his claw had dragged down her forearm. There was a beat of silence, the road suddenly eerily quiet as they both stared down at the culmination of Nadya’s own heresy.

“Well,” he breathed out softly, a flicker of something feral at his lips, “perhaps you’re right. Maybe not so holy, after all.”

This should not be happening. She should not be leaning close to this boy, his touch warm against her skin. Her gaze caught against the shape of his mouth; her brain slowly coming to register what he said.

She yanked her arm away and continued scrubbing at the altar, trying not to seethe and failing. Trying not to think about the way it felt when his fingers curled around her wrist, the way his leg was still pressed against hers, and failing at that, too.

Shut the fuck up, Nadya. We’ve already had too many moments already for you to be kicking up a bloody fuss up now, when you’ve already discarded your hatred and distaste that it’s no longer believable. I don’t believe you anymore! So stop it! Put me out of my fucking misery and make out with him or something, like fucking christ, this isn’t tension like WHY DO YOU CARE. You’ve already touched him and been touched by him without comment! Spare me from the stupid flirting and “banter” already.

Also, I still maintain that you should be worried since Parijahan’s wound from the Vultures was “cursed” or “filled with darkness” or whatever.

This supposed unresolved romantic and/or sexual tension will literally kill me, if the rest of this bloody book doesn’t first.

“You never feel trapped?”

“Trapped by what?”

“The path you have to follow for your magic. That it could be denied at another being’s whim. You have so little say in the direction of your own life. Isn’t that stifling?”

Well, considering there isn’t any consequences for ANYTHING she’s done so far, especially to do with Marzenya and not murdering him like her supposedly all important death goddess and patron keeps telling her to, I shouldn’t be worried nor should Nadya. I have no reason to believe that, considering Nadya’s patronage has never been stripped away nor has her requests ever been denied ONCE in this book so far.

But … for a flickering instant, she let herself consider just how carefully she had to tread with the gods, how a decision to survive had already cost her hours of guilt. She shoved the thoughts away.

You talk a lot of game, book, but you don’t follow through on it. 

Also, I feel like a lot of the times when the characters talk, I can’t keep track on what the scene or setting is supposed to look like or picture it in my head.

Malachiasz and Nadya have more moments that make me want to die inside. 

Am I not supposed to be interested?”

“You’re not supposed to care.”

He opened his mouth, and closed it again, looking thoughtful. “I do care,” he finally said, voice quiet.

Nadya swallowed hard. “Why?” she asked. He was Tranavian, a heretic, a Vulture, every part of him was in opposition to what Nadya believed, and yet …

There was something else. She didn’t know what it was. She was unnerved to discover she wanted to find out.

“Because I have known nothing but the Vultures my whole life,” he said reluctantly. “And we have both spent our lives preparing to kill, well, each other, but here we are instead.”

And with that, I want to make something clear. I don’t hate enemies-to-lovers. I like and enjoy the enemies-to-lovers trope very much. I also enjoy enemies with benefits and hatesex. But I enjoy it when it is well-written and makes sense and is genuinely compelling. 

This isn’t.

[oddsandendsandthings]

“I’m Davenport!”

“Wait... wait...”

All his life he’s looked at the stars and seen an endless world of possibilities. His parents were part of an elite research team. They had found this thing called they called the Light of Creation and they told him in a few more years they may be able to achieve interplanar travel through the stars with it. He didn’t really understand how a tiny light could be able to help them travel through space but it sounded cool.

And if a little light could do so much, then maybe one day he could too. That ship is going to need a crew after all. And he was going to be the one to lead them.

“Where am I?”

The kids at school didn’t seem as partial to his ideas of space flights and missions to other planes of existence. He dodged another rock aimed at his head as the kid chased him around the play yard. To “knock he his head out of the clouds,” they said. He turned the corner and ducked behind a bush as he cast an illusion of himself still running to keep the bullies off his tail. He held his breath as the kids fell for it and kept chasing it. 

Good. That illusion should hold up another 10 minutes. Plenty of time to mislead them just deep enough into the woods that they wouldn’t get lost, but definitely far enough in that they’d be late to class even if they ran the entire way. If the teachers wouldn’t do anything about the bullies then he would. “Too much of a runt to lead a team” indeed.

“You’re... You’re Merle... Right?”

Was it a little young and reckless to be getting behind the wheel of his parents' wagon without a drivers license? Probably. But really the keys were right there and they were out of milk. After being up for 32 hours straight his parents weren’t anywhere in the state to be driving. So a quick trip to the market and back. He could manage that.

And behind the wheel of that wagon was an indescribable feeling. He had never felt so free before. Like every time those bullies jeered and threw rocks, every time a teacher that looked at him like he was some kind of halfwit when he said his dream career was to be a pilot, they were all proven wrong. At least until that stray dog decided to cross in front of the wagon. He really needed to learn to stop daydreaming.

“I know you...”

