#written by ava

[hi-avathisside]

Right now, sitting under the night sky, the moon looks beautiful tonight.

A little too beautiful, each blemish, each scar,each spot, looking like an alluring painting, each one made with intricate details.

The moon, as i must say, reminds me of everything beautiful, the serene beauty of the hill stations,the tranquility felt when you sit on the bank of the river, the peace felt in the first sip if tea in the morning, the happiness felt when u see the person you've been yearning to see for the longest of time, the contentment when you achieve something, the pride you feel when you get through something which you thought you could never, all these emotions mixed into one, form the moon, i believe.

[hellishfig]

for the amount of time i spend thinking about erika ishii, i do not post about them NEARLY enough

everything i've ever seen them in, they have been fully dialed in. they understand the genre, they understand the character they're playing, and they NEVER. FUCKING. MISS

my current dnd character is actually based on multiple characters of erika's that i enjoy. my character is a witch (like ame of worlds beyond number fame [thank you to the witch class playtest]) but she is also a brewer who grows weed and shrooms, and deals them, and does them (and her personality is very much modeled off of danielle barkstock in dimension 20's the seven)

i feel that many of my favorite moments from erika are often focused on other characters. but many of those character moments would not have been possible without erika's incredible roleplay and sense for storytelling

and when the moment IS focused on erika's character? spellbinding. groundbreaking. from ame talking to orima in the overgrown shrine to danielle getting a nat 20 at the masquerade ball, i always fall into the scene and feel it so deeply due to erika's skill and poise and commitment to the story being told

tldr i think erika ishii is incredibly talented and wonderful

[caliphoria17]

1x09 Friend || 2x02 Best friend || 2x08 Lover

[jiyaneru]

in the next (or take the halo, beatrice)

[sammy8d257]

A

BABE WAKE UP!

AS SOMEONE WHO LITERALLY DESIGNED MULTIPLE STICK FIGURE PLUSHIES

I'M SO EXICTED

[running2reanimation]

For @cindersnows - for the AVA/M gift event!

Formality

"It's a formality," Victim reassured, gesturing with a glove-covered hand to the bespectacled stick, "We all know I'll be hiring your crew no matter how this dinner goes."

"Of course, sir."

--

Striker was pretty sure this was actually yet another test from the enigmatic head of the Rocket Corporation. Inviting a bunch of mercenaries to dinner at the most expensive restaurant in Stick City could be nothing less than the ultimate test of his leadership abilities.

Could he make these idiots presentable? Behave in ways that were at least semi-appropriate?

"I want to wear my cape; the nobility of the past used to, it counts as formal wear, right?" Ballista folded his arms as his summoned cape billowed behind him as Primal nodded in agreement;

"They did, so it should count."

"No, you will wear a suit or dress. Those are your options," Striker could already feel the pressure pulsing behind his shades, "That goes for you too, Primal. Suit or dress only."

"I refuse, they both hinder my movement too much," Primal shook her head stubbornly, "What if this is some sort of trap? Or what if we have to defend our new client from would be assassins?"

"It isn't a trap," Striker put his foot down resolutely, though he couldn't discount the possibility of assassins. Or that there would be some type of test of their abilities mid-dining. Victim was capricious like that, "You can wear a loose dress with a slit for more mobility, but you have to wear a dress."

"..." Primal at the very least didn't flat out refuse, so Striker was going to count that as a win.

"Any crazy requests from you, Logo?" Striker turned to the bulky yet-paper-thin stick who shook his head in two quick frames.

"I have a suit from the last undercover thing we did."

Striker heaved a small sigh of relief - at least one of them could be reasonable and logical and knew how to behave in public.

"I'm gonna wear my cape!" Ballista insisted, intentionally billowing it into their leader's face.

"You'd better not," Striker warned, pausing the cape's movement and stepping out of it.

--

"Lemme wear my cape!" Was the refrain Striker got to listen to for the next several days, every single time he laid eyes on the bitcrushed warrior.

The smaller stick had even ambushed him from one of the upper cupboards - Striker suspected Primal had put him in there, since there was no sign of a chair he would have used to make the climb into them.

"Just let me wear my cape and I'll stop," He pleaded and Striker realized that chances were that Ballista would wear it regardless, and at least this way he might be able to set a few rules.

"On the condition that you keep it from billowing - I know you can control it."

"...Fine, even if that's half the point of wearing it," Bit sagged as though he'd not just gotten what he'd wanted.

--

"Less than 15 minutes until the transportation arrives, is everyone dressed appropriately?" Striker looked over his assorted group, adjusting the tie of his usual black suit.

Primal had worn a dress, the slit was maybe a bit higher up the thigh than was appropriate for fine dining, but it was too late to do anything about about that. The way the silky black dress caught the light looked very nice with her scribbled style. Her usual ponytail was pulled up into a bun.

Logo was in his white suit with the black tie; looking sharp literally and figuratively.

Ballista still hadn't left his room yet, "Ballista, please tell me you're almost ready."

Striker couldn't imagine what was taking him so long; it wasn't like he'd exactly gotten the impression Ballista owned a lot of formal wear to choose between. He'd probably just left getting dressed until the last moment as usual.

"Ready!" Ballista announced, throwing open the bedroom door. He'd picked out a white suit, it almost seemed somewhat military in style, but the white cape went with it at least, "Oh hey, we've got a black-and-white colour co-ordination thing going on, gang. Nice."

"Limo's here," Logo announced, heading out the door, Primal close behind them. Ballista dashed out past Striker while he grabbed the keys and locked the door.

Striker ducked into the vehicle and a grey stick closed the door behind him. The limo was surprisingly spacious inside, though still not quite tall enough to comfortably accommodate Primal.

And seated in the back with them was their new employer: Victim. He seemed dressed in the same suit as usual, but Striker made a mental note of the black cufflinks that weren't part of the usual ensemble.

"Thank you all for coming to dinner tonight. I know this is a bit unusual for you."

"Thank you for inviting us," Logo bobbed his head in gratitude, taking the lead when it came to socializing, "It's nice not to have to cook for once and I've never been to this place before, Olive and Wine?"

"Yes, I'm not surprised, it is fairly new, but I can assure you it's quite good."

"You're paying, right?" Ballista piped up from Logo's elbow and Striker and Logo both glared at the guy but Victim just laughed.

"Of course, though with your reputation for success, I'm sure you could afford it regardless."

"Oh, totally," Bit grinned, as the limo pulled to a stop, "Looks like we're here."

The exterior of the restaurant was fairly plain and unassuming, with the curtains drawn, a soft golden glow shining from beyond them and a green neon sign proclaimed the place was 'open' in flowing cursive.

The grey stick opened the door and the mercenaries stepped out single file, but they paused to let Victim pass them. Primal once again had to duck, but that was almost expected everywhere.

"Reservations for Victim and company," Victim declared and the mulberry employee guided the group to one of the private rooms in the back.

"Your server will be with you shortly," they bowed and the group was left alone with the menus, simple things with a front for food and a back side for drinks.

"Not a big menu," Primal seemed unimpressed, looking it over.

"They have a steak board for two," Logo pointed out and Primal immediately scoured the menu for it. Having found it, she set hers in the middle of the table, atop Victim's, who hadn't even looked at it.

Logo continued looking, clapping his hands in delight, "Oooh, I've never tried arancini before!"

"Go ahead, if you don't like it you can always order something else," Victim took the menu from Logo and placed it in the pile with a broad grin, "I insist."

"Alright, sir, thank you," Logo smiled back at little nervously and glanced at Ballista who was still reading the menu, "What about you Ballista.

"I think I'm gonna get the cannelloni," Bit said, tossing his menu into the growing pile, "What about you, Striker?"

Striker had been so focused on making sure everyone else knew what they were ordering he hadn't even looked at the menu, "I'm still looking."

"Surely something appeals to you?" Victim asked and Striker could feel the pressure of the older stick's gaze upon him.

"Of course - I'll get the charcuterie board," Striker placed his menu upon the stack as Victim nodded in approval.

"An excellent choice when one is feeling indecisive."

Almost as if summoned by the stack of menus the server appeared, another reddish stick whose smile was too wide, "Have you all decided what you'd like to order?"

"Yes," Victim confirmed, "I'll have the pan fried haddock with potatoes with a Godfather and a glass of water, please and thank you."

After going around the table, the server took the menus and left to go place their orders.

"So, I got a question, Boss," Ballista piped up as soon as the server left and Striker and Logo tensed. Ballista wasn't exactly... good at polite conversation or asking appropriate questions.

