#we love a girl whose feelings are strong and explosive and wild

[citruscore]

scary in lotta true crime

she could've killed you // she had every right

[lilxberry]

That’s My Girl - Scott Lang

Requested by: @bnhaxreaderquotes​

Could I have a Scott Lang x longterm girlfriend fic?? Where she’s like super strong but super dumb?? Like she’s Thor but human and female XD bonus if she lifts Thor’s hammer to get to something and everyone’s like 👀 and she’s like ??? And scots like 🥰 “that’s my gf”

I loved this idea, I just really didn’t want to use the word stupid so much lmao I mostly referred to reader as “slow” I believe but like, this whole thing is kinda cute asf so I’m happy with it. I hope you’re happy with it too

Warnings: Like, a singular swear. Sweet ass Scott. Upset!Reader? IDEK ANYMORE.

Words: 1,645

Pairings: Scott Lang x Reader (female reader) (super strong reader?)

Unplanned sequel; That’s My Wife

_______________

There’re many words to describe you.

Sweet? Yes. Kind? Yep. Selfless? Definitely. Beautiful? 100%. Strong? No doubt.

Stupid?

No, just…slow.

It’s not that you lacked intelligence, just, your brain worked at a different pace to that of others. Your fellow teammates could tell you that. Especially your partner Scott.

Scott, the sweetie pie that he is, certainly tries his best to help you catch up, to understand things that hadn’t really made sense to you at first. He’s no stranger to defending you either, no matter who or what it’s against.

Including your teammates.

“So, like C-3P0?”

Your head was tilted in confusion and your face was scrunched up as you tried desperately to understand what Tony was talking about.

You had walked into the lab finding all of the Avengers surrounding Tony rambling on about his newest creation, engineering some crazy new robotic tech. The others that had been subjected to his showcasing had explained to you that he’d called them in, forced them to watch the unveiling of Frankenstarks newest monster.

When you had asked why you hadn’t been called in, you’d missed the way Tony and the others tensed up. They knew that you wouldn’t understand a word Stark was speaking, as if the man were speaking some foreign language to you, but they didn’t want to explain that it was because you were ‘dense’.

The heaven-sent that is Scott stepped forward, a big, bright smile on his face as he entwined his fingers with your own as he came up with an excuse for the billionaire, saving Starks’ skin and sparing your feelings.

“He thought you’d find it boring. We all do to be honest honey but only so many of us are lucky enough to have an out,” was the sugar-coated explanation he conjured up on the spot.

You bought it easily, nodding in understanding with the sweetest of smiles before reaching up on your tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek. The others visibly relaxed, though you were oblivious as you stared up at Scott with a love-sick expression.

You had then gone on to ask what exactly it was that Tony had been working on which had led to a longwinded explanation with wild gestures and a heap of words you certainly didn’t understand whatsoever. Truth be told, he’d lost you within the first sentence.

Tony heaved a sigh. “No, not like C-3P0. The design is completely different and the level of A.I. being used it higher than that of C-3P0,” he spoke exasperatedly, a mocking tone taking over his tone near the end.

Feeling even more confused that what you had originally felt, you tried once more to understand.

“So…like Vision?”

Sam snorted as majority of the others smirked or tried to supress their smiles, Vision unsurprisingly seemed stoic as ever. Tony, on the other hand, had a look of genuine surprise. Almost looking proud.

“Uh, yeah, actually. You worked that out a lot faster than I thought you would honestly,” Tony said as an off-handed comment causing the others to still and Scott to tense slightly beside you while your brows furrowed.

“What’d you mean?”

Scott once again interjected to save the day, dragging your attention to him instead. “None of us really got it, that’s all. I’m pretty sure Thor still doesn’t, honestly.” He whispered the last part as he pointed his thumb towards the towering, blonde Asgardian.

Although your heart fluttered at the thought of Scott trying to be so sweet and kind to you, you couldn’t help the hurt that spread through you. You knew how the others viewed you, how they thought you were stupid, how you don’t understand anything.

Rather than show it affected you, you forced a smile on to your face and a tiny giggle to pass your lips.

Glancing at the others before allowing your eyes to fall back on to your boyfriend, you kept the feigned smile on your lips as you spoke. “I just remembered I gotta load of stuff to do. I’ll see you guys later.”

Scott flashed you his pearly whites in a wide smile before pecking your forehead and giving you a quiet “Sure babe.”

Walking backwards, you called out loudly to the group before exiting the room. “Have fun with Vision 2.0.”

Usually, when the team unintentionally commented on you in such a way, it would never really affect in such a negative way but today, it was just a series of failure after failure, your day all-round being bad.

From the comment in the lab, to the accidental breaking of a trainee’s arm due to you forgetting the strength you held over others, to Steve and Bucky taking the last of the coffee in the pot of the coffee machine which you had no idea how to work.

You had even bumped into someone in the hallway, the file you had been carrying falling to the ground and the papers inside scattering across the floor in disarray, leaving you to try reorganising the lot, taking a whole hour and a half.

It’s unfortunate that the person to be at the end of your disgruntled mood would be someone who you strongly considered a friend.

The Avengers who were currently residing at the compound were all scattered within the main living area and the open kitchen when you walked in, looking dishevelled as you frantically searched for a package that you had been notified had been delivered.

Walking through, you looked to see if the damn thing was atop any table you passed. Hell, you even lifted one of the chairs slightly to see if someone was cruel enough to hide the thing under it.

Although everyone had opted to watch you curiously, it was your sweet Scott to break the silence.

“Hey honey, whatcha’ doing there?” he asked curiously.

You grumbled out your answer, honestly ready for the day to be over with. “I’m looking for my delivery.”

Sam snorted before pointing towards the island in the centre of the kitchen. “You mean that massive package right there?”

Low and behold, there sat your package on top of the cool, marble surface, just with an added feature. You scowled, storming over towards the thing. You turned your fiery gaze to Thor, who was overall minding his own business chowing down on the entire contents of a Pop Tart box.

“WHY DID YOU PUT YOUR HAMMER ON MY FUCKING DELIVERY?!” You roared out, everyone’s eyes widened in complete and utter shock, Thor even jumped at the sudden loud booming. As he opened and reclosed his mouth repeatedly in a pathetic attempt to say something, anything, you continued.

“There could’ve been something really important in there! Or-or super fragile or something! What if you broke it?!”

During your explosion at the poor Asgardian, you happened to grasp the handle of Mjölnir and lift it with ease, causing everyone’s eyes to widen further and even a few mouths to drop open, gaping at the sight in front of them, Tony choking on his drink that he had been taking a sip of. Although Scott was just as shocked as those around him, he more so looked like a small child who’s completely wonder-struck, a twinkle in his eye.

“Never, and I mean NEVER, put your hammer on my damn things again. GOT IT?!” You shoved the hammer into Thors’ chest harshly, causing him to fumble to get a hold of it.

Once certain he had a tight grasp on the thing, you released your hold and spun on the spot, now becoming witness to everyone’s flabbergasted expressions. “WHAT?” you asked in exasperation and confusion, today completely tiring you out mentally and emotionally.

A pregnant silence befell you all before Scott suddenly jumped out of his seat, face ecstatic, arms raised high into the air above his head, hands balled up into fists, a loud and excited shout escaping him.

“YES!”

“You-you’re worthy?” Thor asked quietly to no one in particular.

Your brows furrowed deeply, now entirely confused and ever so slightly self-conscious. “What?”

“You’re worthy babe! Hell yeah! Up top!” he had made his way over towards you, now one arm raised with his hand now relaxed, waiting on you to give him a high five.

“I’m not following…”

“Only Thor could lift the hammer ‘cause he was the only one who’s worthy or whatever. It’s like impossible for anyone else to lift it,” Clint started to explain before being cut off by Natasha.

“Until you, that is. You’re the only other one whose been able to lift it.”

“Oh,” was all you said before shrugging your shoulders and waddling your way past Scott and towards your package on the kitchen island, picking it up and beginning to walk away.

Before you left though, you thought this to be the perfect opportunity to finally boast about something that you had been able to do that the others couldn’t. “Well, I may be stupid but at least I don’t put my back out by trying to lift a little hammer.”

You smirked as you continued to walk away, your destination being your room, package what would be heavy to most in your arms. Scott laughed loudly, something you could hear as you continued to retreat to your bedroom.

Meanwhile…

“HELL YEAH! THAT’S MY GIRL! WOO!” Scott began to follow after you, still shouting out every single word he spoke. “HONEY! THAT WAS LIKE THE COOLEST THING EVER! DID YOU SEE THEIR FACES?! Oh man, I can’t wait to tell Cass. SHE’S GONNA FREAK!”

The Avengers were still suck in their retrieves of shock, all unmoving, all trying to process the newfound information that you could lift the hammer.

Thor seemed to be taking it the worst, looking ever so slightly frightened, gulping loudly.

“I believe I have new matters to discuss with my father...”

_______________

.

.

.

.

.

I love any Paul Rudd character just as much as him

I even have a t-shirt with his beautiful ass face on lmao

If you want to be added to a taglist lemme know

Anywho, I hope you enjoy

As always, constructive criticism and requests are welcomed and greatly appreciated :D

_______________

Marvel taglist:

@thanossexual

[lesbian-fabray]

so i noticed something while watching the wilds and i’m sure people have pointed it out before, but every character has a moment that’s kind of like their breaking point, then a moment where they have a big realization, and then their character changes, so i thought i’d take a look at those moments in chronological order

the first girl we see break is rachel, who breaks when she realizes there is nothing else on the island in episode two. to push people (especially herself) so hard only to see that it was pointless is rachel’s biggest issue, and she had to face it here. unlike most of the other girls, her moment of realization comes later. in episode five, when martha calms her down enough to pull her out of the mud, rachel realizes how dangerous her behavior is. how pushing yourself and the people around you to extremes never goes well. from this point on, she lowers her expectations of the other girls and of herself. while she does still have moments where she becomes pushy or beats herself up or a perceived failure, they are easier for her and the other girls to work through.

next up we’ve got dot, whose breaking point comes in episode three when she kills the snake in episode three. in this moment, she allows herself to actually feel. for years at this point, she has had no control over her life. she’s had to be the strong one. her realization moment comes in the form of her watching the sunset with shelby. she allows herself a moment where she gets to see something that’s just beautiful and she gets to appreciate it without having to think about practicality or about other people. after this, she willingly accepts her leadership role in the group, with the knowledge that she has to let go when she’s feeling cornered into that position. that’s especially clear when she briefly has rachel take over in episode seven, and when she allows everyone to eat all the food in episode eight. she’s still having to be strong, but this time it’s because she wants to be and not because she has no other choice.

the next character we see reach their breaking point is toni, who we see break when she destroys the shelter in episode four and is met with disappointment from martha. in this moment, toni does what she does when she feels worthless or scared. she takes things way too far. this moment, and specifically her conversation with martha afterwards, puts that into perspective for her. she learns that lashing out like this isn’t the solution to her problems. her realization moment comes in the form of her running on the beach. here, we see her trying some other way to deal with her feelings. from that point on, we only really see her getting upset when the situation calls for it. the only four times that come to mind after that moment are when shelby reveals herself to be homophobic, when toni believes shelby isn’t taking advantage of her opportunity to be herself, when shelby thinks she told martha about their kiss, and when martha scares off the goat. all of these are reasonable moments of anger, which is a dramatic change from what we saw previously.

next up is fatin, who we see reach her breaking point in a way that’s different than the other girls. her moment isn’t this big dramatic display, but her quietly stealing drinks from the girls in episode four. it’s that simple actions that makes fatin think about how her actions affect other people, which is something she hadn’t thought of until that point. her realization comes when she sees the girls’ reactions to her finding the water source in episode five. she sees how rewarding it is to contribute, and she realizes how much she cares about these girls. from this point on, she makes a point to contribute and to offer herself up as emotional support, notably for leah in basically every episode after this (leatin rights) and for shelby in episode ten.

after fatin’s break, we have nora’s, which comes in the form of her fight with rachel in episode seven. that fight is a result of seventeen years of feeling like she had to be there to protect and guide rachel, because she’d self-destruct otherwise. her moment of realization comes when she sits down and has her talk with rachel in episode eight. nora realizes that rachel does need her, but that it’s because she’s her sister and she needs her support, not because rachel self-destructs otherwise. nora understands that resentment that had been inside her all that time and she understands it’s misplaced and unnecessary. from this point on, her support for rachel comes in the form of encouragement from the moment she notices a problem, not just rushing to try and fix things when they’re already too late. this is clearest when she encourages rachel to dove in episode nine.

next up is shelby. while one could argue her breaking point is the entirety of episode eight, i’d say the exact moment is when she cuts her hair. in this moment, she is panicking. the reality that she may have to return to her family and the desire to run away from them and never look back are both at their most intense at this time, and that proves to be explosive. her realization comes when she speaks to leah on the beach and pinpoints what exactly she’s afraid of. by doing that, she’s able to look at the situation rationally and think about the people she knows definitely love her. from that point on, we see her making an active effort to accept herself, which is clear in every scene she has alone with toni after this.

after shelby is leah, whose breaking point is running into the water in episode nine. this is essentially the culmination of her irrationality and confrontational nature (not that she’s wrong. she’s just struggling). her moment of realization comes when fatin holds her and empathizes with her instead of scolding her. she realizes what she’s been doing to herself and to the group, and i think that going forward, she will begin to think about things more rationally before jumping to accusations. we see this in play when she follows nora in episode ten instead of jumping to voicing her suspicions to the group.

finally, we have martha. martha’s breaking point, unsurprisingly, is her killing the goat. the goat was a symbol of the abuse she suffered in the past and her killing it is her confronting that reality head on. we’ve yet to see her realization moment or her change in character, but i think we will see a martha who is much less optimistic and far more realistic next season

[grrlinthefireplace]

Hey so I’ve been seeing you post a lot about La Casa de Papel recently. What exactly is it? It looks kinda interesting.

Thank you so much for asking!

I am delighted beyond reason to have the opportunity to tell you - and by extension the entire world - why this show has cleared my skin, watered my crops, and legitimately healed my soul after this particularly soul-crushing season of Grimdark White Man Television almost broke me as a human being.

I will attempt to keep this as spoiler-free as I possibly can, because this is a show that should be experienced in the moment, but in a nutshell, La Casa de Papel is a heist show set in present-day Madrid which follows both a found family of thieves who rob the Royal Mint of Spain, and the law enforcement officials on the outside who are chasing them.

If that is enough for you, go right to your TV or computer, fire up the ol’ Netflix, and don’t waste any more time.

If, however, you need a little more, here are the top five things I flail about to every single person in my life to convince them they need to start watching this show like immediately and then come back and tell me all about it.

For visual flair, we’ll intersperse them with some gifs of ladies, because I know my audience.

5. character driving plot > plot driving character.

You know that infuriating thing lazy TV writers do where, in order to to hurry up and get to the big explosion or battle scene or dragon attack or whatever, which is the only bit they really care about, they handwave away the whole concept of motivation and make some character do something that any halfway-attentive viewer will immediately clock that they would never actually do?

There is none of that bullshit here.

In its simplest form, the plot of La Casa de Papel is as follows: a brilliant criminal mastermind devises a heist which cannot possibly go wrong, and then we proceed to watch all the ways in which it goes wrong.

This is a fantastic setup for an action story, made even more breathlessly exciting by strategic use of my favorite heist movie plot device (as perfected by Ocean’s Eleven): namely, “scene where it looks like our crime heroes have been outsmarted and are now threatened by a completely unforeseen disaster” immediately followed by “flashback to the team prepping for the heist where we learn that of course they prepared for this exact scenario.”

But from time to time, things do actually go wrong (as they must, or else there would be no story); and, when they do, it is never because you can tell a writer just wanted to write a scene where bullets go flying, and didn’t care how he got there. These characters are so clear, their behavior so consistent, that when gasp-worthy plot twists happen, they happen because of course that character, in this exact scenario, would do that exact thing.

I’m telling you, I came to this show for a ship (more on that in a minute) and I stayed for a swooning, heart-eyes writer crush on the impeccably-designed plot structure and characterization.

4. High stakes, low gore.

Tone-wise, on a sliding scale of Heist Film Intensity where a really fluffy episode of Leverage is a 1, Reservoir Dogs is a 10, and the Ocean’s franchise is somewhere in the 3-4 range, I would place La Casa at a 5 or a 6, which is perfect for me. I love action, suspense, drama and adventure, but I hate gratuitous violence (especially when it’s pointless and masturbatory and doesn’t contribute anything to the plot) and have a very low tolerance for blood and gore. So I kept waiting for the story to eventually take a hard left turn into Tarantino Land, until eventually it was all just one huge pile of dead bodies, and was genuinely surprised when it didn’t.

This is how I learned just how badly my brain has been fucked up by lazy showrunners who think shock deaths are the only way to raise stakes. During the first season of this show, before I had figured out that it was a Flawless Gem of Television Which So Far Has Not Once Disappointed Me, there were probably a dozen moments where I was absolutely convinced that some character was about to be gruesomely killed for shock value … and I was wrong every single time.

Reader, it was fucking wild.

Every single time I was convinced that person A was going to shoot person B in the head because blah blah maximum angst over here in this part of the story and then it will motivate person C to do this other thing, the show did the hard work of finding a smarter, more unexpected direction to take that character’s story. That means that when deaths do come along - and there are a couple - they feel genuinely earned, and they matter deeply to the story and to us.

3. I would die for these women.

This show loves women. Like it truly, authentically, uncompromisingly loves women in all our fucked-up messy glorious complexity. There are no “types” or cliches here; no one is forced to be only one thing. Fuck your one-dimensional Strong Female Characters, lazy writers.

For one thing, on many shows you might be lucky if you get maybe one mom who is given a personality and a story outside of motherhood. Often, on shows written by men, the fact of her motherhood diminishes her strength or her agency. On this show, nearly every one of the central female characters is both a mom and an action hero simultaneously. Seriously. By season 3 there are four different battle moms. They’re all different, they’re not all on the same side, they have different perspectives, and their role as mother impacts the story differently, but that’s the joy of having a whole lot of different kinds of women - no one has to be everything to everyone.

