#the spirit of Alfred shines down upon him

[starlooove]

How to explain my fave Robin is Matt McGinnis

[dc-and-arfrona]

Fatal Wounds - Batboys Headcannons

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Batboys! x GN!Reader

Type: Angst

Word Count: 2.2k+

Masterlist

Summary: Fatal Injuries

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Batman / Bruce Wayne

Gotham City had once again plunged into darkness as the night settled over its towering skyline. Bruce Wayne, haunted by his past, had taken to the streets as Batman, the Dark Knight, to fight crime and bring justice to those who preyed upon the innocent. He patrolled the alleys and rooftops, ever vigilant, until a chilling cry for help echoed through the darkness.

Following the desperate plea, Batman found himself at an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Inside, he discovered a fierce battle raging between a band of dangerous criminals and a mysterious figure fighting to protect the innocent. As he got closer, he recognized the figure - it was Y/N, a skilled and brave vigilante who had recently appeared on the streets of Gotham.

Caught up in the heat of the fight, Batman joined the fray to assist Y/N. Together, they fought with an unyielding determination, but the criminals were relentless and heavily armed. Despite their best efforts, they were outnumbered, and the odds were against them.

In a moment of distraction, one of the criminals managed to land a devastating blow on Y/N. Batman watched in horror as Y/N fell to the ground, fatally injured. He rushed to their side, his heart pounding with fear and concern. He knew that time was running out.

With all the strength they could muster, Y/N weakly smiled at Batman. "Looks like I underestimated them," they said, their voice barely audible. "But I won't... regret... standing up for this city."

Batman's voice was filled with urgency as he tried to staunch the bleeding. "You're going to be okay. I'll get you to Alfred. He'll take care of you."

But Y/N knew the truth, and their smile grew fainter. "No, Bruce. I can feel it... This is the end for me."

Tears welled up in Batman's eyes as he held Y/N in his arms. He couldn't bear to lose another ally, another friend. "You can't die," he pleaded. "You can't leave me."

Y/N reached out to touch Batman's face, their gaze filled with warmth and admiration. "You're stronger than you think, Bruce. You're the light this city needs. Promise me you'll keep fighting... even without me."

Batman's heart ached, and he nodded, tears streaming down his face. "I promise," he whispered, his voice breaking. "But I can't do it without you."

As the life began to fade from Y/N's eyes, they offered a weak smile. "You're never alone, Bruce," they said softly. "Remember that."

In that moment, Y/N passed away, leaving Batman devastated. He clutched their lifeless body, feeling a deep sense of loss and regret. He had lost someone who had become not just an ally, but a true friend.

From that night on, Batman fought even harder, driven by the memory of Y/N's sacrifice. Their words echoed in his mind, reminding him that he wasn't alone in this endless battle against the darkness. He honored Y/N's memory by being the symbol of hope and justice Gotham needed.

And though the pain of their loss never truly vanished, Batman found solace in the knowledge that Y/N's spirit lived on, guiding and watching over him in the shadows. Their legacy became a part of his crusade, and he vowed to protect Gotham and its citizens, just as Y/N had done.

For the Dark Knight, Y/N's memory would forever remain a beacon of courage, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, the light of hope could shine through. And so, Batman stood firm, an eternal guardian of the city, his shattered heart forever carrying the memory of the lover he had lost.

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Nightwing / Dick Gayson 

Nightwing, the former acrobat turned vigilante, had carried the weight of protecting Blüdhaven on his shoulders ever since he took up the mantle. Guided by the teachings of Batman, Dick Grayson had grown into a skilled and compassionate hero. But the darkness he faced on the streets was nothing compared to the shadows in his heart.

One fateful night, as he patrolled the city, Nightwing received an urgent message from Y/N, a fellow vigilante and his closest confidant. They had discovered a sinister plot that threatened the entire city. Putting aside their personal feelings for each other, they had become an unstoppable team, relying on one another to survive the dangers they faced.

Following the message's coordinates, Nightwing arrived at an abandoned warehouse. The chilling air was thick with tension as he found Y/N, deep in battle with a group of merciless criminals. Without hesitation, Nightwing leaped into the fray, determined to protect Y/N and end the threat.

Their teamwork was seamless, and together they fought back the criminals with precision and skill. But as the fight intensified, Nightwing noticed Y/N growing weaker, struggling to keep up with the onslaught. Despite their fatigue, they continued to fight with unwavering determination, refusing to back down.

In a moment of distraction, one of the criminals took advantage of the situation and aimed a deadly blow at Nightwing. Y/N saw the impending danger and acted without hesitation, throwing themselves in front of Nightwing to shield him from harm. The blade meant for him found its mark in Y/N's chest instead.

Time seemed to slow as Nightwing watched in horror as Y/N fell to the ground, their life slipping away. He rushed to their side, his heart pounding with grief and disbelief. "Y/N, no! Please, don't leave me," he pleaded, his voice breaking.

Y/N managed a weak smile despite the pain, reaching out to touch Nightwing's cheek. "I had to protect you, Dick," they whispered. "You mean everything to me, and this city needs you."

Tears filled Nightwing's eyes as he held Y/N close. "I can't lose you," he whispered. "I can't go on without you."

With a soft, reassuring touch, Y/N stroked Nightwing's cheek. "You're strong, Dick. You'll find a way," they said. "Keep fighting for the city, for us."

Nightwing couldn't bear the pain in Y/N's eyes as their life slowly faded away. "I love you," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion.

"I love you too," Y/N replied, their voice barely above a whisper. "Always."

As Y/N's hand slipped from Nightwing's grasp, he felt an overwhelming sense of loss and sorrow. Their sacrifice had saved him, but it left a void in his heart that nothing could fill. He knew he would never be the same without them by his side.

From that day on, Nightwing fought with even more determination, fueled by the memory of Y/N's bravery and sacrifice. He honored their memory by being the hero they believed in, by protecting the innocent and fighting for justice. But deep down, he carried the pain of losing someone he loved so dearly.

In the depths of night, Nightwing would often visit the place where Y/N fell, silently paying tribute to the guardian who had given everything for him. Their memory became his source of strength, their spirit a guiding light that kept him going.

And so, Nightwing continued to protect Blüdhaven, knowing that Y/N's sacrifice would forever be etched in his heart. They had given their life for him, and he vowed to make every moment count, to be the hero they believed him to be. The night was long and the road ahead uncertain, but he knew that wherever he went, Y/N's love and sacrifice would always be with him, pushing him forward in the relentless battle against darkness.

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Red Hood / Jason Todd

Jason Todd, once Robin and now the anti-hero Red Hood, was a force to be reckoned with on the streets of Gotham. His life had been marked by tragedy, but through the darkness, he had found a connection with Y/N, his partner in the relentless pursuit of justice.

One night, they received a tip about a dangerous gang holding hostages in an old industrial complex. Jason and Y/N wasted no time, rushing to confront the criminals and rescue the innocent. They entered the dimly lit building, their footsteps echoing through the empty halls.

As they made their way deeper into the complex, the sound of gunfire erupted. Jason and Y/N moved with lethal precision, disabling their foes with calculated skill. However, the gang had anticipated their arrival, and in a cruel twist of fate, they managed to take Y/N hostage.

"Drop your weapons, or your partner gets it!" the gang leader sneered, holding Y/N at gunpoint.

Jason's heart raced with fear, his eyes never leaving Y/N's trembling form. He knew he couldn't let them come to harm. Slowly, he lowered his weapons, trying to buy time to come up with a plan.

Y/N's voice was filled with bravery despite their perilous situation. "Jason, don't listen to them. We can handle this."

The gang leader's laughter was cold and menacing. "I don't think you're in a position to negotiate, Hood. You're nothing without your precious partner."

Jason's grip on his weapons tightened, his mind racing with desperation. He knew he couldn't let fear dictate his actions, but he also couldn't bear the thought of losing Y/N. He had grown to care deeply for them, and they had become an essential part of his life.

The stand-off continued, tension hanging in the air like a thick fog. Jason's mind raced with potential plans, but before he could act, a gunshot rang out. Y/N's body jerked as the bullet found its mark, causing them to cry out in pain.

"No!" Jason's anguished scream echoed through the complex as he lunged towards Y/N, desperate to reach them.

The gang leader cackled with delight, believing he had won. But he underestimated the fury that burned within Red Hood. With a newfound rage, Jason retaliated, dispatching the criminals with ruthless efficiency.

Finally reaching Y/N, Jason cradled them in his arms, his heart breaking at the sight of their bloodied form. "Hang on, Y/N. Please, you can't leave me," he pleaded, his voice cracking with emotion.

Y/N's grip on his hand was weak, but they managed a faint smile. "Jason, I... I believe in you," they gasped. "You'll be okay... without me."

Tears welled up in Jason's eyes as he shook his head, refusing to accept the inevitable. "No, don't say that. I need you. Gotham needs you."

Y/N's voice grew softer, their breaths becoming shallower. "You're strong, Jason. You can do this alone," they said, their words becoming fainter with each passing moment. "Remember... you're not... alone."

Jason clung to Y/N, desperate for more time, for a chance to save them. But it was too late. Their eyes met one last time, filled with love and acceptance, before Y/N's life slipped away.

From that moment on, Jason Todd was forever changed. The loss of Y/N left a void in his heart, but their final words became his guiding light. He embraced the legacy of Red Hood, a protector of Gotham with a fierce determination to honor Y/N's memory.

In the shadows of the city, Red Hood fought with unwavering resolve, knowing that Y/N's sacrifice had given him the strength to carry on. Their love and partnership had left an indelible mark on his soul, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, the bond they shared would never truly fade away.

-----

Red Robin / Tim Drake

Tim Drake, the brilliant strategist and skilled detective known as Red Robin, had always been able to find a way out of even the most dire situations. But on one fateful night, fate dealt him a devastating blow he could never have prepared for.

Y/N, Tim's beloved partner and confidant, had become entangled in a dangerous web of intrigue while investigating a particularly elusive criminal organization. Tim had warned Y/N about the dangers, but their determination to uncover the truth was unwavering, and they had brushed off his concerns with a smile.

One night, as they were pursuing a lead, things took a tragic turn. Y/N found themselves cornered by the criminals they were investigating. Tim received an urgent distress signal from Y/N's comm device, and he immediately sprang into action, rushing to their aid.

As Red Robin arrived at the scene, he saw Y/N surrounded by armed adversaries. Time seemed to slow as he took in the gravity of the situation. He needed to act fast and decisively. With precise movements, he incapacitated several of the criminals, but there were too many of them.

"No! Stay back, Tim!" Y/N's voice rang out, filled with concern for him even in the face of danger.

Tim's heart raced as he fought back the overwhelming fear threatening to consume him. "I'm coming for you, Y/N. Just hold on," he called back, his voice tinged with desperation.

But the criminals were ruthless, and before Tim could reach Y/N, a gunshot echoed through the alley. Time seemed to stand still as the bullet found its mark, hitting Y/N with deadly accuracy.

"Noooo!" The anguished cry tore from Tim's throat as he watched in horror, unable to reach Y/N in time to save them. He felt like he was moving in slow motion as he rushed to their side, his hands trembling as he tried to apply pressure to the wound.

Y/N's breathing was labored, and they weakly smiled up at him, their voice barely a whisper. "I'm sorry, Tim," they said, their gaze filled with love and regret. "I wish... I could've... been stronger."

Tears streamed down Tim's face as he shook his head, his voice choked with emotion. "No, don't say that. You're the strongest person I know."

Y/N's hand reached up to cup his cheek, their touch feeble but filled with tenderness. "You'll... you'll keep going, Tim. You're... you're the hero this city needs," they said, each word becoming harder to utter.

"I can't do this without you," Tim whispered, his heart breaking as he held onto Y/N's hand, unwilling to let go.

But Y/N's strength was waning, their breaths becoming shallower. "You're... more than... the hero... you think," they managed to say before the light in their eyes began to fade.

In that moment, Tim's world shattered. He had lost the person he loved most in the world, and the pain was unbearable. He cradled Y/N in his arms, feeling the weight of their loss engulfing him.

From that night on, Tim Drake fought with a heavy heart. The memory of Y/N's sacrifice haunted him, driving him to be an even better hero, but the pain of their absence was a constant ache in his soul. He carried their memory with him always, a silent guardian watching over him as he continued to protect the city they both loved. And in the silence of the night, he often found himself whispering their name, hoping against hope that they somehow heard him from beyond the veil of darkness.

-----

Robin / Damian Wayne 

Damian Wayne, the current Robin and the son of Batman, was known for his formidable skills and unyielding determination. His devotion to justice often led him to act on impulse, but he had never encountered a situation that would test the consequences of his actions more than the night he endangered the life of his beloved, Y/N.

Y/N, a brave and capable ally, had joined Damian in his crusade to protect Gotham City. They shared a deep bond, one that extended beyond their partnership in crime-fighting. Damian cared for Y/N deeply, and their presence gave him a sense of belonging he had never experienced before.

One dark and stormy night, Damian and Y/N received intelligence about a dangerous new villain terrorizing the city. Damian's eagerness to confront the threat got the better of him, and without fully assessing the situation, he decided to charge in without backup. Ignoring Y/N's cautionary words, he rushed into the confrontation headlong.

In the heart of the confrontation, the villain unleashed a powerful energy blast. Damian, with his nimble reflexes, managed to avoid most of the blast, but his impulse put Y/N directly in its path. Y/N valiantly jumped in front of Damian, shielding him from the full force of the attack. The blast hit them, sending them flying against the wall.

"Dami... I had... to protect... you," Y/N managed to utter, their voice strained with pain as they struggled to stand.

Damian's heart sank as he saw Y/N's condition. They were gravely wounded, and it was all because of his recklessness. He knelt beside them, guilt and regret consuming him. "Y/N, I'm so sorry... I should have listened to you," he whispered, tears welling up in his eyes.

Y/N managed a faint smile despite the pain. "It's not... your fault," they said, wincing as they tried to take a breath. "You... you can't control... everything."

Damian's hands trembled as he tried to staunch the bleeding, but he knew it was too late. He had put Y/N in harm's way, and now they were paying the price for his impulsiveness.

As the moments passed, Y/N's strength waned, and they reached out to touch Damian's cheek. "Don't blame... yourself," they said, their voice barely above a whisper. "You're... a hero... Damian."

Tears streamed down Damian's face as he held Y/N close, feeling the weight of his actions crushing him. "I can't lose you," he said, his voice breaking. "Please, don't leave me."

Y/N's grip on Damian's hand was weak, but they mustered a small smile. "You'll... you'll be okay... without me," they said, their voice filled with love and reassurance. "Keep fighting... for Gotham."

With their last ounce of strength, Y/N reached up to touch Damian's mask, pulling it down to reveal his tear-stained face. "Remember... who you are," they whispered. "A hero... and my love."

As Y/N's life slipped away, Damian was left in the darkness of his own remorse. He had lost the person he loved most in the world, and he blamed himself for their fate. He mourned their loss deeply, and the pain of his impulse haunted him.

From that night on, Damian Wayne fought with a heavy heart. He vowed to be more cautious and level-headed, honoring Y/N's memory by becoming a better hero. Their sacrifice became a constant reminder of the consequences of his actions, shaping him into a more thoughtful and compassionate individual.

In the quiet moments of the night, Damian would visit the place where Y/N fell, silently paying tribute to the one who had loved him unconditionally. Their love and sacrifice would forever remain in his heart, guiding him as he continued to protect Gotham, knowing that Y/N's spirit would always be with him, even in the shadows of regret.

[antebunny]

a cuckoo in the nest pt.2

[part one] aka the fae!Tim idea i said i wouldn't write any more of. oops my hand slipped.

~

Tim clenches the Cliff granola bar tightly in his fist, inhales deeply, and steps through the fairy circle. His footsteps leave deep indents in the soft grass before vanishing completely. 

If one of the Waynes were to wander into the woods behind Wayne Manor and stumble upon this particular clearing, they would quickly notice the small footprints leading into a patch of dirt and never emerging out the other side. Fairy circles are subtle things, easily moved and created, but just as easily spotted if you know what to look for. 

Sweet grass, spices, something wild and dewy and the sick smell of cruelty. The fae realm is just as Tim remembered it. The Unseelie Queen, too, is just as Tim remembers her. She’s eternally young, after all. Her crown of thorns tips toward Tim as she bends down, gnarled hand reaching for Tim’s granola bar. He quickly shoves it behind his back, and the Unseelie Queen’s hand freezes. She cannot take that which is not freely given.

Long ago, a lifetime ago when Tim was nine years old and stupid, the Unseelie Queen used his naivete to get everything she wanted from him. She asked for his name and he gave it. She offered him fae food and he took it. She told him that the deal his parents made was unbreakable and he believed it. For an eternity, though now he knows it was three years, he believed her. 

He knows better now. That’s what made the Unseelie Queen strike a bargain with him in the first place. Tim cannot believe that it took him three years to realize that his parents had no right to sell him away. That he could’ve left the moment he’d arrived, if only he’d known to run. But by the time he figured it out, he’d eaten their food and given his name. Become fey enough for the Unseelie Queen to control, if not own.

Now the only question is whether he can outsmart her. Whether he, the twelve year old who just got his very first iPhone, can beat the Unseelie Queen at her own game.

“How wonderful to see you back in my domain.” The Unseelie Queen still looms over Tim as she greets him. “Though you reek of human.”

Tim lifts his chin. “Because I am one.”

A blood red smile stretches across thin lips. White teeth shine like stars. “That will be changed in time.”

She’s just trying to scare him because she knows that he can see through her lies now. Tim is not bound to the fae realm, not yet, anyways. She has no power over him. (Not yet). Not ever. 

“I’m just here to tell you that I’m winning,” Tim says, faking a confidence he very much does not feel. “Dick and Jason both said I’m their little brother. Alfred cares about me. Even Barbara likes me and they care about what she thinks.”

An infinite number of somethings dances in the Unseelie Queen’s dark, shining eyes. Tim does not dare name any one of them. She is not one to be defined by physical appearances. Sometimes she has four wings like large leaves, humming on her back. Sometimes she is a young girl with the voice of a thousand nightmares, other times an old woman faking good intentions. All Tim has learned regarding appearances is to not look into her abyss-like eyes for too long.

We must not look at goblin men, we must not buy their fruits.

“And what of Bruce Wayne?”

“I’m working on it,” Tim says stubbornly. “I have a month left.”

“Be careful, little one. Wayne men do not love easily.” The Unseelie Queen’s smile widens into a grotesque length. “Even when they should.”

Tim squeezes his granola bar until it bends in two. “That’s my problem.”

The Unseelie Queen laughs, like a murder of crows taking flight. “What spirit. Will you not consider staying to entertain my court? We so miss your colorful antics.”

“No,” Tim says firmly. He whirls around and marches back to the fairy circle. The plastic wrapping of his granola bar grows slick with cold sweat. 

