#okay yes we can have a marxist conversation about how it's dangerous to make the commodity

[inkskinned]

oh, i am so enamored with the way the lesson of the velveteen rabbit rings true in our modern life. i love that we name our spaceships and write love poems to old buildings. i love that we all cried about the mars rover, that we made her so real that she was no longer a machine but a friend, a companion, a hero.

i love that we become attached to certain mugs, spoons, mason jars. that we develop a strange protective love-hate of our tablets, that we feel weirdly reverent about our new notebook. we name our cars silly things like the crab shack and call our favorite whisk attachment the one great destroyer.

there's a dog statue at my local park that has a golden back and golden head from how often people have pet it. at my college campus, people love an ugly little pointless sculpture we call bacon pants or bacon legs. we assign personalities to fountains, parks, laptops.

i love that our basic instinct is to include others in our community, even where there isn't a real community to speak of. that we love things, even when they cannot physically love us back - for us, the exchange isn't what's important. we give our heart to things so entirely that the thing begins to, in its own way, have its own heart.

the last transmission from the mars rover was not words; it was data. nevertheless, someone translated for her. my battery is low and it's getting dark. they made her last words a poem. they looked at data and saw a soul, a divine spark.

i keep thinking about the first AI born truly free-thinking. i keep thinking about the way scientists and artists talk about their work. how their eyes light up and their hands start moving, how even when they're flat broke and confused and the coding isn't working - there's this love of the thing. i keep thinking that whatever is being born into this new world will be born here on purpose, over a long time, with great energy. that when it arrives, the first thing it will know is most likely the hands of a creator delighted, overcome.

that we made it in our image. that the image we wrote was one of human compassion within ingenuity. that we couldn't make this thing without it being a labor of real-and-true: love.

[secret-captain-swan-blog]

Castle on the Hill

English Literature PhD student Emma Swan just needs money to pay for her last semester of grad school tuition. Killian Jones has always dreamed of opening a bookshop but has never been able to afford it. So when the small principality of Misthaven is looking for their lost princess, the pair decide that this might just be the perfect money making scheme.

A Multi-chapter Modern Day + Lost Princess (think Rapunzel/Anastasia-esque) + Book Lovers in a Coffee Shop AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 60928/ ?

Prologue (Part 1 + 2) // Ch 1 // Ch 2 // Ch 3 // Ch 4 // Ch 5 // Ch 6 // Ch 7 // Ch 8 // Ch 9 // Ch 10 // Ch 11 // Ch 12

Read on: Ao3

--

Emma finds it most surprising of all, how entirely normal the drive to the queen’s palace becomes. The small chateau has joined the ranks of Mamie’s, the university library, and Killian’s pubs as her favorite of Misthaven haunts. It has a homey comfort to it. Just looking at the familiar trees and twisting road up the hill has Emma craving hot chocolate with cinnamon and the stillness of the royal library.

She realizes that she’s relaxed a bit around Mary Margaret as well. Today, Emma is even wearing jeans, with a cable knit sweater and knotted faux-silk scarf, but still- it’s far more casual than she’s dared to dress before. Because Mary Margaret is startling to feel like family.

The car pulls up the palace and a footman opens the door for her. It looks welcoming, framed with bright red autumn leaves. Emma gets out, swinging her tote bag over her shoulder.

Just as she’s about to enter the palace, the door swings open.

“Excuse me,” A voice says, and Emma looks up, stumbling back, as she realizes that she’s almost run into the Prime Minister.

“Oh sorry, Prime Minister Mills,” Emma mutters.

“Oh, Emma, right?” The woman says, with a tight smile.

“Yeah, it is,” Emma says awkwardly. “Sorry again.”

“It’s not a bother,” She replies, “But I would like to steal you away for a moment.”

Emma gives the woman a puzzled look.

“Let’s take a walk through the gardens, shall we?” The woman suggests.

“Sure, I guess,” Emma agrees. Who is she to argue with the Prime Minister of Misthaven?

They take a turn towards a leaf littered grove.

“I’m not going to waste your time with small talk, so I’ll get to the point. As someone enthusiastic about the liberal arts, I assume you are knowledgeable about the history of Misthaven,” Prime Minister Mills says.

“I am,” Emma agrees.

“Well then, as you know, Queen Mary Margaret lost a lot in the revolution,” the woman explains.

Emma nods. “I’m researching the revolution for my thesis. I know it was a really bad time. A lot of fear and loss of human life.”

“I’m glad you grasp it a bit. Our Queen lost everything- her family, her kingdom. And I��m sorry to say that she still hasn’t recovered,” Regina tells her.

Emma looks up at the prime minister. They’ve reached the copse now. There is a stone bench that Emma thinks that they are going to sit on, but Regina remains standing.

“You should know that she’s latched onto a lot of young girls named ‘Emma’ who fake American accents and try to win her affections. And every time, it’s ended in heartbreak.”

“She’s told me a little,” Emma admits.

“Well than you should be advised to not let that happen. The queen can’t take another heartbreak. The kingdom can’t take any more false hope.”

Emma’s stomach churns. Regina is on to her.

“I’m not saying that’s what you are doing. But I also haven’t ruled on the fact that you aren’t. Everyone wants to be the lost princess. Everyone wants her to exist.”

Emma tries to keep her face from getting splotchy and her eyes from welling with tears. She doesn’t know how to react.

“I’m not- I mean,” Emma says, “Queen Mary Margaret is a friend. We just talk about books and stuff.”

The prime minister gives Emma stern look. “It would be a humiliation to our kingdom if the queen was to be publically made a fool again. Are we clear?”

Emma feels an unfamiliar rage flame inside of her. The queen isn’t some random, poor lady. The queen is the woman who discusses books with her, who buys bear claws when she discovers that Emma likes them, and who tells her that’s she valuable.

