#so metaphors abound!

[rollercoasterwords]

ok sorry now i am thinking about how. logan smiled when kendall tried to kill him. and kendall saying "he made me hate him and then he died." bc like...yeah he made u hate him but he also made u him. obviously we don't know the details on logan's backstory but we can garner enough to know that hatred + specifically hatred of the father figure fundamentally shaped him--made him into a killer, a person who could run the family business the way he did. logan needed kendall to be as ruthless as he himself was; he needed to know kendall would do whatever it took to come out on top, step on anyone to get there, including his family, including his father. the paradox of logan roy is that he demands his family's loyalty but then views that loyalty as a weakness, as subservience, as being too willing to bend. i truly do think that the moment when kendall got on live tv and went after his father again, after failing so utterly the first time--that little smile on logan's face...i think that's what cemented kendall as successor in logan's mind. kendall is the dog that logan kicked until it finally bit back, because he needed to know that it would bite.

and now logan gets what he wanted: control. he gets to haunt the family from beyond the grave; he gets to live on as a ghost in kendall--even his name is right there, Kendall Logan Roy. he's dead but he's already resurrected himself in his son. kendall will keep doing what daddy wants and he'll be ruthless enough to do it because logan made kendall hate him so much. and u can see that kendall is trying to deny it, trying to tell himself and his siblings that it'll be different, that he wants them all together--but look at what's already happening. look at what's already playing out. roman throws shiv under the bus and ingratiates himself to kendall because he'll do anything to just keep close. shiv swallows the promise that this is real because she wants it to be, but she already knows she's been shoved aside. kendall makes roman think his voice is valued, but then goes over his head to do what's best for business--which he can only do because he doesn't have the same loyalty to logan. because logan made kendall hate him. and now kendall's a killer and roman's still a dog and shiv is still a little girl and connor is still a nobody. and logan roy is still there, haunting all of them.

[please1mistress]

FASHING IMAGE WARNING

COVERT HYPNOSIS AHEAD

Let's face it, you are reading this because the flashing image caught your eye and you saw under it that there may be some hypnosis that is covert. If you aren't aware of it, hypnosis is a heighten sense of awareness where the mind becomes more suggestable and sometimes that can happen as you read something that draws you in deeper and deeper as you focus on the words. It's like the mind's magical mystery tour. Imagine your brain as a bustling city with thoughts zooming around like cars in rush hour traffic. Now, enter hypnosis: it's like a traffic controller who steps in, slows everything down, and directs your attention to a scenic detour. It's this state of deep relaxation and laser-sharp focus that allows me to suggest new traffic routes in your brain, helping you change habits, relieve stress, or even find lost keys in the sofa of your subconscious.

Hypnosis isn't really SLEEP, though some might think you're just snoozing with style. And forget the old pocket watch swinging; today's Hypno-Dominants are more likely to use soothing words and imagery, not bling, to guide you into this trance state. So, while you won't be barking like a dog at the snap of a finger (unless that's your thing—no judgment), you might just find yourself embracing that deeper submissive part of your mind. The part you want to hide from others, after all, you have fantasies, and fantasies lead to desires, and desires lead to needs, and needs become wants, and wants become wishes, and wishes become dreams, and dreams become patterns, and patterns become repetitive, repetition becomes hypnotic, and hypnotic becomes habits, and habits become beliefs, and beliefs become reality, and reality becomes your new self.

You deeply want to relax and focus on my words. In a world where distractions abound, focusing on my words can sometimes feel like trying to thread a needle on a rollercoaster. But fear not, for the power of focused concentration is within you. Just, Imagine your mind as a magnifying glass, intensifying the sun's rays to ignite the fire of understanding. With each word, you're building a bridge to your desires, one brick at a time. So, let's put on our metaphorical hard hats and construct the cathedral of this hypno-fetish that I know deep down you have, where every word is a stained glass window, illuminating the mysteries of your fetish. Remember, when you focus on my words, you're not just reading; you're in a light suggestible state, where I can easily manipulate your mind on a deeper level.

Each image you scroll past on tumblr, implants a small suggestion in your mind without you being aware of it, so it's easy to RELAX and read my words here as you FOCUS deeper on your real desire to submit and give a dominant like myself deeper control over your thoughts and desires on this epic quest for submission and pleasure, with each sentence a step on the path to enslavement. Happy focusing!

[goodqueenaly]

Not to be too "true crime" about, but it you think Jaehaera Targaryen was actually murderer and if what she had survived her fall?

Spoiler alert: it was Unwin Peake.

I don’t find any of the alternative explanations (other than the rather obvious one above) for Jaehaera’s death very convincing. While Jaehaera was certainly a very traumatized child, the proffered explanations as to why she would have chosen that moment to end her life seem rather thin: at no other point does Jaehaera appear to express sympathy for Rhaena (such that she would be so traumatized at the news of the latter's miscarriage), or jealousy of Baela (over the latter’s continued pregnancy), and the idea that Jaehaera “loved the king with all her heart” and mourned that he “paid her no mind” and “showed her no affection” appears at odds with the queen who was “loath to leave her chambers” where she “had seemed content … with her maids and ladies, her kittens and her dolls”. Likewise, Gyldayn himself acknowledges that while rumors abounded blaming the king, or Cassandra Baratheon, or one or more of the queen’s servants for her death, “[w]ith hindsight, we can say for a fair certainty that none of these played any role in” Jaehaera’s death. This is not, I think, an inaccurate take from Gyldayn either. Aegon was definitely withdrawn and gloomy, but he was certainly no child sadist as young Maegor the Cruel had been, and his lack of interest in either his queen or partisan vengeance argues against any role he may have had in killing her. Cassandra Baratheon may not have liked Jaehaera, but the rumor that she had had the queen killed seems to stem more from antagonistic scheming by Unwin Peake, the better to promote his own daughter, rather than any real motivation on Cassandra’s part (and you might think Cassandra would have admitted, alluded to, or been questioned about any role she might have had in Jaehaera’s death during the unraveling of the poisoning and treason conspiracy). 

By contrast, the means, motive, and opportunity behind, as well as the overall general character of, Jaehaera's murder all fit far too well with Unwin Peake. The Kingsguard posted at the door of Jaehaera’s chamber on the day of her death was Mervyn Flowers, a man whose connections to Unwin Peake were both natural and explicit: not only was Mervyn Unwin’s bastard brother, who was put on the Kingsguard by Unwin himself (along with another Peake relative, Set Amaury), but Mervyn would also continue acting in Unwin’s barely disguised name thereafter: colluding with Tessario the Tiger and Cassandra Baratheon to murder Daenaera Velaryon, arresting the Hand Lord Rowan, and being named alongside Peake’s other co-conspirators by George Graceford. Nor, as Gyldayn admits (albeit rather reluctantly - more on that below), would Mervyn Flowers have had to get the queen’s blood (metaphorically) on his hands: as Mushroom alleges, Tessario, the unscrupulous and mercenarily violent captain of Unwin Peake’s personal guard and as much a co-conspirator with Peake as Mervyn himself, might easily have been allowed into Jaehaera’s chambers to throw her to her death. That Unwin Peake confronted Aegon just one week after Jaehaera’s death with the news that the young king was already betrothed to his, Peake’s, own daughter demonstrates Peake’s naked ambition, and his motive for removing the sitting queen; even Gyldayn acknowledges that the hasty fait accompli-style betrothal acts as its own sort of proof of Unwin’s guilt in Jaehaera’s death. Moreover, Unwin’s vigorous bias against the succession of either one of Aegon’s sisters or Baela’s then-unborn child - caustically referred to, presumably by Unwin himself, as “the whelp of a wanton and a bastard” - supports Unwin’s motive: eager to secure the succession of his preferred line - that is, not just a child of the only surviving male-line male Targaryen, but also one through the Peake family - and concerned that he would achieve neither if the king acknowledged the unborn child carried by Baela as his heir, Unwin I think had all the reason he needed to make the Queen’s role vacant, the better to push his daughter into it.  

Too, I think Unwin arranging Jaehaera’s death as such aligns with Unwin’s other murder plot - that is, the attempted murder of Daenaera Velaryon, which actually resulted in the murder of Gaemon Palehair. In both cases, Unwin’s goal was the same: the elimination of Aegon III’s wife and queen so that his own daughter could be slotted into her space. What’s more, in both cases Unwin seems to have utilized a clumsily obvious framing narrative for each death, the better either to excuse himself and/or to work against his enemies. In the case of Daenaera, Unwin I think specifically used the “tears of Lys” in order to fuel his anti-Rogare conspiracy - of course, Unwin I think tried to suggest, those no-good-very-bad Lyseni would use a poison whose very name advertised their origins to try to kill Aegon III. Likewise, In the case of Jaehaera, her death is deliberately paralleled with that of her mother: just as Helaena is widely (and I think correctly) assumed to have thrown herself to her death toward the end of the Dance, so I believe Unwin wanted onlookers to believe that Jaehaera had, quite literally, followed her mother to the grave. (Of course, when it then became profitable for Unwin to undermine other young women ahead of the Maiden’s Day Cattle Show, he was also quite willing to shift the parallel - blaming Cassandra Baratheon for her death, just as Rhaenyra had been blamed for Helaena’s.) In both cases, however, Unwin all but gave himself away through the ruthlessness and obviousness of his ambition: just as the king and Prince Viserys sniffed out the Peake conspiracy through the tortured false confessions of Thaddeus Rowan, so the unseemly, peremptory hastiness of the king’s betrothal to Lady Myrielle revealed Unwin’s hand (no pun intended) in brutally moving Jaehaera out of the way for Myrielle’s sake. In both cases, moreover, Unwin relied on his known, unsubtle agents Tessario and Ser Mervyn, whose later guilt only I think highlights their guilt for the earlier murder. 

I do also think it notable that while Gyldayn does show a rather baffling (to me, at least) level of favoritism toward Unwin Peake, even the maester-author has to concede the likelihood that Gyldayn was responsible for Jaehaera’s death. Though he adds the exculpatory parenthetical that “there is no shred of proof of that [i.e. that Jaehaera was murdered]”, Gyldayn names “the only truly plausible culprit” as Unwin Peake; too, after explaining the reasoning behind this possibility, Gyldayn concludes that “[i]f murder was indeed the cause of her demise … the man behind it could only have been Lord Unwin Peake”. Further, as noted above, Gyldayn also states that “without proof, none of this would have been damning … [sic] if not for what the Hand did afterward” - that is, betrothing Aegon III to his daughter.  If even an author who spends multiple paragraphs praising the Peakes generally and Unwin specifically admits the high likelihood that Lord Peake was behind Jaehaera’s murder, I take that as pretty conclusive evidence of where we as readers are supposed to lay blame for Jaehaera’s death. (Nor, indeed, does that other maester-author, Yandel, quibble about Peake’s guilt: Yandel simply states in TWOIAF that “[t]hough we will never know the truth of the events that day, it now seems likely that Jaehaera's death was somehow instigated by Lord Peake”.)

To that point as well, I think that GRRM wants us readers to compare the murder of Princess Elia (and, relatedly, those of her children at the same time) to that of Queen Jaehaera. While neither Tywin nor Unwin put their own hands on Elia (and her children) or Jaehaera, respectively, their guilt behind the scenes is made very evident: these two similarly named men, sometime Hands with vindictive streaks and a desire to see their daughters made queens (and, incidentally, a penchant for stealing dead men's Valyrian steel swords), sent their personal, violent agents against a royal woman and her children or a royal female child herself, with the expectation that those agents would see to the murders of these people (something I've talked about specifically with Tywin). Therefore, despite the unwillingness of biased in-world scholarly sources to commit, in whole or in part, to placing the blame on these men - recall Yandel’s weaselly statement “[i]t is tragic that the blood spilled in war may as readily be innocent as it is guilty, and that those who ravished and murdered Princess Elia escaped justice”, and his laughable attempts to blame Aerys II or even Elia herself for those deaths - I think GRRM himself makes clear that both Tywin and Unwin were responsible for their respective royal murders. 

[thegambitgazette]

The Reluctant Ruler Trope: A Philosophical Inquiry into Unwanted Power, Responsibility, and the Burden of Leadership

WC: 3,489

Index

Introduction The Reluctant Ruler in Literature and Folklore The Existential Dilemma of Unwanted Authority Political Implications and the Burden of Responsibility A Special Case or a Universal Relatability? Closing Words

Introduction

“The world is something that was put into your hands and that you must deal with - so you will. You have a rigid back and steady hands, either metaphorically or physically. Is it nature or nurture? You don't know. You are tired of being steady. You dream of feeling alive. Not that you aren’t, but, sometimes, it’s hard to remember that there is a heart between your ribs.” —“Are You A Soldier, Poet, or A King?” quiz by @atlanticsea

Does anyone here remember the “Soldier, Poet, King” quiz that went around about a year or so ago? When I initially took it, I expected “Poet;” you can imagine my surprise when the “King” result absolutely obliterated my mental health.

As I’ve found, a common theme in my writing is the Reluctant Ruler trope, where either 1) a character is thrust into the role of a savior, hero, or king/queen despite not having any wish to lead people or 2) a character assumes the role of a leader without the full understanding of the morally corrupting demands of the job.

The narrative trope of the Reluctant Ruler has long captivated the human imagination, resonating across cultures and epochs. From mythical tales of kings and queens reluctant to ascend the throne to contemporary narratives of reluctant heroes and leaders, this archetype speaks to fundamental questions about the nature of power, responsibility, and the human condition. But what makes this trope such a tragic and believable character? How do we, as an audience, end up relating to and debating the conflicts and moral dilemmas that these characters face? Today, we embark on a philosophical inquiry into the Reluctant Ruler trope, aiming to uncover its deeper meanings and implications within existential and political philosophical discourse.

The Reluctant Ruler in Literature and Folklore

The archetype of the reluctant ruler is deeply embedded in the narratives of literature and folklore, transcending cultural and historical boundaries. Across diverse traditions, tales abound of individuals thrust into positions of leadership against their will, grappling with the weight of power and the burdens of governance.

Shakespeare’s “Hamlet:” One of the most iconic depictions of the Reluctant Ruler can be found in William Shakespeare's timeless tragedy, “Hamlet.” Prince Hamlet, the melancholic protagonist, is suddenly confronted with the task of avenging his father’s murder and assuming the throne of Denmark. Despite being heir to the throne, Hamlet is plagued by doubt, indecision, and existential angst. His famous soliloquy, “To be, or not to be,” encapsulates the profound existential crisis he faces, torn between the demands of duty and the desire for personal authenticity. Hamlet’s reluctance to embrace his role as king stems not only from fear or cowardice but from a profound skepticism about the legitimacy of authority and the corrupting influence of power.

The Arthurian Legend: In the rich tapestry of Arthurian legend, the motif of the Reluctant Ruler is exemplified in the character of King Arthur himself. According to some versions of the myth, Arthur is initially unaware of his royal lineage and is raised as a commoner by Sir Ector. Upon discovering his true identity and rightful claim to the throne, Arthur reluctantly accepts the mantle of kingship, guided by the wise counsel of Merlin and the moral imperative to uphold justice and chivalry. Despite his noble intentions, Arthur grapples with the burdens of leadership, facing betrayals, challenges to his authority, and the tragic consequences of his own choices. His reluctance to embrace his destiny as king reflects the ambivalence inherent in assuming power and the moral ambiguities of governance.