“Stay,” the Unseelie Queen commands. The single word thunders, layered with the thousands of humans before Tim that have fallen prey to her. “Timothy Jackson Drake.”

Tim’s steps falter. One foot hesitates in the air too long, and he stumbles. In the human world he sometimes is weightless, a touch lighter than humans. In the fae realm Tim is weighed down by his humanness. His knees sting as he resumes his march. Not so long ago, such defiance would have cost him far more than stinging knees. He’s grown strong on Alfred’s cooking, movie nights with Dick and Jason, and Barbara buying him a phone and a subscription to Crunchyroll because “every boy needs one.” On human food and love. 

She doesn’t have this power over Tim. Not anymore, not yet. Not even with his full name.

A screech rattles around Tim’s brain. A claw curls around his neck. Tim freezes, heart battering at his ribcage. She cannot hurt him. She doesn’t own him (Not yet). 

“If you will not stay,” the Unseelie Queen concedes, “then please, won’t you take a gift with you?” 

Her hand retreats from his neck, scraping skin gently as it goes. In her palm it appears: red and dripping, or bone white, green like fireflies, purple like the sunset. Fae fruit. It hums in her hand, singing a song just for Tim. Even though he knows the cost now, the fae fruit calls to him, promises pure ecstasy and eternal love if only he takes a bite.

Tim shakes his head quickly, eyes shut. “No, thank you,” he whispers. “I brought food from home.”

So saying, he twists the Cliff bar wrapper in trembling hands and attempts to rip the plastic open. The truth is that he hates Cliff bars. They’re his least favorite snack of the many that Alfred has gotten him to try thus far. He brought it to the fae realm for such an occasion, selected out of his many options because he would not mind associating Cliff bars with the fae realm. He already hates them as it is.

It is a novelty, having opinions about human food. Preferences and dislikes. Dick has a tier list of vegetables that he and Jason argue about every once in a while. Jason also has strong opinions about food, but somehow he knew just what to do when Tim said helplessly that he didn’t have any, that he’d eat whatever he was given.

Before Tim can get the granola bar in his mouth, the Unseelie Queen pushes the fae fruit in his face. He retreats, and she pursues, arm outstretched, fruit still calling out to him. 

“Eat,” she insists. “Timothy Drake.”

The command takes root in Tim’s bones, peels him inside out until right is wrong and wrong is right. Against his will, Tim’s free hand reaches for the fruit that is magenta and lime green and coral pink and mushroom white. The texture is soft and a bit rubbery, the shape somewhat like a still-beating heart. Warm, wet, and just a little alive. Tim wishes he could throw it at her. Instead, he takes a bite. It tastes like–

Decay on the wind, petrichor and honeynut squash, spices and arrowroot, freshly overturned dirt still composting, dancing underneath moonlight-dappled branches around firelight, ancient tales told of stars, mirror-like water and water-like glass, lies and trickery and cruelty and brutal honesty–

It tastes like the fae. Seeping into the walls of his throat, leaving dark purple residue on his tongue, a sharp berry taste for him to remember it by. Making him just a little more fae, a little less human. His blue eyes a little brighter, his step a touch too light. It is not such a terrible thing, to be wild, to be fae. But Tim cannot bear the cost.

Tim squeezes the remaining fae fruit until the juice bursts from the skin, running down his fingers in wine red and shining green rivulets. The song dies. He licks his lips. Juice drips from his chin. The Unseelie Queen watches on in satisfaction.

“Thank you for the gift.” Even now, when Tim wishes for nothing more than the right to scream at her until he cries, it would not do to be impolite. One must respect the fae, to say nothing of the Unseelie Queen herself. 

Still, when Tim walks through the fairy circle, he thinks I hate her, I hate her, I hate her, until the words burn into the inside of his brain. 

We must not look at goblin men, we must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soils they fed their hungry, thirsty roots?

[daimonclub]

Christmas poems

Christmas poems for a merry atmosphere Christmas poems for a magic holiday atmosphere, to enlighten and warm up your festive time by English-culture.com blog and Carl William Brown. Merry Christmas! Let Every Day Be Christmas Christmas is forever, not for just one day, for loving, sharing, giving, are not to put away like bells and lights and tinsel, in some box upon a shelf. The good you do for others is good you do yourself. Peace on Earth, good will to men, kind thoughts and words of cheer, are things we should use often and not just once a year. Remember too the Christ-child, grew up to be a man; to hide him in a cradle, is not our dear Lord's plan. So keep the Christmas spirit, share it with others far and near, from week to week and month to month, throughout the entire year! Norman Wesley Brooks

Where are the children who haven’t got their Christmas tree with silver snow, fairy lights and chocolate fruits? Hurry up, hurry up, gathering, We go in Chritmas trees land, I know where it is. Gianni Rodari

Whose heart doth hold the Christmas glow Hath little need of Mistletoe; Who bears a smiling grace of mien Need waste no time on wreaths of green; Whose lips have words of comfort spread Needs not the holly - berries red - His very presence scatters wide The spirit of the Christmastide. John Kendrick Bangs

Christ climbed down from His bare Tree this year and ran away to where there were no rootless Christmas trees hung with candycanes and breakable stars Christ climbed down from His bare Tree this year and ran away to where there were no gilded Christmas trees and no tinsel Christmas trees and no tinfoil Christmas trees and no pink plastic Christmas trees and no gold Christmas trees and no black Christmas trees and no powderblue Christmas trees hung with electric candles and encircled by tin electric trains and clever cornball relatives Lawrence Ferlinghetti

It was the calm and silent night! Seven hundred years and fifty-three Had Rome been growing up to might And now was queen of land and sea. No sound was heard of clashing wars, Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain; Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars, Held undisturbed their ancient reign, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago. Alfred Domett

It is the Christmas time: And up and down 'twixt heaven and earth, In glorious grief and solemn mirth, The shining angels climb. Dinah Maria Mulock

I love the Christmas-tide, and yet, I notice this, each year I live; I always like the gifts I get, But how I love the gifts I give! Carolyn Wells

'Tis blessed to bestow, and yet, Could we bestow the gifts we get, And keep the ones we give away, How happy were our Christmas day! Carolyn Wells

The earth has grown old with its burden of care, But at Christmas it is always young; The heart of the jewel burns lustrous and fair, And its soul, full of music, breaks forth on the air When the song of the angels is sung. It is coming, Old Earth, it is coming tonight! On the snowflakes which cover thy sod The feet of the Christ-child fall gentle and white, And the voice of the Christ-child tells out with delight That mankind are the children of God. Phillips Brooks

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Ralph Waldo Emerson

Let Christmas not become a thing Merely of merchant's trafficking, Of tinsel, bell and holly wreath And surface pleasure, but beneath The childish glamour, let us find Nourishment for soul and mind. Let us follow kinder ways Through our teeming human maze, And help the age of peace to come From a Dreamer's martyrdom. Madeline Morse

Christmas Holidays Along the Woodford road there comes a noise Of wheels, and Mr. Rounding's neat post-chaise Struggles along, drawn by a pair of bays, With Reverend Mr. Crow and six small boys, Who ever and anon declare their joys With trumping horns and juvenile huzzas, At going home to spend their Christmas days, And changing learning's pains for pleasure's toys. Six weeks elapse, and down the Woodford way A heavy coach drags six more heavy souls, But no glad urchins shout, no trumpets bray, The carriage makes a halt, the gate-bell tolls, And little boys walk in as dull and mum As six new scholars to the Deaf and Dumb! Thomas Hood

A White Christmas 'Twas the night before christmas. With a blanket of white. That covered the earth all through the night. The trees sparkled like diamonds. With a glitter so bright. That each little twinkle made its own christmas light. A hope and a prayer a white christmas would be. Awaiting the dawn so all could see. The beauty and joy a white christmas does bring. To the holiday season as carolers sing. For twas the night before Christmas. God answered your prayer. With a blanket of white. Placed with God's loving care." Carla Jean Laglia Esely

Christmas poetical decorated atmosphere

Christmas At The Orphanage But if they'd give us toys and twice the stuff most parents splurge on the average kid, orphans, I submit, need more than enough; in fact, stacks wrapped with our names nearly hid the tree: these sparkling allotments yearly guaranteed a lack of - what? - family? - I knew exactly what it was I missed as we were lined up number rank and file: to share my pals' tearing open their piles meant sealing the self, the child that wanted to scream at all You stole those gifts from me; whose birthday is worth such words? The wish-lists they'd made us write out in May lay granted against starred branches. I said I'm sorry. Bill Knott

Christmas Past Oh happy days, the snow fell over-night, we have a white Christmas in our sight. Only a few more days and nights, Christmas will shine bright of white. Remember those beautiful Christmas Eves, when we gathered round our colorful trees. Remember when we caroled down the street, sang Christmas songs oh so sweet. Memories are precious let’s not forget, don’t do anything you might regret. Christmas is the time of year to share, to treasure family far and near. This Christmas with the lights shining bright, reflecting God’s blanket of white. Sing sweet songs in memory, past Christmas’s history. Melvina Germain

Read also our other posts on Christmas  ; Christmas quotes ; Best Christmas songs ; 60 great Christmas quotes ; Christmas tree origin and quotes ;  Traditional Christmas Carols ; Christmas markets in England ; Christmas markets in America ; Christmas jokes ; Christmas cracker jokes ; Christmas food ; Christmas thoughts ; Christmas story ; Christmas in Italy ; Christmas holidays ; Christmas songs ; Christmas poems ; An Essasy on Christmas by Chesterton ;

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c6hNzsa-Tno Read the full article

[roamwithahungryheart]

What about 15 & 21? I was gonna ask 25 but I think I already know that answer! 😂

Yeah, 25 is an obvious one! 🤣🤣🤣

15. Have you ever written a poem/song about someone you had feelings for?

I'll go one step further - I composed a piano piece. Performed it slightly wine-drunk, on a Steinway, in a Welsh manor house on the last night of a writers' retreat. It was quite a night!

21. What's your favorite quote or lyric about love?

I'm gonna take this opportunity to mention my favorite poem of all-time, 'Fatima' by Alfred Lord Tennyson.

O Love, Love, Love! O withering might! O sun, that from thy noonday height Shudderest when I strain my sight, Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, Lo, falling from my constant mind, Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind, I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. Last night I wasted hateful hours Below the city's eastern towers: I thirsted for the brooks, the showers: I roll'd among the tender flowers: I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth: I look'd athwart the burning drouth Of that long desert to the south. Last night, when some one spoke his name, From my swift blood that went and came A thousand little shafts of flame. Were shiver'd in my narrow frame O Love, O fire! once he drew With one long kiss, my whole soul thro' My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. Before he mounts the hill, I know He cometh quickly: from below Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow Before him, striking on my brow. In my dry brain my spirit soon, Down-deepening from swoon to swoon, Faints like a dazzled morning moon.

The wind sounds like a silver wire, And from beyond the noon a fire Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher The skies stoop down in their desire; And, isled in sudden seas of light, My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight, Bursts into blossom in his sight. My whole soul waiting silently, All naked in a sultry sky, Droops blinded with his shining eye: I will possess him or will die. I will grow round him in his place, Grow, live, die looking on his face, Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace.

I shall now sit here yearning.

[diamondcamefromhell]

Dandelion

Jaskier x Female!Reader

[[reupload since tags didnt work the first time :))))))))) ]]

like the most amazing request from @rosasteri

Request/Summary: can i request a thing like Geralt and his friends stopped in some village and while the witcher was hunting some monster reader and jaskier spent their time in the field, like played catch-up and braided the flowers in hair, and so on. fluffy fluff you know…

Warnings: None

Word count: 2,391

A/N: i do have a lot of requests to get to, and i promise i will (as well as Timeless Love) but when i read this one i was SO INPSIRED i couldnt wait to write it [but then i spent 8 hours today playing witcher 3, but we dont talk about that] but now i did it and i did drift a bit from the request, so i hope Rosasteri doesnt mind it too much and i hope you all like it

any and all feedback is appreciated! (can be left anonymously on my ask page)

Velen. Such a boring place to call my home. Nothing but swamps and forests, filled with monsters and ghouls. Wolves and wild dogs. Beautiful in the summer and spring, I can’t deny that, but oh so very boring. Especially if you’re a young woman, warned against exploring the wild. Always seeming so fragile.

One day things did change, when the witcher went by. He was with a bard, Jaskier, and while Geralt handled some contracts and helped some locals, Jask and I spend some time together. We had to part ways, life just get’s in a way. But they promised they would visit again, well, Jaskier promised. But Geralt didn’t disagree, so I count that as a win.

I wish I could have went with them. Leave Velen behind, see what the world has to offer. But I had a little sister, and no parents. Someone had to take care of her, and tagging along with a witcher wouldn’t exactly work out in our favour.

So now I spent my days wondering the streets, waiting. I’d go for walks in the nearby fields and rivers, almost looking to see if some monster appears, maybe  a griffin or something, anything, so we could call upon witcher yet again.

And it happened. To my great surprise, a nearby village has been slaughtered and taken over by some monsters. Nobody knows what they are, apart from that their screams reach our town. We scrambled coin together, putting up a contract, hoping someone would answer it, before we end up being a ghost town.

I was in a tavern, watching Lily, my sister, as she ran around with some other kids. The mood was grim amongst adults, but I was glad our younglings didn’t seem to be affected by it. The door flew open as I saw Geralt walk in, he wasn’t alone, some other witcher was with him. Two pairs of yellow eyes pierced through us, as the tavern went silent.

“Geralt!” Lily yells rushing to witcher, who extends his arms, gently hugging my sister. I spring to my feet too.

“Lily.” He says, as our eyes meet. I give him a wave, a smile painting across my face. “Y/N.”

“Geralt!” I cheerfully say, as a familiar figure appears behind him.

“If you two allowed me to squeeze through,” I hear a muffled voice, as Jaskier makes it through, “I would appreciate it.”

“Jask!” I squeal, rushing to the bard, as he just in time extends his arms. We hug tightly and I nearly choke up, but manage to control myself as I feel Lily join in our hug too.

“Hear there was trouble?” The other witcher speaks, and I pull away from Jaskier, still staying close to him. I cross my arms, as the taverners just stare at us.

“Yes.” I say, eventually. “In nearby town, some monster slaughtered everyone. We heard a whole lot of screams, thought it was Nilfgaardians harassing them, but well… the next day the people were gone. But the screams stayed, horrific, not human screams.”

“Hm.” Geralt grunts. “I need more information.”

I provide all the information I can give to him. I learn that the other witcher is Vesemir, an old friend of Geralt’s, they met on a road, both coming our way. They now said they were glad they ran into each other, as from what they gathered, from me and other folk, it seemed like the issue were Noonwraiths.

Spirits, of sorts. Mostly showing up when the sun was highest in the sky. In this world because they are attached so some item. I didn’t really understand, but the witchers didn’t seem too concerned about handling them, so I didn’t worry.

I was just glad Jaskier was entertaining the kids while this conversation was going on. They were all dancing and signing to some of his songs. What a sight to see.

Geralt and Vesermir excused themselves to go gather some herbs they needed, and look around the lost village, to see what they can find. The mood immediately seemed to pick up, our cry for help was answered.

And I was beaming my personal one was too.

I go to Jaskier, smiling. He stops his lute, looking at me. His eyes seem to shine.

“You haven’t changed at all.” I say, looking him up and down. He’s wearing red pants and red jacket, looking like they’re ever so slightly scaled, with pecks of gold all over them, and a white undershirt.

“Neither have you, Y/N.” He smirks at me. “Looking as lovely as the day I first met you.”

“We need to catch up!” I say, eager to get away from all the ears that were listening in. I look at Lily, who while still young, is far smarter than other kids.

“I’ll stay here.” She says, bravely and I could hug her to death right now. I make a mental note to treat her to something nice. “It’s too warm out.”

“We’ll be back soon.” Jaskier reassures her before I can, and takes my hand in his leading me out.

The weather is prefect, but I am not sure if it seems like this because Jask is here. The breeze is cooling us off from the hot summer sun. The nature is all green and skies clear. I take the lead now, going behind the tavern and around some houses, until we reach the field.

Further away from my village, and the lost one too. Deeper into the prettier parts of Velen. I glance back, as his outfit seems to sparkle in the sunlight. His lute rest easy by his side, as his gaze is glued to me. I wink, taking us even further.

We sit down by some cornflowers, dandelions and chamomiles. The breeze plays with my hair, so I put it behind my ear, feeling his warm hand in mine, sucking in the sun.

“I’ve missed you.” I say, ending the comfortable silence. “So very much.”

“As have I.” He squeezes my hand and drops to the ground. “So much that I thought Geralt will actually punch me off the cliff if I mentioned you one more time. He told me I should have stayed.”

“No way.” I say, wishing he did stay. But I knew he had his… thing, to stay with Geralt. Spread the word of their great adventures. “Velen is too boring. We have pretty sights like this, but the swamps and the wild dogs really don’t put you in the creative mood.”

“It’s not the place, Y/N. Plenty of great ballads could come from this.” I roll my eyes, looking down at him, as he sticks his tongue out.

“Then what is it?” I ask.

“There are bigger things to do.” I stare ahead now, into the river that is flowing nearby. It looks so blue and inviting. Until the drowned get you.

“Bigger stories to tell.” I agree, and Jask sits up. He picks up a chamomile, twisting it in his hands.

“How have you been? How’s Lily?” I shrug, as he pokes me.

“Don’t be moody.” He teases as I finally let out a giggle. He in response, chuckles too.

“Good. Lily has been missing you, singing some songs you taught her all the time. She now wants to grow up and be a bard. Just like her Jasky.” I now gently nudge the bard, who blushes at my words. “I’ve been good, glad to see her so happy. The village was better too, after Geralt helped us last time.”

“Lily the bard does sound amazing.” I chuckle, looking at him. He still is twisting the chamomile in his hands. In the sun his brown hair shine, looking so much lighter.

“So what great adventures did you two get up to?” I say, snapping out of the trance, taking my gaze from the man, to the flower fields. I pick up some dandelions, copying Jask and twisting them around.

“You’ll hear about them in songs.” I look at him, as he winks, sliding closer, draping his hands around me and taking us both to the ground.

We both laugh, but as the breeze picks up, we silence. I stay on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, as the sun kisses us. This seems so perfect – too perfect. I don’t want it to end, not now, not ever. I hear him start to hum, and I tell myself to relax.

Enjoy it while you can.

I get so comfortable I could fall asleep. But I don’t want to spend my precious time with him unconscious. I sit up, pulling him with me, as his hands are still on my waist.

“Here.” I pick up a dandelion again, placing it in his hair.

“Oh, c’mon Y/N.” He takes it out, pretending to be offended, as I grin. “I at least deserve a crown!”

“As you wish, Your Highness,” I mock bow to him, picking up more dandelions, braiding them. Moments later I have very unstable flower crown. I spring to my feet. “Let me crown you, Lord Jaskier.”

“If you wish to do so.” He says, changing his position so now he is kneeling before me.

