#when in reality it's as simple as: would this tool make my life easier?

[freakwiththeknifecollection]

The stigma around taking medication is weird as a person who takes medications cause you'll have someone who knows you take meds tell you why they don't want to take any and it's deeply rooted in ableism and also makes you wonder... do they think these things about me because I take medication?

It's just like when someone explains to you, a glasses wearer, why they don't want to wear glasses. It's always offensive and comes from their self-pride and vanity issues

[oddsconvert]

🪢 & 👀for Henley please

From this ask game!

🪢How do you ensure that your pet doesn't run off into the street?

Ronan:

"Simple. I don't trust. I don't leave anything to chance.

My pets are new, unacquainted with my home. I don't trust them as far as I could throw them. Maybe further down the road in their training, the constant supervision and restraints can be relaxed - for Henley, primarily. I don't think he has the balls or the brains to attempt anything.

Izaak's a difficult case, isn't he? I don't know if that trust element will ever be there. That shock collar of his is my handy little tool in keeping him in place. Constantly restrained should he get any little silly ideas. And I don't let him out of the basement full stop, for the time being."

👀 What advice would you give to new pets or those considering becoming a pet?

Henley:

"C-Considering becoming a pet? Who - Wha-... Do people do that? Is...Is that a thing?!"

Henley shakes the horrid thought from his head. That someone could want this. He doesn't have the energy, the need nor the want to think about that reality right now.

"I'd tell them what I told Izaak. Maybe in a softer, reassuring way but... obedience really is the key to survival. It's easier to submit. If they're going to hurt you regardless, why give them the ammunition to make it all that much worse?

Any life you had before is non-existent. The person you were before being a pet is dead. It's almost like...like a rebirth. When they latch that collar around your throat, the humanity drains away.

It's easier that way. Better that way. Be seen and not heard, keep to yourself and do all you're asked and you'll just about make it through."

-

OC ask taglist: @whatwasmyprevioususername

[jpttools]

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[skipps-writes-for-gojo-satoru]

Someone made an incredible animation of the scene in hidden inventory where Gojo gets screamed at by teen girls fawning over him, and it's beautiful ✨

https://youtu.be/5l9_O51-YYs

Also, it highlights my previous point that when Gojo's confronted by women flirting with him, he doesn't really do... Anything. He's just chill about it. And the little °^° face he makes and the little confused "hm?" from the manga panel in the beginning could indicate that Gojo might not be hit on by girls as often as we think- Jujutsu sorcerers are busy and have even their time off interrupted on the regular. Other than being mildly amused, we don't see Gojo actively bask or pursue attention from women (other than Utahime ofc, which could be because she's as straight-laced as Nanami).

The little content smile he gives at the end basically says it all: Gojo enjoys the attention, but most likely isn't interested in pursuing anything more than that, including sexual relations (with more reasons from my previous posts).

I could see Gojo being the type to allow himself to appreciate just a bit of affection from random women he encounters on missions and then casually walking off with a lazy wave of his hand- just like he did with Miwa.

The man's on a mission (literally) with the goal to change the world. Virgin Gojo is very possible seeing how unaffected he is by women throwing themselves at him- or at least, he allows himself a moment to enjoy the attention but is quick to dismiss the thought from his mind to focus on his duty.

Honestly, non virgin Gojo is still possible, but unless we see Gojo actually show interest or actively flirt with someone (which seems unlikely), we may never know. To me, analyzing Gojo with his interactions with other characters (not his antics) makes me think it's more likely Gojo is a virgin than not, simply bc the argument for Gojo being a non virgin is his looks and immaturity (or his act of immaturity, we know Gojo thinks in a much more complex way than he lets on) which I'd argue is not an accurate description of his character, because that's only a part of it, and is in fact only what Gojo shows on the surface. And there's plenty of reasons why his lifestyle would make such getaways difficult. Also, Gojo's lack of enthusiasm for it. Gojo allows girls to fawn over him, but he hardly stokes the fire more than just taking off his glasses when they asked him to.

If Gojo was more like Osamu Dazai from Bungou Stray Dogs who flirts with every women he sees, I would have an easier time believing he would not be a virgin, but his lifestyle, behavior, and even his Six Eyes and his goal makes me think he wouldn't choose to constantly go on small getaways like that. Personally, I'd say Gojo spends more of his time plotting and maximizing his efforts on recreating Jujutsu Society.

Really, when Gege said he couldn't see Gojo being faithful to a woman could be because he's already committed to his job. Not because he's out womanizing, but even because the type of woman he'd commit to is so rare. And even if he did find a woman he'd commit to, being the ENTP he is means he's incapable of immediately recognizing and acting on his emotions- not because he doesn't have them, but because they're not really his forté. He'd rather rationalize his behavior than attempt to understand his own feelings. It'll take time and patience, but Gojo committing is still a possibility.

Honestly, I'd like to hear why people would think Gojo's a cheater/womanizer to begin with? Besides him teasing Utahime, Gojo's been pretty respectful to Shoko and Mei Mei. He even complimented and recognized Mei Mei's strength as a sorcerer. He didn't flirt once with the hoard of girls fawning over him. In fact, he was quick to focus on his mission despite the attention. I don't think Gojo's ever even teased Shoko about anything (other than commenting on her terrible way of explaining things, which is more of a fact than teasing). Though, correct me if I'm wrong.

Also, I haven't mentioned Riko much in previous posts and idrk why lol. But while Gojo is dominated by logical thinking, he's emotionally inept enough to notice Riko's mood. He may seem cold in how he comforted her by saying he'd leave her behind, but it's more of his ENTP personality that has him expressing his emotions in a more objective manner- even if it hurts, it's the truth, and that's fine isn't it? (Typical ENTP way of thinking).

Also slight tangent I read that one long meta about Gojo's interaction with Riko someone linked, and I'm completely appalled that they would think Gojo is only "pretending" to have emotions, "mimicking" them even! That he's incapable of truly feeling when in fact it's inherently characteristic of any ENTP to express themselves in a way that, to others, would be considered "cold" and unempathetic. It just goes to show just how misunderstood ENTPs are. They only make up 3% of the world so are often confused for socios/narcs/psychos which is understandable-

But I wanna make one thing clear: all sociopaths could be considered ENTPs. But not all ENTPs are sociopaths. (Switch Socio with psycho/narc/etc and it still works). Why?

Purpose.

Arrogance, boastfulness, unrefined emotional sensitivity, recklessness, impulsiveness- all of those fall below the importance of Purpose. Regardless of how Gojo "acts," it's been expressed time and time again- Gojo acts for the sake of the next generation. Sociopaths/Antisocial Personality Disorder/Psychopaths have one most common defining starting point: "it all starts with cruelty to animals and lack of response to their own actions, or actions of other people."

Let's make it more simple: regardless of whatever end of the spectrum sociopathy can be- high functioning, low functioning- antisocial personality disorder, in it's most simple terms, along with psychopathy and narcissism, condensed into one common trait is very clear: Their actions, while easily blendible into society, are for the sole purpose of pleasuring themselves.

Why don't people notice those with these disorders? Because their *behavior* is so similar to not just the typical ENTP, but also the ISTP AND ESTP. They can easily be mistaken for common members of society, but again: their sole purpose is the pursuit of pleasure themselves, while acting with complete disregard for the consequences of not just their own actions but others'. Staying in one job for extended periods of time is especially rare for a sociopath in particular, and this is one very clear difference between Gojo and a sociopath.

Gojo is willing to spend the rest of his life as a Jujutsu Sorcerer for the sake of others. This sentence alone defies any inclination that he could be a sociopath regardless of any other symptoms commonly associated with sociopathy, such as emotional insensitivity, hostility, risk taking behavior, lack of restraint, and impulsivity- there's a reason such people blend in with society, and that's because such symptoms are common with *any* person, regardless of personality type. Other than with the higher ups, Gojo hardly shows the anger, irritability, or general discontent that a sociopath is most commonly is associated with as their established mood - and even if he did, would being easily irritatable while in the position of the Strongest, the one who carries the burden of establishing a new future of Jujutsu Society on his shoulders alone be so unrealistic? That is why Purpose is so important.

If Gojo truly was a Sociopath, he would have dipped long before Jujutsu Kaisen had even started.

And I apologize for yet another tangent! Someone said Gojo sees his students as weapons or tools to be used in furthering his agenda. While that is not necessarily untrue, the implication is hardly close to reality. Like someone else commented, Gojo goes far and beyond for his students. While he is undoubtedly lacking in his ability to show affection in the most traditional of ways, it's clear that Gojo cares for his students-and others- deeply, whether that be when he went to see Yuta on his business trip to ensure Yuji would be safely taken care of in his absence, when he goes out of his way to personally supervise his students, when he willingly spends a whole day with Nanami just to ask him to mentor Yuji for him (in the Light Novel) regardless of Nanami's disdain, when he turned his Infinity off to allow Yaga to punish him (Gege made it clear in the manga that Gojo had done so to be a good role model for his students and that he recognizes his behavior deserves punishment), and when Gojo commented that he didn't want to think any of his students would be the traitor. Gojo does not express himself as most people do- he's only one of the most misunderstood personality types (on record, along with a few other personalites if you've researched them) and to say people have misinterpreted his character is much more plausible when even in real life, people who behave like Gojo are statistically reported to be misapprehended more often than more populated personality types. When inspected closely, there are so many ways Gojo himself expresses his care for other people, only hidden thinly behind the surface of his lofty attitude and uncaring demeanor. It only takes a few looks at his behavior, not his mouth, to recognize how much he goes out of his way for his students, doing he things that don't necessarily help further his agenda simply because he wants to, not because he has to. Changing the world isn't even something the average person would strive to do, yet Gojo makes it his life goal to accomplish. How could a heartless, emotion mimicking person possibly endure the strife necessary to accomplish such a task? It's appalling.

Gojo is more charitable than most people on the earth, simply because of the perseverance and diligence he takes to withstand the stress and hardships of Jujutsu Society for others. Remember that he chose to become the Strongest, it didn't happen overnight, and in becoming the Strongest, he carries the heaviest burden.

That's without mentioning that even though Gojo is the Strongest, and while to most he seems to proudly state so, it's clear that despite Gojo's antics, he recognizes his weaknesses as a sorcerer and is able to rely on others to make up for them. He had asked Nanami to mentor Yuji because he acknowledged his own flaws as a teacher and that Nanami would have a better capacity than him in that area (in Light Novel). He travelled to see Yuta to ask him to care for Yuji in case something happened to him- and Gojo knows that it's possible that he could be defeated somehow, someway. He's not so deluded to think he's untouchable, even despite his playfulnesses. He is always thinking ahead, calculating his next move while understanding his own shortcomings, acting prudently to ensure a better future.

He is a much deeper and complex character if one only takes the time to look past his antics and analyze his behavior- Something many people in real life seem to miss, and that is the true reason why Gojo struggles to commit.

Sorry for the long tangent and repetitiveness in the beginning lol! Back to the main issue!

Tl;dr there's more evidence of Gojo being a virgin who's more focused on work than pleasure. There's plenty of handsome men who don't seek out sex for reprieve but seek mental stimulation instead for relief. It's totally normal. Gojo could even spend his free time playing video games. He did admit to spending long hours beating 99 years of Momotarou Dentetsu to Geto. He's a gamer, and we know how gamers are commonly known for being virgins lol. Gojo could even be asexual for all we know. He could even be demisexual- someone who doesn't pursue sexual pleasure unless he's made an emotional connection with then. He doesn't necessarily have to even be straight or bi. Therefore, Gojo is very likely to be 28 year old virgin, and there's nothing wrong or strange about that.

Sources: ENTP articles, statistics on mbti rarity, other mbti articles, some quick Google searches, articles on sociopathy, psychopathy, narcissism, and antisocial disorders, etc, the manga, light novels, other metas in threads I remember reading, the anime, graphic organizers

Thanks for reading! 🙏

- 🤔

AHHHH CAN I JUST SAY THE ANIMATION IS DAMN GOOD 🔥🔥🔥 this scene in the manga is absolutely iconic prepare yourselves for season 2 😤 I literally had to stop the video and stare at him...I think one of the reasons Gojo behaved that way is becuz during childhood he probably didn't go out and be around people hence his confused reaction with the screaming teens. I mean everyone enjoys being complimented and getting attention from time to time and gojo is not an exception to this. Yes I definitely agree that when Gege said that he probably meant he's too busy for a relationship. The way it was translated made alot of people confused hence the player/cheater gojo was born. But then also the remember the comment he made when Gojo won the popularity poll? "Pick Nanami instead" ahhh hilarious

MY GAWD 🤔 ANON CAN I JUST SAY THAT YOU'RE AMAZING?! You explained in a way that easy to understand and you made statements backing it up with evidence. I learned from your ask than I ever did in university 😂 wow its truly fascinating though I never knew much personality types especially ENTPs I DON'T BELIEVE FOR ONE SEC GOJO IS A SOCIOPATH OR PSYCHOPATH fight me if you do. Exactly exactly just as anon said "He is a much deeper and complex character if one only takes the time to look past his antics and analyze his behavior." I COULDN'T AGREE MORE 😤 thank you so much for once again educating the community I'm a fan of you 🤔 anon ❤

[soukoku-rivals]

Author's Note

There are so many things I would love to tell you! But, I decided to keep it short and simple. After all, Rivals is a comic, you're not here to read blocks of text.

I will address what are, in my opinion, most important issues.

1. Why is Fyodor actually alive after chapter 9?

Well, we had an 'in comic' explanation - Chuuya wants to believe Fyodor has some feelings for him after Fyodor intentionally missed all of his vital organs when stabbing him. Dazai tries to be a better person so he cannot simply kill someone who is already tied and defenseless, no matter how much he hates him.

Real life explanation - it was the best choice for the continuity. Rivals is very much an AU when it comes to Chuuya's past and quite possibly Dazai's past [I honestly know nothing about Dazai's past before 15. There might be something mentioned in Stormbringer but I avoid spoilers until we get official English translation]. However, it still takes place after season 2 of the anime and the Dead Apple movie. Which means season 3 comes after.

Basically, if you ignore the 15 episodes, you can imagine season 3 continues after Rivals and Dazai and Chuuya are somewhat dating at that point, which is also why Ranpo found it so easy to outsmart Chuuya. And then, all the events in the anime/canon slowly lead to them finding the Book and the Epilogue.

I know, you have to stretch your imagination a little to make that work, but honestly, it's fun to imagine Soukoku dating while all that stuff is going on.

Obviously, none of that could happen if Fyodor dies, so here you go!

2. Does Chuuya actually have feelings for Fyodor?

Short answer - yes. And it's not only because the author ships Fyoya. [I ship almost all Chuuya/X pairings, most notably Chuuya/Sigma, deal with it.]

As explained in the comic, Fyodor was there when Chuuya had nobody and nothing after he lost his memories. He told Chuuya they were partners and lovers, and Chuuya was his most loyal man. Obviously, that would influence Chuuya's opinion.

We, as readers, outside observers, didn't realle get to see much of their interactions [I couldn't make the chapters that long] but we did see that Fyodor is a manipulative bastard. But it wouldn't fully work if he wasn't gentle at times. As manipulative as Fyodor was, he has also shown compassion and care towards Chuuya in his state. That purposefully missed stabbing at the end only confirmed to Chuuya that Fyodor doesn't actually want him dead. Maybe he wants to hurt him to push him away, like Dazai did all those years ago? To protect him. To make sure the Mafia and Dazai know they aren't working together.

How can Chuuya not appreciate that? After all there was only one person before who hurt him not to actually hurt him but for his protection.

So yeah, Chuuya believes Fyodor has some feelings for him, he believes there might be a good person hiding in the rat, just like there was a good person hiding in Dazai. Dazai and Fyodor were too similar at one point for Chuuya not to develop any feelings for him.

I'm not saying it's healthy or logical. I'm saying this is how it happened.

3. Does Fyodor have feelings for Chuuya?

Short answer - also, surprisingly, yes! I mean, how can you not love Chuuya?

I couldn't really show it clearly in the comic. We already had so many characters and Fyodor/Fyoya weren't the focal point so I couldn't dive to deep. However, here is what I can say now.

At the start, obviously, Fyodor saw Chuuya only as a tool. Chuuya was a powerful weapon, with a powerful ability and most importantly, he served as a great distraction for Dazai.

Fyodor, however, made a mistake when he convinced Chuuya they were lovers. Because that meant he had to spend more time with him than originally planned. And as much as Fyodor hates abilities and believes they are a sin, he could not not notice all Chuuya's good qualities. Even rushing that mission to destroy some building, when he knew it was possible Chuuya wouldn't survive, was mostly because Fyodor wanted to push him away. And to push his feelings away. He knew he was growing fond of Chuuya and if he didn't stop that soon, he might grow some conscience.

Unfortunately for him, it was too late. And thus, we go back again to the train station stabbing. For all intents and purposes, the most beneficial thing for Fyodor to do was to kill Chuuya right there and there. With Chuuya dead he would have been able to leave with Atsushi, find the Book and leave Dazai broken after his love's death and Mafia without its most powerful weapon.

Fyodor just couldn't bring himself to do that.

4. Extra - unused sequel idea.

This has nothing to do with any unexplained plot points but, yeah, there was a sequel idea. A few actually. But let's go with the one that has most sense.

At the train station, after Soukoku leave, only Atsushi stays there to keep an eye on Fyodor while Loki searcher through his memories for the Book.

Unbeknownst to Atsushi, while Locke goes through Fyodor's memories, he finds something very interesting. A memory of Fyodor who looks like he's talking to his mirror reflection but his words are directed at Loki. And with a smile on his face, Fyodor informs Loki that the Book can change reality, he can destroy people and give them life. There is already a person created by the Book. From nothing! So, it is not entirely unbelievable to assume that it could bring somebody to life. Like, let's say, a certain red headed girl.

If Loki helps Fyodor escape, he will be able to bring Hela back to life.

Locke loves his daughter very much, so obviously, he agrees. And instead of lead to season 3 when Fyodor escapes, he get an Agency/Mafia vs Fyodor/Locke story.

This is not happening but it was a nice idea.

And this time, this is really it! There is nothing more left for me to say, Rivals is done!

Thank you so much for reading it, some of you were here for years, some joined only a few month ago, some will find this story in the future, but I thank you all the same! I would have never gotten this far without you. You are all very precious to me. I hope to see you soon, when @kkfil-soukoku starts updating.