"Yes?" Victim tilted his head, either oblivious to the tension or perhaps enjoying it.

"Why is every stick that works for you grey - not only that, they're all the exact same shade. They come from a game or something? Thought you couldn't discriminate like that."

"Oh, you can get away with any form of discrimination if you have enough money... but that's not the case here. Think of it like a uniform of sorts - we dye our workers grey and then at the end of the day we return their colour to them."

"Seems like that might make infiltration easy," Logo frowned, a hand to his chin.

"Never had a problem with it before," Victim shrugged as the server placed their meals down, confirmed they didn't need anything else and left.

Once the food was in front of them, the mercenaries all went quiet - not that most of them were particularly talkative in the first place, but they all focused on their meals intensely.

"Do you not get enough to eat?" Victim asked, and Logo looked up from their meal.

"Oh, yes, but this is a real treat, so we're really making sure we take it all in, you know? Speaking of, thank you for convincing me to try them, the arancini are fantastic."

"Ah, well, good, I'm glad," Victim nodded, going back to his plate.

At the midpoint of the meal a server came in again and asked how everything was.

Striker stared at the server, and immediately noticed that something was off - this one wasn't green or red, the only two colours he'd seen the staff here possess. They were a pale brown and their uniform didn't match the other one's he'd seen earlier in the night, the buttons were simple black, instead of the red roses the rest of the staff sported.

"You're not staff," Striker commented, getting to his feet, Primal immediately following suit with a growl.

In the time it took Striker to draw a line and Primal to vault over the table, three more non-staff members came through the door - these ones were armed with guns.

"Ballista, Logo, get Victim back to the limo and wait for us," Striker directed, deflecting a spray of bullets with his select tool, "As non-lethally as possible."

"You got it, sir," Ballista gave a salute and charged ahead, sword drawn, clearing a path for Logo and Victim to follow while Primal and Striker dealt with the initial ambush.

By the time Striker and Primal made it to the limo, Primal was only a little blood-soaked and her dress a little torn.

Logo sat in the driver's seat, the original grey driver unconscious in the chair next to him, while Ballista kept watch out of the sunroof.

"The driver was an impostor too. I'd appreciate it if you tied them up, please," Logo explained, starting the vehicle.

"Do you know how to drive a limo?" Victim asked as Striker tied up the driver as suggested and Primal joined Ballista, keeping watch out of the sunroof.

"Do I know how to drive a limo? Yes. Do I have a license for it? No," Logo laughed as they started moving.

--

The drive back to Victim's penthouse was quiet. They turned the driver over to Victim's security, "Are you sure you'll be alright on your own? How confident are you in your security?"

"...You know, maybe I should hire you for the occasional security detail too. But for tonight, I think I have it handled, though you all have clearly shown your aptitude," Ballista grinned with pride and Striker couldn't help his own proud smile. The team had done well tonight.

"Of course, we'll talk the contract over tomorrow, sir," Striker bowed, and nudging the others out.

"Primal, how'd you know there'd be assassins?" Ballista shook his head with a chuckle as they opened the gate and she shrugged with a little laugh of her own.

"Lucky guess."

"Hey guys, we didn't bring our car," Logo pointed out once the gate shut behind them.

"Dammit!"

[chorda-tendinea]

a theory on the ava shorts s2 teaser

ok so. obviously this will contain spoilers for the teaser so please go watch it before reading!!

so. y'all know this shot of chosen being drawn at the beginning, interspersed by a bunch of scenes from ava5?

^^ this one. (apologies for the bad screenshot)

well. that's not chosen.

pictured above, chosen as they appear at the beginning of ava2. note their pose (with arms and legs sorta curved inward) and their thicker lineart.

and pictured below, victim in ava1, in the exact same pose as the trailer (notably, the arm on the left is curved while all other limbs are straight).

so!!! this is about to have some very interesting implications for the new season huh (i.e. victim's not actually dead and we were right)

[fiddleabout]

(previously on the fabulous adventures of sun summoner ava and the druskelle who’s gonna fall in love with her)

It’s their third day of walking, from one whaling shelter to another, and so far Ava has learned that the druskelle is fastidious to the point of absurdity, that she sleeps on her left side-- potentially due to the cruel burn scar that Ava had seen on the first night, in spite of the way they had both burrowed deep under their respective bearskins until their clothes dried; it starts below her ribcage on her right side and snakes down past her hip, terminating in a splotchy discoloration halfway down her thigh-- that she sleeps light but pretends not to wake up when Ava wiggles closer in the middle of the night for warmth and starts each morning with a set of fifty pushups, and that she’s proven herself impressively immune to Ava’s charming habit of chattering to fill the silence.  

She still doesn’t know her name.

Ava’s halfway into a hilarious story-- in Fjerdan, just to irritate the druskelle-- about when she and Diego had managed to prank Frances at the orphanage with an elaborate plot involving a rabbit snare, a basket full of fresh mushrooms, and a piece of twine stolen from the kitchens.  She’s taken a detour in her rambling, away from Keramzin and towards her first and only experience in the unsea, stowing away on a skiff in a desperate attempt to keep her little brother safe, and has been on an impressively colorful five-minutes-and-building rant about how the First Army had treated the both of them after her powers became known.  She can feel her own frustration building, at the situation and at the druskelle and at the darkling, when the druskelle speaks for the first time in hours.

“--and then the lieutenant, that cunt--”

“Should you really refer to your commanding officer so crassly?”  

Ava nearly trips at the sound of her voice.  It’s melodious and soft, her accent rounded warmly.  The other druskelle on the ship had sharper accents, thinner edges to their vowels: a Djerholm accent, urban and rich, the accent of the children of nobility plucked for elite service.  This druskelle, though, has a quiet, rural accent that differentiates her from the rest of the druskelle as her dark hair and eyes had differentiated her from the rest of Fjerda.

“She speaks,” Ava manages to say after a split second.  “And here I was thinking that the druskelle had made you take a vow of silence.”

“I speak,” she echoes thinly.  “Only when there is something worth speaking to.  Such as insubordination.”

“Don’t tell me you’re concerned with me respecting a Ravkan lieutenant.”

“You are a soldier, even if you are a witch,’ she says.  She steps around a patch of snow that looks exactly like the rest, and Ava follows automatically.  “Soldiers should respect their commanding officers.”

“Well,” Ava says grandly.  “Forgive me for not agreeing to let my brother get sent to slaughter.  Some of us have beating hearts instead of unwavering obedience to work with.”

The druskelle doesn’t respond.  She continues hiking, and Ava nearly drops the bearskin she’d hauled with her for the last two days, wrapped around her shoulders like the druskelle’s cloak is wrapped around her own.  An irritation builds in her stomach, itching and impossible to ignore.  

“Hey,” she says sharply.  “What should I have done, then?  What would you have done if it was your brother?”

“I never had a brother,” the druskelle says without hesitation.

“Fine, play with semantics,” Ava says, unwilling to give up.  She hitches the bearskin higher around her shoulders and scrambles after her.  “Someone you love.  Your best friend.  Your mother--”

“My parents threw me out,” the druskelle says.  She turns abruptly, quick enough that Ava nearly falls on her ass trying to stop from barrelling into her.  “They took me on a carriage out into the wilderness and left me there.  When I tried to go home, my entire village had been destroyed by an inferni.  My parents burned in their beds.”

Ava stares at her, the bearskin heavy at her shoulders.  She’d grown up in Keramzin, meaningless and unimportant and dreaming like all orphans do about parents who loved her, a mother and a father who would love her if they were still alive.  It had never occurred to her, a war orphan whose only memory of her parents was them trying to protect her when the war spilled into their town, that there were parents who might cast their children aside.

“I am druskelle to protect Fjerda,” the druskelle says, fury snapping in her dark eyes.  “To protect other children from losing their families to witchcraft.  From people like you.”

“To protect people from me,” Ava says slowly.  “People like your parents, who threw you away?”

The druskelle’s jaw clenches, muscles in her neck working in stark lines, faint freckles dark against the flush of anger spreading across her cheeks.  “I became druskelle to honor them in their death as I should have when they lived,” she says, voice shaking with anger.  

“You hunt people who just want to exist so you can honor people who abandoned you in the woods?” Ava shoves at her shoulder.  It’s weak-- she’s exhausted, and hasn’t eaten in two days, and the druskelle has broad shoulders and powerful arms that Ava has become more familiar with than she’d ever want to, thanks to the Fjerdan cold and the unheated huts they’ve been forced to sleep in, and she barely flinches with the effort.  Ava slams a fist into her shoulder, stubborn and unwilling to give up.  “I never wanted to be grisha.  I didn’t ask to be this.  I just wanted to keep my brother safe and then--”

A groan snaps through the air, and she cuts off when the druskelle’s eyes go wide.  There’s a split second when she’s about to pick up her anger and keep ranting, and then the world cracks below her feet and she falls.