“I know that the queen can be a little naïve, but that doesn’t mean she’s stupid,” Emma says, surprised at her own avarice. “She can make decisions for herself. You aren’t her parent. She’s wise and thoughtful. Yes, she’s hopeful, but she’s not a child.”

Regina breathes in sharply and then exhales slowly, with a grimace.

“Miss Swan, she may be the queen, but I am the one in charge of this country now. If I see that your relationship with her majesty is becoming inappropriate or dangerous to our country, I will have to ask you to leave. Are we understood?”

Emma bites her lip and resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“Yes, Madame Prime Minister.”

“Good day to you, Miss Swan.”

Prime Minister Mills turns on her heel and walks off. Emma tries not to giggle as a leaf gets stuff in the woman’s heel as she stomps off through the leaves.

Once she has driven off, Emma sinks down onto the stone bench. She’s shaking. She feels caught, scolded like a child.

Part of her does feel guilty. This whole thing did begin as a rouse to convince the queen. Emma has celebrated each success she’s had in convincing the woman that she’s her long-lost daughter. There has been a voice in Emma’s head this whole time that is thinking about the money, thinking about tuition fees and students loans, and all the burdens that could be removed by the queen’s affections.

But there is another part of her that has let go of that goal or possibility. She thinks back often to the afternoon in the church tower where she told Killian her worries. He reassured her that merely her friendship with the queen was enough. She could sip tea and talk about books with her, and if that was it- that wasn’t bad either. And it’s true. Emma likes Queen Mary Margaret. She enjoys her company and if this is all that happens- Emma knows she is lucky enough.

Emma wants to survive, but she also cares deeply for Mary Margaret.

And there is this weird part of her that thinks that maybe it is okay that Mary Margaret believes that she’s her daughter. Maybe that is truly the best thing for the sovereign. She knows that the woman’s heart won’t rest until she knows that her daughter is found. And Emma wants the woman’s heart to be at rest.

“Emma, darling?” The queen’s voice calls.

“Sorry, I’m out in the garden,” Emma replies, hurrying to her feet.

“Whatever for?” The queen asks, approaching her, doting a kiss on each cheek.

Emma thinks of telling the queen about her conversation with Regina, but thinks better of it. The queen needs not know about it.

“It’s nothing,” Emma says, “I just wanted to take some Instagram pictures of the forest out here. These trees are gorgeous.”

Mary Margaret smiles, “They are lovely, aren’t they? It’s cold though, so let’s go in and get some tea.”

“Okay,” Emma agrees.

It is warmer inside, especially settled inside the Enchanted Forest room. Regina’s words begin to fade out of her head and Emma is able to focus just on Queen Mary Margaret- and well, the fresh apple tart made from the apples in the palace orchards. Seriously, Emma never plans on relinquishing her friendship with the queen, purely because of how good the food is.

“Do you know what Killian is reading?” Emma tells Mary Margaret.

“No tell me,” the queen laughs.

“Jane Eyre,” Emma tells her.

“Oh, I rather like the Brontës. It’s good fall reading with all the spooks,” She says.

Emma nods, “It is. I think Killian will like it. It’s just a bit uncanny. Because, well, he’s found out that he might be a father.”

“Oh Emma, are you pregnant?” The queen asked, eyes wide, a smile on lips.

Emma bursts out laughing and puts her cup of tea down. “Oh my god. Not at all.”

The queen lets out a snort of laughter. “Alright then, what is happening with Mr Jones then?”

“It’s a previous relationship, from when he lived in London,” Emma explains. “He thought the child hadn’t survived, but in fact, he or she had. And now an agency is looking to put the child under Killian’s care.”

“And you think it resembles Mr. Rochester and Adela?”

Emma nods, “I mean I hope he’d be a bit more fond of his child is than Rochester is of Adela. But honestly, he doesn’t know if the child is his or not. We’re going over to London next weekend to see.”

“I see,” The queen says. “And what happens if the child is his?”

Emma can’t stop her face from falling. “I don’t know. He’s not in a great situation to take in a kid. He works at a pub and lives above it. He doesn’t a lot of money or space for child. I’m in no position to help him.”

The queen reaches out and takes her hand.

“It’ll work out Emma,” She says softly. “I know it will. I’ll see to it if I must.”

Emma gives her a weak smile, their conversation changing to an upcoming opera star who will be touring on Friday.

After a while, they end their tea. Emma heads to the palace library with her tote bag of books. She settles in a large, plush armchair and curls up, letting her legs dangle off the side.

She pulls out the stack of books she borrowed from the Southern Valley library. She sets the book of Dutch tales aside, reminding herself to ask Killian to translate those for her soon. She takes out the book of fairy tales criticism and settles into it.

It’s typical literary criticism, full of challenging Marxist, psychoanalytic analysis of familiar tales. She reads through two articles, taking a few pages of notes that she isn’t a hundred percent sure will help her research, but it also can’t hurt it.

She get bored and realizes she needs to change things up, so she reaches back inside the bag. She takes out the hardbound volume of Misthaven Fairy Tales. It’s dark blue with a gold embossed cover.

She feels a tingle run down her spine. She thinks it must be the shear anticipation of reading this volume. She knows it will provide a wealth of information that she’s never accessed before.

Emma rubs her finger of the cover and for a moment she feels as if she has seen it before. But she hasn’t, obviously. She never read a book of Misthaven Fairy Tales growing up. It must be a sort of fake déjà vu, like a memory of a dream.

She flicks open to the first page and is surprised to see it inscribed.