And now, for a couple of unrelated announcements:

Merch design is going great. I have all die cut stickers and the second charm already finished, and most of them is already published on Kofi for supporters. Also, the Rivals sticker page is all drafted. Support me on Kofi to view them all and to get an extra sticker with your order: https://ko-fi.com/hayatepl

After Kiss Kiss Fall in <Love3 comic is done, I will be working on an original idea, to be published on Webtoons/Tapas. It's going to be a supernatural adventure story featuring a witch, a warrior and a dragon, set in modern times. For more info when that happens, follow me on @hayateart and @sylvankaart

I also started using twitter again: https://twitter.com/SylvankaArt

And instagram: https://www.instagram.com/sylvankaart/ [Yes, it's all SylvankaArt, I thought it would make it easier to remember. As for tumblr HayateArt blog will remain my fanblog for fanart but all original posts will be published on SylvankaArt.]

[aalapdavjekar]

8 Lessons from Vipassana

2010 was a peculiar year. It was the year in which I found the great fortune of stumbling upon a book about the bizarre incidents and experiences of an Australian girl voyaging through the Indian subcontinent. The book — a 21st century rewrite of the lore of the hippie trail, offered little towards cerebral surprises, but made for a curious viewing of the life of someone who was brave (or foolish) enough to have gone through all the trouble that she did for the experiences she sought.

The author chronicled days spent discovering religion and spiritual heaven while avoiding hell — nosy neighbours, opportunistic rickshaw-wallas, and the odd would-be rapist. She portrays an all too familiar India — the world’s spiritual shopping mall serving food-poisoning on Tuesdays, vehicular accidents every Friday, and frightening latrines as a daily course. Not all of her pages carried so much drama, but they laid out a rough sketch of the trials and tribulations of the average foreigner in attempting to make sense of the country.

The smallest chapter in the book spoke to me the most. There was a tiny passage that depicted the joy and punishing solitude of the type rarely considered as thrill — monastic rituals, austere and rigorous routines, distress and hardship — it seemed a bit too much for anyone, let alone a solo adventurer. And yet, it seemed like just about the only thing she really enjoyed during her trip.

That was my introduction to Vipassana. That first memory is still fresh: the desire to confront this awkward specimen of a situation for myself, only because, at the time, it seemed so bizarre. To my ignorant mind, I could not have comprehended the result of ten long days (and nights), sitting around without the utterance of a single syllable. If nothing else, it would just be yet another substance: to taste, chew on, spit out, and rave about having conquered yet another mountain of sensory input; spin it all into a tall tale of profundity and wisdom.

Thankfully, the taste was sweet. To me, this became pretty important. It felt like a gigantic discovery and I often found myself proselytizing like a broken record for days after the first course. I eventually stopped for being seen as a bit of a nuisance, however, my fascination with the practice only grew with time. In those ten short days, I had experienced a deep, resounding change from within. As difficult as the journey had been, I only knew I had to keep going.

That was all ten years ago. 2010 was peculiar, but a dozen Vipassana courses later, life only became weirder.

It’s the stark contrast that gets you; the juxtaposition of life inside a course, and then witnessing the world outside. It is hard to illustrate and is not really the point of this post, but I mention it only because I’d like to warn you that many of the lessons I’ve learnt are all experiential truths. Simply engaging the intellect is not enough. You can’t describe the taste of salt to someone who has never experienced it before, and you can’t learn to swim simply by reading about it.

With that said, understand that even though I have been practicing for a while, it does not mean I have achieved any form of mastery over my practice. I still consider this as the just the first step in a very long path. I share these insights, all of which have broadened and enriched my understanding of not only myself, but of all-encompassing experience existence in itself. My only hope is to encourage you to sit down and focus on your breath.

1. Relaxing meditation is more like aggressive deconditioning…

The mind is a big ball of accumulated, tightly-knotted habits. Habits are not merely mundane proclivities like picking your nose, or a preference for K-pop. Habits are the set of all unconscious tendencies, picked up over the course of one’s life and through generations past, resulting in present thought, action, or both. Natural instincts such as the struggle to survive and the urge for sexual gratification are among the densest of elements residing within the mental landscape.

Mental forces are easiest to imagine when you think of them as analogous to Newton’s Third Law: each action has an equal and opposite reaction. As the mind sees, the mind does. Cause and effect. Through millions of years of evolution, the mind has been shaped to recognize and react to patterns. Certain emotions may result in specific thoughts. Certain thoughts may result in specific behaviours.

When you sit down to practice Vipassana, you essentially train yourself to observe the mind without reacting. The process may not seem like much but, with time, the simple act of observation decreases the rigidity and impulsiveness of the mind. Gradually, the simple act of watching it unravel before you, unveiling its knots until they loosen and eventually fade away, brings about a significant change. This does not mean that after ten days of meditation you will deprogram your mind and achieve liberation. It is a very gradual process. Believe me. Even after all these years, I’ve only scratched the surface and, so far, I’ve managed to adopt a slightly better diet. But I have better focus, more clarity of thought, less anxiety, and things that used to drive me crazy don’t annoy me as much anymore.

Meditation will change your brain. Thoughts included.

2. You are your mind’s weak, pathetic slave.

At any given time, you have very little conscious ability to overrule your genetic programming, emotional state, and natural surroundings (many have even argued that there is no such thing as conscious control and free will is an illusion, but that is a discussion for another time). The goal of meditation is to break free from the mind’s thrall: it’s patterns of thought. That’s the liberation that meditators keep referring to time and again.

If you find it hard to believe how little control you have over your mind, try to focus continuously on the breath just for a few minutes and notice the amount of thoughts that manage to pop up. You’ll quickly see how easily the mind is carried away. It’ll drift away, either to the future, or to the past. Bringing it back and keeping it in the present is a constant, seemingly endless struggle.

Our toxic addiction to our own thoughts creates the biggest hurdle. Over the course of our lives, we have been conditioned by our parents, school, society, even language, to think a certain way. Like the words we associate with objects to learn the alphabet in kindergarten, we continuously associate abstractions — words — to ideas; to the way things work. Our names for objects, people, places, feelings, situations, etc. are just names. They are concepts that are formed in the mind. In other words, our brain holds maps to reality which are drawn and redrawn over the course of our lives. But the map is not the territory, yet we are constantly under the delusion that the map is real.

Our fascination and attachment to our artificial concepts of what is real, important, and urgent is what hinders progress— the practice is essentially training the mind not to identify with one’s thoughts. In other words, to heal trauma, you need to learn to dissociate with the feeling which triggers the trauma. Trauma comes in many shapes. It may take the form of the stories that we forge for ourselves to make sense of who we are. The story we tell ourselves turns into the very bondage that keeps us in indefinite servitude to the mind.

The mind is a slippery serpent, as dangerous when untamed as it is powerful when mastered. Most beginners often find it frustrating how difficult it is to ‘control’ their minds. But therein lies the effort. It is a skill to be cultivated like any other. Exasperation and the desire to stop is a natural byproduct of the conditioning described earlier. There is an inertia to progress that needs to be continuously overcome. With time, it gets easier.

Meditation is simply a tool to harness and rein in the unruly mind.

3. Everything is connected. Every action has a consequence, and it matters.

This can be argued as a simple scientific principle. Richard Feynman in his lecture, “The Relation of Physics to Other Sciences,” describes the artificial divisions we create, forming a myriad of distinct models of understanding to comprehend and explain to ourselves aspects of the same reality. Brian Cox takes it even further.

My understanding leans towards the philosophical side, but bear with me. Most religions and spiritual traditions preach purity of mind, speech, and deed. Whether through scripture or ritual, they teach compassion, loving kindness, mercy and wisdom. I’ve realized that there’s more to this than mere morality.

To greatly simplify this, let’s imagine the world as a closed, finite system — something like a small swimming pool. Any kind of movement results in ripples that gradually extend across the body of water, affecting everything in their path. Eventually, given enough time, those ripples will bounce right back to whence they came. Sooner or later, your actions will meet their maker. But don’t mistake this as a need to be nice out of selfish necessity. The picture is bigger than this.

The world, much like our hypothetical swimming pool, is a melting pot of events resulting from simultaneous interactions causing countless, spontaneous consequences. It’s a chain reaction and an ocean of chaos, with the ebb and flow of individual currents that mingle, coalesce and form waves, crashing into one another to give us the great churning of the wheel that Buddhists speak of, and the agitation that we are almost too familiar with.

The turbulence, in essence, is the mind being washed away with the tide, engulfed and drowned in the vicissitudes of a constantly changing life. To remain steadfast and solid in such stormy waters would require nothing short of supreme mastery in the art of mindfulness. A cornerstone of such an endeavour requires the cultivation of a conscious effort to sustain complete awareness and acceptance for the present moment.

When one remains vigilant of thought, speech, and deed, and acquires a resolute and unwavering focus, then all the torment the ocean can muster will be but powerless against this tranquil state of mind. But even beyond that, tranquility will give way to reflection, understanding, and empathy. In other words, when you respond to anger with love, you cast water over the fire.

With practice, each action undertaken will arrive with more effort, more purpose and consideration. That is the delicate insight to be gained — that every action, every moment, every breath is sacred. Every bit of conscious presence is a gift to be treasured.

4. Nothing matters as much as you think it does…

Vipassana meditation is an exercise in cultivating insight through self-observation. You watch your breath and the sensations across your body as they arise and pass away, each time acknowledging their transient and impermanent nature. That, you come to realize, is the truth of all reality.

You realize that suffering is a form of mental attachment, not to any external object, but to the sensation that object has on your mind. This attachment is sometimes so subtle and imperceptible that it is impossible to witness it without a mind that is steady and calm. These attachments are what cause dukkha or suffering. Attachments are not limited to sensations that feel good. Any sensation that makes you feel like had more of it or less of it — desire and aversion — is attachment. The mind runs after pleasure, runs from fear and pain. These are attachments and they are a hindrance to the practice.

As you grow into your practice, you will gradually slip out of your old patterns of thought, replacing them with a more open, willing, and fluid presence of mind. What once bothered you may gradually dissolve into nothingness. What once seemed as part of you, possessed you, caused emotional havoc when you didn’t get what you wanted, might simply vanish from existence. No, you won’t turn into an emotionless robot. No it won’t make you give up everything in life, turn into a vagrant and move to the beach, unless you already desired those things. Meditation will only help sort out what you really want.

Practice will help you detach yourself from your thoughts until you realize that your thoughts are not you. Feelings come, feelings go. They are impermanent, and they don’t matter. All it requires is time and the simple act of observation.

5. You are not an experiential bubble.

For many beginners trying to embrace the many forms of mindfulness, one of the toughest obstacles to overcome is doubt. It may be doubt in oneself, doubt in the practice, doubt in one’s teacher, and so on. But it’s a natural response to something new, especially to those completely unfamiliar with these types of practices. Imparting trust is a transactional habit. Unless one is certain of attainable benefits and can measure their worth, they may find an unwillingness to take even the first step.

Couple a doubtful mind with the myriad of mental encounters one may face during meditation and the result might just kill the desire for practice. People have reported everything from swirling lights, out-of-body experiences, synesthesia, to demons. This is not unusual. Meditation is a gateway into the unconscious — a surgical procedure as S.N. Goenka, the person who brought the teaching of Vipassana back to India, describes. Through the process of Sankharupekkha (observing mental formations with equanimity), the practitioner encounters dormant impurities in the unconscious that rise to the surface of the mind, and manifest themselves as physical phenomenon.

Juxtaposed with modern-day culture, the meditative experience stands out like a sore thumb, often causing its students great confusion and mistrust in the very quality of what they are learning. It doesn’t help that the ideas and general philosophy presented by spiritual traditions are outright antithetical to “western” schools of thought.

Concepts such as avidya, anicca, dukkha, shunyata, samsara and nirvana are like salt. These are concepts that are almost impossible to understand through mere language—one must personally taste them. They are often horribly misconstrued and usually thrown out, replaced by a far shallower understanding that barely skims the surface of the teaching, conflating meditation with stress reduction and labour productivity. After all, these are the values our industrial societies can easily relate to.

We often make it harder on ourselves by letting our experiences fester. Remember to talk about them, discuss them, debate their true essence, and let them be out in the open. Let these ideas, however alien, achieve coherence and solidity. Give them a better chance to struggle and survive. There are many people out there experiencing the same reality, watching the same movie, feeling the same thing. The emotional outlet, especially when you are starting out in this practice is immensely valuable. It’s a small thing but it matters.

After my first ten-day Vipassana course came to a close, as the new students could finally open their mouths and start speaking with each other about their ten days spent in silence, we could all see the benefits this strange new thing had given us. I was in a room full of fifty-odd people that seemed to have had a similar experience in the course as I did. They all seemed calmer than on the first day, happier for having made it through; in the process, they had visibly changed. That’s what brought forth trust in the system; not only because it seemed to work across a diverse set of people, but because it made me realize that we are all in the same boat.

6. Compassion takes practice.

There is no absolute right or wrong. Understanding which is which requires not only context but patience. An impulsive and ignorant mind does not have the capacity to form correct judgement. An angry and intolerant person cannot be trusted to make rational and thoughtful decisions. Why do you need to develop proper judgement? The simplest possible answer: to progress in your practice. Hence, while Vipassana may bring insight, on the last day of each course, students are taught a slightly different type of meditation.

Metta, meaning ‘loving-kindness’, is a type of meditation that involves concentrating on directing love towards ourselves and others, even those (especially those) who may have hurt us. A daily practice of metta has its benefits, but most significant of all, is the way it complements insight meditation and brings out lasting, positive changes in mind and body.

The feeling is hard to describe, but all I can say is that (at the risk of sounding cliched), through the course of one’s life, pain is an inevitability, but suffering through the pain is a choice. With regular practice in metta, instead of being swept away by one’s emotions, one learns to consciously bring awareness to the suffering being experienced and replace it with compassionate and loving thoughts. Suffering is simply a negative reaction of the mind to any form of pain. With practice, mental aversion to pain gradually fades. Like mental ointment, compassion can heal the deepest of wounds.

But compassion takes practice. Think of it as learning a new language. Even if you have no prior experience reading the script or pronouncing the words, with time, you might just achieve fluency.

Compassion towards all beings, regardless of the situation, is an important goal for anyone serious about walking the path. When you emanate a constant stream of loving thoughts without ever missing a beat, then you might definitely consider yourself having changed for the better.

7. It’s all just glorified play.

By the time children reach the age of 3 or 4, their ego begins to form a cohesive identity — a map of themselves: I am this, I like that, I want to be so and so. Whether through nature or nurture, the child learns to take on a role for themselves depending on what the situation may bring: during interactions with their parents, with other children, and with society in general.

From an early age, children are engaged in play. Their games may be diverse, but are usually a form of role-playing: tea parties, dollhouses, make-believe — simulations of the adult world, to test its boundaries and see how things react. Fueled by curiosity and the joy of discovery, they rehearse and solidify their understanding of their surroundings, finding their place in the greater familial and societal picture, and simultaneously strengthen their masks of identity.

The masks we carry, birthed from the ego, may be necessary for our survival, but they are simply roles — the games we continue to play even as adults, with ourselves and with others. When the student of Vipassana comes to notice their own desires and attachments to the world, the identity of the self is often seen as the greatest attachment. It is the great epic; the story of ourselves that we’re so engrossed in writing and reciting— and madly in love with.

This story never ends. It lies permanently in the state of becoming: I am like this, I like that, I want to be so and so. The attachment to a false idea of oneself is the most difficult thing to witness and understand. It is the biggest delusion of the mind, and the greatest hindrance to one’s liberation from samsara — the endless cycle of birth and death. Whether you choose to believe that is unimportant, but recognising one’s tendencies to cling to one’s beliefs, one’s masks and identity, is a crucial process towards self-discovery and insight.

Recognising the mind for what it is — a constant stream of consciousness always in flux — will bring you a step closer to deciphering it.

8. You Know Nothing.

I know nothing. For knowing involves being certain, but if everything is impermanent and things are constantly in flux, then nothing can be certain.

To understand how truly inept we are at comprehending reality, consider the incredibly narrow spectrum of perception our brains provide. Our sensory organs: the eyes, ears, nose, tongue and skin offer only a slice of all the information that they come into contact with.

The eyes, for example, see only a thin slice of the electromagnetic spectrum, which we call visible light. Similarly, our hearing is restricted to frequencies of sound that fall between 20 Hz and 20 kHz. In the same way, we carry only a limited cognitive capability and intelligence.

It’s a humbling thought. At the very least, reminding oneself of the fragility of one’s understanding is a way to minimize cognitive bias. Further, since no one knows anything, knowing you know nothing will actually put you a step ahead of most people.

“I am wiser than this human being. For probably neither of us knows anything noble and good, but he supposes he knows something when he does not know, while I, just as I do not know, do not even suppose that I do. I am likely to be a little bit wiser than he in this very thing: that whatever I do not know, I do not even suppose I know.” — Plato’s Apology of Socrates

Similarly, from the Dhammapada:

“A fool who knows his foolishness is wise at least to that extent, but a fool who thinks himself wise is a fool indeed.”

Lastly, Shunryu Suzuki, a Japanese Zen Master calls the state of knowing nothing the “beginner’s mind,” the constant prerequisite for progressing in one’s practice:

“The goal of practice is always to keep our beginner’s mind. This does not mean a closed mind, but actually an empty mind and a ready mind. If your mind is empty, it is always ready for anything; it is open to everything. In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities; in the expert’s mind there are few.” — from Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind

May all beings be happy.

[phykios]

the marble king, part 11 [read on ao3] [rated M for adult situations]

“I was speaking to your mother while you went to market,” his wife said as they settled back into their bed for the night.

For the time, they were lingering a few extra days in Messalia. It was difficult not to--Venice did not have his mother’s cooking, nor his sister's sweet smiles, and Paul was much better at teaching Annabeth Italian than Percy. As well, Percy needed to go and convert some of their money to florins and ducats and the like, far, far more money than he had ever thought he would ever possess. He was very glad for his step-father’s assistance in this manner; neither he nor Annabeth were terribly talented with numbers, and there were quite a lot of calculations to be done. He was equally glad for the affection between his wife and his mother; that the two most important women in his life got on so well was very pleasing to him. “Oh, yes?”

“I had some questions about pregnancy.”

He turned to look at her, a sudden flutter in his stomach. She had not told him of any new complaints or complications, but perhaps she had shared them with a trusted woman. “Are you well?” he asked.