She slams into the side of the crevasse, her shoulder nearly dislocating and an aching pressure around her wrist.  Her face crashes into the ice of the ravine when her momentum stops, and she lets out a pained noise through gritted teeth before looking up.

Above her the druskelle is flat on her stomach, both hands closed tight around Ava’s wrist, and they both freeze.  Ava hangs from her grip, her entire body aching as it hangs from the druskelle’s hands.  She could drop Ava, could just let go and let her fall into the unending dark below her, leave her here to die alone and cold in the middle of the wilderness, and no one would ever find her.  The druskelle who killed the sun summoner, a hero to the Fjerdan people for killing the first hope the Ravkan people have had in four centuries..  

Ava hangs in her hands and finds the same desperate need to live, the one that had burst out of her when a volcra’s claws had latched onto her on the deck of the skiff and tried to pull her away from Diego, crawling up her throat.  Sunlight warms under her skin, but sunlight won’t save her here.

“Please,” she says, aching and scared.  The unwavering grip on her arm aches, radiating beautifully down her arm, the only thing keeping her alive.  “Please.”

The druskelle stares down at her, hands still tight around her wrist, and Ava watches her eyes narrow and shoulders somehow square even as she lays half-hanging over the edge of the ravine, and then, suddenly, she pulls.  

Ava’s shoulder screams, the joint protesting the tension it’s under, until she can get her other arm up and gripping at the druskelle’s wrist and square up her weight.  It’s only half a minute, maybe, before Ava is able to reach up and latch onto the druskelle’s arm to help pull herself the rest of the way up and crawl over the edge, sprawl onto the snow, but it feels like an eternity.  Her body aches with the effort, but she collapses onto her side next to the druskelle and then rolls onto her back, gasping and shaking and staring at the cold gray sky.  

Next to her, the druskelle flops onto her back as well, and Ava’s head rolls to the side to stare at her profile and the way her chest is heaving.

“Beatrice,” the druskelle says eventually.  “My name is Beatrice.”

Ava keeps staring at her, at the straight line of her nose and the arc of her cheekbone and the sweep of her jaw.  The druskelle who saved her life.  Beatrice.

“Beatrice,” she echoes after too long staring.  She speaks carefully, testing the way the name feels in her mouth.  “I’m Ava.”

Beatrice’s head tilts to the side, precise and meticulous, until she can look at Ava.  Her dark eyes are unreadable but her mouth is soft and uncertain, and Ava fights the urge to shift closer and curl herself into Beatrice’s side.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.”  Beatrice drags one arm up and offers it awkwardly across the space between them, and Ava meets her in the middle without thinking about it.  Her hand is warm, somehow, despite the cold they’re lost in; her palm calloused and her thumb folding carefully over the back of Ava’s hand.

“Nice to meet you, Beatrice,” Ava finally says.

Ava means to let go, but her hand lingers.  Beatrice doesn’t let go either, and Ava can barely feel the cold seeping through her kefta-- the bearskin had fallen away, lost into the ravine-- for long seconds before Beatrice pulls her hand free and stands up, only to offer it back to Ava and pull her up to her feet.

Wordlessly, Beatrice strips her cloak off and wraps it around Ava’s shoulders.  She fastens the clasp and her knuckles brush against Ava’s throat, and a warmth that has nothing to do with her summoning spreads through Ava.

[sisterdivinium]

If we are to take a deep dive, it is best to assure the place we're leaping from is stable, so let's do that by starting with the obvious.

The subject in both of these sentences is the same: the Halo. Both of these characters have borne it. Both sentences present the same grammatical structure and answer directly to one another despite the distance in time and space between one and the other's utterances. To Ava, the receiver of these conflicting messages, both claims prove themselves to be ultimately true, for the Halo acts as a gift, in granting her a second chance at a life she never had, and also as a burden, as it imposes on her responsibilities and demands of her sacrifices she would otherwise have never known.

But the show itself openly invites us to dig deeper, so we should not be contented with the obvious alone.

If there is always more, then we must peel back the surface and peek at what is underneath if we are to grasp at least a fraction of the functioning of Warrior Nun in different levels—be it in small scale, pertaining to the characters themselves, or be it in large scale, including how all of it relates to us as viewers in the end.

These two moments of season one are but a fragment of the show’s comprehensive universe, but we will examine them closely to see just how much meaning we can find in them, deceptively simple as they seem.

As mentioned above, the grammatical structure of both sentences is shared between them: “the [subject] is a [noun]”. This could lead to some sort of direct description we associate with the act of definition, of explaining what something is, as in “the pope is a man” or, to use the same reference as Mother Superion and Shannon do, “the Halo is an object”. In fact, had this been the case, we would have been closer to Ava’s own conclusion of the Halo being “a hunk of magic metal embedded in [her] back”, as this is a characteristic anyone could ascribe to it upon examination.

Yet the words used by both former warrior nuns are “gift” and “burden”. If they describe the Halo, then it is not in terms derived from objectively observable traits it possesses (such as it being made of metal), but in a wholly subjective manner. When Mother Superion and Shannon say the Halo is this or that, both imply that it is this or that as relates to themselves. In relaying what the Halo supposedly “is” to Ava, they pre-interpret it for her, infusing it with their own points of view—their beliefs. What they say of the Halo is much more a reflection of who they are than anything the Halo in itself could be.

A) The gift

A gift is, as we know, a present. It presupposes a giver and a receiver, as well as some degree of gratitude on the part of the latter, even if justified by politeness alone.

Mother Superion, embodying the authority of the Catholic church, framed by candles and an altar behind her while making use of short, straightforward affirmations, does not need to clearly state who occupies these positions: we can safely infer that the giver here is God and the beneficiary of this divine benevolence is Ava. A definiteness is patent in the sentences that follow—here is the power of the institution at work, for if Mother Superion starts out by “defining” the Halo, now she defines Ava through it. An inversion takes place, as the woman allows the object to define the woman (as “God’s champion” who “fights in His name”) rather than the other way around. The church, the Halo construct Ava as a subject, subjecting her to certain ideas of what she should be. She is the warrior nun despite having no say in it, not being a warrior and much less a nun.

At first sight, it wouldn’t make sense to interact with Ava in these terms, especially if, by this scene, Mother Superion has already read her file. It wouldn’t be difficult to deduce how expressions crafted with religious colours might impact an audience that does not show any religious proclivities. Furthermore, the tradition of rhetoric has always taught that speakers ought to adapt to their listeners if they wish to get their point across, so either Mother Superion is incompetent at communication, lacking sensibility and skills, or she is making a calculated move—one that is fully supported by her hierarchical position. After all, superiors seldom need to rationally convince their subordinates of doing something given how the latter are compelled instead by power dynamics to get in line—or else.

The strategy doesn’t really work on Ava.

In semiotic terms, we could even argue that there is something confusing happening in this scene—a narrative phase of manipulation (wherein someone tries to get someone else to accept and do something), we could say that it contains hints of both seduction (a positive commentary on the interlocutor—it’s not just about anyone who can be god’s champion, so this is a positive distinction) and intimidation (the threat of negative consequences if the interlocutor doesn’t comply—there is an implied order in the sequence, meaning Ava cannot refuse to be “God’s champion”). Ava might not share in this world-view, but it is what the church and its followers propose: a gift from God is a positive value. Being chosen by God to do something, even fighting and possibly dying in the process, is a positive value. Lilith is standing right there beside them and, at this point, she would surely agree and see nothing of this exchange in a negative light.

Yet Ava isn’t a nun and indeed she does not perceive any of these “honours” as being desirable. Mother Superion’s stance, the image she presents of herself as a strict nun herself when Ava has been mistreated by them all her life, equally gives her no reason to be persuaded, much on the contrary.

The manipulation fails. Ava is told God gave her the gift of life… And that now she is to endanger and potentially lose that very same life as some sort of gesture of gratitude. The logic is unimpressive at best and frankly absurd at worst.

Within the framework of the church, however, it makes perfect sense. Misattributed and misconstrued as it might be, the motto of credo quia absurdum is still pertinent: “I believe because it is absurd”. That a god should grant life only to claim it back through violence is perfectly acceptable if one believes in this god’s unquestionable authority rather than seeing this demand as something ridiculous or cruel.