The Biblical Story of Moses: In the Abrahamic traditions, the narrative of Moses provides another compelling example of the Reluctant Ruler trope. According to the Book of Exodus, Moses is initially an ordinary Israelite that ran from his station as a prince of Egypt, content to live as a shepherd in the wilderness. However, when called upon by God to lead his people out of bondage in Egypt, Moses initially resists, citing his own inadequacies and speech impediment. Despite his reluctance, Moses eventually accepts the divine mandate and becomes the revered leader of the Israelites, guiding them through the trials of the Exodus and delivering the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai. Moses’s reluctance to assume leadership underscores the theme of human frailty and the transformative power of faith and divine providence.

The Existential Dilemma of Unwanted Authority

Despite not having instances in our lives where we are unexpectedly crowned king or being spoken to by a deity, there are still profound lessons in identity and responsibility that we can pull from these characters.

The Anguish of Freedom and Responsibility

Existentialist philosophers such as Jean-Paul Sartre asserted that “existence precedes essence,” emphasizing the radical freedom and responsibility of human beings to define their own meaning and purpose in a seemingly indifferent universe. For the Reluctant Ruler, this existential freedom becomes a source of anguish and uncertainty. Suddenly endowed with authority and influence, they are confronted with the weight of responsibility and the moral implications of their actions. The existential angst of the reluctant ruler arises from the tension between the desire for autonomy and the demands of duty, as they struggle with the paradox of being simultaneously free and bound by social expectations.

Furthermore, with freedom comes the moral imperative to act responsibly and ethically. The Reluctant Ruler, however, finds themselves burdened with the weight of moral decision-making, as they navigate complex ethical dilemmas and confront the consequences of their actions. Existentialist philosophy emphasizes the inherent responsibility of individuals to create their own moral framework and to confront the ethical implications of their choices with honesty and integrity. The anguish of responsibility lies in the tension between the desire for moral clarity and the recognition of the inherent ambiguity and uncertainty of ethical decision-making. The reluctant ruler must contemplate on the ethical complexities of their role, striving to uphold their moral principles amidst the exigencies of power and governance.

Authenticity and Self-Deception

Central to the existential dilemma of unwanted authority is the quest for authenticity (we already knew this; I wrote two posts on authenticity already that you can check out here and here)—the authentic expression of one’s true self and values in the face of external pressures and expectations. The Reluctant Ruler may experience profound existential alienation as they navigate the demands of their role, questioning whether they are living in accordance with their own genuine desires and beliefs or merely conforming to societal norms and conventions.

In fact, they may be tempted to resort to self-deception—to deceive themselves and others about the true nature of their actions or motivations. Existentialist philosophy warns against the dangers of inauthenticity and self-delusion, highlighting the existential crisis that arises from living inauthentically and betraying one’s own values. The Reluctant Ruler may succumb to the pressures of their position, rationalizing their actions or compromising their principles in order to maintain power or avoid conflict. Self-deception becomes a means of coping with the existential anguish and moral dilemmas inherent in their role, providing a false sense of security and comfort amidst the uncertainties of leadership.

Self-deception ultimately leads to existential alienation—the estrangement from one’s authentic self and the sense of disconnection from the world. The Reluctant Ruler who succumbs to self-deception finds themselves adrift in a sea of moral ambiguity and existential angst, unable to reconcile their actions with their inner convictions.

The Absurdity of Human Existence

“The Absurdity of Human Existence” is a philosophical concept rooted in existentialist thought, particularly articulated by philosophers such as Albert Camus and Jean-Paul Sartre. It posits that human life is inherently absurd, devoid of inherent meaning or purpose, and characterized by the fundamental tension between the human desire for meaning and the indifferent, chaotic nature of the universe.

In assuming positions of power unwillingly, the Reluctant Ruler confronts the absurdity of their situation, grappling with the arbitrary nature of authority and the futility of their efforts to impose order and control upon a chaotic world. The absurdity of leadership lies in the recognition of its inherent limitations and the inevitability of failure and impermanence. Despite their best intentions, the Reluctant Ruler may find themselves overwhelmed by their predicament, struggling to find meaning and significance in a world devoid of ultimate purpose.

Here is where another familiar element of existence comes into play: the illusion of control. The illusion of control is a psychological concept that refers to the tendency of individuals to overestimate their ability to influence or control events, particularly in situations characterized by uncertainty or randomness.

For the Reluctant Ruler, the illusion of control becomes apparent as they assume positions of power unwillingly and attempt to impose order and control upon a world that defies their efforts. Despite their best intentions, they soon come to realize the inherent unpredictability and uncontrollability of the events and circumstances they face. This recognition challenges their preconceived notions of authority and power, revealing the illusory nature of their perceived control.

The Reluctant Ruler may initially believe that they have the ability to shape the course of events and influence outcomes according to their will. However, as they encounter resistance, opposition, and unforeseen challenges, they begin to understand the limitations of their authority and the unpredictable nature of the world they seek to govern. This realization undermines their confidence and exposes the fragility of their sense of control.

Moreover, the illusion of control can lead the Reluctant Ruler to engage in behaviors and strategies aimed at maintaining the illusion of power, even in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. They may resort to authoritarian measures, manipulation, or denial of reality in an attempt to assert their authority and preserve their sense of control. However, these efforts ultimately prove futile, further reinforcing the absurdity of their situation.

The existential implications of the illusion of control lie in its confrontation with the fundamental unpredictability and contingency of human existence. The Reluctant Ruler's quest for control becomes a Sisyphean task, as they strive to impose order upon a world characterized by chaos and uncertainty. In confronting the illusion of control, they are forced to confront the absurdity of their condition and wrestle with the inherent limitations of human agency in the face of existential uncertainty.

Political Implications and the Burden of Leadership

Naturally, we cannot talk about the complexity behind the Reluctant Ruler without diving into those whom they govern. In examining the reluctant ruler trope through the lens of political philosophy, we confront the complex interplay between governance, legitimacy, and the ethical responsibilities of leadership.

Legitimacy and Consent

The concepts of legitimacy and consent are central to theories of political authority, shaping the foundation of governance and the relationship between rulers and the ruled. In the context of the Reluctant Ruler trope, the legitimacy of political authority is called into question, as leaders may assume power unwillingly, without the explicit consent or endorsement of those they govern.

Political theorists have long debated the sources of legitimacy in governance, seeking to identify the basis upon which political authority is justified. Traditionally, legitimacy has been derived from various sources such as divine right, tradition, charisma, or popular consent. However, the assumption of power by a Reluctant Ruler complicates these traditional sources, as their authority may not be grounded in the typical mechanisms of legitimacy. Instead, the legitimacy of the reluctant ruler may be contingent upon factors such as adherence to legal norms, effectiveness in governance, or recognition by key power holders.

In democratic societies, where the principle of popular sovereignty reigns supreme, the consent of the governed is considered foundational to the legitimacy of political authority. Democratic legitimacy is typically understood to derive from the consent of the people, expressed through free and fair elections. However, the Reluctant Ruler challenges this notion, as their assumption of power may not be the result of popular choice or electoral mandate. Or, on the other hand, perhaps it was, indeed, the populace that raised them to their position while they continued to protest and fight against it. This raises questions about the compatibility of their leadership with democratic ideals and the accountability of political institutions to the will of the people.

A Special Case or Universal Relatability?

The Reluctant Ruler archetype, emblematic of individuals thrust into positions of power against their will, serves as a focal point for exploring the intricate interplay between existential realization, political pragmatism, and ethical considerations within the realm of political philosophy and ethical theory. Through the lenses of political philosophers and ethical theorists, such as Niccolò Machiavelli, Hannah Arendt, Immanuel Kant, and Aristotle, we can seek to elucidate the moral spectrum of the Reluctant Ruler, shedding light on the ethical and existential dimensions of their predicament and the broader implications for human nature and governance.

Political Philosophers:

Thinkers such as Niccolò Machiavelli and Hannah Arendt might consider the ethical and political dimensions of the Reluctant Ruler trope. They would examine questions of legitimacy, authority, and the responsibilities of leadership, shedding light on how the Reluctant Ruler’s predicament illuminates broader themes in political philosophy.

Niccolò Machiavelli

Niccolò Machiavelli, a seminal figure in political philosophy, is often associated with political realism, a perspective that emphasizes practical considerations over moral ideals in governance.

Machiavelli’s political realism emphasizes the importance of power dynamics, interests, and strategic calculations in politics. He might argue that the Reluctant Ruler cannot afford to be guided solely by moral principles or existential concerns but must instead prioritize the preservation of authority and the maintenance of order.

For him, the reluctant ruler’s primary concern should be establishing and consolidating their authority, regardless of the circumstances of their ascension to power.

He famously suggests in The Prince that rulers should be prepared to act ruthlessly when necessary, even if it means sacrificing ethical principles.

The ends justify the means in politics, and that the reluctant ruler must be willing to employ any means necessary to achieve their goals.

Ultimately, Machiavelli would likely emphasize the importance of maintaining order and stability as the primary goals of the reluctant ruler. He might argue that the ruler's legitimacy and authority depend on their ability to govern effectively and preserve the social order, even if it requires making difficult decisions or compromises.

Machiavelli might caution against allowing existential angst or moral qualms to undermine the reluctant ruler's ability to govern decisively. He would likely stress the need for pragmatism and flexibility in navigating the complexities of political life.

Hannah Arendt

Hannah Arendt was a prominent political theorist known for her contributions to the understanding of totalitarianism, the nature of power, and the concept of political action.

Arendt would delve into the existential angst experienced by the reluctant ruler, examining how their struggle with assuming power unwillingly reflects broader themes of human existence. She might explore the absurdity of the situation, where individuals find themselves thrust into positions of authority without their consent or desire.

Arendt would likely emphasize the importance of individual conscience in guiding the actions of the reluctant ruler. She might suggest that the ruler's moral integrity is central to their ability to exercise legitimate and effective leadership, even in the face of existential uncertainty.

She might also argue that political action is inherently bound up with questions of ethics and morality, and that the reluctant ruler's existential crisis serves as a catalyst for deeper reflection on the ethical dimensions of governance.

Arendt might caution against sacrificing moral integrity for the sake of pragmatic considerations, suggesting that the Ruler’s adherence to their conscience is ultimately what determines the legitimacy of their leadership.

Ethical Thinkers

Thinkers like Immanuel Kant and Aristotle would likely explore the ethical dilemmas faced by the Reluctant Ruler. They would analyze how the tension between personal ethics and pragmatic considerations shapes the Ruler’s decision-making process, offering insights into human moral psychology and the pursuit of virtuous leadership.

Immanuel Kant

Kant’s deontological ethics emphasizes the importance of moral duty and universal principles in guiding ethical behavior. He would likely analyze the Reluctant Ruler’s predicament by focusing on the categorical imperative, which states that individuals must act according to principles that can be universally applied.

Kant might argue that the Reluctant Ruler faces a moral obligation to uphold certain ethical principles, even if it conflicts with pragmatic considerations. He would emphasize the importance of acting out of a sense of duty and moral integrity, rather than being swayed by expediency or self-interest.

Aristotle

Aristotle’s virtue ethics focuses on the development of moral character and the cultivation of virtuous qualities. He would likely analyze the Reluctant Ruler’s ethical dilemmas by considering how their decisions reflect their moral virtues and character traits.

Aristotle might argue that the reluctant ruler should strive to embody virtues such as courage, wisdom, and justice in their governance. He would emphasize the importance of practical wisdom (phronesis) in navigating the complexities of political life, suggesting that the ruler should aim to achieve eudaimonia, or flourishing, through virtuous leadership.

On Our Nature

Needless to say, not only can we reflect on our own ethical “what-ifs” in parallel to the Reluctant Ruler trope; through this character study, we can unearth a multitude of political and existential debates and still never settle on a universal answer.

The perpetual debates and unanswered questions surrounding the Reluctant Ruler trope speak volumes about human nature and the complexity of individual experiences. At its core, the Reluctant Ruler archetype encapsulates the fundamental tensions between existential realization, ethical responsibility, and political pragmatism, reflecting the intricate interplay of human desires, values, and motivations.

Firstly, the inability to settle on a universal answer regarding the Reluctant Ruler trope underscores the inherent complexity and ambiguity of human existence. Human nature is characterized by its multifaceted makeup, encompassing a diverse range of perspectives, beliefs, and experiences. The reluctance of individuals to embrace leadership roles speaks to our innate desire for autonomy, authenticity, and personal fulfillment, as well as our inherent susceptibility to doubt, uncertainty, and existential angst. The analyses surrounding the Reluctant Ruler trope reflect the diversity of human experiences and the myriad ways in which individuals examine with questions of identity, purpose, and morality.

Moreover, the fact that many individuals can relate to the Reluctant Ruler trope on a personal level speaks to the universality of human struggles and aspirations. Whether it be the fear of assuming responsibility, the desire for authenticity and self-expression, or the ethical dilemmas inherent in leadership, the themes embodied by the Reluctant Ruler resonate with people from all walks of life.

However, the Reluctant Ruler trope also serves as a mirror through which we can reflect on our own ethical convictions, political beliefs, and existential uncertainties. By examining the complexities of this archetype, we are compelled to confront our own values, biases, and assumptions, and to consider how they shape our perceptions of leadership, responsibility, and human nature. The inability to settle on a universal answer regarding the Reluctant Ruler trope challenges us to confront the inherent ambiguity and uncertainty of human existence, prompting us to engage with questions of identity, meaning, and morality in our own lives.

Closing Words

What initially appears as a narrative device in storytelling reveals itself as a mirror reflecting the intricacies of our own ethical frameworks, existential dilemmas, and political realities.

At its essence, the Reluctant Ruler archetype embodies the universal struggle between autonomy and responsibility, authenticity and conformity, freedom and obligation. Yet, beyond the realm of fiction, it prompts us to reflect on our own ethical convictions and existential uncertainties. Are we, too, begrudging in our own lives, navigating the delicate balance between personal desires and societal expectations? Do we confront the existential angst of freedom and responsibility, or do we succumb to the illusion of control and self-deception?

Moreover, the Reluctant Ruler challenges us to examine the legitimacy of political authority and the ethical responsibilities of leadership. In a world where governance is often characterized by power struggles and moral ambiguities, how do we reconcile the demands of pragmatism with the imperatives of justice and integrity? How do we ensure that those in positions of power govern with wisdom, virtue, and compassion?

Ultimately, the Reluctant Ruler trope serves as a catalyst for introspection and dialogue, inviting us to confront the complexity of human nature and the ethical dimensions of governance. As we scrutinize the unresolved questions and perpetual debates surrounding this archetype, we are reminded of the enduring relevance of philosophy in our quest for understanding, meaning, and ethical clarity.

In the end, the Reluctant Ruler challenges us not only to ponder the existential dilemmas of fictional characters but also to confront the ethical complexities of our own lives and societies. It is through this introspective journey that we may gain deeper insights into the nature of leadership, autonomy, and the human condition, and perhaps, find a path towards a more just, compassionate, and authentic world.