“I proudly crown you, Julian Alfred Pankratz,” I say his full official name, and he can barely hide his smile now, but he manages, “to be our great ruler and leader. To Lord Jaskier!”

I land the crown on his head, while also cheering, pretending to be a crowd. As expected, it falls apart almost immediately as we both begin laughing. He leans on my legs as I ruffle his hair.

“I guess I don’t deserve a crown.” He says, pulling away. I see one dandelion still stuck in his, now mess of a hair. I leave it be.

“Bards don’t wear crowns.” I say, extending my arm to him. The river keeps catching my eyes, and I want us to walk there. He stands up, intertwining our fingers together.

“Ladies like you should.” He smirks, putting one chamomile in my hair.

We make our way to the river, as I grow cautious. But even the drowned seemed to have left, allowing us to have some peace. I take my boots off, and Jaskier follows, as we step into the stream. It isn’t too powerful, so we can handle it just fine.

The water is cold but pleasing. The bard puts his lute down, and takes his jacket off,  going a bit deeper, dragging me with him. We are up to our knees as he gives me a playful smile, and before I know a wave of water hits my face.

I am struck in shock, as I let out a laugh, attacking again. Our giggles echo, as we soon are both drenched. His dandelion, however, managed to survive. My hand reaches for my chamomile, and I find it safe too, stuck behind my ear. He hugs me, as his warm breath lands on my neck, sending shivers down my spine.

“The water is cold.” He breathes out as I giggle.

“Yeah, I noticed.” We pull away, looking at each other, as water drips down our hair.

He begins leaning in, for what I know would be the best kiss I have ever had. One for the books really. But I can’t pass this chance. So I push him back, as he falls into the water. The look on his face screams betrayal, and now I can’t stop laughing.

He grins, rushing towards me, as he pushes me forward, landing us both underwater. I open my eyes, holding my breath to see him smiling, still holding us both under. He leans in now, not allowing me escape, landing a kiss on my lips.

Then he pulls us both to the surface. I lean on his shoulder, taking deep breaths.

“I guess if I had to pick a way to die,” I tease, as I feel his body shake from giggles, “it would be to drown while the great Jaskier kisses me.���

“Couldn’t resist.” I roll my eyes, knowing he won’t see it. I take a step back, going to the land, as he follows. “You didn’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that.” I immediately argue, flushing red. Jaskier giggles, poking my cheek.

“I know you loved it.” I turn away, fanning my face with my hands as his laugh echoes.

“Shut up.” I finally say, taking shoes in hand and walking ahead. He soon scrambles his things and catches up. “I’m going to miss you.”

“I know.” He answers my silent words, stopping in his tracks. I turn around, as the water drips off him, shining in the sun. Now this is a sight to see. I feel heat rushing back to my cheeks, but I can’t look away. “If it helps I’ll miss you too.”

“Sure.” I say, blinking back the tears. I remind myself to again, enjoy it while it lasts. “Jaskier, come here.”

“Yeah?” He asks, and when he is right next to me, I put my hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll race you to the bridge,” I wink, nudging him back, springing ahead.

I hear him shout that its not fair, as I laugh and tears of joy mixed with sadness manage to escape my eyes, mixing in with the river water, soon drying off as the sun continues to beam at us. I stop at a bridge, as Jaskier catches up to me.

Not wasting any moment, I turn at my feet. I bravely go in front of him, pulling him in for a kiss. I step back sooner than I’d want, smiling.

“You lose.” I smirk, as he stares me in the eyes.

“I think I win.” He finally says, winking. I intertwine our fingers now, taking us back towards the tavern.

“We need to go back to Lily.” I say, as the breeze dries us off. Some townspeople do give us weird looks, as we leave a trial of water behind. Before we enter inside, he stops me.

“I promise to visit you more often.” He says, and I believe his words. I put them in my heart, locking them safe, for those moments when I feel most alone.

“Next time, try to win too.” I wink, opening the door.

As we walk in, laughing, the screams from the lost village silence too.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: What poem would you want to be read at your funeral and why?

Surprisingly I don’t find this a morbid question at all. It is a question I haven’t given much thought to in a long time because when do we ever really question our mortality?

I suspect the younger we are the further we push it away. That is until a freak crisis of some sort hits us. I can think of a few occasions when perhaps I have thought about it momentarily. I have found myself in some freak situations where I thought I was going to die - like a mountaineering accident or when I had a parachute accident. But in those situations a poem to be read at your funeral is the last thing that you dwell on in your mind!

The only other conscious times I have thought about it was when I was going through Sandhurst as an army officer cadet. Towards the end of Week 8 or so the junior cadets have to visit Brookwood Military Cemetery to see the fallen - the visit is done by all cadets and it’s done not just as an act of remembrance but also a reminder that the fate of real lives could depend on the decisions you take as an officer. I can’t articulate the feelings that coarse through you as you read the youthful inscriptions of those who died in battle (past and present) and reflect it back upon your own sense of fragile mortality.

Surprisingly I didn’t think too much about poems or eulogies when I was out serving in Afghanistan. There simply wasn’t time to think too much. It’s hard to explain but there is simply too much going on both in and out of the heat of battle: the amount of work to be done between missions as well as the tiredness, lack of sleep, and exhaustion to manage whilst also doing anything - from playing silly pranks, playing sports, reading, writing, doing laundry etc - to take your mind far away from dark thoughts.

I think about my mortality more when I meet very old veterans on their last legs or when I attend solemn commemorative services.

I can think of many poems that I would love to be read at my funeral so it’s hard to decide. I especially like ‘Ithaka’ by Cavafy for instance. But I’ll go with Alfred Lord Tennyson’s ‘Ulysses’.

The last part of the poem especially resonates for me:

Come, my friends, 'T is not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

The full poem itself reveals Ulysses (Odysseus from Homer's Odyssey)  the ageing king who, having returned from the Trojan war, yearns to don his armour again and ride off in search of battle, glory, and adventure (leaving his poor wife Penelope behind). The poem ends with Ulysses triumphantly announcing his intention to sail off again on yet more adventures. After being away from home for ten years while fighting in the Trojan War, and then taking ten years to get back home to the island of Ithaca to his family, Ulysses feels ill at ease at home. The civilian’s life is not for him: he is made for battle and adventure and voyaging (even though, in the Odyssey, he manifestly hates travelling on the sea), and will never be content to be the stay-at-home king with a wife and son, living out the rest of his years on Ithaca and enjoying ‘the quiet life’.

Tennyson of course drew upon Homer's Odyssey but also drew upon Dante's Inferno, Canto XXVI, in which Dante is led by the Roman epic poet Virgil to meet Ulysses and hear his tale. In Homer, Odysseus is told by the blind prophet Tiresias that he will return home to Ithaca but will then make one more journey to a land far away from home. In Dante, this part of the story is fleshed out. Ulysses gathers his men together to prepare for the journey and exhorts them not to waste their time left on earth. He dies on this journey, which is why he is in Dante’s hell. Tennyson's character is somewhere in between these literary predecessors, as Ulysses knows he will set off on a last journey but has not done so yet. Critics also note the influence of Shakespeare, particularly his Troilus and Cressida, which also includes Ulysses.

Ulysses knows he is famous for his great deeds, but this is not what motivates him. Unlike Achilles, glory was never the goal of Ulysses, it was the spirit of adventure.

Indeed what I love about this poem is Ulysses’ inquisitive spirit is to be always looking forward. He has seen much and has seen a great variety of cultures, but this is all in the past. Experiences have made him who he is, but what matters is passing through the “arch” to the “untravell’d world” and constantly moving toward the ever-escaping horizon.

In addition to the arch, Ulysses uses another metaphor here, calling himself a sword that must “shine in use” rather than “rust unburnish’d.” Yet, at home he feels bored and useless, yearning to truly engage with what’s left of his life. He is impatient for new experiences, lamenting every hour and every day that he does not seek “something more.”

Ulysses’ quest for adventure and fulfilment, like the goal of Goethe's Faust, is defined by the pursuit of new and unique knowledge “beyond the utmost bound of human thought.” Adventurer isn’t just about experience it’s about knowledge and, one hopes, wisdom.

Tennyson wrote this poem just after the death of his friend, Arthur Henry Hallam in 1833. Tennyson found himself thrust into the role of Ulysses. Confronted by the death of his friend, Tennyson noticed a sudden urge to drive forwards in life and not settle for the commonplace. As stated in the poem, ‘death closes all,’ enlightening the poet to the need to make the most of his life before it escapes him.

The poem’s final line is the most famous. The need ‘to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield’ fits into the Victorian urge to escape the tedious nature of day-to-day life, to achieve a level of mythical fame reached by the classical heroes, to travel ‘beyond the sunset, and the baths of all the western stars.’ Tennyson doesn’t want to conform, he wants to challenge himself, and he wants to break new ground before his inevitable death. Just like Ulysses, Tennyson wants to go out adventuring rather than settle for regular life.

But where most people have misunderstood the poem is in that final line. They tend to only focus on the last line at the expense of what comles before. So “‘To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield’ is meremy seen as a monumental pronouncement for unbridled success and arrogant pride disguised as optimism. But it’s one that is isolated from its context within the poem as a whole. Indeed in doing so it robs Tennyson’s poetry of its fragile nuance. People forget to think about the last line within the context of the two lines above, “ One equal temper of heroic hearts/Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will.”

Despite being stoic and leading a life of meaningful purpose (heroic even), life still leaves us room with doubt and equivocation. As Tennyson himself suggested, confidence and doubt are equal elements of his poem’s meaning: he said that it ‘was written under the sense of loss and that all had gone by, but that still life must be fought out to the end’.

The struggle between the sense of loss and the desire to fight life out to the end remains unresolved at the end of the poem. I think this titanic struggle remains true even if one has religious faith and a belief of resurrection of an after-life. As a believing Christian I see no tension in this other than the ones being pulled on the human heart and the divine soul.

In the end Ulysses' enduring challenge to himself, is a challenge to us, to push ahead with energy and strength of will no matter how old or weak our bodies are. To yield to age or weakness is to be less than fully human and yet paradoxically when our bodies give out and we fail it’s also very human. As honourable as it may be to live a peaceful life without risk, we miss the most exciting aspects of life if we do not venture out, at least a little bit, into the unknown. For me as a Christian, the unknown (or as Donald Rumsfeld would put it ‘a known unknown’) is of course the ‘undiscovered country’ beyond life, the eternal life in the presence of Christ. As such Tennyson’s poem - as I like to think about my life - is not one of past lament but one of future hope.

Thanks for your question.

[elysianrey]

i’ll come to thee by moonlight

(a/n: this is basically the story nobody asked for but I somehow wrote? all it takes is seeing Anne with her own two eyes for Winnifred Rose to quickly understand Gilbert’s undevoted attraction toward her. Minor spoilers related to season 3. content rated G+)

Winnifred Rose sat snuggly between a tall blonde boy, of whom she noticed dressed quite fashionably and exquisitely for someone of his age, and her dear friend, Gilbert Blythe. She glanced curiously about the luxurious garden in which they sat at, as the beautiful blooms gently swayed from the early afternoon summer breeze on the island. She suddenly startled as her attention was swiftly refocused on the dainty, soft girl raising her voice in passionate cry as she finished the end of her poem. The crowd gathered around the small platform before them clapped in admiration at her performance, and she heard a loud ‘whoop’ from a group of boys seated in the section of chairs to their right. She clapped politely along with the others from Avonlea. The small freckled girl smiled shyly from her spot on the stage and gave a curtsy bow before exiting and seating herself in the front row next to a familiar head of auburn hair.

“Next, we welcome to the stage, Miss Anne Shirley-Cuthbert. Miss Shirley-Cuthbert will be reciting The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes.”

Winnifred watched as the young woman made her way from her chair up onto the stage. To her right, she sensed Mr. Blythe shift in his seat, slowly leaning forward in anticipation. Had it not been for this fundraiser organized by the spirited Anne herself, Winnifred would not be seated where she was today. Gilbert had expressed his excitement for the fundraiser in his last letter, urging Miss Rose to attend with him in order for her to finally meet this Anne he had fondly spoken of many times in the past.

Anne gracefully took her place in the center of the flower-adorned platform and clasped her hands together in front of her chest. Gilbert’s body inched even closer to the edge of his seat as the girl dressed in a luxuriously deep blue satin dress began to speak. 

“The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.   

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.   

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,   

And the highwayman came riding—

         Riding—riding—

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.”

All around her, eyes that were nodding in tiredness or looking elsewhere quickly became fixed on the redhead’s delivery of the famous poem. It was as if a spell were overtaking the crowd, herself included in the magic this faerie was casting over them. Winnifred could not help but glance over at the curly headed boy. Wonder and awe were written clearly on his features, yet his own eyes held a secret that he had never revealed in all the time she had known him. Gilbert was in love. No, perhaps love was too light of a word. He was smitten, captivated, and completely bewitched by Miss Shirley-Cuthbert. A hidden smile made the corners of her lips turn upward at the realization. 

As the poem drew to a close, Winnifred understood why this enchanting young woman had captured the heart of her close friend because she had been drawn into the same allure. Why Anne had no sooner breathed the final words of the poem than Gilbert was already on his feet clapping fervently with the crowd and shouting, “Encore!” The crowd seemed to follow suit and the tall blonde boy next to Winnifred joined in Gilbert’s pleas for more from Anne. Miss Rose saw the redhead glance purposefully in their direction as she beamed and bowed for those cheering at her magnificent delivery. The color creeping up her cheeks began to match that of her hair as Gilbert whistled and smiled so widely his dimples dotted his cheeks. 

After an encore performance from Anne, the poetry reading ended and those attending the fundraiser dispersed and headed toward the refreshments located in another section of the majestic garden. Winnifred trailed behind Gilbert and the tall boy who had been sitting beside her, of whom she learned was also a friend of Anne’s, named Cole. They found Miss Shirley-Cuthbert surrounded by an entourage of men, women, and children alike, complimenting and commenting on the zeal they had experienced from her performance. Waiting patiently as she graciously accepted and thanked their praises, she suddenly came bounding over to them, smiling eagerly and laughing happily.

 She threw her arms around Cole first and he spun her around once before placing her firmly back on the ground. “Oh Anne!” he exclaimed proudly, taking her hand in his own.

Miss Rose observed the interaction between the pair rather quizzically and stole another glance at Gilbert, who did not appear taken back by the gesture.

“You were simply marvelous! The way you proclaimed the last stanza nearly had me in tears!” Cole clutched at his heart for added dramatic effect and Anne nearly doubled over in laughter.

 “We have both come a long way since our days imagining up all kinds of stories in my room at Green Gables, have we not?” Anne stated, catching her breath, and turning away from Cole to Gilbert and Winnifred.

 Winnifred watched as Gilbert opened his mouth and his hand began to gesture in her direction when Anne abruptly cut him short by enveloping him in a tight hug. He appeared taken back as he nearly lost his balance, but his arms soon found their way around her petite waist.

 “Thank you for coming!” she cried as they broke apart. “Really and truly, Gilbert. I daresay I might not have been on that stage if it had not been for your dear companionship after school these past weeks.”

 Gilbert looked down at the ground, flustered at the unexpected recognition from Anne, a blush crawling up his neck from beneath his collar. “You were remarkable, Anne. I was only an outlet for your creativity and talent,” he said fondly, his eyes meeting hers as the two shared a moment in which Winnifred felt like she was intruding upon.

 Anne was the first to break the trance by turning to Winnifred and taking both of her hands in her own. “You must be Miss Rose. I was so pleased to hear that you were attending the fundraiser. I hope you have enjoyed Avonlea. Before you leave, I simply must show you The Lake of Shining Waters. It would be a shame to miss such a glorious sight at this time of the year,” said Anne with nearly as much fervor as the poem she had just recited.

 Taken aback slightly by her enthusiasm, Winnifred returned the offer with a genuine smile herself and squeezed the redhead girl’s hands, declaring, “How could I pass up such a lovely proposal for adventure, Miss Shirley-Cuthbert? Perhaps while we are there, you could read another poem? I do not think I can take another conversation about the latest medical practice from Mr. Blythe.” She shot Gilbert a teasing look and he shrugged in return.

 Winnifred feared Anne was going to burst from elation—quite literally—after hearing her proposal and the redhead squealed delightedly. “Yes of course! I—”

 However, before she could finish her next thought, she was being ushered away by a short, stout, grey haired woman who had been calling her name and informed her that she must meet one of the biggest donors of the fundraiser. Anne turned and waved, mouthing ‘Good-bye’ to the three of them as she disappeared in the flock of people.

 “I think I know where your passion lies, Gilbert,” she smirked as he stared after the satin outline of the girl. He turned, giving her a puzzled look and she continued. “Oh please, dear friend. You may deny it until you are blue in the face, but your eyes tell me all that I need to know. Perhaps anyone for that matter. You mustn’t let someone like her slip away from you. She’s a rarity in this big world.” Winnifred would know, seeing as she had met many people from all kinds of places thus far in her short lifetime.

 Gilbert stood there, his brow furrowed after listening to her words, his brain making an obvious effort to understand everything she had spoken to him. Then, it was as if a new dawning had just occurred to him, and the lines in his forehead smoothed. He put his hand lightly on her shoulder and uttered a ‘Thank-you’ before turning on his heel to go find the auburn-haired girl she assumed.

 She stood there, arms crossed, feeling rather smug with herself for helping a friend in need. Perhaps one day, she would find an equal partner in life like Gilbert with Anne, but for now, she was content in experiencing more that this world had to offer. She was awakened from her reverie when Cole, who she had nearly forgotten was still standing beside her, spoke.

 “I think you and I are going to be good friends,” he said with a glint in his eye that said, ‘I have been telling them the same thing for years.’ Miss Rose grinned up at him and accepted the gentlemanly arm he extended.

“Shall we drink to prosperity or continued foolishness?” she questioned as they arrived at the beverage table, handing him a glass of punch and taking one of her own. 

“Both!” he chuckled, as they clinked glasses and each took sips of the sweet, orange liquid.

Winnifred would later learn that his toast would reign remarkably true.

[nathanneedsausername]

Most Overlooked Movies in Oscar History

Well guys, its official, Green Book was awarded the highest honour a single film can be given. Best Picture. If you spent any time on Twitter the day after the 91st Academy Awards you will have noticed that film nerds were not exactly thrilled by the decision, film Twitter immediately erupted into a discussion about all the films that didn’t receive the nomination that may have been more worthy winners than Green Book. Films like Eighth Grade, The Miseducation of Cameron Post and If Beale Street Could Talk appear to have benefited far more in regard to free publicity than any of the actual nominees. Of course, this isn’t the first time that the academy has failed to acknowledge the real best of the year and it certainly won’t be the last. So, in the spirit of being mad at the Academy let’s take a look at some of the worst historical snubs of all time.Well guys, its official, Green Book was awarded the highest honour a single film can be given. Best Picture. If you spent any time on Twitter the day after the 91st Academy Awards you will have noticed that film nerds were not exactly thrilled by the decision, film Twitter immediately erupted into a discussion about all the films that didn’t receive the nomination that may have been more worthy winners than Green Book. Films like Eighth Grade, The Miseducation of Cameron Post and If Beale Street Could Talk appear to have benefited far more in regard to free publicity than any of the actual nominees. Of course, this isn’t the first time that the academy has failed to acknowledge the real best of the year and it certainly won’t be the last. So, in the spirit of being mad at the Academy let’s take a look at some of the worst historical snubs of all time.