The very concepts of God, service, battle, duty, blessings only make sense to the faithful, something Ava isn’t. She’s just a puny little individual resisting the pressures brought upon her by a powerful institution.

She and Mother Superion are only speaking over one another, not really having a conversation; Ava doesn’t care to listen to what the church has to say, she doesn’t take it seriously, and the church likewise does not take her individuality, her person into consideration.

However, we would do well to remember that Mother Superion is not simply a mouthpiece for the church—she is also Suzanne, lowly little individual with lowly individual desires and resentment just as Ava.

And, regardless of the effacement of self that monastic as well as military institutions enforce on their members, just as Ava’s subjectivity isn’t neatly negated by direct statements in line with reigning dogma, Suzanne’s own subjectivity also seeps through her words and attitudes. If not blatantly, at the very least there is a remarkable struggle taking place within her, suggested by her use of language as well as her demeanour.

The Halo, after all, defines her as well.

If bearing it is the greatest honour, a mark of God’s favour, if it defines a person, then losing it has an equal power of definition. The distinction it confers on someone is inescapable, for good or ill, and either one dies gloriously as “God’s champion” or one survives it, survives its removal, and is deemed rejected and unworthy by this so magnanimous God. The Halo soaks up all of the positive value ascribed to it—meaning those who lack it adopt a negative one in contrast, be it Suzanne who had it and lost it or even Lilith, who should’ve had it and didn’t.

Still it is considered “a gift”, something given by God… One could say it is a form of grace.

Suzanne’s noun and Vincent’s verb have the same origin, of course, the same stem. Despite the argument between them in this other scene, ultimately there is agreement between the two of them judging by their choice of vocabulary and Mother Superion’s reaction immediately afterwards. If this were not true in some degree, there would have been little need for Mother Superion to correct Ava in the first place, for Ava calls the Halo “a hunk of magic metal”, yes, but she also refers to it as “top prize”, as a reward—which, unlike “gifts”, are meant to be earned, to use Vincent’s comparison. There is a mixture of concepts here.

Without wanting to overcomplicate this text, let us say that ideology is a certain way of understanding the world and that it constructs and is constructed by our discourse, our use of language. One of the functions of ideology is that of attempting to smother contradiction, to smoothen the world’s complexities, simplify them, rationalise them away, however incapable it truly is at accomplishing that given how reality is too complex to be so tamed. Here, then, we see a notable sort of contradiction in Mother Superion’s discourse (in her ideology) that isn’t easily solved: a detail, a problem left out from the thought system. She agrees that grace, in the form of the Halo or not, is given, yet she treats it as if it were earned. This is a crack in the wall; it’s an idiosyncrasy, proof of a subject torn between the different voices that compose her subjectivity, the fragments, the different discourses that, put together, make her up as a whole.

What could be more contradictory than calling something which has scarred her physically, mentally and emotionally a “gift”?

If we create and are created in turn by means of discourse (“you are God’s champion”), if we can only understand and interact with the world when it is mediated by discourses and their correlated ideologies, what would it have meant if Suzanne had assigned another value to the Halo?

The inversion of values would certainly have ejected her from the church. If the Halo, to her, gained negative value, thus allowing her to retain some amount of positive value, her participation in the institution would be impracticable. She would be at odds with the dominant ideology, its structures, its rules… And she would face the resistance Ava faced by assuming such antagonism.

And sure, she might have regained some sort of “freedom”, but what would she have then lost? Resentment or not, there appears to be one central, recurrent positive value, one central desire to most characters in Warrior Nun and it would not be far-fetched to assume Suzanne shares in it herself and is unwilling to part with it.

B) The burden

Needless to say that if there is a generous deal of “burden” to Suzanne’s “gift”, there is also some “gift” in Shannon’s “burden”, judging by her mentioning the family she gained through bearing the Halo. Curiously enough, the dynamic of receiving something and paying for it with that very “gift”—Shannon getting a family and losing it by the very same means—is identical to the dynamics involved in getting Ava to accept her fate as warrior nun, by “paying” for the “gift” of life by risking that very same life in battle.

Shannon has received the “gift”—and fulfilled her role to perfection, allowed to thank God for it personally… If the Halo was taken from Suzanne, Shannon is the one “taken” because of it, alongside other ex-bearers.

Here there are no euphemisms. Shannon has lived the consequences of being “God’s champion” until the very end, so she has no need for distorted truths meant to keep things in order, to avoid questioning the principle of order itself which is the institutional view. There is still a struggle (there is always a struggle) as she admits to finding something positive (a family) through her loyalty to the cause even if the cause is what kills her and other women like her. The contrast between Mother Superion’s speech focused on individual responsibility and Shannon’s avowal of how it is “too great for one person to bear” tells us more than enough about how they each envision individuality, community, the possibility of action, who can make it come about—how life and death, different paths, different destinies, inform perception of the same thing.

Their values are inverted.

Mother Superion’s “gift” is Shannon’s “burden”; Mother Superion’s tendency, while alive, to value death (“You fight in His name”) is countered by a dead Shannon’s valorisation of life (“So much promise unfulfilled. So much life unlived. And for what?”) The scenes are in direct opposition to one another, they respond to one another as mirrored images.

So much so that the reply is not merely linguistic, hidden away in dialogue, but quite evidently displayed in visual terms as well. A mirror offers us reflections that are inverted—left in place of right, right as left—and so are these scenes inverted in relation to one another: in the moment of saying the sentences we’re concerned with, Mother Superion and Shannon stand in much the same place. If we do not notice, it is because the camera pans around in different angles—with the former, we watch the scene from a point at Ava's left, while the latter is shown from an angle at her right. We are literally treated to reflected images, seen from opposite points of view.

Colour, too, guides our reading of both scenes set side by side. With Mother Superion, we are in the realm of the church and its associated earthly tones as established throughout the first season, whereas Ava’s vision of Shannon paints the dream church in a shade of blue. Blue is, of course, the hue which had been mostly tied to Jillian Salvius, to ArqTech, to science. With science comes the concept of reason, as opposed to the sepia haze of faith.

Mary is also drawn against a backdrop of bright blue sky when she is investigating the docks and relying on her reason rather than her faith concerning Shannon’s death.

Shannon’s opinion on the Halo might be just as subjective as Mother Superion’s before her, but it is filtered through personal experience and observation, through reason rather than blind belief in a mission.

Yet we are forgetting something. Ava, having died already, claims there is nothing on the other side. If that is so, why is she meeting Shannon now? And why is this meeting taking place in circumstances that reflect previous events in an inverted manner?

As dreams often reuse what we have lived when awake, re-rendering our memories, transforming them, so it is possible that Ava is not having a vision but a dream—that she is talking not to Shannon, but to some facet of herself, Ava, manifesting as Shannon after connecting with her memory through the warrior nun book.

As Ava clings to it and the knowledge it affords her, it would make sense for her conscience to finally figure out a proper retort to what she heard of Mother Superion in that earlier moment, a retort fuelled by new information and by her own reasoning. At the very least, it would be more plausible to consider this hypothesis than to assume her vision of Shannon is a real communication with her spirit granted by the Halo, for, if we are witnessing a new phase of manipulation, then the message being transmitted this time concerns the Halo’s “lifecycle” itself—and how it must be brought to an end. If it is sentient as some characters believe, why would it let Ava meet Shannon and be exposed to the idea of working against the Halo’s own interests of perpetuation?

After all, the implications behind Shannon’s words are evident: again, if the Halo also defines the woman, then it defines sister Shannon, sister Melanie and all other warrior nuns going back to Areala with one word which will soon apply to Ava and whomever follows: that word is dead, crushed under the burden.

And this time, the message, a sort of compassionate provocation (“a burden too great to bear”—even for you), hits its mark, inspiring Ava to end the tradition and be the last warrior nun.

We are not in the semantic field of religion, even if it is there, in the background, being answered to; here we are not speaking of God or battles fought for this distant general in the sky, but of family, of women slaughtered in the name of a mission. This is no longer some ethereal question but an immediate concern. Whether this is Shannon or Ava herself subconsciously masquerading as Shannon to facilitate her own “awakening”, the point gets across now that it is transmitted in language that makes sense to Ava, now that there are common values between speaker and listener.

One could even hypothesise that, at this point, Shannon being a former warrior nun lends credibility to her words in Ava’s mind as she is a woman experienced in this role Ava is supposed to play.