[crimeronan]

hey kitkat, if its not too much trouble, could you make a propaganda post for the silt verses? I've been seeing you talk about it a lot (i have spoilers marked dw) but im afraid to look up anything about it. is it horror? all i know about it is val <- horrible woman(?) so im intrigued. was wondering if it'd be possible for a silt verses post a la that trc post you made a while back

OH, ABSOLUTELY. i think about 95% of my followers have no idea what this media is about, so this ask is very exciting. i'll preface it by saying that i think it's edged out the dreamer trilogy for my favorite story Ever -- it's exactly on par with the first two books in terms of Reading My Heart Off The Page.

the premise:

the silt verses is a now-complete horror-tragedy narrative podcast set in a fantasy world that has many parallels to our own. this fantasy world is embroiled in late-stage corporate capitalism and is ravaged by the effects of colonialism, war, and oppression.

in this world, gods are created through sacrifice and belief. there are thousands of them, with thousands of individual religions.

the problem is that gods must be fed through human sacrifice. and if they aren't fed, they die.

and people are very invested in keeping their gods alive.

sacrifice is considered a necessary part of society, something that's as essential as breathing. the idea of simply not making sacrifices is considered a violent, radical, leftist anarchist position that is simply unsustainable. or so the state would have you believe!

but. SOME gods have been outlawed, and worshiping them WILL get you killed by the government.

the state says that it's because these gods are uniquely evil, and too dangerous or sadistic or wild to be fed.

in actuality, gods are outlawed when they don't serve the state or corporations' purposes. the question at the heart of the worldbuilding is always, "is Anything you've been told about the gods and the magic true? how much of this world is socially constructed? who benefits from the way things are?"

Metaphors Abound.

-

the cast:

the first season follows four key narrators; the second season introduces a fifth; the third a sixth.

-

carpenter - sister carpenter is an older woman who was born into an outlawed river-worshiping faith. she has seen her entire family murdered by the state, including her brother, parents, and grandmother. she briefly left the faith but returned to the parish because she had nowhere else to go; her relationship with her river and her church is complicated at best.

carpenter begins the series as a """devout""" disciple of the river parish. in actuality, her faith has been slipping for a Long Time. she's no longer certain that she loves this god she's been killing for for her entire life.

she begins the series investigating some unexplained "miracles," aka Deeply Fucking Horrific Murders, that appear to have been done by her god.

alongside her is brother faulkner.

-

faulkner - faulkner is a kid, somewhere around 19 or 20 years old when the story starts. he was NOT born into the river faith, but was instead called to it, back when he was still a rural farm boy living with his father and brothers. his first sacrifice was his brother, who he drowned on the farm. he later left home to find the parish.

faulkner has been with the parish for a pretty short period of time, but he truly IS a devout fanatic. because of this, he does not get along with carpenter. the two of them bicker a lot. carpenter thinks that faulkner is a stupid country bumpkin who's naive and full of starry-eyed optimism, and he annoys the piss out of her.

faulkner is not a dumb country bumpkin.

but he knows how he sounds and he knows how he looks. so he plays the part of the starry-eyed child with ease.

he is planning to kill carpenter.

he knows she's slipping, he knows she's losing her faith, and he wants her dead. he's been asked to keep an eye on her because the parish knows she's slipping, too.

uh oh!

-

hayward - investigating officer hayward is a police officer in the religious homicides division of the greater glottage police force. this police force has jurisdiction over outlawed gods. hayward's job is to find outlawed gods, arrest/kill their worshipers, and report them to the government.

he is the main antagonist of season one. crucially, he's a Good Cop - he's friendly, affable, funny and likable. he's kind of a dickhead bastard, but in the way that the protagonists of Cop Tv Shows (TM) often are. he offers to "help" the people he's arresting. he's good at playing the role of a good guy who just needs to uphold the status quo for the good of society.

but. he is, first and foremost, a cop. and the narrative has a Lot to say about cops. and about other people whose job is to Enforce The Law.

so. don't think that him being a Good Cop means that he's Actually a good guy or that he's not dangerous to the protagonists. Hoo Boy.

-

paige - paige duplass is a corporate boardroom executive who works for a marketing firm that creates gods. her job is to do all the marketing and branding for new corporate mascots. what does the god look like? how does the worship work? how are the sacrifices made?

but her company's profits are waning. and they need to return value to the shareholders.

so. they're going to kill their employees.

not paige, of course! she's a highly valued member of the team. she just has to keep everyone calm and be a kind, upbeat manager while the Layoffs approach. everything is fine, everyone. we aren't going to kill you :) don't worry :) just keep smiling :)

the horror of this gives her a crisis of conscience; after all the murder goes down, she leaves to go on a long drive.

which becomes longer still when she's taken hostage by carpenter and faulkner.

-

shrue - season two introduces shrue, a spineless liberal politician who runs on a """left-wing""" platform but really could not care less about anything except polling numbers. they're willing to do rotten, ugly propagandist things for their campaign -- including killing the river god. and all of its followers. for the good PR! :)

not great news for carpenter, faulkner, or their people.

but then shrue experiences Actual Violence up close for the first time. and it Shakes Them To Their Core.

and, well. suddenly they're not so comfortable being a spineless liberal politician anymore.

too bad they've locked themselves into their role and cannot fucking escape it!!

-

val - introduced in season three, VAL is the saint of a god of liars, purposefully created by the government for use as a weapon. she is the remnants of a woman who killed herself to serve her country. she does not remember who she is or what else she wanted, aside from her mother's approval.

as the saint of a god of liars, whatever VAL says becomes true..... as long as someone is there to listen. you're a loyal soldier? no, you died of a tumor as a child. you're a politician begging for mercy for the sake of your infant child? no, your baby has an insatiable taste for flesh and ate your sorry ass. etc

she's a monster and a sadist; she enjoys killing people to try to fill the emptiness in her. she is in terrible pain all the time and does not understand why. and she is becoming increasingly disillusioned and sick with herself, the government she serves, and the Utter Pointlessness of all this systemic violence.

but how do you break a cycle when you Are the cycle?? how do you get better?? how do you change anything??

much to consider.

-

overall, it's as close to a perfect story as it gets imo. literally every detail is carefully, painstakingly chosen to further the themes, arcs, characterization, etc. the plotting is suspenseful, the horror is Deeply Fucking Scary, the storylines are gutwrenching, the voice acting is spine-chilling, and the characters are So Fucking Compelling.

also, i get frustrated by representation-first fiction recs, but if you get this far and want to know: it's Deeply queer. faulkner, paige, and shrue are all trans (shrue is they/them, paige is a post-transition trans woman, faulkner is a trans guy who's recently started T). carpenter is aroace, there's casual representation and normalization of trans n gay people throughout the ensemble cast.

and more importantly, it's just. So Damn Good.

@valtsv @deermouth you two are the other main silt verses bloggers i know, so if you want a pitch for your followers.... here is this!

[therainscene]

whats your opinion on the UD being frozen as a metaphor for will's childhood and so when it's all released, he'll be free of it and therefore maybe his love for mike is still chaste and childish and that when it's all over he'll have released that love too?

with neither mike nor el or will ending up in a romantic pair at all.

Hi anon, thanks for the ask!

I'm a subscriber to the theory that the Upside Down is frozen because of Will's immaturity, but I don't agree that letting go of his love for Mike is how he solves it.

The thing about the Upside Down is that while it works well as a metaphor for Will's immaturity, it's also seething with, um... maturity. Penetrating vines, monsters with engulfing holes for faces, yonic gashes in the walls; Will's encounter with the place abounds with references to Alien, a franchise famous for its male sexual anxiety metaphors.

Pretty heavy stuff for a 12 year-old.

But unsurprising: Will has been exposed to extreme homophobia all his life, and his future as a sexually mature gay man who "deserves" that treatment scares the shit out of him. The horrors Will faces aren't a metaphor for any old trauma; they're specifically about the trauma of growing up gay in the 80s.

And I'm not making this claim on the strength of a few Alien references. Throughout the show, Will's feelings for Mike have been deeply entwined with The Horrors -- I won't rehash the specifics here, but you can check out this post for examples and this post for a discussion of queer romance in horror.

Ultimately, what it boils down to is that Will's love isn't chaste because he's a late bloomer, but because he's too frightened and ashamed to fully embrace his sexuality. And so long as he holds on to that fear, the horrors will keep coming back.

So, given all this... which do you suppose would be the mature version of Will best suited to cleansing the Upside Down?

One who's swallowed the pain of being queer and alone?

Or one who's bold and unashamed about being in love with a boy?

[marie-m-art]

A recurring feature that I like in Neil Gaiman's and Terry Pratchett's stories is the mundane and ordinary juxtaposed and blended with the extraordinary and fantastical.

There's a lot of humour derived from this, but it got me wondering if the concept also works as a theme under the surface of the humour, so I'll explore that idea a bit here with examples from Good Omens and Discworld.

First a look at the humour side, because it's fun, and so that people know what I'm referring to:

-In the opening sequence of Good Omens S1E1: an angel and a demon (fantastical beings) are conversing like ordinary people, using idioms like "Well that went down like a lead balloon", against a setting of biblical proportions.

-The Archangels' meeting in S2E6 discussing first the Second Coming ("Nah!"), and then next on the agenda is the cleaning roster.

-The visuals of heaven and hell in general - it's the subversion of expectations on what these places "should" look and function like - offices, clipboards, contracts, bureaucracy. This is humour and seems like theme/motif at the same time; the visual cues say a lot about heaven and hell and their role in this story.

-Death from the Discworld books owns an umbrella stand and a hairbrush, likes kitty cats, and rides a white horse named Binky.

-In Small Gods, the Great God Om is incarnated as a tortoise:

And it came to pass that in that time the Great God Om spake unto Brutha, the Chosen One:

'Psst!'

Next, looking at the concept's thematic or metaphorical potential.

The following excerpt gets me thinking about how people put outsized importance on mundane things, and about normalcy bias kicking in when a narrow mind is confronted with extraordinary events.

From Good Omens book (about RP Tyler):

It is a high and lonely destiny to be Chairman of the Lower Tadfield Residents' Association.

[…]

Your car is on fire.

No. Tyler just couldn't bring himself to say it. I mean, the man had to know that, didn't he? He was sitting in the middle of it. Possibly it was some kind of practical joke.

Next, a scene that makes me think about retreating into the mundane to cope, after being confronted with an extraordinary event.

From Good Omens S2E6:

Nina: Oh, God, I should've been open half an hour ago.

Maggie: How can you think about that after all this??

Nina: People need coffee, I sell coffee, it's my coffee shop.

And next, thinking about how the minutiae of the everyday distracts us from paying enough attention to big world issues (a bit of normalcy bias again too). 

From Good Omens book (when the horsepersons of the apocalypse arrive at the airbase):

No one stopped the four as they purposefully made their way into one of the long, low buildings under the forest of radio masts. No one paid any attention to them. Perhaps they saw nothing at all. Perhaps they saw what their minds were instructed to see, because the human brain is not equipped to see War, Famine, Pollution, and Death when they don't want to be seen, and has got so good at it that it often manages not to see them even when they abound on every side.

Next, two excerpts from Discworld books. At first I was thinking along the lines of needing to focus on the everyday because we can't spend all our time focusing on big existential stuff, or, how we take the wonders of nature for granted because of busy lives; but then I realized, I think it's actually a clever inversion of what we consider to be ordinary - that just being alive, against all odds, in the vast universe, is actually quite extraordinary.

From Small Gods:

And one of [the brain's] functions is to make the miraculous seem ordinary and turn the unusual into the usual.

Because if this was not the case, then human beings, faced with the daily wondrousness of everything, would go around wearing big stupid grins […] And no one would do much work.

Gods don't like people not doing much work. People who aren't busy all the time might start to think.

Part of the brain exists to stop this happening. It is very efficient. It can make people experience boredom in the middle of marvels.

[more going on in the above than just the subject of the post, but I'm narrowing the focus here]

From Hogfather:

THERE IS A PLACE WHERE TWO GALAXIES HAVE BEEN COLLIDING FOR A MILLION YEARS, said Death, apropos of nothing. DON'T TRY TO TELL ME THAT'S RIGHT.

"Yes, but people don't think about that," said Susan. Somewhere there was a bed …

CORRECT. STARS EXPLODE, WORLDS COLLIDE, THERE'S HARDLY ANYWHERE IN THE UNIVERSE WHERE HUMANS CAN LIVE WITHOUT BEING FROZEN OR FRIED, AND YET YOU BELIEVE THAT A … A BED IS A NORMAL THING. IT IS THE MOST AMAZING TALENT.

And a quote from Terry Pratchett himself, inverting ordinary/extraordinary (the whole video is great, by the way):

Within the story of evolution is a story far more interesting than any in the Bible. It teaches us amazing things: that stars are not important - there is nothing interesting about stars. Street lamps are very important, because they're so rare. As far as we know there's only a few million of them in the universe. And they were built by monkeys! Who came up with philosophy, and gods.

He also mentioned here that his impression after reading the Old Testament was: "If this is all true, then we are in the hands of a madman!" Off topic again, but relevant to some of what went into Good Omens I think.

Not sure if I've proved anything here, and that wasn't the goal, but it was fun to find some quotes for my brain to play around with!

[5und4y]

PLEASE you guys don’t understand Moon Waltz by Cojum Dip is so… so them (Ratio & Aventurine) and here’s my analysis why under the cut . Brought to you by said gays in my head !

Firstly lyrics. Green will be Aventurine and purple will be Dr. Ratio . Both will be blue . Subtext and white will be my explaining !?

The last time our module would ring you Like a lunar bell (I think could be a reference to the trailblazing quest. During their main mission Ratio needed to betray Aventurine. And for assumingly a while? He wasn’t able to see Ratio, especially before his time in the void (I forgot what it’s called). The last time they saw eachother before Aventurine had to do what he did, and it rang out “like a lunar bell” (earthquake) just because of the interaction and it’s intensity . How their last time together pre everything was basically the betrayal.)

I’ll see you on the Moon until we meet at Tycho And follow the trail Synodic season to come out of hiding Why’d it take so long Inching out of orbit dividing Where did I go wrong (I do believe both have extreme and unexplainable guilt for what happened at Penacony. Not only this but in their own life — Ratio questions where he went wrong, not only in Penacony but in his life and failing to become a genius . Aventurine questions why everything that happened to him happened— why he was enslaved, why his people were killed, why he was still a stoneheart even after breaking the cornerstone) I’ll see you on the Moon Where we’re throwing a party And as you’re gasping for the last of air You’ll tra-la-la-la-la You give me fifty-nine percent from libration We dance in synchronous rotation (Both Ratio & Aventurine have some form/way of synchronization . Despite their differences they both act together in ways with seem synchronized ??? Does that make sense. Their lives r innately entwined)The image we see of you has been Just a little late There is no atmosphere to wear down any sharpness It’s not how long you wait Synodic season to come out of hiding Why’d it take so long Inching out of orbit dividing Where did I go wrong A wise woman said I’m alive Nobody’s ever told her she’s wrong A paella of space-talking jive I’m as alive as her beard is long (Aventurine cannot see himself as “alive” or “living”. Him living is moreso just surviving and being used as a pawn — even if others claim him to be alive. His life is very clearly made out to be nothing but a chip in his gamble— and because of this there is always an innate dehumanization, a chip isn’t living, is it? The wise woman referred to I can see being Jade but I can also very well see it as being Gaiathra Triclops. Both of them I feel as if could fit well, Jade because she is active in the life of Aventurine and could easily be seen as “wise”. Gaiathra Triclops bcz Aventurine is her blessed one !?) I’ll see you on the Moon where we’re throwing a party And as you’re gasping for the last of air You’ll tra-la-la-la-la Twirling moondust abound Lung destruction is starting (I think lung destruction in this case would be a metaphorical destruction of self— Ratio can very well realize not only Aventurines self-destructive tendencies but the innate dehumanizations. The lungs are a vital organ and so destroy them is like destroying yourself. I think self-destruction can also apply to Ratio, he pushes himself so hard that he is also crumbling. Not under the weight of others or being nothing but a pawn— instead crumbling under his own pressure, of being only mundane; average.) Take your suit off and swim in maria I’ll see you on the Moon There’s already a party And as you’re gasping for the last of air You’ll tra-la-la- la-la No es la locura En realidad es el amor (translates to smthin like “is not madness / It’s really love” all I have to say about this is toxic yaoi. Their love is innately madness and that’s fine they get a pass.) Now that you’ve heard it all There is the door

[cliozaur]

All those places which you no longer behold, which you may never behold again, perchance, and whose memory you have cherished, take on a melancholy charm, recur to your mind with the melancholy of an apparition… and you love them; and you call them up as they are, as they were, and you persist in this, and you will submit to no change: for you are attached to the figure of your fatherland as to the face of your mother.