His parents sent him to a fantasy military school. To “curve his wild tendencies,” they said. He hated it at first. Sure he crashed his parents’ wagon. And he got into more than one fight at school. Okay, a lot of fights at school. It’s not like started most of them. But boot camp? that’s a little extreme. The sergeants and drill captains were even bigger hard asses than his old teachers. But he in between those moments of hating this school, he was learning a lot about survival training and how to work in a group alongside his normal lessons. And they were actually teaching him how to properly drive a motor vehicle and that was even better since they never thought to ridicule him for his size as an excuse to not let him behind the wheel.

After a year they were talking about promoting him from private. They were putting him in charge of a small group during their training exercises to see how he can handle being in a leadership position. And he’s excited to try it out. He can feel there’s a change in how he handles himself. He’s no longer that scared little kid that no one believed in. People actually trust his decisions. It’s a nice feeling.

“What’s going on?”

It’s been years since he’s graduated fantasy military school. He served for a few years after too and retired under the rank of Lance Corporal. Now that he’s served his duty he can finally dedicate himself to what he’s always dreamed of. The IPRE has been making headway on its construction of a ship that could run purely on the bonds people share with one another. It's in its final stages of construction and they’re hoping to have it make its maiden voyage in the next two years. And now they’re looking for a crew to man it. Davenport is a natural pick for captain. He agrees all too eagerly on the condition that he gets to pick his own crew. He knows better than anyone that you can’t just shove a group of people together 

The interview process makes him want to tear his mustache out. Not for lack of qualified applicants. There were plenty of those. But for how many that, beyond their qualifications, they were downright insufferable. Half of them acted as if he had no idea about how magic worked and the other half acted as if they were the ones leading this mission. He called the next candidate on his checklist as only to raise an eyebrow as two identical elves stood up. “I’m sorry these are individual interviews. Which one of you is Taako... Taaco?” 

“Oh don’t worry about that, my dude. We’re about to save you a whole bunch of time by killing two birds with one stone. Cause you see we, my sis Lup and I, are a package deal that will absolutely blow these other chumps out of the water.” The twin on the left said with a confident smirk. Davenport didn’t know if it was the exhaustion talking or the curiosity of what they thought could offer, but he decided one less interview he had to do the better. 

“I’m Davenport.”

A lot of people questioned his reasoning on how a ragtag group like theirs could work together so well. And honestly, he didn’t know himself what compelled him to choose the people he did. They weren’t exactly the most qualified people, with the exception of maybe Lucretia. But what they lacked in formal training, they made up for in sheer force of will. Even when they were still in training, they have a way of solving the puzzles and goals that were set out for them in ways he and the other test proctors could never have imagined. Incompetently competent is the way one of the proctors put it and he couldn’t think of a better way to put it. Despite them only knowing each other a short time, they just had a way of picking up the others slack at just the right moment, in just the right way, to turn the tides in their favor. It was pretty outstanding actually. 

And now they’re standing on the bridge of the Starblaster about to blast off into the unknown. He looks back from the control at the people he’s about to spend the next 2 months with. Magnus is grinning despite, more like because of,  his black eye he’d gotten in the night before. Lup and Taako are standing towards the back, they keep glancing at the countdown clock in obvious excitement before looking away in feign disinterest in attempt to look aloof. Barry and Lucretia don’t even bother to try and hide their apprehension as they never take their eyes away from the ticking clock. Merle is the only one that seems completely unaffected, looking more like he was waiting for the bus to come than like he was seconds away from blasting off into space. 

He turns back to the controls and grins as the bond engine revs to life. He had made it. They may not be the most professional looking team out there. But despite what anyone else thought, they had made it to where they were today. He had made it. And he honestly couldn’t think of a better group of people he’d rather be with to share this with. 

“I’m Davenport!”

[theladysunami]

Of Avatars and Spirits: Story

My Hero Academia in the post Legend of Korra Universe

I started an ATLA AU a while back, but it’s unlikely I’ll ever finish it. This is my attempt to share my general worldbuilding and story ideas for others to enjoy or use in stories of their own.

Worldbuilding ~ Story ~ Characters

Plot Synopsis:

Izuku Midoriya spent the first 14 years of his life believing himself to be a rare nonbender, only for an unfortunate incident to unlock his ability to bend both Earth and Air! It turns out Izuku is only half the avatar, while the other half is the twice royal, Shouto Todoroki. Izuku and Shouto attend UA where they must work together to learn about their split powers, avoid the schemes of asshole fathers, fight horrific forcibly fused spirit hybrids and ultimately solve the mystery of how the avatar spirit ended up split in two!

The Avatar & All for One:

The “rivalry” between the Avatar and “All for One” began several avatars ago, when a rogue energy bender (and a descendant of Aang) tried to use said energybending to unlock greater abilities both in himself and in others. He tore through and killed or scrambled the abilities of many benders trying to find a way to not only remove bending from those who have it, but to grant it to others who don’t have it as well, with his ultimate goal being to acquire power matching that of the avatar. 

While he had some limited success with strengthening the newly developing class of “weak benders”, AfO grew frustrated with his overall lack of progress, and irritated by the constant interruptions from the Avatar. He decided to follow in the footsteps of Hundun and "exiled” himself to the spirit world in the hopes of obtaining mastery over spirits instead.