These women are complicated. They laugh, they cry, they crack dirty jokes, they get laid, they have babies, they fight, they make mistakes, they fall in love, they grow. Men pull sexist shit and they shut it the fuck down. Some of them have love stories, some of them don’t, but they are never defined by or triangulated around relationships with men. They get to have relationships with each other. All of them are excellent at their jobs.

Tokyo is the kind of hot mess antihero protagonist we’ve been watching middle-aged white men play for decades.

Allison is such a realistic teenage girl it’s genuinely painful to watch.

Monica has one of the best arcs I’ve ever seen on television, this is not a drill.

Alicia is terrifying. (A pregnant black ops interrogator! ON WHAT OTHER FUCKING SHOW!?!??)

Nairobi is unlike any other character you’ve seen on TV before; she’s got a little bit of Parker from Leverage, a little bit of Raven Reyes from The 100, but she’s entirely her own creature and you will fall in love with her instantly.

And Raquel. Oh, my love, my angel, my hero, Inspector Raquel Murillo. Love of my goddamn life. A fierce, kickass hostage negotiator swimming upstream against a tide of workplace misogyny who sometimes has to make the frustrating little male-appeasing compromises we all have to make to get through the workday. A beautiful, sexy, powerful heroine over 40 whose femininity isn’t diminished based on some bullshit notion that, for example, pairing your tough-bitch suit and gun holster with red toenails and a lacy blouse detracts from your strength. A loving mom and daughter who has to juggle raising a small child and caring for an aging parent with the stress of, you know, trying to stop the biggest robbery in the history of Spain. A domestic violence survivor (TW for those who need it; nothing is ever shown onscreen, but it’s discussed several times) who is given the space to discuss the things that have happened to her and how she has worked through them with such dignity, accuracy and respect that you can tell the writers did their homework.

This is a show where you can tell there are women in the writers’ room.

2. The Professor and Raquel. I don’t want to spoil a single thing for you here except to say that I myself was lured into this show by the promise of electric sexual chemistry between a criminal mastermind and the police inspector hunting him down, and my God I was not disappointed.

1. Love.

This show came into my life at a period where I was so weary of cynicism on television - so fucking furious at showrunners who dangle hope in front of us and then crush it, who only care about building anything if they can tear it down later, who treat love and fun and joy and hope and family and happiness like they’re intellectually lesser than grimdark nihilism with no soul - that I was honestly kind of broken by it. I was just so. fucking. tired. Tired of “the way we show this heroine is strong is to kill off her love interest.” Tired of “sorry but all this rape and murder is NECESSARY because of REALISM” (particularly rich when coming from shows featuring evil A.I.’s or dragons and ice zombies). Tired of getting invested in relationships - whether ships or friends or found families - only to realize that the show I was watching was always going to sacrifice character to force plot mechanics into place, and those relationships were never going to get the kind of care and focus I wanted them to get.

But that is not this show.

The single most revolutionary thing, to me, about La Casa de Papel - the thing that sets it apart from every other rollercoaster action thrill ride on television - is that every single thread of the plot is tied to love.

Every.

Single.

One.

Love of all different shapes and sizes - parents and children, friendships, doomed crushes (straight and queer), toxic exes, blossoming romances, siblings - and over it all, a deep, deep love for humanity.

The thing I said before, about how when things go wrong they go wrong in character-driven ways? It’s this. Love is why everything on this show happens. Love is what makes children want to live up to their parents and what makes parents fight to leave a better world for their children. Love is why deaths have stakes. Love is why we spend so much screentime lingering on small moments another show might ignore, like all the thieves at heist camp sitting down every night to have dinner together and argue about paella techniques. Love is what causes chaos in the middle of the heist; when there’s one person in the room you care about more than the others, you can get distracted and take your eye off the ball. Love is how your enemies can get to you, by leveraging or blackmailing the people who matter most, knowing that you’ll crack if they’re in danger. Love, gone wrong, causes toxic men to develop possessive and controlling behavior towards women. Love is how the Professor gets the idea for the heist in the first place. The plan is flawless on paper, but it doesn’t account for the human variable, and over and over again we see that relationships and connection and sex and family and love cause people to behave in unpredictable ways and throw the whole plan into chaos, which is what makes for a dynamic and compelling story.

How refreshing to see a show simply refuse to grant the oft-repeated premise that a show cannot have both high-octane thrills, and a big soft squishy heart, at the same time.

ANYWAY, I’VE TAKEN UP ENOUGH OF YOUR VALUABLE TV-WATCHING TIME, GO JUMP ON BOARD THIS TRAIN AND COME SCREAM ABOUT IDEALISTIC SPANISH ROBIN HOODS WITH ME, AND LET THE GOOD SHIP SERQUEL INTO YOUR LIFE, YOU WON’T BE SORRY

THANKS FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK

[surreality51]

Guardian Meta: Love Song Edition

Can we talk about how the Guardian end credits song and the promo song are essentially love songs?

Disclaimer: In the great tradition of Western writers who think their opinion about things they have limited direct knowledge of matters, I’m about to screech about traditional Chinese views of love even though I am not from China nor do I know anyone who has lived in China past the age of 6. Everything I know about the matter comes from my Taiwan-born mother, whose relationship advice could be summed up as “never depend on a man.” You can guess what her love life has been like.

I’ve been listening to “Time Flight” and “Just Cared Too Much,” the promo song and end credits song from the Guardian drama respectively, on repeat lately and I just can’t get over how achingly romantic these two songs are. The opening theme song, “We Won’t Be Falling,” captures the can-do spirit of the SID team and the socialist brotherhood/power alliance between Zhao Yunlan and Shen Wei that everyone associated with Guardian insists the show is really about, but the closing theme song and promo song will forever be the true songs for Shen Wei and Zhao Yunlan to me and no one can convince me otherwise.

Just. look. at. these. fucking. lyrics:

*incoherent screeching*

It also doesn’t help that the official music video for “Time Flight/Flying Across Time” is nearly indistinguishable from the thousands of Weilan fanvids out there. 

I mean, the first shot of Zhao Yunlan and Shen Wei has them framed with wedding decorations. The video editors were...not subtle.

In an attempt to organize my thoughts around this topic, I’m going to take a step back and look at how the song lyrics reflect a traditional Chinese approach to love and why it’s impossible to interpret the songs as anything other than love songs (unless you’re a Chinese censor, in which case, yes, these songs are totally about platonic friendship).

Stereotypical Eastern vs Western Approaches to Love

Let’s face it, the stereotypical Chinese approach to love is practical nearly to the point of being mercenary. The first question any parent asks when presented with an offspring’s potential suitor is, “What’s his job? What are his prospects? What do his parents do?” In other words, who gives a fuck about things like personality or compatibility or feelings. Romance doesn’t put food on the table.

The concept of falling in love with someone and choosing your own partner is relatively new in Chinese culture and maybe imported from the West (someone back me up/correct me here, I’m too lazy to Google this). According to family lore, my great grandmother and her generation (born 1890s Fujian province, married 1910s) followed traditional practices around dowry and matchmaking, where essentially your parents pick your partner based on family relationships and social standing within the community. You get limited say in the matter.

Western ideals around love, attraction, passion, compatibility, personality, courtship, and romance were traditionally not factors in a relationship, at least in the beginning. Instead, traditional Chinese ideals value steadfastness, stability, loyalty, partnership, duty, responsibility, and a love that grows over time. Whereas Western depictions of love in modern media often focus on explosive passion, magnetic attraction, wild declarations, daring courage, individual charisma, finding that spark, and, in more modern relationships, choosing someone who fulfills your personal/emotional needs or as an avenue for self-actualization, love in traditional Chinese culture is steady, humble, something that grows out of mutual striving, something that takes root deeply and quietly through the day to day, like two trees slowly growing together until they are entwined.

In the Guardian web novel, Zhao Yunlan’s father expresses the traditional view of love during his discussion with Zhao Yunlan about his relationship with Shen Wei:

“Perhaps one day, when your hormonal levels are back to normal, you will regret this decision.” Zhao’s father maintains a calm and stately tone, relaxing and not at all intimidating. It’s much easier to persuade someone this way; he says, “Passion is attractive; I’ve been young. I know that feeling. But I don’t agree with difficult love, do you know why?”

[…]

“Love is strong yet frail; perhaps in the face of adversity, it can rise up with great power, transcending into a sort of exemplary ardour, and that is why it’s been praised since ancient times. But you have to remember the saying: ‘It isn’t the mountain ahead that wears you out; it is the grain of sand in your shoe’.”

[…]

“Difficult love can be overcome with perseverance and grit. But love has to subside eventually, have you thought of that?”

—excerpt from chapter 74, RainbowSe7en translation

Again, modern Chinese relationships are very different, where the feelings of the two people involved often do outweigh the views of the family, and relationships are viewed more as individual choices made for personal reasons rather than collective decisions made for the well-being of the whole family. As Zhao Yunlan expresses, the modern view of love is intimate and personal:

“Dad, I know what you mean, but there is always someone in your life, it’s not because of attraction, allure, obsession, or mere lust; it’s if you don’t treat this person right, then you’d feel like a worthless prick.”

—excerpt from chapter 74, RainbowSe7en translation

But my point is that love in Chinese tradition stems from a different perspective. It’s a perspective that views feelings as fleeting, romance as a luxury. It values durability over passion. True love is something that can withstand separation, hardship, and the long march of time. It is built on a foundation of duty to one another, responsibility, patience, loyalty, sacrifice, and a depth of feeling that does not necessarily need to be showy or even stated aloud, but that can be felt intensely in one’s heart and seen in one’s actions.

Themes in Guardian Theme Songs

Given this perspective on love, it’s a no-brainer that Guardian’s theme songs are love songs, but let’s dive into the lyrics anyways.

Note: all lyric translations are based on the Orange Biscuit Subs translation.

Separation

Chinese folktales and mythology is littered with stories of tragic love and separation. It seems like the more tragic the love story, the more popular it is, and parents loooooooove to tell these tales to their kids. (WTF, China? No wonder Chinese dramas are so overdramatic.) One story that my family liked to tell for the Mid-Autumn Festival is the story of Hou Yi and Chang’e. We would stand outside in the backyard and look up at the harvest moon, and my mother would tell us the tale of how Chang’e sacrificed herself by swallowing the pill of immortality and floated up to the moon, where she lives forever alone, yearning for her husband Hou Yi on earth.

Another very well-known tale is the story of the cowherd and the weaver girl. Per Wikipedia:

The tale of the cowherd and the weaver girl is a love story between Zhinü (織女; the weaver girl, symbolizing the star Vega) and Niulang (牛郎; the cowherd, symbolizing the star Altair).[3] Their love was not allowed, thus they were banished to opposite sides of the Silver River (symbolizing the Milky Way).[3][4] Once a year, on the 7th day of the 7th lunar month, a flock of magpies would form a bridge to reunite the lovers for one day.[3]

Yep, separated lovers get to be together for one whole day of the year. This is peak Chinese RomanceTM.

Given this cultural context, the ending of Guardian, with its brief reunion and the promise between Shen Wei and Zhao Yunlan to meet again in another life, is considered not only tragic, but could potentially be read as extremely romantic:

Their mutual pact to one day meet again echoes the themes of separation and reunion that form the backbone of so many Chinese love stories:

Then there’s the fact that “Time Flight” is playing in the background of this whole scene, which very unsubtly shows that the song is specifically written about the drama ending and about Shen Wei and Zhao Yunlan. I mean, there’s dialogue in the scene that matches the lyrics for chrissakes:

Steadfastness, stability, loyalty, resoluteness

Related to the theme of separation, another favorite trope of Chinese romance is the steadfast lover who awaits news of her beloved (it’s usually the woman who does the waiting while the man rides off to war or whatnot) without losing hope. The chorus from “Time Flight” includes this concept of waiting for news while keeping the faith, but what’s really interesting to me is how things shift from the first chorus to the third.

In the first chorus (above), it’s Bai Yu singing the lines. In the second chorus, Bai Yu and Zhu Yilong share them. In the third closing chorus, they share the chorus again, but the lyrics change slightly:

We know that repetition and variation are significant in poetry and lyrics, so we need to pay attention to how this change affects the meaning of the song. I’d quibble with the translation just a bit, because there’s a difference between “deng yi ge xiao xi” vs “deng ni de xiao xi.” The former uses “yi ge,” which is generalized, i.e. “I’ve been here waiting for news.” The “from you” is implied but not stated explicitly. But in the third chorus, the lyrics change to “ni de,” which is explicit, i.e. “I’m waiting for your news.” It’s a lovely shift that makes a common romantic trope even more specific and personal.

The final line is also a shift, taking the last line of the chorus and changing it from “flying together” (yi qi = together / fei xing = flying) to “I remain in the same place.”

Those last few words deserve some unpacking, since video subtitles can’t fully capture all the context and implied meanings of such a dense language as Chinese. “Yuan di” is not just “same place,” but also “original place,” or “where I’ve been all along.” There are multiple ways to read this, from “Across time, I have remained in this spot unmoving, waiting for you,” which speaks to those themes of loyalty, hope, and steadfastness. Or “Across time, I have not gone anywhere, so you can always find me here,” which speaks to themes of hope for your loved one’s return and optimism about reuniting.

However you want to read that last line, you can’t ignore how it plays into the romantic trope of keeping the faith for your beloved and awaiting their return.

Words Unsaid

I didn’t notice until I started writing this giant brain dump of an essay that the first word here is “zao,” meaning “early.” So that chorus line could be interpreted as “Knowing from the start that we would be separated.” I just….can’t with these lyrics. 

Anyways, we know that what’s left unsaid is often more powerful than what’s been said aloud, and you can see it in these lyrics here. Zhao Yunlan and Shen Wei never say “I love you,” but it’s implied in all of their actions and looks, and it’s one of the primary plot drivers of the ending of the Guardian drama. As @riceworkshop discussed in this fascinating meta on Dreamwidth, it’s the selfishness of that love and Shen Wei’s choice to essentially use his life force to heal Zhao Yunlan’s eyes—putting the individual before the whole, his feelings and needs before duty—that cripples him and leaves him an unequal match to Ye Zun. But their love remains unspoken, largely due to Chinese censorship but also partially due to the whole “two people from different worlds/this can only end in tragedy” thing.

In the novel, Shen Wei knows explicitly from the beginning that anything between them can’t last and will only lead to ruin. In the drama the situation is different, but he no doubt senses that their time is limited, given the clues about Ye Zun’s coming and the fact that he already lost Kunlun/Zhao Yunlan once. When it comes down to it, “Just Cared Too Much” is literally the crux of Shen Wei’s problem.

(It’s Zhao Yunlan’s problem too, because if he weren’t so in love with Shen Wei, then he wouldn’t have gone back in time and looked at young Shen Wei like this:

And like this:

And said things like this:

Which caused young Shen Wei to fall madly in love with him.)

In Conclusion

In conclusion, China loves tragic romance and keeping soulmates apart for shits and giggles, Guardian’s theme songs are love songs, and I have spent way too much time thinking about Zhao Yunlan and Shen Wei’s stupid faces.

[thedyingmoon]

***

"Ave Maria! Jungfrau mild, erhöre einer jungfrau flehen, aus diesem felsen starr und wild soll mein gebet zu dir hin wehen, zu dir hin wehen. Wir schlafen sicher bis zum morgen, ob menschen noch so grausam sind. O jungfrau, sieh der jungfrau sorgen, o mutter, hör ein bittend kind!"

"Ave Maria! Jungfrau mild,..."

The people of the church never ceased praying since news of the Devil Hunters' demise and the rise of the True Demon reached them.

The innocent people of that country in the west, or what remained of them, all huddled close to the altar, joining the endless prayer vigil with personal prayers of their own, hoping for some kind of a saviour that would come down and rescue them.

Kyrie, who watched over the children, was inside that church.

"Sshh, it's okay." The woman cooed, reassuring them to, at least, keep them calm, for they haven't stopped crying for the last half hour.

And who could blame them? Multiple lasers of destruction were raining down from above, killing hundreds, if not thousands, of people.

Despite her vigilant and reliable façade, Kyrie felt really sick.

She closed her eyes, holding back the tears that threatened to spill. Negative thoughts plagued her mind all day, about the genocide, the inevitable end,...

... the life of her one true love and,...

The screams and noises outside grew louder and louder as the massacre ensued. And, just when the disturbing noises drew closer and closer, the heavy wooden doors of the church burst open, and in came a group of six to eight feet tall gargoyle - like creatures whose mouth and claws were dripping with blood,...

... blood of the people they massacred.

At the mere sounds of these creatures of darkness, the people of the church made their prayers louder, hands clasped and knees bent.

"Ave Maria! Jungfrau mild, erhöre einer jungfrau - !"

The Demons laughed and howled, mocking the defenseless.

"GOTT IST NICHT HIER!" The tallest and most horrfying of the horde boomed, its voice engulfing the whole room in hopelessness and making the younger ones cry even louder. "PANDÄMONIUM,... IST GEKOMMEN! IHR ALLE WERDET,... STERBEN!"

An old Priest bravely came forward despite his trembling knees, holding up his crucifix in hopes of warding off the Demons.

"Sáncte Michael Archángele, defénde nos in proélio,..."

The enemies fell silent, looking at each other, confused of what's going on. The priest took this as an opportunity to keep praying.

"Cóntra neqúitiam et insídias diáboli - "

One by one, the enemies started laughing at his words, clearly not affected by his prayer.

With sweat running cold and courage slowly diminishing, the poor old Priest went on, "... ésto p - p - præsídium. Ímperet ílli Déus - "

One of the Demons came forward and mockingly uttered the prayer with the frightened Priest. "... SÚPPLICES DEPRECÁMUR: TUQUE, PRÍNCEPS MILÍTIÆ CÆLÊSTIS - "

"SATANAM!" The Demons bellowed in unison, shaking the faith of everyone in the room, including the now crying Priest, who started to urinate involuntarily.