(I’m sobbing.) Yes, Vicky, it sucks to be forced to leave your beloved city and your beloved country.

Hugo’s lament and melancholy about Paris, which he left and would never see the same way again due to Haussmann’s drastic changes, is heart-wrenching. And he converts his memories of Paris streets into details of Valjean’s route—it’s a mere recitation of old street names: “He took a circuit, turned into the Passage des Patriarches, which was closed on account of the hour, strode along the Rue de l’Épée-de-Bois and the Rue de l’Arbalète, and plunged into the Rue des Postes,” and so on and so on.

Valjean navigating the Paris streets with his poacher’s instincts is remarkable. The chapter abounds with animalistic metaphors. The old man adeptly uses the moonlight to his advantage—concealing himself in shadows while observing moonlit streets to assess his pursuers, ensuring Javert is among them. After all, all four men chasing him resemble Javert: tall, clad in long coats, brandishing cudgels. When the moon illuminates one of them, “Jean Valjean recognized Javert perfectly.”

Poor little Cosette! She followed Valjean in full obedience, and it’s heartwarming that she felt safe with him. However, Valjean “knew no more where he was going than did Cosette.” Oh...

[astxrwar]

drops of blood [2/4]

SYNOPSIS: Bucky Barnes has some wires crossed. He fixates on a barista at a coffee shop near his apartment, and tells himself it's fine as long as he keeps his distance. Except you keep making that distance smaller.

Rating: M

Word Count: 9k

CONTENT WARNINGS: Canon-typical violence. We have officially dipped our toes into the angsty guilt-ridden stalking territory, and also into the beginnings of the 'yknow what I'm fine with that' realizations. consensual-but-not-safe-or-sane vibes all the way down. fruit metaphors abound. I am single-handedly forging the grayfic genre, please clap. For easter eggs you can check my AO3 chapter notes; for additional content check my tag "fic; drops of blood". Thanks for reading!

Read on AO3

[ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] [ 4 ]

Barnes is waiting outside of the building when you lock up, and it startles you; it’s dim, and the lights in the store are off, and he’s standing so still that you nearly don’t see him.

What you should probably say; why are you still here? Why was there blood on the ground outside? What happened to those men? What did you do?

What you say instead–

“You waited for me?”

He blinks. His eyes are the brightest thing about him right now, the blue of them a violent shock of color with his face in shadow. There’s no moon tonight, just the faint pinpricks of stars, like holes in some great stretch of fabric pulled over the sky, made perpetually gray from the light of the city. It never gets truly dark, here. You wonder if it’s always been like that, if it was like that for him, back then. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I, ah, I didn’t want to leave you here alone, in case–” he makes some vague gesture, the movement jerky and halting. 

You get about a third of the way through another thank you before he grimaces and looks away and cuts you off, says, again, “Don’t.” Like there’s nothing to thank him for. Like you should maybe even be doing the opposite of that.

You scuff your shoe against the sidewalk. It’s late, the street eerily quiet; the thing with those guys had kind of set you on edge, and something twisty and hypervigilant and uncomfortable churns in your stomach at the thought of walking home alone.

(You wonder if maybe that’s not what you should be wary of.)

“What part of Brooklyn are you in, now?” you ask, not looking at him. Looking at the ground. You’d swept out here earlier, and there are already new cigarette butts, discarded, stuck between the edge of the sidewalk and the street. Never-ending. Worse, now that half the world’s population came back.

“Uh—  near the bridge,” he says, haltingly, “I should probably—“

“My apartment’s that way,” you blurt out, not entirely sure if you’d meant to say it. It is; an old pre-war building on Jay street, a straight shot down. “Do you want to—we could walk together, maybe?”

“You—“ his voice is hoarse, and it cracks, and he stops and clears his throat and starts again, “You want me to walk you home?”

You look up, at his face, what you can see in the washed-out perpetual twilight of the city. There’s that flicker of emotion, a burst of red, overripened and bittersweet and something that seems like it might be distraught, but it’s gone so fast you can’t hold it still long enough to figure out what it is or why it’s there or if it even had been, in the first place.

“I mean— unless you were going to catch the train, I thought– we’re going the same direction anyways, right?“ Your voice wavers, uncertain, “Sorry, I didn’t— we don’t have to, if that would be weird—“

“No, it’s— it’s okay,” Barnes says, choppy and strangled and so quiet that you’re not sure he’d even spoken at all, not until your eyes are open again and you can actually see his mouth move, “Don’t apologize, you didn’t do anything wrong, I–“ He shrugs, helpless, and then shuts his eyes for a second; his brow furrows, pinching together a little, curving up, this kind of plaintive look that flattens back out as quickly as it came. A raindrop ripple across a still body of water.

He opens his eyes. His expression is controlled and inscrutable again. 

“Yeah,” he says, hoarse, “Yeah, I can– I’ll walk with you.”

~

The walk is silent; Barnes says nothing, the whole time, barely even looks at you. He keeps to the side closest to the street, and he never veers closer, that gap so constant that it coalesces like physical barrier, like if you were to try to move into the middle of the sidewalk you might hit some invisible wall of glass. You have to walk a little faster than you normally would to keep pace with him, and you still keep falling a few steps behind; he’s taller than you, and you’d known that, but most of your interactions have been either sitting down or separated by a few feet worth of counter space, so it’s different, this time. Your awareness of it. 

The stiff, impenetrable silence– it feels like how it did those first couple times, before the pomegranate, when you’d try to talk to him and get brooding one-word answers and an impassive stare and nothing else, and it’s weird enough that you wonder if maybe you’ve made a mistake. Messed up, somehow.

“You’re still gonna come Friday, right?” 

Barnes is ahead of you, and you can see the line of his shoulders stiffen under his jacket. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Yeah,” he mumbles, after a while, his tone stilted and flat, “Contractually obligated, right?”

“Oh, that– I was joking, I mean, I don’t– if you don’t want to–”

“No,” he says, before you can finish, “No, I– I do.” 

 “Oh– okay,” you say, pleased, and not thinking too much about why. “Good.”

He makes some choked off noise that sounds like a laugh, or maybe just a caricature of one. “Good,” he repeats. 

You try to catch up, but it’s like he won’t let you. Which– okay, fine. Guy likes his personal space, you suppose that’s not so surprising, so you settle to just walk a few steps behind him, the angle rendering his expression just out of sight. “Yeah,” you tell him, “I spent like, five dollars on this thing, so if you don’t come it’s totally just a waste.”

Barnes glances back at you, something like alarm flashing across his face, “Five dollars?” he asks, incredulous, and then a frown tugs at his mouth and he shakes his head and turns from you again. “Sorry, it’s– inflation, I’m still not used to it, I guess. That’s– it used to be a lot of money.”

“It’s kind of still a lot of money for one fruit.” 

He glances back at you again and there’s something soft in his expression, but he’s looked away before you can decide whether it’s just a trick of the light, the slow flash of the glow from streetlamps passing over his face as you walk underneath them.

You lapse into silence again.

Soon, your apartment building is ahead, the light from the lobby through the plain glass door carving knife-sharp across the sidewalk, splitting the crumbling cement into pieces. “Mine’s up there,” you tell him, only a block away.

Barnes stops dead in his tracks. 

It takes you a second from when you realize to when you stop yourself, and in that time you end up in front of him, looking back. His expression is the same as ever, flat and impenetrable, but there’s something in his eyes. Wavering.

“Okay,” he says, and then he swallows, and he clears his throat, and he says it again. “Okay.” His hands are still in his pockets, the leather stretched over them, pushed out like he’s got them tightened into fists. 

“I– I’m down this way,” he says, after a moment of strangely charged silence; he tips his head towards the side street, one that heads towards Brooklyn Bridge; it’s a grid system, though, so it’s not like he couldn’t just take the next one after your apartment block. 

Whatever, though. Whatever. He’s always been kind of strange, so you think nothing of it. He doesn’t want to actually walk you to your door, whatever. That’s– fine.

“Yeah, alright,” you tell him. “I’ll see you Friday, then, and– thanks for–”

“Don’t,” he says, before you can even finish. “Please don’t.”

You blink at him. In your jacket pocket, you fumble for your keys, but you don’t move. “Okay,” you reply, hesitating, “Okay, well. Goodnight. Get home safe.”

Barnes looks at you like you’d just said something absurd. Because you had. Kind of. You think about the knife you know he keeps in his boot and the blood in the alleyway and what you’d read of what happened to him– what he’s done, what he was made to do– on some internet blog at like three in the morning. He doesn’t need people to tell him to get home safe. 

“Dunno, force of habit,” you say with a shrug. “Take care, though.”

He laughs. It’s sharp and brief and hoarse and exactly like every other time. Disbelieving, unintentional, like he’d meant to keep it controlled, but hadn’t quite been able to. “Yeah, you– you too.”

~

You’re not afraid of James Buchanan Barnes.

Sometimes you wonder if maybe you should be. 

~

It’s called pitaya, technically, but every store you’ve ever seen carry them just has them labeled as dragonfruit. It’s fitting; the way the little leaves encasing it overlap, bright, vibrant pink that tapers to green at the ends, all facing the same direction, laid over one another like scales. It grows on cacti down in South America; Mexico, Guatemala, Costa Rica, El Salvador. The grocery store only ever has it in stock sometimes, and you can’t find any mention of it being available in the 40s when you google it, though you’re not sure how much that actually counts for anything. 

“I have to wipe down the tables still, but you—“ you dump it out in front of him, having to shake the bag to jerk it free of where one of the little spines had torn through it and gotten caught in the flimsy plastic, “—cut this up, with your definitely illegal knife that I’m sure you still have.”

Barnes blinks at it. “What the fuck is that?”

You’re already one table down, scrubbing at a stubborn ring left over from somebody’s leaking coffee cup, but you still glance back when he says it, grinning, triumphant. Absently, you’re glad that he seems back to normal, now, whatever’d been bothering him last time apparently resolved.  “Dragonfruit. Cactus fruit, from South America.”

You see him in your periphery as you shift down to the next table, leaning to draw the knife from his boot; a part of you wonders if it’s the same one. If he’d kept it. There’s a muttered what the hell and then the quiet thunk of the blade, long and flat and military-grade sharp, cutting clean through the skin, the flesh, the bone of the laminate surface underneath. The sound comes twice, as he carves off both ends; one after another, like a heartbeat. Then once more, when he splits it in two.

You think about the pomegranate. 

(You think about the blood.)

“This is— weird,” he says, out of your line of sight, now, as you wipe jelly donut filling off of the corner of the last table. “How do I— what am I supposed to do with this?”

“People just eat it from the skin, with a spoon. Like a kiwi,” you tell him over your shoulder, “I should’ve brought some from home, but I forgot— we have plastic spoons, in the back, but I don’t know how well that’d—“

“Hold on,” Barnes cuts you off. “Hold on, wait a minute. Like a– what?”

“Oh, my god,” You straighten and turn back and fix him with a flat, disbelieving stare, “You– do you not know what a kiwi is?”

He shrugs, nonplussed.

“Next time,” you say, moving back to take the seat across from him, “That’ll be what I bring— don’t google it.”

“Okay,” he says, hands held up. Mock-defeat. “I won’t.”

He has more stubble today than any other time you’ve ever seen him. Bags under his eyes, too, like he hasn’t been sleeping well. You want to ask, but you’re afraid you might upset him, so you don’t. On the table between you, the dragonfruit is halved, ends cut off, the bright pink skin and the white insides and the black seeds, the colors all so uniform and flawless that it almost looks drawn. Imaginary. Like something from a dream.

“I can just cut the outside off,” Barnes is saying, “The white stuff, that’s the edible part, right?”

You make some vague noise in affirmative. He folds the halves together on a spread-out napkin, upright on one blunt end, holds the pieces still with one hand and the knife with the other. You watch, silent, as he carves the skin out from the flesh in clean, deft slices, the scales dropping to the table, curved stretches of pink like rose petals. Like the curve of a mouth. The blade moves with a quick and hypnotically familiar ease, even with how close it is to his fingers, the tips of them where he holds the fruit steady from the top. He never hesitates, or flinches. Not even once. 

Barnes lays the pieces out and splits them lengthwise, into eight slices, and then wipes the flat of his knife on his jeans and slides it back to the sheath.

“There,” he says, when he’s done. 

You only realize then, like being brought out of trance; you’d been staring. 

More than that. You hadn’t even blinked.

~

The dragonfruit is soft and white and bland-tasting. Pure. When the pieces are gone, the napkin is wet, but the juice is clear, like water. Nothing to stain. Nothing on your fingers.

No blood.

~

Kiwis, as it turns out, used to be called “Chinese gooseberries”. They were native to China, as the name would suggest, but the fruit was grown commercially in New Zealand in the early 1900s, and became popular with American and British soldiers stationed there during World War 2. It wasn’t until after– sometime in the 50s– that they were called kiwifruits, after the bird, and it was little more than a stroke of marketing luck that the name ended up sticking. Fast-forward to the 60s, and the first exports started arriving in the US; fast-forward to 2024, and you can buy like, twelve of them in one of those little snap-closed plastic bins from the grocery store for just six dollars.

That’s what you bring to work, the next week. Or– it’s what you plan to bring, Friday.

He’s there Wednesday, again.

You’re not closing, this time, only pre-closing, which is a totally arbitrary term for the person who leaves at 9:30 instead of sticking around to lock up at 11; you hadn’t seen him come in this time, only notice him as you’re leaving, in the corner of the room, out of the corner of your eye–

You had the door open, and you stand there for a moment, frozen, indecisive, unable to see without turning to look if he’s staring at you, but still sure of it, somehow. Like you just know. 

You let the door fall closed. 

“Hey,” you say, stopping in front of his table. He has a cup of coffee; your coworker must have made it for him, when you were doing the dishes. 

(You wonder if he knew you were working tonight.)

“Hi,” he says. He looks uncomfortable. He always looks uncomfortable, but it’s– worse, now. “Leaving?”

You’d taken off your apron, your uniform sweater, too, had them folded up in your hands, shrugged on an actual non-coffee-shop-related hoodie and your winter coat over it, and you’d been halfway out the door when you’d seen him, so it’s not really a question. “I– yeah, I’m off at 9:30, so.”

He stares. It’s something about how he does it, you think, something about how focused and unrelenting his gaze is, how his eyes never move or waver, just stay there, trained on yours, perfectly still. A shiver, a tiny one— it works down your spine before you can quell it. You blame it on the cold. 

Barnes still hasn’t looked away.

“Are you here in case those guys came back?” you blurt out, and then wince, not entirely sure you meant to ask.