The Avengers (2012)

Actual nominations: Argo, Amour, Beasts of the Southern Wild, Django Unchained, Les Misérables, Life of Pi, Lincoln, Silver Linings Playbook, Zero Dark Thirty.

The Academy has historically looked down on superhero films with no comic book adaptation receiving a Best Picture nod before Black Panther earlier this year. While The Avengers may not have been the most artistic or dramatic film of 2012 it is hard to deny it’s impact. When future generations look back on the films of the 2010s The Avengers will likely stand out as one of the most important releases. With the Marvel Cinematic Universe feeling like a part of everyday life it can be hard to remember just how big a risk this movie was at the time. Think pieces were all over the internet about how the film would ultimately end up as an unwatchable, convoluted mess of ideas that would end Joss Wheadon’s career. How wrong they were.

If the Best Picture award is supposed to honour the greatest and most important achievements in modern cinema then The Avengers absolutely deserved to end up on the ballot, but we don’t live in the universe where The Academy does cool stuff like that.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)

Actual nominations: Million Dollar Baby, The Aviator, Finding Neverland, Ray, Sideways.

How on earth did this happen? It truly amazes me that more members of the academy felt that Finding Neverland deserved more acclaim than Eternal Sunshine. Going of the assumption that the ‘best picture’ should be the film with all its filmmaking elements working perfectly together then Eternal Sunshine should win every year. Charlie Kaufman won the award for original screenplay and Kate Winslet received the only other nomination for lead actress, this film didn’t even receive a nomination in any of the technical categories. The treatment of Michel Gondry’s masterpiece by the Academy should be seen as a permanent black spot on the ceremony’s reputation.

Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988)

Actual Nominations: Rain Man, The Accidental Tourist, Dangerous Liaisons, Mississippi Burning, Working Girl

Hear me out on this one. Roger Rabbit is one of my all-time favourite movies and for that, I’ll admit, I’m a little bias. That being said I truly believe that this is one of the finest achievements in cinema history from a purely technical level. The nominees for the 61st Acadamy Awards are solid (for the most part wtf is going with The Accidental Tourist?) but none of these films are as impressive as what Robert Zemeckis and his team were able to achieve by mixing live action film with 2D animation. Roger Rabbit is more than just a gimmick however, this a very entertaining and genuinely compelling detective story at its core. Once again, the term ‘Best Picture’ feels perfectly defined while discussing this film, a film that wasn’t even considered for the award.

Donnie Darko (2001)

Actual Nominees: A Beautiful Mind, Gosford Park, In the Bedroom, Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, Moulin Rouge

Excuse my language but Donnie Darko is a fucking great movie. Here is another year where the nominees were pretty solid but come on you can’t tell me that Donnie Darko was too weird and abstract when you nominated Moulin bloody Rouge! Donnie Darko is the sort of film that is still being discussed to this day with so many incredibly well thought out details both in the direction and the screenplay. When you ask a film lover what is so special about the medium it is films like this that they will point to, with an excellent score, great performances, hypnotically simple editing and masterful direction it doesn’t put a foot wrong. Do I really have to spell out what the words ‘Best Picture’ mean again?

WALL.E (2008)

Actual Nominees: Slumdog Millionaire, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, Frost/Nixon, Milk, The Reader

Let’s talk about animation for a bit. Only three animated films have ever been nominated for top prize (Beauty and the Beast, Up and Toy Story 3) considering the amount for excellent animated film are not those three I had a lot to choose from. With the likes of My Neighbour Totoro, Toy Story, Aladdin, The Little Mermaid, The Lion King, Princess Mononoke and The Nightmare Before Christmas going completely unnoticed the academy has found a way to further segregate the medium of animation from live-action film by introducing the ‘best animated feature’ award at the 2002 ceremony. This addition has led to films like Spirited Away, Finding Nemo, The Incredibles, Ratatouille, Frozen, Inside Out and most recently Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse receiving an award without having to let them compete with live action films. There are no academy rules that state animation cannot be considered for Best Picture it just doesn’t happen. I have singled out WALL.E because I think it showcases exactly what modern animation has achieved. WALL.E is a largely silent film with gorgeous visuals and a strong environmental message that is still accessible to general audiences, including children. Surly one of Pixar’s finest achievements deserves to be held in just as high regard as David Fancher’s 8th best film.

 Ps. You will notice a distinct lack of The Dark Knight in the 2008 nominations as well.

Psycho (1960)

Actual Nominees: The Apartment, The Alamo, Elmer Gantry, Sons and Lovers, The Sundowners

Another genre historically left out of the running is horror. Only 6 horror films have ever been up for the award (The Exorcist, Jaws, The Silence of the lambs, The Sixth Sense, Black Swan and Get Out). Horror is a genre that is often looked down upon in the film community for being ‘low-brow’ and not as artistic, a similar struggled as the one faced by the superhero genre. With important releases such as: Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Suspiria, Halloween, Alien, The Shining, Let he Right One In, Night of the Living Dead and perhaps most surprising, Psycho going unnoticed by the academy it is clear to see that there is a bias against the genre somewhere in Hollywood. Psycho is also emblematic of another problem with historic best picture nominations. What on earth is the academy’s issue with Alfred Hitchcock? Psycho is not the only of Hitchcock’s classic films not to receive the nomination, in fact North by Northwest, Vertigo, Rear Window and Dial M for Murder were all snubbed.

On a related note despite being nominated 5 times Hitchcock never received the Oscar for best director putting him in the prestigious company of: David Lynch, Terry Gilliam, Ridley Scott, Wes Anderson Quentin Tarantino, David Fincher, Edgar Wright, Spike Lee, Charlie Chaplin, Orson Wells and Stanley Kubrick. So, I guess you could say that it isn’t just the Best Picture category that doesn’t make sense.

 These were 6 examples I felt I could make a point out of, it is important to remember that many more examples are out there of revolutionary masterworks that went unrecognised come awards season. People don’t take into consideration what happens behind the scenes at the Oscars. The ceremony needs good ratings, The Academy needs to honour films with progressive messages that are easily digestible, and everyone has an agenda and wants to see their friends win. The Oscars are a lot of fun, it gives people like as a chance to talk about the films we loved that year hopefully see our favourites given some well-deserved recognition but let’s not take it more seriously than we should. Next year when the Academy inevitably choses to honour mediocrity remind yourself that The Third Man wasn’t nominated in 1950 or you could remind yourself that Singin’ in the Rain wasn’t nominated in 1953, alternatively mention that 2001: A Space Odyssey was snubbed in 1969, The Matrix in 2000, Back to the Future in 1986, Pan’s Labyrinth in 2007, Cool Hand Luke in 1968. Or if you want your could run into the street and shout about how, Duck Soup, Modern Times, His Girl Friday, Night of the Living Dead, The Shining, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, Oldboy, Reservoir Dogs and The Big Lebowski all weren’t nominated for god dammed thing.

Nathan Needs A Username’s Must See Movies: https://letterboxd.com/nathan_r_l/list/nathan-needs-a-usernames-must-see-movies/

Nathan Needs A Username’s Avoid At All Cost Movies: https://letterboxd.com/nathan_r_l/list/nathan-needs-a-usernames-avoid-at-all-cost/

[celosia-starfall]

Hieroglyphics

@aphrarepairweek2019 This is a day late for Day 2, but work got really hectic and didn’t give me time to finish it yesterday. Plus the fact that it turned out longer than I was expecting. OOps--

AU: Mythology/Demigods

Pairing: America x Nyo!Egypt

Prompt: Language

Summary: Alfred is an archaeologist that has set out to explore and study an ancient Egyptian temple that had just been discovered. What he finds there...he definitely wasn’t expecting.

“Man… I wish I could’ve worn different shoes for this…” Alfred mumbled to himself, taking off one of his boots and pouring sand out of it for the third time that hour. “All in the name of science, I guess.”

Sighing, he slipped the boot back on and held up his flashlight to view the rough map that he had been sketching out of the temple as he explored. So far, there hadn’t been too much of interest that hadn’t already been seen among the other Egyptian temple that he had ended up exploring. There was certainly a lot of sand that had blown in everywhere in the first rooms, but despite that, all of the statues had been in remarkably pristine condition considering the fact that they were thousands of years old.

They weren’t what Alfred had gone there to explore though.

No, his job was more as a translator. Exploring to try to find the various hieroglyphics and write them down and take pictures of them so that he could bring them back to his camp and translate them.

Of course, that didn’t mean that he completely liked every aspect of his job. After all, everybody that he worked with knew about his fear of ghosts and spirits, and that ended up turning into his colleagues making jokes about Alfred ending up being accidentally cursed by triggering one of the ancient curses that had been laid to protect the tombs of the pharaohs. It always left him shivering and hesitant to even step foot into any of the places they were going to explore.

Even now, a shiver ran down his spine just thinking about it, but Alfred merely shook his head and pushed forward. It didn’t help either that the light of his flashlight would often end up catching the shine of cat eyes.

Actually, now that he thought about it as he entered the next room, there were a lot of cats roaming about. Several of them stared unblinkingly at Alfred while others hissed and ran to a different room. None of them would let him close enough to pet them though.

Sighing, Alfred shook his head. There are probably just a lot of mice or rats that hide out here, and that’s why there’s so many cats. It’s probably just really good hunting grounds for them… Even though they were often known for protecting the spirits of the dead…

A loud noise echoed from one of the adjacent rooms, causing Alfred to nearly jump out of his skin. Whirling around, he shined the flashlight around the area, but there was nothing out of the ordinary.

Something on one of the walls did end up catching his eye though. On the wall next to a closed door, there was a carving that looked to be a cartouche, multiple hieroglyphics inscribed within the oval.

“Alright! Now we’re getting somewhere!” Alfred exclaimed, jogging over to the wall. Before he could get close enough to read the writing though, blue eyes widened in surprise when a sword suddenly flashed in front of him and blocked his path.

“Begone, intruder,” a soft voice hissed out.

Gulping as he stared down at the point of the sword, Alfred held his hands up in front of him. “I, uh, was under the impression that this place was abandoned? Other than the cats, I mean. Plus I’m here on a job, so I can’t exactly leave just yet--”

“So you’ve come here to raid the temple, have you?” the voice asked, anger apparent as the tip of the sword moved closer to his throat.

Alfred wished that he could turn his head to see who--or what (the thought that the speaker wasn’t human gave him shivers)--was speaking, but he didn’t want to risk taking a sword through his neck. “No, no! It’s nothing like that at all!”

There was a pause. “Then why have you intruded upon sacred ground?”

“For knowledge, and to learn of and from the past. I’ve only come here to study the writings,” Alfred explained, sweat trickling down the back of his neck, but he didn’t dare to move to wipe it away. “I haven’t come to steal anything, I swear.”

There was a long moment of silence, but then the figure moved to stand in front of him, and if he weren’t so afraid of coming across as rude, his jaw would’ve dropped at the sight of the young woman in front of him. She was otherworldly beautiful with caramel-colored skin and long black hair that contrasted greatly to the white dress that she was wearing. Her amber eyes though… They were slitted like a cat’s and seemed to match the golden jewelry that she wore. Then there was the matter of the sword that was still pointed at him, but his mind was currently preoccupied with other thoughts at the moment.

It was like he was looking at someone who had just stepped straight out of ancient Egypt.

“Uhh-- I, umm--”

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue,” the young woman asked, just the faintest hint of a teasing smile playing on her lips. But that might’ve just been Alfred’s imagination. She tilted her head towards the hieroglyphics on the wall that he had originally been heading towards. “Can you read them?”

Blinking in surprise, Alfred nodded his head. “Yeah, for the most part.” He quickly shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Wait wait wait, who are you? And what are you doing in here?”

She tilted her chin up at him. “My brother and I are two of the guardians of this temple. We make sure that the tombs within this sacred ground remain undisturbed and that humans don’t go where they’re not supposed to. That’s why we’ve been watching you since you stepped foot within these walls…”

Alfred raised an eyebrow as he tried to wrap his mind around several of the things that the girl had just said. Guardians? Humans? Is she not human? She has a brother? But she’s alone… She’s been watching me?

Finally, she lowered the sword, placing a hand to her chest. “You may call me Sanura. I am the daughter of Bastet. And this is my brother Gupta. He is the son of Anubis.” She gestured to the spot on the other side of the door. When Alfred moved the light of his flashlight to the spot that she had indicated, it was empty.

“Umm…”

Tilting her head, Sanura turned towards the door, her face deadpanning when she noticed that her brother was indeed not there. “I’m going to kill him. He always does this…” A sigh fell from her lips as she turned to face Alfred once more.

“Sooooo…” Actually, this was a perfect opportunity for Alfred. “If you’re supposed to be guarding this place, does that mean you know the entire layout and everything that’s in here? What about all of the writings on the walls? Are you able to read everything that’s on the walls? Like, all of the hieroglyphics, I mean. Well, obviously that’s what I’d mean, since that’s the only writing there is… Do you know what the purpose of this temple was in the first place? You mentioned something about it being a sacred ground and there being tombs within the building, so is it a burial site of an ancient priest or priestess or past ruler?” That was when something that Sanura had said clicked, his eyes going wide. “Wait-- You and your brother are descended from gods?”

A sheepish smile spread across her face as she giggled, the sound making a blush creep up Alfred’s cheeks. “Yes, that tends to be the case,” she murmured, holding out her arms for a snow white cat to jump into them.

“So the ancient gods are real?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure? This isn’t some sort of prank, is it?” Alfred asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. Part of him definitely felt like the other researchers would try to set up some sort of prank like this.

“I’m quite sure, Alfred,” Sanura said, stroking the cat’s ears.

“Wait...how do you know my name?” Regardless, Alfred decided that he liked the way his name sounded when she said it.

An amused smile pulled at her lips. “You said it when you had been talking to yourself earlier when you were trying to convince yourself that ghosts aren't real.”

Alfred laughed, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. So she had heard that… I’m guessing that she’s heard everything that I’ve said since I’ve been here…

Sanura’s smile fell as her expression became more serious. “Why did you come here, Alfred?”

“I told you--”

But she was already shaking her head, amber eyes intense as she stared up at him. “That’s not what I mean. I mean, why did they send you in particular to do this job? Alone, no less. I’ve had to run off my fair share of thieves and tomb raiders and scientists, and they had always been in at least pairs. But you… They sent you alone. Do you know why?"

"Uhhhh-- Well, I mean, I've always worked better alone, plus I'm the only one that's been able to read and translate all of the other…" Alfred trailed off when Sanura started shaking her head.

“Yes, you’re able to read and translate everything, but that’s not the main reason. It’s because you’re the only one of them that would be able to make it to the inner sanctums and end up opening a path for them.” Sanura paused, staring at him with a slight frown. “I hadn’t been completely sure of it when I first saw you, but now that you’re here, there’s no mistaking it: you have a link to the gods. Whether it’s merely that you’ve been blessed by one of them or you’re a demigod yourself, I can’t tell. But there’s a magic around you that’s nullified any of the curses or traps that would’ve been sprung had it been any of the others venturing through here. Even just having one of them in your vicinity would’ve prevented the magic from working.” She paused again, but this time because the cat in her arms rubbed its face against her cheek.

Alfred took this moment to finally speak up. “Wait wait wait, so you’re saying that I’m connected to the gods somehow and have some sort of magic...aura that’s been keeping me from getting cursed or killed by spooky booby traps. And the people that I’m working with somehow know this and that’s why they’ve been sending me into these places all alone? Why would they do that?” he asked, though he was pretty sure that he had a pretty good idea of why they would.

"We've dealt with their company before," Sandra stated solemnly. "They go around taking ancient artifacts and trying to raise spirits from the dead or a whole bunch of other things depending upon the type of artifact that they get their hands on… You wouldn't be the first person that they've tricked into helping them further their goals, so try not to be too hard on yourself...” She trailed off slightly, glancing back at the inscription of hieroglyphics on the wall that Alfred had been trying to read just a little while earlier. “...You said you came here for knowledge, and to learn of the past, yes?”

Really, everything that he was being told felt like it was a bit hard to swallow, but there was something in his gut, in his instincts, that told him that she was being honest with him and that she had no reason to lie to him about anything. The question caused him to raise an eyebrow, using one knuckle to push his glasses up from where they had begun to slip down his nose. “Yeah, that’s right. I think if more people knew about the past and didn’t forget about it or ignore it, then the world could become a lot better place than it is now. And I’d like to be one of the people that helps make that happen!”

A smile pulled at Sanura’s lips, as though he had given her a correct answer. “Would you like to read what the inscription says?”

Alfred’s face lit up with excitement. “Ah, really!? You’re gonna let me read it? Even after the whole you’re actually working for an evil company revelation?”

“Your heart is pure, Alfred. I sense no evil in you nor your intentions. So yes, you may read it,” she said gently, stepping to the side and letting Alfred approach the wall.

His eyes eagerly scanned the lines on the wall, only for his smile to eventually fade into confusion as he read what was written there. “It...sounds almost like a love letter? Sort of? But why would there be a love letter in a temple like this?”

“Well… It’s an epitaph, but yes, it does sound like a love letter, doesn’t it? Mother always was a romantic…” Sanura turned to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Alfred, a flush creeping up his cheeks when her arm brushed against his when she reached out a hand to point to the words. And then she spoke, the ancient language flowing fluently from her tongue as though she was born knowing how to speak it.

Though, Alfred thought, if her mother is really Bastet, then I suppose she must’ve.

“Here lies a king who died as he lived. A warrior in a blaze of glory, beloved of Bastet. For he loved only Her, never another. Warrior Goddess, forever at his side. Eternally Her Blood will protect him, his soul, within these walls until they meet again… For there is no life She would rather live than one spent at his side forevermore...” Sanura trailed off, a small content smile on her face as she let her arm fall to her side, the cat she had been holding jumping down with an annoyed huff before it trotted away. She paid it no mind though. “You know, poetry is perhaps the greatest forgotten treasure of ancient Egypt.”

“Yeah…” Alfred murmured, his gaze drifting from the wall to down at the woman standing beside him. He desperately wished that he could stay there longer and talk with her more, but he knew that he needed to be getting back to the camp, even though he had very strong reservations about even going back there. “So what am I supposed to do? If they’re trying to steal artifacts and corrupt souls or whatever?”

When she looked up at him, Alfred’s breath seemed to catch in his throat with the intensity of her gaze. “Run away. You go back, and in the middle of the night, you disappear. Head to Cairo. There will be people there to help you.”