If so, we can also understand the bridge of empathy that is built between Ava and Mother Superion later on when it is revealed that Suzanne, too, was a halo bearer and that she, too, has carried this “burden”. Both forge new understandings of one another through this common background and a personal exchange that is nothing like their first encounter—when the “gift” is said to have rejected the older nun, when its “burden” is divulged to Ava.

As Ava recognises Shannon, so do Ava and Mother Superion eventually recognise one another as well—so do they begin to comprehend how they did carry similar values, only obscured by their dissimilar ideologies and their resulting language use. If no other, then the value of family is what binds them together through Suzanne’s new disposition to embrace all of her sisters and Ava’s newfound conduct in considering them her sisters to begin with. They come closer in the catacombs and, at last, meet halfway by season two.

Yet we, the viewers, as touched by this miscommunication that ends well as we may be, after all of this talk of gifts and burdens, we remain none the wiser on what the Halo actually is.

C) The energy source

As previously exposed, we are kept in the dark because most sentences that speak of this iconic object in the series are subjective, focused on the characters’ own relationship to it or their ideas about it rather than any substantial data on what it might truly be apart from a “hunk of magic metal” currently in Ava’s back.

Perhaps because we spend so much time with the nuns, satisfied as they are with the logic of plain belief instead of concerned with tangible, provable things that can or should be explained. The most we get is the information on how the Halo is some kind of weapon, an amplifier attuned to the bearer’s body and soul.

Enter Jillian Salvius.

While her understanding of the Halo is admittedly insufficient, her research on it limited, her available vocabulary and scientific knowledge too slim (!) to encompass such an item, she does not say something like “the Halo is a mystery” or “a conundrum” as she says of Lilith later on. It would be true, just as it being a “gift” or “burden” is true considering those who called it thus, yet Jillian uses another sort of language instead.

Being a scientist, doctor Salvius opts for what we consider to be appropriate scientific modes of speaking, that is, by creating an impression of objectivity. It is not her personal reaction or opinion of the Halo that she offers, but whatever traits she can see or learn of in that moment: an energy source, an object that defies physics, a foreign body of undefined material. Ava “translates” this as being “an alien battery”, but the fact is that we are served a definition of the Halo unlike those we had before. It isn’t much, but for once we are not given a character’s personal interpretation of it…

Or so it seems. We none of us are capable of being fully objective, for none of us can rid ourselves of our selves—Jillian posits the Halo as an energy source, which seems innocent and impartial enough, but soon afterwards we understand what that means to her.

In themselves, the words “energy source” don’t carry many other connotations. Yet, for Jillian, these words that seem so neutral and “scientific”, so clear cut, do not sustain the facade of objectivity. She has spoken of energy before, it is an active component of her research, a common word in her lexicon; to Ava, “energy source” is “a battery”, but to Kristian and Jillian, who are part of ArqTech, who know what goes on within its walls, these words automatically acquire another meaning.

Yes, that of a battery, but one with a very specific purpose. Under the guise of neutral discourse, a very personal interpretation of the Halo, just as if it were a “gift” or “burden”, lies hidden. It is an energy source—one that doctor Salvius can potentially use to power her contraption. It is a “solution”, perhaps even a “gift”, of circumstance if not of god.

And it, too, defines Ava despite herself. When it fails, Jillian says she was wrong about Ava, not the Halo, thus conflating the two.

In the end, even she who might well be the smartest character, the one most closely connected with science and concrete knowledge, cannot guard herself from letting the unsaid (or “unsayable”) slip through her lips. She, too, in spite of her apparent objective language, exhibits a subjective kind of relationship with the world around her, influenced by the ideologies that cross her being.

D) Ending thoughts

Perhaps, when all is said and done, we are never truly able to follow that maxim we’ve seen more than once on Warrior Nun.

Perhaps we simply cannot think or act if we do not perceive things as at least partially related to ourselves.

It is not necessarily a bad thing, though, as long as different views can coexist, as long as they do not trample one another, as long as one person or group don’t elect themselves as the owners of truth, attempting to eliminate all who do not follow them as Adriel tried to do. In a democracy, in a place and a moment in history where there is freedom of thought and creed and speech, the phenomenon of various voices competing for the spotlight, taking turns under it is normal and healthy.

Warrior Nun gives us a fascinating insight on the multiplicity of voices that compose a society, even if there are elements of it which seek to suffocate those voices. It is a microcosm where different ideologies, through language, are confronted with one another, where they struggle to make sense of things—and where each of those points of view over a given subject might carry a morsel of truth. The Halo is a piece of metal and a gift and a burden and an energy source; none of these ideas or perceptions necessarily exclude the other, none is “more correct” than the other because, if so, then the question would be: as regards which character?

To Ava, at least, it is all these things and maybe more.

There are attempts to implant a hegemonic interpretation of facts. The very story of Areala, Adriel, the Halo’s trajectory along the centuries, how this is “the way it has been for one thousand years” is a strategy to cement a singular view. The repetition, the constant reworking of tradition, telling this story over and over with each warrior nun… That is the church at play, ideology trying to fill in any gaps, keep things as they are, conserve them and the structures that organise them, guaranteeing that things have one certain sort of sense and not another, one value, one meaning.

But life is not stagnant and people are not all swallowed whole by ideology even when they subscribe to it willingly, as a member of a church would. There are always things that cannot be explained, things that are beyond the scope of ideology—contradictions, pesky little details that escape the invisible goggles with which we look at reality. The truth is that it is far more complex than we can contain it with a few buzzwords, man-made or divine. There is always another side, always a reply, a constant dialogue between our different ways of seeing, understanding, being and, therefore, speaking.

A more visible example comes from those scenes in season two where Yasmine and Adriel are both telling the exact same story, only through their own perspectives, interpreting it in their own ways.

The show provides many opportunities to see how varied human voice can be, how the point of view of whoever is telling the story bears a mighty influence on the narrative, whether consciously or not, malicious or not. That, in turn, may inspire us to look around us, in the real world; to look at how we are representing things, others and even ourselves as well as how others represent us through the words we use.

This is not an exhaustive study, long as it is. As said before, it is but a glance at two scenes, two little lines of dialogue which are, however, intimately connected with others, with the stuff of the entire show—with the stuff of life. We could write more on how possessive pronouns and other sorts of phrases with the idea of the Halo “belonging” to someone or being “owned” by someone are used, just to remain in the area of discourse about the Halo alone.

But the present text has given all it had to give and its author does not wish to be a burden on her readers any more than she already has been.

[hi-avathisside]

अगर मैं रोकती तो क्या रुक जाते?

अगर मैं एक बार तुम्हारा हाथ पकड़ लेती तो क्या रुक जाते?

एक आखिरी बार आंखों में आंखें डालकर देख लेती तो क्या रुक जाते?

एक आखिरी बार कह देती कि "मत जाओ ना" तो क्या तुम रुक जाते?

बताओ ना क्या तुम नहीं जाते? काश तुम नहीं जाते, काश तुम रुक जाते ।

- me

[adudelolwriting]

how to make a flower crown: a step by step guide

Jay's side still hurt. It hurt after days of rest.  It hurt even after driving for several days towards the other side of the country. Jay still struggles with… everything, really. Both he and Tim were. I mean, Jay has spent that last — God, how long? Five years? Six? Running from something , and trying to find his old friends. 

In the end, it was just Tim and Jay, once again. 

There's a hole in his chest, for those he lost. Seth, Sarah, Amy. Jessica. Alex. Brian. (Jay still checks the ToTheArk channel, hoping, praying that Brian would upload something — anything, to prove he's still alive. That the fall didn't kill him.)

It was… it was safe, now. Tim said he "handled Alex". But Jay knows what he meant. He's seen the (since privated) video. Most… Most of the videos had been privated now. A clean state. Jay still had his camera, but its been left in the back of the car, right next to his laptop that currently doesn't have any battery to it.

Driving was peaceful.

Yes, the car was definitely starting to feel cramped, and uncomfortable, but it symbolized freedom. That Jay and Tim were leaving, and they weren't ever coming back. 

As Jay stared out the window, watching trees pass by, Tim pulled onto an exit that led into a small town. "I have a surprise for you," Tim simply said before parking the car. Curious, Jay followed him, bringing only a phone with half charge and no signal. 

"Where are we going?" Jay asked, following Tim. 

"I uh, I've stayed in contact with one of Brian's friends. We don't talk alot, but I mentioned to her that you like being outside and stuff, but we haven't been able to enjoy being outside since the whole Alex and Operator thing," Tim said, continuing forward before walking into a small field. "And she — she lives here, and mentioned there was this field where we could just… I dunno. Relax?"

