#you’d know people have been reclaiming these words for DECADES

[overheaven]

ohhhhh i see, tumblr. this is bait to make me go ad free huh

[twenty-somethingboomer]

A New American Marvel

We Americans love to hang our hats on big, expensive technological projects. The mission to the moon, the Hoover Dam, the Panama Canal, etc. Massive, marvelous projects which transform the world around us and how we feel as Americans. Unfortunately, we’ve dropped the ball a bit recently. We haven’t had a big tech project in decades. So let me propose one.

            It’s a shame that vast swaths of the world are covered by deserts. It’s a shame that most of the world doesn’t have enough fresh water. It’s also a shame that most of the world doesn’t have enough electricity. I propose a new tech project which could fix all of these problems. One which has the potential to transform the world more than any dam or canal ever did. A project which could turn desert into vast farmlands and give job and land opportunities to the otherwise hopeless. Cheap, modular, safe, and easy to use water desalination which is powered by cheap, modular, safe, and easy to use nuclear power.

            Now hold on! I know that nuclear power is scary, and you’d be hard pressed to find anyone using words like ‘safe’ and ‘easy to use’ to describe it. But that’s why I’m calling for a project on par with Apollo to pull it off. Unlike Apollo, however, this project has the potential to pay for itself.

            The world is a big place. Unfortunately, we can only live on 30% of it, as the other 70% percent or so is ocean. Of the 30% that we can actually stand on, only a fraction of it is livable, and an even smaller fraction can be used for food production. Much of the rest of the land is vast, inhospitable desert. Since the industrial revolution, we have found ways to grow as much food as possible everywhere that we can. We have also filled the land with as many people as we can figure out how to. We aren’t running out of room, we ARE out of room. From here, there are three places we can look to for more space. Number one is space, although try as he might, Elon Musk isn’t moving millions of people to Mars anytime soon. Number two is the ocean, although with the state of the world’s fisheries, the ocean is slowly becoming a salty desert. I’ll let the aquaculturists handle that one. That leaves us with number three, the desert. Good luck convincing millions of people to move to the desert in it’s current state. Although, perhaps there is a way to make the desert more inviting. This is where desalination comes in.

            We’ve wrangled the desert before. Vast swaths of desert in California, Arizona, and Kazakhstan have been reclaimed and turned into thriving farms and cities with the use of water from various rivers. However, we’ve done this everywhere that we can. All of the fresh water is spoken for. We need more. Conveniently, many of the world’s deserts are located right next to oceans. The American southwest, the Atacama, Australia, North Africa, and the Middle East all have relatively good access to sea water. Here, large scale water desalination could unlock vast swaths of land to settlement where it was previously unthinkable. So why hasn’t this been done yet?

            Desalination is difficult and expensive. Even worse, it’s very energy intensive. Few of these places have the money to build today’s desalination plant, and even fewer of them have the money to also build a power plant dedicated to feeding the desalination plant. This is why I’m calling for such a massive, marvelous project.

            Part one of the project would be making a desalination plant that is as energy efficient as possible. We would then need to make it modular and as cheap as possible so that the places that need them can afford them and receive them. The problem of powering it still looms. Many would say that green technology could be the key. I am skeptical of these claims. Many green technologies such as wind and solar require more carbon emissions to build than they save over their lifetimes. What’s more, the pollution from the extraction of the rare earth elements required to make all of these wind turbines and solar panels may render more land uninhabitable than the desalination plant would render inhabitable. Even worse, the Earth may not contain enough rare earth elements to make enough wind turbines and solar panels to tame the desert. That brings us back to nuclear.

            Again, I know that nuclear is scary. Rightly so. But I don’t think we have a choice. The world is full. We need more space. We need more land. We need more water. Desalination is definitely the key. Green tech has a role to play, but I believe that the only technology we have that can provide the power we need is nuclear. The good news is, nuclear of today is significantly better than in the days of Chernobyl. The problem is that very little money has gone into nuclear research since Chernobyl. Lots of promising newer (and more importantly SAFER) theoretical designs have been proposed, but next to none of them have been tested. Encouragingly, many designs have been proposed which use elements other than uranium or plutonium. These new designs use elements which are physically impossible to be used as weapons and are impossible to melt down or explode.

            This brings us to part two of the project; nuclear reactors. A huge effort and lots of resources need to go towards developing modular, SAFE, (relatively) easy to use, and (relatively) cheap nuclear power. Nuclear reactors aren’t exactly the safest things to be sending to some of these more volatile areas, and are more complicated to run than most of the people of these areas are capable of handling. To solve these issues, I propose that we implement these reactors in places that are particularly stable and have relatively educated populations first. Places like the American southwest, the Atacama, and Australia. I also propose that we construct an educational pipeline which specifically trains technicians to run and maintain these reactors. This pipeline can be American only at the start, but then incorporate members of the local populations to run it themselves. This pipeline would also be set up independently of any other education, and function similarly to the tech schools that the military uses. To help with this project, we also need to incorporate nuclear education into the public education curriculum. As it stands, American children aren’t required to learn anything about nuclear technology, which has likely contributed to our fear of nuclear energy. Nuclear education would be necessary to help with the public acceptance of said technology.

            We have the technology and people to do all of this, and hopefully I have convinced you that this needs to happen. But here comes the fun part; how to pay for it all. Luckily, we already have two models that we could follow for this.

The first model we could follow is (like Apollo) patriotic fervor. A political party, particular candidate (like Kennedy), or large business could take on the project in the name of patriotism. It is our duty as Americans to use our privilege and technology to free people from the shackles of poverty by allowing them to tame the desert. This fervor could get the public to invest in the project. The project could also be used to establish significant political leverage in the areas that use this technology.

The second model we could follow is that of the F-35. We could have many countries pool together knowledge and resources to accomplish this goal for the good of mankind. In this model, those who invest the most in the project could get the technology first or have a larger say as to where the technology is implemented first.

I believe that, no matter what model we follow, this project would pay for itself. Fighter jets and moon rockets don’t make money, but farms do. These desalination plants and nuclear reactors could be sold to the areas that need them on loans, and with the economic prosperity that would surely follow, the areas could easily pay them back. What’s more, the market for qualified technicians to run the plants/reactors and parts to keep them going could be adjusted to recoup the cost of the project.