Annabeth pursued her lips, frowning so hard he could nearly see the interconnected web of her clever mind.  “I... must admit I have a problem.”

Percy raised himself on one arm, concerned. “A problem? Is it serious?”

“No, no,” she shook her head. “Your mother assured me it was perfectly normal. However, I may require your…” Annabeth trailed off, then, glancing uneasily at him. “...Your assistance.”

“Anything,” he said, laying a hand on her arm. Such casual touches still managed to thrill him, sending shivers down his spine. “I am at your disposal.”

“I am…” She swallowed, licking her lips. Percy’s eyes could not help but track the movement. “That is, your mother assured me it was normal for a woman in the last stages of her pregnancy to be taken with certain… needs. So to speak.”

“Of course,” Percy nodded. Expectant mothers were cursed with sudden, intense, often contradictory desires. He had learned that years prior with his mother and Esther, and had witnessed it firsthand with Annabeth and their little Anja.

Annabeth met his eyes, stunning storm clouds ringed with gold. “Certain… carnal needs,” she said, slowly.

Percy… Percy blinked.

“It is quite common,” Annabeth said, her pink cheeks rapidly turning red in a manner quite becoming, “for women who are pregnant to find themselves with increased lust.”

“I… see,” Percy said.

Well, he had certainly not known that when his mother was carrying Esther.

Still, there were much more pressing matters at hand. “How… may I assist you?”

Did she require the room to herself, and need him to protect her privacy? Did she wish him to go and… procure her a tool for aid?

Was that why she had been so fixated on brothels the other day? Was he meant to find her a companion at one? If he did, would it be presumptuous of him to select a woman? He did not like the idea of her laying with another man, but--but she had told him of Katya and Clarice and--

No, he furiously thought, nearly shaking his head. Annabeth did not wish to be the object of his lust, and he would not make her so.

“What may I do to assist you?” he asked her again. As her husband, he would serve his wife and her pregnancy however she required it. The actions he took which led to such a situation had been distasteful to her, and so he must endure some of his own distaste now on her behalf.

She cast her eyes from his once more. “I… cannot reach,” she admitted, her hand flicking below her round belly. “I was wondering if you would be willing to…” her voice faded away, shame and embarrassment plain on her red face.  

Percy swallowed. “I… you--you wish me to… touch you?”

She nodded. “I find myself in rather… urgent need of completion, and I should be very grateful for your assistance--if,” she rushed to assure him, “it is not too distasteful for you, of course.”

“No,” Percy said, then, quickly, at her crestfallen expression, “I mean, yes, of course it is not distasteful.” He swallowed again, his mouth watering, but making sure his eyes rested on her face and no lower. “I am happy to assist you however you need.”

A moment passed between them, long and charged. There was a time when he would have been able to divine the whole of her mood and motivations, just from the tilt and shape of her brow. Now, however. He had not been able to read her for quite some time.

Slowly, as though he was approaching a skittish animal, he sat up in bed, peeling the sheets off the both of them. She wore a red kirtle over her chemise this night, her wimple discarded on the floor below, her hair braided down her back. Simple, sturdy traveling fare.

Hushed, he questioned her once more. “May I…?”

Annabeth nodded.

Ever so carefully, Percy pulled her dress up, up over her calves, her thighs. Her stockings were tied above her knees, the garters delicately embroidered with wavy lines of green. Percy had not had the pleasure of undressing many women, and the goddesses of his father’s court did not take to modern fashion. He did not know if such garments were standard, or a mark of the maker. Perhaps Annabeth had made them herself and merely liked the pattern.

“Is there a problem?” Annabeth asked when he waited too long, Percy attempting to keep all his attentions on the cloth and not her pale thigh.

“No, no,” he said, faintly, and then pushed her dress up more. Perhaps sensing his fear and trepidation, she took it from his hands just as it uncovered her center, pulling it the rest of the way so that it lay at her hips just below the swell of her belly.

There, beneath the curve of her stomach, he saw the pink flesh and more of the blonde curls which adorned her head, and his mouth nearly watered. They were a darker gold, here, and easier to see in the afternoon sun than they had been by the glow of the hearth on their wedding night.

Would she allow him the use of his mouth, rather than his hands, he wondered? He was not unskilled with his fingers, but his true abilities were in his tongue. He would prefer it, as well, the flatteries of which his tongue never tired.

With a deep, steadying breath, grounding himself in the sweet, fantastical reality of her laid out before him, open and willing and longing for his touch, he reached out a finger, and traced along the seam of her cunt. Once, twice, three times, until she gave a little gasp, her outer lips parting carefully about the tip of his finger.

So wet already--he tried not to moan himself at the feel of it, at the smell of her as it wafted into the air around him.

Up and down and up and down, he sweetly toyed with her folds, then dipped inside with a finger. At the little whine which escaped her throat, he had to force down his pleased smile.

Cease with your foolish thoughts, he chided himself. This was not about his own pleasure. This was about hers.

Over and over again, then, he went, caressing her cunt as it deserved, as he wished he could do to her every night, trying desperately not to get lost in her sounds of pleasure. This was to ease her suffering, he always had to remember--not for his own benefit.

“Percy,” she gasped his name, and he felt himself twitch in his breeches. “Please!”

Too afraid to ask, too caught on his name on her lips, he did not know for what she begged of him. So he took his other hand, and after briefly caressing her belly, the holy chalice which held their child within it, he brought his thumb down on the place at the top of her cunt, rubbing at it while his other hand teased at the rest of her sensitive pink flesh.

“Yes,” She cried. “Yes, just like that, yes . Percy, yes, please .”

He quickened his pace on her skin, and rather than tease her further, as he so desperately wished to do, instead slid his fingers inside her and out again. As long as he did not say so, as long as he did what she asked, he allowed himself, just for a little while, to pretend it was his cock instead.

Her sweet cries grew hurried, more breathless as Percy moved his hand faster, harder, with greater intent.

“Good girl,” he murmured in a hushed voice, a voice which was not under his control, yet nonetheless taken from the deepest, most desperate places of his desire. “Good girl. Just like that.”

She cried out once more, and he was forced to bite his tongue, lest he declare her beauty to rival that of Aphrodite--or lower it for a taste.

As a flower to the sun, her cheeks bloomed, her eyes fluttering shut as her lips pulled beyond a smile in ecstasy. Letting out one final, piercing cry, Percy felt more wetness gush out of her, straight into his waiting hand.

He was certainly not unschooled in the ways of women, but he had never seen that before. Percy licked his lips, thankful that she could not see him.

Slowing his movements, then, he gently brought her down from her feminine heights, her body twitching with latent pleasure as her climax passed her over. Only when he was certain that she was well and truly sated, that her breathing had returned to normal, that her limbs were loose and lax, that her cunt had ceased to ripple around his fingers, did he finally, torturously remove them, sliding them from her body with a great, private reluctance.

Sleepily, she slid her eyes open once more, catching him with her gaze. “Thank you,” she mumbled, her skin still flushed. “Thank you.”

His heart pounded as though he were the one who had just undergone such a physical act, throbbing in his chest. “It was my pleasure,” he said, his voice sounding at least somewhat more normal--a feat far more heroic than any other he had ever attempted before. “To--to help you however you need,” he stammered, quickly following up.

She nodded, waving a limp hand.

Almost against his will, he glanced once more towards the peak of her thighs, wet and glistening. “Allow me to clean you,” he said, pathetically desperate for just another touch of her.

Slipping off of the bed, he made his way to the water basin. When he turned away from her, it took every ounce of willpower and fortitude he possessed not to lick his fingers clean. Instead, he rinsed them off, and then wet his handkerchief, returning to the bed to gently wipe at her folds. She squirmed, weakly, her brow furrowing in a discomfort of feeling.

When he finished, she tossed down her skirts, and with his help climbed out of bed, undoing the lacing of her dress and shucking off her kirtle, before easing herself back down again. He had seen her like this for months now, Annabeth in her linens, her growing belly pushing against the fabric until she had to purchase more to modify her dresses.

So beautiful, he mused. So perfect. His wife, but not his.

He would do well to remember that fact. Anja Elisabet was wife, his friend, the mother of his child--but not his. This was the deal they had struck.

She looked out the window, her eyes half closed in sleep and Percy stripped off his own outer clothing.  

He was careful as he climbed into bed not to show Annabeth how much his assistance had pleased him.

“Thank you, Percy,” she hummed, pleased and pliant, turning onto her side, a hand curled protectively around the swell of their child.

This bed in the inn was far too comfortable, he thought. They had been here for much too long. “Of course,” he said once more.

Of course.

Of course he would serve her, however she needed.

Of course he would feel empty as soon as the deed was done.

***

They had no need to stay in Messalia for three weeks, but stay they did, for his mother’s embraces, his step-father’s smiles, and his sister’s giggles. Were it his decision, he would have put down his roots in the port city, never to be parted again. But Venice was what he had promised his wife, and there was the church built in the image of the St. Sophia, perhaps the new home of their godly family.

So there he left his mortal family behind.

“Here,” he said on the last morning, as their various parcels were loaded onto the boat, and Annabeth was distracted by Esther’s hugs. He handed his mother another velvet purse, stuffed with more money taken from his little allowance.

“Percy,” his mother said, breathless at the flash of gold. “This must be at least a year’s wages.”

He nodded, a bit uncomfortable. “I thought it might do you some good.”

“Oh, my darling son.” She placed her slander hand on cheek, her calloused skin rough against his, and his willpower nearly dissolved. “You do not have to do this.”

“Of course I do,” he said. “You took care of me for so many years, and now that I am able, I shall take care of you in return.”

He paused, then, as he considered his next statement. He did not wish for it to be misconstrued, as he held no ill will towards her husband, but… it needed to be said.

“I am giving this to you,” he spoke, catching her eye so that she could divine his full meaning. “Not to Paul.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

He took her hands in his. “I have left Paul our cart and our horse. I know that you told him of the money I gave you weeks ago, but please, do not feel as though you need to share this with him as well.”

“Percy,” she chided, “Paul would never--” “I know that, mater ,” he said, for if there ever was doubt to his character, he might have dispatched the man himself long ago. “Still, I think it is fair for you to keep something for yourself, for any trouble which might arise.”

With those keen, piercing eyes which saw so much, they looked on him with so much affection, he felt his own eyes grow wet. “My son,” she said, so full of tenderness, “I can see that you are a good husband, and will be an even better father to your little girl.”

He smiled at her words, a tear falling down his cheek. Her excitement over her granddaughter was palpable.

Percy would see them all again, he swore, and one day, his mother would meet his little Anja, and she and her family would come to call Venice home.

They all embraced. Esther sobbed, and Paul and his mother were not without tears. Nor was Percy, though he was only in real danger of unbecoming emotion when he heard Annabeth whisper to Esther about what a good aunt she would be to the baby.

And then, once more did they board a ship, sailing towards a place unknown.

The first few days, he had worried that perhaps sea sickness would strike his wife again, but, to his pleasant discovery, she was as hale as could be expected, waddling about the ship, hand around her middle as she took in the fresh, salty air. Percy thought fleetingly of the Madonna he had seen in the church Athens, then put her from his mind entirely, for this was surely a more divine and holy mother, this Anja Elisabet, draped in robes of blue and white, belly full of his daughter, standing proudly aboard a ship.

What goddess, either that of the Christians or the Hellenes or the Norsemen, could ever hope to compare? Perhaps this was the source of Hera’s animosity and ire, all those years ago, the knowledge that one day Annabeth would surpass her in her own domains of marriage and motherhood.

“You are in a very good humor,” Annabeth said, five days into their journey. “I would have expected leaving your family to put you in a foul mood.”

She was in something of a foul mood herself today, languishing in their little cabin, unwilling to tread outside. In hopes of lifting her spirits a little, he was rubbing the tightness from her feet, digging his fingers into her muscles. At one particularly strong motion, she moaned, low in her throat, in a manner not dissimilar to when she came, shaking on his fingers.

“I am very sad to leave them,” he admitted, hoping to keep his mind off of… other things. “But we are our own family now, are we not?”

Her face still slack from the relaxing massage, she frowned, her brows drawing together the way they did whenever she was faced with a particularly thorny Gordian knot of a problem. Percy could not, strictly speaking, discern whether or she derived any joy from such a statement.

He spared a moment to wonder if he had said too much, or if he had made her uncomfortable. But she just nodded. “Yes, of course. We are a family, as well.” She shifted, trying once more to situate herself in the position which would cause the least amount of physical discomfort from her stomach.

Though she were still, at times, entirely unreadable, Percy knew when something weighed heavily on her. “What is it?” he asked, his hands stilling on her foot.

Pausing, she looked away, no doubt weighing the merits of keeping whatever it was to herself. “It is nothing,” she said, after a moment. “I was reminded, for a moment, of Lukas, and of Thalia.”

“Oh.” Percy pressed his thumb into the ball of her foot, easing the tense muscle there, grounding himself in the feel of the delicate bones of her ankle beneath his fingers.

The last Olympian had granted him a vision, once upon a time, of Annabeth as a very, very young girl, lost in what he now knew to be far northern wildernesses, having been rescued by the two older children. Lukas had pledged to her, then, to be her new family, to replace the one which had so cruelly cast her aside--only to cast her aside himself, five years later. Undoubtedly, the concept of a family which would not abandon her was not a concept with which she was overly familiar.

Well, Percy would certainly do his best to familiarize her with it.

Shifting again, she shooed away his concern, bidding him to keep up his work on her aching feet. She seemed to prefer that to even his work on her cunt, which he still provided nearly every day.

“You never told me,” she inserted into the silence, tight and restrained. “When did you sell the cart and horse?”

He froze, his knuckles pressed against the sweeping arch of her feet, a wave of guilt crashing over him, as the shore in a morning storm.

Oh, dear.

Percy swallowed. “I… that is to say…”

In truth, he had hoped she would not ask. She seemed accustomed to a certain standard of living, and now, burdened with her share of her inheritance, he had thought that she may not notice some of the finer details. But of course, she would, being the cleverest, wisest woman in the world. How, then, did he apologize for such a gross misuse of funds? Of her trust? “I must confess something.”

With some difficulty, she adjusted her seat, so she could look on him more fully. “What is it?” she asked, her tone short.

She had been so forthright with him, it was only fair that he did the same. “I did not sell the cart and horse,” said Percy, meeting her gaze. “I gave them to Paul.”

She tilted her head, appraising. “I did not know he was in need of either of those things.”

“I gifted them so he could sell them,” said Percy, “so they could make use of the money.”

“Of course,” she said, nodding her head. “That is good compensation for their hospitality, among many other things.”

“There is more,” he said, nerves rising. “I also… gave my mother some money. Well, quite a sum of money.” A year’s wages, she had said, but between both purses he’d handed over, it had really been much closer to two. “A… rather large sum of money.”

She frowned, and he felt the guilt sinking lower in his stomach. “How large a sum?”

“Probably… a hundred or so ducats.”

“Oh,” she said, her face falling from a frown into a sort of bemused smile. “I understand why your mother would think that was so much money but--”

“I wish to assure you,” he chimed in, quickly, desperate to explain himself, “that I will work tirelessly to recoup it when we make land.”

“Recoup what?”

“The money which I took from you.”

“Percy,” she said, in a tone he knew from their youth, the one she assumed whenever she tried to patiently explain something to him, rather than simply calling him the fool she considered him to be. “The money is in your name. You know that, yes?”

“I do,” he agreed, “but that does not make it mine.”

“Any law would say otherwise.”

“The law does not always speak truly,” Percy said, “The money is yours, by right and by blood. I apologize for taking so much of it without your express permission, but please know that I do intend to pay you back in full.” Such a task would take a long while. Two years at least, for the money he gave to his mother, and quite a bit more for the horse and cart, then he could begin working to save to send for his mother and her family. Hopefully, Annabeth would be willing to pay for their room and board when they arrived. “I suspect there is work to be had on many a ship in Venice. I know a good many merchants make their homes there. If not, perhaps I can find employment in a shipyard. I cannot be a shipwright, of course, as I would not be able to afford the apprenticeship, and I am too old besides, but there is always work to be found, if not on the sea, then in the city.” It would be torture to live so close to the sea and yet work with the soil, but he would find a way to persevere. “I will find something, I promise you.”

Annabeth stared at him as though he had grown a second head. “I do not understand.”

Percy knew very well how the children of Athena hated problems they could not quickly understand. “I want to assure you,” he tried again, “that I will pay you back all that I owe. Unfortunately, it shall not be quick. Nevertheless, I shall toil until you are compensated in full. I fear, though, that without any previous social standing, such an undertaking may encompass several years. I am sorry for the delay, but I will fulfil my debt to you, one day’s wage at a time.”

This had been the issue, oh so many years ago. It had been an issue in Constantinople, when it was all he could do to feed himself during the siege, and it had been an issue at the tender age of sixteen, when he could never have supported a family. Now, thankfully, his wife had a deep cushion upon which she and their child could fall, which took a tremendous weight off of his shoulders.

“One day’s wage…” she repeated, softly, unbelievingly, then with a force and speed which surprised him, Annabeth yanked her foot back from his hands. “You mean to tell me,” she said, steel-voiced and spitting fire, “that you plan to become a common laborer?”

“Unless by some measure of luck a man of distinction from Constantinople with whom I served now resides in Venice, I have nothing in the way of connections.” The odds of that, he felt, were startlingly slim, however. He could, perhaps, send a message to Aachen, as they had their own web of social ties running up and down Italy, but he thought Annabeth might dislike money made from a Latin connection even more than the slow amounts he could provide with work by his own hands. Iason would be eager to help him, but Annabeth would likely not be eager to take it, and so he would not mention it.

Annabeth still stared at him, befuddled, angry. “But--I--You--”

She stood up off the bed with easy grace, long practiced even despite her belly, but as she began to pace in their very small cabin, she did waddle around a bit, distracting Percy with the beauty of the image. This was an important conversation, he told himself, shaking his head. “What can I do to--”

Then, with a frustrated cry, she whirled on him. “You truly would disrespect me so much?” she demanded, her face red.

The force of her words was so strong he had to lean back a little. “I--” he stammered, uncomprehending, “I only wish to do right by you.”

“Do right by me?” she sneered. “How? By disrespecting our marriage so entirely that you will not claim what is legally yours? By reducing me to a laborer's wife in a city of strangers? Me!” she scoffed, her voice rising higher and higher in pitch and volume. “A daughter of Athena. A warrior of Rome. A legacy of Frey and a lady of house Förfölja!”