My Dearest Daughter Emma,

I had this book made for you with my favorite tales that my mother told me as a girl. Some of these tales come just from these castle walls and are unique to the Nolan family. I hope you love these stories, not just because they feature princesses like you, but because they tell stories of strength and hope. My wish for you is that you live with strength and hope always, no matter what you face.

Love always,

Your mother

Emma feels a chill sweep through her body. This book was meant for little princess Emma. The same one that she’s pretending to be. But in a way, Emma feels like this book must be a gift for her as well- an insight into uniquely Misthavian fairy tales.

She flips open to the table of contents and her heart begins to beat with anticipation. She has an idea of what she might find here and she’s not sure if she’s ready to find it, for the implications the come with it.

A bit of her wants to close the book and put it back and pretend she’s never seen it, her mind on the verge of a connection she’s not quite ready to make.

So, she takes a deep breath and starts to look through the content. There are some traditional ones, a Misthavian version of Cinderella, a version of Snow White, and a rather creepy sounding one called “The Wooden Doll Mystery.”

Emma turns to the other side of the index page and finds exactly what she dreads, but also, has yearned for for months.

The Yellow Carriage p. 57

She swallows and begins to flick through the book. There are notes handwritten throughout it. “I always loved this part,” the queen writes beside the moment when Cinderella’s slipper fits. “My favorite tale,” she pens next to Snow White’s title. At the top of page 57, Emma finds the following inscription:

This tale is one that has been passed down in the family for years. I’m not sure it exists outside our own royal family. It always reminds me to have hope.

Emma’s hand is shaking as she begins to read.

There was once a stranger who came to town in a yellow carriage. She arrived into town, not a princess, but a foundling, an orphan girl now grown and looking for her family…

Emma settles into the tale with its uncanny resemblance to another one she’s read before. It reads a lot like The Yellow Bug as well. The savior comes to town in the distinctive yellow carriage, looking for her family, but instead finds she can speak to animals. She speaks to a small duckling who tells her of a missing egg and the whole adventure begins from there.

It’s a short tale, only a few pages of the anthology, so her hands are still shaking when she stops. Tears play at her eyes as she tries to take in all the feelings bubbling up inside her- confusion, betrayal, hurt, loss- she can hardly make sense of it. But she knows two facts, resoundingly well:

She found the source text for The Yellow Bug.

She finally knows the identity of Blanche Neige.

“Emma, I brought you some cocoa,” a voice interrupts.

She looks up to see the one person she can’t even stomach to see holding a cup of cocoa.

Emma drops the book when she sees Mary Margaret walk in, some sort of gut reaction, wanting to be done with the whole thing.  But the woman can see it too, and now she knows, that Emma knows.

“Oh Emma,” Mary Margaret says, putting the cocoa down at the table by the door and crossing the room to her.

Emma doesn’t know how to speak. She hasn’t processed enough to put words to all the upsetting emotions she’s feeling right now.

“How could you?” She finally musters. “How could you not tell me?”

The sovereign kneels before Emma’s chair.

“How could I?” She responds. “What would I say?”

“I don’t know, maybe ‘I’m Blanche Neige,’” Emma mutters, her words still wobbly from the mixture of tears and shock.

“It’s not that easy,” The woman says.

“How?” Emma asks, her voice raising. “How is it that hard? We are friends. We trust each other. I’m horrible, absolutely shitty at trusting people, but I trust you.”

“I know,” The queen says. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Emma. It’s really not.”

“For months, ever since we first discussed her, I’ve felt horribly guilty about my infatuation with her. You made me feel ashamed. You made me feel callas to atrocity. I’ve been haunted by it and it was all for nothing.”

“I’m sorry Emma.”

“But, why? You say you trust me, but clearly you don’t. You don’t care about me. So, tell me the reasons? Because I can’t think of single good reason.”

Emma runs her hand through her hair. Her agitation is making her feel clammy. She just wants to escape. She wishes she never picked up that book.

“I wanted to tell you as soon as you said you loved Blanche Neige, but I couldn’t for several reasons.

“The first being that no one knows. Not my publisher. Not my agent. Not Regina. Not my dearest friends. No one knows. I’ve written everything under a penname because I’ve had to. There is no other choice for me. And I can’t, I could never risk anyone finding out. Just think what people would think about the books, just think for one moment, because I think of it all the time.”

“So it’s trust, it’s got to be a trust thing then,” Emma says. “I understand not wanting people to know, but these book are my life, their research my livelihood.”

“Then you understand the second reason,” The queen explains. “What would happen to your research if it was found out that you were close friends with the author?”

Emma pauses her frustration and swallows. Because she knows it’s at least a little bit true.

“Your research would be compromised,” The queen says harshly. “You know that, Emma.”

“Okay, fine,” Emma snaps, “but that doesn’t justify making me feel like a horrible person for liking Blanche Neige. You didn’t need to guilt trip me about it.”

“I just didn’t want you to bring it up again,” The queen tells her.

Emma’s never noticed how shrill and annoying Mary Margaret’s voice sounds, but not it irritates her in a way she didn’t know was possible.

“Don’t you understand, Emma? That’s how I feel every day. I was the one who was trapped in a different country profiting off the loss. My family, my friends- they were all murdered, and why? So I could write novel about them?” She tells her.

Emma wants to feel bad for her. But honestly, she can’t manage any sympathy for this ridiculous, lying woman.

“I’m disgusted with myself for writing them,” the queen whispers. “I had to write them. I couldn’t do nothing. But I feel sick whenever I think about it. Me, stuck in Norway, away from oppressive regime, the rationing, the violence, just writing stories.”

Emma feels a rage bubble up inside of her, fueled by rage, unable to be reined in.

“Yeah, you’re right. You disgust me too,” Emma says.

She gets up, shoving her books back into her bag.