What exactly happened in the spirit world is unknown, but when AfO returned, not only had he achieved his “mastery of spirits” but he’d found a way to actually bind spirits to himself. While AfO doesn’t have any spirits as powerful as Raava or Vaatu, and his connection to them is rather more tenuous (not being Harmonic Convergence fueled), he makes up for this with the sheer number of spirits under his control. (For any Mob Psycho 100 fans, AfO essentially transformed himself into the living avatar-verse equivalent of Keiji Mogami. I even considered using Keiji as his name if I ever decided to reveal it).

AfO began to use his new talents to create other artificial spirit human hybrids, with the goal of using his army to capture the newest avatar, Nana Shimura, and rip the avatar spirit straight out of her, so he could claim it for himself. Unfortunately for AfO, his efforts ended up killing Nana, and the Avatar Spirit was temporarily lost to him, leading to his search for the next avatar, a young Yagi Toshinori.

Yagi’s protectors did an excellent job of keeping him hidden until the time came when he could actually defend himself. When Yagi and AfO finally clashed, the fight was epic as one can imagine! Yagi was the ultimate victor, however -- as the Plot Synopsis suggests -- AfO was able to fracture the avatar spirit. While Yagi retained both halves of the avatar spirit until his death, the next generation ended up with two avatars instead of one. AfO meanwhile did not die, and was only badly injured. He went underground and began working to build up a more powerful army using both of his talents to their fullest extent. 

All for One’s Impact:

Even when spirit hybrids first began appearing, there was a certain amount of apprehension surrounding said “malformed” children. AfO’s creation of large numbers of forced spirit hybrids, all of whom were driven mad by the process, made this “slight apprehension” into a major source of hate and prejudice. Spirit hybrids must deal with everything from mild suspicion to job and housing discrimination to straight up hate crimes. The presence of several spirit hybrids (Tokoyami, Tsuyu and Shoji) at UA during the story proper is a major source of tension.

Izuku’s Story Arc: 

Izuku’s half of the story focuses on him learning to bend and his efforts to hide the nature of his dual bending. Izuku might technically be half the Avatar, but Shouto is the one with vast amounts of bending experience and the official recognition of all the nations. Izuku believes outing himself as the Avatar’s other half, without any training or understanding of what exactly happened that split the spirit in two, would be dangerous. 

Shouto’s Story Arc:

Shouto’s half of the story initially focuses on Shouto’s struggle live up to the expectations of the Avatar, his feelings of inferiority due to his inability to learn two of the elements and his inability to worm his way out from under his father’s oppressive thumb. 

Upon finding out his half of the avatar is technically that of Vaatu, he has a further crisis and begins to believe his very presence in the world is a toxic one. Izuku of course gradually tears these fears appart, pointing out the necessity of chaos and change (Without such things, there would be no Republic city after all, nor would all the nations be some form of democratic). Shouto finds still more of his confidence by filling his role as the only one capable of spirit bending powerful enough to to reduce the madness of AfO’s artificial spirit hybrid creations. (Izuku can energy bend, but not spirit bend, meaning he can fix the benders AfO scrambles, but he cannot sooth the forced connection between a spirit and a human).

The Todoroki Family History: 

The patriarch of the Todoroki family, Enji Todoroki, is a powerful firebender and a very ambitious man. He is the oldest cousin of the current Fire Lord, and second in line for the Fire Nation throne. While his cousin has no children of his own, he is still perfectly healthy and is bound to eventually choose a younger heir Because of this, Enji sought ways to fulfill his own ambitions outside of the Fire Nation. 

After a stint in the United Republic’s special forces, and a failed campaign for the presidency of the United Republic, Enji married the Northern Water Tribe Chieftain’s younger sister, the white haired waterbender Rei. He and Rei had four children, Touya, Fuyumi, Natsuo and Shouto. Enji planned to set up his eldest, firebending son as the next Fire Lord, one of his two waterbending children as the head of his wife’s noble house in the Northern Water Tribe, his other waterbending child as a successful United Republic politician, and his youngest son as the most powerful Avatar to have lived... naturally nothing goes according to his plan. 

Touya, though charismatic and a potentially excellent candidate for the future position of Fire Lord, is only a weak firebender. Enji’s efforts to strengthen his bending through intensive, and frankly abusive, spiritual and physical training served to foster an intense hatred of his father in Touya, leading him to vanish as soon as he was old enough to live on his own. 

Natsuo, the middle son, turned out to be vapor bending specialist, not a classic waterbender, and furthermore had no interest in moving to the icy Northern Water Tribe or involving himself in any sort of politics. Natsuo decided to pursue further schooling in the Earth Kingdom, as far from his father as humanly possible. 

Fuyumi, Enji’s only daughter, is a decently powerful waterbender, but she decided to pursue a career as an educator instead of involving herself in politics. Her fiancé, Tensei Iida, is an airbender and a newly crippled ex-special forces officer, who despite his great potential as a political candidate (having injured himself while protecting civilians), is only interested in running his charity for others with injuries that cannot be healed by either waterbending or medical technology. 