“You can be whatever you wish,” he offered, and although it was true, it sounded small to his own ears. Her father had wished for her to play politics among the noble houses of Svealand--if she wished to do so in Venice instead, he would not stop her.

“Oh yes,” she said, venom in her voice. “I can certainly go and meet with the Doge and his retinue. I shall dress up in my silks and my aunt’s jewels, and when they say, ‘Oh, Signora Thalassinos, who is your husband?’ I will have to reply, ‘Oh, he mucks the stables near the shipyards!’”

Overwhelmed by her fire, her intensity, he blinked at her, speechless.

“You would have me introduce our son,” she went on, incensed, “not as the legacy of great gods and greater heroes, but as the son of a man who refuses to honor his marriage, and would rather toil away on the docks!”

His hands raised before him, he beseeched his goddess, demurely, placatingly. “What would you have my do, my lady?” he asked.

Her eyes narrowed, and he was reminded of her mother, of so many years of disapproval. Lady Athena had wanted him to stay away from her daughter, and for several years, he had thought she had gotten her way. “Take what has been freely given,” Annabeth demanded. “If you wish to return to the sea, well, buy a ship. Buy a dozen! Surely you would have better luck carrying goods across the Mare Nostrum than any other man, with your father’s blessings. But if you insist on ignoring the money that is by law, custom, and my own wish yours , then you shall earn it back in a manner which will not shame me or my child.”  

Stunned, he said in a quiet voice, “I do not wish to take advantage--”

“Oh, I know,” she nearly snarled. “You will take no advantage, nothing of me--only my hand and my maidenhead.”

He flinched, as though he had been struck.

“And what do you give me in return? Your distance and your disrespect.” Her breathing was hard, labored, as though she had just gone several rounds in the arena. His own heart beat so rapidly in his chest it felt like the sparring match was against him. Perhaps it was. “I took you as my husband, son of Poseidon. I expect you to act like it.”

She made to leave their cabin, to make a grand exit worthy of the Empress she should have been, had she chosen a better husband. Then, as she reached the door of their cabin, her shoulders tensed, and she curled in on herself, letting out a cry of pain.

Percy was by her side in a moment. Wrapping his arms around her, her hands clutched at her stomach. “No,” he breathed, all anger and fear forgotten, “not now.”

“No,” she agreed, “no, I think not.” She straightened up a little, but left most of her weight on him, “Your mother told me this could happen. False pains, she called it. It is not yet time.” But she did not seem so confident.

“Come,” he said. “Sit.”

She ended up laying down on their little cabin bed, huddled on her side, her face drawn in pain and worry, but after ten long, excruciating minutes, no other pains came, and her breathing returned to normal.

“Do you need anything?” Percy asked her, gently. “Some water? Some wine?”

She nodded weakly, but did not specify which.

After a few minutes, making certain she was no longer in any serious pain, he then went in search of one or the other, and possibly even a little bit of food.

The sailors greeted him as he emerged onto the deck. He was quite friendly with the seamen. Annabeth had paid good money for their services, yes, but also, he sensed that they could feel a kindred spirit among them.

He found the quartermaster, a kind man with five children of his own and the air of a legacy of Neptune, with very little trouble. The man was always eager to assist this young charge and his wife, and gladly procured Percy wine and hard bread.

“Anything else?” he asked.

Percy considered, as a thought occurred to him. “You do not happen to be in possession of any olives, do you?”

He gave Percy a sort of sideways look, and then, to Percy’s amazement, nodded, producing a small jar of the stuff.

Percy could have kissed the man. His thanks would have lasted all night, had he not been shooed away, back to his wife.

She had maneuvered herself to a sitting position once more when he returned. Freya the cat had made herself quite at home against the line of her thigh, purring contentedly as Annabeth rubbed at her belly, speaking words he did not understand, but recognized as her father’s tongue, so musical and lilting that it could have been a lullaby.

“I have returned,” he said softly, almost unwilling to interrupt the moment. “With--"

At his voice, she raised her head, her eyes a little red and puffy from tears, but the smile she directed towards him was soft and pleased. “Oh, thank you, Percy. Here, come sit by me.”

Settling in on her other side, ever mindful of both her stomach and her furry companion, he handed her the wine, resisting the urge to brush her hair which had fallen into her face.

“I do apologize,” she said, after she had taken a drink. “I did not mean for my words to be so harsh.”

“It is alright,” he replied. “I did not realize the enormity of your feelings.”

Nibbling on a piece of bread, she swallowed, chasing the morsel with a little more wine, before pinning him with an odd sort of stare. “You must remember, Percy, that your choices no longer solely affect you. You are a husband, and a father. There are certain things which you are now obligated to provide.”

“Yes, I am aware,” he said, throat thick. Money and order and prestige, none of which he possessed. “All I meant for was to reassure you that I would not trap you in a situation from which you could not free yourself, should you ever need to.”

More than she knew, the shadow of his mother’s first husband hung over him still. He would rather die than submit Annabeth to even an echo of the same treatment.

“I am not trapped,” she said. “I extended the proposition of marriage to you, and you agreed--quite the opposite of the way things are usually done, might I add.”

He chuckled. That did seem to be a common thread between them.

“But,” she went on, “I am your wife. You must remember that. There are things for which I will not stand, and unlike some women, I have a noted history of running off when I do not like my treatment. When I married you, I knew, however, that you would never do those things.” She paused, considering him, holding his gaze. “I am a reflection of you, as a wife always is. I chose a brave, handsome, powerful, intelligent husband, and I am happy to be with him--but it will do me no good if he hides away and refuses to use his gifts, or disrespects our union by not valuing property that is rightfully his. If you act as though our union is not one of partnership, but one of a great burden, then, whatever your intentions, that will harm me.”

There were a million things he wished he could tell her, in this moment, promises of autonomy, declarations of love, but he knew she would not want to hear either. “That is not fair to you,” was all he ended up saying.

“I never said it was fair,” she agreed, a sympathetic twist to her mouth. “However, this is the way it is. I am not so displeased with my choices, not yet, but please, for my pride, if nothing else, do not prove me wrong.”

“Well,” Percy offered, falling into old step, “pride is your fatal flaw, skjaldmær . I suppose I must take particular care with it.”

She smiled at him, real, true, beautiful. “That is what I ask.”

“Is that all?”

“Well,” she grinned, a little of her humor shining through, “I daresay I shall ask for much much more--for what, however, at this time I cannot say.”

Percy wished he could, were she so inclined, offer her the world, his devotion, his love, all that he had and more. He settled instead for reaching beneath his cloak and pulling out his gift from the quartermaster. “I know you said that your cravings had--”

Before he could even finish his sentence, Annabeth had yanked it from his hand.

“Olives!” she cried in a tone not dissimilar to that of her lusts. “Oh Percy, you found them! You found me olives at sea!”

In very quick succession, she kissed him, and then she had the jar open and began shoving olives into her mouth.

***

In Neapolis , as he was disembarked, he made certain to purchase more olives for her. He did not do so because he wished to put some space between himself and his wife, but rather because she loved them, and at this stage in her pregnancy, she was finding herself uncomfortable all the time. The movement of the boat was not the cause of her nausea, but the cramped quarters and lack of comforts were wearing on her.

So, he set out to find her olives. The fact that he felt his own failure as a husband keenly, but he still did not know how to rectify it, was merely an additional consideration. Thus, he would provide her with food, because it appeared he was unable to provide her with anything more effective.

He managed to procure a few figs as well, juicy and sweet. And some salted nuts he thought might please her. And many many olives. He spent a good deal of money on the volume, hoping  that they would last them to Venice, or at the very least to their next stop.

Spending money on his wife was no hardship. On himself, however? It took him several minutes to convince himself into purchasing a new hat, as his had accumulated a rather disgusting layer of road dirt.

She would like this one, he hoped. It was black, but with a blue and gold trim around the brim. She seemed to enjoy that particular color scheme.

He came back to the ship to some commotion, though he only half listened to the first mate’s words as two trunks were loaded aboard. He was nervous around his wife, still, her condition always lighting fearful fires within him, but he found he could never be too far away. Percy felt as though he were a young boy of fifteen all over again, just returning from their terrible, terrible trip beneath the earth, only now coming to terms with the breadth of his feelings for her.

“There's been some commotion on the ship while you were gone,” said Annabeth as he entered their cabin, once more laid out on their bed. Freya the cat did not crowd her this afternoon, but slept peacefully on Percy’s discarded winter cloak.

“Yes,” Percy agreed, handing her the olives and figs, watching with detached horror as she stuffed them both simultaneously into her mouth. Would it be husbandly to mock her choice? Had they both still been youths, he would not have hesitated to do so, and that good natured mocking had come so easy to him still, even with his devotion, but everything now felt so unbalanced. Marriages did contain humor and good-natured ribbing, but were they acceptable enough substitutes for love and affection? Too fearful to try, he instead answered her question. “We have taken on a new passenger, it seems.”

“Anyone interesting?”

“A count, returning to his home in Venice,” he said. “The first mate did not volunteer many more details.”

“Perhaps you should introduce yourself,” she suggested. “As you said, we have no connections in the city. A count on friendly terms could potentially be a great boon.”

A part of him hated how she had listened to his every word, as she should not have to manage his life so fully, but, well, it was a very good idea.

“I will do so when you are feeling a little better,” he promised.

“See to it that you do.”

She winced, then, moving about to readjust herself on the bed. “I apologize,” said Percy, for what must have been the thousandth time. He never wished to cause her such discomfort, even if the reason was a happy one.

“I have asked you repeatedly to stop apologizing,” she said, relaxing into the bed. “You know it is no trouble. I have traveled to the ends of the world with you twice now, both ways. I think it is in fact easier to do while with child, mostly. Next time,” she continued, quickly, refusing him ample time to dwell on her strange words, “perhaps we shall arrive before the later days.”

Such words belonged to the realm of dreams; “next time.” In truth, they would not have another opportunity such as this. This would be their only child. He tried to comfort himself with the fact that it was better for her, as many a tragedy befell women in the birthing bed.

His own fears about what might await his wife were quiet, but as the date came nearer, it had been harder and harder to quell them. She was hearty and hale, but normally she would have been confined to comfortable rooms. Even traveling up and down the continent, the meanest inn made a far better place to lay than the softest beds upon the undulating ocean.

They had no nectar or ambrosia here, no healer of Apollo or midwife of Artemis on hand. Annabeth only had Percy, and he was sorely terrified he would find himself lacking in the crucial moment.

Ashore, in Neapolis, he had burned a sacrifice in preparation, to Artemis, Eileithyia, and Hera, and any deity who had even the remotest connection with childbirth. He had strongly considered using one of their precious few drachmae to attempt to contact the agoge , or perhaps Thalia and her maiden hunters. They had, like their lady, brought babies into the world on occasion.

Without a guarantee of success, however, he found himself loath to waste such time and resources. But it mattered not--they would be in Venice in a few days, he would find her the most comfortable of rooms, the most talented of midwives, and the most celebrated of doctors, and there they would await the birth of their daughter.

Afterwards, what he was supposed to do still remained a mystery. Not be a laborer, not find work on a ship, he was too afraid to ask what she wanted him to do. Too afraid to once again ignite her ire. Too afraid that he could not give it to her.

In some ways, her growing discomfort was a blessing. It distracted them both from having to figure out what he was to do to make her truly happy.

They set sail again, and Percy sunk into the feeling of the sea all around him, a brief escape from his wife’s, his dearest friend’s discomfort. They were very close to their destination, less than a fortnight at a normal speed, and with Percy’s help, well, they could be much, much faster.

As Annabeth winced and groaned, her momentary peace fleeing her with the rocking of the ship, he decided that they would make it to Venice in ten days’ time. Most likely, he could manage an even quicker pace, but he did not wish to scare the sailors so badly that they might stop all together.

Perhaps they should not have dallied in Messalia. Or perhaps they should have remained longer, long enough for her to give birth.

He should have done a great many things differently, it seemed.

At her request on the second day, he took her out of their cabin, supporting her as they slowly walked about the deck. All night, he had heard her toss and turn in their shared bed, groaning in pain. She seemed a little better this morning, but hopefully the sea air would do her a bit more good.

“And if not me,” she said, her jest squeezed through gritted teeth, “then perhaps your sea spawn.” Her laughter was cut off by her gasp of pain, digging her nails into the skin of his arm.

By his count, she had done that at least every five minutes for at least several hours. The time between the pain might have even been getting shorter.

“Are you certain you are alright? There are plenty of places to make port between here and Venice.”

She waved him off. “I am fine, I just… ooh , it feels as though your child is nearly as excited by the sea as you are.”

Usually, Percy would have been mollified by such a statement, and he would have gone about his business as usual--but not today. “I think we should return to our cabin, and get you back in b--”

All at once, she crushed his hand, nearly falling into him as she let out a terrible, heart-wrenching cry.

“Annabeth!” He braced her against his body, a hand on her shoulder to steady her. “What is it?”

“ Ma ton Dia ,” she gasped, “I… oh, no! Oh, stupid, stupid, I am such a fool!”

“What?” he pleaded. “What?”

Her eyes were wild, shiny and tinged with pain. “The baby,” she groaned, “Percy--your mother told me I would--” Then she cried again, even more anguished than before.

“Anja!” He nearly buckled beneath her weight.

“It’s coming,” she grunted, struggling to remain upright as the ship roiled beneath them. “The baby--it’s here!”

Oh, no. Ohhh, no no no. “What? Now?”

“Yes, now!”

“I--”

“Perc--” she wailed again, too much in pain to speak.

A large wave crashed on the side of their ship, sailors shouting orders to one another.

Paralyzed with fear, all Percy could do was clutch her closer. Now? Now, of all times?

One of the men stepped up to them, beginning to herd them towards below decks. “Signore Thalassinos,” he said, gruff but commanding, “there seems to be a storm rising, we ask that you return to your cabin until it has passed--”

“My wife is having her baby,” he blurted to the man.

His fear and terror must have been plainly evident, for the man paled in response. “Now, sir?” he squeaked.

“Yes, now!” Percy said. “Come, we require your assistance.”

When he made to shift her so that he could carry her, she cried out even more, releasing her grip on Percy so as to clutch at her stomach. Together, they braced her between the two of them, but rather than return them to their cabin, he led them to the captain’s suite. “The captain has a much larger bed,” he said, easing the door open with his shoulder. “Your wife shall be more comfortable here.”

Percy did not even have the wits to protest, or thank the man.

She shrieked as they laid her down, her hands clawing at the fine sheets. “Shh, shh, Anja,” he gentled, lacing her fingers with his. “I am here, I am here.”

“Signore…”

The crewman was looking down at his feet, gesturing to a spot on the captain’s rug. It took him far, far longer than it should have for Percy to realize that it was blood. A trail of it led beyond the door, onto the deck of the ship. Squeezing her arm in a silent apology, he positioned himself in front of the other man so he would not be able to see, then lifted up just a corner of her dress.

Her chemise had been white when she had put it on this morning. Now it was all stained and colored, a deep, dark, red.

Hastily, he laid the fabric back down, his hands shaking.

“Annabeth, darling,” he said, one hand coming up to push the hair which had fallen from her wimple out of her eyes, “you are bleeding. What do I do?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her face red, tears leaking from her eyes. “I--I have never done this before. I do not know.”

“Is there supposed to be so much blood?” Percy knew little of childbirth, but quite a bit about injuries. Had this been an arm or a leg, he would have been very concerned. Being a woman was bloody business, he knew, but was this how they were supposed to go?  

“I do not--I do not think so…” she whimpered.

The helpful sailor still stood there, at a loss of what to do with himself. From beyond the cabin, he could hear the pelting of rain as it smashed into the ship.

“Percy, I think something is wrong,” she said.

Something was wrong.

Something was wrong.

“It hurts,” she cried, “differently, differently than it had before. I can’t--” Then she let out a great wail.

No. No. No.

The boat beneath them rocked, violently. Percy was able to keep himself and Annabeth stable, but the crewman was not so lucky.

“It’s alright,” he soothed, “it's alright.”

Again the ship lurched beneath them, sailors shouting in fear and terror. He paid it no mind.

Annabeth screamed, her whole body contorted in pain.

“Something is wrong,” she said once more. “Something is wrong .”

No. No. He felt like the sea outside--angry, rolling, ready to burst.

The ship swayed again.

“Percy!”

"Signore, what is it?” asked the crewman, having finally, fully righted himself.

Had he been of a clearer head, he would have recognized that the man could not understand Annabeth, as she had been screaming in Greek. At the moment, however, he was too full of fear to be kind. “Don’t just stand there,” he snapped. “Go and get the doctor!”

A midwife would be far, far better, but they would have to settle for the ship’s doctor. Between his experience and Percy’s battlefield expertise, hopefully they would be able to come up with something between the two of them.

“Yes,” said the man, “the count’s friend, he is a doctor, he said. He is a doctor.”

“A doctor,” Percy repeated. “There is a real doctor aboard?”

“ Si, Signore, yes. He is not Italian, but the count says he is a doctor.”

“Fetch him for me,” Percy pleaded, “please, fetch him, tell him something is wrong, and I will pay him whatever he wishes.”

The sailor departed, nearly tripping on himself to get out of the cabin. “What is happening, Percy?” Annabeth asked, frantic. “What did you say, where is he going?”

“He said there is a doctor aboard,” Percy said, turning his attention back to his wife, “he is going to get him.”

“The ship’s doctor?”

“No, the count’s doctor is aboard--I sent him to fetch the man.”

Weakly, she reached for him, her fingers clumsily hitting his arm. “It will be alright, won’t it Percy?” she asked. He had never seen her so afraid before. “Percy, promise me it is going to be alright.”

“It will be alright, I swear it.” Hands working quickly, he undid her wimple, as he knew she disliked the garment, and he did not want her to grow even more feverish.

Under it she looked pale and almost clammy. Still she bled.

The seas outside turned even choppier as Percy waited for this mysterious doctor to come and save his wife.

He did not want to disturb his wife with any more loud noises. The last thing she needed right now was to see him in all his fear and terror. Within the depths of his mind, he cursed himself for being a fool. If only he had not been so selfish, staying in Messalia for so long! If only he had not given into the sweetest of all possible temptations!