The old one wiped his tears. Despite the Demons' machinations, he went on, still holding his crucifix up high. "... aliósque spíritus malígnos, qui ad perditiónem animárum pervagántur in múndo,..."

One of the Demons bent low, reaching the Priest's face, and howled, spraying his spit on the poor man's face,

"VENITE IGITUR DESCENDAMUS ET CONFUNDAMUS IBI LINGUAM EORUM UT NON AUDIAT UNUSQUISQUE VOCEM PROXIMI SUI!"

The man started weeping, unable to finish his prayer. Then, the Demon grabbed his body with one hand and lifted him off the ground, earning screams and panic from the people.

"LAUF!" The Priest shrieked for the last time as the Demon lifted him. "LAUF!"

Kyrie grabbed the children and ran as fast as she could with them, not once looking back when the Demons started feasting on the Priest and the people nearby. She hid with them, suppressing her tears and hoping for some form of a miracle.

"Nero,..." she muttered, her eyes shut and her arms around the frightened children. "... please,..."

Then, it came: a Demon who found them, its drool dripping, its menacing red eyes looking down at them like they were some meals on a buffet.

"FOUND YOU!"

...

The remains of the Dreadnought finally fell from the sky, its parts crumbled and destroyed.

Nero pushed back some fleshy debris and looked down at the two people he was protecting with his translucent pair of blue wings. He changed back to his mortal form and supported Dante as he allowed himself to collapse on the ground, the dying girl still on his arms.

"We can't do this! We're all gonna die here!" The youth barked, unable to accept Dante's condition. The wound he received from Vergil was not healing, and he was losing a lot of blood.

“YOU’RE WRONG!” Dante fumed as his hand automatically went to his wounds, wincing with unbearable pain. “Listen to me, kid: you’re the only one left here who could stop my stupid brother.”

“I can’t beat your brother! Not like this - ”

“Then, take this!” The older man snapped, shoving his sword towards the young one. “That’s,… the Devil Sword Dante. Use it to defeat,… Vergil!”

Nero looked at the sword in his hands, still trying to process everything that’s going on. “I can’t accept this! You’re his family! You’re supposed to be the one who must defeat - !”

“AND SO ARE YOU! Vergil - V - is your father! I won’t last,… much longer!” Dante wheezed. “If you don’t want to do it for me, then do it for (Y/N)! You must,… beat some sense out of your old man for,… HURTING HER! AARRGGHH!”

“Hey!” Nero spluttered as he witnessed how the once strong Dante spout out blood, the life leaving his body. “Take it easy,…”

“Swear to me you’ll beat Vergil!”

The youth glanced into his uncle’s worried eyes, searching for some kind of hope in them.

But, there was none.

Dante, the Legendary Devil Hunter, was dying.

Nero grasped the sword like it was his, looked at Dante for one last time, and nodded. He also looked at the girl on Dante’s arms. It seemed that all hope has finally left her, as well.

“No offense here but, Devil Sword Dante sucks ass. Devil Sword Nero sounds better.”

“Whatever.” Dante whispered, his eyelids dropping and his breathing getting shallower. “Do it for the girl,… capisce?”

“Sure.”

The man smiled and wrapped his arms around her for one last time. He closed his eyes and breathed his last.

Nero felt a strange sting in his eyes but, he refused to let his emotions overwhelm him.

After all this time, he finally found out he has a family.

But, Dante was already gone,…

He turned away and ran in pursuit of the man who was the cause of all this shit.

With the Devil Sword Dante on his hand, and the Red Queen and the Blue Rose at his disposal, Nero morphed back into his Devil form and launched in the air, looking for Vergil, all the while seeing the massive casualties of the Hunters on the ground below him.

And just when he was about to speed past them, he noticed a familiar - looking white vehicle making its way past the mountain of Demon and human carcasses.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Nico uncharacteristically cursed as she drove and avoided multiple fallen debris from both the Dreadnought and some destroyed buildings.

“This isn’t supposed to happen!” Lady, who was in the vehicle together with her and Trish, protested. “Why is Shinano Musashi still alive?!”

“Dante, and everybody else, lost! And that’s about it.” Trish asserted, finding her own assumptions, and her untimely headache, hard to swallow.

“We can’t lose right now! That Demon’s on a rampage! Everybody will die!” Lady prodded, still willing to fight despite their huge loss.

“NO ONE’S LEAVING THIS TRAILER UNTIL I SAY SO!” Nico howled as she drove faster, trying to protect the two ladies in her own way.

All of a sudden, they heard a hard thud on the roof of the vehicle, like something heavy landed on it. Then, it was followed by some knocks, like it was begging to be let in.

“What’s that?” Lady questioned.

“I have a fair idea who.” Nico answered as she hit the break. Moments later, Nero entered the trailer, looking devastated and disturbed. “Hey, psycho! What happened out there?!”

“Dante’s dead.”

At the youth’s bombshell of an announcement, the three women fell silent, unable to grasp the truth.

“It can’t be,…” Lady mumbled, eyes wide with shock.

“(Y/N)’s still holding on but, not for long, I know. And V,…” Nero went on, eyes narrow in sheer wrath. “He’s the cause of all of this.”

“What exactly do you mean by that?” Trish asked, partially expecting V to be somehow involved with everything that was happening.

The young Devil Hunter explained everything, from the moment V took (Y/N)’s powers by stabbing her and the fact that he was Dante’s long lost twin brother, Vergil. And that he was, unfortunately, his own father.

And as the three women heard about the real ShiShi waking up as a true and hideous Demon due to her “sister” being wronged by the man she loved, they couldn’t help but wince in total frustration and disappointment.

“So, V chose power and ended up angering ShiShi in the process.” Nico stated, feeling nothing but anger towards the man she once trusted. “Sounds like a bitch to me. Your father, I mean.”

“Where is V - Vergil, now?” Trish asked.

“I’m not sure but, I have a hunch.”

Just as Nico was about to start the trailer, they heard a fresh batch of frightening explosions nearby - a sign that (Y/N)’s sister was wreaking havoc once more with her lasers of obliteration.

“If we linger here for a bit longer, we’ll all be fried!” The Artisan yelled as she began driving as fast as she could. “Nero, where do you think your old man is?!”

“Fleminger’s mansion!”

The woman’s eyebrows furrowed. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her freckeled nose and nodded. “We’ve got some major bitch ass - kicking to do.” She said as she skillfully grabbed a cigarette stick from her pocket, flipped it, and caught it with her chapped lips. “I’m allowed to smoke now because the girl who forbade me to do it is gone! Nero!”

The youth obliged, grabbing the lighter from his pocket and lighting up the Artisan’s cigar. “Can we get there in five minutes?”

Nico tilted her head and smirked. “Bitch, please. We’ll get there in three!”

“NICO, BEHIND US!” Lady shrieked as she looked at the window, signalling for an incoming attack.

As the bumpy ride went on, the woman has succesfully performed turns, sometimes, flips, with the vehicle, skillfully dodging all of ShiShi’s deadly lasers that seemed to target them and them alone. And a few heart - stopping moments later, Fleminger’s mansion finally came into view.

“We’re gonna make it!” Lady exclaimed but, her positivity was cut short as soon as they noticed Trish pointing at something behind them. The laser, which stayed in one place for a moment, grew wider at thrice its regular size.

“No,… way,…” Nico uttered as she glanced at it on her side mirror. Her eyes grew even wider as the laser chased after them, obliterating everything in its path.

“NICO, IT’S GONNA CATCH UP TO US!” Lady yelled at her.

“I KNOW!” Nico yelled back as she drove faster than ever before. “(S/N), STOP ATTACKING US! WE’RE NOT YOUR ENEMIES!”

“(S/N)?!” Nero inquired as he looked at the Artisan in confusion.

“(Y/N)’s sister. She told me.” The woman answered.

“Whatever her name is,” Trish began in a not - so - calm voice. “… we’re not gonna make it! (S/N) wants all of us dead!”

And she was right: the massive crimson light was inches away from the vehicle, already disintegrating parts of it.

Nico inhaled deeply, contemplating her next move for a few seconds. And when she finally exhaled, filling the air around her with cigarette smoke, she spoke, “Nero, on my signal, I want you to jump out of this trailer. Lady, Trish, you’ll do whatever it takes to get Nero to safety. Is that clear?”

“Hey, hey, hey, what are you talking about?!” Nero started to argue when Trish grasped his shoulder firmly. The youth turned just in time to see the two female Devil Hunters nodding at him.

“Girls, you’ve got to be joking - !”

“IS THAT CLEAR?!”

“We understand!” Trish and Lady answered.

“Okay.”

“You’re being stupid and reckless! I can’t let you die here! I won’t allow it!”

“STOP BEING A BITCH AND LISTEN TO ME FOR THE LAST TIME!” Nico screamed at him in anger, her sight not once straying from the road. “You’re the only one left who could do this! Better us than you!”

“She’s right. We don’t have much time!” Trish added.

“GUYS!” Lady shrieked in utter panic, pointing at the back, or what’s left, of the vehicle, now swiftly being swallowed by the light.

“LADY, OPEN THE DOOR! TRISH, DO WHATEVER IT TAKES TO STOP THAT LIGHT FROM REACHING NERO! AND WHEN SHE DOES, NERO, I WANT YOU TO JUMP AS FAR AWAY FROM HERE AS YOU CAN!”

“GOTCHA!”

“GOT IT!”

Nero watched helplessly as the women did their jobs, of Lady opening the door, of Trish positioning herself in front of the light, her hands sparkling with what’s left of her demonic power, and of Nico driving as fast as she could.

Determined to the bone, the Artisan made one last trick and launched the vehicle in mid air. She turned to them and uttered her final command.

“NOW!”

Trish held up both her hands and channeled every bit of her power to the light, doing everything she can to hamper its movement.

“NERO, PLEASE!” Lady pleaded as she waited for the youth to oblige.

“Y - you,…” the young Devil Hunter stuttered in disbelief, unable to protect them, himself, despite having adequate power.

“PUSH THAT KID OUT OF HERE! AAHH!” Trish howled in pain as the light festered her hands, then her forearms.

Lady made one last effort to push Nero out of the trailer, away from them,…

… away from the very last people who placed, yet, another great burden upon his shoulders.

The last things he saw on the trailer as he gave it one last look were Lady’s worried different - colored eyes, Trish’s serene smile, despite her half - gone body,…

… and Nico flipping the bird as she spat her very last cigarette butt.

A huge explosion followed as the light finally engulfed the trailer, throwing Nero farther away from the road with its impact.

The next time he opened his eyes, everything was quiet, everything was calm,…

He couldn’t see anything,…

… except for the lifeless faces of all the people he lost within a day.

Dante, Nico, Lady, Trish,…

… and that girl,…

All because of one man’s huge blunder.

And he, a proud descendant of Sparda, was hell - bent on bringing that stupid man down to his knees,…

***

🖤 I See My Future Before Me 🖤

***

XXV.A

***

~ Special dedication to @la-vita for the German dialogue. Thank you so much. Latin dialogue by yours, truly. 🖤

~@vergils-daughter , @heaven-on-a-landslide , @beyond-the-mirror , @micaelagua , @sofia-micaela , @lessy86 , @yepps , @ehrzeth , @gxthghoulfriend , @ceruleanworld , @simmy-ships , @boundbysoul , @diabeticsugarush , and @krazy06 . 🖤

***

🖤🖤🖤

***

[zeciex]

Obsidian & Angelite The Final: From the Ashes a New World

Warning: Dark themes, blood, torture, death and just...carnage 

A/N: Since tumblr kills everything with links, I’ll reblog this post with the links to previous chapters and archive link

Oya touched the stone around her neck, fingers tickling with a need to destroy it and release the energy within but a thought stirred amidst the need of that. A thoughtful expression formed on her face, heart thumping in her chest and breath strained. It was a risk, she knew that, but it was one that was carefully considered and most importantly, one that would most certainly work. Oya turned to the mantle above the fireplace, taking the knife that had been previously placed there, before turning around to a perplexed expression on Michael's face. She placed the knife in his hands, once more entrusting him with her life.

“They won’t see me as a threat,” she explained. Michael turned fully to her, one hand brushing her cheek in a loving caress. There was something feral in his eyes, a spark of wild that made her heart beat harder as adrenaline was released.

“Show me,” Michael drawled, closing in on her. Oya to the hand in which he held the knife, slowly guiding it to where it would do minimal damage but cause quite the sight. The tip of the knife traced over the fabric. His hand felt burning in her own smaller hand. Their eyes remained at one another, hers filled with anticipation of the pain and his with something she couldn’t describe. The look on his face was one she had never seen before, not fully.

Oya licked her lips and took a breathed out. Michael kissed her, his mouth latched onto hers so quickly it made her head spin and then the pain came, it cut through her and caused her to hitch her breath ready to scream when Michael swallowed up her pained wail with his fiery mouth. Her hands fisted in his jacket, clutching the fabric for life while her knees threatened to cave in. A tear rolled down her cheek, wiped away by Michaels' thumb as he continued to kiss her until she had steadied herself.

Michael pulled apart from her, his breath tickling over her ashen face, his eyes fierce with adoration. Her action, the very plan she had come up with, one that he hadn’t even thought off was only showing how right she was. She was the sun, the moon, the stars. She was life and death, beginning and end. She was a goddess and he was willing to worship at her alter. “I love you more than you could possibly fathom.”

“Oh, I can fathom it,” she whispered, hand strengthening around his. With bated breath she pulled the knife out, small whines escaping her as she watched the crimson blade leave her body and the blood that followed turning the purple fabric a strange abugine. One shaking hand came to put pressure on the wound, the blood rising between her thin pale fingers.

She hissed at the pain and then swallowed it, moving on unsteady legs away from Michael’s warmth that she wanted to wrap herself in. “Give me a few moments before coming out.”

“Oya,” Michael said and brought back the attention on him. “Don’t underestimate them, you’ll know when the time comes to break the spell.”

Oya nodded in agreement and moved past Mrs. Mead who went to help take the bloody jacket off of her boy.

“Because you’re special, Mallory, and we need you,” A voice said, travelling along the stone walls to where Oya was. Her steps sounded, alerting the group ahead of her that someone was coming. There were hushed words said before silence. Oya let out a strangled sob, tears pouring from her dark eyes while her lips quivered. Each step sent a jabbing pain through her body threatening to bring her to her knees. How feeble human bodies were.

“Please, someone,” she cried coming around the corner to be met by 5 pairs of eyes all looking over her weak from. The wall was cold to the touch, her hand sticking to the surface as she leaned against it in an attempt to keep standing, sweat pearling at her temples. “She-she stabbed me...I-I” Her voice cracked. Oya tried to cross the room to them, legs unsteady underneath her.

“Who the fuck are you, bitch?” A blond cursed at her, bobbing her hip out and placing a hand on it. Obviously, she didn’t find Oya’s presence a threat, all of them must know she had no magic, they could feel it and still the older blond woman, whom Oya recognized as Cordelia, was still suspicious.

“Oya,” Mallory said, arms reaching out to welcome the wounded woman. “What happened?”

“You weren’t with the others,” Cordelia said with evident skepticism.

“I wasn’t feeling well and went to my room and-and Mrs. Mead found me when I headed back to the party, she-she stabbed me!” Oya stammered, looking down at the bloody evergrowing spot on her dress, removing her hand to show it’s crimson covered palm before weakly covering the wound once more. She looked up with swimming pained eyes, lips quivering as she tried to hold back sobs. “She said everyone was dead, you were all dead, how are you here?”

“Are we really trusting this bitch?”

“Oya, look at me,” Cordelia commanded hand taking hold on Oya’s arm. “I know you’re hurt and confused but it's important that you listen.” The seriousness in her voice cut through the pain and demanded attention. If the situation was different Oya would have found the Supreme before her interesting enough befriend, there would have been a lot to learn from one another. But as the situation was, Oya knew that the biggest threat came from both the Supreme and the girl whose arms were currently wrapped around her to hold her up. “You need to stay with Mallory, make sure she survives so that the rest of us can survive. It is important, without her we’re all doomed, do you understand?”

“I-,”

“It’s a yes or no answer,” the bitchy blond cut in, stepping threateningly close. This witch she would have obliterated on sight, she reminded her of Coco somehow. Oya nodded rapidly, stammering ‘yes’ over and over.

“Good, because we need all of you,” Cordelia voiced sternly with the aura of a true Supreme.

“You’re on your own with that shit!” Dinah spat at the witches. “I made a billion dollars in TV and all I ever did was struggle the fence. I sure as hell not dumpin’ that strategy here, sisters. I haven’t promised anything, I haven’t signed anything and I’m not here to defeat anyone.” Dinah walked with sure steps towards them, eyes fixed on the Supreme. This was the first show of her character, a woman willing to do whatever it takes to survive and come out on top. It was admirable, a trait Michael would see fit for the new world. If she had revealed this side of her before Oya would have liked her so much more than she already did, there was something strong about it. But the act she had chosen would have worked, just like her own did, if it weren’t for Michael’s involvement. Venable would never have seen this coming.

“Who cares! As if you could defeat anyone with that backwards voodoo shit,” the youngest blond said, arms crossed and eyes rolling with disrespect. What kind of witch was she? Voodoo was among some of the most powerful magic, it was old and ancient. Magic was given by the gods and some of the oldest gods were those of Voodoo. The thought of slapping the dye blond out of her hair crossed Oya’s mind. It’s one thing to be rude and disrespectful, it’s another to be it towards gods.

“How can any of you defeat me when I’ve already won?” Everyone jumped, taken aback by Michael’s sudden entrance, not a single step heard. Oya clung to the grey, shaking in her arms, while her eyes travelled from Michael’s godly look to Mrs. Mead standing protectively at his side.