We Americans have a propensity for large projects which reshape the landscape. No other project could reshape the planet more than this one could. This project has the potential to provide jobs to millions, lift millions out of poverty, and take pressure off of the rainforests and oceans for food production. This project could even help combat climate change. These new areas of vegetation would pull significant amounts of carbon out of the atmosphere and would help insulate the landscape from the sun’s heat. These new farms could also be used to produce biofuels, which could help wean us off of fossil fuels. We have the technology and money to do this. I don’t see another way forward that doesn’t leave millions behind. We just need a few people to push this idea forward. Will one of them be you?

[togglesbloggle]

Rules for Losing

So, yeah, Roe vs. Wade.  And also, quite possibly, a huge chunk of the 14th amendment, including support for birth control, trans rights, and Lawrence vs. Texas.  It’s clear that this court is going to rework the American legal framework in fundamental ways, given a decade or two.

I’ve been thinking about what I have to give at the moment, and I think one of the more valuable things is that I’m just barely old enough not to take this stuff for granted.  I’ve got clear, formative memories of what it’s like to live under a government that bans your sexual orientation by law, to work productively towards a better world under those conditions, and to live a good kind of life while you do it.  What follows is a few things I learned from the last time the pendulum swung in this direction, targeted primarily towards US citizens that live in red states and other places where local patchwork laws won’t make up for what SCOTUS will take.

The future is not like the past, and I don’t want to overstate how much will be lost or how big the risks will be.  I don’t think you’ll necessarily need this post in its particulars.  Instead, take it as reassurance that you are not, and need not feel, helpless, even as the larger currents of society sweep us all out to some very alien shores.  There are things you cannot do, but there are things you can, and those things matter far more than you might expect.  Even the worst case scenario is not infinitely bad, and you’re more capable of rising to the occasion than you think.

1: Have a bubble.  The single most important thing you can do for your own security is to find like-minded people, and the internet makes this much easier this time around.  80% of personal happiness comes down to the small bubble of people you spend day-to-day life with, not the laws you live under or the attitudes of strangers.  Keep that support network near you, until you’ve internalized the fact that your intrinsic value as a human being does not flow from the judgments of your society.  When your bubble is in need, give until it hurts.  Rely on them to give you up-to-date information.  When you’re in trouble, make sure they know.  These people are your home.

A group of online friends, no matter how intimate, is not a bubble.  This is not to cast aspersions- many of the deepest relationships of my life are online.  But you need somebody that can smuggle you medicine, that can bail you out of jail, that can give you a couch to sleep on tonight.  You probably won’t need those things often, but when you need them, they can be life-and-death.  Material proximity is simply too necessary in a pinch, you can’t afford to ignore it.

2: Pride is more than a word.  These laws go beyond simple compulsion.  They are designed, first and foremost, to broadcast norms and to define an ‘us’ and a ‘them’.  You’d be surprised, in fact, how often people bend over backwards to avoid actually enforcing this kind of law, although you can never count on it- there’s always a small fraction of true believers out there who earnestly think that abortion is murder or that God will smite cities with earthquakes for harboring homosexuals.  But the real way these laws work is in marking you, not in punishing you.  They will try to make labels like ‘faggot’ or ‘slut’ prominent in your life, and they will succeed.

You can’t control the official narrative, and you can’t stop them from isolating you, but you can create a counter-narrative in the spaces you do control.  Celebrate often.  Reclaim slurs.  Throw great parties.  Be really, really funny.  This is good for morale over a long marathon, it helps facilitate and strengthen those bubbles (Rule #1!), and it also gives the lie to the propaganda about your sad, squalid life outside the guidance of our glorious leaders.  Dissonance is your friend, because it shocks people out of their assumptions and gets them thinking for themselves.

3: The kids are not all right.  Young people are vulnerable in a way that adults are not, and they are quite likely to internalize the norms being pushed by society in a way that can be shockingly self-destructive.  They don’t have a bubble yet (Rule #1!), and the love of parents is typically a lot more conditional than they’ve been told.  Without as much life experience, feelings about sex and self-identity can be very intense.  Whatever you’re going through, teenagers are going through it five times worse.

You won’t often know which kids need your help and which don’t, and you won’t be able to help everyone who needs it.  The best option here is to be an inspiration and wait to see who reaches out to you.  Scatter ideas of a better world as widely as you can get away with, the wink and the nod that says other things are possible and good.  And when someone does respond by reaching out, the most powerful help that you can give will often be your own example.  Tell them your story, give them a model for the sort of life they can live outside the officially sanctioned plan.  This can and will save lives.

4: Disdain kills faster than hatred. Don’t get me wrong, there are some true psychopaths out there, and when you don’t have the protection of the law, there’s a very good chance that one of these will come your way sooner or later.  But the true danger is not from psychos, but from the mass shrug, the indifference of millions that assume your suffering is to be expected and treat the story of your life as a fable about the dangers of sexual disobedience.  Internalize this as soon as possible: once you are labeled in this way, you cannot assume sympathy or help is coming in a crisis, except from whatever your bubble can offer.

But!  Disdain is also a more tractable problem than hatred.  Most people, actually, are not psychopaths, and their willingness to watch you die is a lot stronger in theory than it is in practice, particularly in person.  When people come face-to-face with you, they’ll often feel an impulse to be kind, or at least polite, and this alone can act as a powerful challenge to the indifference of crowds.  Humanize yourself, personalize your relationships, and as much as you can, dissolve crowds and institutions into their constituent individuals.  Good hygiene and dressing well are going to be far more instrumentally important to you than they would otherwise be.  And if you do manage to extract some goodwill out of the system this way, pay it forward; empathy doesn’t flow evenly to everyone, and getting less of it doesn’t mean that you deserve less of it.  Passing is a strategic compromise with injustice, not a sign of moral superiority.

5: You have the mandate of Heaven.  Really.  The future is yours, not theirs, no matter how weak you feel right now, and no matter how powerful they seem in the moment.  Orthodoxy, coercion, and especially physical violence- all are servants of the present.  They are tools used to delay the inevitable, fundamentally degenerative in character.  As an outsider to those systems, you’ll discover more ways to be human in a week than they’ll find in their whole lives, and in time, you’ll make a new world that they can’t even see, let alone control.

Our monkey-brain hates feeling weak, because it knows how dangerous that is, and often tries to lash out violently against systems and institutions that make it feel that way.  But weak or strong, violence is rarely effective and never productive.  Those who suppress dissent have chosen to abdicate their role in the future, a power vacuum into which you can and should step.  To quote Bruce Sterling, “When you can’t imagine how things are going to change, that doesn’t mean that nothing will change.  It means that things will change in ways that are unimaginable.”