“Emma, stop, you don’t understand-“

Emma hitches the tote over her shoulder.

“Oh no, I understand,” Emma says, “You lied to me. You lied to everyone.”

Emma walks towards the door of the library.

“Please Emma, don’t tell anyone.”

Emma pauses. She frankly wants to tell everyone and let everyone know what a fraud Mary Margaret is. But she can’t bring herself to do that. Especially not with her research at stake.

She doesn’t know what to say and turns, slaming the library door, before running through the halls and out of the castle.

A driver is waiting outside when she arrives. She doesn’t want to use the Queen’s vehicle, now that they’ve seriously quarreled, but she doesn’t know what else to do. She stuck on top of a mountain dammit. And it’s somehow gotten much colder since she was outside earlier.

“Can you drive me back to town?” Emma asks him.

He nods and she gets into the car. He drives down the mountain as a few of the earliest fall flurries come drifting down. Emma leans her forehead against the window and shivers.

She feels an enormity of emotion resting on her. Betrayal. Hurt. Loss. Relief. She doesn’t know how to make sense of it all. She thinks about how each of those made a fine bottle. A bottle of hurt. A bottle of loss. Two or three bottles of betrayal. She adds them to her walls, watching them as they build themselves higher with this hurt, shooting up at the betrayal. As she’s always been, she’s safe inside the sky-high walls.

“Any place you’d like to be dropped off in particular, milday?” The chauffer asks.

Emma wants to go back to her apartment, but she can’t. If she goes home, she’ll think of this over and over until she goes crazy. She thinks of stopping instead at Mamie’s, but that means she’ll likely see Killian. She’s not ready to talk to Killian about this. She needs to throw herself into something else.

“The Misthaven University Library,” Emma insists.

He drops her off in front of the familiar old library a few minutes later. Emma sighs at the familiar grey stone façade, the anticipation of the wood paneling and smell of old books.

She thinks of Mary Margaret telling her about how she used to sneak into the library as a girl. Stop, no. Emma bottles that up as well.

“Thanks,” She says, getting out of the vehicle. It’s even colder outside and Emma shivers for a moment as she walks outside. She crosses the short distance to entrance and walks into the warm inside. She swipes into the library and heads to find a table.

She absolutely cannot read any fairytale anthologies now, and besides, her hunt is over. She still hasn’t processed what this revelation means for research and she’s not sure that she’s ready to. She needs to focus on something completely different. Instead, she picks up the stack of The Scarlet Letter essays that her undergrads turned into her. Yes, a few hours of reading some obnoxious papers about American literature sounds like the perfect antidote to her traumatic afternoon.

She goes to the coffee cart in the library and gets a crappy cup of coffee, before returning to her table and diving into the essay writing.

Killian is getting suspicious when Emma doesn’t send any messages all afternoon. He knows that she’s meeting with the queen for tea, but normally by 5 or so, she’s done and sending him text updates. It’s nearly 7 now and Killian is starting to get nervous. Perhaps it’s an overreaction, but he decides he might as well catch up with Emma.

He pops by Mamie’s to see if she’s there. She’s been found many a time having a late-night study session. But it’s empty when he arrives.

“I haven’t seen her today,” Ruby’s Mamie says, knowing immediately what he’s there for.

He nods and heads to the tram. A short trip later, he’s arrived at Emma’s apartment. He rings her bell several times, but to no avail. She’s either not home, or totally avoiding him. While they did have a skirmish a month ago, he believes they are on the same page now.

He’s got one last guess as to where Emma could be. He walks back to the tram and heads instead to the university. He heads into the Misthaven U library.

“Sorry, do you have your student ID?” Asks a student at the entrance of the library.

Damn, Killian thinks momentarily, before realizing he’s not sure if he’ll get in. Luckily, an excuse arises easily.

“Ah, sorry mate, I left my ID here earlier. That’s why I’m back to grab it from the lost and found before I head out,” Killian lies, hoping that it will fly.

“Oh right on, mate,” The guy tells him, letting him through.

Killian heads to the long room of the library. Even in the low light, he finds Emma one of the large rows of tables. She’s working intently, marking up a stack of papers with a bright red pen. Her hair has formed a curtain around her face, and for a moment, he’s afraid he might frighten her. But she looks up, just as he’s about to slide into the chair across from her.

“How did you find me?” She asks.

“I had a hunch that if you weren’t replying to my texts, it meant you were hard at work at something,” He teases.

“Hard at work distracting myself,” Emma says.

“Tea went poorly?” He asks, letting an eyebrow lift.

“You don’t even know,” Emma says, burrowing her face in her folded arms.

“And you are distracting yourself by reading,” he glances down at the stack of papers on her table, his forehead creasing, “by reading The Scarlet Letter papers. Crikey, Emma. What happened?”

“I honestly don’t want to talk about it right now,” Emma says. “I’m quite adamently trying to not think of it.”

“Hmm,” says Killian, wetting his lips. “Sounds like you need something to take your mind off this.”

“Gladly,” Emma replies, looking up from her folded hands.

“I know just the place,” Killian grins.

Emma runs her hand through her hair. “Seriously?”

“Yes, and it’s a mite bit more exciting than Nathaniel Hawthorne, so grab your stuff,” He teases.

Emma rolls her eyes and starts shoving papers into her tote, but Killian can’t help but smile. He doesn’t know exactly what burdens are weighting on her, but he wants to do anything he can to help. And she’s letting him help. This is huge.

He nods her to the door.

“You found it?” The lad at the door asks.

“Exactly what I was looking for,” Killian replies, smiling.