But now was not the time for self-flagellation. Now was not even the time for prayer, though pray he did, begging all the gods who had ever thrown a scrap of goodwill their way to save her, Eileithyia for a safe delivery, Apollo for a safe recovery, even the queen of the heavens, who had no lost love for either of them, but whose protection extended towards families. He prayed to them all for the gift of Annabeth’s life, and that of their child, promising anything, everything. There was not much he would not do, should they call upon him to pay his debt, as long as she would survive this.

“You’ll be alright,” Percy said, pressing a kiss to the curls plastered on her forehead. “You’ll be alright.”

“And our son,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “He’ll be alright too, won’t he, Percy?”

“Of course.” He smiled, hoping to put her at ease. “Everyone shall be healthy, hale, and whole--you shall see.”

It seemed to work, somewhat, Annabeth relaxing into the pillows, giving him a shaky smile in return.

Kronos’ curse upon them, perhaps, it was likely mere minutes, but felt like another age had passed before the cabin door once again swung open. “Here, Dottore , here she is.” said the crewman, ushering in another man. “Signore, I have brought you the count’s doctor. As I said, I apologize for the interruption--”

“It is no trouble,” said the other man, his voice lightly accented. “I am happy to help. Hello Signora Thalassinos, I am… Ana Zabeta ?”

Percy looked up sharply. That voice, that--

“Guillaume?” Annabeth whispered, raising her head.

“ Guillaume ,” Percy repeated, “Will.”

It was him. Will, son of Apollo, the greatest healer of heroes, the most skilled doctor that the agoge had ever produced.

“Percy?”

“Oh, thank all the gods,” Percy cried, dropping his Italian completely. “Oh, thank you, Boedromios , thank you, father! Will, something is wrong.”

Sparing him a quick glance, he stripped off his own outer layer, discarding it on the floor of the cabin, and rushed over to Annabeth. “Help me get her gown off,” he told Percy, before waving at the crewman. “You, stay--I may have need of you yet.”

“Can you help her?” he asked.

“Childbirth is generally the purview of women,” Will said. “I have only assisted my aunt in a few before--but I am confident in our process.”

That was enough reassurance for him.

He and Percy got her kirtle out, so she was only in her chemise, the linen sticking to her skin as Will peeled it away to examine her. A consummate professional, his face remained calm even as the boat ferociously lurched to one side, then the other.

“Percy,” WIll said, firmly, “please stop raising a storm outside.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Please try, for Annabeth.” Touching at her belly and between her legs, he frowned as he looked at the blood. Even in pain, nothing escaped Annabeth’s notice.

“What is wrong?” she asked, weak and withdrawn. “Will, Will, is my baby--”

“Sailor,” Will called in Italian, turning back to the man to look at him, “please go and tell the count to bring me my specialty bag. He’ll know what it means.”

“I can go fetch it for you, sir. I will not bother the count.”

“No,” Will said, firmly, years of wrangling unhelpful demigods in the infirmary lending him strength. “Tell the count to bring my bag, and some linens if he has some on hand, which he should. If he questions you, tell him I demanded it.”

“Will,” Percy said, “let me go go and--”

But he shook his head, reaching into his bag and removing some cloth. “Stay. I shall need your assistance for this next portion.” He handed Percy a wooden rod and a cloth, then leaned over Annabeth, the picture of peace and serenity, even in such a stressful time. “Annabeth,” he said slowly, “I sense there is some tearing, and you are bleeding far too much. However, I promise I can take care of that. Unfortunately, there is another problem: the baby is in the wrong position.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, wincing as another wave of pain crashed over her.

“I can feel the baby’s feet,” Will said, “when I should feel the head. I will try to turn it, but I may need to try a few other things beforehand.”

Eyes glassy, she begged of Will, “You will save my baby, Will, yes? Please… Percy…” She grasped at his hand, mumbling words he did not understand.

“Percy,” murmured the good doctor, “this will be painful. I will do what I can, but I wish to keep her as comfortable as possible. I’ll need you to make sure she can bite down on the wood, and wipe her face and her chest as well. Can you do that?”

For her? Anything. “Yes,” he said, “yes.”

“Very good. Can you calm the sea?”

“I--”

There was a knock on the door to the cabin again. “Will?” came a deeper voice, speaking Greek. “What is going on? There is a vicious storm brewing, and I found this cat who seems to be in serious distress."

“Quickly, quickly.” Will called back, not looking away from Annabeth. “Come in.”

Too exhausted, too worried, too scared, Percy could not properly comprehend precisely what he was seeing when Nico Di Angelo walked into his cabin, carrying a leather bag that seemed to glow even in the dark room in one arm, and Freya the cat in another.

Nico, however, did not have that problem. He nearly dropped both of his parcels at the sight of them. “Percy?” Eyes wide, mouth open, he then took in the whole strange, frightening scene. “Annabeth? What--what is the matter?”

“Several things,” said Will, “and we shall have our joyous reunion once they are resolved.” He wiped his bloodied hand on a cloth, and then opened the bag which Nico had placed beside him, taking out several little clay jars and water skins. Smearing a substance on his finger from one of the jars, with his other hand, he gently tapped Annabeth’s cheek, pulling her attention, her eyes fluttering open. “I need to attend to some of the bleeding,” he said, serious and stern. “I apologize in advance, but this will feel very strange.” His countenance never wavered, even as he lowered his hand and slipped his fingers inside of her. Then he nodded at one of the water skins. “Percy is going to help you drink some, yes? Just a few sips.”

“Alright,” she agreed.

Percy reached for the skin, recognizing it as nectar from the smell as he dribbled a bit into Annabeth’s mouth. For him, it smelled of his mother’s kitchen in the evening, cinnamon and honey and nuts. “Here Anja,” he said, hoping it would remind her of home, “drink up.”

“No,” said Will, “only a little! The other is unicorn draught. She can drink all of it, if she wishes, as long as it is done slowly.”

He brought the other skin to her lips. “Careful,” he said, as some of it leaked out of the side of her mouth. Unicorn draught was potent, powerful--he himself had had much of the stuff during his stay with the Legion, and he knew firsthand just how effective it could be.  “There we are, there we are, love.”

Nestled in Nico’s arms, their poor cat wailed, upset at her mistress’ distress.

“Nico,” Will ordered, “please pet that cat before she wakes every sea monster that Percy has not already raised with his storm.” Then he took a deep breath. “Annabeth, I am going to reach inside and try to reposition the baby. You can bite down on the stick. It will all be over soon.”

“Can you bite down for me, Anja,” Percy asked, putting the water skin aside and raising the stick to her mouth.

Eyes shining, she pulled together a smile, soft and full of pain. “ Jag skulle göra vad som helst för dig .” she whispered. Then she bit down.

He could still hear her scream around it. Several tears ran down her cheeks, and he wiped them away

After a few moments, Percy looked towards Will, who was now smiling.

“Good, Annabeth, very good,” said Will. “You're ready, you can start pushing now.”

“ Malaka ,” swore Nico, looking rather green. Dressed in a black doublet, surcoat, and breeches over black hose, in his arms resting their little white kitten, he made for a startlingly amusing picture, entirely out of place for such a fraught moment.

“It is alright, Anja,” Percy said. “It is nearly done.”

Weeping, red-faced, exhausted, she nodded, and began her most harrowing trial.

There was not much more he could do to ease her suffering at this point, but he supported her as best he could without a birthing chair, allowing her to brace herself against him as she cried out and made aborted movements. Then Will was announcing things: a head, shoulders, arms.

And then a cry pierced the room, cutting through Annabeth’s moans and the roar of the sea in Percy’s ear. Annabeth fell back against him, loose like a bow released from its string.

“Annabeth,” Will said breathlessly, a bright, broad smile on his face. He stood, holding something in his arms, and presented it to them. “You have a son!”

A son.

A son.

Percy had a son.

He took a closer look.

It-- he --was small, and round, blotchy white and purple and brown. Wrinkled and wet. Ugly.

He looked, all things considered, like a turnip pulled from the ground.

Reverently, Will placed him into Annabeth’s outstretched arms.

“Oh,” she cooed, breathless, “look at you.”

A son. He had not wanted a son. He had hoped, so hoped, for a daughter, a little Anja to be a reflection of her mother in all things.

The boy resting in Annabeth’s arms already had dark hair, and a mighty cry, calming when he came to rest on his mother’s chest. Then, for the first time ever, he opened his eyes.

His face was still purple and white and splotchy, yet when he looked up at Percy, his eyes were the color of the Bosphorus on a sunny day. Those were Percy’s eyes. That was Percy’s dark hair coating his small head, Percy’s nose reflected in miniature.

Yet there was something in his expression, mere moments old, passing judgement on his father. You wanted a daughter , it seemed to say, but I knew better .

Annabeth always knew better than him, and so, it seemed, did her son. Her beautiful perfect son.

His son.

He fell in love at that moment, meeting his son’s eyes, sea green to sea green. “Welcome,” he said, reaching out to run a finger along a round, splotchy cheek. “May all the gods' blessings be upon you.”

When he pulled back, Annabeth was watching him. “Are you alright?” she asked, hushed.

“I have never been better,” he promised, his voice thick with unshed emotion. “And you?”

“I…” She did not answer, her brow furrowed. Swallowing, she turned back to the baby in her arms.

“Here,” said Will, holding out a square of ambrosia, “take this, if you please.”

Nico hummed, looking out of the cabin door. “It appears as if the storm has broken.”

While Will did his best to make Annabeth comfortable as she took the baby to her breast, Percy cleaned up what mess he could, gathering the dirtied linens together. He would have to apologize to the captain for commandeering use of his quarters, and pay him back for the use of his bed.

“Do not fret over the captain’s things,” said Nico, somehow divining his thoughts, as he usually did. His black clothing was now covered in white fur, as Freya had made herself quite at home in his embrace, all distress forgotten, sleeping peacefully in the crook of his arms. “He is a good friend--I can certainly compensate him for a new set of linens.”

Percy shook his head. “That is very kind of you, but I can afford it.” If he were to have some control over their shared finances, then he would not begin by placing themselves in debt.

“I apologize for the interruption,” said Will, “but I need to give Annabeth another exam. Percy,” he grinned, and it was then he noticed that Will was holding the baby in his arms. “Would you like to hold your son?”

“Yes,” came tumbling out of his mouth. “Yes, I do.”

“So he is your son, then?” Nico asked. At least he had the decency to look bashful at the look Will shot him.

The good doctor placed the baby into his waiting hands.

He was so small.

He did not cry, being removed from his mother, but blinked up at him, sleepily, uncomprehendingly. Percy began noting so many little details--the thin, patchy eyebrows which would no doubt grow in with time, his pudgy fingers, curled into a little fist, his ears, an exact replica of his mother’s, the ones for which Percy had once considered composing sonnets. This was his son , made in their image, but also a little person in his own right.

Was this how his own father had felt, all those years ago, holding Percy in his arms?

“I think you will be just fine,” Will proclaimed, rising from Annabeth’s side. “I will go get you some food, but in the meantime, please, drink the rest of the unicorn draught. I shall return shortly. If there is any issue, do not hesitate to send for me at once.”

“But--”

“We can ask for their adventures later, Nico,” Will said, tossing his golden bag at the son of Hades. “Come, let us give them some privacy.”

Though, as they made to leave, Freya the cat extricated herself from his one-armed embrace, landing on the floor without a quiet thump , before leaping up on the captain’s desk, observing the whole scene from her perch.

Nico and Will shut the door quietly behind them, leaving only Percy, Annabeth, and their son.

Propped up against the pillows, Annabeth reached out her arms. “I wish to hold him again,” she said, quietly, still so exhausted. “Please.”

He acquiesced without hesitation.

Annabeth took him with a sweetly tired smile, bringing him to her chest. Immediately she returned her gaze to the baby, tenderly fingering a stray wisp of hair on the top of his head.

His breath caught in his throat.

Now he had a better understanding of why the trinity men worshipped a mother.

“What should we name him?” he asked, sitting beside her on the bed.

“I had thought we could call him Perseus,” she said, so taken with the little boy. “A first born son should be named after his father, should he not?”

He swallowed, his heart fit to burst. He deserved not this woman, nor their son, and yet the gods had seen fit to bless him with both. He could not, however, allow his son to labor under his curse. “I think not,” he said, with only a little regret. “I think very much not.” The first, great Perseus was only related to him by the most distant of circumstances. His own mother had given him the name of the only hero of antiquity who had earned a happier ending than his peers, dying old, in his bed, surrounded by his family, in order to pass some of that same luck onto Percy. He had never considered himself terribly lucky, until this very moment, but his life had been a long, hard one, and he did not want his son to share his fate. Percy did not deserve this family--not yet. When he did, then, perhaps, they could have a child which bore his name. Placing a hand on her shoulder, she turned her head to face him. “Let them say,” said Percy, quoting that old poet, “that he is greater, by far, than his father.”

Annabeth’s face fell, but she nodded.

“Alexandros, then,” she said, after a little silence. “Alexandros, for greatness.”

“Alexandros,” he breathed, looking at the child. Will had wrapped him in a bit of the linen Nico had brought with him, and he was, all told, barely bigger than a loaf of bread. “Alexandros is perfect.”

“Then be we agreed.” Annabeth said, pulling down her chemise, and helping the baby latch onto her nipple. Percy retrieved the unicorn draught from its place on the floor, opening the stopper, ready and waiting for her. “Alexandros Thalassinos.”

Beyond the cabin walls, the sea was calm, placid, the ship moving smoothly through the waters towards their final destination, the city on the lagoon. There were many, many things still to be done, money to be exchanged, property to be sought, connections to be forged. What good fortune, then, that they had happened upon Nico di Angelo--the man was surly and ill-tempered, but he had proved himself a good friend and a great ally on many occasions. With his assistance, they would be able to find what they sought in Venice, he was sure of it.

But that was all to be dealt with later. Now, there was Freya, who leapt from the captain’s desk onto the bed, curiously sniffing at the small thing which now occupied her favorite spot of her mistress’ embrace. Now, there was Annabeth, and Alexandros, sweaty and panting and in dire need of a bath.

Now, there was his family.

He wrapped an arm around his wife pressing another kiss to her curls.

“Perfect,” he said. “The greatest.”

[watchinglikeafangirl]

Unpopular opinion about IPYTM

IPYTM is the second season of ITSAY and once again deals with Teh not knowing exactly what he wants in life. Now, he is with Oh-aew but feels even more far away from him than before because they live different lives and struggle to accept the change of their relationship. It's now about their college years and not about high school any more, which gives their lives a way more serious touch Billkin and PP act out beautifully. But as we all know, acting isn't everything. Directors have a major impact on the endproduct and sadly, they changed the director here which is very visible in the entire season. It is not necessarily a bad thing to switch directors and it wasn't the worst choice in IPYTM but for me personally, Teh and Oh-aew's story lost its lovelyness. It's not as special any more.

Editing

Like I said, what caught my attention right from the start is the different editing of IPYTM and I don't just mean the editing. I mean the way it looks, sounds and feels like.

ITSAY focused a lot on its color scheme and expressed feelings through coloring. Oh-aew's color is red and Teh's color is blue. The background mostly looked very calm. A stonecolored house or the sea were always part of the scenery. But now, they are in crowded places or in front of something colorful. Q's home looks cozy and symmetrical but has nothing more to it. The furniture is as boring as possible to let the characters stand out. It feels like the characters don't fit into the scenery and yet, they somehow do. But I think, the detailed and planned-out concept got lost here and it was a very important aspect of ITSAY. Yes, the colors red and blue sometimes shine through but are not as dominant any more and I believe it was all very thought through, but I just don't feel it. The only thing expressed through color I can remember is Oh-aew's hair. The red stands for his inner conflict if Teh accepts him and what happened to their relationship. Him dying his hair back to brown showed he was coming down to earth again. He walked the long path of self love to be okay with himself again. His dressing style has changed but his hair color is all the same, showing he still is the same old Oh-aew.

As I metioned a few times before, I don't like the way background music is used so frequently to make the emotions easier to understand. When they are sad, the music is sad. When it's awkward, the music is funny. When they are out of line, the music is stressful. This is not a bad thing but I noticed music explaining the emotions of the scenes is used way more often. ITSAY had music moments as well, of course, but if you listen and watch closely, there's always music in IPYTM. In Ep 5, I started laughing every time it happened. It annoys me a lot because ITSAY used a lot of background noises and presented things in silence which made all those scenes feel extremely realistic because reality is silent. It made things more lovely, more memorable and more saddening because there was nothing to seek comfort it. Just blank silence and a lonely face made all emotions stand out way more and made me feel like I was watching a show building up realism. But IPYTM rarely had any silent scenes and when the music is absent, the show doesn't work that well any more. It is designed to be a lot more basic to please the now-very-much-bigger audience. Music makes it easier for the audience to get the vibe but is also a simple tool to use when the scene doesn't work elsewise.

Now, we get to the whole vibe. ITSAY felt very nostalgic and melodramatic whereas IPYTM feels modern and bitter. It's like ITSAY was a dream and IPYTM is the reality behind the sea. This opposite could be great, but instead it feels like a bitter reality. Their relationship meets problems, they struggle finding friends and dreams meet a dead end. It feels like watching the show through the eyes of an old person reminicing. The light-hearted scenes lack and drama takes over way too soon and for way too long. It feels rushed and average. Not as special any more. The special feeling is gone.

Characters

Let's get to my second problem I have with this sequel and it's the most important one because this show only surrounds around Teh and Oh-aew. They are the ones who changed the most. Change isn't bad, don't get me wrong. I sometimes seek change so badly I'm devastated when I go to bed with the feeling everything is the same again. That the world is the same. That others are the same. That I'm still the same. In IPYTM, change is seen as something bad because we still see the world through Teh's eyes and Teh always was and always will be the sort of character who detestes change and feels like he loses bonds if personalities change as they grow. The same happens here. The fear of changing so much, you can't recognize your most loved one, is extremely realistic at that age and I can't say anything against it because I have the same fear. Still, there are choices I can't agree with.

Like I said, Teh hates change and the moment Oh-aew says he wants to transfer, problems start. Him transfering means Teh feels like he doesn't understand Oh-aew any more. It means having a life very different from Teh's and since ITSAY was about them realizing how much they have in common, IPYTM is more about them discovering they are not the same person. They are individuals who have different personalities and seek happiness in their own way. They don't copy each other. IPYTM is more about self-realization. This also means, they spend some time apart and lose each other a little bit.