“You haven’t won!” Cordelia disagreed stepping forth to face him. The two sides bantered back and forth, neither bending the knee to the other. Hell, Michael offered them a place at his side, a chance to live but the witches were adamant on their plan, whatever it was. What came as the greatest surprise was, however, The Voodoo Queen herself Marie Laveau. The false voodoo queen fell to her knees with blood pouring from her neck in a thick crimson stream. And then the Supreme uttered a curse under her breath, the words out of ears reach. The effect of it was soon to be found as Mrs. Mead began shaking in a way that could only be mechanical, limbs stiff as her head twisted to one side and then the other, each time quickening.

Terror brewed in her chest, the air electric with knitting energy that clashed between the two sides so much so that even a human could feel it. Her stomach turned in knots, worry making its way to the surface and through the pain… Pain that was beginning to be forgotten with each new shot of adrenaline.

“Mrs. Mead?” Michael barely spoke before the woman exploded in anything but flesh and blood. It was like a bomb went off, skin and white matter flung in every direction, steel and iron shards falling like awful rain. Michael went flying through the air, backside hitting the bannister and tumbling over the side of the stairs. He landed with a dreadful trump, the air knocked right out of his lungs. The group of witches, along with Oya herself, were hunched together, Oya letting out a gruntled groan over the way her body was forced together. Mallory dung her fingers into her arms, breath hitched in her ear. She had the Supremes arm around her protectively, while she also held the wounded feeble human, that cried out a strangled sound.

Oya shifted, both frightened by the explosion and the sight of her loved one lying flat on the ground, bits and pieces of the woman he considered his mother cast in various directions around him. Neither of them had seen it coming, neither of the had been prepared. It was too late to change her role, she had to stay with Mallory, at least until Michael was back on top until she knew what plan the Supreme had in mind.

Michael shook with anger, his power coiling around him invisibly. His rage made the air taste of ash and smoke.

The young blond crawled over the floor despite the Supremes voice calling her back. Madison clawed her way towards Mrs. Mead’s arm, one of the few pieces still together along with her decapitated head. She pushed herself to her feet, holding the arm like a weapon and for a moment Oya thought she’d try and knock Michael over the head with it. The result was much different.

“Sorry about your little toy, bitch” Madison remarked with contempt and opened fire. Bullets sliced through the air the moment Michael turned towards them, eyes filled with fire and lightning. The bullets tore through fabric and flesh alike, the air painted in a spray of red. Coco wrapped her hands around Oya’s other arm, the one Mallory wasn’t holding, her nails digging into her flesh. Oya cursed in Korean at the sight of her lover being filled with spray after spray of pullets, Madison screaming like a warrior. Step by step Michael was forced back until his back collided with the wall, knees buckling underneath him.

The witch with the strange red hair was the first among them to stand, walking in quick paces over to Michael’s now dead body. He stared into the room, through the room with cold dead eyes.

Coco and Mallory helped Oya stand, cries leaving her as she stretched out. “What is happening?! Y-you just killed them!” She asked the Supreme trying to get her to reveal her plan. Now that Michael was dead at the moment, she had to stay with them and make sure they didn't win this fucking fight.

“I know it’s confusing but this is all for the best. We’re going to make sure all of this never happened,” she answered, eyes never leaving the enemy. When Oya looked back over at Michael she watched as the redhead ripped strands of Michaels' hair out by the roots. Her stomach turned. Then she walked over to the group still gathered and held out the bloodied strands for Mallory to take.

“A personal item. Remember, dear? Focus on it, locate a time and place with it  in Michael.”

“Shed the ego. Disengage from this realm, place myself there and say the words. Tempus infinitum,” Mallory said, her voice filled with remembrance. The witches all smiled at her, relieved that she remembered the spell. Oya, however, frowned in confusion. Tempus infinitum? Time travel? So they couldn’t defeat Michael before the apocalypse and couldn’t defeat him after and so now they choose to change the past? It was cheating, it was forcing the pieces back in place in an attempt to rewrite history. Time travel, how utterly reckless.

“That’s our girl,” The redhead said with a smile.

“Bullets alone won't kill him. He’s become too powerful, we have to find a place to cast this spell before he wakes up,” Cordelia breathed unsteady, walking closer to Madison and Michael.

“I’ll hold him off as long as I can,” Madison said stepping up the occasion. As long as she could wouldn’t be long though. Michael will kill her with the snap of his fingers as soon as he could.

The group moved, Coco now taking hold of Oya to relieve Mallory of the duty, helping her up the stairs. Mallory ran ahead while Cordelia paused to look at Michael, whos dead eyes stared right through her. The moment they reached the top of the stairs Coco was waved off, the adrenaline smothered the pain and her legs had become more steady. Barely a second after they heard a gruntled angry voice hiss ‘I should have been on that plane!’, the sound coming seconds before the visual of a talk black dressed man stabbing Mallory in the gut.

Cordelia ran forth to get to Mallory, blood already pouring from the girl's mouth. By the look of it, she had been stabbed in the stomach. It wouldn’t take long before she bleeds out and the pain would be more than Oya felt. The man burst into flames and was sent flying over the railing to fall to his death. The witches attempted to heal their fallen soldier but failed.

“He’s coming!” Marie Laveau yelled.

“Take her arm!” Cordelia waved at the redhead and grabbed an arm herself. “Oya look out for Michael and follow.”

The four of them hurried down the halls. In truth there was a tiny piece of her that worried for Mallory, the girl had been nice to her and other than being on the wrong side, she really didn’t deserve to suffer a wound to the stomach. Mallory’s eyes rolled back and forth, fluttering shut every once in a while. They managed to manoeuvre her into a room with an odd round tub of water. There Oya grabbed the girls feet and helped lifting her up into the water. Her knees buckled beside Cordelia, hands gripping the side of the tub to hold her up. The obsidian necklace dangled from her chest, tempting with its raw power. She could destroy it now, could flick her wrist and kill the three of them, but a part of her was curious of this spell, despite the fact that a spell like that should never be cast. And Michael wouldn’t favour her if she killed all of them without him. He didn’t kill her enemies and so she shouldn’t kill the ones he had searched so long for. They were his to kill.

“Come on, Mallory, please,” the Supreme sobbed, holding the injured witch’s face in her hands. Tears streamed down her face, eyes swimming in them, in worry. “Come on, come on, come on! Look at me -look at me! You can do it! You can do this!” In despair, the witch looked to her friend for help, breath shaking. “It’s not working! It’s not working! She’s not strong enough!”

Mallory looked strangely at peace, the pain shutting down her system as blood poured into the water. “I’m sorry, Cordelia.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay! Look at me, no, no, no.” Cordelia was panicking, she was frightened to the bone. With all those Supreme powers of hers and nothing, she had done was working. The Supreme was fading but she was enough to stand in the way between Mallory and life. As in the redheads' own words, ‘they were fucked’. And Oya was finding a twisted form of delight in it.

“I love you.” Slowly, with a sad and almost serene look upon her face, the woman that had been crying and begging the younger to stay strong, now rose from her position and walked into the hall where she’d meet the devil himself, Michael Langdon. Oya stared after her, fingers brushing against the cool but electrifying stone until it were fitted into her balled fist. She waited with bated breath, the other hand clutching the side of the tub and let its rough edge bite into her palm. The redheaded witch looked after the supreme, tears staining her impossibly pale skin, reddening the tip of her nose and eyes to match the fiery hair of hers.

Now, out of the view of the redhead, Oya tugged harshly at the stone, feeling the fine chain brake against the back of her neck and undoubtedly leaving a long bruise. The stone seemed to pulse along with her heartbeat. No longer were her eyes that of a scared fragile human that didn’t know what was going on but instead filled with intention, with calculation and anticipation. Cordelia's voice travelled around stone and wood, crept along by the walls and floors, and echoing off to the other end but still were her words out of Oya’s reach. She’d have to rely on her sight and gut feeling.  

“Cordelia!” The witch screamed in agony, crying for her supreme with the intensity one does for family. And that’s when Oya strook. With a hard swing of her arm, the stone broke into pieces on the edge of the tub, the black shards falling to the tiles with the sound of broken glass. The shards gleamed in the candlelight, falling black as obsidian against the sandy tiles, then turning colourless as the power drained from the stone and into her body.

Her heart stopped as time stopped. And then it constrained only to burst the moment after. Energy in its purest form travelled through her veins with a push of adrenaline, every cell and fiber of her being electrified enough to cause goosebumps to rise over her soft skin. It burned deliciously just as it was cooled with delightful touches. Crimson bleed into the white of her eyes as it always did when feeling powerful enough to have the world in her palm. She felt herself long and ache for Michael, but knew that she had a task at hand.

In one swoop she jumped from a crouch and into the black and bubbling water, her dress drenching in seconds making it all the more heavy. Her eyes connected with Mallory’s and then heard her worlds. “Tempus infinitum.” Oya replied the same, grasping Mallory's hand that clutched Michael’s hair in a locked grip. As the girl sank below the surface, Oya followed sinking into the blackness and kept sinking.

There was nothing but black water surrounding her, pressing in on her, asking to be swallowed and breathed -asking to be let in. There was serenity, a calm rarely found, begging embraced and held to eternity and beyond. All past pains, all future thoughts, every memory good or bad, were gone. There was nothing but the black watery abyss.

But there was something in the distance above her. A thought or memory she needed to get to. A task that needed to be performed. Someone she loved. But she was tired, so so tired. Maybe this was where she was supposed to be, this was the only peace she’d ever get. For a moment she thought about letting go, letting the water into her lungs and let her mind get lost in the nothing. But then she heard him, the drawl that made her knees weak and her heart flutter. ‘I love you,’ he said.

Blue gleamed behind her eyelids, the memory of those Angelite orbs tickling at her mind.

Her eyes opened and focused on the light now coming from above. An air bubble danced from her nose and rushed to the surface, promising fresh air above the waterline. With hard strokes of her arms and her legs kicking at the water, she fought to the surface, feeling the pressure rise the closer she got. The need to scream scratched at her throat and strained her lungs.

One hand broke through the surface, then the other until her face shot up with open mouth gasping for breath. The moment she broke through the surface, her surroundings became bright and warm. A breeze danced along her skin and whirled around her hair.

The first sense that returned was the sense of smell. The air smelled warm, with blooming trees and grass, and a faint touch of the sea. But most prominent was the smell of roses, with every breeze the scent was renewed. Next was the sense of hearing. Sprinklers going off in the distance, car doors slamming and then the engine. Somewhere in the distance, a radio was on, playing some obnoxious American song. She kept blinking until her sight returned, mind reeling from the difference and knees weak and wobbly.

Oya found herself standing on a sidewalk, her feet bare against the stone and felt the heat rise from it. Cars filled the driveways, some bigger than others. The same could be said about the houses, but most of them were bigger than they should be. She circled around herself looking for anything that could tell her where she was. America, by the look of it.

She closed her eyes and let her energy wander, crows and ravens above answering to her presence by croaking out the stories that they’ve gathered. One specifically spoke about a boy, blond and blue and beautiful. A boy with a destiny. A boy with bad blood. A boy like none other, born of life and death.

It led her to a grand house which aura was dull with death. It stood beautiful to the human eye but to hers, she could see the darkness emanating off of it in pulses. The red brings were lined with death and the stained windows filled with sorrow. There were so many souls within, more than she had ever heard off or experienced. The history of it was soaked through with blood, with life. This was where it had all begun.

There was a tug at her mind, eyes turning towards the house beside it. That house was filled with just as much dismay, but it was entirely different. It was dismay of the living, a woman cursed with a horrid mind filled with grandeur. The house was cold, it reminded her of the same cold her own house had been filled with.

On the rooftops and in the trees crows and ravens gathered, for every passing minute, another came to be by her side, called by her powers. She stood on the other side of the road, waiting for something to happen, for Mallory to arrive. In that time waiting, she looked down herself and found that she was no longer wearing a purple dress with puffy sleeves stained by her blood but instead a black dress with a neck so deep and exposing it showed the side of her breasts and the shadow of her muscles while still hiding her bellybutton. The fabric was airy and whirled in the wind behind her, along with the additional fabric that was as close to a cape as it could be without going over her shoulders. The fabric was ordained with silver flakes, embroidered to look like snakes, feathers and crows.

Over her head, a crow croaked and alerted Oya of the boy walking with long strides out from the house that felt like cold and dismay. He looked so thin, with the mouth clasp together to hold in sobs and whimpers. Nose, eyes, cheeks red with crying, tears spilling over the edge of his eyes. Devastated, that was how he looked. Like someone who lost everything and everyone, someone who had no future ahead of them. He looked lost and all she wanted was to wrap her arms around him and tell him he was going to be okay. Fuck, he didn’t even have shoes on.

The sound of tires screeching and a roaring engine reached her ears. Her eyes shot towards the sound and watched as the black car headed directly towards an unsuspecting Michael. The second he stepped out in front of the car, Oya pushed out her hands towards him and breathed out air.

The boy was forced back and away from the car, his back colliding with the sidewalk in a breathless tumble. Even with the speed, the two women connected their eyes and then Oya tilted her head and smiled.

In a loud chorus of chirps and croaks, all the birds took wind beneath their winds, gathering in a massive mass of black feathers and claws. It was a murder of crows, an extension of herself, every beak and every set of wings. The feeling rushed beneath her while she took assured steps out into the middle of the road to watch her attack unfold.

One after the other, the birds swooped down and smacked themselves into the windshield of the car, glass shattering in a web. The tires screeched over the road, leaving angry black marks in their wake. There was the faintest whirling screaming coming from within the car, the sound swallowed up by the birds coming at the windshield. Bones and flesh and glass cracked alike. It was brutal and disgusting. Blood poured over the shiny front and dripped to the asphalt. And then the last of them broke through and into the car with their wings basking and their sharp beaks and talons.

The blond witch threw herself through the door screaming, her knees scraping over the road as she tumbled out. Oya couldn’t help but smirk at the sight. How her hair was covered in broken pieces of glass, droplets of blood and feathers. Her pale skin marked by scrapes. Then the new supreme clenched together her hands and let out a pulse that killed every bird still alive, whether it was rolling confused around in the car, crying out in pain on the front of it or actively attacking her. A mass of blood and feathers laid atop of the front, pouring down over the side to the asphalt.

Mallory stumbled to her feet, fingers brushing over the car for support as she got up, hair thrown over her shoulder. She wore a golden crown of growing roses.

Michael looked at the display from his place on the ground, understanding that the girl with the crown had tried to run him over, while the woman with black eyes had helped him somehow. He stayed silent disregarding the sting of the superficial cuts he had gotten on the way down.

Oya felt his eyes on her but remained steadfast, unwavering. Mallory shot him a pointed glare before returning her eyes towards the more pressing enemy.

“How did you-.”

“You’re not the only ‘special’ one,” Oya cut off.

“Why are you standing between me and him? Do you know what he's done? What he's going to do?! Are you out of your fucking mind?!” She exclaimed with anger and frustration.

“Quite possibly,” Oya answered with an indifferent shrug. “I won’t let you harm him.”

“Then you give me no choice,” Mallory bit harshly. It was strange to see the woman like this, how she had hardened -her skin now steel and iron. This woman who was small and good and pure were now filled with rage and bitter anger that’d only be washed away with Michael’s blood. It seemed entirely out of character for her to want to murder a boy rather than take his hand and offer help.

Mallory waved her hand by her hip, letting the fingers dance through the air until they stilled. All the other windows in the car smashed into pieces, the glass breaking into small bits only for them to be gathered in the air around her, the glass merging together into more massive shards, all pointed to her.

Oya’s heart drummed in her ears, excluding the sound of glass slashing through the air towards her. She could protect herself, shielding her with her powers and redirect the impending shards but she didn’t. Her energy was focused elsewhere. Quickly, her arms shot up, childing her face and upper body as the glass cut into her. She felt the white-hot pain as the glass cut over her forearms. When the attack was over and there was no more glass in front of her she looked down. Three pieces of glass pointed out from her stomach, one bigger than the other. With shaking fingers she took hold of the shard, groaning at the contact and then pulled. The tip was about 6 centimetres long and covered in blood. She did the same with the others and found one 4 centimetres long and the other 7. Blood poured from the wound and poured down her body. The glass pieces broke as they hit the asphalt, all but one that remained in her palm.

Oya looked up at Mallory, eyes stern and unyielding.

“I’m the supreme, you can’t possibly think you can stop this,” Mallory said.

“Miss Supreme,” Oya mocked and took slow deliberate steps towards the girl, who moved restlessly from one leg to the other. Behind Mallory through the flesh, bones, feathers and blood were a movement. It slithered from the bubbling mess, curled and formed until it was entirely visible. Feathers had turned to scales and beak to fangs. The snake was bigger than any other she had seen, the skull was as big as her chest, if not bigger. It looked like the mix of an anaconda and a python if it were not for the black scales dipped in red. Its eyes were as black as her own and gleamed in the sunlight with murderous intent. It coiled behind the unsuspecting Mallory. “You think you’re the all-powerful because ascended the throne?” Oya wiggled a bloody finger in the air and tsked. She approached the younger girl like a predator and watched as she began to draw in her power for the final blow. “You’re the supreme, the all-powerful witch.” Mallory frowned at the mocking tone, jaws locked together and eyes burning with hatred and anger. “But where do you think your powers came from?”

Mallory shook her head confused and stepped back, her heels breaking the glass beneath. It was true that the girl was powerful. More so than any other witch. It hung in the air around her, it was of light as bright as the sun. It was golden and white and good. It flowed around her, tugged at her edges and seams. It reminded Oya of her sister.

The young witch drew in a breath and lifted her hands in the air, ready to strike another blow but she didn’t get that far. No, for the snake shot forth, its sharp fangs piercing the flesh of her thigh as it’s strong jaw clamped down around her. The force made femur snap in two. Mallory screamed out and stumbled to her knees. The venom in Oya’s snake inhibited Mallory’s magic and left her defenceless. This was what she had focused on, what had drawn her energy.

The snake twisted around Mallory, its strong body squeezing so terribly that there was a constant sound of breaking bones. She cried as her body was wrapped up by the snake, its body twisted around her hips, waist and torso.

Oya was now standing before the fallen supreme and looked at her with pitiful eyes.