"Wait!" Alfred exclaimed, grabbing hold of her wrist when she started to turn and walk away. "What about you? I mean-- Will I see you again? What if I can't get away from them?"

Sanura paused, her expression thoughtful as she gazed at their linked hands. Slowly, she pulled one of the pendants that she was wearing out of her shirt, slipping it over her head and pressing it into Alfred's hand. The golden metal of the pendant was warm to the touch. "If you ever find yourself in trouble, hold this to your heart and say I summon thee, o Daughter of Bastet and I will be by your side to protect you."

Alfred stared at the glimmering metal before nodding and slipping it on, tucking it safely away under his shirt. "Thank you… I wish there was a way to repay you."

"There's no need," she murmured. "Travel swiftly and may the stars be your guide."

Hesitating for a few more moments, Alfred nodded, flashing her a big smile before jogging back through the temple. Watching him go, Sanura sighed, her shoulders heaving as she looked down at one of the cats that was rubbing against her ankle.

"You like him."

Deadpanning, Sanura turned toward the voice of her brother, seeing him standing against the wall. Sunglasses were propped on his nose and a fashionable green scarf was wrapped around his neck. His outfit was admittedly far more modern than Sanura's. At his feet sat a black jackal, his father's animal companion. The animal's tongue was hanging out of the side of her mouth as she stared up at Sanura and wagged her tail.

"And? Where were you, Gupta?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

Shrugging, Gupta held up a tray with three coffee cups in it, the fourth in his other hand. "I showed up fifteen minutes late with Starbucks."

[hellzyeahthewebwieldingavenger]

Let’s talk about Doctor Octopus in Spider-Man PS4

SPOILERS for the video game!!!!!!!!

Whilst Marvel celebrated Doc Ock’s 50th anniversary in 2013 by making him the main character and presenting him as a creepy abusive scumbag, he is getting a comparatively better treatment for his 55th anniversary thanks to Spider-Man PS4.

As a character unto himself, PS4 Doc Ock is simply put one of the best renditions of Doc Ock ever, as worthy (and possibly even superior) rendition of the character than even Alfred Molina’s stellar performance in Spider-Man 2.

I have mixed feelings upon him as an adaptation of the character only because in both the Raimi films and most renditions of his origin, enduring an accident is a critical thematic aspect of his character, as is the loss of a loved ones after we got his origin in the 1990s.

In the comics giving up his fiancée and the death of his mother was what made his mind fragile enough that his accident pushed him over the edge. In Spider-Man 2 the loss of his lover and the death of a loved one was consolidated into the character of his wife Rosie. In that movie in order to make him sympathetic (and therefore work as a villain for the big screen than just be a black and white mad scientist) they added in the idea of his AI arms stimulating his darker impulses. In the comics this didn’t happen but rather his accident combined with his surviving it stronger than ever broke his fragile mind and unleashed his ego.

These elements spiritually I feel are important to the character because they make him a reflection of Spider-Man himself.

Tom DeFalco, the best Doc Ock writer of all time (author of his origin in fact), once said that one of the major factors distinguishing Peter from Otto was that Otto had his transformative accident later in life than Peter did. This meant he was already full of old cynicism and bitterness and set in his ways, not as easily able to course correct himself compared to the young Peter Parker who learned the error of his ways shortly after getting his powers.

His relationship with his mother in the comics and his wife in the movie are equally important counterpoints to Peter. When Doc Ock debuted THE most important relationship in Peter’s life was with his mollycoddling mother figure Aunt May who was prone to illness and needed him to support her, but also wanted Peter to have a life beyond her (noticeably by setting him up with Mary Jane, a potential wife). Otto’s mother by contrast was overbearing and smothering, Aunt May taken up to 11 but also insisted Otto make her the centre of his world even at the expense of the woman he was engaged to. In the movies Peter’s most important relationship is with Mary Jane, the woman he had been pushing away because he felt he couldn’t be with her and be Spider-Man due to endangering her life. Thus Rosie and her death is a commentary upon Peter and MJ’s relationship.

So these elements being absent from Doc Ock’s character do bother me a lot.

However in other respects the character’s central ideas are explored and recontextualized in ingenious ways.*

Whilst Doc Ock was never truly a father figure or mentor figure for Spider-Man in the comics, it’s certainly not something that doesn’t work, at least not in a unique universe of it’s own which is trying to respect the spirit of the comics but also have it’s own identity.

In fact the idea of making Octavius a scientific mentor figure to Spider-Man was already briefly done in the 1994 cartoon, an aspect that a lot of viewers actually really loved. Spider-Man 2 picked up on that idea but did it differently and this game again handled the same idea differently.

The biggest factor making the game the best rendition of the idea though is how much time they put into developing their relationship to the point where when Otto betrays Peter and the final battle comes it just hurts; helped by incredibly strong vocal performances.

The time invested in the relationship is equally one of the factors contributing to this being the best take on Doc Ock period.

A microcosm of the brilliance of this version of the character is in his and Peter’s last scene.

In the climax we see examples of how Insomniac paid tribute to concepts surrounding Otto in the movies and the comics, whilst adding in stuff and zigging where older takes zagged.

 Like I said there is a father/son dynamic in play here and a student/teacher one too. This is even more poignant given how Peter in smaller ways is this to Miles (albeit more a big brother than a father figure) and we’ll likely see this in future instalments.

 The emotion on display is just raw, much as it was earlier in the game when Otto debuted his arms and Peter was both awed and fearful for him, much to Otto’s upset. This was more than anything the moment that sent them down divergent paths but it came out of Otto’s ego crashing into Peter’s good intentions and sincere care.

 Otto being a father figure and mentor figure is heightened because, like in the comics, the characters are a reflection of one another. Brown haired geniuses who want to help the world with their scientific acumen. Otto isn’t just an older male figure in Peter’s life who cares for him, his common interests mean that you genuinely could believe he was his father.

 All of which fuels the beautiful contrast highlighted between them in the above scene. A contrast that (in Otto’s case) combines the Spider-Man 2 and comic book renditions of his character. Oh and a dash of Dan Slott/Ultimate cartoon.

 Like in Spider-Man 2 Otto in this game sees his intelligence as a gift, a privilege and a responsibility.

Also like in Spider-Man 2 his arms (albeit not through corruptive AI tech) has ‘driven him crazy’. This was the original explanation for comic book Doc Ock’s malevolence too, his accident drove him crazy. However eventually in the comics, as was the case in the movie and this game it’s clear Otto being ‘driven crazy’ really meant that extenuating circumstances allowed him to give vent to his ego.

 And when doing that we see how Otto corrupts Peter’s defining mantra about great power and great responsibility. From Otto’s ego driven POV his intelligence makes him *ahem* superior  to everyone else and therefore it’s his responsibility to do what’s best for them. Which in truth is insincere of him because all he did in the game was serve his own desire for vengeance upon Norman Osborn for undermining him and not letting him shine.

 In other words he wanted revenge for Norman not allowing him to show the world how smart he was. Which is comic book Doc Ock all over, he is defined by wanting the world to appreciate how smart he is. It’s also movie Doc Ock because he was willing to endanger everyone to prove how he was correct, and this ego was even present before his arms removed all inhibitions.

 But despite all that it is clear Doc Ock in part genuinely does care for other people and isn’t wholly selfish. He cared for Peter and Peter cared for Otto in turn, precisely because he recognized Otto’s humanitarian streak.

 Which is awesome characterization because it gives dimensions to Otto. He isn’t ALL bad but he is selfish and egotistical.

 Similarly his more nasty and conniving traits are balanced out by this sympathetic desperation.

 He tricked Peter into helping him with his evil schemes, tries in this scene to emotionally manipulate or even blackmail Peter but he does it out of desperation because he’s going to turn into a prisoner within his own body.*

 The over all effect is a very well rounded and compelling character who is honours a lot of what makes Doc Ock who he is.

 *Though it does so in similar ways to other adaptations. In truth you could almost call this version of Doc Ock a remake of the Spider-Man 2 take on the character moreso than a strict adaptation of the comic book version, right down to the utterly cinematic climax in the game.

Which is fine since most people (and I guess I’d be among them) feel that Doctor Octopus has been THE best Spider-Man villain on film.

**Yet another example of Insomniac taking lame ideas from Slott and USM and making them work. Slott invented the idea of Otto’s body degenerating thus he needed his arms to move around and then the USM cartoon designed the ugliest Doc Ock who was just from day one disabled in this way. The video game presents us with classic Doc Ock and sets him on the path of degenerating and from that idea comes his actions to save himself and settle old scores. It’s far better use of this idea than ‘I’m dying guess I’ll be worse than Hitler so people will remember me!’.

[fordarkisthesuede]

At the Brink of Midnight - Chapter 6

It’s finally here! .ﾟ☆(ノё∀ё)ノ☆ﾟ. My tumblr and Ao3 updates will now be synchronized on the same day from here on out! As always, thank you for your continuous support!!!

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Chapter 6:  Your Old Dark House

"You know, I'm surprised you didn't take the Batmobile last night," John commented as they rode the elevator up to the billiard room. He held his hands behind his back, loosely clasping his wrist with one hand, while standing completely straight and exuding an aura of unbelieving excitement. He smiled over at Bruce, light shining brilliantly in his eyes, looking every bit as charming as he had at the Stacked Deck.

"I thought it would be less conspicuous if I rode along in Jackie's car," Bruce offered with a light shrug. "I thought she was on our side..."

"I only ever saw her when she was tagging along in sessions now and then," John started smoothly, "but that was a woman whose hamster wheels were always turning. Just never quite knew what they were turning for..."

The elevator came to a halt, and Bruce pushed the section of wall open.

The parlor was barely lit and only slightly warmer than the cave. Bruce let John get out first, making sure the clock's wall shut firmly.

Bruce wanted to just make a bee-line for the door. He didn't want to look at the picture hanging above the mantle. His parents' kind eyes as they posed with him, the younger, innocent child that had no clue as to what they really did with their lives. The picture was taken two months before their assassination in Crime Alley, and Bruce sometimes wondered why his father didn't look more like the manic crime lord he turned out to be.

He couldn't find it in him to take it down. It was part of him, and it felt strange not to have their picture somewhere in the house, despite what they had done. It used to be a constant reminder to prevent senseless deaths like theirs. Then it became a reminder to be better than his family's name.

John seemed to scan the room, his excitement not waning in the slightest. "Wow, I knew it would be fancy, but... Still! Even have a family portrait!"

Bruce had a hard enough time looking at it. He certainly didn't want to talk about it, much less with the person his parents' would have undoubtedly disapproved of having in their home the most. "You haven't seen anything yet," Bruce said with as much charm as he could muster.

"Then lead the way, Lord of the Manor." John gestured his arms at the door, a small grin stretched on his pale face.

The foyer had strips of light coming in through the tall window above the door.

"Ha! It looks just like the pictures! Just, uh, darker."

Bruce felt his spirits lift at that. He figured it wouldn't hurt to switch on the light at the top of the stairs.

John winced and rubbed his eyes, but still seemed to instantly soak up the visuals. "Talk about classy. Just looking at all this makes me want to rob you," he joked, laughing a bit. "Just a little, though."

Just as Bruce suspected, John stood out in stark contrast to the color palette of the mansion. It was nice, seeing something so bright and lively in the otherwise empty space.

Bruce did agree to give a bit of a tour, despite what they had to do, and he figured the best way to get them both to move was to just start talking from the top. "So... Main kitchen's to the right of the stairs, in the back, dining room's through the second door across the hall..."

"Woah, woah - main kitchen? You have little sub-kitchens?" John grinned over, inching towards the staircase.

"No, just one other kitchen, on the far side of the house."

"Why does one guy need two kitchens?"

"It was either meant for long-term guests or live-in servants... I'm honestly not sure. There's a lot of rooms I don't bother going into."

"Ooh, let me guess!" John deliberately covered his eyes with one hand and posed with the other pointing up in the air. "I bet...you have a theater, and...a gym...and a conservatory!"

Bruce let out a slight chortle. "Got it in one. Though I do use the gym."

John pulled his hand away from his face, grinning triumphantly back at him. "I knew it! Don't think I haven't noticed you've been working out," he added with a look that Bruce felt was rather... flirtatious . "Miss the nightly excursions on rooftops?"

The usual awkwardness that came with John's honesty bubbled up; it was worse knowing that John had been completely right. Since giving up Batman, Bruce tended to work out until exhaustion, if just to give his mind the illusion that he was working like normal.

"Let's head upstairs - there's at least five closets for us to go through."

John laughed to himself as he started to ascend the stairs. "No need to feel embarrassed, Bruce," he said, humor weaved into his tone, "I get it."

"You're the only one who does."

John put a hand over his chest as he gave the billionaire a soft look. "Aww, Bruce! I'm touched..." He tore his gaze away to continue taking in the decor. "I hope the feeling's mutual."

Bruce wasn't sure what to say to that.

"Say, your Dad... He seems like he was the same height as you. Was he the same size as you, too? It's hard to tell from the pictures."

"I'm not sure," the former-vigilante answered honestly. "Alfred and I donated a lot of my parents' stuff years ago. There's only so much left."

"You have a sewing machine?"

Did he? Alfred was a man of many talents, including mending... He couldn't remember ever seeing a machine. "I know Alfred has a kit, but I don't think he has a machine."

"Hmm... No worries! As long as I can get my hands on some Stitch Witchery, we'll be good to go."

Was...was he planning on fixing something to fit him?

Bruce thought about telling him they didn't have time for that, but the reality was that they did. "Master bedroom's on the right."

"We're starting with your closet?"

"Might as well. Alfred's is off-limits."

"Naturally."

John's face lit up as they went through the bedroom's double-doors. Bruce didn't think there would be much to get excited about at first.

But then he realized he was letting John into the second most personal space he had. Few people had seen inside that room, and those that spent the night usually didn't find their way back inside afterward. Even fewer had the same observation skills John had.

It was strange, though, that John seemed to bypass everything in favor of the walk-in closet.

Or maybe he was being sneaky about where he was looking. It was hard to tell with him sometimes. It was why Bruce hadn't realized how much a "watcher" he really was until their conversation in the Fun House.

John immediately set upon going through the suits. "Let's see, black, dark blue, black, black - ooh, there's gray! Your spring color of choice!" He teased, grinning at him as he played with the sleeve between his fingers. "Have any suits you hate?"

Bruce blinked. "You can take whatever one you want, John. I'll get another."

John pursed his lips. "I'd feel bad if I took your favorite."

He was tempted to say that his favorite was downstairs, but it wasn't quite true. Or maybe he didn't want it to be true. "In that case, anything but the pinstriped black in the middle."

"...do you really trust me?" John asked carefully, flicking through the rack of carefully-hung suits. "Enough to do this again...? Work with you...?"

"Of course I do."

"Even though I messed things up?"

Bruce knew he had to choose his words carefully. John already felt - and looked - guilty enough. "We both messed up, John."

"But you didn't kill anyone."

He felt his heart squeeze at the thought and crossed his arms. "You've...come a long way since then." Bruce watched John's face carefully, trying to read him; his expression had softened. "Are you worried you're going to do it again?"

"Do you think Tiffany will?" He asked suddenly, turning towards him with a piercing, accusatory stare. "Or is it just me?"

"John -"

"No," he interrupted, his voice raised. "I want the truth, Bruce. Why did you let her go and put me back in Arkham?"

Bruce felt like he was aching all over. He hated seeing John like this. He hated feeling the stomach-gnawing guilt that came with it. But the only thing he could do was to be honest with him.

"It was the best way I knew how to help her. Putting her in Black Gate would have only made more problems for the Fox's. And...Arkham was the only way I knew I could help you." Bruce let everything come out, feeling like he was laying himself bare, and hoped to hell that John was seeing. "I didn't want to put you back in there. I had no choice." He breathed in, hating the angry hurt on full display on John's face. "I know what you two have done. But I also know you're trying to be better."

John sighed, his lean body slacking halfway. "You had seven months to tell me, Bruce. Lying by omission still counts as breaking our promise." He pouted slightly, glancing at the taupe suit he had been handling, and an unnerving smile broke on his face. "So you're going to make it up to me."

Bruce wasn't quite sure how to take that.

"I want one of your batarangs," John continued in a low tone that send a slight shiver up Bruce's spine.

Well... He did know how to use it. Neither of them knew what would happen outside, either. It could come in handy. And they did promise not to keep secrets, and he had a point, no matter how much Bruce could have protested that he had been going to tell him. Bruce supposed there was no harm in paying a penalty so simple. "...sure, that's fair."

"To keep."

"I'm not letting you take it back to Arkham."

"Of course not," John replied silkily, "You're going to hold onto it for me."

It was hard to guess exactly what John was thinking, asking for something like that. One batarang for putting the issue aside. He supposed John would never be able to get the rest of the Jokerrangs out of policy custody... "Fine. But just one."

John gave a mischievous grin as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a familiar sharpened bat-shaped tool. "Oh, good! That means I only have to give one of these back."

The vigilante's eyebrows rose to his hairline, staring at the batarang just being held out to him like a playing card.

"I know I should've asked, but like I said, you looked like you hadn't slept in a week, buddy," John said with a playful shrug. "Sorry."

Bruce nearly snatched the batarang back, glaring at the green-haired man.

John pulled the taupe suit off the hanger and folded it neatly over his arm. "I'm gonna need a couple of other things, too, now that I think about it..."

Bruce didn't know why he always ended back up in the parlor. Maybe it drew him in with it's natural coziness, despite the judgmental stares of his parent's picture. Maybe it was because it was the in-between for both sides of his life. (Used to be, he reminded himself.)

He'd left John on his own upstairs, who focused intently on his sewing project after a lengthy discussion about what Bruce had to order for him if he was going to step outside at all. At least it was easy enough for the warehouse to drone-deliver later.

But that had been an hour ago. Occasionally, he would hear movement from upstairs as John rooted around in the other four closets that might have held something for him to use. It had been silent for a little too long.

All Bruce had for noise for the past half-hour was the little blips from the drone he was controlling through the mobile gear he brought up from the cave. He'd flown around the city, checking up on Jackie's apartment (empty), the whereabouts of her car (unknown), and trying to find any sign of Crane's car (none) as he virtually sat outside the doctor's condo.

There had been no sign of life there - not so much as a twitch in the curtains, all of which were drawn shut. There wasn't so much as a desk lamp on inside, and at six-thirty in the morning, Gotham's penchant for cloud cover made it pretty dark. It was unlikely that Jonathan Crane was home, and Bruce was struggling to think of where he could have gone or what he was planning to do.

Arkham's server hadn't shown any key-card use for either him or Jackie Lant since the night before. Trying to track their phones came up as empty as they had the night before - likely switched off, but hopefully not dumped. Jackie Lant at least had a couple of social media accounts Bruce could cobble together information from; she had friends in the area, so she might have stayed the night at one of their places.