All of this is fine, all of this is realistic. But what I don't like about Teh and Oh-aew is them not talking. They accept their fate which causes them to break apart even more. Thing is, Teh was always someone not sharing much very easily, but Oh-aew always shared his thoughts. He made the first step, he was serious and he showed how hurt he was. And now, he feels Teh is drifting away and doesn't address it. He doesn't address how lonely he feels, he doesn't say how much he misses Teh, he doesn't mention he's not fine with himself. It is frustrating to watch them just coexisting without sharing stuff.

And then Teh cheats which was never the missing puzzle piece to their story. I know, Teh is sad. His friends change, his boyfriend changes. But why would he throw something away, he worships so much? He doesn't very much open up about himself but he did to Oh-aew, so why does he lose courage to fight for it, let it stay like it and just kisses someone else who is a playboy? He choses to believe in Jai's actions rather than seeing Oh-aew.

Plot

I'm drifting to the next point. The plot. Well, the plot is just ... stupid (I'm sorry). Yes, it is entertaining at some points but it is average, basic. The love triangle, trust issues and jealousy is something I've seen various times before. I'm extremely disappointed when it comes to the story because the thing I loved about ITSAY as well, was the originality. It wasn't clicheish. It wasn't boring. It wasn't like other shows. It was independant. But IPYTM tried very hard to please the now-big audience and fanbase. It's not what I wanted to see.

Even if you give them a love triangle, then please, not such a flat character as Jai. We had Tarn and Bas in ITSAY. They were breathing human beings with their own personalities, their own goals and their own interests. But Jai ... he's just there. He helps Teh to act properly and Teh spends a lot of time with him, apparently, but his personality is not very clear. When he tells Teh, he was just pretending, I can't tell if he really was or if he steps aside for Oh-aew. I still can't tell and I think it's really weak of such an important character with so much screentime, to lack of a personality. Everybody knew, why Bas stepped aside. But with Jai, I can't tell.

I lost it in Ep 5 when Bas showed up to give Oh-aew a tedtalk. Honestly, I laughed. It was stupid and again provse the writing of IPYTM is not nearly as strong and good as the writing of ITSAY. ITSAY contained an inner conflict as well but they managed to let us know about it without the characters actually telling us. When Teh gave Oh-aew the notebook with vocab, he hid outside. When the piano in the cafe was played, both cried far away from each other. When Teh spend time with Tarn, he realized his feelings and told her down. It's the little things. And IPYTM lacks of those. We actually need Bas to tell Oh-aew what to do and honestly, his message wasn't as deep. I can't count how often I heard those "follow you heart" speeches before. It works with everything. Right here, it seems passionless and rushed. Like they couldn't think of another way to solve the problem and come to an end.

So, the story was filled with cliches and the writing was not as good as ITSAY. Not only did we have a cameo of Bas to give Oh-aew a choice everybody knew he had, no, we also had an antagonist who is easy to blame for all the issues. Jai is the antagonist here, playing with Teh's thoughts or something but this show makes its life way too easy. Teh and Oh-aew had problems before. The result of this fading away, is Teh kissing Jai but Jai is not the reason for it. But then, Jai walks out of Teh's life and everything is fine again? They don't talk about the problems ever because Jai is gone now and so are the relationship problems? I'm sorry but this is just a sad plot for a second season of ITSAY.

Conclusion

I can just say, I'm very disappointed. ITSAY affected me personally very much and has a very special place in my heart, so I was afraid IPYTM would ruin this as soon as the OST premiered. It was so cheesy and average, I knew back then I won't enjoy this as much. I watched nevertheless, but my hopes were dropped at an instant and I lost my motivation to continue watching. I kept it on hold for 3 weeks and didn't even miss it. This is a bad sign.

What more can I say? I didn't feel it, I'm sorry. I still think Billkin and PP are amazing and well, this turned out to be longer than intended.

[the-prince-and-the-smith]

The Ball (Logan POV)

Word Count: 1637

Logan looked around the room at all the dignitaries and members of the court that thronged in the ballroom. Not many people were dancing, most were just standing around and talking. Still, he kept scanning the crowd for the one person he most wanted to see. He knew it was a long shot and that he’d most likely be coming later when he had to talk with the king. Still, Logan kept his eyes trained on the entrances and occasionally the crowd so saw when the doors opened.

Virgil stepped into the room and Logan felt time stop. The smith had cleaned up nicely, wearing a coat of a rich purple. His shirt beneath was just as dark but in a blue hue that almost matched Logan’s own coat. His pants were as black as the coal he worked with. Virgil’s hair was done up as a crown around his head with delicate looking chains weaved into it, little flyaways catching the light and giving him a soft halo.

Logan took a breath and time seemed to start again as Virgil descended the stairs, scanning the room for him. The elder prince briefly looked around the room to lock eyes with his younger brother, finding him deep in conversation with both his suitors, before making his way to meet the Smith at the bottom of the stairs.

Logan smiled as Virgil met him at the bottom. ‘The Master Smith cleans up nice,” he said, trying to hide just how good he thought Virgil looked.

Virgil smiled, looking down slightly. “The coat was made by a customer who had some left over fabric and the shirt is on loan from my neighbor.”

Logan laughed lightly, linking his arm with Virgil’s and gently tugging him deeper into the room. “Well, at least you came.”

Virgil nodded. “That I did.” Still, he seemed slightly nervous as Logan led him to the back wall. There, they were able to stand with their backs to the wall and the floor in front of them. It seemed to calm him down some as he was able to lean back and not have his full guard up. 

Logan stood nearby, close enough to be within hearing range but still far enough away to be considered acceptable. "So, tell me about yourself, Mr. Arrowwood."

Virgil looked over at him, fingers of one hand running over a chain at his belt. "What do you want to know?"

Logan shrugged. "Life's story, every favorite thing you can think of, how you deal with emotions, what your job is like, who you are as a person. Just . . ." he trailed off uncertainly, "I just want to get to know you better. If it helps, we can trade facts. You tell me one thing and I'll tell you one thing?"

Virgil thought about it for a moment before agreeing. Logan learned a lot about him in that next half hour. He learned about both his favorite flavors and food as well as which one he despised. He learned which were his favorite tools and techniques to use. Virgil told him about his favorite places to go, promising that he might take him there one day.

Logan offered the same information about himself. When he got to his favorite place, he smiled. “It’s easier to just show you if you’ll let me.”

Virgil nodded. The crowd was getting a bit overwhelming for him as he was used to only a few people trickling in and out at a time. Logan offered his arm for Virgil to put his hand in the crook of his elbow and led the way. They left the ballroom and made their way down a few winding corridors before they reached a door to the outside. They kept going, around the building and down a small hill until they came to a small building made almost entirely of glass.

Inside, there were plants on every available surface. Some were on the floor in the shade, some were hanging from the roof, all of them looked healthy and many of them were blooming. Virgil spun in a slow circle as he took it all in. “What is this place?”

“It’s my personal greenhouse.” Logan leaned against a shelf as he watched Virgil explore. “I commissioned the local glass blowers and the royal Smith to make it and the shelves and I imported each plant myself. Every one of them is under my care and are my responsibility.” He shrugged. “It’s a nice stress reliever when I don’t feel like riding or sparring. It’s also just nice to be able to be alone and have someone listen to you.”

Virgil slowly took a turn around the building, looking at each and every plant. “Why are some on the ground?”

“I’ve found that they require a significantly less amount of sunlight than all the others, thus they’re on the ground in front of the shelves to help them with that.” Logan answered as many of Virgil’s questions as he asked, spending the next hour just talking about the plants.

When they’d exhausted the subject and the sun was setting behind a stand of trees, Logan led the way back inside. He subtly changed the topic from the greenhouse to Virgil’s occupation by asking him what he thought of the metal work and about his daily routine. Virgil talked about his work for the trip up and even longer as they sat on one of the benches that lined the ballroom, just rambling away.

Eventually, the band gave the signal that another set was about to start and Logan asked Virgil to dance with him.

“I don’t even know how.” Virgil responded, staying seated while Logan stood and held a hand out to him.

Logan laughed. “Just follow my lead and you should be fine.”

Virgil sighed but gave in, letting himself be pulled onto the dance floor. It was a swift, fast-paced dance, one that left little room for talking or even thinking as Virgil did his best to keep up with Logan and the other dancers. If he was to be the prince’s partner for the night, he was determined not to embarrass him in any way. The second dance of the set was only slightly less upbeat, each consecutive dance getting more and more stately until the last one was a slow turning in a circle, the pair’s left wrists crossing before changing direction and crossing their right wrists.

They danced another set together before resting. Logan was drawn away to talk with a visiting dignitary about trade. Virgil stood near a pillar and examined a nearby sconce. The craftsmanship was quite nice and Virgil got lost in thoughts of how he could learn from this and how he could have done it better. A tap on his shoulder brought him back to reality.

“Greetings. Would you happen to be Virgil Arrowwood?”

Virgil nodded. “That’s me. May I ask what your name is?”

He bowed slightly, his black coat fluttering behind him. “My name is Nate Brassard. I’m the son of the royal Smith.”

Virgil nodded. “I’m terribly sorry to hear of his illness. Is he coming back to work or are you assuming his position?”

Nate smiled. “I’d love to take over but my work is nowhere near as skilled as his is. However, I’ve heard that your work is beyond compare.”

Virgil smiled graciously. “I too have heard that. Having never met another smith besides my father, I have yet to test that.”

Nate nodded. Their conversation carried on as they swapped trade secrets, Virgil explaining how he got certain textures for the metal and how he made such detailed pieces. Nate explained the technique he was taught to do swirls without damaging the metal and how he did simple shapes with such complexity. Logan came back after a while, coming to stand by Virgil as they finished their conversation.

Nate looked at Logan before dipping into a bow. “You’re Highness.”

Logan nodded back at him. “How is your father doing?”

Nate’s smile was tinged with sadness. “He’s fading by the day. The physician isn’t expecting him to last the week.”

Logan hummed sympathetically. “I’m saddened to hear that.”

Nate nodded. “Will you be seeking his replacement soon?”

Logan glanced at Virgil. “Possibly.”

Virgil furrowed his brow and tried to figure out what that meant. Nate just laughed. “Well, I’ll leave you two to talk. Have a pleasant evening.” Virgil tracked his movements, watching him talk to one of the visiting princes at the refreshments table.

Logan leaned over, speaking softly so only Virgil could hear. “Would you like to dance some more? Or see the library?”

Virgil smiled. “I’d love to see the library, if it’s permitted.”

Logan nodded and opened a door close by. They entered a large room with bookshelves lining each of the walls, going above the doorways. There were cushioned couches in the center of the room with chairs scattered throughout. Logan stayed near the door as Virgil roamed, taking in the book titles and the covers being displayed. When one book caught his eye, Virgil paused to gently run a finger down it’s spine. He kept going but heard footsteps behind him and the soft shushing of a book being removed.

“The Queen and His Knight. A fantastic choice.” Virgil turned to see Logan leafing through it. He shut it with a snap before handing it to Virgil. “You can borrow it if you want.”

Virgil raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Really?”

“Yes, as long as you return it, I don’t see the harm in allowing you to read it.”

Virgil smiled and took it. “Thank you.”

Later that night, Virgil kept a candle burning longer than he normally did as he began the first few chapters of the book.

Last ask | Next story bit

[turningwheeltarot]

Healing anxiety has been an ongoing journey for me. I have learned a lot and come a long way over the years. I want to share some of the most important spiritual lessons that I have learned so far in hopes that it may help others who struggle with anxiety. I am not a medical professional and this is not meant to be a substitute for psychiatric advice or treatment. This is simply meant to be a sharing of what I have found to be effective for me. I approach this topic from a spiritual perspective as this is where my experience has been.

The Importance of a Daily Spiritual Practice

In order to heal anxiety, I believe a daily, committed spiritual practice of some kind is necessary. “Spiritual” can be substituted with other terms, such as “meditation” or “mindfulness” practice, if they resonate more with you. Committing to beginning each day with meditation and prayer has helped me to develop a strong inner foundation to root myself in. Before I made this commitment, I was like a house without a foundation at the mercy of whatever was going on around me.

A Course in Miracles is what I would consider to be my spiritual “home base.” The Course focuses primarily on thought. It is all about learning to undo a thought system based on fear -- which dominates this world -- and accept a thought system based on love instead. Anxiety is just one of the many ways the fear-based thinking of the world shows up. The Course states that its goal is the attainment of inner peace, and that this comes about only through changing our thinking: learning to choose the thoughts of love instead of the thoughts of fear. This is freedom from anxiety. 

According to the Course, the root cause of suffering lies in the mind; we change the world we see by changing our minds about the world we see. This inward shift is made by surrendering fear-based thoughts to the Holy Spirit (or your Higher Self, the Universe, Source, etc.) and simply being willing to perceive differently. The Course assures that our willingness is all that’s required for healing to take place.

If you don’t already have a spiritual practice, I strongly encourage you to find one that resonates with you. A Course in Miracles is just one of endless options. Set the intention to find the right one for you and explore, and the right one will present itself. Some may already have a spiritual practice, but need to commit to making it a daily priority. Our egos try to convince us that we “don’t have the time,” but I promise that even just a few minutes a day will make a remarkable difference in your life.

Surrendering, Allowing, and Trusting

My journey with healing anxiety has revolved around learning how to surrender, allow, and trust in Spirit. When worry arises, I do my best to consciously surrender the anxious thought to Spirit as soon as possible. I find it helpful to visualize literally handing the worry up and into the hands of Spirit. I often envision the beautiful and serene Ace of Cups tarot card when I do this. Prayer is also a big part of my process. A simple but powerful prayer (inspired by A Course in Miracles) that I often say is: “Holy Spirit, I place this fear about (fill-in-the-blank) in your hands. Please take this from me. I am willing to see this differently.” 

After surrendering, I focus on allowing the feelings that arise and breathing through them. With every exhale, I imagine myself continuously releasing whatever my fear is to Spirit. When I allow myself to feel my feelings, they are able to move through me. When I push them away, they become stuck within me. I am learning the art of not fighting difficult feelings like anxiousness, while also not dwelling on negative thoughts. I am learning how to be with discomfort and allow it to pass through me. And perhaps most importantly, I am learning how to trust. 

My ongoing focus is on building and maintaining trust in Spirit. Trust is something that needs to be practiced. It’s not uncommon that I need to continually re-surrender, re-allow, and re-trust about the same issue. And that’s ok. Through committed practice, I am reprogramming my mind so that my first instinct is to trust rather than to fear. And the more I practice, the easier and more automatic it becomes.

The more intense and overwhelming the fear, the more intense the focus needs to be on surrendering, allowing, and trusting. When experiencing intense anxiety, try to get into surrender mode as fast as you can. Surrender the fear to Spirit and ask that it be taken from you. Get as quiet as possible and allow the fear to be there. Be with it to the best of your ability. Focus on breathing through it. Trust that it will pass and that clarity is coming. If you feel unable to practice this in times of intense anxiety, that’s ok. The more you make a habit of practicing this process with smaller issues, the easier it will become to practice when big ones come up.

I have realized that much of what causes anxiety within me is a deep inner resistance to what is: resistance to the present moment, resistance to my current circumstance, resistance to how I’m feeling, resistance to the anxiety itself (me telling myself I “shouldn’t” be feeling this way), and the belief that I need to be in control of everything -- which is resistance to life itself. I believe this is true of many people who suffer with anxiety.

I am amazed by the learning and healing that’s occurred as a result of my simple willingness to be made aware of resistance and let go of it. Ever since I set this specific intention, it’s been like peeling an onion. Deeper layers of resistance that I wasn’t previously aware of continue revealing themselves to me to be released.

“Forgive yourself for not being at peace. The moment you completely accept your non-peace, your non-peace is transmuted into peace. Anything you accept fully will get you there, will take you into peace. This is the miracle of surrender.” -- Eckhart Tolle

Disidentifying from and Disciplining the Mind 

The root of anxiety is in the mind. One anxious thought is where it all begins. But the mind is not where the solution can be found. When I rely on my mind to “figure it all out,” it only leads to more anxiety. When I rely on the higher power that is within me, I find myself guided out of anxiety. I believe this is the deeper meaning of the Proverbs 3:5 Bible verse: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding.” 

The mind is a useful tool that is meant to be used in service to Higher Consciousness. It is not meant to run the show. Mistaking myself for my thoughts and letting my thinking mind take the wheel is a sure way to get lost in an anxiety spiral. Mind-identification is anxiety. Learning to discipline my mind and let go of my identification with my thoughts has been a major part of my healing journey. 

In order to be freed from anxiety and live a more conscious and peaceful life, it is necessary to practice observing thoughts and letting them go. In order to do this, identification with thought needs to be released too. You are not your thoughts. When you practice observing your thoughts instead of getting lost in them, you get in touch with who you really are at the deepest level -- the awareness behind your thoughts. The Observer. Then you are able to create space between your true Self and your thoughts, rather than becoming totally identified with them. So when anxious thoughts arise, it won’t be as easy for them to possess you.

Anxiety usually stems from fixating on the future or past. The present moment is all that’s real and is the only place where peace can be found. Zen Buddhist monk Shunryu Suzuki said, “Let thoughts come and go. Just don't serve them tea.” Letting thoughts come and go while continuously bringing my awareness back to the present moment allows me to slow down enough to recognize fearful thoughts when they arise -- which is half the battle. And it’s worth reiterating: daily meditation has been absolutely essential for me to develop and maintain the inner groundwork required to practice this.

Conscious breathing and redirecting my awareness from my mind to my body are some methods that help me let my thoughts go and return to the present. These methods also help me to process my feelings, including anxiety. Next time you feel anxious, explore where the feeling of anxiousness lives within your body. Feel into it. Breathe into it. Be with it. You may find the feeling dissolves surprisingly fast. You may also find that what the feeling dissolves into is peace. 

Watching my words is another important mind-discipline practice. Words -- which stem from thoughts -- are powerful. They create our reality. I have realized that if I want to create a reality where I am free from anxiety, I need to stop identifying with anxiety as a part of who I am, allowing it to have power over me. That means I need to stop referring to myself as an “anxious person.” I need to stop saying things like “my anxiety.” I need to believe that I can be free from anxiety. And I need to replace negative, destructive self-talk with positive, healing self-talk. Mantras and positive affirmations can be extremely helpful and effective.

Self-Care

This is an ongoing healing process and it is so important to be kind, gentle, and patient with yourself along the way. Learning how to practice self-care, self-acceptance, and self-love is also a process. I am still learning what it means to love and accept myself. 