He blinks, finally. Drums his fingers against the table. You think you might be able to tell, now, which hand is which; the metal one is louder. More solid. “They’re not going to bother you again,” he says. Like he knows that for sure. 

You stand there for what feels like a long time, not saying anything, not sure of what to say; a part of you, your gut, maybe, is saying he’s here for you, and then another part that’s probably your actual brain is saying that that’s really presumptuous and verging on self-absorbed. He could just prefer sitting in a coffee shop to sitting at home, and maybe even prefers it enough to say no if you ask him to walk with you again.

You do it anyways.

“Are you— heading out, soon? We could walk together. If you are. If— if you want.”

His eyes go wide for a second, wide and glossy and wavering, and it gentles his whole face— transforms his perpetually neutral expression and eases the tension out of the sharp planes of his features and makes him look suddenly so much younger than you know him to be; young and soft and boyish. Not like those photos you’d seen of him, though, the ones they’d had in your history textbooks and in the movie posters for the revamped docudramas everyone made when they found Captain America; you remember those, and you remember how he’d looked in them, confident, self-assured, a little bit cocky. It’s different, how he seems right now. Nervous. Vulnerable. Kind of— wild.

Just like all the other times, it’s only a second, and then he’s calm, expression controlled, reaching for his coffee cup with one gloved hand. 

“Yeah, I—“ his voice is hoarse and he has to clear his throat to get it to even out again. “You want me to?”

“If you’re done,” you gesture at his coffee cup, as much as you’re capable of doing so with the bundle of your folded-up apron and uniform sweater tucked over both hands, “Then, yeah, I mean, I just thought— y’know, since we’re both on the same side of DUMBO.“

He’d already been standing as you spoke, the chair scraping against the tiled floor as he pushes it back in, and you purposely push down the beginnings of some small reflexive smile at it, how it seems like he wants to. When you say DUMBO, he gets the same look that he did when you’d said kiwi— flat and blank and disbelieving—and your repressed smile becomes a full-blown one, teeth-showing and wide, asking before he can even speak, “You don’t know what that is, do you?.”

“No idea,” Barnes says, with something pleasantly close to a wry smile, “Figure you’re not talking about the Disney movie?”

You’re sure your answering grin is fucking goofy as hell, but you can’t be bothered to care. “You’ve seen Dumbo?”

Barnes grabs his coffee cup and rounds the table and gets to the door a half-second before you do; “I saw it in theaters— came out in 1941. Year before I deployed,” he says, once it’s just the two of you in the vestibule. He pushes on the second door, and when he holds it open for you, it occurs to you that he’d beat you to it on purpose, wanted to do this. Whatever weird and nervous kind of warmth you feel at that realization, you determinedly shove somewhere into the recesses of your subconscious, where you won’t have to think about it. 

“I think they remade it, a few years ago,” you tell him, pulling one hand free of the bundle of your work clothes to flip the hood of your coat up over your head; it’s gotten cold again, and it’s snowing tonight, just a little, the flakes glittering in the beams of the streetlights. “In 3D, so, like, it’s supposed to be realistic-looking, or something.”

His expression briefly wrinkles in distaste, and something remarkably close to a giggle escapes from you before you can contain it. 

“Anyway,” you say, working your winter gloves free from your coat pocket and pulling them on one after another, taking care not to drop your apron or sweater on the wet, dirt-streaked sidewalk, “Anyway, no, not the Disney movie—it’s just what everybody calls that part of Brooklyn.” You go to zip up your coat with the bundle of your work clothes tucked under one arm. “DUMBO stands for Down Under Manhattan Bridge Overpass, it’s just a nickname. Like how there’s SoHo and NoHo and Bed Stuy.” 

Your nametag dislodges from the apron, jostled by your moving, and skitters out across the asphalt; Barnes bends to grab it for you before you can so much as move and fixes you with this look as he presses it into your outstretched hand; don’t say it.

You don’t thank him. He looks strangely relieved.

“It was just part of Vinegar Hill, when I lived here before,” he says, as you affix it back to your apron. “DUMBO. Christ, that’s stupid. I’m not calling it that.”

“Really sounding your age, today,” you tell him, grinning wide, again; his expression brightens even more at the jab, and you find yourself hoping that he’ll stay like this, for the walk, that it won’t end up like last time, with him shut down and closed off from you again. Well— more closed off than usual, because you think he’s probably always a little closed off from you. From everyone, probably. Maybe even from himself.

It’s cold, you realize belatedly, too cold, and even with your coat zipped and your hood up and your gloved hands shoved in your pockets, you’re starting to shiver. 

“C’mon,” you tell him, forcing your limbs out stiff and jumping up and down, trying to generate any amount of body heat, “I can’t stand still, I have to get blood moving or I’m gonna freeze to death.”

He’s still got his coffee, and he finishes it as you watch, then crumples the empty paper cup in his gloved hand and tosses it into the trash by the door. 

When he moves to follow you he’s a little bit closer than last time. There’s still this barrier between you, like a dividing line splitting the sidewalk clean in two, and he’s still sticking firmly to the side nearest the street, but the distance—it’s shrunk. You don’t talk much, and he still stops short of the actual block your apartment is on, but you don’t mind. 

(He’d been closer, this time, too. Just a little.)

~

You can’t sleep.

Something inside of you is thrumming and alive, like a second heartbeat; even in the dark of your room, blanket pulled up to your chest and your eyes shut, you can still feel it, a restless energy that quickens your pulse and the pace of your thoughts and keeps pulling you back from the edge each time you get close to drifting off.

It comes up in a stupid fucking video compilation you end up watching on Youtube titled Top Ten CRAZIEST Road Rage Incidents of ALL TIME!! which autoplays because you’d watched or at least zoned out for the entirety of Top Ten CRAZIEST ‘Florida Man’ Arrest Reports OF ALL TIME!!, neither of which, you’re pretty sure, are helping you fall asleep, but they’re at least alleviating your boredom.

You stare mindlessly at the screen for incidents ten through two, and then for the last stretch of the video you watch grainy, low-quality dashcam footage of the Winter Soldier landing on the rooftop of a car on the freeway. He breaks through the window of a black 2000s sedan like the heat-tempered reinforced safety glass is as thin and as fragile as a translucent sheen of ice across a pool of water. The video blurs out when the man inside the car is dragged through the jagged hole, but you know what happens, even with the shapes just foggy splotches of color. He throws him across the concrete barrier and into oncoming traffic and the video cuts to black.

Whatever the narrator is saying about it— you’re not listening. 

You don’t know why you’d never thought to do it before, to go looking for what’s out there about that other side of him, the part you didn’t learn about in history books or documentaries on streaming platforms.

In 2014, Captain America fought the Winter Soldier on route 695 in Washington, DC; the highway cuts right through the neighborhood, a main artery shuttling commuters in and out, lifted some hundreds of feet in the air on these massive pillars of concrete. At two in the morning in your pitch-black bedroom you find a video of it on youtube; the creator had released it in 2015, nearly a year after. He’d had to track down all the pieces, he says in the introduction, his home-studio mic setup crackling over your phone speaker; bits of what’d cropped up online in the aftermath and what he’d gotten of private video recordings and security footage. The resulting tangle of evidence had been fact-checked and verified and pieced together, spliced into one cohesive event, and you watch the whole thing with this kind of sick fascination. 

The beginning is replay; the dashcam footage, the driver whispering, oh, what the fuck, the tires squealing against asphalt, the crunch of glass, a scream cut short. The other video had faded out after that, but in this one it just cuts to another angle; a dashcam from oncoming traffic, congesting around the body thrown over the barrier. You can see him, Barnes— just a glimpse as the sedan passes in the opposite lane, the long, dark hair, his arm, the muzzle. He’s staring down, anchored to the car rooftop with the fingers of his metal hand. The stitched-together snippets don’t show everything, there are pieces missing, but you watch as he’s sent tumbling over the concrete, the split second of him slowing to a stop, the pixelated shadows of the rivets he’d dug into the asphalt with just his fingers. 

The video cuts down to Fourth Street southwest, under the overpass; Barnes had shot Captain America with a grenade launcher, or something, sent him crashing through the steel frames of two city buses like they’re made of paper mache. The fight between the two of them in the street is half grainy security footage, half the shaky phone camera of some bystander either too scared or too stupid to run. It’s the brutality of it, you think, that’s what gets to you, makes your heart feel like it’s stopped and your throat constrict until your breathing gets caught; or maybe it’s the speed, all of it happening so fast that it feels like by the time your brain has comprehended anything he’s done there’s already something else. Maybe it’s the knife, how he handles it, how similar it looks to the one you know he still carries. Maybe it’s the strength of him, how his fists dent cars and leave craters in the street.

Maybe it’s none of that.

You watch the video through until the end, and then you shut your phone off and you stare at the black, empty screen, unseeing, your mind running endlessly, frenzied and wild and beyond your conscious awareness, whatever thoughts you have occurring somewhere you can’t reach them. 

It takes you a really fucking long time to fall asleep.

When you finally do, you dream of the coffee shop, the long, gently sloping stretch of pavement leading down to the bridge district. There’s nobody around, no lights on in any buildings, no people, no cars; the perpetual city twilight is gone, and there’s darkness pressing in, full and all-encompassing, except for the streetlamps spaced along the sidewalk. In the dream, you walk the length of the street, alone. Below you, there are holes in the concrete, like footprints; they lead all the way down to the block just before your apartment, and then disappear.

~ On Friday you bring the kiwis and two spoons from home and you rush through the checklist of store-closing tasks and you end up having pretty much everything done by 9:30, which means you have an hour and a half to sit with Barnes at that back corner table in between customers and eat Fruit Of The Week and talk about whatever. 

“The skin on these things is— weird,” he announces, dragging the edge of the spoon around the emptied husk of a halved kiwi, scraping the last of it clean. He’d cut them up with his knife— you’d kind of hoped that he would, had even left yours at home, maybe on purpose— and he’d done this thing with it when he’d pulled it from his boot that you’ve never seen him do before, the handle moving between his fingers and the blade spinning out in this dizzying and dangerous-looking arc against his flattened palm, the whole thing only a couple of seconds, done so easily it seemed thoughtless. Like it was instinct. You’re still thinking about it. He hadn’t worn his glove, today, not on his right hand, and you’re thinking about that, too.

You clear your throat and force your eyes to focus on— something. Anything. “I— yeah, it’s controversial. Some people love them, other people, not so much.”

Barnes picks another kiwi from the little plastic tin you’d bought them in. “I might just cut the skin off this one,” he says, “Dunno how I feel about the spoon thing.”

You swallow. Your mouth is suddenly dry. You’d made yourself a coffee today, since it’s free while you’re at work- decaf, because it’s late— and you reach for it, fumble with the snap-lid, and take a cautious sip. It’d been too hot when you’d brought it over, but it’s at a comfortable temperature now; where you’re sitting is right next to the windows, and it’s colder here than it is behind the counter, especially with the sun gone, and the drink warms you from the inside. It gives you something else to focus on besides the other, markedly more dangerous warmth, simmering somewhere lower. Barnes has the kiwi held up and he’s peeling it with that same unnervingly rapid precision, even with how much smaller this is than the dragonfruit, the knife moving in this fluid and effortless rhythm a hair’s breadth away from his own hand. He’s so calm like this, as calm as you’ve ever seen him, that perpetual tension he always carries melted out as the blade works around and carves the skin from the flesh. He makes quick work of it, and then there’s a beat of stillness, before he splits it into four neat slices. 

“Here,” he says, placing two on a napkin and sliding it across the table. “Half for you.” 

“Thanks,” you reply, automatic and without thinking.

He flinches. It’s almost imperceptible, but you’re getting better at it. Noticing these things about him. 

Later, after working your way through a line of late-night customers, you come back to his table and you sit down across from him and you ask him to walk with you, again, and it’s like peeling the skin off a fruit or a scab off a wound, what it does to him. Just for a second, a drop of blood welling to the surface before it’s wiped clean again, but you’re looking for it. You wonder if that’s him, the real him, the part he doesn’t let anyone see. You think about splitting him open and what might be inside if you did, if it’d be sweet or soft or something else altogether. Some kinds of fruit are solid in the center, and you remember once reading about how they’re poisonous, the pits of peaches and plums and nectarines— Cyanide.

Barnes stares at you.

You stare back.

“Yeah,” he says, after a while, “Yeah, okay."

~

Barnes finishes his coffee and tosses the cup in the trash outside as you lock up, your fingers frozen and struggling to maneuver the ring of keys.

“I don’t know how you can drink that at nine at night,” you say, turning from him towards the bridge and towards your apartment, “I’d be awake for hours.”

When you glance over at him, he’s looking at you strangely. “I, ah— I can’t— caffeine doesn’t do anything. To me.”

You blink at him for a second before it clicks. “Oh. Oh! Really?”

Barnes grimaces in affirmative, awkward and obviously uncomfortable. “Yeah, I guess I just— I like the taste. Used to drink a lot of coffee— before.”

He’s not pulling ahead like last time, but that barrier between you is still there, like a dividing line splitting the sidewalk clean in two, and he’s still sticking firmly to the side nearest the street, hands shoved in his jacket pockets— but the distance has shrunk. Just a little.

“Bet you don’t get cold, either,” you say, half a question and half just an observation, the contrast between you, bundled up and still freezing, and him, just in that same jacket and gloves, walking like it’s a comfortable fifty degrees.

He doesn’t smile, but his mouth does the thing it does sometimes, curls at the edges. It doesn’t look happy. “Nah, I run pretty hot.”

Some small stupid part of your brain turns that information over in your head and conjures up other things you know, bits of himself he’s given to you; your mind brings back the image of him before, the glove off, the knife held in a loose, familiar fist, thumb splayed flat along the edge of it, pushing the blade into the flesh. His hands— rough and calloused and frighteningly agile, the tendons working under the thin stretch of skin, the veins spidering up to his knuckles, spinning the knife like someone would spin a pencil, like he knew beyond a doubt, maybe even subconsciously, that he wasn’t going to mess up. His eyes, the way that he stares, so still that it’s eerie and frightening and makes you think maybe you should feel violated by it, his shoulders, broad and straight, the stiffness to his posture, how he walks, the pace and the rhythm and the length of his stride half military and half— something else. The growing list of things you know about Barnes, the person, things you couldn’t learn from documentaries or youtube videos or history textbooks or wikipedia pages. He runs hot, and you know this now, too, that he’s warm beneath the jacket and the thin layer of his shirt and even underneath that, the blood in his veins, his arteries, filling up the chambers of his heart as it beats in his chest. 

The information all slots together like puzzle pieces, only you’re not really sure what the puzzle’s supposed to look like, once it’s finished. 

Something jolts you out of— whatever your brain is doing, right now. 

Your own name. Because he’d said it. 

(And now you have that, too; how it sounds, from him.)

“What?” you say, pushing out whatever’s going on in your head and feeling somehow like you didn’t really succeed at that in any meaningful way, maybe only managed to bury it. But it’s gone, for now, and your mind is clear, and Barnes is staring at you. “Sorry, I was— spacing out.”

His mouth is pressed into a thin, flat line when you glance over at him, his face lit up in the yellow of a passing streetlight. He’s slowed down, a little, shoved his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, his shoulders tight and bunched up. “I was just— I need to talk to you. About— something.”

“Yeah, go for it. What’s up?”

He’s not looking at you, he’s looking at the ground, eyes set and hard and jaw clenched tight enough that you can see the muscle twitch under the next flicker of streetlight, and it’s almost— weirder than the staring. 