[oumaheroes]

Stargazing

Word Count: 2030

Characters: England, France- FrUK

---

‘If you could go back to any era, which would you choose?’ There is a stone in-between France’s shoulder blades, something that finally tips the scales from being comfortable into not, so France rolls onto his side, cradling his head in his hand.

From his spot in the grass next to him, England turns his head lazily, the movement long and slow. His eyes are the last to move, fixed on the stars, and they find France’s with a sharp flick, ‘What?’

‘Are you too drunk to listen?’ France lifts a heavy arm and reaches across the small distance between them to brush some errant hair away from England’s forehead and lets it stay there, tangled in his roots. France himself is wine soft and slow, warm in his stomach and chest from both the day and the drink which settles within him.

England huffs, ‘More like drunk enough that I can stop pretending you’re worth listening to.’

France hums indulgently, far too jovial at the moment to search for any unintended offense, ‘oh, the lies you tell yourself. They do amuse me.’

England frowns, head still facing France and cheek pillowed in the grass.  Wine is not enough to soften him entirely, it seems, ‘that is rich, coming from you.’

France brings his hand down from England’s hair to lay it across his mouth, ‘I’m not starting anything with you this evening, I’m too full.’

England opens his mouth and, very gently, bites the meat of the pad of France’s hand. Just to show that he could and to be difficult, showing that he won’t go down without a fight. France’s small input in the ridiculous battle is to leave it there, refusing to give in. Eventually, England lets go and moves his head away, although not before pressing his teeth down just that bit harder. France reclaims his hand and allows him escape without protest.

‘What drivel did you ask me?’ England looks back up at the sky again, high and cloudless above them.

‘If you could be in any era again, any that we have lived through,’ France repeats, ‘which would you pick to go back to?’ He has caught England in a good mood, one where he has allowed himself to be seen, for a time, without anything sharp covering him. Drink has made him pliant and loose tongued and France, in a similar mood, is keen to make the most of it.

England rolls his head slightly back, considering the question, ‘How long do I get in the era?’

‘No, don’t do that, don’t make it technical. It’s not a difficult question.’

‘It most certainly is, running water always influences things,’ England’s mouth twists in a wry hint of a smile, ‘and it’s one thing to pop back to the Tudor times for one of the court parties and quite another to have to spend more than a week there. I do not lament the loss of hose and codpiece.’

‘I do, they made my legs look fabulous.’

England snorted and rolled his eyes, ‘Why am I not surprised.’

‘You’re avoiding the question,’ France twists away from him briefly to feel for the wine bottle they’d been drinking from. It had rolled away slightly, the slight incline of France’s garden causing it to move easily as they shuffled about and he takes a long swing of it before laying it between them, neck resting on England’s stomach. He’s past beyond the point of using glasses now.

‘I’m not avoiding the question, I was trying to-‘

‘No stop, you’re ruining it; I’ll go first,’ after brushing the grass underneath to clear it of stones, France returns to lying on his back, arms behind his head, and ignores England’s tut of annoyance, ‘I think I’d actually want to go back to the days under Rome, just for a visit.’

England sits up on his elbows and takes a sip from the bottle himself, ‘I hadn’t expected that of you.’

‘No?’

‘God no. I would have thought you’d want to go back to one of your King Luis. You know, peak opulence, decadence- all that faff. You still love the fancy balls and the clothes, and the needless tat that came with it,’ England takes another sip of wine and runs his tongue over his teeth, ‘the dances and the jewels, the silly little court rules of behaviour. The gossip.’

France chuckles, ‘you were so funny every time you were dragged along- so out of place! You couldn’t go more than an hour before letting your true colours slip free.’ England was never truly refined for very long, especially when it came to the Versailles’ court standards.

‘Anyone with a lick of sense was immediately out of place,’ England quips drily and lays down again, placing the cork back in the wine as he goes.

It sounds nearly empty- shame. It was a nice year and the last of the bottles that they’d brought out to the garden. Dinner had been a late, informal affair in France’s kitchen- homemade bread and creamy, locally made cheese with chicken. Simple and filling, comfort food for the both of them. The summer heat made them both unwilling for anything too excessive and the entire day had been spent doing lots of nothing much at all; England lounging about in shorts that France refrained from teasing him about lest he stop wearing them.

‘Yes well,’ France lifts his head and clumsily bats him in the stomach with the top of his hand, ‘despite that indeed being extremely enjoyable, I do mean it. My choice of era, I mean.’

England makes a soft noise that gently demands elaboration, a low rumble in the back of his throat but France needs no prompting. He presses a knuckle into the softness of England’s stomach and feels him breathe in deep and slow.

‘I’d love to have nothing to be responsible for again. Everything was done for me, as a colony- the way my cities were built, the improvements made to my industries, the negotiations for trade and commerce, everything. I’d like to revisit being a child, in the closest sense of childhood our kind has,’ France pauses, mulling that over, ‘Imagine that again, being small but without fear of being so. No politics, no money driven economy, no push for growth. We have spent so much of our lives racing to get somewhere, striving to be more that I can hardly remember what it was like to be nothing more than an idea, existing just to speak for the lives that called themselves mine.’

France turns and catches England watching him, eyes searching and heavy, ‘Does that make sense?’ he asks him.

‘No,’ England’s answer is immediate, ‘no, and yes. The desire to be I understand, but I detested that age.’

France smiles at him, understanding masked by the dark. England does not, and never did, like being anything other than in perfect control of himself. Relinquishing that to someone else, even for his own benefit, has never been anything more than a horror.

‘Well,’ France says, ‘that is my choice. I liked being looked after and I have so much to do nowadays that it would be nice to have nothing to do once again. Nothing more than wander about my fields and see my people, or visit a northern barbarian across the sea.’

‘Don’t talk about Scotland that way, you’ll hurt his feelings.’

France laughs and reaches down to find England’s hand, open palmed and curled fingers by his side. He intertwines his own with it and brings them upwards, watching as together they cut across to block the light from his house and silhouette into a tangle of them both.

‘So,’ he says, running a thumb across the skin of England’s knuckle, ‘what era would you choose?’

England sighs, a light thing but France can hear a yearning there, ‘Any of the years I was at sea. The 1500’s when I was first starting out and even up to the 1700’s when things became more regimented- any of them. To be able to just get in a boat and go, no one knowing when I would come back or even where I was going.’