How am I feeling right now? What do I need right now? How can I take care of myself right now? I try to check in by asking myself questions like this regularly. I am learning to honor feelings of overwhelm and worry as signals to stop, turn within, and practice self-care.

I spent much of my life terrified of my own fear. I believe this is true of many who struggle with anxiety. We fear that our fear is too big for us to handle. But the truth is that we are bigger than our fear. Much bigger. We are infinite souls having human experiences. I have come to realize that the fear within me is not the big, scary monster I used to believe it was. Rather, it is a scared little child simply in need of love. 

❤️ ❤️ ❤️

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[rpmemes-galore]

How to write a character with PTSD / C-PTSD:

*disclaimer:  this is entirely based on my own, personal experiences with PTSD. it’s to serve as a basis and guide, but not a firm rulebook for writing it. different people can have different symptoms, at varying levels of severity. PTSD is also often tied with depression and / or other generalized anxiety disorders.This will be extremely personal, and has the potential to be triggering to anyone who has suffered abuse / noncon, or has ptsd / c-ptsd.

WHAT IS C-PTSD? 

Complex post-traumatic stress disorder (C-PTSD; also known as complex trauma disorder) is a psychological disorder that can develop in response to prolonged, repeated experience of interpersonal trauma in a context in which the individual has little or no chance of escape. --- wikipedia

C-PTSD is a subset of PTSD. Whereas PTSD is mostly associated with a traumatic event that only lasted for a short amount of time, or only once  ( eg. car accident, sudden loss of a loved one, ect. ) , C-PTSD has to do with prolonged traumatic events  ( eg. ongoing abuse, imprisonment ).   And depending on the severity and conditions of the prolonged event, those suffering with it can have varying symptoms and levels of symptoms. For this guide, I’m going to be focusing on the PTSD / C-PTSD that I, personally, struggle with: severe, caused by abuse and noncon. References from MAYO CLINIC

INTRUSIVE MEMORIES:

Recurrent, unwanted distressing memories of the traumatic event: Unlike in Hollywood, flashbacks do not have to be full-blown reliving of the event  ( though, it can be ), but rather small, often disconnected glimpses of memories that strike while going about your daily life. Things that can trigger it are smells, sounds, or the sight of something connected to the traumatic event. It can be benign as the sound of someone walking toward you, or bad as someone getting in your face and shouting at you. And what triggers you one day may not trigger you the next.

Reliving the traumatic event as if it were happening again (flashbacks): In my personal experience, this is much harder to come back from than the smaller glimpses mentioned above. This is a full reliving. As far as you’re concerned, you ARE back in the trauma. You ARE back in that house, in that room, with that person... you see them, hear them, they’re in front of you, and you’re that defenseless child, again. This often leads to a panic attack, even after you’ve returned to reality.

Upsetting dreams or nightmares about the traumatic event: Can’t talk about this one much, because I specifically taught myself to lucid dream due to nightmares I used to have... but, that was a long time ago. I do remember they would not be perfect recreations of the event. They’d be disjointed. Often would involve people who hadn’t been there at the time, or random details would be mixed up or completely wrong  ( for instance, instead of standing in the kitchen, you might be out in a field. Multiple events could be happening at once, with no coherency. )  And I do remember waking up suddenly, in a sweat... and sometimes avoiding sleeping for DAYS just to avoid having those nightmares.

Severe emotional distress or physical reactions to something that reminds you of the traumatic event: Similar to the first point, this can also be caused by sights, sounds, smells that you recall from your traumatic moments, or, sometimes, even just from the place where your trauma happened. Unlike the glimpses of memories or full flashbacks, these are disconnected feelings, usually fear, anger, betrayal... and in response to something that might seem silly to someone else. For instance, for me, I have a severe reaction to flyswatters. What is a simple tool to someone else, that they have no issue touching, I can’t even go near. Hands start shaking, I can’t breathe, I tense up like I’m going to be hit.  And similar to that, the sound of someone raising their voice, even happily or not toward me, fills me with immediate dread.      note: this can lead to being a pleaser. desperately trying to avoid upsetting anyone because you’re terrified of people who are upset, whether it’s your fault or not. 

AVOIDANCE 

Trying to avoid thinking or talking about the traumatic event: Self-explanatory on the not wanting to think about it.No one likes to think about things that upset them. As far as the not talking about it goes, it can have a lot to do with shame. You’ve been trained to think it was your fault you were treated so badly, and telling anyone else, means you’re admitting that you were bad and deserved it. And you’re afraid they’re going to agree with your abuser. Or they’re going to gain up on you with your abuser... even if there’s no rational reason to believe these things, the thoughts are still there. 

Avoiding places, activities or people that remind you of the traumatic event:  This can lean toward the extreme... specifically going out of your way to avoid things. Cancelling plans if it might be even slightly related to your trauma, such as a person from that time being there, being in a place --- or sometimes even being near a place --- that reminds you of your trauma  ( like a store you went with your abuser ) , or refusing to take part in something that you and your abuser did together. This can even extend to tasks around the house. For instance, if housework was something tied to your abuse, even marginally, you might avoid doing dishes, or washing the floor.  

NEGATIVE CHANGES IN THINKING AND MOOD 

Negative thoughts about yourself, other people or the world / Difficulty maintaining close relationships / Feeling detached from family and friends: Self-esteem plummets. You have a lot of trouble trusting others, or believing that they truly want the best for you. You have trouble believing that you have any potential, or that you’re capable of doing anything... lose trust in your own judgement and second guess everything you do. You ignore red flags. You constantly need validation in your choices. You feel like someone else needs to second any decision you make. Nowhere feels safe. Even going out of the house is a struggle, and you’re scared and uncomfortable they entire time, like you’re waiting for something bad to happen. 

Memory problems, including not remembering important aspects of the traumatic event:  Feeling like there’s a grey area or the memory being fuzzy, even when you specifically try to recall certain moments. This can lead to doubt, and wondering if you even have trauma.  ---- And not only that, but if your abuse involved gaslighting, you lose faith in your memory of the event. You start overthinking. You doubt whether or not you were even abused. You think you might be remembering things wrong, misconstruing things, being unfair to your abuser. 

Lack of interest in activities you once enjoyed: As PTSD often goes hand-in-hand with depression, you can experience the same symptoms, including lack of motivation or interest, even in things you genuinely enjoy. For me, I LOVE writing. But, actually finding the motivation / energy / confidence to do it is hard... even on good days, it’s a fight to get myself to sit down and accomplish anything. 

Difficulty experiencing positive emotions / Feeling emotionally numb:  Good feelings feel bad. That’s the only way I can describe it. Things like happiness or satisfaction feel... wrong. Like, you’re not supposed to be feeling them. The way I’ve had this explained me to me is: your brain is so used to feeling bad emotions that feeling anything positive is foreign. it’s easier to stick with what you know, no matter how hard it is.  ----- You can have moments of complete emotional nothingness. You disconnect from your feelings completely. The world around you doesn’t feel real. The people around you don’t feel real. It’s like being in really terrible VR. 

CHANGES IN PHYSICAL AND EMOTIONAL REACTIONS:

Being easily startled or frightened / Always being on guard for danger:  You’re always jumpy. It’s like you’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop, or waiting to be hurt or yelled at. 

Self-destructive behavior, such as drinking too much or driving too fast:  This can also extend to self-harm in many forms ranging from cutting, to holding hot objects... ( the most difficult part is when you feel dirty inside and feel like you need to cut or burn it out. It’s an overwhelming feeling that’s very hard to beat or calm yourself down from. )  or just neglecting yourself, like not tending to cuts or scrapes. And you feel like you deserve them. You tell people not to worry when you get hurt because you’re used to it... and, because it’s you that it’s happening to, it’s okay.   Other forms can include substance abuse, alcohol abuse, or even --- consciously or unconsciously --- seeking out abusive relationships just for a sense of normalcy. 

I hope that this guide helps you. And if you are struggling with PTSD, yourself, please don’t be afraid to reach out and find help. You are loved. And your worth is NOT determined by what other people have done to you. 

[balancingthewind]

returning

Why do I practice yoga?

Because, as much as my triggers would have me do otherwise, I need to spend time listening to my body. Because, when I don’t, I experience pain physically and mentally. Pain that is avoidable through Yoga.

Yoga is not just a blending of fanciful movements that make you acrobatically strong and flexible. Sure, those can be outcomes if they are your aims, but the heart of the practice is learning how to do the most simple of movements - sitting, standing, walking - with stability and fluidity, a fully embodied person. The Yoga poses you see are only the most superficial layer of the asana practice; what is happening in the unseen, felt sense, is the most profound gift of Yoga.

Not only does the intelligent use of our bodies bring physical alignment and grace, but longevity and health also lie in our abilities to focus our minds acutely on any subject, to quieten the chaos noise of the world and the narrating mind to see any one thing clearly. As we narrow our focus to the subtle workings of our inner bodies, we also strengthen our ability to concentrate without distraction to achieve any goal.

As a person who deals with complex trauma and its companions, dissociation and anxiety, this level of embodiment has clarified my path to mental health. Symptoms like depression and shame tug at my frays, looking for a hole through which to pull me from my body, soothing terror with waking sleep. With one-pointed focus I can feel my feet, check in with my senses, and make my way back to presence. Post-traumatic stress can bring about an overload of stress hormones, throwing my body and mind into a fight/flight/freeze response… to which, I breathe, hush the mental chatter, address the trauma on a physical level, and diffuse it. When looking at everyday, practical self-regulating tools, Yoga provides some that can directly combat both numbing and panic.

Yoga has given me the tools to cope with the past year, too - although at first glance that may be hard to see. To be perfectly honest, I was not one of the lucky ones who remained buoyant, giddily occupied in their homes. The year prior had held some pretty huge losses for me and I was dealing with insecurity on several levels when the pandemic hit, and so I fell back into my familiar coping mechanisms - checking out, smoking cigarettes, and generally not holding myself accountable for how I was treating myself and the ones I loved. On a day-to-day basis, checking in to the senses can prevent absolute neurosis, but once I built a sensitivity to my body’s need to communicate, I felt and now am paying for the long duration of silence.

I also sustained a few injuries in 2019 and 2020, altering my practice as far as removing any pose involving weight-bearing in the hands, and causing mild-to-severe constant pain in my neck and shoulder, so my relationship to my body has changed drastically, and approaching a flow (my typical mode of personal practice) isn’t really possible anymore in the way my mind isn’t able to sink completely into movement and has to stay thinking about how I need to modify the next pose, which made practicing altogether less enjoyable.

I quit teaching when studios shut down right at the beginning, and today, I am teaching my first one back (so long as anyone signs up). I have some nervousness about this, but I’m using some methods I learned in an Alexander Technique workshop to deal with this in the sense of being able to follow through with showing up.

Because that’s really been the issue. Showing up. For the past year, every time I tried to get back to health, it started with a morning Yoga asana practice, and the message at the end of the practice from inside was always, “I can do this.” Eat a good breakfast, great. But then, the day would pass, the inevitable fatigue would set in, and I would end my day with mind numbing activities until I was too tired to keep my eyes open so that I could avoid the real responsibility of acknowledging my day on a physical level, diffusing it, and getting myself to a place where I could sleep. Because I’ll be damned if I’ll ever get up for a 5am Yoga practice if I’ve been up until 1am playing Sims or watching the Great British Bake-Off. Just isn’t happening.

Even being in a yoga teacher training that started the same month as the pandemic hit Kentucky hasn’t stopped me from falling from the path for a little while. Luckily I can still use what I’ve been taught now, but there’s a little shame and remorse in letting yet another opportunity go under-fulfilled.

So yeah. In all honesty, this year has been straining and traumatizing for everyone. From some perspectives, the outlook is pretty fucking dark too. My partner and I are sinking deeper into the Great American Pit of Medical Debt as we speak, and it’s hard not to get angsty just thinking about the fact that so much of the suffering the world endures could be avoided in an alternate but feasible reality.

However, despite this apparent loss of hope, Yoga was still there for me. As someone who will probably always deal with the darkest corners of depression for life, I need a light to counter the darkness, lest it becomes too much to handle. Yoga - not in the sense of poses or breathing, but in the experience of unadulterated union between mind, body, and spirit - is that light. Whether distant, in memory, or present, Yoga is one of those things you “can’t unsee”. To remain in that state requires practice, but if you can’t practice, you at least can know that Yoga is there for you when you’re ready to return.

So, here I am, returning. Letting go of the shame of thinking I need to have had it all together, allowing ME to be good enough while honoring the responsibility of being a teacher. I’ve been practicing Yoga asana (poses), pranayama (breathwork), nidra (resting yoga) and meditation of various sorts multiple times a day for a couple weeks now. I’ve quit smoking cigarettes (again) and am working with a doctor to find medication to help stabilize my depression until the Yoga has done its work.

These are things I require of myself to be able to show up to teach: to be doing everything I can to get myself healthy, making decisions that contribute to my health, remaining diligent to my tendencies and looking for places I can implement what I’ve learned kinesthetically and philosophically to my life. In this way, I can come to the mat with a clear mind and hold space for anyone who may need Yoga in the same way I do.

So, I guess this all begs the question, why do I teach yoga?

Because I want people like me to feel safe in a Yoga class. Because I know I'm different from many in that my gauge of excellence is metered by stability and comfort, rather than physical exceptionalism, as the absence of suffering in myself and others is my highest goal. And I think I could access people who really need that, given my understanding of complex trauma and experience with and love for so many kinds of people. I want badly to create culture in my city and even farther, focused around health and community, sharing and creation. I know we can do this. It's hard work, but it can be made easier when your environment reflects positive ideals, and that is something almost everyone has control over to some extent.

If you’re interested in a trauma-informed, research-based, gentle Yoga practice for physical and mental longevity, please join me. Literally everyone is welcome, and I can modify almost all poses to be done from a chair. I’m teaching virtually on Tuesdays at 6pm and in person at Centered Holistic Health on Saturdays at 11am.

Be humble and blessed <3

[tominostuff]

Tomino Yoshiyuki & Hosoda Mamoru talk Ideon

February 2014: Tomino and Hosoda got together for a discussion in celebration of the first TV rebroadcast of Ideon in high definition on WOWOW (Japanese broadcast station). 

Original Japanese transcript: https://www.animatetimes.com/news/details.php?id=1394807331

Mr. Tomino “Mr. Hosoda is an enemy I must defeat” 

The first words out of Tomino’s mouth as soon as the recording began was “Mr. Hosoda is an enemy I must defeat.”

He continued with context behind this statement, “There is a way to work hard and diligently with your peers from the same generation. If you continue to do this as you approach your 60s, however, you begin to clearly see that you’re getting older. That’s why it’s an issue if young talent doesn’t emerge.” 

To this Mr. Hosoda responded, “Folks from my parent’s generation spoke to me through the shows from my childhood. Those creators that I looked up to back then continue to create work even after I, myself, have become a creator. As someone from the younger generation, I find great pleasure in this fact.” in a slightly apologetic manner. 

After that, Mr. Tomino went on to discuss various topics ranging from changes in animation he experienced from his early days to the present to filmmaking theories from the vantage point of “Internet video culture” etc. Of course, there are moments where they discuss Ideon. 

There is a copy of this interview on niconico: https://www.nicovideo.jp/watch/sm22942897 

Written interview following the recording: 

The effects that Ideon can have on modern society  ――First off, what are your impressions after the recorded interview?

Hosoda: I saw Ideon on TV when I was in my first year of middle school, the films in my second year of middle school. At that time, I never dreamed that I could talk about Ideon with Director Tomino himself, so I'm very honored. 

Tomino: You would think that with WOWOW and cable TV stations becoming so commonplace, it would be natural for things to be rebroadcast, but that's often not the case. Therefore, I'm really grateful that my work will be broadcast in such a situation.

In this conversation, I learned that Ideon is now a stepping stone for anime directors to enter the industry. To that I can think, “I did well” and also reaffirm that “Hosoda is an enemy I must defeat,” so of course I am happy. Because without interview opportunities like this, I wouldn’t even have a place to express my happiness. 

Hosoda: That’s right. If this cross interview hadn’t happened, I would’ve just been saying “Incredible!” as I watched Ideon on WOWOW by myself (laughs). 

Tomino: In that sense, I'm really grateful for this interview opportunity, and I want to tell the fans, "In life, you should put in your best effort while you have the chance."

What is the reason and significance of Ideon being broadcast on TV now? ――Do you have any impressions about Ideon being broadcast on TV?

Hosoda: There aren’t many opportunities to look back at the TV series. It’s easy to take the shortcut and just watch the movie versions, A Contact and Be Invoked. This time, you can experience watching Ideon all the way from episode 1 through the movies with the image quality that matches high-definition TV, not the image quality of VHS or DVD. This is an amazing opportunity. 

Tomino: Ideon is a unique series that has never been blessed with such an opportunity so as you said, this chance is certainly valuable. 

Hosoda: Since A Contact exists, it’s tempting to use it as a shortcut….if possible, it may be better to skip A Contact when you watch (laughs). 

Tomino: You’re right! Cancel the broadcast of A Contact immediately! 

Everybody: (laughs) 

――34 years have passed since Ideon broadcast in 1980. How does modern society look from Mr. Tomino's point of view? Also, I would like to hear about the significance of broadcasting Ideon after 34 years.

Tomino: This is going to become a question of “what is intelligence?” but I feel that the political economy has deteriorated in every aspect over the last few years. So when it comes to airing an Ideon-like story right now, there is a part of me that doesn’t consider this a simple rerun of a past show. Rather, I would like you to watch Ideon and reconsider the current situation of adults.

For example, our personal computers that we use in our daily lives cannot be used without entering a password. Don’t you think it’s strange that there are tools that you can’t use without entering a password? Because I bought that laptop exercising my own rights in the form of cash yet I still need to enter a password. In a worse example, when you are using software, sometimes you get a popup saying “Click here to make it easier to use.” I don’t think this can be considered a “tool” anymore. But is there anyone who has complained about it until today? 

If this situation progresses, you may be told by a manufacturer that they hold the copyright to your work because you used their software to produce it, even though you made it yourself. What would you do if you were told that?

Looking back at the current situation, the reality is that we are infringing on our personal territory. I think it is dangerous for everyone to be calm against such a reality. As the times progress, the way of looking at things and attitudes have become very vague. With that in mind, it can be said that the intellectual level of humankind has deteriorated in the last 20 years.

――So in that sense, the work Ideon appeals to young people today?