A gurgling sound came from Mallory's pale lips that soon turned into wheezing. The snake pressed further. It was clear that her ribcage had broken and one of the ribs had pierced through her lung filling it with blood. A trickle of blood ran down the corner of her lip.

“W-what h-have you d-done?” Mallory stuttered out, with each word wheezing followed. “You’d l-let him destroy the w-world?”

“The world was going to destroy itself sooner or later,” Oya answered with indifference. “I don’t care much for this one but the next… the next will be made with my touch as well as his.”

“You’ll destroy h-humanity to p-play g-god?” Mallory gasped at the pain, her torso incredibly small now. Her body sank together, the bones no longer able to hold her up. Life was slowly being squeezed out of her and her insides turned to mush.

Oya smiled. “Oh, little Miss Supreme, I already am a god.” The smile faded into something more serious and cynical. Mallory’s eyes were reddening with the pressure, blood falling like tears. Oya crouched down on her level before continuing to speak. “Cordelia thought that she was clever hiding you.” Soft and almost sweet were her touch as she brushed a piece of hair out of Mallory's face. “Michael expected her to come, but you were quite the surprise. It’s sad how much you underestimated him, sad how you underestimated me. You see, your plan would have worked were it not for me. Time travel… It is quite the move. Cheating, but impressive.” Oya wiped a crimson tear from Mallory’s cheek. “No one, not even the gods should have that power. When you die I’ll make sure Michael wins. When you die, you won’t be going to heaven nor hell.” Confusion wrote itself across the young supremes face. “It would most likely have been hell, you did, after all, try and kill a kid. No, you’ll be going to the underworld, my underworld, and I will make sure you relive you most feared scenario, the thing you dread the most, the thing which hurts you the most, over and over again until you go mad.”

“W-who are you?”

Her answer rang clear. She said it with such simplicity it was almost baffling. “I’m Oya but you may also know me as Ereshkigal, goddess of the underworld. Goodbye, Mallory.” The hand in which she held the longest glass shard were lifted to the young supremes neck, the veins popping with pressure and ready to explode. When the sharp edge ran over the fragile pale skin blood burst out in a heavy flow, running down her neck, over the curled body of the snake and dripped to the ground where it pooled. The snake released its fangs from her thigh and began twisting again.

Oya rose from her spot, brows twitching as she felt her body react to the wounds, to the excess use of her power. A single breath was drawn in behind her, pulling her attention towards the much younger Michael, with those big blue eyes filled with wonder and worry all the same. He was still lying on the pavement, hitched up on one elbow to look at the scene. With small simple steps she approached him, bloody hands held up in front of her in submission.

“You-you saved me!” He stuttered confused with a shaking childish voice. Oya sank to her knees at his side, groaning at the pain that shot through her body. Blood was pouring out more frequently now. The pain was nothing though, it didn’t cross her mind as she thought about the boy before her. He was older in body, but his soul was one of a child's. His eyes held the same confused innocence, one that was growing up without guidance, one that begged to be loved. Without a second thought, she reached for him, thumb brushing over his cheek reddened by crying and left a trace of crimson. The motion was gentle, not like the way she had done it to Mallory. There was so much she wanted to say to him, so much she wanted to tell him and warn him about.

“You’re hurt,” he said breaking her thoughts. She smiled at him.

“I’m fine,” she simply said.

“How did you… I don’t understand.”

“I know, I know it’s hard to understand but I need you to listen to me,” she began as she felt cold fingers of the abyss ghost over her. “Mallory was sent from the future to kill you. The witches wanted you dead because you pose a threat to them, to the entire world.” At the fear written across his face she paused. Within her chest, her heart stopped and strained. If she told him all of this, if she changed anything in the past, it would ripple throughout time to the future. Telling the boy before her would change the man that she loved. Any little thing would change the future. Pain bloomed in her chest, not like a physical one but rather… emotional. It made her throat strain with unvoiced cries. With a gentle touch, she took his face in her hands and looked at him with importance and seriousness, while he, in turn, looked at her with bewilderment and uncertainty.

“I’m sorry. I can’t let you know all of this, it’ll change too much, you might change too much.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know, just… just, listen to me. You’re going to have a tough life filled with betrayal, Jagi. You’re going to feel so alone, so abandoned.” Oya began focusing her powers, letting the electricity run through her and into her fingers, letting them warm on his skin. Her fingertips brushed against his right temple as she began to withdraw his memory. Silver began to shine where their skin touched. “Never trust the witches, no matter what… and -and when you’re ready come find me. I won’t understand either but I will in time. I will always be there.” A silver flower bloomed when she withdrew her fingertips from his temple. The silver flower bloomed and then returned to a bud that hardened into a pearl. Behind Oya the snake had dislocated its jaws as it swallowed Mallory’s broken body whole. The glass than laid scattered in pieces collected and set themselves in place, the windows of the car shining in the sun as if it had never been shattered. Oya looked over her shoulder at the snake and breathed out just as its jaws set in place. Like parchment in flames the snake burned, ashes and small pieces of ember whirling in the wind to there was nothing left. No blood, no glass, no snake. The only strange thing left behind was Oya herself, still bleeding on the pavement.

“Oh dear god!” A woman gasped. Oya looked towards the voice and narrowed her eyes at the older woman. “What did you do?!” At first, Oya thought she had hissed at her but when the woman’s eyes shifted to Michael she knew. With one clenched hand, she took hold of the woman immobilizing her completely.

“Go inside, Michael,” she said softly and let him get up before rising herself. With deliberate steps she approached Michael’s grandma, fist still curled around the pearl and holding her in place.

“Who are you? What are you?” Mrs. Langdon hissed through clenched teeth.

“I’m the woman who loves your son,” Oya answered with a hard tone. Mrs. Langdons eyes widened. “I want you to know this so listen closely. You’re going to forget that you saw me, you’re going to forget whatever happened before that made your grandson run out of the house in tears and with no shoes. You’re going to forget all of it. But I want you to know that there’ll be a little voice inside of you, one that’ll never leave you and one that you’ll never be able to confess to any other soul on this earth. It’s going gnaw at your sanity for eternity.” Frightful tears welled up in Mrs. Langdons eyes.

“You know you’re a terrible mother. You’re a narcissist who thinks they have any business raising children. You’re a failure.”

“No, no! I did everything I could! I did everything right!” Mrs. Langdon defended with a wavering voice.

“You did not love him!” Oya spat, stepping so close she could smell the fear coming off of her. “And you will suffer because of it. You cannot hurt him so the only way out is to take your own life, and you will. You were never meant to be a mother.”

Something inside the woman snapped. Her matriarch mask breaking to reveal the rotten decaying soul of the woman inside. She reminded Oya of her mother. In a way, she fated her the same way. Parents who cannot love their children should not have them. Mrs. Langdon was a woman who thought herself perfect and true, it was written in the way her eyes were, the way she wore clothes from another time, the way she pinned up her hair. She was a woman who wanted to last forever, a woman who wanted the perfect family, a woman who was the cause of her own ruin. The silver pearl formed at her fingertips once more, this one cold and with the gleam of rot.

Oya let Mrs. Langdon go, the woman staggering inside her house in a trance that’d relieve itself once Oya had gone to her own time. She stared at the house filled with cold and dismay before letting out a breath she didn't know she was holding. The pearl with Mrs. Langdons memory caught the light as she held it up in her palm and then let it roll off into the bushes. It would remain there until the end.

The corners of her sight became fussy, black dots forming and distorting her vision. With a deep breath, she closed her eyes and let herself fall forward, the pavement rising to meet her with a hard embrace. Instead, she found that she fell through it, into darkness and water. Before her were her reflection, with her big black eyes looking back at her. She was naked once more, the dress ripped from her body and gone the moment she entered the darkness.

When she reached to touch her reflection it reached to touch her. The tip of their fingers met and suddenly she was thrown forward, water pressing in on her, forcing its way down her throat as she plummeted through the surface of the water. Her body ached and shot with burning hot pain. The dress wrapped around her tightly and weighed her down. Beside her were the contorted body of Mallory, with eyes shot open and red, bloody tears running down her face while her mouth was open in a silent scream. Her arms, legs, hips and torso were broken, a twisted lump wrapped in grey. And from her open neck had warm blood once flown.

Oya crawled weakly over the side of the tub, water and blood pouring from her. The moment she hit the floor she heard the last witch alive scream a blood-curdling scream that send her flying over the floor and into the wall with teeth clattering force. Pain bloomed at the back of her head, distorting her vision even more.

“You broot, you absolute monster! You’ve doomed us all!” Oya didn’t see what happened afterwards, not until later. Instead, she was engulfed by the scent of allspice followed closely by the feeling of scorching hands pressing against her cheeks and then her stomach. With her mind scattered in the past, the in between and the present, she couldn’t connect a proper sentence. Instead, she cried out jumbled words and sounds trying to tell him the pieces of her mind.

“I’m here! Don't worry, I’m right here,” he told her over and over, trying to soothe her. Slowly, her wounds began to heal with the touch of Michael, her own energy drained from her body. His blond hair was smeared in blood, so was his face and hands. The suit he wore ripped apart by bullets and drenched in blood and other fluids, with white pieces of what once was Mrs. Mead hanging on to it. And yet somehow he remained the single most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Her eyes caught his.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. I was afraid and-and I didn’t… I was afraid,” she cried out between mumbled words and sounds, trying to connect with her body again.

“Shh,” Michael hushed her and caressed the side of her head, eyes filled affection and tenderness. “You did so well, love. You did it.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Oya spoke more clearly, pushing herself further up the wall to relieve the pain in her hips. Her bottom lip quivered, eyes filled to the brim with tears while her body shook. What if he’d never understand? The thought made her shudder. “I had the chance to change it all, to save you. I could have warned you, given you a better life, made sure you were never betrayed. But I was afraid! I was afraid that if I changed that I’d change the future. If I told you, you might not have come to me.”

Michael looked at her in bewilderment but still held the same love as before. He brushed wet locks out of her face and inched closer in an effort to calm her. In the middle of her palm that had once been closed in a tight fist, were the memory she had taken. She held it up for his eyes to catch, the silver shining through blue. In one shaky breath, the pearl bloomed into a flower and then withered until there was nothing left. Silver caught onto Michaels' eyes and she watched as the memory played in his head, eyes flickering back and forth as if in a dream. The silver ran out and blue poured back in.

“I’m so sorry, I could have changed it all but I was too afraid,” she coked out through a strained throat.

Michaels brows knitted together and his thumbs brushed away her tears. “Shh,” he cooed. “You did the right thing. You did the right thing. You did so well, I could never have imagined what you did for me but you did so well. You were right, my love.”

“Yeah?” she whispered and reached for him.

“Yeah,” Michael answered and kissed her forehead.

Walking through the carnage that had occurred Oya observed the different bodies she came across on her way to her room. She trailed a wet and bloody path over the grimly painted stones, dripping from her wet clothes. There was the redheaded witch whose head was twisted to an unimaginable point that was only matched by Coco’s broken neck. There was Mallory floating in the tub with her body crushed in a way that couldn’t be described. There was Marie Laveau whose heart laid beside her body, ribcage open with bones sticking out revealing the empty chest. And then there was the blond witch, Madison or so she guessed, with her head blown clean off.

That was the carnage she observed on her way to her room.

Oya dried her hair, the white towel drawing a hint of pink from the bloody water she had once been in. Then she changed out of her ruined dress for an airy pair of pants and a black see-through top that had one single line through the fabric that covered her nipples. It was what she had brought with her, what she was not allowed to wear, and now her chosen outfit.

“Where is it?” She questioned herself, digging through the chest at the foot of the bed. The glass was cool against her fingers, as she fished the small bottle out from under books and fabrics. The tiny bottle was slipped into her pockets before she walked out of the room for the last time.

She found him standing over Cordelia's body. He too had changed outfit, from ruined rags into fine silk and velvet. His skin was now clean and hair perfect as always. Oya came up behind him, hand slipping over his shoulder before her lips kissed it softly.

Cordelia was staring into the vast nothing, blood in a morbid halo around her body, hands held out like the usual statue of Virgin Mary. The only difference was that she wasn’t so innocent and she certainly wasn’t going to ‘heaven’.

Michael was looking at the fallen supreme with contemplation hinted with disappointment. This was what he wanted but now that it had arrived, was it what he wanted? Was it enough?

“You should never have underestimated me,” he mused quietly before continuing with a harder tone. “You were wrong and you failed, if only you were here to witness it.”

“You could bring her back or simply visit her in hell,” Oya commented. “I’m sure she’s there.”

Michael smiled back at her and let out a sigh. “She is and she’ll rot there for eternity but she… Managed to take away the pleasure of watching her fail… And she took so much more.”

Sympathy knitted her brows together, her hand travelling to cub his cheek forcing his eyes from Cordelia’s body to her. “You destroyed the witches. Every single one of them. They’re rotting in hell and if they’re aware they’re there, they’ll know they failed miserably. You’re the one who did that, you’re the one who won. You, Michael, are the victor, the king of a new world made in his image.”

She was right, of course. He had won the war. There was no longer anyone to oppose him, to threaten his rule or legacy. The world had been burned to ash and from that, a new world would rise. The price had been steep but it had been paid, and if it came down to it, he’d pay it all over again. His only regret was that he couldn’t change the price and bring back Mrs. Mead. Her loss would nibble at his edges.

Michael flashed a gentle smile at his counterpart, taking her hand and kissing her wrist before walking out of the round room.

Oya looked after him. He had won but his shoulders were heavy with a new burden. In one quick turn, she knelt down beside the pool of blood and let her jewelled hand dance in the air over it. Faint whispers of enchantment slipping through her red lips, the words dangling in the air and then twirling down with her magic to the Crimson. At first, nothing happened but then one single droplet raised from the surface and into the air quickly followed by more droplets. They merged together into one floating ball of blood right in front of her face. The blood then seeped into the now opened glass bottle fished forth from her pocket, filling it up the brim before being closed off and slipped into her pocket once more.

Then a spiteful vengeful streak settled in her soul and she gripped Cordelia's fine blond hair in a handful before ripping it from her head, just like that wicked redhead. The strands of hair were shoved into her pocket as well. Then she rose and joined Michael in the grand hall, walking around the round fireplace to find him staring at yet another dead body, this time Dinah’s.

“She didn’t exactly meet the requirements for the sanctuary but I suppose I should reward for her loyalty.”

Oya mused, lips pursed as she examined the body. Dinah’s neck was gaping open and arteries emptied of blood making her skin look dull and ashy. Her dark eyes were still open in shock as was her mouth. “She’s with Papa Legba now.” Michael looked down at her from the steps, waiting patiently for her to continue. He might know a lot about hell but that didn’t mean he’d know of the figures in it, nor the demigods and various demons that belonged there. His teachers would never have taught him this, they were too busy forming him into something they could use for their own advantage.

“I would recommend not making a new enemy when you’ve just gotten rid of the last. Making an enemy of Papa Legba would not be wise. If anything you should make a deal with him, trade a soul for a soul if you believe she’s worth it.”

“Hmm,” he sounded and stepped down to Oya’s level again. “Such a wise woman I have by my side.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and forced her body flush against his, lips dipping to meet hers in a fiery but light kiss. “Are you ready to leave this place?”

“More than ready,” she replied, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket. Michael snapped his fingers and fire began to climb from the fireplaces with destructive tongues and tendrils, making their way over stone and wood alike.

In one breath and with one step the two disappeared from Outpost 3 and into the sanctuary.

The sanctuary was built underneath a mountain, a marvellous mix of old and new. The halls were of concrete, a simple and cold look, while the section in which Oya and Michael lived were much like the house they had stayed in, with floor to ceiling windows showing hardened lines and edges in stone. Their section was off limits to the few that lived there or so Oya had made it. Only the servant robots were permitted. Michael’s office was just before their section, furnished nice and simple, with a rounded rosebush that had been growing slowly in the middle of the room, shielding the view of the door from his desk. Nevertheless, he would always know with precision who came through the door before he ever laid eyes on them. That always seemed to chill the few humans there to the bone.

Oya and spend the first while getting accustomed to the servant robots there, their presence feeling strangely void with the lack of a soul. She didn’t trust them and was wary towards them, maybe because she didn’t trust the two crackheads who created them. How Mutt and Jeff survived the interviews remained a mystery despite Michael’s insistence that though they were not to be trusted they remained usable.

However, the one she seemingly clashed with the most was the Japanese Yuu Masaru whose eyes were always cold and calculative, with a stern mouth always in a straight line and high edging cheekbones. She could see why Michael wanted him there, he was everything he wished for the new world. But he was ambitious beyond his stance and ruthless in his ways, she could see it in him.

Michael stood for the politics of this place and Oya buried herself in nature.

Michael had constructed a marvellous arboretum. The room was as big as half the sanctuary in its own, the walls made of fine coloured glass to the top that arched as a true masterpiece of a greenhouse. One side held long lines of pots from floor to roof, ready for plants, with a system that could make it go around so that no stairs were necessary.

And with time and Oya’s fine collection of seeds, the brownfields became green with life. She had marked an area for her herbs and plants, while the rest were to provide fresh food for the sanctuary. The women that were, who didn’t have tasks anywhere else helped her with the maintaining of the food, though they were not allowed to touch her flowers or herbs. And if they weren’t there, the robots took over work. She hated seeing them through the green, something without a soul, without a living cell touch that which was living.

For two year she read through the collection of magic books and legends Michael had gathered in their private library. For two years she had tried different spells and hexes, made different potions and remedies and worked towards making her own spell. It had been a project of hers, when she wasn’t required to play doctor or queen, to find a way to make the impossible possible. She had been cautious, uncertain.

Now was the time, however. It couldn’t wait any longer.

Which was why she was now carrying a bucket with fresh blood through the concrete walls towards the arboretum. The thick red liquid waved back and forth, threatening to spill. Her big white dress vulnerable to the task at hand.

Minseo, her own personal robot made almost in her image, or rather out of her imagination, was carrying her heavy medicine chest like it was a box of feathers. Unlike the more human robots Mutt and Jeff had created, Minseo was made as a servant, with fine gentle features and a soft brow. She rarely showed any strain unless Oya had told her to switch on her humanity mode. Now she was a blank page following orders without question. She usually kept her like that, unsure what to feel when she seemed almost human.