Tim was watching Jay's face, waiting for his reaction. "This is… God. Thank you." 

Tim's goofy smile goes across his face. "Oh, yeah, it was— it was no big deal, really. Figured it would uh, be nice to not have to be stuck in the car for a while."

Jay sank into the field, picking several dandelions and started to weave them together. "You know how to make flower crowns?"

Jay hummed, continually working the stems through each other with his fingers. "Yeah. Sarah taught me how one day when shooting was slow." A smile spread on Jay's face. "Alex came over to me for a script direction question, or something, and saw me and Sarah picking dandelions. He whined about it, but… it was before everything, y'know? I could tell he was faking it. We finished the third one by the time Sarah was needed again, and she wordlessly placed it on his head."

Sitting down next to Jay, he spoke, "I mustn't have been on set that day."

"No. You were busy, I think." Jay finishes the crown, inspecting his work. "Here," he handed it to Tim, his blue eyes shining in the sun. Tim carefully takes it, before gently placing it on his head.

"Do you wanna know how to make one?"

Tim looked at Jay — he saw Jay's blue eyes sparkling, the sun reflecting off his hair. The crooked smile Jay proudly wore. He saw the person Tim met in college, carefree and happy before all of the tapes and the cameras. 

Tim saw the person who would always stay on set last minute, then having to rush to get to class on time. 

Tim saw the person who annoyed Alex any moment he could.

Tim saw the person who would make jokes and laugh like nothing could go wrong.

Tim saw the real Jay Merrick. 

"Yeah," Tim finally said, sitting onto the soft dirt of the field. "Yeah, I would like to know how to make one."

Jay smiled, and that's when Tim decided: he would do anything to see Jay be happy like this. Neither of them deserved the pain that was given to them. And Tim will sooner be damned to the deepest pits of hell than let this pain ruin their lives again. 

A fond smile fell onto Tim's face as he watched Jay, copying the movements he did with his hands, braiding the flowers together into a crown. A few of the stems got loose, and some of the flowers were flattened, but he was happy with his first ever one. 

Tim placed the crown onto Jay's head. "What?" Tim asked, looking at the other's expression, "There can't be just one king, after all." Jay laughed, head reeling back, and, yeah. Tim could spend the rest of his life like this. 

It was over. God, it was over. 

And Tim was okay with the outcome. 

[hypertic]

Avatrice - neighbors AU

[part 2 of this]

Beatrice knocks on the door, wiping her sweaty hands on her pants as she waits for an answer. When it doesn’t come as fast as she hoped, she considers turning back around and pretending she was never there.

She knocks again; she has no choice.

“Coming!”

The door swings open, revealing Ava in an oversized shirt and barely visible shorts underneath it. She’s slightly out of breath, a hairbrush in her hand caught mid air at the sight of her neighbor.

“Beatrice.” She greets with a smile, breath still caught in her throat at the sight of Beatrice in navy blue dress pants and a white shirt.

Ava’s smile faltered as she noticed that her hair was down and a little messy instead of its usual neat bun, and had dark bags under her eyes. If Ava looked a little further, Beatrice seemed a lot paler than a couple of days ago and her eyes were watery and full of concern.

“I’m so sorry to bother you this early, Ava.” Beatrice began, a tired, pleading look on her face as she fidgeted with a hair tie on her wrist. “I’m really sorry, I know you probably have a ton of things to do today-“

“Not really.” Ava interrupted, giving Beatrice a reassuring smile.

It was a lie, of course. She was about to leave for her part time job, but Beatrice didn’t know that. Ava wasn’t sure why she lied, but she had a feeling she wouldn’t regret it.

“Are you sure?” Beatrice spoke as she checked the time on her wrist watch. She then pulled back her hair, tying it up on a bun with practiced ease. Both actions were closely followed by Ava, who was entranced by the graceful way Beatrice’s hands moved.

“Yes!” Ava answered after staring for longer than it would be acceptable, now looking anywhere but Beatrice.

“I- I need to ask you a favor. A big favor.” Beatrice heaved a sigh, thinking of the most effective way to deliver her pleas. “Willow and Olivia are sick.” Beatrice felt her heart clench at the sudden change in Ava’s expression, her smile quickly replaced by a worried pout, and her eyes holding so much affection Beatrice thought that alone could make it all better. “They’re alright, but I can’t send them to daycare or preschool while sick.”

Ava’s eyes, expressive as ever, went from relief to confusion to understanding in a matter of seconds, making Beatrice’s foggy head spin.

“I hate to ask, but I have a meeting I really couldn’t cancelled, I tried, but-“

“You want me to take care of them?” Ava said with surprise, and maybe a drop of fear.

Even if she saw it coming, she never expected Beatrice to trust her with her children, specially if they were sick. She knew she was probably her last resource, but Ava was more than willing to show her she was worthy of that trust.

“I’m sorry for bothering you, really.” Beatrice repeated, interpreting her surprise as rejection. “I’ll pay you for the babysitting hours-“

“Don’t-Don’t apologize.“ Ava interrupted, teeth worrying her lower lip. “Of course I’ll take care of them. For free.” She clarified, and Beatrice felt her knees go weak with relief.

“Thank you.” She sighed, leaning against the door frame. Ava couldn’t help but smile at the sight, taking a step closer to her.

“What do I need to know?” Ava asked, snapping Beatrice out of her daze as she closed the door of her apartment. That question alone made Beatrice kick into mother-mode, each of her kids needs running through her head and sorted carefully in different categories.

Beatrice let them into their apartment which Ava noticed, was a little messier than the last time she was there (but still nothing compared to her own).

“Olivia is already getting better, she just has a bad cough and a runny nose, but her doctor said it should go away on its own.” Ava nodded, mindlessly following Beatrice to the kitchen. “You shouldn’t really give babies much medication, so I’ve just been using nasal drops and a humidifier.”

Ava noticed that the kitchen sink was piled with dishes, baby bottles and cups, which only showed how busy Beatrice must be with both of her kids sick. She didn’t know her for long, but it felt out of character for Beatrice to let her dirty dishes pile up.

“Willow is… not better. She still has a fever, her throat is really sore and she had a headache this morning. I gave her Tylenol around 6, and she’s a bit better. You can give her more Tylenol around noon, but she’s not easy to convince.”

“Got it.” Ava said confidently, taking the children’s Tylenol bottle from Beatrice’s shaky hands.

Beatrice checked her clock again and hurried out of the kitchen, Ava on tow. They walked silently towards the hallway and, as Beatrice creaked open the first door, Ava took her time to look further into the small hallway.

She’d noticed Beatrice’s apartment was twice the size of hers, so she could only guess that the other two doors lined up at the left side of the hallway were a bathroom and another room. At the very end, she could spot the corner of a neatly made white bed, which she assumed was Beatrice’s.

“Ava!” Willow’s excited yet weak, dry voice brought her attention back to the room in front of her.

The room didn’t have any specific color theme, unlike the rest of the home, but was rather full of small colorful toys and decorations. It didn’t feel too saturated, though, balanced out by the pristine white walls and simple wooden furniture.

In the opposite corner was Willow, lying in a bed that seemed too big for her small, pale body. She had discarded her tablet to the side and sat up as Ava approached her.

“Hi.” Ava greeted, keeping her voice low and gentle. “I heard you were sick, how are you feeling?” She took a step closer to the bed, sitting down next to Willow after she gestured for her to do so.

“Weird.” She replied weakly, and Ava couldn’t help but brush her hand against the girl’s forehead, sweeping her sweaty bangs to the side and subtly taking her temperature.

“Ava will be staying with you today while I go to that urgent meeting you heard me fussing about earlier, is that alright?” Beatrice asked, soft yet serious, just like one would do with an adult. If Ava didn’t know them already, she would still guess Beatrice is a wonderful mother by that interaction alone.

Willow seemed to think about it for a moment, before giving her mother a firm nod and then a bright smile to Ava that made her tiny eyes disappear.

“I’ll be back soon enough.” Beatrice reassured, making her way to Willow’s bedside and running a soft hand through the girl’s tangled hair. She guided her down gently, tucking her in, and kissing her goodbye; a kiss to her forehead, one to her left cheek and then one to her right.

Ava tried her best to ignore how close she was to Beatrice, she really did, but it became hard to focus on anything else when she felt the woman’s leg brush against her knee. Beatrice seemed to notice too, taking a rushed step backwards and heading for the door, not before waving goodbye.