“I see a therapist,” Barnes says finally. “One a week. Fridays.”

“Okay,” you reply, uncertain, “That’s— good, probably, I mean. You’ve been through a lot.”

 “I told her that— I told her you recognized me.”

He grimaces and glances away from you, out towards the street.

“Sergeant Barnes.” You say it mostly to yourself, wry and a little self-deprecating. “Yeah, I watched, like, a lot of Captain America documentaries when I was a kid.”

Barnes screws his eyes shut for a second, a heartbeat. His eyelashes are dark and long and almost brush the sharp straight plane of his cheeks. Another thing you know, a piece of him you couldn’t have gotten from the pages of a book. “That’s not what she thought I meant, at— at first.”

You prod at the inside of your cheek with the tip of your tongue. There’s nothing you want to say to that, really. You’d read the news articles, his updated wikipedia page, what parts of the court proceedings haven’t been redacted, whole paragraphs erased under thick bars of black; you could guess what she thought.  She’d thought you’d looked at him and seen the Winter Soldier, recognized him for the ghost of that past, not the other one. Maybe that’s just luck; you’d stopped caring about all that superhero stuff before they’d found him, and none of that had ever really sunk in. You’d seen pictures, the hair, the arm, the expression that made you think of shell-shock, the eyes that were flat and cold and empty. How pale he’d been, like he hadn’t seen the sun in a long time. It just— it hadn’t stuck, or overridden the things you’d known, before. It wasn’t the first thing you’d thought about, the day he’d come in. 

It’s not what you’re thinking of now. You really don’t think of either of them, now. He’s— something different. Something new.

“I— told her, eventually,” Barnes says. Your apartment is the next block away. Your nose is numb, the tip starting to sting, chapped and frostbitten. “She said— I should tell you that I’m— that’s not who I am, anymore.”

You’re crossing the street and he’s following you still, even though every other time he’d have veered off by now, and maybe it’s selfish of you that you don’t want to tell him. “Technically you don’t lose military rank when you retire,” you say, staring down at the pavement. That’s not what he’d meant. You know that.

There is a beat of silence. Your breath when you exhale forms a cloud of condensation in the cold, rising up like ghosts into the sky.

“No, I’m saying he’s dead,” he bites out, harsh and rough and like he’d had to force himself to say it. “And whatever I am now— it’s not— I’m not him.”

It stuns you so completely that you stop walking.

Barnes stills a few steps ahead. When he turns, the heel of his boot scrapes on the asphalt, the sound echoing in the empty street. His eyes are bright and vivid and filled with something you can’t identify. 

Not empty, though. Not cold.

“I don’t think it really works like that,” you say carefully. Your apartment building is right there, the door just up ahead, the light of the lobby spilling out through the glass and onto the road, a glowing block of amber in the dark. “You don’t— the people we were before, they don’t die. We change, obviously, but it’s— we grow around it, right? It’s still a part of us.”

His brow furrows just slightly, and then goes smooth a second later, like he’d caught it. Buried it. “Okay,” he says, “Maybe, maybe you’re right, but what I’m trying to tell you is that it’s still— I’m still— part of me is—“

The knife. The pomegranate. The stare, the stiff, stilted veneer, the cracks in it, the blood. Sergeant James Barnes. The Winter Soldier. 

“It’s alright,” you say. He’s staring at the ground, the spiderwebbed cracks in the concrete, rippling out through the sidewalk like veins under skin. “You don’t have to say it. I know— I know what you mean.”

Barnes looks up at you, and when you look back something trembles in his eyes and twists in his expression and for a second you can see him, underneath everything. Frightened and guilty and grateful, all at once. 

You wonder why he’s afraid.

(You wonder why you’re not.)

“This is my building,” you say, after a while, jerking your chin to it behind him, rows of windows, most of them darkened, a scattered few still bright; on the third floor, all the way on the right, there’s the one that looks in on your living room, lit up a soft, pale yellow, the glow of a lamp you always forget to shut off diffusing out through the slats in your shuttered blinds. “Oh— damn it,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, again. Bad habit, the thinking aloud. “I left the light on again.”

Somewhere to your left in the haze of your periphery you notice Barnes has frozen in place, so completely that even when you look over at him you can’t tell if he’s breathing at all, the whole of his body stuck still and static like he’s been paralyzed. It feels wrong, somehow, sets off those alarm bells in some base and instinctive and evolutionarily conserved part of your hindbrain, the way people sometimes talk about uncanny valley syndrome, things that look human but not, in some essential and viscerally terrifying way. You don’t think normal people would even be capable of this, of being as motionless as he is right now. Like a shadow. Like a corpse.

He blinks and tears his eyes away from where he’d been staring at the far corner of your apartment complex and the spell is broken, he’s alive again, something like panic flashing across his face in the split second before he reconstructs that facade of flat invulnerability. You find yourself taking a step towards him without meaning to, and he flinches back from even that, like it’s— a threat.  

Or— no, like he’s done something wrong.

“I, ah— I  have to go,” Barnes says, stumbling over the words, a pressure to his speaking that you’ve never heard before. 

It’s so abrupt that it takes a second for it to register and for your brain to fully comprehend what’d happened, that he’s leaving and that you must’ve done or said something, something bad, and when you go to speak your throat has constricted and gone tight and your voice comes out so quiet that if it’d been anyone else, you’re sure it would have gone unnoticed. 

“Wait,” you call after him, and he hears it, because he’s not anyone else and his senses are somewhere outside of what’s human. 

Barnes stops at the edge of the sidewalk, near the street, and he turns back to you, his hands shoved in his pockets and the line of his shoulders tense and raised and this kind of stiffness to his body that you’ve never seen. Like an animal with its hackles raised, a distant part of your brain suggests. 

“Will you—,” you swallow, feeling suddenly nervous under the unwavering pressure of his stare, “You’re going to come next Friday, right?” 

You say it outright, this time, no bullshit or plausible deniability, some clammy knot of worry tangling itself up in the pit of your stomach at the thought that he might not, that you’d done some miniscule unknowable thing to upset him and drive him away.

“I shouldn’t,” he says, his voice low and strained and hoarse; it doesn’t make sense, there’s something about this you haven’t figured out yet, and the thought tears at you somewhere like it has teeth and claws and a mind of its’ own, how badly you want to know what’s missing. 

In the tangle of your work clothes clutched to your chest, your fingers have found the knotted strands of your apron, and you’re picking at it with your nails, trying to pry it apart. 

(You want to pry him apart.)

“You know— you know I don’t think any differently of you, right?” you tell him, aware of how you must sound, nervous and uncertain, but— not because of him, not like that.You don’t want to hurt him. You don’t want to mess this up. “I— I didn’t know you, before. I’ve only ever known you how you are now, this you, and— I like you. We’re friends. We still are. Nothing— nothing’s changed.”

He doesn’t reply. Just stares. Whatever’s going on in his head is hidden from you. You think about how he looks at you, like he wants to get inside and open you up and pull all the pieces out.

(You think you must look at him the same way.)

“Please?” you say. In your hands, hidden under your uniform sweater, you’ve finally managed to work the edge of your thumbnail up under the tight bend of the knot in your apron, the strips of linen beginning to unravel. “I still want you to come.”

Finally, his expression slackens. You’re not sure what it is, the way the tension unwinds from him like a thread pulled to snap; relief or defeat or something else entirely.  

“Okay,” Barnes says. “Yeah, okay. I– I will.”

He looks strangely powerless. Whatever crack in his exterior has split to allow this to surface— it doesn’t close, not like the others, not for a while. When it does it’s much slower, more difficult, like the stitching of a wound. Like skin knitting itself back together, painstaking and gradual and imperfect. The kind of thing that leaves a scar.

“Goodnight,” you tell him, turning to the lobby door, hand on the bar to pull it open. “Get some rest, all right? You— you look like you haven’t been sleeping well, lately, and I just— I worry about you, sometimes.”

Something softens in him, and he nods, his eyes flicking down, away from you. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll– I’ll try.”

~

The week drags.

Barnes isn’t there Wednesday. You’d been expecting that, but you’d still kind of hoped, and a part of you is still– stupidly, ridiculously, childishly– disappointed, when your shift comes and goes, and his table stays empty.

You spend most of Thursday thinking about Friday.

There’s something buzzing inside of you, when he comes in. Something that falters, disappointed, when the size of the line at the front counter at 7 is too long for you to even speak to him, busy making sandwiches and an outrageous number of frozen hot chocolates for a mom and her four kids when he comes for his coffee. Your coworker makes it for him and there’s a handful of seconds while he’s standing at the pickup counter and you’re on the other side waiting for bagels to toast that you’re able to look up and lock eyes with him for a second. 

He seems miles more composed than he had been last week, and you hope that’s a good thing. That he’s doing better. Feeling better.  “Busy today, huh?” 

You heave an exhausted sigh. “Ridiculously. Nonstop, since I got here, I don’t know if there’s, like, an event, or something, but— it sucks.” 

Barnes drums his fingers against the counter. Behind him, the mom is trying to corral her kids, who are making a mess of the condiments counter. One of them is eating sugar packets, spilling it everywhere; his face, his shirt, the floor. A muscle in your jaw twitches.

When you look back at him he’s staring at you, and you wonder if he’d been doing that the whole time, even when you’d looked away. You don’t usually mind, but right now you have syrup on the rolled-up sleeves of your sweater and hot chocolate powder all down the front of your apron and your hair is frizzing out with flyaways at the edges of your uniform hat, some of them sticking to the sheen of sweat starting on your forehead from the heat of all three toaster ovens running at once, and you kind of wish he’d— not. Look at you, that is. Stare. Because you look insane. You feel insane, and that kid is fucking making a mess behind him, and you’re going to get stuck cleaning it up, and—

“If you’re— if it’s a bad time, I can— next week, maybe,” Barnes says.

“No,” you tell him, maybe too quickly, “No, it’ll definitely die down at some point, I mean, if you don’t mind waiting—“

“I don’t,” he replies, stilted and awkward and said before you can even finish speaking. “I don’t, I don’t mind.”

 He’s still standing at the pickup counter, not waiting on anything, coffee in hand, and he’s still staring at you, and his eyes are very, very blue, pale and clear and so light they’re almost gray, like the bay of the Hudson on days when it’s overcast, or like once when you were a teenager and it’d gotten so cold that the river had frozen over for the first time in thirty years.

You wonder if he’d ever seen it like that. 

You open your mouth to ask and then realize you fucking can’t, there’s other people around, and you’re not trying to out him as being the world’s least-obvious centenarian just because you have a stupid, inane question—

The timer on one of the ovens goes off, followed by the second one, and the third one, the shrill sounds of the alarms overlapping with one another. 

“Sorry,” is what you say instead, tearing your eyes away and fumbling for the buttons to shut them off, “I have to—“

“It’s alright,” he says, “I’ll see you when it’s calmed down, right?” 

“Yeah,” you reply, distracted again, not sure if it was a question or a statement. “Yeah, ‘course.”

It does calm down, eventually, sometime around 9, which is nuts and totally out of the ordinary. Everything’s a fucking mess; there’s a puddle of  coffee and sugar and half-melted ice cubes on the floor and splotches of flavored syrup smeared all on the counter by the espresso machine and you’d missed the fucking garbage can trying to empty one of the brewing baskets and dumped grounds fucking everywhere, and each fuck-up had kind of built on the others without so much as a moment’s break to even think about cleaning. Your coworker helps you get things back to some semblance of organization behind the counter, but after he leaves there’s still the absolute disaster that is the lobby, and—

God, and Barnes had been waiting for you for like, hours.

You rush through the dishes and the stocking up and finish all that shit by 10:30, and you think maybe you’ll be able to get the lobby straightened back out in about twenty minutes, which’d leave all of a deeply unsatisfactory ten minutes to talk to him.

Except—

Except when you look for the broom in the back you can’t find it, and you remember, kind of vaguely, your coworker having tried to get started on all that way back at 6 before you’d gotten slammed, and when you actually go out to try to find it and eyeball the extent of the damage and the degree of the disarray, there isn’t any. The tables are swept off and the chairs are pushed-in and the floor is free of debris and even the counter with the straws and condiments and things where that kid had spilled sugar everywhere is clean except for some dried coffee spills.

The broom and dustpan is leaned carefully against the trash receptacle. 

Barnes is still at his spot by the window. 

“Did you—“ you make some wordless gesture at the not-destroyed lobby, not even needing to ask, honestly. After the Blip it’d been like all the kindness and empathy people found when half the world’s population was gone had vanished as soon as they’d all reappeared, like both were fundamentally incapable of existing at the same time, and you couldn’t imagine some random stranger had seen two faceless minimum wage nobodies dealing with the cumulative hell that is the entitlement of a bunch of New York strangers and thought, hey, how can I maybe make their lives a little easier?

But of course he would. Fucking— Captain America’s best friend, even way back when Captain America was just some scrawny smart-mouthed five-foot-four asthmatic. The guy who’d stood up for him when he got picked on and protected him when he started fights he couldn’t finish and took him in when his mom passed away from tuberculosis without so much as a second thought. You still know all this, the way you think most people just always kind of know the details of whatever weird fixations they had between the ages of about twelve and fifteen, and you know, more presently, that this guy is not the same guy you know all these details about, but it’s not like people just— stop being who they were, completely, either. It’s not like Sergeant James Barnes and the Barnes that you know are these completely unrelated people, right, it’s not like one of them ceased to exist, he just— got older. Shit happened. He changed.

But— he’s not fucking dead.

Who you are is always made up partly of who you were. Like the way a tree is a tree because it’d been a seed, first. And maybe it’s just really fucking late, right, maybe you’re just really tired, maybe today had just been uniquely fucking exhausting, but your brain just— cannot cope with any of this. The kindness, any amount of it, from anyone, directed at you in any capacity, but also just that it’s from him. The fact that any part of him is like this, still, after everything.

You are not going to cry about his tragic life story and all his obvious and heartbreaking guilt and shit in front of the guy. Jesus Christ. Get a grip.

“The broom was out,” he says,  “And— you were busy, and it was a mess out here, so I thought—“

“That was so nice, you’re— you’re so nice to me,” you reply, steady and not tearful but still a lot more plaintively than you intended, “Thank you, really, you didn’t have to—“

“Don’t,” he says, so abrupt that it’s jarring, “Don’t thank me, it’s— it was nothing.”

You blink at him. He shifts in his chair, looking uncomfortable.

You reach for his coffee cup like the last time, but he has a gloved hand around it before you can even get close. His mouth— the corners, they’ve started to curl up, even with the way the line of it is pressed flat and firm and like he’s trying his hardest to keep himself from smiling.

“Not allowed to thank you, not allowed to refill your coffee,” you say, rolling your eyes, good-natured and sounding a lot more flippant. A lot less in danger of being reduced to a crybaby mess because one person had been nice to you all day. “Unfair.”

“Yeah, well,” it inches closer to a smile, like he can’t help it, the upturn of his lips. “Life’s not fair.”

There’s a beat of silence. You should be used to it, by now, the pauses, the quiet, the lulls in conversation; you are, usually, but today it just feels– strange. Makes your stomach twist and your palms itch with some weird and unfamiliar sort of nervous energy. You suddenly have to fight the urge to fidget.