It’s totally dark when they get outside. Emma shivers and he wordlessly takes her hand. It’s the most affection they’ve ever showed in public. He’s not sure how she’ll react. In fact, the moment he takes her hand, he’s positive it’s a Bad Idea. Emma struggles with intimacy and he doesn’t want to stress her out with everything else that’s distressing her right now.

But she surprises him by squeezing his hand and resting her head against his shoulder for a moment as she leans into him.

He turns and gives her a smile, before they head to the tram.

They ride on the tram a few more stops past where they normally get off in Old Town. Normally, Emma would be asking about their destination, eagerly looking through the window. But today she’s slumped in her seat. Something must definitely be up.

His guess is that she’s been found out. The queen must have discovered their scheme. This is quite unfortunate. He knows that Emma and Queen Mary Margaret have a strong friendship and this would have thrown it off. Killian feels sad for and hopes that Emma won’t be kicked out of the country or anything reactionary on the Queen’s part.

“This is our stop,” He tells her, as they head off tram and into Misthaven’s North Neighborhood.

The North Neighborhood is an artsy area, full of decorated murals and funky bars. They walk past an arty café where a poetic reading is taking place, both of lingering for a few moments taking in some of the words as they echo out. There is a corner side park a few blocks down with a small memorial.

“This area was a violent area during the revolution,” Killian explains, following Emma’s eyes. “There were a lot of secret meetings that took place here. Eventually they got found out. 14 people died in a warehouse a few blocks from here.”

Emma nods solemnly.

“But we aren’t here to look at his memorial. Let’s get somewhere a bit warmer.” He says.

They walk a few blocks down, till they reach an iron gate connected to a wall that surrounds an enclosure.

“Uh, Killian,” Emma remarks. “This appears locked.”

“Hush, love,” He says.

Killian take out his phone and calls an old friend.

“Bonjour Hugo. C’est Killian. Est-ce que possible que tu peux ouvrir la porte de la jardin?” He asks the man.

“Pour toi, Killian? Bien sur,” He voice replies.

The gates open before him and Killian expresses his thanks to his friend.

“Where are we?” Emma asks. “And why are you speaking French?”

Killian laughs he takes a step inside the gates, whisking his hand into a pose to indicate that Emma should enter. A smile tugs at her lips as she follows him in.

“We are at the Misthaven Botanical Gardens,” He finally explains. “And that was Hugo. He’s an old friend.”

“Let me guess,” Emma supplies, “You helped him clean his garden when he first arrived in Misthaven.”

“Look at that Swan, you’re catching on,” He teases. “Indeed. I helped him tidy the national gardens in exchange for sleeping in a shed for a month or two.”

“You’ve got to be the most helpful person around,” Emma teases.

“Well I came here with basically nothing and the country was doing just as bad as I was, so it was easy to make some bargains,” He tells her.

Killian remembers that time of his life. For a few months, it was repairing roofs in exchange for a warm dinner from the old lady whose house was demolished. Or it was shining floors in the art museum in exchange for sleeping on a plush bench. Until he got his gig at the pub, his only way of sustaining himself was being helpful.

“Just another survival technique, love,” He murmurs.

She nods, her countenance full of understanding.

“So are we going to walk around a weird dark garden or what?” Emma asks, rocking back and forth on her feet.

“One moment, Swan,” He says. He walks over to a lever on the wall and flicks the switch.

The garden erupts with light. Fairy lights are hung along the garden walls, inside greenhouses, and along the paths. The place sparkles in their glow, giving light to elegant displays of flowers.

The best however is watching Emma’s face as she takes it in. It starts with a small smile as a few lights go on, but erupts into a full-on combination of a grin and a gasp as she takes it all in.

“Consider me impressed, and distracted,” She laughs.

He mirrors her smile, as he reaches his hand out to hers.

“Come on, love. I’ll show you the conservatory,” He tells her.

He leads her past the rows of late autumn flowers along the way and into the greenhouse. The moment they walk in, everything is much warmer. There are enough palmed plants to make it feel like a jungle.

“This is wonderful, Killian,” Emma remarks. “I feel like I’m in a movie or something.”

She steps onto a bench, still holding Killian’s hand. “I am sixteen, going on seventeen,” She sings, lightly and totally off key.

Killian lets out a chuckle. Emma sits down on the bench and beckons Killian to sit down beside her.

“Are you going to tell me about why you are in so much distress?” Killian asks.

Emma sighs, and buries in her face in her hands. He rubs a hand down her back, hoping it will sooth her. He’s been trying to distract her, but he also knows he can’t help her heal until she tells him what is distressing her.

“So, Mary Margaret is Blanche Neige,” Emma tells him.

He inhales sharply. Whatever he was expecting, it isn’t this.

“The source text,” Emma explains, “it was from the castle.”

Killian makes the connection, a flickering memory of him and Princess Emma tucked in bed with the queen as she reads them a bedtime story on a snowy evening. The yellow carriage. Of course.

“A thin volume of just Misthaven tales?” Killian asks.

Emma nods, “Embossed cover. I found over the weekend in the Southern Valley Palace, but I just read it today. You remember it?”

“Only now that you brought the memory up,” He explains.

“Anyway,” Emma says, “I didn’t know what to do. She walked in with a cup of cocoa and cinnamon or whatever. And I just exploded at her and stormed out.”

Killian stops rubbing her back, instead just wrapping his arm around her in support.

“Did she say why she didn’t tell you the truth?” Killian asks.

Emma shrugs, “Fear her story would get out, guilt over hiding out during the Dark Times. I mean I guess those are good reasons. But I’m still upset.”

“That’s understandable,” Killian agrees. “I’d be angry about that sort of thing too.”

“I don’t know what it means. Can I still write my dissertation on her? Is that ethical or allowed? I don’t even know how these things work.” Emma wonders out loud.