“Willow doesn’t get to use her ipad on weekdays, but I allowed it since she’s sick, so she might spend the entire day on it.” Beatrice stated, making her way back to the living room. “Olivia is asleep, but should wake up soon.” Beatrice moved around the room, gathering papers and keys and shoving them all in her purse. “Can I get your number?”

God, Beatrice wished she was saying that under better circumstances.

Still, that didn’t mean her hands weren’t shaking any less as she handed her phone to Ava, who quickly typed in her number and sent a message to herself so she could save Beatrice’s.

“Thank you so much.” Beatrice said, her hand already on the door knob. “I’ll text you about their food and medicine in detail while I’m on the subway. Please, call me if there’s any problem or change.” She pleaded, finally out of the door.

“Of course.” Ava nodded, waving at Beatrice who reluctantly walked to the elevator. “Take care!” Ava yelled as the elevator doors creaked open, making Beatrice smile for the first time in days.

###

The first thing Ava did was call Michael, her coworker, and convince him to cover for her at work. Then, she made her way to Willow’s room, checking her temperature and encouraging her to drink more of her water. Willow just let her, too drowsy to fight against the thermometer under her arm and too focused on her tablet to make conversation.

Ava then made her way to Olivia’s room, finding the baby already wide awake and jumping on her crib. Ava smiled, relieved to see that she was clearly feeling much better than her sister, and after a lot of cooing and good morning tickles she changed her diaper and clothes, taking her time to pick the cutest outfit she could find because, why not.

After struggling to get the child into a white shirt and some overalls, she remembered to use the nose drops as Beatrice had instructed. What she failed to mention, was the little bulb thing she needed to use to suck the baby’s snot, which proved to be a lot more difficult. It took around 15 minutes of pleading and crying and threatening (from both parts involved), but she managed to clear Olivia’s nose.

They spent a while playing on Willows room, who’s fever had gone up. It was hard to keep both girl’s entertained while trying to bring down the oldest’s fever by placing cold rags on her forehead, but eventually she got the hang of it. She even managed to read them a story that had Willow back asleep in minutes.

By then, she had received Beatrice’s detail instructions about their food and medicine, so she set out to give a bottle to Olivia while she made them lunch.

By the time Beatrice was set to arrive, both kids had eaten well, Willow took her medicine, (which was another 30 minutes of pleading and bribing) and felt well enough to be out of bed. She had asked Ava to read her a story to which she had agreed, only to find that the book was completely in french. Willow was a little disappointed since it was her favorite book, but quickly forgot all about it after Ava offered to teach her spanish.

When Beatrice finally walked through the door, hours later than she’d anticipated, she almost felt like crying at the scene of Willow, in way better spirits than this morning, giggling at the word ‘refrigerador’. What almost brought her to tears, though, was the sight of her kitchen sink completely empty, with Ava putting away the last baby bottles.

“Ava.” The name left her lips before she could stop it, drawing attention to her figure, leaning against the doorframe.

Willow ran up to her, giving her a big, tight hug as Beatrice picked her up and ran her hands through her bangs, subtly checking if she had a fever.

Ava just stayed where she was, eyes fixed on nothing in particular as her brain replayed the way her name sounded coming from Beatrice. She took tentative steps towards the pair, not wanting to interrupt Willow’s cheerful retelling of her day, while Beatrice smiled and nodded at every little thing with so much adoration in her eyes Ava felt a small knot forming in her throat.

She took the chance to study Beatrice more closely, who looked, in all honestly, three times worse than she did this morning. She looked pale, almost translucent, and a thin layer of sweat covered her forehead.

“Willow,” Ava called, unable to keep her mouth shut when she noticed Beatrice’s trembling fingers. “Why don’t you go wash your hands so you can help me with dinner?” The little girl, fever and cough long forgotten, all but jumped out of her mother’s arms and darted to the bathroom.

“Slower, Lou! You’re still sick, remember?” Beatrice scolded, but her eyes were fixed on Ava. “I’m sorry I’m late, I left as soon as I could.” Beatrice apologized, and Ava wanted to tell her to stop saying sorry for everything, that it was fine and that she didn’t mind at all.

Ava didn’t get the chance to get a word out, as Beatrice tumbled forward, almost falling to her knees if Ava didn’t catch her, placing her arms underneath Beatrice’s to keep her upright.

“Shit.” She muttered, ignoring the warmth spreading in her chest at the closeness. Ava let go with one hand and brought it up to feel Beatrice’s warm, sweaty forehead.

“I’m sorry.”

Ava would’ve threatened to slap her if she ever said sorry again, but chose to stay quiet and gently guided the woman to the living room, sitting her down at the couch.

“Thanks.” Beatrice said weakly, shivering slightly under Ava’s touch, but blaming it on the fever. “You don’t have to actually cook for Willow, I’ve already taken too much of your time.”

“You’re sick.” Ava stated, despite how obvious it was. Beatrice frowned in confusion, as if her being sick had nothing to do with Ava still standing there, in front of her. “Lay down, I’ll be right back.” She pushed her down carefully, running out to get the thermometer before Beatrice could stop her.

She wasn’t surprised to find Beatrice attempting to stand up, stopping her with a gentle hand on her shoulder and pushing her back down. Without a word, she handed the thermometer to Beatrice.

“I’m fine.” She said, after checking her temperature.

Beatrice was in fact not fine, and was nearing 39°C, which she was unable to hide from Ava as the girl snatched the thermometer from her hands with a frown.

“Is mommy ok?” Willows tiny, worried voice echoed through the living room at the sight of the thermometer. Beatrice gave her a nod, but even Willow didn’t seem convinced.

“She’s not feeling very well, Willow.” Ava said truthfully as the girl ran up to her mother. “I’m sure she’ll feel better after some rest.” Ava placed a comforting hand on the girls back, hoping she would understand.

Beatrice’s shook her head, but it was completely ignored by her daughter, who ran to get a blanket and unceremoniously dumped it on her mother’s lap, trying to stretch it out.

If Ava noticed Beatrice’s eyes getting more watery, she did her the favor to ignore it and blame it all on the fever.

Silently, she took Willow’s tiny hand and guided her to the kitchen, telling her to wait there while she rummaged through the medicine cabinet to find ibuprofen. When she went back to the living room, Beatrice was laying down, awkward and tense, but she was laying down.

“Ava, you really don’t-“ She started to argue as soon as she came into view.

“Take it.” Ava all but shoved the glass of water and the advil bottle on her hands, turning around and sprinting to the kitchen before Beatrice could argue.

For a moment, Ava worried she was overstepping, that Beatrice genuinely didn’t want her there. She dared to take a small peak behind the safety of the kitchen door, only to find Beatrice staring hesitantly at her hand, letting out sigh before swallowing the pills and leaning back down.

Ava smiled and turned on the ball of her feet, getting ready to make the best spaghetti of her life.

With the help of Willow, who knew where things were in the kitchen better than Ava, the food was ready just in time for Olivia to wake up and make a mess with a few spaghetti’s and her applesauce.

Despite Willow begging for waffles, Ava decided not to test her stomach or her mother’s patience, and settled for cutting some apples in misshaped bunnies to convince her to have some.

Ava considered 6PM was quite early, even for a toddler, but still guided Willow back to bed who sat down with her tablet while Ava played with her sister. Willow fell asleep soon after and Ava tiptoed her way back to the living room, taking Olivia with her. She took a look a Beatrice, her slow breathing and relaxed features, the ones Ava thought Beatrice might never show while awake.

“Let’s find you something to do.” She whispered to the baby, who smiled as Ava bounced her all the way to her room.

The sun went down slowly, covering the entire room in a calming, red hue, that seemed to have the opposite effect on Olivia. The baby started crying, far louder than Ava expected, and wasn’t sure what to do to fix it.

She couldn’t be hungry or sleepy, having just woken from a nap, and she didn’t have a runny nose, at least not before she started wailing uncontrollably. Ava tried hushing her, rocking her, bouncing her around, but nothing seemed to work.

“Here.” Beatrice’s voice made Ava jump back in surprise, too caught up in the baby’s cries to hear the door open. She didn’t hesitate to hand the child back though, as her mothers calm, gentle voice seemed to have an instant effect on Olivia.

“Sorry.” Ava scratched the back of her head awkwardly. “I think I let her nap for too long.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Beatrice reassured, and Ava thought it was ironic how that was exactly what she wanted to tell her hours before. “I can’t thank you enough, Ava.” She stated truthfully, taking a tiny step towards her.

“Well, I owed you one, remember?” Ava tried to dismiss it, but Beatrice shook her head.