“I’m glad you came back,” you blurt out. “Sorry if– I know it was crazy busy, before, and I was thinking, I mean, if that’s– if it’s too stressful, when it’s like that, you don’t– I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay–”

“No,” he says. “It’s not stressful, seeing you is–” he looks away from you, just for a second, stares at his coffee cup, and the abnormality of that makes something prickle in the pit of your stomach, sparks that jittery feeling up again. “It’s– good. I don’t care if it’s busy.”

Barnes shuts his eyes, then, and his expression screws up, and he runs his hand down the lower half of his face, “Ah, sorry, that was weird.”

“No, it’s not, it’s– that’s literally normal,” you tell him, smiling, “I like seeing you too.”

He looks back at you. There’s that flash of red, again, a burst of color, something breaking through the mask of his composure. Something sweeter, this time, like maybe he’s pleased by that, just for a second, before he shoves it away. 

He’s still staring at you. Absently, you scrub the heel of your palm against the smear of powdered sugar you know you still have on your cheek; his eyes flick to it, drawn by the movement, probably, and you have a weird and sudden desire to look at the ground. 

“I have— something,” you blurt out, fighting the urge to fidget,  “For you. Something for you to try, I mean. It’s in the back, I’m going to— I’ll get it, and I have to do some other little cleaning things, but I’m almost done.”

You think you feel his eyes on you, from the lobby and behind the counter, all the way until you disappear from view into the back room, but you don’t turn to check. 

The fruit is on the table, beside an unsealed bag full of bills and change; technically you weren’t supposed to count out the register until close at 11, but you wanted to get out of here as fast as physically possible, after the way your shift had gone. There are a few straggler dishes in the sink, a coffee pot and a latte pitcher and a mixing spoon, and you kind of half-ass them and leave them to dry, snag a few sleeves of hot and iced coffee cups to stock up out front, and a new pump for the caramel syrup. 

You glance at your reflection in the stainless-steel side of the ice machine before you head back out onto the floor, and use a wet paper towel to scrub the sugar off the side of your face. 

There’s still one pot of coffee left. Fresh; the last one you’d make before close. You hesitate for a second at the swinging gate that divides behind the counter from the lobby, and then you pour him another coffee and you bring that with you, too. 

When you set it on the table next to his empty cup, Barnes glances at it and then looks away and ducks his head with this long-suffering sigh, like he’s annoyed, like you’re being a nuisance, but you can still see the way his mouth is angled. How it’s upturned.

“Outsmarted,” you tell him, feeling pretty proud of yourself. “Thank you. You have to accept or I’m kicking you out.”

Barnes looks up at you and there it is again; in his expression, or maybe his eyes, a flash of something, less pleasant than before. 

“Yeah, alright,” he says, his voice hoarse. 

Your eyes track back and forth across his face for a moment, uncertain, but whatever it was you’d seen, if there’d even been anything at all, it’s clear he hadn’t meant for or wanted you to, so eventually you just decide to pretend it wasn’t there.

“Here,” is what you say instead. “Guava.”

It’s green and vaguely pear-shaped and the insides are pink and soft when he splits it with the knife; you watch him do it, his steady hands, the glove on his left, the blade, deft and sure. It’d been uneven, the fruit, so the pieces are different sizes even with how neatly he’d split it in two. 

“You can have the bigger one,” you tell him.

He picks it up and moves to try it and you watch that, too; his hands, his mouth. The flash of his teeth.

The doorbell rings before he can take the first bite.

“Oh, my god,” you say, under your breath, quiet enough that Barnes can hear and the person coming in can’t. “I’ll be right back.”

It’s kind of annoying, the people who feel the need to come in at 10:57 at night when a place closes at 11, but the man only wants a standard coffee, cream and sugar, and he pays with a debit card, so he’s out in under two minutes and you don’t have to recount the drawer. 

When you come back to the table the smaller half of the guava is gone. 

“Changed my mind,” Barnes says when you raise an eyebrow at him, “You paid for it, so. Only–”  he swallows, and his eyes break from yours for a second. Something flashes in them, like ice breaking in the frozen Hudson, the churning water underneath spilling out through the gaps. He looks stricken and ashamed and then fine; frozen over, again, the water gone still and solid. He clears his throat. “Only fair.”

“Okay,” you reply, with an easy shrug. 

He watches you eat it. The juice gets on your fingers. You lick them clean.

This time, he doesn’t look away.

“I’ll be out early tonight,” you tell him, after. “If you wanted to wait, we could– walk together. Again. If– if you want.”

He swallows. Your eyes flicker down to it, the column of his throat, the movement. He’d cut himself shaving, or something, because there’s red, just a sliver of it, on the left side of his adam’s apple. Your mouth goes a little bit dry. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I'll walk you home.”

There’s barely any hesitation, this time.

~

Barnes walks you to your building, or just about.

You glance up at the windows overhead; your light is off. “Awesome,” you mumble to yourself. “Didn’t forget.”

You give him a small smile and an awkward little wave before you turn towards your apartment building. You get as far as into the threshold of the lobby before he calls out to you– calls out for you, uses your name again, only the second time you’ve ever heard him say it aloud, even though you know that he knows what it is. Has known, probably since day one; you have to wear those stupid name tags.

“Yeah?” you say, still in the doorway, the heat escaping all around you.

He’s still standing right where he had been, hands in his pockets, posture stiff and frozen and markedly uncomfortable. You wonder when that’d happened. You wish you’d been paying more attention, but work had been hell, and you’re really fucking tired. “Will you— can you do something for me? Just— make sure you lock your door,” he says, and then, as an afterthought, “Windows, too.”

“I always lock my door,” The smile you shoot back is wry and more than a little cynical. “And I’m on the third floor, so unless Spider-Man has decided he wants to start doing crime instead of stopping it, windows seem like overkill.”

He does not seem to find it funny. You think you see his eyes snap closed, his expression tighten and then relax, again, but you’re too far away to tell. Maybe he’d only blinked. 

“Please do it,” he says. “I just want you to be safe.”

You stare at him for a second. Your hands are cold, your face, too. You want to get inside, where it’s warm. You want to go to sleep. “Yeah, okay,” you tell him. “I will.”

~

You don’t.

[talonabraxas]

Sanat Kumara (Hindu; Vedic; New Age) Also known as Karttikeya, Sumara, Skanda-Karttikeya.

Kumara is a warrior god, devoted to ridding people and the earth of negative entities and lower energies.

Legends abound explaining Kumara's creation, with the common thread being his relationship to the number six—perhaps because of his talents in banishing negative spirits. One tale recounts that Heaven was plagued with demons, so Shiva used his third-eye flame to beget six children who would specialize in slaying demons. However, their mother hugged the six children with such enthusiastic love that she squeezed their bodies into one child with six heads.

Hindus revere Kumara as a leader among gods who banishes darkness in the minds of men and spirits. His demon-slaying activities are thought to be metaphorical, symbolizing Kumara's slaying of ignorance.

In New Age circles, he's hailed as a member of the Great White Brotherhood, working alongside Jesus and Archangel Michael to help the planet and her population with the ascension process.

Sanat Kumara says, "Power is my focus—power for one and for all . . . redelivering personal power to people everywhere, direct from the Great Source of All. Through my realization of the Great Allness, I am able to tap in to its plentitude and draw up from the power supply and distribute it to everyone. By illuminating the masses with this personal power, there's an infusion of justice and grace in the world, for no one can usurp your personal boundaries when you know that your supply of power is unlimited and completely unfettered. Lean on this knowledge, and never be afraid to exercise your rights in all situations that call upon you to be strong."

INVOCATION

Kumara is a powerful spirit who has a primal, indigenous feel to him, like an intense witch doctor. When you call upon him, Kumara responds at lightning speed and with lovingly powerful energy. If you're fatigued, call upon him for help:

"Sanat Kumara, please bring me your powerful energy to uplift my spirit and vitality. Please help me rise above negative thoughts and emotions, like a bird above dark clouds. I ask your assistance in tapping me in to the true and eternal Source of all energy. Please clear away lower spirits and energies from within and around me, and infuse me with Divine healing light."

Then breathe deeply while Kumara does his work. In a few moments, you should feel revived and refreshed.

[thelesbiancitizen]

The male god has been characterized as untouchable, cannot be reasoned with, cannot be argued with. must be "respected" as in given a wide berth. Decisions cannot be questioned; his word is definitive and final. Men take on this power in all interactions. it is a construction of stories which forms the seat of male power.

Goddess power is female power, in human form embodied by women and girls; it has been ridiculed, denigrated, called false, illusory, is made "unreal". Images and symbols of female power, once widespread and ubiquitous, have been buried and destroyed in a process that began around 5000 years ago at the so-called "dawn of civilization", when men first began destroying the land, the Great Mother, out of greed and arrogance. The female is expected, like her dominated goddess, to submit, to get and stay quiet, to not fight back. To "Lie back and think of England" while she is raped repeatedly. To lie there as if dead.

But this is not how the story really goes. Female power is not dead. Goddess is not dead. Power lives in us all. The Goddess represents our power as immanent, embodied, touchable; an immediate creative force incarnated in the human woman. She is as much pleasure in connection as she is wrath and vengeance for what has been taken from her. She is the untameable wild flailing struggle of spirit of all women and girls; Her stories through the ages represent our will to live and live well. Look to any of the stories that name female power: of the Kore Persephone and her unbreakable connection with Demeter; to Diana, to Artemis, to Sekhmet and Isis and all the others. Look how the stories have been twisted over the ages to undermine female power; to explain it backwards as if female power must be derived from male authority, when it is known that everything living is born of the female.

The Goddess in all her iterations are metaphors, aspects, symbols of female strength, complexity, and power abound, connecting us to a forgotten history where we were not second-class, we did not submit to male authority, and answered only to ourselves. We can restore continuity to the past. We can confer power upon ourselves. Indeed, we must.

[fumiku]

Hear ye hear ye!

I come bringing two Dungeon Meshi marchil fanfics to share

Enough

He got crumbs of it in moments, here and there, and it would be more than enough to last the winter. Chil knew how to live on little, with only what he could afford. But love? Love he had had enough of for a lifetime.

I'll start with the shorter one that I wrote first, a quick Chilchuck POV 1.3k words oneshot that's bittersweet if not just plainly sad. It’s about repressing a crush essentially, but the marchil is mostly a front for a character study about Chilchuck’s complex feelings on his marital situation and love in general. I’ve been told many times in comments that even without shipping marchil it was enjoyable, so give it a shot if that sounds interesting!

He soaked her in, like hard bread softening in broth.

Grind Me Down Sweetly

Even years after their journey into the dungeon, Marcille wasn’t quite over her existential dread over short lifespans… And it showed. Every other day, she came by to Chilchuck’s locksmith shop with a shocking lack of locks to smith.

Coffeeshop au except it’s not an au and there’s no coffeeshop. This one is a long oneshot of 17k words, and contains flashbacks that are meant to loosely span over a year. This fic can pretty much be entirely read as platonic. They’re just close friends but they give married energy is all. Slice of life and cozy with a side of banter & tsundere behavior, and existential dread hurt/comfort as the cherry on the sundae. It contains some classic Dungeon Meshi things like storytelling through cooking and sharing meals~ If you like the Marcille and Chilchuck dynamic in canon, this is pretty much just a bunch of that, shenanigans abound!

She clung to her friends like time was always running out.

Blonde hair is the epitome of beauty to him meanwhile his greying hair brings her existential despair. I am composed and collected about this

"I am going to chase you out with a broom"

Some related-ish memes I made!

Extra author notes and marchil rambling under cut

With how chil is so irritable and private about romance and his feelings it makes sense that their romance would have passive-agressive energy. Are they just friends or pining? Oh wouldn’t you like to know. Are they just lightheartedly bantering or is he legitimately pissed or are they blinking in morse code their true feelings at each other? Yes

My post-canon timeline is Chilchuck lives a nice life living alone in his house-shop except his friends all visit him and care, and even though he likes living alone it’s also bittersweet and every corner of his life is haunted by the ones he loves and loved and the moments he had with them. That’s it that’s all I want… (mostly the nice life part lol)

My marchil manifesto is that she grows on him stubbornly like fungal yeast and it brings out his flavor like beer <3 Because she stubbornly puts her nose everywhere and refuses to give up on getting closer to her friends and it makes him open up and repress his feelings less and aaaa <33 Obligatory shout out to the dunmeshi discord serv for engaging with my rambles

For someone who dislikes alcohol I’m having so much fun working beer metaphors and stuff into the writing, Chilchuck has all the fun motifs to play with fr... Traps, lockpicking, married life, work, destitution, starvation, rejection, repression, opening urself up to the world. Give me the most domestic fluff and give it a subtle foundation of angst and hurt comfort 👌

And I do think that Marcille takes a particular interest in Chilchuck especially because he’s so set on being a closed book as well. Yeah she def is like 👀 at him. Aaah the way she wants to meet his family so bad 😭💕 I think she romanticizes him & his family life/idealizes him as a virtuous husband a lot too. Like how she tends to think of things in a more flowery story-like way.

I do compare him to bread and her to soup in that he soaks up in her warm vibes and softens up. Which has become a personal favorite. He was bread, she was soup, can I make it any more obvious /lyr Soggy bread Chilchuck is so funny to me. Like, you know that rock solid bread but then you soak it in soup and then it just becomes the softest crumbliest thing. I think Chilchuck is a really hard bread that will break your teeth if you don’t put him in some soup beforehand. Or wine. I wracked my brain a lot about what food Chil would like (because his Adventurer’s Bible profile just says he love alcohol and hates sweet dishes rip) and I end up giving him a bread motif a lot, since it pairs well with alcohol and whatnot.

With marchil I either do unrequited angst because Chilchuck will NOT allow himself to feel, or the most domestic fluffy shit ever but in a mostly platonic dimension because once again -gestures at Chilchuck- But in a true Marcille "If I was Chilchuck’s wife" Donato fashion she manages to get her nose into the most stubborn’s people stuff like a barnacle and it’s. So married people coded anyways. They’re a lil messed up but it’s ok they’ll iron out those bumps. Ironing because they are gonna do the most domestic chores together 🔥🔥 MARRIEDCORE I TELL YOU I should get around to making more fics and more different vibes though, I already have a bunch of prompts written down~

Even more rambling and headcanons!!

I hc that when he gets his shop all his living quarters are half-foot sized so whenever the party comes to visit they suffer sitting down at the dinner table and whatnot

There’s a very specific horror in not being able to grow old with your loved one… It’s gotta be rough being in a relationship where you don’t mature at the same speed/rate. It must be so heartbreaking to turn around and your lover suddenly looks 70 while you’re still like 26 Chilchuck living until he lives with either Meijack or Flertom or at the castle and spends his days grumbling about people being even more incompetent than they used to be real. He can live longer than 50 🙏 come on peepaw you can make it to 70. He’s got so many friends ready to nurse him, prob while he complains about it. This is why I find elderly half-foots a funny mental picture. For a while I wondered if half-foots aged visually much at all in the traditional sense, and then I remembered these.

In my post-canon headcanons I’ve adopted the idea that Marcille doesn’t do her hair, it’s always someone else making her hairdos like an attendant or Kabru and like maybe Falin learns. In the "it takes a village to raise someone" community mutual aid energy… And the rare times where the task befalls Chilchuck he learns how to put it in a single braid (even if it’s so much hair for him to hold in his small hands all at once rip) because the one time he braided it in two in canon it reminded him of Meijack and gave him psychic damage. WHICH. Ohhh my god you have no idea how much I care about Chilchuck’s daughters now. After writing the first half of Grind Me Down Sweetly I am forever changed I know them all by name and know everything there is to know about them, I am making so many headcanons every day… Meijack wears thigh-high boots because she hates when sand, dirt or snow gets in her shoes- I have fanart coming up of them over at @fuumiku and I’d love making fics centered around them as well eventually yippee The angst of old senile Chilchuck still tying marcille's hair... Old senile chilchuck confusing marcille for one of his daughters… "Have you gotten taller? Oh how much you’ve grown" -breaking his neck looking up at her- I want Chilchuck to get the top notch elder treatment.