Bruce flew the miniature drone around the back of the condo again, parking it in the corner of the patio next to a cluster of potted plants by the tall fence. He and John would either have to pick the lock on the front door or jump the fences to break in the back way. For right now, he'd keep an eye on the back to see if there was any movement through the windows there...

A loud buzzing sound would have made Bruce jump if he were anyone else but himself, but it did shake him out of his thoughts. The gate's intercom was activated; he rushed to get to the panel by the front door and take a peek at the video, grateful that they couldn't see him.

Detective Bullock's round face glared at him from the driver's side of his unmarked Crown Victoria.

Bruce had expected as much. He didn't think Bullock would ever forget being punched in the face, even if it had been for a good reason at the time. He breathed in, willing himself to sound as just-woken-up as possible before pressing the call-button. "Yes?"

"Detective Bullock of Gotham City Police Department, Wayne. Open up."

Bruce feigned surprise as best he could. "Oh, sure - I'll be right down."

He pushed the button for the gate and rushed to strip and pull on the bathrobe he had thrown on the billiard table an hour ago, praying silently that John wouldn't pick now to make any indications he was in the house.

He waited a minute, knowing he shouldn't appear to rushed to see anyone, and took as many even breaths as he could before opening the door.

Detective Bullock was standing there with two armed officers, the Crown Victoria parked crooked in front of the GCPD squad car in the path.

"Good morning, Detective - officers," he added with a smile in their direction. "How may I help you?"

Harvey Bullock grimaced. "You'll do us a favor and cut the crap," he growled. "Your pal John Doe escaped Arkham Asylum sometime last night. You seen him?"

Bruce rose his eyebrows and let his shoulders slump. "He escaped?" He took a deliberate pause, pretending to search Harvey's face. "No... No, I haven't." (Bruce had blinked. He hoped Harvey wouldn't notice.)

"Right. Here's how it's gonna go, rich boy - we figure he's gonna try to get in touch with you, and seeing as how he's a homicidal lunatic-" Bruce felt himself frown before he could really stop the reflex - "we have to make sure we have someone around to stop your ass from getting sliced up. So officers Flemmot and Derming here will be keeping an eye on your place. We already have a couple guys situated on Wayne Tower, in case he tries there."

It was a perfectly sensible thing to do, despite it being a matter of public knowledge that Bruce took an active interest in Arkham's reformation and John's well-being after the Joker incident. Tabloids had run themselves ragged trying to dig up whatever they could in the first few months of Bruce's visits to the asylum, but Bruce had the sense of mind to pay the more talkative orderlies off before things would get too out of hand. He didn't care that people knew they were friends, considering what they knew already, but he didn't want any wild accusations to start flying. There was a couple of baseless theories in the trashiest rag about potential love affairs between the two, but one call from Bruce's lawyer cleared that up before anyone could say 'Wayne'.

Still, Bruce knew he had to feign some ignorance, if just to keep up appearances, so he put his hands in his pockets like he was being thoughtful. "You really think he'd try to go to Wayne Tower?"

"It's not a matter of what I think, moneybags." Bruce almost winced at the nickname. "It's a matter of what the commissioner thinks. And what he thinks is that either Doe or you are gonna do something stupid, given your guys' history. So you listen to me," Bullock growled, stepping up to get in Bruce's face, "If you so much as get a glimpse of your freaky little boy-toy while you're held up in either one of your ivory towers, you get us on the line asap. Else you're gonna be in shit so deep you'll need a snorkel. Got it?"

Bruce felt the urge to break the detective's nose for a second time. He could practically hear the satisfying crack it made. "You didn't have to put it that way," he answered, clenching his fist to try and quell the desire to punch, "but yes, I understand."

"Good." Bullock started to retreat, turning to the two officers waiting at the base of the steps. "You two, start sweeping the grounds, and keep a close eye on Wayne, you got me? I want to know if he so much as leans out the window. Oh, and Wayne?" He shot up a look from the bottom step as he shoved a cigarette into his mouth. "You got a small package," he added with a smirk, pointing to the medium-sized box sitting by unopened side of the door. Bruce rolled his eyes and picked it up, deciding not to dignify the distasteful jab with a response.

"I think I'll work from home today," he said aloud as he closed the door on the police officers now going their own ways, knowing that they heard him well enough.  

God, what he needed now was coffee. He went through his mental catalogue of the kitchen as he went, wondering if he had anything John would actually like, and thought about whether or not he should go looking for him.

Bruce stepped through the kitchen door and found that the idea was completely unnecessary - John was leaning against the counter island, fully-dressed in the modified taupe suit taken from Bruce's closet, seeming to watch the coffeemaker on the opposing counter. Bruce gently placed the box on the counter nearest him.

As if he sensed his presence, John turned his head, and immediately lit up. "There you are! Your eggs are getting cold!"

Bruce shot a glance at the table tucked away by the darkened window. Two plates, both covered with a different set of plates to keep them warm. Mugs were already sitting there, too, as well as the carton of half-and-half, the sugar bowl, two jars of jam (did he have two kinds? Bruce only remembered strawberry in the fridge...), and the maple syrup for some reason.

"How did you do this so fast?"

"Bruce, I've been down here for twenty minutes," John said with a somewhat flat look as he turned around to lean against the counter on his elbows. "You looked busy, so I was going to wait and get you, but then the fuzz showed up and... I figured you'd find me eventually."

"...what would you have done if they'd come in?"

"They can't come in without a warrant and they don't have...you know, that thing. What is it - uh, probable clause?"

"Probable cause."

"Yeah, that!" John emphasized with a snap of his fingers. "I knew you wouldn't let them in since I was here anyway, so there was only a mild panic attack for a couple of minutes back there."

Bruce felt almost like he was having one of those right now. The kitchen windows had their rolling shades drawn, but there was still a slim chance they could be seen through the sides... And the fact that John had crept around downstairs without a sound was as startling as it was impressive.

He really was full of surprises...

"Well, just...don't sit by the window," Bruce said lamely. "There's going to be two officers patrolling the grounds."

John let out a giggle. "Good thing they don't know how I escaped in the first place," he said teasingly, his green eyes twinkling up at Bruce. "They'd neeever guess."

"Hopefully they never will."

"I doubt it," John hand-waved, standing straight as the coffee machine beeped, "You're Gotham's golden boy, Bruce. You could visit me every single day and they'd still doubt you'd actually break me out. You could probably tell them that you were Batman and they'd never believe you..."

"I don't know about that... Avesta was sharp enough to pin Batman's identity on me after one meeting with me. She's a Gothamite, and I don't think she doubted it for an instant."

"That's different," John scoffed, moving the coffeepot to the table, giving Bruce a full view of the seamless job John had done on the suit.

It was... perfect, actually.

It accentuated his shoulders and waistline, leaving just enough room for the grappling gun at his back, and made a slim fit on his legs; he'd even found a dark green tie somewhere that complimented his hair.

John seemed to notice him staring (he was not staring, he was observing, he was not letting himself linger on any particular area, certainly not his swan-like neck, exposed due to not buttoning up the shirt all the way...) and turned to beam at him, posing his hands on his hips. "What do you think?"

Bruce shoved down the honest flattering compliments that popped up in his head that he would've said unabashedly with anyone else. Still, he didn't want to say anything rude just to cover his own feelings, either.

"I think I should hire you as my tailor," Bruce said genuinely, "You look great."

John looked as if Bruce had said he was handsomest thing he'd ever seen. "Thanks! I'm impressed with myself, actually, since I had limited supplies to work with..." Bruce almost felt like as if he had passed some kind of test with him, somehow...

He took the seat next to him at the table and puzzled over how strangely domestic this entire scenario was, despite the threats just walking around outside. He knew they had time, considering Crane and Lant were nowhere to be found, but there was always the nagging feeling in the back of his head that they had to move.

"So what were you up to?" John asked, smearing a heaping knife-full of strawberry jam on his toast.

"I was using the drones to try and find Crane. I haven't been able to find his or Jackie Lant's cars, so I decided to part the drone outside of Crane's condo for now. He doesn't seem to be home." He watched as John picked up the syrup and squirted it in streaks all over his plate, covering the eggs and half the toast like it was the only way to eat them.

"Crane drives a Lexus, doesn't he?" John asked with a forkful of syrup-coated egg poised to be eaten. "He seems like the type..."

"Yes, actually. I haven't been able to see any sign of it on traffic cameras, either."

"He probably parked it and swapped the plates with something else," John advised, pointing another bite at Bruce's face to emphasize his point. "Our glorified intern is probably still driving her crummy little sedan around."

He honestly couldn't imagine Jackie Lant as the type to steal a car. She seemed to be the kind to hide it. He wondered if she wasn't just going to try and continue life as normal today, considering John would've gone after Crane right away regardless of whether or not Bruce Wayne had a darker side. "...why do you think she wanted to kill him?" Bruce asked, sipping his coffee. (John had apparently opted for the dark roast rather than the French in the cupboard. Strange, considering John was now pouring quite a bit of half-and-half into his cup...)

The green-haired man just hummed in response, a calculating look coming over his face. "If I were the betting kind of guy," he started, "I'd say she was aiming to steal from him, first."

"You think she's after his formula?"

"Maybe," John replied with a secretive sort of smile. "But Crane was using it on us for a reason, Bruce. All those notes about how we reacted under extreme stress, seeing our worst fears manifested before our eyes by a nasty chemical reaction..." John's face twisted into something serious. "Crane might have had to kill his way in, but it doesn't change the fact that people pay a lot of attention to him."

Bruce thought back to the strange figures sitting on Crane's office shelf. "How did you know he's killed people?"

John looked down at his plate with a reminiscent expression. "I had some sessions with Dr. Kessler before I got released. He had that little souvenir floating pen on his desk since day one." John stabbed the yolk with his fork, watching the yellow goop leak out like a bloody wound. "I liked him."

"I'm sorry."

"They never found either of their bodies, did they? Kessler and his replacement, whatever her name was... Just empty homes and not so much as a goodbye note from either of them," John commented, meeting Bruce's gaze again with a dry smile.

"No. He and Dr. Norris are still on the missing persons list." Bruce let coffee wash out the bad taste that came along with the words. "I'm sure that Jackie Lant is going to go after Crane. That look on her face when she left..."

"You'll have to tell me," John pointed out with a wider smile.

"Sorry," Bruce said reflexively, remembering the punch he had thrown at the side of John's head. "She was...determined. Whatever Crane's planning to do, she might know what it is already. I wouldn't put it past her to already have some of his formula, too."

John leaned on his elbow, propping his head in his slim, pale hand to observe Bruce with a familiar, playful smile on his lips. "Hmm, decisions, decisions... Are we going to look into the home of the disturbed doctor or the treacherous trainee this morning?"

Bruce thought back to Crane's empty condo. He had no idea how long it would stay empty; and he wouldn't be surprised if Crane kept his formula - or at least an earlier version of it - at his house.

Then again, Jackie Lant's apartment was also temporarily deserted. There was no guarantee that she wouldn't try to go back to work. She might have a few answers scattered around, too, both for herself and Crane's actions.

But Crane's face when he had walked out... He'd been so assured of himself. Like he already knew what he was going to do next, despite there being no way he could have predicted John's escape and Bruce's intrusion on his office.

"Crane might have kept to himself, but his house will give us the best chance at finding out what he's up to. And if he tries to go back while we're there, we might be able to stop him prematurely."

"Good choice," John grinned, passing him the blackcurrant jam. Bruce didn't even know he had that kind... It must have been in the back of the cupboard. "But I wouldn't recommend going on an empty stomach."

Bruce felt his cheeks burn slightly as he started in on his own food, John watching him happily. He had a feeling he would watch the whole time if left to his own. "Your stuff came, by the way," he said with a nod towards the package sitting on the counter.

"Ooh, better get started, then!" John practically downed the rest of his own drink. "See you back in the billiard room, Bruce!"

With that, he rushed out of the kitchen, pausing at the door to peek out and see if he had a clear shot outside or not, and left Bruce on his own in the large, empty kitchen.

Bruce felt like he was waiting for a date to finish freshening up before they went out on the town. He'd passed the time by sending off the email notifications that he wouldn't be coming into the office and rescheduling his meetings. He'd still have one to do at home that he wouldn't be able to get out of or push aside, but that wasn't until the afternoon. He had lots of time before then.

He wished he had kept the Batmobile parked in the cave, now. He already had to take one of his other car's plates off so they could drive the stolen Honda around without being randomly looked up. Hopefully no one would notice. Bruce had already changed into plain street clothes and hadn't bothered shaving.

"Sorry for the wait, Brucie."

For a moment, it looked like a well-dressed stranger had broken into Wayne Manor. With his hair dyed temporarily dark brown and his face covered in a more naturally-toned foundation, the only thing that gave John away was the bright greens of his eyes.

He seemed to have applied the works:  nude lipstick, natural smokey eye-shadow, eyebrow pencil, and even brown mascara. He was completely unrecognizable to any stranger.

He'd clearly found something else in one of the closets upstairs, too. Bruce almost did a double-take - he was pretty sure that was his father's light trench-coat over Bruce's taupe suit. The matching hat was being twirled around on John's hand.

(He did tell him he could take whatever he wanted. It was too late to go back on that now... Bruce would just have to deal with it. It wasn't like he'd seen it that often when his father was alive, either.)

"What do you think? I kind of disassociated a bit towards the end while applying everything. It feels like I'm looking at a me from another world..."

It struck Bruce that this was very likely what John had looked like before he had woken up in Arkham, before he'd had whatever accident had bleached his skin and warped his D.N.A. to dye his hair green. It was rather handsome, if Bruce was being completely honest, but it didn't feel right. It was as if John was supposed to always have his unnatural color palette.

"You...definitely look different," Bruce answered.

John looked at his (very new) shoes. "It's weird, isn't it."

"No - well, yes, but only because I know you." Bruce fumbled, not wanting to see John hurt. "You look good. Just...not your usual good."

That brought a smile back, at least. "Thanks, Bruce. I needed that." He clapped his hands together, standing completely straight. "Well! I'm ready to go when you are!"

Notes:  John’s new look is totally inspired by Jack Napier in Mask of the Phantasm. Picture it, but combined with that tan trench-coat+hat combo other Jokers wear sometimes...

If only John was in Villain!Joker’s makeup... ♡( ૢ⁼̴̤̆ ꇴ ⁼̴̤̆ ૢ)~ෆ♡

[stripesthesupervillain]

The Mad Hatter’s Guide to Happiness: Chapter 11

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Summary:  Batman takes an interest in the two villains' week out, deciding to get personally involved. Scarecrow and Mad Hatter find a place to stay after the day's events.

Don’t want to read this on Tumblr? Read it here! (I’ll add links to more chapters tomorrow.)

“As of now, police are unable to locate the two criminals, Jervis Tetch and Jonathan Crane, better known by their criminal personas as the Mad Hatter and the Scarecrow.”

Bruce Wayne was drawn away from his phone call upon hearing the two familiar names on the television. He raised a brow, initially confused as he watched the news report., he leaned back on his chair, paying more attention to the woman presenting herself on TV rather than his friend on the other end of the line.

“With a count of twenty-one confirmed kills by the pair, including twenty SWAT and the chief of police, Walter Paloozi, the town now lives in fear every waking hour of the night. No one knows why they’ve come to the small town, nor why they have decided to join forces, but one thing is for sure: they won’t slow down if they aren’t stopped.”

“Hey, Lucius, I'm sorry, but something just came up. Yeah, trouble. We'll talk about the device later. I’m gonna have to call you back,” Bruce sighed, quickly hanging up the phone and rising from his chair. “Alfred, turn up the volume.”

“We’ve had several reports that the kill count is higher than originally expected, with two new bodies having appeared so far fitting Tetch’s MO. Without the town's personal Batman to stop them, and the police force showing to have been a poor match for them, it seems that anything can happen at this point, and we can only pray for their safety as they are forced to adapt to Gotham's special breed of crime. Stay tuned for more as the story develops.”

The two stared at the TV as they quickly flashed images of the criminals, both in costume and out of costume. “It seems that I may have to work out of state, Alfred,” Bruce sighed, turning off the television and heading to the bookcase that hid his biggest secret. Alfred followed after him dutifully, standing by as they waited for the bookcase to shift out of the way to reveal the entrance to the Batcave. “Usually I wouldn’t suggest having other states outsource your services, Master Bruce,” Alfred sighed, “as you are only one man. However, this seems to be a different matter altogether, so I suppose there's no point in trying to convince you, is there?” Bruce gave a curt nod as he trotted down the stairs, the floodlights to the cave activating to shine down on the complex series of computers and vehicles he used for his secret hobbies. “Usually I would let them solve their own problems, Alfred, but this is Scarecrow and Mad Hatter we’re talking about. While Tetch's predictability is limited to the Lewis Carrol books, he's still a deranged schizophrenic and still a threat, and Crane is a sadist with enough fear gas to bomb an entire country. I need to go to Georgia and stop them before they can hurt any more people.”

“Master Bruce, these two are not your responsibility,” Alfred reasoned, following at a steady pace as Bruce got onto the batcomputer to get the coordinates for the last known location of the masked men. “Maybe not,” he replied, “but I am responsible for helping to protect this city, and I let these Crane and Tetch slip under the radar. I didn’t even realize they were gone until literally three minutes ago, Alfred, and now another town is paying for this mistake,” he sighed, going over to begin putting on his infamous batsuit. Alfred didn’t reply, merely watching from afar as he occasionally checked the computer for updates. Wayne had just put on the chest plate and had begun to fit on his boots when he stopped, considering a thought. “They killed over twenty people, Alfred,” he murmured, clutching his mask in his left hand in simmering anger. “If there is a chance I can stop them before anyone else just to save a few more lives, I’m more than willing to go any distance.”  

Once his mask was on and he was fully suited up, he moved over to the computer, collecting any information that he would need. “I’m going to need to use the batmobile,” he told his butler, typing into the computer in order to see which roads he would need to use to get there the fastest. “I’ll have to go at full speed if I want to get there quickly. There’s no time to plan anything else.”

“What do you expect to do once you get there?” Alfred questioned, watching him as he began to head towards the batmobile. “Find them. I’ll have to set up a few crime scenes and check for anything they’ve left behind, and once I get ahold of them, I'm bringing them back to Gotham,” Batman informed him. “I know them, Alfred. Crane isn’t one to just run away from his problems, and Tetch loves Gotham too much to move away.”

“Not a common interest between Englishmen, I can assure you,” Alfred commented.

“They came there for a reason, most likely of Crane’s own interest. From what the computer says, Tetch has no connection with Georgia, much less even stepped foot in it. Crane must be after something. Something important, I’m sure. I’ll make sure he won’t get it. Check the computer for any linking factors between Crane and the town. Make sure you hit all bases, including profession and personal life. Oh, and make sure Robin keeps the city safe while I’m gone.”