France shudders, the idea of being out in ocean that deep and so alone chilling him. For creatures that revive after death, who can wake again and again and again as long as there is a body to return to, the ocean is a lonely, painful place to die. To sink lifeless into murky depths, only to reawaken there in the dark press of salty sea; most nations avoided it as much as they could, wishing to avoid the long, drawn out death choked by waves and forgotten on the seafloor.

England never had such a healthy fear of the oceans. He went out into thunderous storms and monstrous waves as if enchanted, unable to resist the pull of something untamed. England sailed off as soon as he was able, going out for further and longer than anyone else dared and losing himself in the harsh life of the brine. He was a different creature far out at sea, something so strangely alive and perfectly at home for a man made from the soul of the mountains and land.

‘You always were a strange one for the macabre,’ France drops their hands back down and finds England once more looking at the sky, the reflection of stars glinting in his eyes.

‘The seas never change,’ his voice is quiet and distant, ‘some things do change, of course- the boats we sail on, how we do so. Things shift on the sea, the lands we travel to and from are washed away and changed with time but the sea itself is always the same. I appreciate it for that, it is predictably unpredictable. Constantly refusing the press of mankind by being the one thing we can never truly understand, for all of mankind’s new fancy gadgets.’

England gives a sudden, dry laugh, ‘I used to navigate the world by constellations, now I have to travel just to find some stars. To the highest peaks I have, or deep in my countryside to avoid as much light pollution as I can. But out at sea they are as they have always been, the same things I have watched and tracked for thousands of years. That is when I can just be as I have always been.’

The sky hangs overhead, speckled and bright and now, France notices, startlingly empty, ‘I often forget that they’re there,’ France speaks to the sky, ‘Funny, isn’t it? How something so fundamental can disappear and mankind not even notice. How odd to forget that stars are there, then to not notice they’re gone.’

‘We are cursed or blessed to remember what’s past,’ England offers, ‘which one depends on who we remember for.’

They lay in silence for a moment. France feels the collected years sit with him openly, laying on his chest and heart like tiny weights. The ground pushes against his back, firm and unmoving, and he breathes in deeply, smelling the heat of the summer in the air. He is here. He is now. He is. Still, after all this time. He watches.

To exist is to change, to live is to evolve and move with the flow of time, but France understands the want for something constant in the flood, something that stays recognisable and the same throughout the years. The older he gets, the more he yearns for it keenly.

‘You’ve gone and made things serious,’ he lifts himself back up on an elbow, England looking at him without moving his head, ‘just like you to take a light conversation and ruin it.’

England raises an eyebrow, “Oh the lies you tell yourself; they do amuse me.”

His French is accented with a Norman dialect, a gentle dig and refusal to fully let France have what he wants and France laughs at it, at this one unchanging constant he is stuck with. He leans down to kiss him, hair curling into England’s face and hiding what remains of the night sky.

----

AN: Every time I try writing one of these small drabbles, I start out with a particular idea and tone in mind but gosh darn it they never go where I intend for them to.

Today we have ended up with this, two old men talking themselves in circles in the summer grass.

[yusuke-of-valla]

Two Knights' Tango

Whumptober Day 1 Prompt: "You Have To Let Go"

Summary: Akechi remebers the truth of their current reality.

Word Count: 1303

TW: Cursing, Third Semester Bad End, Akechi being Akechi

AO3

Ren knows that his plans for a peaceful evening with his friends are ruined the second Goro walks in with that smile on his face.

It’s been a while since Goro -- no, Akechi, he is Akechi right now -- has put on that mask. A smile like daggers that doesn’t reach his eyes, his whole body tense with rage at everyone around him. He takes his usual seat at the counter and stares at Ren expectantly.

Ren, uninterested in having this conversation, takes his time making his coffee.

“What do you think?” Ren asks, passing a mug down to Akechi. A floating facsimile of how Morgana used to look smiles up at him, and Akechi makes a face that gives Ren the hilarious mental image of the Detective Prince punching a mug. “Yusuke’s been helping me practice latte art. It’s not as good as his but--”

“What the hell do you think is going on here?” Akechi growls.

“Well it’s Thursday, so we’re chatting before our usual study session with--”

Akechi grabs Ren by the shirt and pulls him close so their faces are inches apart. Despite knowing better, Ren can’t help but hope Akechi will claw his eyes out or something. Really let loose this time.

Instead Akechi lets him go after a second. “Why did you take the deal?” he asks.

Ren locks eyes with him. “Because otherwise you’d die, idiot, and despite what you think I should do, I care about your life.”

“Oh you care,” Akechi spits out. “Of course, that’s why you’ve forced us all to stay in this make believe world you and that damned doctor have cooked up.”

“I mean Maruki does most of the work,” Ren says, “I just play along.”

Akechi slams his fist on the table. “How are you so damn calm about this? Changing people against their will, forcing them to live a life you decided for them? What happened to the righteous leader of the Phantom Thieves?”

“I thought you hated that guy.”

“I will stab you.”

“Couldn’t even if you actually wanted to.”

“Oh yeah? Try me.”

“No,” Ren says, taking a sip out of Akechi’s latte. “You literally can’t. Haven’t you noticed the lack of work, detective?”

“Because Maruki won’t allow it?” Akechi hisses out. “And you’re ok with that?”

Ren shrugs, and Akechi looks legitimately taken about.

“W-what is wrong with you? You don’t even regret it? Sumire is dead because of you. Her heart may be beating but the personality of Sumire, the girl who looked up to you, is gone and replaced with some idealized shadow of a person who never existed. Your friends decided to reject this reality purely because you asked them to, and you just dragged them back-”

“They chose it first,” Ren says with a bitterness he didn’t think he still had. He should probably talk to Maruki about that.

“That’s not what happened and you know it,” Akechi replies. “Maruki never gave anyone a choice. No one except you. ”

“You asked me if I regretted anything?” Ren says. “Of course I do, I regret so many many things. But there’s nothing to be done now.”

“So you’re giving up? You can’t muster the courage to fight Maruki and-”

Ren hates this part.

“Use your fucking brain for once instead of trying to fight all of your problems, Akechi!” Ren snaps. “If this was just Maruki changing the past, this place would be unsustainable. People die, people get hurt, and people hurt each other. Sometimes they hurt each other without malicious intent, which is a bitch because then making everyone happy is impossible and it’s hard to predict when those cases are going to happen. Fixing everything the first time was hard enough, imagine having to do that over and over again with every little issue that could possibly upset someone as time passes.”