In the distance she heard the voices of men talking, walking through the halls with some unknown purpose.

Oya and Minseo turned to the door standing between them and the smell of nature. Every time she stood there she felt a flutter in her stomach, happy to once again be with nature and to make things grow. It was incredible to let her bare feet sink into the soil of the arboretum.

The doors swished open, the delightful smell of flowers and soil hitting her nostrils in an instance. The pair made their way inside, locking the door behind them. She had ordered no one to come in and as far as she could see there wasn’t a soul or robot in sight.

Oya paved the way to her small garden of herbs as the spot left untouched by her nimble hands and seeds. The soil was bare there. She planted the heavy bucket there and ordered Minseo to put the chest beside it.

“Minseo, please stand aside,” she asked of the robot no taller than her. Sometimes she forgot she wasn’t real or maybe it was because she was raised that way, or maybe it was because she was the only one who didn’t have any ambition or life to fear for.

Swiftly Oya bound a piece of cloth around Minseo’s eyes in an assurance that Mutt and Jeff weren’t spying on her. They weren’t to be trusted and if Michael hadn’t explicitly asked her not to kill them, they would have been dead long ago. Especially because of their first interaction with where we're less than tactful given that they had implied she was an exotic pussy just there for Michael to fuck. Michael's hand held Oya back only to turn to them himself and let his tendrils of magic tear inside their heads. They had cried blood that day.

“Okay, okay, okay,” she repeated to herself as she drew a big circle in the soil and then divide it in two, with a single much smaller circle in the middle. The next half an hour was spend setting up candles in the circle, stones were scattered in the ridge of the circle, as well as her herbs.

When all that was placed Oya took the bucket of blood and poured it in an oval shape inside one of the chambers of the circle. Above her, her crows croaked with curiosity, their shadows following the circle around and around. She had let them free, used them to look after the garden and surveil the ones that came and went. And every once in a while she let them turn to shadows and travel beyond the stained glass and green to the halls on concrete to keep an eye on the inhabitants.

The blood seeped into the soil as if it was greedy for it.

She then went to her medicine box and opened the various drawers, pulling out vials and dried herbs alike. First, she crushed herbs in the mortar, pouting the powter into a deep bowl, followed by snake oil and two drops of belladonna essence. Other oils and essences were also added, among them being Daffodil oil and water hemlock essence. And for good measures mistletoe.

The concoction was fatal, to say the least, if it had not been for Oya’s keen potion making and alchemical abilities.

Then she crushed the bone of crow into dusty clumps, stuck a feather into the mix, poured the blood of a deer and added dried chicken feet as well as sparrow claws.

To be perfectly honest the concoction looked as revolting as it sounded and it smelled even worse.

“This better fucking work,” she muttered in her native tongue, cutting a tiny wound into the palm of her hand and let a few drops fall into the potion. The wound healed up immediately.

Oya rolled her neck and started murmuring forgotten words as the heavy smell of burned herbs began to fill the area. Her hands waved over the bowl, blessing it as well as hexing it. There was a faint feeling of her snake move beneath her skin, reacting to the words that fell from her lips.

At last she added the final ingredient, the sparse few drops of Cordelia’s blood that was left, the hair she had ripped out long gone, burned with the herbs.

The hardest part was swallowing it all down without throwing up. The taste was unimaginable and stuck to her tongue as well as nose. It clawed at her throat and threatened to spill into her lungs. Her stomach turned. Quickly and with stubbornness she swallowed the last of it, crawling over the soil to lie down in the other compartment of the circle, the one not touched by blood.

She closed her eyes and emptied her head, letting the soil swallow her up and the darkness wash over her. As she sank into the soil she raised above the surface of the Inbewteen. Her stomach turned again and a cold shill went through her body.

A gasp escaped her when she pushed herself up from the water, finding herself dry despite having gone through it. She was naked now, as she usually was in the Inbetween. There was nothing, a void so easily recognized by how often she had been there over the years.

Two doors revealed themselves, one shining black that caught the light that wasn't present and one a screaming red against the black vastness of everything. One felt familiar to her soul, begged her to open it, while the other was the one she needed to go through.

Her body felt weak and shaking, a sweat working its way up on her brow while she felt cold. Her stomach felt like a storm threatening to spill over at any moment. She strode to the red door with quick steps, twisting the knob and stepping into the black walls of hell. The red had turned to black as she closed the door behind her, hand resting on it while she sank forward, mouth pouring with saliva. She spat the excess onto the ground and heard her stomach growl in dismay while her insides convulsed.

What began as a waterfall of saliva turned into a strangled gag and then she felt her stomach purge, felt it rise throughout her oesophagus and upwards. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, made her eyes burn with tears and neck strain enough to pop every vein. It slithered up and she opened her mouth ready to spill the contents.

The white snake slithered forth and landed in a pool of her saliva. As soon as the head was out, the rest of the snake quickly followed and when she was finally free of it, she drew in deep breaths and strained gasps until she caught enough air in her lungs to stretch out.

At her feet the snake slithered around, waiting to be told what to do. She wiped her mouth and brushed her air out of her face, already feeling better. “Find her.”

The snake slithered forth, leaving a trail of wet behind it until it eventually disappeared. Oya followed with bare feet, her strides long and filled with purpose. The white dress swung around her, no longer dirty from soil, spilled blood and concoction. Guess hell made her clean.

At one point she passed a corridor and paused, looking down an opposite hall the mirror image of the one she was in. The black door opened and a man dark as midnight stepped out wearing a silver lined suit. He was beautiful, with high cheekbones and thick lips only a man as dark as him could have. What caught her attention the most was the aura around him, humming with as much glee as it did pain. There was a silver circle around his dark eyes only matched by the silver on his eyelids.

When he caught sight of her, he bowed. She automatically returned the bow, brows slightly furrowed in bewilderment. The demon then turned and walked away. It was the first true demon she had seen.

The snake hissed, the sound distant. With quick steps, she returned to the snake while it slithered forth until it coiled at a door. The doorknob was cold to the touch and when she entered there was the same cold crisp to the air. Everything was cast in blue light, haunting and strangely beautiful. One step ago she was outside in hell, now she was standing at the Robichaux Academy.

The floor didn’t creak when she walked through the room. The sound of a sob echoed through the dead silent halls, the only thing filling the empty void in the air. It felt just as it had done when she visited the real Academy. The lack of magic, the hollowness of the house as if its bones had been edged out and left empty. The snake slithered into the dining hall and waited patiently there.

She already knew what she’d see but she still she felt the gratification rise within her when her eyes fell upon the bodies of the witches, each scattered around a broken and crying Cordelia. The woman clutched one of the dead witches to her chest, one Oya didn’t know the name of. Her body rocked back and forth, eyes swollen and thick with tears.

“So this is what your personal hell looks like,” Oya mused. Her voice cut through the daze in Cordelia's mind, the loop she was in broken by her presence. The woman’s brows furrowed as she cast a fierce and biting look towards Oya. “Surrounded by those you love without any possibility of bringing them back.”

“No,” Cordelia murmur faintly.

“You lost, if you couldn’t tell,” Oya mocked with venomous glee. “Not that you didn’t try, I have to give you that. Mallory did her part and did it well but alas she was nothing against a goddess.”

“No,” Cordelia repeated, loosening her grip on the dead girl. Her eyes blinked, tears no longer filling them through the pain was still there. The fallen supreme gathered her strength and let go of the girl entirely, turning to Oya and staggering to her knees. “Why are you here?”

“You have something I want.”

Cordelia was about to question what it was but her mind clicked and a flicker of pure and adulterated spite settled in her eyes. “I will give you nothing.”

“Not to sound like a total villain but I was kind of hoping you’d say that,” Oya stepped closer, her steps deliberate and strong. “I could try and bargain with you if it weren’t because I can take what I want. Tell you about how Mallory died and where she is now.” Cordelia’s eyes narrowed in contempt. The flicker of light in the witches eyes told Oya everything she needed to know. That Mallory had been a soft spot and that her death would affect her. “Every bone in her body was crushed and her insides turned liquid with the amount of pressure on her. You should have seen it, blood pouring from her eyes that were ready to burst out of her skull, I wonder…. What she thought about when I cut her throat.”

“You can give me every single gruesome detail but it won’t change anything,” Cordelia spat, her hands clutching the wrinkled gown she wore so hard her knuckles were white. Oya’s eyes trailed towards Mallory’s body and noted that she merely looked asleep. Her eyes closed and she rolled her head back and forth drawing in a deep breath only to let it out again and with it her magic. It wrapped around Mallory’s body and within the blink of an eye, the serene looking witch turned to the horrific body Oya had left behind floating in the tub.

A strangled whine escaped Cordelia who clawed at the floor as she shook at the sight. The crying chorus of ‘no’ filled the air and with each word edged in the broken pain of the fallen supreme before her.

“S-she wasn’t meant to… She was good!”

“Not that good, she did try and kill a child. Not exactly the actions of a good-.”

“He was the antichrist! He was going to destroy the world and you let him!” Cordelia screamed, tears and snot running down her face all the same.

Oya waved her hand in the air as if she were waving off flies. “Yes yes, I’ve had this conversation before. I’d much rather tell you about where she is.” Cordelia's eyes snapped up at her, pleading and still spiteful. “She’s not in hell but the underworld. The principals are the same, torment for eternity. Her world shifts between emotional torment like this,” her hand motioned to the scenario surrounding them. “And a much more physical kind of misery.”

“Stop, just stop,” Cordelia trembled out, using her hand to shield her reddened face from Oya’s prying and cruel eyes. It didn’t help of course. There was no shielding her shame. “You said you’d take what you wanted from me so just do it and get it over with.”

The white snake slithered forth, curling between Oya’s feet and towards Cordelia, tongue snapping out every once in a while to taste the agony in the air. Oya let out a mocking sigh. “Only because I respect who you were and your stubbornness.”

White scales caught the blue light as the snake slithered to Cordelia who wrung away. In one swift movement, the witch was nailed to the spot muscles straining against invisible tethers. It climbed her body, twisted around her neck and waited patiently for Oya to force Cordelia’s locked jaws open and then slithered inside. Cordelia choked and sputtered, fingers jittering at her side while her eyes widened in horror. She gagged at the intrusion and Oya couldn’t blame her. The snake was big and far longer than a cock… When it had slithered inside Oya let got of her grasp and released her from the bindings. The snake would come out by itself and Cordelia was certain not to resist getting it out.

“I know it’s uncomfortable, trust me but you did have it coming.” It wasn’t like her to mock so much, to banter back and forth this way with cruel intentions and venomous words but the image of Michael’s heavy shoulders and the hidden hurt Cordelia had inflicted upon him wouldn't go away. He missed her. He wished for his mother figure, the woman who’d stand by his side and never betray him. Of course, he had her, the woman who’d do anything for him. But he was going to need a person to take part in the politics and while Oya would remain his other half, he was going to need someone less prone to curse her opponents.

In one convulsive move, Cordelia lunged forward, her nails raking over the floor audibly while her beath strained and body broke into shudders. Oya made a disgusted face at the sound of wet gagging, a shudder of her own running through her body with the memory of how it was for her.  

When the snake returned from the inside of a human it was silver grey, the tips of its scales dark green. It fell to the floor among other fluids where it coiled and slithered towards the door now enlightened with the knowledge it was meant to obtain.

“Your hell, Cordelia, is going to be a lot more painful from now on,” Oya said and turned to follow the snake out. The click of the door closing shut out the sounds of broken sobs.

Oya followed the snake through the halls, seemingly walking forever with no change of decor or any roaming souls. There were no demons either and she wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one. Either way, she continued on.

Then the snake finally curled in front of a door. Before entering she picked up the snake and let it twist around her wrist, its heavy body weighing more than you’d expect. It remained there, silent and tasting the air. The door creaked as she entered the building finding that the insides were darkened wood, carved out in a 1920-is style with dark wallpaper where there weren't panelling. The moment she set foot inside she knew where she was, the old haunted house beside the one Michael grew up in. There were the cold touch of spirits in the air and the lining of the house held dark energy drawn from the corridors of hell.

“Hello?” She sounded out hoping that this would be it for now. That Mrs. Mead would just appear and they could take their leave. But that wasn’t meant to be, she already knew that. She’d have to look for something out of place.

“Who are you?” A man asked after appearing around the corner followed by two women, one with strawberry blond hair and the other older with burned red hair. At the top of the stairs, Mrs. Langdon appeared, smoke in her hand and an annoyed expression upon her face.

“She is the one I told you about,” Mrs. Langdon answered. The strawberry blond crossed her arms over her chest and guarded her expression. She was the one who was the weariest.

“I’m Oya,” she introduced and stepped further in, eyes running over the surroundings trying to pinpoint something that didn’t belong. “I’m looking for something.”

“What?” The older redhead asked at the same time the strawberry blond said; “We’re not going to help you. You’re with him, Michael.” The name caused the house to groan, a shudder going through the air and rippling through the souls. What was guarded and weary became more so. Oya disregarded this and continued to look through the house, eyes catching a glimpse of the desolate land outside of the windows.

“I’m looking for something that doesn't belong, something new or out of place.”

“Why should we help you?” The man asked.

Oya inhaled in thought. Why should they help her? They didn’t have to. She’d eventually find what she needed but it’d go faster with their help. Each soul had a different aura, some told of their innocence while others told of the decay. Each had been judged but sentenced all the same. But who exactly judged them? “Because it’d get me out of here faster.”

“Can you help us?” The older redhead asked, soul, radiating innocence and eyes longing for peace.

“Moira!” The strawberry blond hissed.

“If this is my chance of getting out of here I’m taking it! Don’t you take that away from me, Vivien,” Moira hissed back, stepping forward with hands pressed together in a prayer and eyes pleading. Oya simply smiled at her and would have taken her hands between her own if it weren't for the snake residing in one of them. Instead, she pushed the paying hands down and away from her. Prayer didn’t help either of them.

“I can get you out if I wanted to, give you peace or send you on your merry way to heaven or whatever, it doesn’t matter to me. What matters is finding this object.” Her eyes looked past Moira to the couple wrapping their arms around one another protectively and then up at the woman on top of the staircase. There were more ghosts, she could feel their eyes on her, hidden from sight but very much there. They whispered amongst each other, some in scorn while others in hope.

“Is that a possibility for all of us?” A woman asked body and face burned to a crisp.

“Most of you,” Oya answered, eyeing Michael’s grandma and the strawberry blond who was without a doubt Michael’s birth mother. “I’ll release you to wherever is next for you, that being hell or the beyond.”

“This is hell,” Mrs. Langdon spat taking a few steps down the stair followed by a boy with blond curly hair and dark eyes.  Born of life and death, human and spirit. This was the father. The vessel in which Satan used to spawn the antichrist. Oya could see it, the touch of the same kind of darkness Michael had emanating around his father.

“Hell could be far worse, trust me on this,” Oya replied. “And if it were up to me you’d feel the flames of hell along with the others that hurt Michael but he left you here to rot. I trust this hell is sufficient.”

“You’re just as bad as him,” Vivien commented, held back by whom Oya believed was her husband. Vivien was a strange soul with a strange aura. She was meant for heaven or eternal bliss but was trapped here with the rest of them and somehow she remained pure like Moira and the burned woman, untainted by the house and its deeds. Untainted by her attempt to kill Michael.

Her husband was another story.

“I won’t argue with you.” The indifference in her voice was staggering but honestly, she was tired and she wanted to get out of hell. “Most of us in this room as done shitty things-.”

“Like ending the world?” Michael’s father said from the stairs, voice as hard as his eyes. Oya shrugged and looked at Moira.

“Where is it?”

“Moira don’t,” Vivien begged but found that Moira had been swayed. There were no hard feelings between them though, both women understanding the other. Oya followed the redhead into the living room and pointed over the fireplace at a goat's head. It was black and its eyes seemed afire.

“It just appeared.”

Oya walked past the maid, hand squeezing her arm in thanks before continuing towards the mantlepiece. Why a goat's head she’d never have the answer for but she knew why it was here. This was the place Michael would have gone to last. The place in which he’d never set foot in. And she couldn’t blame him. With the many ghosts, most of which were calling his existence an abomination, most of which betrayed and disappointed him. It was no wonder Cordelia had chosen to hide her soul in this place. It was a stroke of genius, the intent calculated and malicious. If he were to come here it’d come with a great personal cost.

Too bad they hadn’t foreseen her.

The fur was coarse and stiff under her fingers, the head itself heavy as she took it down and walked towards the main room needing space for the next thing. Horrified eyes followed her as well as curious eyes. Moira followed her quickly behind tethering on the edge to ask for her price. She didn’t however.

Oya produced a knife from beneath her dress, once tied flatly against her thigh, but now catching the eyes of various spirits. The head had been placed on the floor with Oya standing over it, raising her arm with the snake in it, letting it hang limb as her hand was wrapped around its head. The blade cut through scales and flesh, blood gushing down onto the goat. Lights flickered in the house and a wind picked up. The snake was discarded to the floor followed by the blade.

The blood seared through the goat, smoke and steam rising from it and forming into a familiar shape. There was a chorus of gasps.

Mrs. Mead blinked at her, blue eyes framed by black eyelashes and pale skin. She wore a white ragged dress that looked more like a potato bag than a dress. Confused, her brows knitted together, eyes running from one face to another.

“Mrs. Mead,” Oya spoke politely. “I know it’s confusing-.”

“Where am I? H-how did I get here? Is this hell?”

“This is hell alright,” Mrs. Langdon muttered and drew in a breath through the cigarette.

“I will explain it all to you but first I have a promise to uphold.” Oya turned to Moira, then felt around for the souls that needed be here, the ones she deemed innocent enough and felt sympathy for. She might be fucking and loving the antichrist be she wasn’t without empathy. Each soul was judged and sentenced, her tendrils latching onto the ones that earned freedom and peace.