“I don’t see why not,” Killian says. “But then again, I was never in a university class, so I’m not sure how that works.”

Emma sighs and frowns.

“I say it’s a perfect time for a holiday,” Killian says. “We’re going to London next weekend. It sounds like it’s time for you to take a bit of a break.”

“I can’t-“ Emma begins.

“If you take a break it will clear your mind and you’ll be able to deal with this with fresh eyes.”

“I guess,” Emma admits.

“Come on,” Killian says, “Let’s look around the conservatory a bit and then we’ll get you home.”

He leads her through various rooms of the giant greenhouse. There is a desert room full of various cacti. There is another of tropical flowers and a trickling waterfall.

“This reminds me of Belle’s family’s business,” Emma tells him. “Her and her dad have this flower shop called Game of Thorns. In the winter, they have greenhouses full of poinsettias.”

Killian likes the way Emma’s face gets wistful when she talks about it.

“Do you spend every Christmas with her?” He asks.

She nods, “Since I’ve started college I have. I don’t really have anywhere else to go to. My foster mom from high school went nuts. Conspiracy theories and weird stuff, you know? I didn’t want to go back to her once I was out of the system.”

Killian nods.

“Belle’s place sounded better than being homeless for Christmas break,” Emma told him. “And it stuck.”

They walk into another room, this one with roses climbing up a trellised wall.

“Will you go back this year?” He asks.

“I’m planning on it. My next PhD semester begins in January, so it’s best I head home before then. I need to see if I can get approved for a private loan or something,” Emma mutters.

Killian feels something akin to dread swirl in his stomach. For the first time, he realizes that his friendship, and potential relationship, with Emma has a deadline. She’s leaving for Christmas. And then she’ll be back in America and he’ll be too broke to ever visit her, or see her again.

He thinks to months ago when he told Emma his dream was a bookshop. It still is. He’d love that. But he’s come to realize that his dream is also her. He wants her in his life securely.

“You okay?” She asks, turning back to look at him.

“Right as rain, love,” He says. “Shall we get you home? You’ve had an exhausting day.”

They walk back through the North Neighborhood. The atmosphere has changed. The coffee shops and cocktails are replaced by funky beats coming out of warehouse bars. They board the tram in their usual fashion and the train moves, winding back through town, past the castle on the hill and opera house and St. Anne’s Cathedral. He doesn’t get off at Old Town, instead taking the train all the way up to Emma’s neighborhood. Disembarking, crossing the canal, they head for Emma’s apartment.

He wonders if maybe he should have gotten off at a different stop, if it was presumptuous to assume that Emma would want him to stay. But as soon as they enter, she puts on the electric kettle.

“I’m going to change into pajamas,” She tells him, heading towards her bedroom.

“I’ll finish making tea,” Killian supplies.

When he’s pouring a dash of milk into each mug, Emma walks out of her room in a pair of floral pajama pants and a grey tank top. In her hands are a pair of sweat pants.

“Here,” she says, “They’re extra-large. If you want to stay.”

Killian feels the tips of his ears going red and feels suddenly shy.

“Sure, Swan,” He says, scratching behind his head, “If you’ll have me.”

It’s not long after that they are sitting in her bed, pajama clad with mugs in hand.

“Can you keep me distracted?” Emma asks.

“Certainly,” Killian offers. “I can read to you. Jane Eyre?”

“Not Jane Eyre,” Emma says.

“More Princess Bride?” He offers.

She nods, snuggling into him. “That sounds good.”

He reads to her until her eyes flutter closed. He has to rescue her half-full tea mug from spilling all over her bed. He flicks off the light and tucks them both into the bed.

It’s later, in the middle of night, when he awakens to her sniffles. He knows she’s crying. She had been trying to hide her hurt all evening, but he can hear it raw now. He pulls her against himself, relishing in the feeling of her back against his bare chest.

“It’s going to be okay, Emma,” He whispers, even though he feels sleep pulling him down. He finds the energy to tuck a kiss behind her ear and to listen to her soft sigh as she relaxes into him.

Tagging some pals: @sambethe @lenfaz @pocket-anon @the-corsair-and-her-quill@kmomof4@kiwistreetswan@princesseslikepirates @timeless-love-story@shady-swan-jones@katie-dub@1handedpiratewithadrinkingprob@midnightswans

[republicstandard]

Video Games Turned Me Into a Nazi

Hail The Guardian for saying what we're all thinking despite reams of academic data to the contrary. Games are far right tools of indoctrination. Every Head-Crab you crowbarred to death in Half-Life makes The Wall a few inches higher. Do you really think the aliens in that game were called 'Race X' for no reason? Wake up, racist gamers.

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"Although affected by context, video games have long focused on the expulsion of “aliens” (Space Invaders to XCOM), fear of impure infection (Half-Life to The Last of Us), border control (Missile Commander to Plants vs Zombies), territory acquisition (Command & Conquer to Splatoon), empire building (Civilization to Tropico), princess recovery (Mario to Zelda), and restoration of natural harmony (Sonic to FarmVille).

Second, video games put the user to work on an instinctual level, making the gamer feel impulsive agreement with these ideologies."

Sonic is a Nazi now. So writes Alfie Bown with a sub-par rehash of Sigmund Freud's most outdated ideas. This piece isn't going to be a slam dunk piece on how stupid that idea is; Twitter has already trampled it into the dust, and I'll splatter a few choice tweets like alien brain matter through this piece for your delectation. I want more to have a look beyond Alfie Bown and his reductive nonsense to the deeper tale. For years now we have talked about a certain pursuit being the Fountain of all Evil, corrupting the young and making the world a degenerate place. Bown is making an ideological argument instead of the intellectual one. There is an argument to be made that the ever-presence of technology as a whole has changed humans. Have you ever found yourself alone at a restaurant table and discovered you were suddenly online? This is followed by the not quite understood social faux-pas of someone returning from the bathroom whilst you are in the midst of tweet composition. Do you delay interaction with someone in the real world while you drop knowledge bombs on anime avatars? This applies to messages, Facebook, and yes mobile games are included. This is a conversation that should about what effect our technology has had on our attention span and our willingness to be alone with ourselves for any fraction of time- not that there are political ideologies being stealthed into our culture through shoot 'em ups that will make you a race realist.