Shouto, Enji’s youngest child, is of course the avatar, but while his abilities with both firebending and waterbending are unrivaled by any other bender, Shouto has proven incapable of bending air or earth. In an effort to both accelerate his training, and hopefully unlock the use of the elements Shouto cannot bend, Enji made Shouto undergo the same types of harsh training his eldest son suffered through. Rei tried to prevent the abuse, but only ended up abused herself, ultimately causing her to suffer from a mental breakdown. As in BNHA canon, she ended up pouring boiling water on her youngest son’s face, scaring him for life, and afterwards was committed to a mental facility elsewhere in the United Republic. 

Once it comes to light that Shouto is only one of two avatars, Enji is made to realize not a single one of his plans came to fruition. His eldest son is missing, his middle son is off who knows where, his daughter is a common teacher, and his youngest has only half the bending powers of avatar’s past.

Spirit Guides:

Both Izuku and Shouto have smaller spirit guides, perhaps due to the avatar spirit being split, or perhaps due to the avatar spirit finally realizing that modern transportation is far more practical than travel via creature. 

Tachi

Izuku’s spirit guide is a flying badger ferret named Tachi. His appearance is mostly that of a ferret but with a badger’s coloring, the skin flaps of a flying squirrel, and long blade like claws. 

Tachi is both modeled and named after the Japanese spirit called the kamaitachi. Kamaitachi are ferret like creatures with blades for claws that ride on dust devils, a very appropriate spirit guide for the earth and airbending half of the avatar duo.

Féng

Shouto’s spirit guide is a wyvern (snake-bird) named Féng. Féng is a wyvern as she is meant to be a cross between a fenghuang and a dragon. (I picture her appearance as similar to that of the couatl pictured here).

The fenghuang (often called the Chinese phoenix) and the dragon symbolize yin and yang respectively in Chinese philosophy, so a combination of the two seemed appropriate for the dual colored and water and fire wielding Shouto. She is named Féng after the “dark” or “Yin” side of the duo as an allusion to Shouto’s nature as the “dark” half of the split avatar spirit.

Kuma

Toshinori’s spirit guide was an ordinary bear named Kuma... this is mostly because I found the idea of Toshinori having a regular bear for a familiar, that he named “bear”, hilarious.

[frayedcobweb]

Character Creation Tag

Woot, so I was tagged by the incredibly creative and lovely @honiewrites. It’s taken me a while, but I’ve finally sat down and done it :) I’m using this Character Creation post to tell you all about Edana and Cait, two kick-ass women in my wip Stillcity.

1) What was the first element of your OC that you remember considering (name, appearance, backstory, etc.?)

Edana - Her appearance was probably first, intertwined with her relationships as Dorrell’s sister and Ciaran’s aunt. As a redhead myself I may have made her a kind of self-insert at first, but she’s actually much cooler than I’ll ever be.

Cait - Cait was interesting as she started out as a mention in another character’s backstory, but then the main story demanded that she get a larger role and she may yet take over Book Two. Cait’s own backstory was the first thing I knew of her.

2) Did you design them with any other characters/OCs from their universe in mind?

Edana is Dorrell’s sister and they are very similar, both in personality and appearance. I also came up with parts of Edana that I thought would work well with her nephew Ciaran’s personality.

Cait started as a childhood friend of Torin’s, so she had to be someone he would get along with. She is also quite similar to Ciaran for reasons that I still need to properly flesh out.

3) How did you choose their name?

Edana’s name follows my decision to use Celtic/Gaelic inspired names and means ‘fire’. It fits with her red hair and her fiery temper/character.

Cait’s name was originally inspired by an amazing woman I knew called Ceit (pronounced Kate). I didn’t know until a while after naming her that it means ‘pure’.

4) In developing their backstory, what elements of the world they live in played the most influential parts?

Edana - She has lived all her life in the Middle Tier of Stillcity, so she is very work and home focused. Due to issues beyond her control she has had to put her own wants aside for most of her life and so, even though she would love to, she has only been out into the Undulating Lands a couple of times. Something key that has shaped Edana’s backstory is the role of women in Ryxian society. Although she would probably make a kick-ass soldier thanks to her brother teaching her how to use a sword and bow, the Royal Guard is for men only.

Cait grew up in the Slums, the lowest tier of Stillcity, and had to fight to survive from a very young age. There are dangers in the Slums that don’t exist elsewhere in Stillcity and surviving these dangers shaped Cait into someone very tough and able to take care of herself and others. Also, when she was young Cait was fascinated by stories of the Mother of Many Faces (another name for the Undulating Lands), which she learned by heart during the minimal schooling that was available in the Slums. This led to her wish to become a Lorekeeper and learn all about the mysterious world beyond the walls of Stillcity.

5) Is there any significance behind their hair colour?

Edana - Yes. As I said, I too am a redhead, and she has the same color hair as her brother.

Cait - I’m not really sure. Cait has black hair, just because.

6) Is there any significance behind their eye colour?

Edana has blue-grey eyes, again similar to Dorrell. And me lol.

Cait has brown eyes, but again I’m not sure why. I think I need to think about Cait a bit more.

7) Is there any significance behind their height?