Ok this is the alcoholism tangent. I really want to believe Chilchuck can be super old, but… Realistically he’s gonna drink himself to an early grave, he’s a work hard play hard kinda guy.

Marcille would be horrified if she knew the extent of it fr fr, but I do think it’d drive a wedge between them if she tried getting him to lay off of it… If he’s open to it though that’d be so nice and sweet. Hey hey btw did you know, Chilchuck is canonically underweight due to extremely strict dieting and alcohol can act as a good hunger suppressant! Lots of issues to dig into here It’d be cute if his daughters visit him often and collectively keep tabs on him in a caring way. It’s less cute actually beinh the daughter and having to deal with it but- CHILCHUCK IS WORTH IT okay!!! Where’s that meme of "You can fix him? So is 5 other people y’all look like a construction crew" bc this increasingly looks like ‘Marcille Senshi Laios Izutsumi and his family make sure he doesn’t poison himself like a dog with chocolate’ mission.

Truly for some people reason just flies out the window when it comes to alcohol, coherence gives way to excuses. He reminds of someone I know who got a grave disease that’s worsened by alcohol and just. Continues to take it regularly. You know that thing that’s said where "an alcoholic parent will have 2 kids, one will grow to be alcoholic too while the other will never touch a drop of alcohol" and Chilchuck is def the first I think. He gives the vibe that he’d say "An alcoholic parent puts a strain on familial relationships?? Pshh, my father was and look at me! I turned out great!". I don’t think Chil could really get shaken out of it at this point tbh, seems very ingrained in him, would prob fight it back. I relate with my own familial situation ughh. Maybe if he realized how it hurt the people around him and not only himself though…. I’d def like to see him ease up on it. Drinking is often a social activity though. That gives me hope, especially with the whole dunmeshi lesson of sharing meals, that he might be able to/have recontextualized how or when he likes to take alcohol, that alcohol is better when you have others with you and you’re still able to talk and whatnot. Chilchuck says that he’s pretty picky with alcohol tho, like he has specific tastes or a high bar. Laios can ban good beer in the kingdom and then Chilchuck just stops because it all tastes awful and he’s not rich enough to import. The brewery he likes mysteriously burns down in a fireball incident one night. Marcille risks prison for her loved ones part 2, now with diplomatic immunity! ✨

I have hcs about Chil’s family dynamic, about his daughters and how alcoholism or workaholism may have affected everyone (not me inferring that Puckpatti being the most idealistic and optimistic from Chil’s daughters is probably a result from her being the youngest and perhaps Chil being the most often at work during that time and so she was mostly raised by her mother without much involvement from him). That’s a topic for another day though, for now I leave you all with thoughts of Flertom painting flowers on a shitty ceramic mug when she was 3 and Chil begrudgingly asking Marcille advice on picking a birthday gift for Puckpatti :) Oh yeah, because if we look at the timeline in The Adventurer’s Bible and combine it with when Chilchuck said that "Due to certain circumstances he hasn’t seen his wife or daughters in years" in the Senshi backstory chapter, besides letters with Flertom he has seemingly not seen them in 4 years. 4 YEARS. Thank god dungeons disappeared, it took that much for him to retire

[strangedreamings]

S3E3 (spoilers abound)

I knew that was a dream, it was too romantic. But good, Colin needs a wet dream or two about Pen. It's sad that it takes this to get him to realize he's attracted to her but hey, whatever works.

So Gregory didn't break his arm from being in the balloon like everybody guessed, interesting. Still chaotic, but not in the same way.

Colin, please, promise me you'll never play poker -- you couldn't bluff convincingly if your life depended on it. I'm glad Hyacinth is supportive of Pen, even if Eloise isn't.

"Must be rich, must be handsome, and he must be of high rank." John Stirling is an earl, one of the upper ranks of the nobility. Just saying...

Philippa really is dim. Let's hope that in her and Prudence's case, intelligence skipped a generation and any kids they have inherit Portia's brain. She's not perfect but she's leagues smarter than those two.

Mrs. Varley says Pen has a visitor and I assume it's Colin or Debling. It's El and my response? An out loud "What the fuck?"

Oh, El. She's maturing (slowly) but she's not ready for them to be friends again yet. Maybe by the end of E4? And can I just say that I LOVE that blue dress Eloise has on? She looks lovely AND SHE HAS HER FLOWERS BACK! So, the show's costume designer was holding back her flowers until she became more herself, got it.

Pen in a park and everyone's talking about her. Ugh. Honey, none of them are worthy of you. Take note of who's talking down about you now and when you're on top, see which of them kisses your ass. They're the ones to avoid like the plague.

God, I love weeping willows, they're like natural gazebos. And this one is HUGE.

Sorry, Pen, but the tulle in your hair looks stupid. It looks too much like you accidently left a curling rag in.

So now they're both nervous, so cute. Colin's world has been rocked to its foundations and he needs to find his footing all over again.

So, Debling is a vegetarian and a naturalist. He seems to prefer animals to people. Considering the ton, I can't say I blame him. Lady Cowper is threating to arrange a marriage for Cressida if she doesn't get married this season. No unconditional love there, that's for sure. Cressida, get yourself a husband whose estate is far from your father's and tell your parents the roads are bad, so they can never visit. That should keep contact with them restricted to letters and the Season.

I really hope this earl who just introduced himself to Francesca isn't John.

God, I love Alice. She's a sweeter person than the ton deserves. She's right about Colin being gallant, too bad he's only just starting to realize how badly he messed up.

Debling uses odd animal metaphors and his humor is a little whack but I like the guy. As long as he's honest about why he wants a wife, I'll support him. He's cute too. Beards were unfashionable during this era, so it's another sign that he doesn't care about what other people think.

Aww, Cressida. Yeah, your family doesn't support you at all. I'd ship her with Debling if they weren't so obviously wrong for each other. She does need a good man to marry her but I don't think she'll find him this season.

Oh, Colin, you are so far gone for Pen. Do something about soon, please, before you lose her forever.

I do not like Eloise's outfit. It looks like a modern business suit with an extra-long skirt.

I take it back, I think I do ship Debling and Cressida, but if what he's after is just someone to watch his estate while he's gone, I think she can do better. Still, isolation might be what she wants, who knows?

Eloise is third- and fourth-wheeling. I'd feel sorry for her but hell, she deserves this.

I just had to look it up -- yeah, "marriage whisperer" is a phrase that could have been used back then since "horse whisperer" was a phrase that was already in use. Still, it sounds too modern.

So, Lord Samadani's a marquess, not an earl. Is his first name John? Does he have a first cousin named Michael?

Debling, you're the one who insisted on this three-way conversation, figure out how to end it politely. Colin is so jealous. Do something about it.

Prudence's husband really is dim. She married him for his looks, didn't she?

Rescues all around. Debling's going to have to make his decision soon, this is getting ridiculous.

Another ball. A handsome man gives Violet her accidentally dropped glove. I assume this is the "unwanted" visitor Agatha was complaining about. Blood relative? Widowed in-law? He's the right age bracket for Violet, so that's good.

Cressida looks ridiculous and miserable. I have to wonder whose idea these gowns are -- hers? Her mother's? The modiste's? Whoever, they have no idea what they are doing. This one looks more like modern haute couture, and ugly haute couture at that.

Pen and Cressida in a literal race to Debling, good lord.

Okay, so Samadani is apparently not John. Good, he doesn't understand what Francesca's after.

BROTHER?! Interesting. He's hot. I love his voice and his thoughts on having grown children. Wow, if this is Violet's "gardener," she'll be fucking the brother of the woman who fucked her father. England really is a small country.

Who took a bunch of spoon handles and put them in Agatha's hair?

Agatha is in her own personal hell, I love it.

Is THIS John? He's not Scottish, going by what little he's said. Disappointing, but not the end of the world. Loves the quiet, understands that people need quiet, he's perfect for Frannie.

Shonda, Shonda, Shonda. Yes, a Lady can be a married woman HOWEVER, the daughters of dukes, marquesses, and earls are also addressed as Lady, so Benedict assuming Tilley is married is wrong.

This dance Tilley and Benedict are dancing looks like a cross between a waltz and a tango. I'm sure the choreographer was told to just give them whatever moves look best on camera.

Cressida really looks like she's going to cry. Ugh. I don't want her to suffer her book counterpart's fate.

Colin looks like he's about to kiss Pen in the middle of a crowded ballroom then in comes Debling to steal her away for a dance. Colin, please, move faster next time.

[revelisms]

This is probably a reach (and I'll bet someone's already said something about it before), but I think about this every time I hear this song.

So: some over-analysis on 'Our Love' in Arcane.

(long post, spoilers abound)

Like most of the soundtracks in the series, this song serves as a narrative vehicle. It bookends the beginning of the events that act as the catalyst for Episode 3—Powder and Vi's separation, Silco and Vander's reunion, and the foreshadowing of Vander's death—while describing, through two narrators, a type of love that cannot be broken.

At first glance, one would assume the song is serving as a metaphor for Powder and Vi. The scene in the bar opens with this shot of a record displaying two girls/sisters. This hints that the song is a allegory to their relationship, and how nothing can change the bond that they share—no matter the hardships that will come their way.

In the same vein, however, it also serves as our introduction to Vander's connection to Silco. The scene lays the groundwork for the confrontation in the streets that will continue into Episode 3, and transitions into the closing credits right before Silco's monologue.

While the song plays, the visuals cut between Powder, Vander, Vi, and Grayson's entourage—the beginning stages of Vander's arrest, and the interception we know will come from Marcus, Deckard, and Silco. Later on, that scene eventually ends on Silco's reveal to Vander (with the implication that, like Benzo, Vander won't walk away from this alive).

What I find interesting is that while the lyrics provide a dissonant tone to the images we see on screen—a warm, soulful and loving tune, while enforcers comb the streets for a body to blame—they're also eerily predictive of what we see in the series, down the line.

Not only does this feel intentional, perhaps, on the show writers' part ('Dirty Little Animals' both follows and tells of a new Zaun beneath Silco's rule; 'Dynasties and Dystopia' opens with Ekko on a throne, laying out his and their people's climb against a higher order; 'What Could Have Been' matches nearly shot-for-lyric with the season's closing scene)—but it's cleverly juxtaposed: twisted into a cruel irony.

'OL' doesn't feel strictly about sisters and Powder's/Jinx's relationship to Vi—but, rather, as something more nuanced.

I read it as less about romantic or familial devotion, and more about the inherent complexity (and potential for destruction) in unconditional love: that the most intense, genuine, and protective forms of love can also be born out of the most primordial fears of loss, abandonment and betrayal; that love everlasting and bottomless as the ocean can also be instinctive, irrational, and violent.

The main thing here is that we don't see the same visual parallels with Powder and Vi, as the series progresses. Minus the design of the record and the opening shots of the scene, their narratives essentially unravel on their own terms (with 'WCHB' really cementing their final fray, by the end).

But dig into the shots of Silco and Vander throughout the series, and we get several images that the lyrics match almost explicitly to.

Our love is a bubblin' fountain That flows into a sea Deeper than any ocean For eternity

(Where do we see a fountain in the show? Where do we see a tangible ocean?)

(Hmm?)

What's interesting to me is that we see Jinx in some of these—which makes a subtle suggestion that both her and Silco are, in themselves, connected through these experiences, whether covertly or by coincidence—but we never see Vi.

Which leads me to wonder: whose perspective is being shown through the song? The savior ("lover")—or the betrayed?

For Silco, these images are all symbolic of returning to something else—a memory, place, personhood.

In Episode 3's monologue, he's returning to a different lens of that experience—back to the "peace" he felt, the sensation of the water holding him when he was drowning. At the river with Jinx, he is also returning to that place: literally washing himself down, in both a ritualistic and arguably spiritual sense, to re-experience that sensation. And at the fountain, he's returned to Vander's image—again, back to a body of water—and speaks to him.

All of which are connected to his betrayal.

Later on in the song, we get this double-edged lyric:

While the world turns around He holds me down, for sure

There's an implication here that the other person in the song is grounding the narrator: helping to keep them from falling off the earth while it turns—or, more literally, forcing them to stay down.

(And yeah, it's a stretch, shh I know—but where have we also seen that imagery before?)

(And again, with the parallels to Jinx—when her world is tipping, when she's remembering Vi, when she loses her confidence in being able to work on the gemstone, Silco brings her to the water. To the place of his own trauma, where he took a harrowing experience and reframed it. And—in a very twisted, but tender way—he lowers her into the water, and holds her down too, to pass on the same lesson.

These two. *drags hands down face*)

Anyway.

If we keep following the thread of Silco and Vander here, 'OL's chorus serves as a callback to the fountain and the imagery around the water; the point of Silco's death and rebirth—and point of no return—at the hands of someone he trusted, envied, loved.

Later on, the song also makes explicit references to rain, which suggests weathering through a difficult period: a setting that Episode 3 is building up to, right from the beginning.

And after all The rain will fall on us too

Not only does that message of hardship and perseverance feel closely aligned, in Silco's case—but it's also the reason Powder's first meeting with him tips the way it does. Because they both see the hardship in each other; see themselves in each other. Someone who has equally been betrayed.

(And where does that point of connection happen?)

(Singin' in the rain~)

That moment is visceral, and it lends itself to its own devotion. With Vander and Vi gone, these two are left to make an active decision on whether or not they'll choose each other, now.

And they do.

But I'll keep movin' on Proud and strong with you

Later on, Silco verbalizes this commitment—You're my daughter; I'll never forsake you. But it's clear, even from that shot of them before the fire, before Vander's own corpse, that that devotion (and unconditionality, despite both of their faults) was a path he was already turning himself to: something along the lines of, I will not betray you like he betrayed me.

(Ergo: We will not be what they were.)

(We know how that ends, unfortunately.)

The abridged version of what I think I'm trying to get at is: the placement of this song is genius.

It sets us up to assume Powder and Vi will never be torn apart (as Vi herself tries to reaffirm to Jinx, by the end), since their love is one that will last evermore—but, in reality, they are torn apart; their love is conditional, and the fallout of it, perhaps, is intentional—a mirror to a story that has yet to be told.

Because at the end of the day, Powder/Jinx and Vi are ultimately a reflection of Silco and Vander's own mistakes, hardships, and heartache—and proof that even after betrayal, even after a vendetta enacted and finished, there is still a longing to have something of what was: still a love there, eternally, despite it all.

[thornofthelily]

Okay wait someone pointed out that the demons are all named after stars and constellations, right? But Vindemiator, Gavin's original name, isn't a real constellation... but Vindemiatrix IS.

Gavin is a metaphor for transness, we all agree right? Just like... the reverse. He gets dysphoric when challenged to change his form. He left home because he felt different from his kin. He abandoned his birth name behind and adopted one more fitting for himself. Being with Freelancer is his one time he's felt happy to be himself, be accepted for who he truly is.

Vindemiatrix would be the feminine form in Latin, if I'm not mistaken. The -or would be for a male. So while his namesake is female, his name is the male version.... the trans allegories abound