Goro’s eyes widen in realization. “So to make sure everything stays perfect Maruki would have to preserve things?””

“Pretty much the only way to do his whole thing without going crazy after the first decade or so.”

Goro takes a breath to steady himself. “And how, exactly, do you know this? Isn’t it just a hypothetical at this poi-”

“How long have you been a third year?”

Akechi opens his mouth to answer automatically, then stops and thinks about it. His hands ball into fists. “How long have we been here? In this reality. How long has this been going on, Ren?” he asks.

Ren shrugs. “Like I told you the last time we had this conversation, I haven’t been inclined to keep track.”

“The last time-- we’ve had this conversation before ?”

“Yep. You don’t exactly take it well, and that pings Maruki and then he, you know” Ren waves his hands in Akechi’s face, “makes you happy.”

Akechi grits his teeth but takes a deep breath. “So how come you remember?”

“Because a long, long time ago I signed a contract that said I’d take full responsibility for my actions,” Ren says, “and I didn’t realize what that really meant. Maruki’s tried to help but I guess there are some things even he can’t do.”

“Then why don’t you try and get back to our own reality?” Akechi asks.

“Because it’s gone. Mementos, it felt huge, but it really only affected Tokyo. I’m sure you’ve figured that out since we’ve only ever heard from targets in the city.”

“Which means Maruki’s reality only affected Tokyo.”

“Finally he puts it together!” Ren applauds.

“Don’t mock me. So while we’ve been here...”

“The rest of the world has moved on. Or destroyed itself. Who really knows. Either way the world we knew is gone,” Ren says, “What if I just condemn everyone to something worse?”

“So you’re just going to hide?”

“I already made a choice to get everyone stuck here. I can’t just change my mind-”

“You already did that when you accepted the deal!”

“And that was a mistake! You want me to just repeat it?” Ren snaps. “God damn it, Akechi. Even if we can break out of here, something that will be much harder than it was back then, who the fuck knows what we’re going back to. Maybe everything’s been destroyed, maybe World War III started. What? You want me to just repeat my mistakes and condemn everyone to something worse?

“It’s not just your choice! Don’t the others deserve a say in which reality they want to live in?”

“They’re fine not knowing. They’re happy either way.” Ren runs a hand through his hair. He’s worked up, again. Why? Why is he always angry when they get to this part? They've had this conversation so many times now -- it never changes -- and it still gets to him. “Just, let go, Goro. Give up on going back. I wish I could.” With that, Ren puts his apron on the counter and heads upstairs, phone out to tell the others to cancel for tonight. “Switch the sign around on your way out.”

~

“So, he’s not going to help us?” Sumire asks when Goro finishes the recording for the others.

Goro shrugs. “He’s given up. Do the rest of you want to continue without your fearless leader?”

An awkward silence settles over the small laundromat that they’d decided to meet in.

Then Haru steps up, eyes burning. “I will reclaim my future,” she says. “Or die trying.”

Slowly but surely, everyone else agrees. Goro doesn’t dare think about the relief that fills his chest at the thought of the others being willing to help him. They’re allies with a united goal, that's all. Besides, he could have done it without them.

A few feet away, hidden in the branches of the tree, a blue butterfly watches. It feels hope for the first time in a long while.

[curious-minx]

Notable 2020 Video Game Soundtracks That Can Be Enjoyed As Standalone Experiences

Video Game Music is gaining recognition, with many soundtracks receiving vinyl pressings, orchestral concert reviews, and an increasing presence on music streaming platforms such as bandcamp and Spotify. We’re also witnessing the uprise of indie video game development teams where games are being made by the sort of passionate type of game designer that takes soundtracks seriously.  Soundtracks by small teams of developers such as Celeste, Undertale, Disco Elysium, Hollow Knight, RuneScape, and Lisa: The Joyful are titles with soundtracks that easily stand up against the likes of bigger budget productions made by reliable sources of video game music like Square-Enix and Nintendo.

2020 is no exception in terms of having one of the biggest budget soundtracks around with Final Fantasy 7 Remake, which builds upon a legacy of industry-standard-creating soundtrack work. Taken as a whole, Final Fantasy 7 Remake’s soundtrack is clocking in at over 8 and half hours of music. The soundtrack has three composers with the Beethoven of video game music, Nobuo Uematsu, most notably coming out of retirement to get the job done.  Here are some other amazing 2020 video game soundtracks more conducive for standalone background listening:

TETRIS EFFECT by HYDELIC 

Genres: EDM, Ambient Pop and straight up Ambient 

Describing this album makes me feel like I’m some sort of burnt out fanciful raver, head permanently lodged in the clouds. The level of giddy technicolor enthusiasm rivals that of Icelandic Sigur Ros frontman Jonsi, but if he wanted to keep his post-rock firmly planted in the outdoor music festival on Mars territory. Despite the album’s notable two hours runtime, each and every song feels like its own uniquely crafted composition, no repetitive motifs or nostalgia-baiting.

There is unfortunately still a Tetris movie in some sort of shaggy state of development in Hollywood right now. The movie is being billed as a dull biopic about the creator of the Tetris game. Whereas listening to Tetris Effect you imagine a Tetris movie directed by someone more fitting like the Wakowskis. Tetris Effect’s opening song “Connected (Yours Forever)” is a bonafide vocal pop song, like a more sugary CVRCHES-style cooing of the lyrics:

“I’m Yours Forever

There is No End in Sights For Us,

Nothing Can Measure the Kind of Strength Inside Our Hearts,

It’s all connected we’re all together in this life, don’t you forget it

We’re all connected in this”

Try your best not to imagine a cast of Hollywood’s most beautiful plucky orphan mutant misfit youths using the power of Tetris to heal a broken and dying planet!

Notable Track: Next Chapter

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HADES by DARREN KORB

Genres: Progressive Metal, Folktronica, Folk Metal, Dimotika, Greek Folk Music

Darren Korb has become one of the most notable video game composers of the past decade. Korb, an integral member of the Supergiant family, continues to outdo himself with each and every soundtrack. Bastion and Transistor originally found Korb creating a niche for himself with downtempo folk-infused electronic soundscapes and even some vocal pop with collaborator Ashley Barrett. Hades is an altogether different beast for Korb, who much like the developers of Hades, have found themselves at the height of their powers.