Edana is tall because I wanted to give her some presence and because I wish I was taller. Damn this self-insert.

Cait is pretty short because I wanted her to be a tiny, feisty firecracker. And she is.

8) What (if anything) do you relate to within their character/story?

I relate to Edana’s wish to change her life and do something that she enjoys and is good at. Rather than just something she is good at. I also relate to her struggles to be seen as equal to men in arenas commonly (and/or formerly) reserved for men only.

I relate to Cait’s obsession with knowing more about the world and understanding why things are the way they are. She also got teased as a child about her height and tries to make up for it by being energetic and larger than life in other ways.

9) Are they based off of you, in some way?

Hehe I think they both are in slightly different ways. But I think most of my characters have different parts of me in them.

10) Did you know what the OC’s sexuality would be at the time of their creation?

Yes. Both Edana and Cait are straight.

11) What have you found to be most difficult about creating art for your OC (any form of art: Writing, drawing, edits, etc.)?

Argh, I hate that I can’t draw my OCs. I do paint and draw, but not people. I’m tempted to learn to draw people just so I can create rudimentary images of the characters that seem so real to me.

12) How far past the canon events that take place in their world have you extended their story, if at all?

I haven’t finished planning out canon, so I can’t really answer that. I do have lots of backstory for them both though, so technically their stories go back beyond the current canon...? Lol does that even make sense, or does that just make it canon?

13) If you had to narrow it down to 2 things that you MUST keep in mind while working with your OC, what would those things be?

Edana could very easily be a Mary-Sue. I think I’m avoiding it (might need a beta/editor to tell me though). Additionally, in my rewrite I need to flesh Edana out a little more in regards to the society she lives in and the attitudes of the people she has to deal with.

Cait probably needs a revisit to make sure she isn’t Mary-Sueing everywhere. She is pretty awesome. Also I need to remember her struggles in the past and how they might affect her in the now.

14) What is something about your OC that can make you laugh?

Edana is pretty damn sarcastic. She always notices when people are getting a bit full of themselves and likes to bring them back to reality.

Cait is just a cheeky smartass and gets some great lines because of it.

15) What is something about your OC can make you cry?

Edana’s issues as a woman in a mostly man’s world gets me a bit emotional. It’s affected her life in a big way, not positively.

Cait is so empathetic, something I can identify with. When other characters are getting beaten up (by me) she hurts with them.

16) Is there some element you regret adding to your OC or their story?

Nah, but I will be doing more fleshing out so I obviously regret not adding stuff.

17) What is the most recent thing you’ve discovered about your OC?

Edana was one of the first characters I created, so I’ve known most things about her for a long time now. Ummm, it was probably that I need to add in some events to connect her with the societal norms/prejudices and how they impact on her in the future.

I recently discovered that Cait has peripheral connections to the Stillcity underworld. Being from the Slums she was exposed to it early, and I realized recently that this is something she’s held onto because she is of the mind that you use every resource at your disposal.

18) What is your favourite fact about your OC?

I love that Edana is a brilliant archer. (Just a note, I came up with her before the movie Brave came out. She seems pretty similar to Merida, but that is coincidental.)

Cait is eternally intrigued by the world around her and is a fount of interesting information. She also became a Lorekeeper through sheer determination and force of will, something that not many women, let alone women from the Slums, manage.

Tagging... Ummmm... @luna-evans-writes @sapphireclawe @vhum @knightsofeclipse and as usual, anyone else who wants to do it that I’ve forgotten. If people get sick of being randomly tagged then please message me and let me know. Or tell me the best way to set up a tag list.

[geezeralert]

Deep Dive Duly Delivers

From my boxes: Some sleeves that came with Beatles’ 45 rpm records

(Second of three parts)

I still love Beatles music.

In my months of replaying and studying all the songs produced in the group’s eight-year recording period (1962-1970), I continued to close my eyes and listen raptly to the tunes, often over and over and over (my practice since youth for favorite songs; I’m like a little kid repeatedly playing a favorite video or asking for a re-reading of a favorite book).

From “She Loves You” to “All My Loving” to “Words of Love” to “No Reply” to “Tell Me Why” to “She Said She Said” to “Hey Bulldog” to “Penny Lane” to “With A Little Help From My Friends” to “Get Back” to “Two of Us” to “Let It Be” to “Glass Onion” to the “long medley” on side two of “Abbey Road” . . . the foursome’s pop output of 50-plus years ago remains among the most pleasant sounds to my ears.

That state of enjoyment is to be expected, I guess. These musical creations dominated the soundtrack of my taste-formulating teen years, ahead of other loves like Motown, Sinatra, the Beach Boys and the myriad of hits coming out AM and FM radio.

Of course, my knowledge of the Beatles’ songs is now greatly enhanced, which, I’m pleased to find, only serves to heighten my enjoyment.

Learning how individual songs were conceived and executed, and then hearing the eventual product and how (or if) it reflects — by design or accident —the artists’ intentions, adds layers of fun to the listening experience.

The same was true for songs I do not particularly enjoy, like “Rain,” as those I do, like “Penny Lane” or “Two of Us.”