“Understood, Master Bruce,” Alfred nodded as Bruce hopped into the armored vehicle. “Stay safe, sir. You’ve stopped several villains at once before, but there’s always a risk.”

“I’ll be home before next week, I can assure you,” Batman said confidently, lowering the roof of the batmobile and revving up the engine. It was going to be a long couple of days, he was sure of that. Even as he drove off, he couldn’t help but wonder why these two criminals would travel such a far distance to wreak havoc.

Little did he know, someone else was wondering the same thing, and they were determined to figure out this little enigma.

The Mad Hatter and Scarecrow were more than overjoyed by the time they broke through the line of trees, their run slowing to a steady walk. Breathing heavy, Scarecrow was still laughing lightly to himself, still a bit animated after the day’s events. Bits of blood was still visible on his costume, but neither of them really seemed to care. Jonathan would care when he would have to wash the damn thing, but that's for another time.  

“Oh, I honestly wish I could have recorded all of that,” Scarecrow chuckled, one hand on his scythe and the other on the duffle bag slung around his shoulder. The two were still in costume, of course, attempting to find a good point to where they were safe to change. “You’ve said that at least three times,” Mad Hatter grinned, looking up at him. “I have to say, I’ve never seen you look so spirited about anything before.”

“I enjoy a good adrenaline rush every now and again,” Scarecrow murmured, calming down as he looked over the parking lot they had come across, sparsely populated by only a few cars. “It beats sitting in an office and listening to the problems of everyone else. Now, which one should we pick?” They surveyed the area. While it was still the black of night, street lights were able to illuminate the area and give them a clear picture of where they were heading.

“Oh, I like the red one,” Hatter pointed out, gesturing to a small red car that would perfectly seat the two of them. It looked cheap and rather plain and unnoticeable, which was perfect for them. “The red one it is,” Scarecrow declared, beginning their trek through the lot. “So how many of those cards do you have left?”

“Quite a few,” Hatter replied, not bothering to check his bag. “I always bring a chess set’s worth.” They stopped at the car, where he watched Scarecrow skillfully break in and begin to fiddle with the wires. “So how much toxin would you say you have left?”

“A few canisters,” the taller villain replied, grunting as the wires didn’t seem to be connecting. “So I’d say enough to break at least a hundred minds. In case that fails, I still have a scythe and an axe, whereas you don’t have a weapon of any kind.”

“Well, I usually I have other people do my bidding who usually have weapons,” Hatter huffed, watching him move the wires in the obviously wrong places. “Er, Hare, I don’t believe-“

“I know what I’m doing,” Scarecrow spat, before cursing when one of the wires gave him a little shock, although it wasn’t felt through the gloves. Hatter rolled his eyes, grabbed the other’s arm before he could protest, and ducked under the steering wheel. Within seconds, the car came to life. When he came back up, he dusted his dinner gloves on his coat. “I suggest you leave the technology to me. Hares don’t climb trees and haberdashers don’t live in burrows. It’s just not practical,” he chuckled, going and getting into the driver’s seat. “Says the one in Wonderland,” Scarecrow scoffed, getting into the passenger seat. Normally he wouldn’t let Hatter drive the car, as it was akin to trusting him with his very life, but he decided to let him have it this time. With a sigh, he pulled off his hat and mask as they began to pull off, revealing unusually unkempt red hair and a man with a stupid grin on his face, which slowly faded with time.

“Ah, Wonderland seems to be more exciting than usual, doesn’t it?” Hatter sighed, adjusting his hat. Jonathan knew he wasn’t going to take that thing off until he was asleep and didn’t bother to tell him off. “It sure does,” he muttered, now feeling more worn out. “Let’s just find a place to stay for the night and get out once daylight hits. I don’t want to spend another second here.”

“How about one of the neighborhood houses?” Jervis suggested, looking at an intersection that led to a cluster of houses. “That’s risky,” Jonathan replied, shaking his head. “We don’t want to wake any neighbors. They’re probably already high strung as it is.”

“Well you lived here, didn’t you?” Tetch said, looking over at him. “Where do you suggest we stay, then?” Jonathan had to think about this for a good few seconds, going through his terrible memories for any place they could stay that the police wouldn’t check out.

“On the next intersection, turn left and keep driving until you hit Duley Road,” he instructed. “There’s a small plaza that used to be filled with vacant shops. With any luck, a few of them may still be empty.”

Jervis nodded, beginning to follow as instructed as he began to rest against the car seat. He felt more tired than usual, which was understandable. Today was undoubtedly the third most eventful day of his life. He nearly died several times, so it was at least in the top five. Today was a good day, he’d say.

The car was filled with silence, with Jonathan now quieted and recounting the day’s events with a small smile. Jervis couldn’t help but become curious about some words shared several minutes earlier.

“Hey Hare,” he hummed, only receiving a grunt in response as a sign that he had his attention. “Do you really prefer this life over the life you could have had?”  

Jonathan paused, looking over at him silently. Tetch took this as a sign to keep going. “It’s the question we all ask ourselves, isn’t it? If we could go back in time and stop ourselves from become this, would we?” He glanced over at the unamused Crane, who only let out a sigh after a minute and shook his head. “Tetch,” Jonathan sighed, “as much as I appreciate the conversation and attempts to keep away the silence, I really can’t bear any more questions for today. Save it for tomorrow.” Jervis let out a small titter of amusement, but nodded in understanding. If Jonathan was sick of questions and answers, it must have been a really long day for him. He just hummed a tune to himself and kept driving.

They soon came to the plaza his companion had mentioned, looking around the dimly lit area in search of anyone. Besides one lone car, there was really no one there. Sure enough, a few of the stores were empty, the signs torn down and the windows covered to show there was no longer any occupants.  

It only took a few seconds and the door was soon opened, thanks to Catwoman’s helpful lessons. They trudged in with their things, locked the door, and took a look around. Jervis noticed the wallpaper still clinging to the interior was a light green with the occasional flower print. There was also an area where things were clearly meant to be on display, with lights and nozzles for misting water hanging above each display.

“I believe this place may have been for floristry, Hare. Oh, you know how I enjoy flowers,” Jervis mused, before frowning. “Except daisies. Those are always irritating to listen to.” Jonathan emerged from another room, now in his more citizen-type clothing, looking rather normal except for the unkempt hair. “It doesn’t matter what this place is for,”  he scoffed, peering out the small cracks visible between the coverings of the windows. He could already see the red streaks of dawn starting to make their way towards the center of the black sky. “What matters is that we get some rest. News travels fast, Jervis. I’d rather not take the chance of Batman taking interest. Get some sleep.”  

Tetch gave a curt nod, but gave a quick knowing smile to the doctor. “No pills, right?” he chuckled, watching as Crane turned to give him a small glare. He just shrugged it off. He soon found a good place to take a rest, before setting his hat to the side and nearly passing out then and there, not bothering to change out of his dirtied costume. Jonathan did the same, sitting nearby as he finally began to relax for the first time today. Well, the first time that didn’t involve being drugged. That time didn’t count. He let out a soft yawn, noticing it was becoming even brighter outside. He just grumbled in annoyance, turning away from the windows and closing his eyes.

Once they woke up, they would immediately head straight back to Gotham and nowhere else. He was already sick and tired of this town after just two days of being back. No one would stop them, and soon he would be back to terrorizing the people of Gotham. Those thoughts gave him some comforts as he began to rest up and drift off to sleep.

However, he would have to stay up a bit more, as soon enough, the phone rang.

Jervis audibly groaned in vexation, covering his ears. Jonathan just sighed and ignored the ringing until it finally stopped. Whoever it was could wait a few hours.  

Of course, when the phone rang again, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep without answering it. Even if he wasn’t called again, just not knowing who it was would be enough to keep him up a good hour or so. He angrily snatched up the phone, noticing Jervis sit up with an expression of both curiosity and slight annoyance. Jonathan recognized the caller ID as being from his base back in Gotham. It was Rockwell, most likely. Anyone else wouldn’t be a good sign. He let out an annoyed huff and answered the phone.

“Yes?” he greeted, going into an impatient stance as he leaned against a counter. “Whatever it is, it must be pretty damn important, Rockwell.” He could hear his henchman clear his throat in a nervous fashion. Something else could also be heard in the background, but he couldn’t identify it. It almost sounded like a voice.

“Well, Mister Scarecrow, sir,” Rockwell began, “I caught this guy sneaking around the base. Messing with all your chemicals and notes and stuff before I caught him. You know, the things you told me never to touch unless I want to end up in an Asylum?”

Jonathan furrowed his brow in initial confusion, before quickly becoming angry once again. “An intruder? Messing with my things? Well tell me you at least killed the imbecile.”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Rockwell replied. “I was going to, but he told me to cal you specifically. Told me I would regret it if I killed him. Called me a bunch of things, too.”  

At this point, Crane was simply puzzled at the situation. “Who gives a damn who he is?” he scoffed. “What sort of brainless halfwit would even think to intrude upon my lair? If he was caught by you, he obviously can’t be of much importance. I won’t be shedding any tears, trust me on-“

That’s when he heard it. Whatever voice that was in the background soon became loud and clear.

“HALF-WIT? I’ll have you know that I was able to find both your base and figure out the access code in a mere hour, not an easy task for a mere simpleton. If it’s anyone lacking the brains of the bunch, it’s you for only hiring a single guard to protect the supplies that are integral to your potato sack visaged alter-ego!”

Jonathan had to pull the phone back in order to not damage his ear drums. He blinked in surprise, looking over at Jervis, who had heard the yelling man on the other end. Both recognized that voice clear as day, but both seemed unable to make sense of it.

“Is that…?” Tetch murmured slowly.

“It is…” Crane replied.

They looked at each other and back down at the phone. They practically said it at the same time, equally as confused.

“Nygma?”

[marudny-robot]

Cassandra Cain-Wayne and her batty Christmas Tree

Fandom: Batman (Comics) Rating: Gen Additional notes: gift for @chibinightowl for @batfam-christmas-stocking AO3 link A/N: Prompt was: ‘Cass: “This is my first Christmas tree.”‘ Hope you will enjoy this fic and Happy New Year! :) Summary: A short Christmas tale about Cass and her family. But mostly Cass.

Jason looked at the sight before him.

They were gathered on the quite empty field, inside Robinson Park, sitting on the benches. Their eyes were pointed at the grand four meter Christmas tree. The tree itself was decorated in more… unusual way, considering some of those decorations were more Halloween-themed than in traditional Christmas style. You could find hand-made paper chains (in all Gotham's vigilantes colours) and some chains made of popcorn. Alongside gingerbread and (yellow & black) ball ornaments, were little origami animals – mostly birds and bats – hanging on a pieces of thread. The whole tree was lit thanks to tiny white LED lights, tying the whole tree from top to bottom.

The most noticeable ornaments were pieces of black bat-shaped chain and few individual bats, hanged by a thread – each bat covered in glitter.

“It looks quite nice.” Jason commented, sipping some of the cocoa.

“True.” Dick agreed. “Are those bats…?”

“Old model batarangs? Yeah.” “Father, surprisingly, lost too many of them.” replied Tim and Damian respectively.

“And glitter?”

“For the effect? To shine under the lights? Besides, who would think we took real batarangs, covered in glitter and made a Christmas chain with them.” Steph answered. “But why it's in pieces? Tim?”

“Some were to rusty at the ends and where crumbling while drilling holes in them. So we used those pieces we can and didn't try to connect them, in case they would break.”

“And single ones you just hanged.”

“Exactly.”

 Everyone got back to drinking their cocoa, prepared by Alfred beforehand. For once, miraculously, there was peace.

 Bruce exchanged looks with Alfred. Both of them smiling fondly at the sight of their family. Cass, sitting besides him smiled at him, for which he hugged her tighter as the answer.

 There were no presents under the tree, but they weren't important now – left in the Manor for Christmas morning. Only them – their family, in the middle of the night, sitting besides each other in peace, drinking cocoa and eating cookies, while admiring their sister's Christmas tree.

“Babs just texted me.” Dick cut the silence. “She's gonna be soon with her dad.”

“So we have not much time for unfiltered story.” Steph added. She turned to Cass. “So, bestie. How come Poison Ivy didn't tried to kill you for having real tree for Christmas?”

“And where is she anyway?”

“Running around, dressed as Santa's wife with Harley as Santa.” everyone looked at Jason. “Not kidding! Saw them, as I came here!”

“So, about the story…?”

Cass looked her father in the eyes. She slightly shove him, commanding. “Tell.”

Bruce sighed, not really wanting to talk, but he relented. “We came to Ivy. We asked her. She said no.”

Everyone waited for more. Unfortunately, Bruce was stubbornly silent. Dick prompted:

“…So you just did this anyway?”

“Dick. I'm Bruce Wayne.”

“I'm calling bullshit on this.” Jason commented.

 Cass decided to have mercy on others “Harley made her.”

“That makes sense.” Tim said, happy with that information, as others nagged to elaborate. “And the Santa outfit?”

 Cassandra looked at Bruce prompting him to tell the tale.

 Bruce hold her gaze, trying making her relent.

 Cass kept the fight moment longer, then turned to Alfred, asking him the same.

 Bruce frowned, while Alfred was happy to oblige. He poured himself more cocoa, while the rest turned to him, waiting for the story.

“As you know, three days ago we went looking for the tree…”

…Choosing Christmas tree was – at first – Alfred's job. As time went on Bruce took that task from his father figure. Usually, the chosen tree was to stand in the grand ballroom, being the main attraction for the Winter Wayne Gala – with ornaments and decoration decided earlier to suit the main theme of the ballroom.

This year, however, all changed when the shocking realization dawned upon Alfred Pennyworth. That the young Miss Cassandra haven't had a chance to spend the Christmas in the Manor before, those not knowing the joy of decorating Christmas tree.

Thankfully, Miss Cassandra wasn't angry (rather surprised, as Alfred, at the realization), but she asked for one thing:

“Mine first… tree?” she continued at Alfred's nod. “Then. I choose. I dec… deco…”

“Decorate, Miss Cassandra.”

“Yes.”

Of course, as you well know, Miss Cassandra didn't make all the decorations by herself, agreeing to the help offered by her friends and siblings.

But going back to the tree. Usually, there are few places where you can choose the real, already cut down tree. Unfortunately this year Poison Ivy was rather… active – thus, changing the mind of the Gothamities about buying the real one. We learned it during our shopping trip, as we saw the usual places being abandoned.

 It greatly annoyed, Miss Cassandra. Thus, as we – Master Bruce, Miss Cassandra and I – were having a break  near Robinson Park, Miss Cassandra decided to take the matter into her own hands.

We hurried after her, as she confidently strode to Miss Ivy's place, shouting for her to stop, but Young Miss Cassandra was deaf to our voices.

Before we could have a chance to find her, we were already caught in the vines. Someone would thought 'that was it!' as we had no sharp object besides ourselves and were struggling to break free. In that moment we saw her.

Long beautiful red hair waving in the wind; dressed only in flora – which had such a radiant green color you would have thought it was spring already – she didn't mind the cold wind as she walked towards us.

“What do you want?” she asked irritated.

Before Master Bruce, or I said 'to let us go!', Miss Cassandra shouted:

“Christmas tree!”

“No.” was her answer.

But before we were left alone to death, as she slowly walked away from us, came our rescuer in the form of Harley Quinn.

“Come on, Red! Don't be such a scrooge! It's Christmas time!”

They argued back and forth, but it was clear, Miss Quinzel was slowly warming Miss Isley to our plead. As her last attack, Harley came forward to our Cassandra, hugged her and said to Miss Ivy:

“Come on, Red! Look at her face! See, how she is sad that she won't had her Christmas wish? See? She is crying already! H-How s-sad!”

And let me tell you, that our dear Cassandra, showed great performance, fake crying before her audience. I couldn't have been more proud!

In the end, we were freed. We thought that we won the case, but before letting us go, Poison Ivy gave us ultimatum.

“I can give you a grand tree. But I'm not letting you cut it! It must stay here, or nothing!”

…

“…So, as you can see, we agreed with her. But also used the situation to our own advantage.” finished Alfred.

“You mean, publicly celebrating Christmas with the whole Gotham, instead of holding the usual Gala?”

“But of course! Don't you think, some change isn't nice once in the while, Master Timothy?”

No-one disagreed with Alfred, preferring to spend time outdoors during cold, instead of being obligated to having small-talk with the higher class of Gotham.

“Still. It doesn't answers the Santa suit, Harley is wearing.”

“She was possessed by a Christmas spirit” Bruce deadpanned.

“Possessed?” asked Dick, because it was Gotham, and honestly? It wouldn't be strange if she literally was possessed.

 Bruce shook his head. “When we were negotiating with Ivy, I mentioned about making it an event for the poor children. Harley thought it was a great idea and decided that no child this year would be without a present. She of course enrolled Ivy to this.”

“More like she didn't want to say no?”

“Precisely.”

They stayed silent, each in their own thoughts, waiting for Barbara and Commissioner to arrive.

Tomorrow, they would be Waynes, smiling to the camera constantly, faking their personalities and answering the questions they didn't want to answer to.

 Tonight, they are just family, spending time together.

[worldofcelts]

Keltoi: Etymology

Article source: HellenicGods

The word Kelt or Celt is derived from the Greek Kælti (Keltoi; Gr. Κελτοί, ΚΕΛΤΟΙ). It is found early in the sixth century BCE writings of Ækataios (Hecataeus; Gr. Ἑκαταῖος) of Mílitos (Miletus; Gr. Μίλητος) to describe peoples living in the area now known as southern France. [1] The etymology of the word is uncertain:

"Possible roots are kel 'exalt' or kel 'strike', as in Latin percello. Another suggestion is kwel 'turn', Latin incola 'settler'." [2]

It is also said that Kelt means "hidden people" on account of a Keltish religious proscription forbidding the writing down of Keltic mystical knowledge. The Kelts, although now associated primarily with the peoples of Scotland, Ireland, and Wales are known by scholars to have lived in many places through much of Europe.

According to the ancient Greek grammarian and poet Parthǽnios (Parthenius; Gr. Παρθένιος) of Níkaia (Nicaea; Gr. Νίκαια), the Kelts are descendants of the union of Iraklís (Heracles or Hercules; Gr. Ἡρακλῆς) and the nymph Kæltíni (Keltine; Gr. Κελτίνη). Kæltíni is the daughter of Vrættanós (Brattanos; Gr. Βρεττανός), an early king of Britain. She had concealed the herds of cattle that Iraklís had won in his campaign against Yiryóhn (Geryon; Gr. Γηρυών, pronounced yee-ree-OHN). She used these herds, as well as her beauty, to lure the Hero and marry him. The resulting union produced a son whom they named Kǽltos (Gr. Κέλτος; Latin: Celtus). Kǽltos is called the father of the Kelts.

Another version of the story, told by Diódohros Sikælióhtis (Diodoros Siculus; Gr. Διόδωρος Σικελιώτης), calls the offspring of this union Galátis (Galates; Gr. Γαλάτης), and credits Galátis with founding the country of the Gauls. Ancient Gaul was a Keltish land.