Korb also contributes vocals on this album, and I can say without hesitation that these are some of the nicest vocals I’ve ever heard from a video game music designer, because video game musicians are bonafide musicians.The album clocks in at two and half hours and separate from its game is still an absolute thrill ride.

Notable Track: In The Blood

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DEFECTIVE HOLIDAY by MECHATOK

��Genres: Ambient Trance, Balearic Beat, Progressive Electronic, Nature Recordings, Spoken Word, New Age

One glance at the album artwork is all it took for me to know that I must listen to this album. Defective Holiday is an indie walking simulator that is explicit about its intentions: a lightly interactive one hour experience. This soundtrack clocks in at only 31 minutes and it is purely the most conventional album in terms of length.

Last week in late November, Mechatok announced a collaboration with one of the leading zoomer Swedish cloud rap mavericks Bladee, the cofounder of the Drain Gang. Last month gives a pretty clear picture of what kind of circles Mechatok is floating in on. Highly online gonzo vaporwave maestro James Ferraro is another apparent influence on this soundtrack, especially regarding the way the sinister mundane dialogue is woven into the soundscape. There’s one particular track on the Defective Holiday OST, “Rescue Shot Buibo”, that is adorned with standard trap-style drum fills that give the album a shot of energy before wandering back off into the haze. This soundtrack and video game is all about the pure vibe and aesthetic nature that are currently trending in these extremely stressful times.  In a time where all of our holidays were defective from the very start, I think the casual walking simulator will remain a genre high in demand. I have a feeling we’re going to hear a lot more from this empathetic young German.

Notable Track: Valley

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Last of Us II by Gustavo Santaolalla, Mac Quayle (and Ashley Johnson)

Genres: Ambient, Cinematic Classical, Dark Ambient, Spanish Folk Music 

L

The Last Of Us is a horror game where the music itself is arguably playing a critical character role, which can only be expected billing two titans of audio visual soundtracks. Of course Academy Award winner Santaolalla knows his way around a soundtrack. Wielding a resume of astonishing versatility in various TV and film projects, he might have found his higher calling in not only video games but in the horror music canon. Last of Us is an extremely emotional series, and with the wrong soundtrack, the experience could become insufferably bleak. The occasional  splashes of color and light are what make this soundtrack so unsettling and eerie. Not since Silent Hill 2’s Akira Yamaoka has there been such an effective standalone horror video game soundtrack experience. No wonder Gustavo Santaolalla is one of the only video game composers integral enough to the game to warrant a cameo banjo-playing character model based off of him.

As if having one major composer from prestigious TV and movies wasn’t enough, Mac Quayle, composer of the whole Mr. Robot series, contrasts against Santaolalla’s acoustic contributions. The soundtrack itself is sequenced in a way that switches between the two composers. “The Cycle of Violence” composed by Quayle, a track that more than lives up to its name, is immediately followed by Santaolalla’s somber “Reclaimed Memories.” This dance between violence and heart is what the Last of Us excels at as a franchise, and that is why this soundtrack is an effective stand-alone experience.

The only disappointing part of the soundtrack is that Ashley Johnson, voice actor of Ellie’ three songs, is not included in the game’s official tracklist. Ellie’s “Take On Me” a-ha and “Future Days” Pearl Jam covers have made a little history by being the most powerful songs sung by a video game character. When Ellie sings and plays on her guitar they aren’t some little Easter egg idling moments to provide levity for this heavy revenge horror story. These songs are used to make some of the strongest character development choices made by a video game character seen in recent years. Ellie is joining a small club of singing video game characters alongside Parapa the Rapper and  maybe the cast of obscure Atlus title Rhapsody: Musical Adventure.

Notable Track: Unbroken

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Persona 5 Royal Straight Flush Edition by Shoji Meguro 

Genre: Acid Jazz, Alternative Rock, Alternative Metal, Lounge, Jazz-Funk 

This is one of those soundtracks that, much like Nobuo Uematsu’s work in Final Fantasy, is really the heart and soul of the entire Persona franchise (and his work in the adjacent Shin Megami Tensei universe is equally as noteworthy). Persona 5 Royal finds Meguro making his most complete, funky, and otherworldly opus that sounds like no one else in the biz.

You will find many people online scouring message boards, subreddits, bandcamp features, and Yahoo Answers looking for more music like Persona 5. Outside of Metal Gear Solid: Snake Eater, how many other games are packed to the brim with truly foxy songs!? Persona 5 could not predict how badly the title “Throw Away Your Mask” would age, despite the game being more than ahead of its time with the majority of NPCs wearing PPE. Be a good Joker, put on your mask and keep chasing Meguro’s acid jazz-infused dragon through many more semesters to come.

Notable Track: I Imagine

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Streets of Rage 4 by Olivier Deriviere & Various

Genres: Electro House, Nu Jazz, Synth Funk, Acid House 

Composer Olivier Deriviere is a living definition of a video game soundtrack journeyman. He has a career stretching back to the early 2000s working on notable big budget titles like the divisive 2008 Atari fifth Alone in the Dark installment and Remember Me, an unsung buried gem from the PS3/360 era Capcom title. Remember Me is where Deriviere’s electronic leanings started becoming especially prominent in his sound. On the Streets of Rage 4 soundtrack Deriviere has completely come into his own element, developing a whole new sense of campy playfulness.

Electronic French House music can be a divisive genre. For every Daft Punk commercial success there is a band that ruffles feathers like Justice. I sense a strong presence of late departed French House titan Philippe Zdar of Cassius as well. If you’d played this soundtrack for me out of context, I would have guessed an obscure voguing tape from the 80s or a really talented mysterious DJ set. Instead, this is a sequel to a classic beat em up franchise that left a portion of players disappointed by the game’s four hour playtime. The soundtrack is over an hour and fifty minutes long of high octane House music bliss. Much like the Tetris Effect soundtrack, it is truly impressive how much depth these tracks have when they could have easily been nostalgic recycled beats. Sometimes a game’s soundtrack can offer more post game enjoyment than an actual game.

Notable Track: Chill Or Don’t

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Hylics 2 by Chuck Salamone & Mason Lindroth 

Genres: Experimental Rock, Neo-Psychedelia, Hypagogic Pop, Stoner Rock, Jazz-Rock

A soundtrack that comes closest to capturing the experience of hearing the Earthbound or Katamari Damacy soundtracks for the first time. The Hylic indie RPG series is a wonderful and strange beast that is ready to frolic and show its playful side. Hylics is a part of a recent uprising of indie games being developed on the RPG Maker software. 2020 year has left us all with variations of the same stressed out adjectives: Weird. Messed Up. Surreal.