“Thank you,” Moira said moments before she disappeared, slowly dissolving out of existence like fading smoke.

“It was nice to meet you all but I have a world to build and you have an eternity to think over what you’ve done.” There were words thrown at her, one among them being ‘the devil's whore’ but she shut them out and lead Mrs. Mead to the corridors of hell.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Oya. I would say that Michael send me but that’d be twisting the truth,” she confessed. Mrs. Mead stopped and looked at her, eyes uncertain and examining. She wasn’t sure to believe her. Wasn't really sure of anything. “Michael told me about you. When he lost you he lost a piece of himself and he’s been missing it ever since. He would have come for you, he would, but he didn’t know how or where to find you. The witches hid you.”

“But you found me.”

“I did. I’ve spent over a year searching and then perfecting the spell to find you. Now is the time though,” Oya spoke and began to walk. There was a heaviness to Meads' eyes. A searching. Of course, she’d be wary. Anyone would be in her shoes. A stranger coming and freeing you, then walking down the corridors of hell with said woman, entrusting her to lead you to the boy saw as your child. “He needs someone at his side, someone he trusts.”

“If you’re doing this he already has one he trusts. Michael wouldn’t open up like that to just anyone.”

“Yes, he has me but he also needs you.” Mead would be his right hand and Oya his left. She’d be the woman he loved, his queen, and Mead his trusted advisor. “He doesn’t know I’ve found you, it’s quite possible he’d faint in surprise…” Of course, he wouldn’t but the mental picture of it was quite something. “There’s a lot that has happened since you’ve died. A lot has changed and I’m sure you have a lot of questions.”

“I do but I’m hoping Michael will clarify,” Mrs. Mead spoke softly, even more so when speaking his name. “I somehow imagined hell to be much… warmer,” Mrs. Mead commented eyes running over the black decor.

“Yes, well I suppose they decided to modernize,” Oya chuckled.

“But how do we get out of here?”

Oya stopped at the door she had once entered through and looked at Mead with worry and warmth. “It’s not going to be pleasant. Quite frankly it’s properly going to be utmost unpleasant like you’ve been buried alive and every cell in your body screaming for air… Or so I imagine. You’ll have to claw your way out and you’re going to be disoriented.”

Mead nodded and drew in a breath. “I suppose it’s how it is when returning from the dead without a body to return to. For Michael, I’d do anything.”

“Good,” Oya smiled and opened the door. “Don’t get lost.”

Together they walked into the Inbetween, the door closing with a heavy sound behind them. Mead looked mildly distressed and if she had known what this place meant, what it could do, she’d have an entirely different look on her face. The water rippled with each step they took, the small waves catching none existent light. And then the fell forward.

Oya plummeted from the ground, stomach-turning the content within and forcing it up her throat with a burning touch. She clawed at the earth, forcing herself to her knees and hunched forward spilling every drop of the concoction in a heavy stream. It felt as it took all the energy from her, the water pouring all the way from her toes to her head and into the ground. Tears spilled over her eyes, burning. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, tumbling around to watch the other side of the circle.

At first, nothing happened and panic fluttered in her heart, but then the ground started to move. Fingers sprouted from the ground, pale and covered in blood. The earth drew a breath and moved. Slowly, the woman fought her way through the surface, her entire body covered in dirt and blood, eyes wide and disoriented. Ragged breath was drawn in between tight lips, body quaking and shaking with stiff muscles.

Oya crawled to the chest and took the rough blanket that had been laid atop of it. She then stumbled on her knees to Mead and wrapped her naked body in the fabric, speaking soft words of reassurance to the panicked woman. It’d take a moment to return to reality. While Mead’s mind reeled Oya continued to soothe her, running her hand in circles on her back to comfort her.

“Y-you weren’t wrong,” Mead choked out raspy and breathless.

“Welcome to back,” Oya greeted and settled back on her feet. “Are you ready to stand?” Mead nodded and grasped Oya’s held out hands, helping herself up from the ground. They stood for a moment, waiting to gain stronger legs that weren't threatening to cave under them.

“When can I see Michael?”

Oya lifted her brows, a smile playing on her lips even though she felt dead tired. “Don’t you want to be cleaned up first?”

“You’re right, I can’t face him like this, covered in dirt and blood with only a blanket to cover me,” Mead agreed. She didn’t let go of Oya’s hand, instead tightening her grip. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Let’s get you cleaned up,” Oya spoke, a little flushed before ordering Minseo to take the bindings off of her eyes and help the three of them to the empty quarters closest to Michael’s office. There Oya bid goodbye to Mead for the time being and projected herself into her own bathroom to clean up and get re-dressed, the white dress ruined.

They met by the door where they had bid each other goodbye and together ventured towards Michael’s office. By now he’d sit in front of the fire, reading over the plans on his tablet, though Oya suspected that sometimes the words on the screen weren’t reports or plans but rather a book or something entertaining. He couldn’t possibly be spending the entire time working, especially when there were years until most of the plans could be carried out.

The corridors were empty and desolate. Only the two of them walked through them, never pausing when faint voices were heard. They walked towards the dark wooden doors that were the only of its kind in the entire bunker, though it swooshed to the sides as all of the others.

They entered and immediately Michael’s scent hit her nostrils, soothing her tense shoulders and tired body. His mere presence eased her, lulled her into comfort and satisfaction. The energy emitted trailed along her skin and roused up goosebumps. Already she felt her heart drum faster than expected, butterflies fluttering in her empty stomach and warmth spreading through her cold body. Oya stepped around the well-grown rosebush that covered the rest of the office, eyes falling upon Michael sitting by the fire as she expected, tablet in hand and legs crossed, the silver tips of his pointed shoes catching the light of the fire. He looked so good and if it weren’t for Mead she’d have straddled him right then and there.

“What have you been up to?” Michael drawled, turning off the tablet and rising from the comfortable armchair. Oya walked to him, a smile on her red lips and a gleam in the eye. Michael narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously. Her ritual and spell would have drawn his attention, that was expected, so much so it would overshadow Mead’s presence for the time being, but not much longer.

“A bit of everything,” Oya answered and stopped before Michael. “There’s someone I’d like for you to meet, or rather there’s someone you should introduce me to.”

A shadow fell between his furrowed brows, eyes curious but cautious. Then the blue snapped to the presence behind her and she heard his breath being pulled in. Michael stiffened and remained a statue, eyes following Mead as she approached. When she was right before him, the breath that he held was let out into a whisper. “Mrs. Mead.”

“Michael,” she spoke and cupped his cheek. Like a child that had missed his mother, he melted into her touch, tears brought to his eyes and a tremble to his bottom lip. Oya could feel the emotions, felt the swirl in the air and engulf them. Her heart strained against her chest at the display.

“H-how? They hid you.”

“This lovely young woman here found me and brought me back to you.” Mead took Oya’s hand and squeezed it before she let go again. Michael looked at her in a way he had never done before, filled with love and adoration, with surprise and worship. There was gratitude flowing in his tears.

“There’s a lot for the two of you to catch up on and I’m awfully tired,” Oya spoke, caressing Michael’s cheek. “Come see me when you’re done.” She turned to Mead. “It was nice to meet you. I’m looking forward to getting to know you.” Respectfully she bowed her head at them, a habit from the past, and then left the room. Already she could hear them speaking, the muttered voices muffled into silence by the door. Somehow the corridors were far colder than they had been moments before.

The fire crackled peacefully in the background, its long flames licking at the air and casting an orange hue into the room. In her lap laid a journal, the ink dried long ago, while the tip of the pen remained wet and ready for use. She had written down details of the spell, drawn sketches and made prints for it all. Of course, she wrote in Korean, if the book were to fall in supposed wrong hands they’d have a hard time figuring it out.

She had been sitting there for hours, the warmth of the fire pressed on her skin with a loving embrace, while her eyes looked into the dancing flames with a musing expression. Her body felt weak and tired but she couldn’t find rest, instead she bundled up in a soft velvet chair, feet tugged in beneath her and away from the cold nibbling at the floor. If there had been no crackling from the fire she might have turned mad at the silence.

Lost in thought, Oya didn’t hear him come in, didn’t notice his warm tendrils of magic close in around her. Instead, she remained a statue in the glow of the fire.

“You found her,” Michael spoke, his voice cutting through her thoughts and pulled her attention towards him. Like this, in this light and within their own walls his demeanour softened considerably. He truly looked like a benevolent god.

Gently she smiled at him. “Yes. I thought you’d need someone as your right hand.” The book closed, her fingers nimbly putting the cap back on the pen and then tugged into the corner of the chair. “And you missed her. I couldn’t let them take more from you.”

Michael kneeled down at her knees, his hands caressing the bare skin of her calves. “There’s more. I can feel it. The air around you is different.” Blue was swallowed up by black, his pupils dilated to the fullest. Electricity tingled between his fingers and her skin. The warmth he held within him was fiercer than the one emitted from the fire.

She paused, catching her bottom lip between her teeth in what seemed like worry. Then she took his hand and folded out before him, her feet meeting the ground as she sat more properly. Like this she lead his hand to her belly and pressed it in against the bump that was growing, a flutter forming beneath her skin, deep within. At first, there was confusion towards her action, then with another flutter a realisation. His brows went up and mouth opened with no words tumbling out.

“I’m with child,” her voice carried to him the words that brought the world to a halt. “I’m not sure how. I’ve taken precautions and medicine but…”

His hand moved beneath hers, pressing further into her as to feel more. His knees were now on the floor, his body pulled towards her as a reaction. There was wonder on his face, eyes flickering abortion. Her free hand cupped his face, drawing his eyes from her belly towards hers.

“You should say something before I take it the wrong way,” she spoke, a curl to her lips.

“I’m going to be a father?” His voice was haunting, that velvet touch.

“Well yes, I certainly haven't been fucking anyone else,” she chuckled at his big eyes.

A huge smile formed on his lips, one that could outshine the sun and brought her more joy than anything else in the world. “I am for the first time without words.” Before she could laugh at him, he was hunched over her, lips pressed towards her own in an intense kiss. Around her she could feel his magic whirl, his tendrils embracing hers, caressing along any naked skin of hers and then some. The kiss was filled with love that neither of them thought possible.

And then she as back towards her belly, his hands exploring the expanse as if it was a treasure map and he had found the prize. It was almost childish the wonder he held. While he did that she brushed her fingers through his hair, eyes memorizing every emotion that played across his features.

“Are you happy?”

“I’m ecstatic.”

“I don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl, I tried looking into the future, I’ve tried various spells and charms but I’ve seen nothing. Whatever they are, whoever they are, they’re not allowing me to peep,” Oya spoke quietly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Michael answered her, eyes now on her own again. “This world we’re creating is for them.”

“It’s for us.”

[orbemnews]

When your own family is racist toward you A close relative nicknamed her “jungle bunny,” she said. Another relative once turned her framed photo so her face wasn’t visible. And she wasn’t allowed to play with some White cousins — an insult that added to the discrimination she received from strangers. “I heard from a relative in my house that she (my mother) never should have had me because you’re supposed to stick with your own kind,” says Anderson, now 46. “I was never taught how to take care of my hair, so it was always a mess.” Like virtually all people of color, these multiracial people have encountered racism in their lives. And, as Meghan Markle alleged in Sunday’s explosive interview with Oprah Winfrey, prejudicial comments or attitudes can even come from the people closest to them — their own families. Meghan, the wife of Prince Harry whose mother is Black and father is White, says there were “concerns and conversations” within the royal family about how dark their unborn son Archie’s skin would be. Buckingham Palace later issued a statement saying Meghan’s allegations were being “taken very seriously,” while Prince William, Meghan’s brother-in-law, told a reporter, “We’re very much not a racist family.” But Meghan’s remarks have been followed with interest by multiracial people, some of whom told CNN they have endured similar comments from relatives. Racial prejudice between family members is not uncommon Family relationships across races can add another layer of complication for people who are already straddling two or more worlds. In the US, a vast majority of multiracial people — roughly 90% — say they have not been mistreated by a relative or extended family member because of their mixed-race background, according to a 2015 Pew study. But it does happen, and to some racial groups more than others. For example, the Pew study found that 21% biracial adults who are White and Black say they have been treated badly by a relative because of their racial background. And when the day after Meghan’s interview with Oprah one London woman tweeted, “I don’t think the racism mixed race kids face from their own families is discussed enough,” it sparked more than 137,000 likes and a long thread of comments by mixed-race people sharing hurtful experiences. The woman, Kemah Bob, tells CNN she sent that tweet after talking to friends who have parents from different backgrounds. “I’ve heard stories about the ways they’ve been hurt or cast out by their families,” she says. “I can’t imagine experiencing racism from within my own home — from people who say they love me.” CNN also spoke to half a dozen multiracial people who said they’ve been mistreated by their own family members. Some did not want to be identified for fear of straining family relationships, but described hostile upbringings that included their parents being ostracized by other relatives for having children with someone outside their race. One man said his grandparent would call his phone to hurl expletives at him, bringing him to tears. Anderson, the mixed-race Maine woman, was raised by her mother and grandmother in Milo, a town that hosted a Ku Klux Klan parade in the 1920s. Some of her White family members disowned her mother because of “race mixing,” she says. Another relative called her father the “Black bastard.” “Racism lets you know right away that you are not White,” she says. “My Blackness stood out and was rare where I grew up, so it has always been a big part of my identity.” Multiracial people can struggle to fit in on both sides of their family Sharon Metzger, 28, was raised by a White father and a Zambian mother. Her parents met after her father’s Peace Corps stint in the southern African country of Lesotho. They later moved to Arizona and Maryland before setting in Fishers, Indiana, where she lives. Her biggest challenge was trying to fit in both her parents’ worlds, she said. Her Zambian family described her as a “Point Five,” a term implying you’re 0.5, or a half of one race, and commonly used to refer to biracial people in Africa. Trying to determine her identity as a child without making either of her parents feel left out added to the confusion. “As a teenager I felt like ‘the other,’ ‘ she says. “I’ve gotten so tired of answering the ‘so you’re Black and … ?’ So now I state ‘I’m Black’ and I do so proudly.” While she was growing up, Metzger says a relative from her White side would openly lament why her father went to Africa. Metzger has two younger half-brothers whose mother is from Senegal. “She would say, ‘I wish you never went to Africa. You should have stayed in the states,’ ” Metzger says. “If he didn’t (go) the three of us wouldn’t exist.” She says other family members used to describe her hair as too wild and constantly asked her to apply relaxer on it. “I was hurt, annoyed and frustrated,” she says. “It’s almost as if you’re at fault for being biracial. I didn’t like my hair for a long time, especially during childhood and adolescence.” Over time, Metzger says she’s learned to accept herself but steers clear of some family members on both sides. “I usually just kinda keep to myself. I’m at the point where if they’re not over it, it’s their loss,” she says. “It’s better for my mental health, plus I’m figuring out who I am as a person and trying to make my own meaning of what a Black woman is.” Racism can be difficult for families to talk about Joy Hepp is White and the mother of a 3-year-old girl. The Los Angeles woman is expecting a second child with her Haitian partner, who is Black. As the daughter of a half-Mexican mother, Hepp grew up surrounded by a rich mix of Latin culture. She also knows the power of representation after growing up with a sister who had blonde hair and blue eyes. Hepp is preparing to help her children navigate a multiracial world, one that she believes will be complicated by racism. That’s one of the reasons she paid close attention to Meghan’s interview. And she took notes on the subsequent conversations. “I know at the end of the day, my kids will be seen as Black,” Hepp says. “You have to open your eyes to what factors are in place. Their father and I, and the community around them, we’re working to raise them into strong productive and confident individuals.” Hepp says one of her biggest challenges has been convincing her White relatives that her daughter and unborn child will face challenges due to their racial background. “There’s a lot of disbelief, like, ‘oh no,’ like, ‘that can’t be true.’ Just being in denial about systemic racism that exists,” she says. “How do we move forward as a country if people — even family — don’t acknowledge it?” Cassi Moghan can relate. Her birth mother was White and father was Black, and she was adopted into a White family at age 2. Her racial background was a taboo that her family refused to talk about, she says. While she was not called names because of her race, she says the silence around her heritage was just as painful. “I didn’t really grow up discussing racism very much as it all seemed too complicated and painful for everyone,” says Moghan, 56, who was born in England and now lives in Athens, Greece. Moghan believes confronting White family members about their racism can be harder than calling out a friend or colleague. But she hopes conversations such as Meghan and Harry’s interview with Oprah will help push issues of race within families more into the open. “Hearing more experiences from people like ourselves can only help others not feel as lonely as I felt,” she says. It’s one reason multiracial people around the world are following Meghan’s clash with her royal in-laws. If she can bare her pain and emerge stronger, maybe they can, too. Source link Orbem News #Family #Multiracialpeopleoftenfaceracismwithintheirownfamilies-CNN #racist #us

[dipulb3]

When your own family is racist toward you

New Post has been published on https://appradab.com/when-your-own-family-is-racist-toward-you/

When your own family is racist toward you

A close relative nicknamed her “jungle bunny,” she said. Another relative once turned her framed photo so her face wasn’t visible. And she wasn’t allowed to play with some White cousins — an insult that added to the discrimination she received from strangers.

“I heard from a relative in my house that she (my mother) never should have had me because you’re supposed to stick with your own kind,” says Anderson, now 46. “I was never taught how to take care of my hair, so it was always a mess.”

Like virtually all people of color, these multiracial people have encountered racism in their lives. And, as Meghan Markle alleged in Sunday’s explosive interview with Oprah Winfrey, prejudicial comments or attitudes can even come from the people closest to them — their own families.

Meghan, the wife of Prince Harry whose mother is Black and father is White, says there were “concerns and conversations” within the royal family about how dark their unborn son Archie’s skin would be. Buckingham Palace later issued a statement saying Meghan’s allegations were being “taken very seriously,” while Prince William, Meghan’s brother-in-law, told a reporter, “We’re very much not a racist family.”

But Meghan’s remarks have been followed with interest by multiracial people, some of whom told Appradab they have endured similar comments from relatives.