Tomino: I believe so, yes. 

Hosoda: Some work have fluctuating value depending on changes in society while others remain relevant even as the world changes. I think Ideon is a work that doesn’t change, so I think people today of any situation or cultural background can enjoy it equally. 

The two masters discuss each other’s influences ――How was Mr. Hosoda influenced by Ideon?

Hosoda: I wonder if there are other works that deal with such huge themes as Ideon does, including all movies and television. If you look through various works by tracing the history of movies, movies like 2001: A Space Odyssey (released in 1968) would pop up but I personally watched Ideon first and A Space Odyssey afterwards. 

Through watching animation, you can have a second encounter with the history of live-action film. Knowing Ideon first will give you a better, deeper understanding of film history.

I feel that these encounters are connected to the current movie-making me. 

――Mr. Tomino, what kind of points do you want to refer to from the works of Mr. Hosoda's generation?

Tomino: Since you saw my work first and later watched 2001: A Space Odyssey, you must have thought about "what that means.” When I watched 2001: A Space Odyssey, I felt that there was something missing in the movie, and thought about how to complement it, so I made Ideon. I am able to create work like this because I am a craftsman who creates through combining things rather than from a writer’s standpoint. 

In my case, thanks to the genres of TV animation and giant robots, I was able to [create Ideon] using 2001: A Space Odyssey as a base. However, because I was able to pull that off, I experienced the history of my deterioration from there.

Also, just as Ideon was made under the influence of 2001: A Space Odyssey, Director Hosoda's work gave me a new kind of inspiration, "Oh, current animators are doing things in this way." That's why I have to get stubborn and think of Hosoda as the enemy.

――As the pioneer yourself, it seems like a difficult feat to admit to younger people that you’ve acknowledged them as a threat?

Tomino: Perhaps I had such a time. At this age, I just think I'm great in the sense that I’ve matured enough to say things like that (laughs).

At the same time, I'm really grateful that there are people close to me that I can say such things to. When you hate people, those feelings of hatred eventually come back to you. That's why people have to love everyone.

Hosoda: The things that Ide was trying to eradicate were those kinds of (feelings of hate), isn’t it? 

Tomino: That’s right. 

Mr. Tomino discusses now, Gundam and Ideon ――What kind of positions in Mr. Tomino‘s heart does Ideon and Gundam take respectively?

Tomino: It is thanks to the existence of Gundam that I have had a somewhat stable life so I am frankly grateful on that end. On the other hand, Ideon is a work that gives me pride, “the Tomino who made such a thing is amazing.” If Gundam was the only thing that existed, the statement at the beginning of the interview, “Hosoda should be defeated” would’ve been a message filled with hateful intentions. It would've not been said from a place of joy as it is now.  …..Wow! I answered this question well (laughs). 

[beastenraged]

I don't know if you follow Novayon's vlogs on YouTube; he does "cool little details in KH" series. Today he did his first details video for KHII and mentioned that 1. Zexion's grave is marred in the WTNW so as to keep his weapon secret and 2. Zexion is the only CoM character to not cameo on Luxord's deck in II. This made me think of how you implied Zexion was seen as lesser in MOOP because of his age at the time of the Norting. Thoughts?

Oh nooes, you’ve opened up my box of Zexion feelings! Here, have a ficlet full of my thoughts on lost childhoods and broken graves. Er, maybe this is more general Nobody feels? Under the cut, but hopefully not too terribly long!

Organization XIII is not kind to children. 

It is kind to no one but young children in particular are vulnerable. Especially children with no Keyblades to make them valuable. 

Useful is the byword and one that will haunt survivors forever. But that is later and this is now. 

Now, there is a newly named Zexion. Too small, too short, not quite grown into the magic his future self will wield, barely aware of his own illusions. 

He is the weakest and he knows it. They all know it. 

They are all drowning, each and every one of them. Is that really an excuse in the end, when those grown walked down that path?

Only the children are truly innocent in this, and they are doomed too. 

There is no room for kindness when you’re drowning. 

Only to grab and snatch and take others down with you. 

(It’s a miracle they don’t all slaughter each other, those first few months.)

(A miracle or overwhelming fear of the strongest among them. Their new Superior.)

There is no room for children here, so the children that exist grow as quickly as they can, forcing themselves into larger shapes that might kindly be considered “adulthood.”

Saix grows strong and wide, much like the Berserkers whose blades mimic his own. Muscle for an oversized sword, muscle to catch up to the larger Organization members. Axel goes spinely and crumpled, an Assassin without the extra spikes. Pale and thin and tear-dropped, a clowning corpse much like Xigbar or Vexen.

For Zexion, all he wants (needs) is height. Taller taller, so none may mistaken him for a child anymore. 

(It’s a question, later, if these former children would have grown into these same heights and builds as Somebodies. A question that can never be answered, for those children were lost a long time ago.)

Yet in the end, childhood memories serve as the most powerful force of all. For Zexion grows, but never taller than any of the adults that have always surrounded him.

How can he imagine it, when that’s the way it’s all been for him?

When he’s no teen already in the process of growing, when growth is something alien and strange to him? When he has always been the shortest? 

So Zexion grows, matures, but in the strange ways Nobodies do. 

His magic grows strong, as do his illusions. Useful, useful, useful. 

They won’t leave him behind now, with everything he can offer. 

For now, he is safe. As safe as anyone ever is, in this nest of horrors. 

(Is anyone really safe, when the definition of “useful” is a nebulous ever-changing thing?)

That is, until that ill-fated mission at Castle Oblivion. 

Vexen, Lexaeus, Zexion, Larxene, Marluxia...

They die. They disappear without bodies, as all Nobodies do. 

Leave nothing behind because they don’t exist. 

Life goes on. Worlds do not stop turning, plots do not stop spinning, for death. 

Especially for the death of Nobodies. 

No one mourns. Especially not those who spent over a decade in the company of a certain few. But that’s not exactly true. 

It’s true in that should one ask any Nobody about it, they will claim not to miss them and they will not be lying. Not directly. 

It’s not true in that is how it really is, the reality of it. 

Mourning builds, in short and increments, for Xaldin. Much like his grudge against lovers and romance, his grief becomes a raging storm weeks after the first exposure. 

Unleashing its dreadful form in the midst of the Proof of Existence.

Where the only sign that these Nobodies ever existed remains. As fitting its name. 

Xaldin, as he always does, goes to cold rage first to unleash the storm within. A well-used tool, one that he would deny exists but exists nonetheless. 

(A double-edged sword, rage. Perhaps there’s a reason Xemnas seeks out his closest subordinates in those who fall prey to it most easily.

It’s easier to bring down prey that’s already bleeding out from self-inflicted wounds.)

When he’s aware again, panting for breath he doesn’t need, the marking stones (not graves, never graves) are destroyed. 

A punishment and a penance at once, to repair the damages later on. 

Xaldin fixes everything. 

Everything but the grave of the Cloaked Schemer.

That, he leaves. 

(His chest burns and hurts too much to finish the job.)

As for Luxord and his cards, that’s tricky yet dreadfully simple at the same time. See, the Nobody patterns his cards whichever way he desires, though the simplest is that of the faces he’s seen most recently. 

But if he wants, if he’s in the mood to, Luxord can make a card’s face be that of one he hasn’t seen for months. 

But for two exceptions. 

First is Zexion. His illusions are tricky at the best of times and though Luxord does not hundred percent know that’s the reason he can’t place Zexion’s face on his cards later, he’s sure enough to bet on that being the case. 

Second is the girl(?) with no face. Because how can you put a face on a card if you’ve never seen it? 

[headspaceinanutshell]

Breathe

I’ve always been someone that takes on too much at one time. I can over think every situation and feel panic. Living in this pandemic has definitely heightened this, simple tasks like going to the shops is a nightmare. The thought of going out in a large crowd of friends (Prior to covid) would terrify me anyway. I would get dressed up, make up on and then second guess everything and find an excuse to cancel last minute.

I also feel an overwhelming sense of anxiety knowing that I have to be around the Gaslighter in my family. I had spoken about this in previous posts. That’s a crazy feeling of nerves and fear all bundled up to one big breakdown prior to visiting them.

I have a lot of work-related stress also. I find it hard to manage a busy workload and stay calm. In my job, I do have to deal with conflict resolution quite frequently and people can be so nasty over the phone. I know I am my own worst enemy with this though. I take on too much, my colleagues always say to me “Don’t care so much.” That is easier said than done though. By the end of my shift, I am so mentally exhausted and drained, sometimes I even have to have a good cry.

I’ve recently been able to start this blog as I have had a week off work due to my holidays not being used this year. It has been time for me to take some time away from my desk and rest. I’ve managed to get out for walks and enjoy sitting in my garden.

But now, knowing that I am back to work on Tuesday makes all those anxious emotions come flooding back. I know that I have Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday to myself but the reality has hit me hard knowing that I have to face it again. Is there such thing as a job you love to do? Really?

I never had these anxious feelings in my earlier years, I had confidence, I was social but something in my later years has really switched.

The method that has helped me so much in dealing with this is Meditation. (I know, I know, it’s a cliché) But honestly, I have an app which I do pay for every month. It is called Breethe and it offers a range of Relaxation techniques to try from Meditation, Hypnotherapy and calming activities for all of life’s scenarios. I would recommend to use with headphones.

I am not going to say I use this app everyday but when I have the opportunity to sit or lay down in a quiet place where I know I am not going to be disturbed for around half an hour, it is a fantastic tool to use. I really do recommend the Hypnotherapy; it syncs with your brainwaves and is the most calming way of slowing down you’re breathing.

(Not a sponsor post - https://main.breethe.com/about)

More recently another way I have been dealing with these feelings is by starting up this blog. Doctors have told me to start up a diary in the past. I struggle with physically writing so by creating this anonymous blog I can write all my issues here safely. 

Every time I submit a post, it feels as a weight has been lifted. It’s ok if no one looks at my posts, that’s not the reason I had set it up. If you do stumble across my posts though and you want to reach out. Please do, it will be lovely to hear from someone.

[simplysoriya]

Reprieve from Chaos

A breath of fresh air was hard fought. Every breath in the midst of chaos was labored. After months embroiled in the turmoil of the Vale, seeing nightmares play out both in mind and in reality. Watching friends, family, and ideals unravel and fall apart was a daily occurance. Seeing pain became second nature. Every day was a new horror; people in cages awaiting their fate, the spirits of the dead ripped from their grave and fed upon, otherworldly creatures roaming the hills as their haunting counterparts scoured the skies. Vying for favor or power the Mogu and Mantid had swarmed and sowed destruction in their wake, making a bad situation nothing but worse. Every single day there was a new source of heartache, a new feeling of sinking as a place so peaceful was destroyed before their very eyes. The fighting had calmed, if only minorly, but the pain had remained fresh renewed by yet another harrowing event after another.

Soriya was grateful for the time away from the Vale, even if not for the reason. Kirollis’ wounds had been worse than they were able to treat with nothing but the triage tents and wartime supplies sent in. He needed treatment to stem the blood loss, made worse by the Mantid poison that replaced it. The fighting had yet to spill in the Jade Forest, and the Temple dedicated to the healing arts of Mistweaving- a discipline she praticed herself. Nowhere else in all of Pandaria would be better for recovery.

Yet even with sound reasoning she could not keep the pangs of guilt at bay. Every ounce of her being screamed to rejoin the fight. Her mind constantly flipped through each situation where she felt she made a difference out in the field, only to concede that without her aid things would be considerably worse. Every warrior she had healed enough to get back into the fight or back to safety, every enemy that she had faced herself, each effort to help fight back the darkness. Every second she spent away was another life lost because she was here, resting, relaxing, recharging- while those brave men and women put their lives on the line for what they believed in.

Silently she wished she could do the same. Even when she was there, doing everything she could, it never felt like enough. It never felt like the difference was made no matter how hard she tried. No matter how much of herself she poured into it. It did nothing to shake off the feeling that it wasn’t enough.

Gentle was the spring breeze as it passed through the ancient grove. Rustling the milky pink petals of cherry blossoms, coaxing them down to the ground from the endless canopy above like a snowstorm without the cold every time the wind whipped. Hoisted high by the ancient and mighty tree trunks that rose from the rolling emerald hills. Carrying the faint but ever constant aroma of freshly sheared lilacs mingled with vanilla and almonds through the picturesque woods.

Well-worn cobblestone path running through the mountains led to the secluded cliffside grove. Breaking off into walked-in dirt pathways that led deeper into the mystic cherry blossom fields of Pandaria’s Jade Forest. Locals still toiling away at keeping the grounds walked whimsically though as they finished their tasks dutily tending to the Arboretum.

It was serene there in the Arboretum as peaceful energy was cultivated and promoted as carefully as the tended area itself. A serenity that was lost on Soriya as she sat and stewed in everything that upset her over the last few months.

Lazily she leaned forward on the railing of a wooden bridge as the babble of the brooke below added to the atmosphere. Her forearms planted on the banister as she leaned forward with an absent and dull look in her eyes. Simply staring out to the cliffs that sat above the Great Sea, littered with long rocky spires that obstructed the horizon as Cloud Serpents young and old slithered through them.

More often than not a sight that would inspire a look of awe and wonder in the young woman who frequently travelled the world. Yet one of her favorite locales in all of Azeroth failed to bring a smile to that weary face.

The sound of footsteps behind her wasn’t enough to stir her from the thousand yard stare she wore.

“Your father mentioned I might find you here.” The voice of an elder Pandarian rasped in a gentle tone.

Long elven ears stood perked at attention as she recognized the voice as Grandmaster Zheng. Almost immediately Soriya stiffened her posture and stood up straight before she turned to meet the mild-mannered Pandarians gaze. Her head dipped down respectfully, shoulders following suit as her hands clasped together before her chest in a bow.

Resetting her posture the young monk paid him a quizzical look with a single auburn brow hoisted in surprise, “I didn’t know you were looking for me, if I had I would have stuck around the Temple.”

The Grandmaster chuckled softly as he shook his head, “I don’t mind excuses to stretch these old legs. Besides, you were far easier to find than the other times I’ve tried.” His words came gentle as he referenced her penchant for exploring. They had always shared a close relationship and Zheng had often taken an interest in her life outside of their order.

Drifting forward with slow and deliberate steps Grandmaster Zheng took purchase of the space next to her on the bridge. Resting his forearms against the banister much like she had just before as he looked out over the Cloud Serpents hatchery. “This is one of my favorite places in all of Pandaria. Have I told you that?”

“Mine too.” Soriya agreed as she remained facing the cherry blossom trees as she leaned her back against the railing. 

“You certainly don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.” Zheng noted.

Soriya grew quiet a spell as her arms folded under her chest. Always did she try and focus on the positives, of the good, even in the worst of situations. But that stubborn belief was all but extinguished as she stared out silently. Not wishing to bring to attention all the harrowing events that Pandaria had seen recently.

Zheng continued in her silence, “With everything that’s going on… it’s easy to feel overwhelmed. To lose yourself in the negativity that surrounds the creatures that embody it.” A wizened rumble emanated from his throat. “Darkness is always easier to accept when we feel it is the only thing left.”

Auburn brows knit together at the statement. She didn’t speak a word and still he honed in on exactly what was bothering her. Finally, after another long pause that was met with nothing but understanding, Soriya spoke, “I just feel so useless.” The admission came in a quiet tone.

“Have you not been doing everything you can to help those in need? Struck by hardship? Too weak to help themselves?”

“Does it even make a difference? No matter what I do I’m not strong enough to stop what’s here. I can’t save anybody from this.. it’s... I’m… not this amazing hero. I can’t just step up and… I can’t even help the people I care about.” Her voice shrank to a quivering peep by the time she had finished.

With a slow and singular nod of his head Zheng replied, “Spared the people from their suffering you have not. Not even the Celestials could circumvent the nightmare that descended on the Vale. But to say you have offered them nothing…” Seemingly offended by the ideal, “Master Duskhaven you give people hope. Reminding the people that there are those that will stand up when tragedy strikes can be as simple as offering a hand when all seems lost.” Turning to look at the monk he posed, “A lesson you knew very well once upon a time.”

Zheng continued, “Wars like this are not fought with weapons or troops. They are fought with ideologies. Darkness will never concede to light, just as light must never concede to darkness. For us to lose that hope, now, of all times? That is the true devastation that darkness wants.”

Soriya grew silent once more as he spoke. Her face grew longer with each passing word. The guilt she felt only amplified by his assessment of the grander scheme and how lost she was from it had never been more clear. He was right, of course, even if she didn’t immediately see it. And suddenly she was left to wonder why she let it get as bad as it did. Why she let those thoughts eat at her, consume her, putting aside all the good she had done in place of the abundance of bad.

“Times like these are never easy, my young friend. But we endure because we must. We endure because if we do not… then the darkness wins.”

Slowly Soriya nodded her head in understanding as she did her best to take his words to heart. In a muted voice she asked, “What if I’m not strong enough? Grandmaster I… I made a mistake.” She paused, swallowing the growing lump in her throat. “There’s a creature out there that wants something from me. Something it thinks I stole from it.”

“The last egg of the Eternal Serpent.” The Grandmaster added without missing a beat, much to Soriya’s surprise.

“How did you know about that?”

“It’s not every day a student of mine uncovers the truth behind a longstanding Pandarian legend…” Though he was always more in-the-know then he projected.

That reasoning, however, was fair to her. Continuing her explanation of her battles with one of the newly appointed Paragons. “He keeps going after everything I care about. He’s in my head… he almost killed my dad.”

“Kirollis filled me in on the details.”

“I don’t think I can beat him… I just… after all this time, all I’ve learned, it still doesn’t feel like enough. How am I supposed to use my fists to beat an opponent like that? How can I fight against these things if I can’t vanquish them…”

The elder monk smiled softly before placing a hand on Soriyas shoulder, “Monks do not always fight with their fists. You study the healing arts but wish to take on the monsters of this world. Perhaps you need a tool that would compliment your skillset.”

“I still use a staff, and I have these punching gloves…” Soriya interjected as if that was the answer to it all.

Rubbing a paw over his elongated beard Zheng would ponder this for a moment longer. Mentioning after that moment passed, “There is an old swordsmith that I know of who may be able to help you with this. Though it will be a hard path to follow. The last I spoke to him he was living in the Kun-lai mountains enjoying his retirement.”

“You think he’ll make me a sword? I don’t… even- I’m not too great with those.”

The elder monk smiled broadly as he corrected, “He will make your sword.”