For “Rain,” the revelation was that Ringo Starr considers his drumming work on the song his best ever. Song chronicler Ian MacDonald (“Revolution in the Head”) called Starr’s work “superb” while also lavishing praise on Paul McCartney’s “high register bass” as “sometimes so inventive that it threatens to overwhelm the track.”

Perhaps any “true fan” of the Beatles knew such details but I never paid attention to either the drumming, the bass line or just about anything else about that song. Now, listening to it with this new knowledge, I at least give it some respect.

Likewise, for many tunes I did listen to closely and often over the years, there were plenty of tidbits that make them even more fun to hear.

Like the painstaking attention paid by McCartney to the rather simple-sounding (to me) “Penny Lane,” the technically expert drumming of Starr on “She Said She Said” (called “the outstanding track” on “Revolver” by MacDonald, who says that album is considered by many the Beatles’ best) and the performance on “”Two of Us.”  

Hearing that last tune, with my new knowledge, had me choking back tears.

Understand, “Two of Us” was recorded for the Beatles’ second to last album, “Let It Be,” and I played it after months of reviewing their musical endeavors as boyhood chums (McCartney wrote “When I’m 64,” one of the classics from “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band,” when he was 16), as a newly formed band spending hours at their craft in a foreign country, as an insanely popular pop group dominating the musical world, as a trend-setting studio creative force, as a drug-addled crumpling unit and, finally, as bitterly feuding individual musical achievers no longer interested in being a fabulous foursome.

But even as the storm clouds gathered, producing occasional thunder claps, there were still lightening flashes of what made the Beatles the Beatles.

Moments like the one, in late January 1969, when McCartney and John Lennon sang in beautiful harmony — a sound straight out of 1962 — strumming acoustic guitars, on “Two of Us.”

“The close harmonies of “Two of Us” reminded McCartney and Lennon of their teenage Everly Brothers impersonations and, during the second day’s work on it, they broke off to sing ‘Bye Bye Love,’” wrote MacDonald.

The image of these two boyhood chums and creative masterminds, after years of ups and downs, burying the hatchet for a few minutes while under the influence of nostalgia — well . . .  (insert cry-face emoji).

To be sure, that continued camaraderie for all four group members was captured in the “Let It Be” film, along with the more well-known contentiousness. They jammed to rock ‘n roll standards in the studio and played their last live performance as a group on the rooftop.

The books I consulted also told how these four individuals continued to work together despite all their mounting, serious differences, and, like the tale of the “Two of Us” recording, those passages were among the most noteworthy to me during my research.

MacDonald notes this this lasting togetherness showed the Beatles to be “in no respect an ordinary phenomenon.”

He continued:

“Many have spoken of the charismatic atmosphere that switched on whenever all four were together — a group-mindedness which kept them united through a further 18 months (after their “Revolver” and “Sgt. Pepper” successes) of in-fighting during which they recorded well over 50 more tracks and which continued, albeit less reliably than before, to function as the psychic antenna by which they maintained contact with the shifting currents of popular feeling at large.”

Listening to their musical creations while getting more details about how much they were starting to really hate each other in the late 1960s was a indeed revelation for this big Beatles fan.

It culminated with the tale told by the engineer Geoff Emerick (“Here There and Everywhere, My Life Recording the Music of the Beatles”) of the band’s final recording together, Lennon’s “Because,” as it wrapped up the “Abbey Road” album.

The tune brought their legendary producer George Martin back into the studio to orchestrate nine harmony parts. For technical reasons, it required John, Paul and George Harrison to sing their three-part harmony together live, rather than overdubbing each part one at a time, and then add two additional passes to add on the remaining six parts.

Emerick recounts how the three Beatles were totally into the effort.

“They knew they were doing something special and they were determined to get it right. There was no clowning around that day, no joking; everyone was very serious, very focused,” he wrote.

He continued:

“That day I saw the four Beatles at their finest: there was 100 percent concentration from all of them — even Ringo, sitting quietly with his eyes closed, silently urging his bandmates on to their best performance — all working in tandem to get that vocal nailed, spot on. It was a stark example of the kind of teamwork that had been so sorely lacking for years. It’s tempting to imagine what the Beatles might have been able to accomplish if they could only have captured and sustained that spirit just a little longer.”

For me, though, the “Because” effort was amazing for taking place at all, both in terms of the Beatles’ problems and just how long any group of performers can co-exist and produce excellence.

Another fascinating act of cooperation, in my judgment, was Paul helping John on his very personal “Ballad of John and Yoko.” By that time, Yoko One was an extremely divisive element in the groups’ universe so I found this friendly cooperation especially praiseworthy.

Speaking of Yoko . . .

Of course, all Beatles fans have read stories of how disruptive her constant presence was during the final years. But one of the biggest revelations I’ll take away from my project is just how badly she disrupted the group’s cohesiveness and creativity, from early 1968 forward.

Emerick believes much of the improved atmosphere in the recording studio during “Abbey Road” could be attributable to the absence of John and Yoko, who were injured in a car accident in Scotland.