Yes, you read that correctly, XCOM has xenophobic undertones; it doesn’t matter if your squad was a beacon of diversity or that you were defending yourself from a hostile alien force that sought out to violently subjugate humanity, those aliens represent refugees, silly!

— Bunty King ♔ (@realbuntyking) March 12, 2018

So, how is it that we still see claims of video games being the root of all evil? Because psychologically we are trapped in a confusing reality of polarized political opinions that are resistant to change. I don't know if any leftists read this magazine, but let me assure you- this isn't an attack on left ideology per se, though I have come to see incredibly dangerous flaws in that thinking. This mental cage we have built for society is not a left or right wing idea, it is a deeper concept, one of a purity test. The Christian Right burnt records by The Beatles, and racists attacked Elvis for bringing the corrupting power of Black music to White audiences. Now we see the Regressive Left building another filter through which to strain the dregs of culture, and this frame is fixated on trying to understand how people come to be woke on ideas like ingroup preference within ethnic groups, replacement migration, the Islamification of Europe and even that it is okay to be White.

The answer when you are viewing the world from a purely ideological perspective is of course that all the evil in the world comes from who you believe are your enemies. Bown believes that what he thinks of as conservative ideas like border control and sexual dimorphism are not just ideas to be contended with and argued against, but examples of impurity in society. As his own subheading states:

"Violent, isolationist and misogynist desires course through games – and push rightwing ideologies on players."

A better statement would be perhaps- violent, isolationist and misogynist experiences course through humanity itself. We might disagree with this and wish to become more than the animal we are, but this hierachy still exists! How we deal with this and reconcile the advanced mind of human beings with the animalistic, tribal desires of the beasts within is important. That might be a good question- instead, Bown projects behavioral traits onto people as a group through their shared activity- the classic GamerGate tactic which the records show doesn't work and makes you look rather silly in the process.

As we know,  Fritz Heider (1958) suggested that we have a tendency to give causal explanations for someone’s behavior, often by crediting either the situation or the person’s disposition- this is Attribution Theory. I hold this statement to be true, born out by observing reality as impartially as we can. You are a Nazi because I disagree with you and you are a Nazi because you do this unrelated action that I think made you into even more of a Nazi. This is the argument from the Left today- this is the anti-Gamer Gate argument, this is the argument that led to Martin Sellner, Brittany Pettibone and Lauren Southern being denied entry to the United Kingdom. It is this attitude that leads to Tommy Robinson being attacked in the street by masked men and the disruption of lectures by Carl Benjamin, Peter Boghossian, Christina Hoff Sommers and Jordan Peterson to name but a few.

Because these people are overtly opposed to broad church Progressivism, they are attributed with the trait of being a known fascist. This perspective is reinforced because they give speeches against Progressivism- that means, against authoritarian states, against neo-Marxism- they take actions that confirms their opinions, they are authentic in this manner, realized. That's the second attribution, now we have a physical and psychological image of who these people are in our minds, we know they are not just in disagreement, they act, and they are acting against us so they must be our enemies too and that is why we have to suppress or stop them. If you are familiar with Jeanette Falarca and her group By Any Means Necessary you will see how far this line of thinking will justify violence and harassment towards people who have been labeled as Nazis.

I was in his lair fighting him on a platform over lava, where the platform kept shifting, trying to throw us both off of it. I persevered, and as Iggy was thrown into the lava at the end of our battle, he shouted out, "have you read Mein Kampf?!" before slowly burning to death.

— Colin Moriarty (@notaxation) March 12, 2018

Attacking video games is a method leftists have struck on to try and explain to each other why their enemies exist. This indicates such a paucity of discourse between politically engaged people that we are looking at a discourse-less future of disagreement, and with the effective banning of right-wing opinions in totality in the United Kingdom, this future can only be violent.

Because someone disagrees with you does not make them an enemy that needs to be dehumanized and destroyed. Bown argues that video games can cause violent behavior along ideological lines as the themes in video games are not neo-Marxist. Well, isn't that just an expression that he feels that his ideology is losing in an arms race? I disagree with his premise, but surely his conclusion is the worst form of tribalism also.

"Currently, the new desires incubated by games lean far to the right, and without more progressive games on the market (though some are emerging), the future may be even bleaker than the political present."

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The link in that quote is to a Kotaku article about a video game that is about making a socialist society. It is not that Bown cares about the potential of technology (including video games) to alter humanity. He cares that technology is not being used to change humans in the right way according to his ideological beliefs. As a society we have to transcend this partisan thinking or at least find a neutral field in which our polarizing beliefs can engage with each other without descending into demonization. The survival of our civilization depends on it.

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[scarlett13posts-blog]

Today, it’s Wednesday.  It’s an ordinary day, not unlike all the other ordinary days.  Tuesdays are particularly ordinary, except that we live in extraordinary times.  So, ordinary is leaning toward frightening, maybe even catastrophic.  We’re not the kind of extraordinary like, “today, not one poor person went hungry.”  Or, “Every child was safe from abuse.”  Or better yet, “Today everyone was granted liberty with no stipulation or recourse.”  Today is the kind of extraordinary like new words being made up and used by mainstream followers...like “covfefe.”  Absurdity is now the new norm.  