“You did far more than what you owed me.” Her voice was firm but quiet, not wanting to disturb the baby in her arms.

“We’re even.” Ava insisted.

“It doesn’t feel like we are.” Beatrice pushed, keeping her eyes focused on Olivia, on the window, on anything but Ava.

“How are you feeling?” Ava asked, leading the conversation away from her.

She was genuinely concerned, though, and couldn’t help take a small step foward, pressing her palm against Beatrice’s forehead.

“Sorry.” Ava took her hand back almost instantly, as if it burned. “Sorry, I’m overstepping again, sorry.”

“You’re not.” Beatrice assured. She knew deep down that , had it been any other neighbor or babysitter, it would be overstepping, but it was Ava.

She wasn’t sure what made her different: if it was her warm smile, the way she genuinely seemed to care about her kids, about her, or if her fever was making it all feel different.

“You don’t have to take care of me, though, I think you’ve had enough with the two little devils.” Beatrice said with endearment, looking down at Olivia who seemed fast asleep. She managed to put her down in the crib, ignoring the fact that she’d have to wake her up to change her eventually.

“They’re adorable.”

“They are.”

They made their way out of the room in comfortable silence as Ava decided it was time for her to leave.

“Beatrice.” She called, though there was no need, since the woman followed her closely to the door. “Take care, please.” Beatrice was taken aback at the words, not so much by the content, but by the pleading, almost desperate way they were spoken, like Ava truly worried for her. “I didn’t want to say it before, but you looked like shit when you walked in.”

Beatrice giggled, and Ava felt the room spin.

“Thanks, Ava. For everything.” Beatrice took a step forward, closer. “I’ll find a way to make it up to you.” Ava let out an annoyed, almost angry groan.

“There’s no need, Beatrice.” It was her turn to take a step closer. “If you ever need me to babysit I’d be more than happy to.”

“Really?” Ava was surprised that Beatrice was surprised.

“Of course, Willow is amazing.” Beatrice felt her heart swell with pride at the sight of Ava’s genuine smile; maybe she wasn’t doing bad after all. “And Olivia is lovely. I wouldn’t mind spending and entire day with all of you.”

Beatrice’s heart was now about to burst because, even if they were talking about her children, and Ava just seemed like a generally nice person, her last words seemed to hold a different weight to them.

All of you.

Ava turned her back to her, opening the door to hide her burning cheeks at the slip up. Beatrice would probably think she’s weird, or that shes taking advantage of her kids to flirt with her, if that could be considered flirting. Beatrice probably never saw it that way because she may not even like-

“Ava.” Beatrice’s soft hand found her place into Ava’s, who held the doorknob tightly. She took it back quickly, clearing her throat before speaking. “I- I feel the same.”

Beatrice chastised herself for the incredibly lame, awkward reply. It was true, but there were thousands of different ways to say that, without sounding so damn stupid.

Unsurprisingly, Ava gave her a wide grin, crossing the doorframe into the hall. She waved as Beatrice shut the door, cheeks flushed red and hands shaking.

It’s the fever.

[reblogs, comments and ideas are very welcomed]

[ao-ihinata]

Anyone else imagine men written by Ava Reid kneeling in front of the heroin just melting from reverence while " Marry on a Cross - Ghost " is playing in the background ??

Because Gáspár, Sevas and Preston all give that vibe

[cluelessandsapphic]

I love how bea and ava's arguments are written. they freely say what is bothering them, not hiding anything. they communicate so well, even without saying anything at times, (which is quite remarkable if you think about it because they haven't known each other that long). both consider the other's feelings, wholly. And, though they may say terrible things in the heat of the moment, they always apologize afterwards. taking responsibly, and communicating instead of causing more problems in their dynamic. my favorite of these is probably from the s2 -- though i love their arguments from s1 as well.

When bea is mad at ava for exposing them, forcing them to relocate, she lets out what is bothering her, ava's selfishness. and though, ava is coming from a good place when she decides to follow Micheal, a part of her is trying to make up for the events of last season, so she tends to "jump head first into danger" as bea puts it. However, bea fails to remember, ava has been bed bound her entire life, she doesn't know any better. bea is not prideful after she yells at ava, she takes accountability and realizes where she is wrong. she apologizes and the pair settles their argument, each taking into account the other's feelings, and ending the argument consoling each other. Creating a safe space, and resembling that of an actual relationship instead of the typical lack of communication trope to create angst and other unnecessary drama. this is one of my favorite scenes in warrior nun, and if it's renewed, I hope to see more of these.

[jtl07]

a glimmer, a mystery

(also on ao3)

There’s something … different about Beatrice today. 

The frustrating thing is that Camila can’t quite pin down what is different about her. At first, she thinks it’s the fact Beatrice was smiling - not one of her polite ones, the kind of smile Beatrice usually saves for the presence of a certain golden-retriever-made-human-halo-bearer, who is notably absent from Cat’s Cradle at the moment. (‘Notably’ because Camila has actually been able to get some work done; not that she doesn’t like when Ava’s around - Camila delights in it, really - but sadly there’s only so long paperwork can be put off.)

But the smile isn’t something new. Camila’s seen it before, even without Ava in their immediate vicinity, has seen it more often as of late. No, Camila thinks, the smile is merely a symptom. It’s something else. Something she can’t immediately pin down. Her eyes narrow, committed to finding the cause. (Paperwork has waited this long; it can wait a few more hours.) 

She keeps a surreptitious eye on Beatrice as she moves through the grounds. There’s an ease to her stride that’s markedly different from just the day before - a “pep in her step” she’d go so far to say. Perhaps she’d gotten some time in at their new gym today? Beatrice always did enjoy a good workout (in her mind, Camila can already see Ava’s waggling eyebrows and the blush on Beatrice’s cheeks). But Camila’s brow furrows, remembering that Beatrice had spent most of the morning at the library, researching (Camila isn’t the only one getting some work done).

Perhaps it was just the weather in general. The past few days had been damp and cloudy, causing old aches in even Camila’s body to flare up. But today there is not one cloud in sight, and the sun filters warm and golden through the windows lining the hallway that Camila follows Beatrice down. She takes a moment to admire Beatrice’s posture, her stride. There’s that confident set in Beatrice’s shoulders that Camila’s always admired, a touch of something regal in her spine, a relaxed reassurance that has come with time. 

She looks closer. There’s a radiance to Beatrice today, something from within, a gleam, a glow, a glimmer - 

Camila gasps when she finally sees it. Small, unassuming but absolutely there. She sprints down the hall, the sound of her mad dash coupled with her wild laughter startling Beatrice and she turns just in time to catch Camila by the forearms. 

But it’s Beatrice’s hand that Camila captures and there it is: a ring. 

“Did she -?” Camila’s vibrating too much to even finish her question but Beatrice is already grinning and blushing and nodding and Camila’s laugh bubbles out once more. She squeals and gathers Beatrice into her arms, feels Beatrice’s laughter rising to match her own. 

“I was wondering if anyone would notice,” Beatrice says shyly when they part.

“Of course I’d notice.” Camila shakes her gently, marks the mystery solved and sealed as she takes Beatrice in: her smile, her glow, the love no longer hidden, freely given, freely shown. “Happiness looks wonderful on you.”

[analogoose]

sneak peek - wn streetfighter au ch2

coming sunday (probably monday)

///

The bells above the door jingle to announce their arrival. They’re greeted by warmth and the familiar smell of potatoes and grease. Every booth is a bright red eyesore and the floor looks like it hasn’t been mopped in ages, sticky in certain places. Beatrice has been here enough times to know which chairs and tables are wobbly, and which ones give the best view. It was a different time in her life. When almost every training session was accompanied with a visit here. Sometimes coffee. Sometimes breakfast for dinner. On me, Shannon would say, but Beatrice always snuck away to pay when Shannon wasn’t looking. 

Sometimes, they would be joined by the others. Camila bouncing in after work to steal Beatrice’s plate of food instead of ordering her own. Lilith meeting them outside and spending the next hour sitting beside them as a living shroud that drank Starbucks peppermint mochas and talked in a low murmur. Or Mary, slumped against the window after a rough shift, three drinks already ordered—a hot chocolate for Shannon, black tea for Beatrice, and a filter coffee for herself. 

Even now, Mary looks right at home, like she never left the place. Three drinks sit in front of her. Beatrice’s throat closes up. She can’t remember the last time she was here. If it was just her and Shannon. Did Mary join them? Did Lilith? Or maybe Beatrice came alone. A detour after the funeral. Her memories are blurry and remembering only brings more pain.