Why not listen to an album from a game that is the perfect embodiment of that surreal mantra? Step away from your computer, draw a bath, and put this album on. Thank me later!

Notable  track: Xeno Arcadia

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Ultrakill: Infinite Hyperdeath (Act I Soundtrack) by Heaven Pierce Her aka game developer Arsi “Hakita” Patala 

Genres: Drum and Bass, Industrial Metal, Ambient, Progressive Metal, Acidcore 

Nothing says “modern indie game development” more than a game built completely from the ground up by one person. Ultrakill’s developer “Hakita” is one of those kindly folkloric DIY figures that make video games such an extensive art form. The game is a painstaking gloriously bloody ode to Dooms of yesteryear but with plenty of its own fine tuned style. The perfect soundtrack for when you’re painting your personal Hell a darker shade of gore, but also would really like to kick your ass into shape if you need an adrenaline boost to your Quarantine blues.

Notable Track: Panic Betrayer 

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Risk of Rain 2 by Chris Christodoulou

Genres: Progressive Rock, Space Rock, Space Ambient,  Post-Rock

Something about the country of Greece brings the best kind of futurism out of the country’s composers. Christodoulou’s Risk of Rain 2 soundtrack is no Bladerunner knock off. This soundtrack for the colorful sci-fi indie rougelike is punchier and less nocturnal than your typical synth-heavy sci-fi soundtrack. Risk of Rain is one of the more successful Kickstarter series around and has the best quality an indie game can have: it feels like a labor of love on all fronts. There’s no reason a rougelike like Rain of Ruin or Hades needs a soundtrack this good, but Christodoulou casts a spell with his electronic-driven prog rock that makes you want to keep respawning. A huge missed opportunity if Christodoulou does not get to soundtrack an earnest sci-fi action-adventure for even big screens. Oh! This soundtrack also features some spoken word segments from Werner Herzog; what more do you need to know?

Notable Track: The Rain Formerly Known As Purple

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Warhammer 40,000: Mechanicus by Guillaume David

A big debut project from an up-and-coming composer Guillaume David. Prior to the making of this soundtrack, David was a video game voice actor who worked on a Resident Evil Devil May Cry crossover voicing the character of “Hunk.” Warhammer 40K might become a franchise that more people will care about solely based on the quality of this installment’s soundtrack. When you see the title Warhammer 40,000, what sort of sounds come to mind? If you guessed “Neo gothic cyber Gregorian chants that seamlessly melds the ancient and futuristic”, you would be correct. A turn-based action game could possibly fall into dull territory, but with a visual identity as strong as Warhammer 40K  melded with a suitable musical atmosphere, the action and world becomes irresistible. This soundtrack is a brisk 56 minutes and the other soundtrack on this list with a more conventional runtime. Not a second is wasted on this dynamic and fantastical soundtrack. Prior to hearing this soundtrack I had no intention of ever looking into playing a game based off of something as convoluted as Warhammer 40K, but now I very much want to know what these robot priests are about. That’s the magic of a quality soundtrack.

Notable track: Millenial Rage

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Honorable Mentions:

Happy Listening! 

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: the pilgrim soul in you (1/1) | Lucien x Vassa

Summary: A missing-moments Vassien fic covering ACOWAR, ACOFAS, and ACOSF, in which, after a while, Lucien and Vassa fall in love.

A/N: I teased this for a while, and it's finally here. Additional notes and tag list at the end. I hope you enjoy 🧡

Who then devised the torment? Love. Love is the unfamiliar Name Behind the hands that wove The intolerable shirt of flame Which human power cannot remove. We only live, only suspire Consumed by either fire or fire.

-- T.S. Eliot, Little Gidding

The best story: that Lucien first sees Vassa at the lake, swooping over the water. That he’s entranced by her at this first glance, dazzled by the bird of fire, that he can sense the woman within nearly bursting to get free. Even in the form she was cursed with, Lucien might say, something about Vassa beckoned him from the first glance.

But Vassa would never let Lucien tell this story, because it is untrue. They first meet as the evening darkens, when Lucien has found the fire made by the Prince of Merchants. Before he spots the father of the Archeron sisters, he sees the strands of Vassa’s hair glowing red and golden in the firelight, generously curled and falling to the middle of her back. Then there’s the blue of her eyes, as bright and dangerous as the center of a flame. Her golden-brown skin, a shade or two darker than his own, luminous in the combined light of the fire and the stars, so that he can’t help but imagine how it would feel under his fingers.

His breath catches in his throat at what wells up in him, a feeling that is bright and dangerous.

Of course, she spots him seconds later, and then there’s a dagger at his neck, and Lucien is mercifully distracted. Vassa might be a young queen, but she’s clearly had experience with would-be assassins.

“I was sent by friends at the Night Court to try and break your enchantment,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm, but not so calm that she’s suspicious.

“I didn’t need faeries to set me free.” Her voice is lower than he’d expect, a rich alto, the words lilting with a musical accent. She does not growl the words, only tucks his hair behind his ears with her free hand, revealing the delicate arches, a gesture that lays him bare. But he does not think about his vulnerability. To do so would only increase the possibility of pain. Instead, he thinks that he’s surprised to feel callouses on her fingertips, decides to ask what would roughen a queen’s fingers at the nearest opportunity. Even then, he’s planning for a long string of moments with Vassa. “You aren’t the only beings who care about the saving of this world.”

At this point, Gabriel Archeron steps into the circle of light, and the resemblance to Feyre and Elain and Nesta is strong enough that Lucien blurts out their names, claiming he has news, and eventually the knife is removed from his neck.

Lucien makes himself a mix of charming and sorrowful as he tells the Prince of Merchants all that has happened to his daughters, trying to find a sufficient level of honesty that will not provoke unpleasant revelations later, while still convincing them to let him travel in their group. When he has finished and Gabriel has blinked away tears, which Lucien pretends not to see, he turns to Vassa.

“I was sent to make an entreaty to you,” he says. “My land will soon be at war, and the situation is grave. Hybern has been massing its armies for decades, and their spells are as formidable as the magic that binds this world together.”

“If your faerie armies can hardly withstand this onslaught,” she asks, in that thrilling tone that seems to emerge from deeper within her body than ordinary speech, the perfect ideal of a queen’s voice, “why do you expect that my human armies should go willingly to their own slaughter?”

“In my country, the High Lords and generals do not lead from the back of their armies. They fight on the front lines.”