No… our extraordinary leads to curious minds wanting to know, “what else are we about to be astounded by today?”  I’m actually not being dramatic when I use the word ‘astounded.’  I mean, every day seems to bring about Lewis Carrol’s, Alice’s poised declaration with every new soundbite, “curiouser and curiouser.”  Our political dynamics are polarizing.  Our nation is being ripped apart by the right and the left who refuse to adhere to the abusive patriarchal guys in the right-wing dominated government who aim to strip rights and dignity away from anyone not white, Christian or male.  Then, as if that’s not insulting enough to our dignity and intelligence, we have their women who are “in support” and go along with it, either out of religious conviction, or they enjoy the fruits of their political husband’s labors.  Needless to say, I live in fear every day.  Panic is like an oil leak.  It’s slow at first.  No one knows about it unless some lame fake news reporter decides to expound on the dangers or that it’s even happening at all.

I don’t live in fear every day as if one day there will be a need that I will not be able to meet, although I am clear that economic fragility can lead to empty shelves in the grocery store.  I am a white woman who will never not have my needs met, driven, and by my own accord, I will meet them myself.  I’m clear that I’m advantaged because of where I fell in the natural lottery.  I am a part of a privileged class and yet, I fear for myself and all other humans as my privileges are slowly being revoked simply because I have… well… I have a{whispers at table} vagina.  I’m clear that that is such a vulgar word to those who practice supreme prudence… or supreme judgment of others.  “HOLD THE PHONE...we got a bleeder!”  But, I’m the gal who’s gonna call it like I see it. I say the things you don’t like to hear in vulgar and course manners because I’m angry and afraid.   I also feel justified in employing such vulgarity because we are living in vulgar times.  White washed speeches on the steps of capitals and in school libraries somehow try to nullify the direct impact dangerous decisions have on the vulnerable and the weak.

In any case, I fear that one day soon, myself, sisters, and the men who bravely supported us; proud that we worked so hard for ours and our daughters' personal liberties; God-given and Man pardoned, will have our rights ripped away, through heinous laws and brute Christian values.  If you’d like to know what I mean by heinous, please research “abortion okay if permitted by rapist.”  I’m clear that if I was a more poor woman of color or a part of some disenfranchised group that would or would have been not only a stark reality but a pre-existing condition.  The vagina thing though.  That pretty much sums it up for all of us as we have political leaders relying on religious text to sway the believers or non-believers to their side.  {“And men...they’ll bring you breakfast in bed on Sunday morning.”}  Won’t THAT just be grand?  Yes.  Our political climate is like the feeble but last power grab of the white man, whose greatest fear is that he will be a minority in America and he will be forced to concede some of his power with women.  “What?  You mean I can’t grab her by the pussy and get away with it?”  “Oh… wait...yes I can because I have money and I’m talking gibberish to monkeys.”  Seems a good deal of my countrymen, both male and female have turned into rPozac eating sheep whose herd mentality is beyond staggering.  To date, I have never been more ashamed.  I have never feared more to stay.  

Clearly, we are sinners and it’s up to those who Jesus talks to personally, the extreme right to set us straight and to set us on the righteous path that God intended.  See...white men are still under the impression that God, whoever THAT is...has deemed them dominant over us all.  Women.  Blacks.  Latinos.  And, heaven forbid you are a transgender individual or a gay black, Muslim woman.  You are the lowest of the low.  That’s okay, state-sponsored conversion therapy will fix you right up.  Seems the conservative Christian doesn’t want the individual to thrive or to question their authority, which has been handed down by God Himself, whoever that is.  They are the all knowing, closest to God, whoever that is, and we should all cower below them, thank them for the privilege of being subservient to them as they know what is best for us, our elders and our children.  But, if you are poor, please don’t ask for food or medicine.  Clearly, any handouts will empty out your soul.  

My anxiety is through the roof what, with all the political attacks on liberal media.  Conservatives don’t like him because he’s not cruel enough.  Moderates hate him because he is too cruel.  And, well, the left?  We’ll be the first to go if there was ever a social media round-up of all transgressors and aggressors of the newly North Korean style propaganda that is churning out of the White House like sludge out of a clogged pipe.  Otherwise known as shit, but how vulgar do we need to get?  I debate myself daily on getting off social media, but I feel a responsibility to stay informed.  At what cost though?  Prozac?  Valium?   No.  I will not consent to volunteer to be a zombie.  I need to be fully awake as well as infusing some modicum of sense.  I need to be present to moderate between insanity and reality.  

One thing I do know though.  Today is a Wednesday.  It’s an ordinary day in extraordinary times.  So far, no nuclear detonations have taken place, so there’s that.  So far, the left hasn’t been rounded up for re-education camps.  Things aren’t that bad.  I’m sure the Republicans were holding on with bated breath for Obama to round up the rights.  That’s what my country has become.  It was North v. South.  It was black v. white.  It was pro-life v. pro-choice.  Now it’s Pro-extreme right v. Pro-extreme left.  We are a cancerous nation currently, making ourselves vulnerable to whatever boogiemen we’ve been fighting beyond our borders.  We are stock-piling guns on both sides.  There is anti-immigrant, anti-Muslim, anti-Mexican, anti-woman sentiment everywhere and people wonder why anxiety is through the roof.  Even male college students are under attack for buying into the feminist slash Marxist regime.  They are called women for supporting our rights.  I guess education is a bad thing too.  The only thing I ever had a problem with was the skinny jeans and the lack of interpersonal skills of the young people who will vote during the next election.  I hope Pokemon-Go dashes behind the rigged election machines and lands on the button for moderate officials who seek to restore national sanity.