When the pair finally were recovered enough to attend the recording sessions, John arranged for a bed to be brought into the studio for Yoko, complete with a microphone suspended over her so she could comment on the proceedings.

Yikes

Wrote the engineer:

“For the next several weeks, Yoko lived in that bed. Her wardrobe consisted of a series of flimsy nightgowns, accessorized with a regal tiara, carefully positioned to hide the scar on her forehead from the accident. As she gained her strength, so too did she gain her confidence, slowly but surely starting to annoy the other Beatles and George Martin with her comments.”      

Interestingly, as the Abbey Road sessions progressed and Ono got out of bed, she  was asked by John to stay in the control room while he, Paul and George performed what, in my opinion, was one of the most incredible feats of their later years: the three simultaneous guitar solos during “The End.”

I always wondered how that section of the song was done and was amazed to find that it was all three of them taking turns. I never tire listening to it.

Emerick says perhaps it was Yoko’s absence “or perhaps it was because on some subconscious level they had decided to suspend their egos for the sake of the music, but for the hour or so it took them to play those solos, all the bad blood, all the fighting, all the crap that had gone down between the three former friends was forgotten. John, Paul and George looked like they had gone back in time, like they were kids again, playing together for the sheer enjoyment of it. More than anything, they reminded me of gunslingers, with their guitars strapped on, looks of steely-eyed resolve, determined to outdo one another. Yet there was animosity, no tension at all — you could tell that they were simply having fun.”

I suppose knowledge of these scenarios, and the different parts played by the Beatles, in something that separates the really big fans of the Beatles from the really huge fans.  

The latter already knew those details. And they also can say what songs were played when and by whom without consulting the various books that I used.

And they know a lot of other things that were news to me in my research.

Like the fact that Harrison auditioned his classic “Something” (originally eight minutes long!) for the group during the “White Album” along with “Old Brown Shoe” and “All Things Must Pass” but had them rejected.

Perhaps even some “really big” fans also had picked up those tidbits over the years while I missed them.

In any event, here’s some of they other things that jumped out at me in addition to the inspiring, intermittent camaraderie and the depressing, disruptive force of Yoko Ono:

** The amount of drug use by the group and the effect it had on their music.

The marijuana, the LSD and, for Lennon, the heroin all took at least the two main songwriters into their various musical directions. MacDonald notes that 50 days after the soaring achievement of “Because” Lennon “was back in the studio howling his addiction in ‘Cold Turkey.’” He makes the conclusion that heroin was “flowing coldly around its composer’s body” at the “Because” sessions.

** The influence of their various girlfriends on their songs.

Many of the songs chart the various stages of McCartney’s romances with Jane Asher and Linda Eastman along with John Lennon’s marriage/breakup with Cynthia and, of course, infatuation with Yoko.

** The nonsense of their lyrics— many of them were just thrown together and others had strictly personal meanings.  

Under scrutiny, a vast number of their early songs are far better musically than lyrically. I guess the simple old “moon June” love messages sounded plenty deep enough to my teen ears.  The Beatles themselves got tired of them and rarely returned to basic love songs in their later years.  

Then we have a lot of phrases or passages that have meaning only to them, like those in “I Am the Walrus” (Lennon says it was a deliberate attempt to parody “the fashion for psychedelic lyrics” prevalent at the time) “Across the Universe”  “Savoy Truffle” and “Glass Onion,” to name a few.

Another example: McCartney and Lennon, in a fit of marijuana-inspired laughter, made up some Spanish-sounding gibberish for “Sun King” on Abbey Road.  

** The synchronizing of the songs — how they came at us on albums or singles — was far different than how they were conceived or executed.

I suppose this is pretty obvious to even the most passing fan but when you experience the songs in the order they were recorded, as I did by following MacDonald’s sequential presentation of them, it gives you a much different feel than what we originally had.

One example: “Penny Lane” and “Strawberry Fields Forever,” intended for “Sgt. Pepper” (they were the second and third songs recorded for that album, after “When I’m 64”) but released instead as a 45 rpm single, were followed in the studio by the intricate “A Day in the Life,” which eventually was put at the end of that album, giving it its unforgettable finale.  

That sequence presents a far different perspective on the songs than how they were publically presented and received.

Another tidbit: The last song recorded by the Beatles as a group was “I Me Mine,” a Harrison tune produced for the “Let It Be” album after it was played informally in the “Let It Be” movie. It was formally performed and mixed after the “Abbey Road” sessions had wrapped.

Lennon was absent for that session so it was ironic that the next time the former Beatles recorded together was when his three ex-bandmates gathered again, after his death, to play with Lennon’s home-produced tune, “Free As a Bird.” That tape (three songs recorded by Lennon) was provided McCartney by Ono at Lennon’s 1994 induction into the Rock And Roll Hall of Fame.  

Another tidbit in that category: In between “Abbey Road” recording sessions for “The End” and “Sun King/Mean Mr. Mustard,” McCartney recorded “Come and Get It,” playing all the instruments and double tracking the vocal.

The tune went on to be a big hit for the Apple group Badfinger and MacDonald calls it “by far the best unreleased Beatles song.” McCartney “knocked off” the recording in under an hour, he wrote. He offered it for Abbey Road.    