Racial prejudice between family members is not uncommon

Family relationships across races can add another layer of complication for people who are already straddling two or more worlds.

In the US, a vast majority of multiracial people — roughly 90% — say they have not been mistreated by a relative or extended family member because of their mixed-race background, according to a 2015 Pew study.

But it does happen, and to some racial groups more than others. For example, the Pew study found that 21% biracial adults who are White and Black say they have been treated badly by a relative because of their racial background.

And when the day after Meghan’s interview with Oprah one London woman tweeted, “I don’t think the racism mixed race kids face from their own families is discussed enough,” it sparked more than 137,000 likes and a long thread of comments by mixed-race people sharing hurtful experiences.

The woman, Kemah Bob, tells Appradab she sent that tweet after talking to friends who have parents from different backgrounds.

“I’ve heard stories about the ways they’ve been hurt or cast out by their families,” she says. “I can’t imagine experiencing racism from within my own home — from people who say they love me.”

Appradab also spoke to half a dozen multiracial people who said they’ve been mistreated by their own family members.

Some did not want to be identified for fear of straining family relationships, but described hostile upbringings that included their parents being ostracized by other relatives for having children with someone outside their race. One man said his grandparent would call his phone to hurl expletives at him, bringing him to tears.

Anderson, the mixed-race Maine woman, was raised by her mother and grandmother in Milo, a town that hosted a Ku Klux Klan parade in the 1920s.

Some of her White family members disowned her mother because of “race mixing,” she says. Another relative called her father the “Black bastard.”

“Racism lets you know right away that you are not White,” she says. “My Blackness stood out and was rare where I grew up, so it has always been a big part of my identity.”

Multiracial people can struggle to fit in on both sides of their family

Sharon Metzger, 28, was raised by a White father and a Zambian mother. Her parents met after her father’s Peace Corps stint in the southern African country of Lesotho.

They later moved to Arizona and Maryland before setting in Fishers, Indiana, where she lives. Her biggest challenge was trying to fit in both her parents’ worlds, she said.

Her Zambian family described her as a “Point Five,” a term implying you’re 0.5, or a half of one race, and commonly used to refer to biracial people in Africa.

Trying to determine her identity as a child without making either of her parents feel left out added to the confusion.

“As a teenager I felt like ‘the other,’ ‘ she says. “I’ve gotten so tired of answering the ‘so you’re Black and … ?’ So now I state ‘I’m Black’ and I do so proudly.”

While she was growing up, Metzger says a relative from her White side would openly lament why her father went to Africa. Metzger has two younger half-brothers whose mother is from Senegal.

“She would say, ‘I wish you never went to Africa. You should have stayed in the states,’ ” Metzger says. “If he didn’t (go) the three of us wouldn’t exist.”

She says other family members used to describe her hair as too wild and constantly asked her to apply relaxer on it.

“I was hurt, annoyed and frustrated,” she says. “It’s almost as if you’re at fault for being biracial. I didn’t like my hair for a long time, especially during childhood and adolescence.”

Over time, Metzger says she’s learned to accept herself but steers clear of some family members on both sides.

“I usually just kinda keep to myself. I’m at the point where if they’re not over it, it’s their loss,” she says. “It’s better for my mental health, plus I’m figuring out who I am as a person and trying to make my own meaning of what a Black woman is.”

Racism can be difficult for families to talk about

Joy Hepp is White and the mother of a 3-year-old girl. The Los Angeles woman is expecting a second child with her Haitian partner, who is Black.

As the daughter of a half-Mexican mother, Hepp grew up surrounded by a rich mix of Latin culture. She also knows the power of representation after growing up with a sister who had blonde hair and blue eyes.

Hepp is preparing to help her children navigate a multiracial world, one that she believes will be complicated by racism. That’s one of the reasons she paid close attention to Meghan’s interview.

And she took notes on the subsequent conversations.

“I know at the end of the day, my kids will be seen as Black,” Hepp says. “You have to open your eyes to what factors are in place. Their father and I, and the community around them, we’re working to raise them into strong productive and confident individuals.”

Hepp says one of her biggest challenges has been convincing her White relatives that her daughter and unborn child will face challenges due to their racial background.

“There’s a lot of disbelief, like, ‘oh no,’ like, ‘that can’t be true.’ Just being in denial about systemic racism that exists,” she says. “How do we move forward as a country if people — even family — don’t acknowledge it?”

Cassi Moghan can relate. Her birth mother was White and father was Black, and she was adopted into a White family at age 2.

Her racial background was a taboo that her family refused to talk about, she says. While she was not called names because of her race, she says the silence around her heritage was just as painful.

“I didn’t really grow up discussing racism very much as it all seemed too complicated and painful for everyone,” says Moghan, 56, who was born in England and now lives in Athens, Greece.

Moghan believes confronting White family members about their racism can be harder than calling out a friend or colleague. But she hopes conversations such as Meghan and Harry’s interview with Oprah will help push issues of race within families more into the open.

“Hearing more experiences from people like ourselves can only help others not feel as lonely as I felt,” she says.

It’s one reason multiracial people around the world are following Meghan’s clash with her royal in-laws. If she can bare her pain and emerge stronger, maybe they can, too.

[gigsoupmusic]

SORAIA's New Album 'DIG YOUR ROOTS' Out Today

Personal growth, rebirth, even revolution – such transformative concepts are the heart of what Soraia is all about. These heady themes inform the songs on Dig Your Roots, the band’s latest album, out March 13 on Wicked Cool Records. “I look at Dig Your Roots as a continuation of what was begun on Dead Reckoning,” says singer and frontwoman ZouZou Mansour of the new album’s relationship to their 2017 Wicked Cool LP. That record’s release prompted Rolling Stone/Mojo scribe David Fricke to write Soraia’s “searing guitars, burning soul and true CBGB grit…are the rock you need, in your face now.” “Dig Your Roots is coming to terms with the light and dark inside myself and in the world,” ZouZou shares. “I come from a diverse multicultural and multireligious background – my father was Muslim and Egyptian, and my mother was Belgian and Catholic. I was ‘different,’ and I hid some of my background from people, thinking I wouldn't be accepted. Digging my roots is being proud of who I am, letting it come before me even at times, being proud of where I come from, and asking the listener to do the same. “Dig Your Roots also refers to loving what grounds you: the people, the lifestyles, the places you live, where you grew up. It’s being willing to dig up your roots and re-plant if where you are no longer keeps you free – metaphorically, of course. Inherently, I want this to be the message of the record: if you're down, get up.” As a spiritual descendent of iconic women in rock such as Patti Smith and Joan Jett, ZouZou’s Philadelphia-based band also embodies elements of kindred spirits of the ’90s and beyond - like PJ Harvey and The Kills, with more than a sprinkling of ’60s Garage Rock and Soul. Their primal sonic attack spreads a message of perseverance through trials of love, loss and letting go. Bassist Travis Smith continues to be a crucial root of the Soraia tree, co-writing five of the album’s new songs with ZouZou, including “Superman Is Gone” and “Wild Woman.” “Travis delved into places on this album that we didn't go to on the last record,” she reveals. “That's scary. But he did it, which ultimately made me do it, too. It's like, ‘Hold my hand, we're going into this dark cave, and who knows what's going to happen…” Roots also finds drummer Brianna Sig with her first Soraia co-write, the enchanting “Don’t Have You.” “Her melody for the choruses reminded me of how The Sirens would lure sailors in Greek mythology,” ZouZou relates. “It was haunting and beautiful – and if Soraia isn't both of those things, then I don't know what we're doing here.” The band faced an unexpected challenge when guitarist Mike Reisman, who co-wrote four Dig tracks, including 2019 single “Evergreen,” left the group. “Mike can’t tour for longer periods of time anymore,” says ZouZou. “It hurt. He still works with us and we still connect. But you grow closer with who remains, and grow yourself.” Going forward, Nick Seditious is handling guitar duties. Further nourishing their roots is the continued support of Wicked Cool’s Stevie Van Zandt. The label head has been an advocate ever since naming their breakout track “Love Like Voodoo” the Coolest Song in the World on his syndicated radio show and SiriusXM channel Little Steven’s Underground Garage in 2013. In January 2020, Dig Your Roots' opening cut “Dangerous” becomes the tenth Coolest Song they’ve earned. Van Zandt has even become a creative collaborator, penning “Why” for Dead Reckoning and co-writing two Roots tunes: 2019 Coolest Song “Still I Rise” and forthcoming single “Darkness (Is My Only Candle).” “I trust him more than anyone in knowing what I'm trying to say and who I am,” says ZouZou. Complementing them in the studio once again is producer/engineer Geoff Sanoff, whose credits include notable work with Bruce Springsteen, Fountains Of Wayne and Dashboard Confessional. “He’s a member of the band when we’re in there,” ZouZou acknowledges. Soraia has come a long way since their punked-up cover of The Kinks’ “(I’m Not) Like Everybody Else” hit #1 on Rock radio in South America in 2015. Their independently released debut album In The Valley Of Love And Guns from 2013 features five songs co-written with Jon Bon Jovi. “I'm all about playing a fun song and throwing myself around, that's Rock ’n’ Roll at its heart,” ZouZou remarks. “But I'm also about telling the stories of resurrection and life and hope and darkness.” And now, the songs of 'Dig Your Roots' in ZouZou’s own words… 1. Dangerous I was listening to a ton of Jet and The Vines at one point, and just loved the recklessness – especially in the screams on those songs – and the pure Rock eruption of it all. It's less than three minutes and explodes the entire time. “Dangerous” was born from that specific decision to write a song with those kinds of explosive dynamics and lyrics – and as always – easy and passionate conversations about the things we love. 2. Wild Woman I had been listening to this female preacher talking about being “born inside the wild” and not knowing where you were – but that strong women thrived in the wild. I fell in love with that idea of birthing yourself – which is one way to put it – over and over when you enter into situations you're uncomfortable in, or have never been in. An added bonus is the notion of being a “wild woman” in that way was a different take on the idea I think social consciousness has on being a “wild woman.” Empowering instead of denigrating. Travis had written this swampy, mysterious riff, so we took that and made it the forefront of the song, and took the subject matter – pieced them together – and VOILA! WILD WOMAAAAAAN!!! 3. Evergreen Mike played this riff that became the verses and said he heard this drumbeat like “Howlin’ For You” by The Black Keys for it. I had been watching the movie Black Snake Moan and heard this line that the main female character “had the devil in her.” That conjured up this old South feeling for me, so I wanted to put that in and give it that vibe. The story is told with a sometimes playful and teasing attitude, and sometimes aggressive and frustrated tone. It really felt freeing and gave the speaker the power back she didn't feel she had in the first place. 4. Foxfire Travis had this intriguing idea of “foxfire” for a title line. I didn't know what it meant, so he told me all about it. It’s this phosphorescent light emitted by certain fungi on decaying timber. It’s beautiful when it glows, but it isn’t real, it’s a momentary thing. And when people would see it in the woods, many got lost being guided by it. We thought it would be interesting to write a song about depression from the standpoint of “foxfire” – or these glimmering thoughts that lead you astray and only give the illusion that everything's alright. The struggle to believe in any one thought, to characterize the confusion of that type of struggle from the speaker's point of view. 5. Darkness (Is My Only Candle) Again, a song written almost together in a room. There's a line of a Rumi poem, “Darkness is your candle.” At the time, there had been the Charlottesville riots, and lots of violence that seemed horrifically reminiscent of the racial injustices of the ’60s. I remember thinking “Where are we?” and being really upset about all the hatred and racial slurs. This song came as a result of anger, pain, sadness, worry, and ultimately the idea we can't be separate anymore or stay quiet. It took a few sessions to write because Travis and I were both so impassioned about making sure we told the truth and stayed with the times as we saw them. 6. Nothing Compares 2 U I had always felt so strongly about the Sinéad O’Connor version of this song. But despite being a big Prince fan, I had never heard his version. When I did, and heard the first line lyric change – “It’s been seven hours and thirteen days” – I knew immediately this was the one. Those numbers alone and the darker, more soulful approach he took to the lyric and melody spoke to me in a different way than the more popular version by Sinéad. In the studio, Geoff Sanoff really wanted to bring this Mott The Hoople vibe to it like “All The Young Dudes” – which added a lot more to our style of approaching it. 7. Superman Is Gone Another Travis and I song, this one was specifically about the idea of being high and feeling like “Superman” when you did that first line of anything. I'm a recovering person, so it was important to me that I also tell the story of the anger I had at my father over being absent when I was going through that. I have already forgiven him and me about that, but I wanted to tell the story honestly. And there's a part of me that still questions where were a lot of different people in my life when I was busy getting high. That idea that you wonder where people were and what they were doing when you were hardcore in this addiction – with no feeling attached to it – just a human curiosity. 8. Way That You Want It It's really just about this guy who is frustrated by a girl he digs but can't have. It's based lyrically off the same idea as “I Hate Myself For Loving You” by Joan Jett & The Blackhearts, but from the viewpoint of another character – where I'm singing as the storyteller/observer instead of the person it's all happening to. 9. Still I Rise Based on a Maya Angelou poem. I live my life in no particular time, almost in a time vacuum. And no matter what, you get up. Mike and I had originally written the song, and called it “I Am (Rise).” But Steven Van Zandt got a hold of it and loved the story of the song, so we rewrote the lyrics, and he rewrote the music to it, to really tell the story of people getting up after falling. I had taken a few lines from actual conversations or experiences I had. Then, Steven and I tried to pay homage as much as possible to the original poem. We rewrote it together in an afternoon – one of the best experiences I've had with him. 10. Don’t Have You This was officially the last song written for the album. Brianna sent me two separate song ideas that ended up becoming “Don't Have You.” This was also the last song recorded for the album, and Geoff knew right away the approach to the piano. It became something really beautiful, and I wanted to keep it simple and stripped in the front end, so the lyric could pull in the listener. This was about my own heartbreak, and that little feeling of hope and possibility still inherent in the relationship is really powerful in the middle of the song. It was Geoff's idea to speak that part instead of sing it, and I was thrilled with how it came out. 11. Euphoria “Euphoria” was written by myself and Travis. I loved the bluesy and spacious riff he came up with. I felt it left a space for some sort of testimony – so I told the story of all these experiences smashed together. Though each line seems to stand alone in some parts, they weave a truthful story of this woman coming back from the dead. I love the lyric in this one. Brianna had this great idea to end it in a church-y way, since it's mainly about wanting this high experience in life. And what a great way to end the record! Read the full article

[emthepoet-blog]

Suicidal thoughts are not the same as thinking about what you might have for lunch today. Tough as nails does not mean what it used to. We are rusting bending breaking eroding under the weight of our own misplaced expectations. Love isn’t the same as hate yet we confuse it for comfort and crave it as art. Year five the age I started learning to dodge bullets with metaphors the year I began to understand what a broken marriage looks like as the one I’d known best splintered violently between explosive plate bombs and poorly sewn tongues with razor-sharp edges crashing to silver bits as they carelessly land blow after blow against the ears of these paper thin walls. It was my first lesson on love. Later that year a curious boy outstretched his tiny hand holding a yellow daisy as bright as the sun and called it bliss. Together we consumed every softly plucked petal. swallowed each of them whole because even then we knew this feeling this kind of joy keeps best when stored close to the heart. Year seven year of the knife fight year of little girls who rise to be their own hero the first time I was faced with a decision of life or death. Mommy dearest tell me, do you recall what it’s like to squeeze the breath from the only thing you have ever given life? this the year of loyalty this the age of saying “no”. Year nine year of strange men who let’s be honest now were never very interested in my part of this equation maybe that’s where I got my taste for bad boys or is it that I’m attracted to safe havens who have wrapped themselves in just enough red flags to be a God damn expert on the subject. You gift your trust like wasted water corroded and calcified imprisoned by the waste left in your path this the year of you. I’ve never been so afraid as the day I saw my father’s face when he realized what this man had done to me but strong girls don’t speak of these things I thought. Strong girl hides what memories are left in the trunk of that stolen car in the breadth of that lonely desert sun strong girl’s brain claims she can’t remember and so it is. Year thirteen year of the armadillo Spanish for “little armored one” year of family interventions of breaking into my childhood home to steal things I’d been raised to call my own. Year of little girls whose mothers gave up on them for a chance to get ahead. I hardened tenaciously. On mothers day I’ll find myself wandering in some overpriced garden of half-picked cards the island of fucked up kids silently wilting next to the family planning aisle quietly weeping for the daisy’s on my heart that have still been sewn for you. I’ll sit down at brunch hand you a bouquet of vivacious flowers and a card that reads: “I am who I am because of you.” Year fifteen the year you left me no, scratch that the year you gave me away tolerant as the water bear turbulent as the sea. Fearlessness was a bi-product of your discarded intimacy hanging in deliberation as you said yes to the money not to me child support without the child. Year eighteen I don’t know you anymore. And you don’t know me, Beyond a face and this place your love once called home where creases pressed in time tell stories of laughter’s past blending seamlessly into mine molding the tale to your legacy. We’ve barely spoken in three years since the night you abandoned me crying into a bed of cold bathroom floor tiles hidden away at my first homecoming dance. It was three days before you called before my heart decided I’d claim a year for each day I’d been left to wonder if you cared that I’m alive. You told me, “You’re just like him.” I told you, “I know.” Year twenty-one It’s my birthday. I wear red “Beso” red lipstick auburn red hair silk red halter red hell-raiser heels all rubies all fire. Together we sit gracefully chatting through my pink-salted glass of my first legal strawberry dacquari pretending all was as it is supposed to be. Year twenty-three this suitcase has grown heavy too much to carry on. It has since been recommended when I lose my way to consult inward, set up a meeting consider the actions of paws met with pride coax the beast this ghost animalistic that dwells inside. I faced the wolf our two wild hearts glaring back into my yellowed hungry eyes. You like the taste of blood she told me. I replied; maybe it’s the constellations in me. this obliterating attraction to the glistening night sky. Year twenty-five mother, although I left you too please know that I love you.

@wordsmith_sf