"Now Celtica (ed. part of Gaul) was ruled in ancient times, so we are told, by a renowned man who had a daughter who was of unusual stature and far excelled in beauty all the other maidens. But she, because of her strength of body and marvelous comeliness, was so haughty that she kept refusing every man who wooed her in marriage, since she believed that no one of her wooers was worthy of her. Now in the course of his campaign against the Geryones, Heracles visited Celtica and founded there the city of Alesia, and the maiden, on seeing Heracles, wondered at his prowess and his bodily superiority and accepted his embraces with all eagerness, her parents having given their consent. From this union she bore to Heracles a son named Galates, who far surpassed all the youths of the tribe in quality of spirit and strength of body. And when he had attained to man's estate and had succeeded to the throne of his fathers, he subdued a large part of the neighbouring territory and accomplished great feats in war. Becoming renowned for his bravery, he called his subjects Galatae or Gauls after himself, and these in turn gave their name to all of Galatia or Gaul." [4]

There are similarities between Keltic religion and Ællinismόs (Hellenismos; Gr. Ἑλληνισμός), the ancient Greek religion. To commence our examination, both traditions are polytheistic, as were almost all ancient religions. Beyond this, there are miscellaneous references.

Plinius (Pliny) the Elder states that mistletoe and oak were sacred to the Kelts. They preferred to do ritual in oak groves. This is significant because in Greek religion, the oak is sacred to the greatest of all the Gods, Zefs (Zeus; Gr. Ζεύς). Plinius goes further and presumes that the name Druid may have a Greek root: drys (Gr. δρῦς) meaning "trees bearing acorns, oak," dryínas (druinas; Gr. δρυΐνας) which refers to a "serpent which lives in the hollows of oaks," and Dryídis (Gr. Δρυΐδης) which is the ancient Greek word for 'Druid'. [5]

Máximos Týrios (Maximus of Tyre; Gr. Μάξιμος Τύριος), the 2nd Century CE philosopher, believed that the Kelts worshiped Zefs [6] to whom the oak was sacred. Consider Dohdóhna (Dodona; Gr. Δωδώνᾱ), the sacred oracular shrine of Zefs in northwest Greece, where oracles were construed from the rustling of the leaves of a sacred grove of oaks.

According to Julius Caesar, the Keltish priests believed in a form of reincarnation. [7] Likewise, Diódohros Sikælióhtis finds similarities in Keltish beliefs to Pythagorean ideas on palingænæsía (palingenesia; Gr. παλιγγενεσία), reincarnation.

"... for the belief of Pythagoras prevails among them, that the souls of men are immortal and that after a prescribed number of years they commence upon a new life, the soul entering into another body. Consequently, we are told, at the funerals of their dead some cast letters upon the pyre which they have written to their deceased kinsmen, as if the dead would be able to read these letters." [8]

There are instances of syncretism between the Gods of the Kelts and the Gods of Hellenic religion. For instance, Apóllohn (Apollo; Gr. Ἀπόλλων) was sometimes equated with various Keltic deities: Amarcolitanus, Anextlomarus, Atepomarus, Belenus, Borvo, Grannus, Maponus, Moritasgus, Toutiorix, and Vindonnus. In some instances, the Kelts used a native word as an epithet, as the Hellenes did; an example would be the Keltish God, Apóllohn Belenus (“the shining God” cf. Φοῖβος, the famous epithet of Apóllohn), [9] but this is just one of many examples.

Also of interest are the stories surrounding Párthalohn (also Parthalan; Gr. Πάρθαλων). [10] Called the first king of Ireland, Párthalohn was the son of Sera of Kalydóhn (Calydon; Gr. Καλυδών) in Greece who fled his country after, reputedly, killing his parents, arriving in Ireland seven years later. Párthalohn died some thirty years hence, along with his many followers, who all perished from plague. Only one person survived: Tuan mac Cairill, the son of Párthalohn's brother Starn. Tuan underwent a series of animal transformations and was eventually reborn as the son of Cairell in the sixth century CE, who then told the story of Párthalohn. There is considerable controversy concerning the story of Párthalohn, even the date of his reign ranges between 2680 BCE to 1150 BCE. By other accounts (possibly to discredit the 'pagan' origin of the king), Párthalohn was described as a descendant of the Biblical Noah.

Lexicon entry: Κελτοί, οἱ, Celts, Hdt.2.33, Plb.1.13.4:—later Κέλται, Str.4.1.1, etc.:—hence Κελτικός, ή, όν, Celtic, Gallic: —poet. Κελτός, ή, όν, Call.Del.173:—fem. Κελτίς, ίδος; ἡ Κελτική the country of the Celts or Gauls, Arist.H A606b4, Str.4.1.1; ἡ Κελτία Foed. ap. Plb.7.9.6. [11]

NOTES:

[1] European Pre-History: A Survey, edited by Sarunas Milisauskas, Springer Science & Business Media, 2002, p. 363.

[2] Celts and the Classical World by David Rankin, Routledge, 1987; found in the 1996 paperback edition on p. 2.

[3] Παρθένιος Erotica Pathemata c30, Etymologicum Magnum 502, trans. J.M. Edmonds and S. Gaselee in Daphnis and Chloe/Parthenius in 1916; Also in Loeb Classical Library LCL 69, Harvard (Cambridge, MA), under the title Longus, Daphnis and Chloe. Parthenius, Love Romances.

[4] Διόδωρος Σικελιώτης Βιβλιοθήκη ἱστορική 5.24.1-3, trans. C. H. Oldfather 1939. We are using the 2000 year edition published by Harvard Univ. Press (Cambridge MA and London England), Loeb LCL 340, entitled Diodorus Siculus III, where this quotation may be found on pp. 161-163.

[5] Pliny the Elder Hist. Nat. 16,249.

[6] Dictionary of Celtic Religion and Culture (Bernhard Maier)  First published 1994 as Lexikon der keltischen Religion und Kultur by Alfred Kröner Verlag, Stuttgart; English trans. 1997 but found here in the 2000 edition published by The Boydell Press (Woodbridge, Suffolk and Rochester, NY), p. 211 - within the entry for "oak".

[7] Bell. Gall. 6,14.

[8] Διόδωρος Σικελιώτης Βιβλιοθήκη ἱστορική 5.28.6, trans. C. H. Oldfather 1939. We are using the 2000 year edition published by Harvard Univ. Press (Cambridge MA and London England), Loeb LCL 340, entitled Diodorus Siculus III, where this quotation may be found on pp. 171-173.

[9] Dictionary of Celtic Religion and Culture (Bernhard Maier)  First published 1994 as Lexikon der keltischen Religion und Kultur by Alfred Kröner Verlag, Stuttgart; English trans. 1997 but found here in the 2000 edition published by The Boydell Press (Woodbridge, Suffolk and Rochester, NY), p. 18 - within the entry for "Apollo".

[10] Párthalohn is mentioned in the Book of the Invasions of Ireland, Lebor Gabála Érenn, as taking possession of the island 300 years after the Flood, and to have fought the first battle on Irish soil against the Fomoire, mythical prehistoric daemons. (source: Ibid. Maier/Kröner Verlag Dictionary of Celtic Religion and Culture, p. 220 and 121)

[11] Greek-English Lexicon by H.G. Liddell and R. Scott, 1843; we are using the 1996 Clarendon Press edition (Oxford, England),  p. 937, right column, edited for simplicity.

[geopolicraticus]

From Nationalism to Scientific Civilization to Spacefaring Civilization

A Plausible Pathway from Nation-States to Interstellar Civilization

In Space Exploration Escalation I considered the counterfactual of the Apollo moon landings being a spur to Soviet space efforts, so that an American achievement in space was followed a Soviet achievement in space (as was more-or-less the case during the Founding Era of 1957-1972), in a tit-for-tat escalation that led to growing spacefaring capacity on the part of the two nation-states. Such a counterfactual would have represented an idealized form of non-violent conflict. This ideal is not merely speculative, but has some basis in history. 

In my Bound in Shallows I quoted Eleni Panagiotarakou to the effect that:

“The US and USSR utilized the space fight and planetary exploration programs as an assertion of superiority. What made this conflict extraordinary was the fact that it was a nonviolent war.” (Eleni Panagiotarakou, “Agonal Conflict and Space Exploration,” chapter 47 in The Ethics of Space Exploration, edited by James S.J. Schwartz and Tony Milligan, London: Springer International Publishing, 2016)

In another paper by Panagiotarakou, she elaborated the same theme, and made the connection between non-violent conflict and the Greek agon:

“Insofar as the Cold War was nonviolent, and insofar as it prompted the two main political and military protagonists to engage in a competitive endeavour of superiority (e.g., Space Race), it resembled the ancient Greek spirit of agon whereby the objective was not to annihilate one’s opponent but to surpass them in a struggle for excellence.” (Eleni Panagiotarakou, “War—What Is It Good For? Nonviolent War as an Impetus for Space Exploration”)

Panagiotarakou, in drawing upon Homer’s agon (ἀγών) is drawing from an ancient tradition that had also interested Nietzsche, who, in his short essay, “Homer’s Contest,” spelled out the nature of Greek competition:

“Every talent must unfold itself in fighting: that is the command of Hellenic popular pedagogy, whereas modern educators dread nothing more than the unleashing of so-called ambition… And just as the youths were educated through contests, their educators were also engaged in contests with each other. The great musical masters, Pindar and Simonides, stood side by side, mistrustful and jealous; in the spirit of contest, the sophist, the advanced teacher of antiquity, meets another sophist; even the most universal type of instruction, through the drama, was meted out to the people only in the form of a tremendous wrestling among the great musical and dramatic artists.”

The agonal conflict of Homer’s Greece was often violent and brutal; the quest for excellence (which, for the Greeks, was the same as virtue—areté) did not come without a price. There is an inscription from the island of Thera that graphically illustrates the reality of Greeks vying to prove their excellence:

“A boxer’s victory is gained in blood” (Kaibel, G. 1878. Epigrammata Graeca. Berlin, no. 942)

Of Greece during its Golden Age Alfred North Whitehead wrote:

“Even if you take a tiny oasis of peculiar excellence, the type of modern man who would have most chance of happiness in ancient Greece at its best period is probably (as now) an average professional heavyweight boxer, and not an average Greek scholar from Oxford or Germany. Indeed, the main use of the Oxford scholar would have been his capability of writing an ode in glorification of the boxer.” (Alfred North Whitehead, Science and the Modern World, Chap. XIII, “Requisites for Social Progress”)

Still, “games” like boxing were better than outright warfare (cf. “Ancient Combat Sports: Combat at the ancient Olympics,” by Michael B. Poliakoff and “Boxing Gloves of the Ancient World,” by Steven Ross Murray), though games and warfare were not mutually exclusive. We recall that, in The Iliad, the Trojan War was temporarily halted in order to celebrate the funeral games in honor of Patroclus: 

The hero’s words the willing chiefs obey, From their tired bodies wipe the dust away, And, clothed anew, the following games survey.

And now succeed the gifts ordain’d to grace The youths contending in the rapid race: A silver urn that full six measures held, By none in weight or workmanship excell’d: Sidonian artists taught the frame to shine, Elaborate, with artifice divine; Whence Tyrian sailors did the prize transport, And gave to Thoas at the Lemnian port: From him descended, good Eunaeus heir’d The glorious gift; and, for Lycaon spared, To brave Patroclus gave the rich reward: Now, the same hero’s funeral rites to grace, It stands the prize of swiftness in the race. A well-fed ox was for the second placed; And half a talent must content the last. Achilles rising then bespoke the train: “Who hope the palm of swiftness to obtain, Stand forth, and bear these prizes from the plain.”  

Thus the most brilliant civilization in the western tradition, and the point of origin of most of the distinctive concepts of western civilization, was driven by competition that was often violent, and this violence often took the form of wars between Greek city-states (the polis) and alliances of Greek city-states. Agonal conflict in the ancient world was not a substitute for warfare, but rather an accoutrement of war.

The same could be said of agonal conflict in the modern world, that is, that it has been an accoutrement of war and not a substitute for war, but we have at least glimpsed the possibility of some kind of surrogate form of warfare, and have acted upon this to a limited extent. The Cold War revealed a spectrum of forms of conflict, from the non-violent competition of the Space Race to brutal proxy wars in third world nation-states. At its best, this superpower agonal conflict was inspiring and offered hope to all the world; at its worst, it was as brutal and sordid as any conflict in human history, ancient, medieval, or modern.

And the same could be said again today of hybrid warfare, which has taken over from the Cold War and postulated a spectrum of conflict across many theaters of war and many modalities of conflict. Today we are better at avoiding open conflict, and limiting open conflict when it does occur, so that the vision of a purely non-violent agonal conflict seems near to being within our grasp.

Elsewhere in his “Homer’s Contest” essay Nietzsche says of Hesiod’s praise for the goddess Eris (strife):

“She urges even the unskilled man to work, and if one who lacks property beholds another who is rich, then he hastens to sow in similar fashion and to plant and to put his house in order; the neighbour vies with the neighbour who strives after fortune. Good is this Eris to men. The potter also has a grudge against the potter, and the carpenter against the carpenter; the beggar envies the beggar, and the singer the singer.”

In this way there is not only competition within societies, but entire societies enter into competition with rival societies, and during the Cold War we saw such a planetary-scale rivalry as two geographically consolidated powers—NATO and the Warsaw Pact—vied with each other for control of our homeworld. As with the Greeks, who eventually ruined their civilization through the Peloponnesian War, at times this Cold War rivalry was aspirational, and at times it was contemptible. Despite our many contemptible failures, the Cold War was defused without recourse to a great war between the rival powers engaged in that struggle; the outcome could have been far worse.

Today the rivalry that entertains the geostrategic community is that between the US and China (less so that between the US and Russia), and there is, in some quarters, a certain sense of inevitability about a future great conflict between the US and China as the Chinese economy grows to eventually take its place as the largest in the world, and these two largest economies in the world face each other down over the Pacific Ocean. But there is nothing inevitable about a great war between the US and China, but while it would be utopian to suppose that these rival powers could simply forget their rivalry, it would be eminently reasonable to suppose that the rivalry could be sublimated into non-violent conflict.

What could take the place of a violent conflict, with its attendant destruction of life, treasure, and infrastructure? We can hope that some heroic agon will be preferred to military conflict, as was most constructively the case during the Cold War with the Space Race. If the rival energies of China and the US could be directed into some form of sublimated conflict in which destruction played no part, or a very small part, the entire world could benefit from the resulting escalation of two rival societies attempting to best each other.  

For example, the US has been the leader in science and technology, as well as in the educational institutions that produce science and technology, but China is catching up to the US and potentially threatens its scientific preeminence. (Cf. “Western Academia’s Activism Gridlock Threatens Its Global Status” by Wael Taji) China has a particle accelerator under construction that will be larger than the LHC (cf. China’s Planning to Build The World’s Largest Particle Collider, Twice The Size of The LHC). Given the failure of the US to fund the SSC, once China has completed its construction of the largest particle accelerator in the world, China will become the preeminent venue of experimental particle physics. China has already constructed FAST (Five-hundred-meter Aperture Spherical radio Telescope), one of the largest radio-telescopes in the world.

The willingness of China to fund major scientific projects such as these points to their desire to compete in science on a planetary scale. Does the Chinese leadership understand that contemporary Chinese civilization is driven forward by science no less than western civilization? Do national governments more generally invest in research for their future viability, or for reasons of prestige and the ability to build better weapons systems? Does it matter? Should it matter? If civilization advances, politicians enjoy prestige, and military contractors get rich, can rivalry over scientific achievement serve as a form of agonal conflict?

National competition over science—e.g., my particle accelerator is bigger than your particle accelerator—could be another form of non-violent competition with constructive rather than destructive consequences, as I described in “Space Exploration Escalation,” Deng Xiaoping, who presided over China’s transition to a market economy, pragmatically said, “It doesn’t matter whether a cat is black or white, as long as it catches mice.” If science could serve as a focus of competition, it could catch mice by serving the purposes both of humanity and of nationalism. If scientific competition were to become the accepted form of rivalry and currency of national prestige, rather than more conventional forms of rivalry, from such a rivalry a properly scientific civilization—a civilization that takes science as its central project—could emerge as an epiphenomenal byproduct of national competition. This would benefit every human being on the planet.

One could easily imagine scenarios in which scientific competition among nation-states for national prestige could take on a darker tone, and reveal itself to be a brutal as Greek boxers; we would have to accept this darker side of science in exchange for the end of destructive conventional conflict, but it would be a deal worth making. To give a concrete instance of what I mean, Pakistani leader Zulfikar Ali Bhutto once said that if India built a nuclear weapon, “…we will eat grass, even go hungry, but we will get one of our own.” Could we rally this kind of national competition to the support of scientific preeminence? Would people be willing to eat grass or go hungry in order that an ambitious nation-state might build a bigger radio-telescope or a bigger particle accelerator than its neighbor? It would be this level of commitment that would be necessary in order to shift conflict from a destructive form to a constructive form. 

In the film Rollerball, violent sports competition had come to replace war, though the sports teams in the film represented brands and industries, not nation-states. Even this would be better than the destructiveness of war, and we can see a limited form of this in contemporary spectator sports culture, in which sports teams serve as surrogates for group identity and interests, focusing the emotional energy of large swathes of the public. It can be done if the motivation is there—if the stakes are sufficiently high, any demand for sacrifice will be met as long as it is understood that this sacrifice will contribute to ultimate success, or even a reasonable chance for success. As Nietzsche once wrote, he who has a why can bear any how. Thus if the population of a nation-state has to eat grass in order to fund ever larger particle accelerators to fulfill the megalomaniac ambitions of the political class, the struggle and the sacrifice would be worth it; this is better by far than that nation-states should bomb each other.

If the transformation of big science into gigantic science is perceived as a danger to Earth, or even if we merely want to construct experiments that would be too large to perform on the surface of Earth, we can put these experiments in space. With gargantuan particle accelerators in space we would get two-for-one existential risk mitigation: removing a potential danger on Earth, and building infrastructure in space, which could lead to human redundancy through an off-world population—again, epiphenomenally. Another gargantuan scientific project that could only be built in space and would have the same space infrastructure knock-on effects would be this: “An infinitely expandable space radiotelescope” by V. I. Buyakas, et al. Gigantic particle accelerators or radio-telescopes in space could mean the epiphenomenal emergence of a properly spacefaring civilization from the epiphenomenal emergence of properly scientific civilization, originally driven by national competition. 

This is how we must learn to think about history: our future history will of necessity be a human, all-too-human affair, but it does not need to be a destructive affair. We can harness the energies of human, all-too-human rivalry and conflict, even of nationalism, national pride, and indeed jingoism, and use it to better ourselves if only we can disillusion ourselves of the utopian dream, which turns out, upon closer inspection, to be a dead end.