** In contrast to the Hall of Fame’s insulting choice to induct Lennon years before honoring McCartney, my conclusion from what I read and heard is that McCartney was the dominating force behind the band’s production, creativity and longevity.

He softened Lennon’s often-harsh musical tendencies and pushed all of the others to  better themselves, often to their annoyance.

In fact, McCartney’s criticisms of Harrison’s guitar playing was a major source of the friction in the group. There are several tales of McCartney going back into the studio to re-do the guitar solos for his songs.  

He also kept the group involved in challenging projects, like the “Magical Mystery Tour” film and attempts at stripped down recordings for “Let It Be,” at times when other members wanted to just end things.

And his continued musical endeavors surely pushed the others to also keep trying to explore and create.  

As a teen, Lennon was my favorite Beatle (every kid had to choose one!). Now . . . it’s complicated.

** A fun part of my listening experience was following the progress of the four Beatles as musicians, particularly McCartney on bass.

He was made the group’s bass player by default in their teenage beginnings. He quickly progressed to some great work on “All My Loving” and “Tell Me Why.” And from there, he perfected his skill on the instrument until it became a major contributor to a lot of the recordings, most especially “Hey Bulldog.”

I also was impressed by Starr’s drumming. He has been downgraded by some as a “human metronome” and a deep-background player in the Beatles saga but he gets a lot of credit in the books I read for his savvy, expert drumming. My own listening, as a simple fan, supports those conclusions.

Beatles songs were not about blasting percussion but needed the steady, consistent, skilled drum sounds that Starr provided.

** Another interesting part of the project was learning various music or recording terms.

These included: arpeggio (“the notes of a chord played in succession as a fan-like spread rather than as a single sound, as if on a harp”; used on “You Never Give Me Your Money,” “I Want You (She’s So Heavy),” “I’ve Got a Feeling,” “Sun King,” the middle of “Here Comes the Sun” and “Because.”); ADT (artificial double tracking, used often for Beatles’ voices and now a music industry stable); flanging (too technical to summarize here); and compression (“reduction of the overall dynamics generated by a voice or instrument”).  

The amount of what we hear (and love) that is affected by such studio tricks as ADT, flanging, compression, manipulation of microphones or drums, or changing speeds on recorded material (to name just some of them) was astonishing to learn.  

** Taking the Beatles’ catalogue as a whole over a short period of time demonstrated just how much effort the group put into always trying new sounds, new recording techniques and new musical approaches.

These could range from a simple change in how a piano was played (“Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” “Oh Darlin’”) to an entirely radical approach like “Revolution 9.”

This was done out of personal musical interest along with inter-group competition and intra-group competition. It was a key to why the group remained together, creative and popular for far longer than normal bands, particularly those in the rock era.        

To be sure, the three primary songwriters in the group also borrowed liberally from what sounds were popular at the time — Motown, the Beach Boys, Bob Dylan, psychedelia, the Byrds, the Lovin’ Spoonful, the Who, the Kinks — but improved on them and created a sound all their own.

** MacDonald feels the McCartney song “You Never Give Me Your Money” was the earliest musical acknowledgment that the group was coming to a close, particularly its opening verses.

“To anyone who loves the Beatles, the bittersweet nostalgia of this music is hard to hear without a tear in the eye. Here, an entire era — the idealistic, innocent Sixties — is bravely bidden farewell.

“Having regretted this loss, the song shows us what it was all about in a quick kaleidoscopic resume of the group’s ambiguous blend of sadness, subversive laughter and resolute optimism. Everything hangs on the words ‘nowhere to go,’ arrived at ruefully but instantly spun around and seen from the other side: as freedom, as opportunity. The Beatles’ future may be gone but McCartney is determined to salvage their spirit, and that of the Sixties, for his future. ‘You Never Give Me Your Money’ marks the psychological opening of his solo career.”  

** Emerick’s own conclusion about the Beatles’ breakup gave me a new perspective.

He begins with an opinion I found startling, given all his and others’ accounts of how well the Beatles could still get along even as their inter-personal troubles mounted:

“By the end, it’s fair to say that the four Beatles hated one another, for a variety of reasons. It’s actually understandable, considering all the time they’d spent together, stuck in hotel rooms and recording studios for year after year; no wonder they couldn’t wait to get away from one another. When the announcement was made, I couldn’t help but reflect on the fact that it had been almost four years since they’d done their last tour. For four years, they had been doing nothing but recording in that dank, depressing place known as Abbey Road.”  

Emerick goes on the discount the financial squabbles or presence of Yoko Ono as the key reasons for the end of the group, saying Ono was good for Lennon. He concludes:  

“No, I always felt that the main reason for the breakup was irreconcilable artistic differences. John, Paul, and George Harrison simply wanted to follow different paths. John wanted to make art; Paul wanted to continue doing pop music; and George just wanted to pursue his Eastern interests. Sadly, inevitably, there was no common ground anymore, only a common history.”

So, having digested all this material over the last few months, where does that leave me as a Beatles fan?

I’ll explore that in part three of this little exercise, coming tomorrow.