“They have their own power to shield them.”

“Your armies would not battle on the front lines, majesty.”

She smirks at him, her teeth little moons in the firelight. “You sound quite naive when you speak on the workings of battle, emissary. You’re lucky that I have already promised my armies to your friends’ father. We ride to meet them at the coast.”

Lucien shoots a glare at Gabriel, who is smiling at the glow of the dimming fire.

“Queen Vassa flies by day, of course,” he says, the dry humor in his voice so perfectly balanced with graciousness that Lucien understands the reasons for his reputation. “Her wings are swift.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Lucien sees Vassa’s shoulders stiffen ever so slightly. Surely as a queen she is used to adulation.

“Perhaps you’d prefer to keep the enchantment?” Lucien asks the queen, as he turns back to the fire, trying to rile her a little further. Let her know what sort of journey this will be.

The change in Vassa, though, is apparent even to his half-gaze. The sudden tension in her muscles, a readiness that isn’t training but sheer terror. Her golden-brown face, a shade or two darker than his own, goes pale.

“You said your people could free me,” she says, and though she tries to make her voice commanding, Lucien has politicked in every court in Prythian and cannot miss the terror laced into every word.

Against all his better instincts, he tells her: “We’ll free you.”

She turns his head so he can’t see it, but still Lucien can vividly imagine her smile, brilliant and sparkling in the night.

&

&

&

At first, Vassa thinks she will hate Lucien, the way he smirks and teases and generally makes it clear to everyone that he’s full of the arrogance of the High Fae. Then she realizes that, as much as she hates to admit it, Lucien is the most intelligent creature she’s ever met. His mind simply spins faster than any of her court advisors. He sees a thousand possible futures so clearly that her astrologers, famed on the continent for the accuracy of their predictions, would gnash their teeth in jealousy at his seeming clairvoyance.

It’s when Vassa begins considering his gaze with respect instead of annoyance that she knows her feelings have well and truly changed. Because Lucien’s gaze is unnerving in its omniscience: his russet eye sees everything visible, and his gold eye seems to pierce into an unseen world.

Sometimes, in the little sleep she snatches every night, Vassa dreams that Lucien Vanserra, emissary of the High Fae, can see straight into her heart. And though she begins these dreams afraid of what he’ll see, her weakness and fear and failure, at some point his lips quirk into the smallest smile, and Vassa wakes up feeling rested for the first time in months.

By day, it’s all Vassa can do to force the firebird to follow Lucien and Gabriel on the journey toward the coast and her army. The firebird’s mind is so different from her own, easily distracted and unable to parse experience into human comprehension. But the firebird’s eyes turn the world into a jewel box, and the firebird spends too much time staring at the glint of Lucien’s hair in the sunlight, sparkling every shade of red and orange and gold.

In the evenings, by the fire, Lucien’s gaze is not so piercing as it is in her dreams, and though she can admit to his masculine beauty, to her human eyes it is not as overwhelming as what the firebird sees by day.

By the fire, he makes sarcastic remarks that punctuate Gabriel’s stories, insisting that his daughter Feyre is even more brave and kind and stupid than her father lets on, that Nesta is a holy terror. Lucien does not say anything when Gabriel mentions the other daughter, Elain, only clutches his cup or fork a little tighter, makes his breathing too steady.

At a thousand endless state dinners, Vassa has learned to observe the tells of royals and ambassadors. She’s barely had a chance to use this skill outside of card games with her ladies-in-waiting, but now she’s sure that Lucien has met and desired this Elain.

It’s better this way, she tells herself. They are wartime allies. He will likely end up married to Elain Archeron and Vassa will get her curse broken by someone among the High Fae and she’ll reclaim Scythia and her rightful throne. Eventually, she’ll find a politically advantageous consort. Perhaps, once her rule is secure, she will take a lover.

Still, as they draw near to the coast, she finds herself laughing at Lucien’s remarks. He ducks his head towards her in little asides, explaining Prythian politics or making jokes so dry that her laughter nearly startles her. She realizes that, as much as she will always love Gabriel Archeron for finding her, for leading her away from Koschei, her eyes will always go first to Lucien.

Vassa tries not to think about what it means. A young queen cannot afford an ill-considered love affair. Still, when Lucien’s eyes, russet and gold, land on hers, she cannot force herself to look away.

&

&

&

For their first three days at sea, Lucien worries that Vassa will fall into the ocean when she transforms from firebird to woman. The minute the sun begins to kiss the horizon, he watches her flame-bright wings and braces himself to winnow if she cannot position herself safely over the boat.

Always, Vassa manages to land safely on the deck, and Lucien swallows his anxiety. In spite of all his good intentions, the fact that she’s surrounded by the Scythian generals who adore her, Lucien can’t help seeking her gaze, can’t help scanning the length of her body for any hint of harm. All he finds is Koschei’s curse wrapped tight around her, and then Vassa’s sapphire gaze on him, the flash of her bright smile.

He thinks of Elain and he does not think of Elain. Elain, the mate who does not want him.

One day soon, before they’re reunited, Lucien will have to tell Gabriel that his middle daughter is mated to the male he’s crossed the continent with. But instead he listens to the stories the Prince of Merchants weaves about his adventures, basks in the glow of his regard. Gabriel Archeron was born when Lucien was already centuries old and tired of this world, and still Lucien catches himself basking in his fatherly countenance.

He thinks, maybe even a miserable life with Elain would be better if he had such a father-in-law.

Then Vassa catches his eye, ducks her chin to whisper that Gabriel is certainly exaggerating, she’s been to the town he speaks of and the river is not nearly as terrifying as he’s making it out to be. In fact, she says, her voice low and lilting in his ear, she and her ladies-in-waiting crossed it with skirts in hand. Then, her whisper going so soft it’s barely audible, she makes a vulgar speculation about Gabriel’s virility, the kind of phrase that would make her generals shout with laughter.

Lucien can almost feel her full, soft lips against his ear, so that he has to force himself to let out a quiet laugh. The skin of his body feels too tight. His blood thrums inside him. Somehow he makes himself turn back to the meal, laugh again when she repeats her aside to Gabriel, now at full volume, her speculation now even more elaborate and ribald. As Lucien predicted, the generals roar their approval at their queen, and Gabriel flashes her an approving smile.

For just a second, Lucien finds himself wishing that Vassa had told him a different story, which would belong only two of the two of them, not a mere rehearsal of what she’d say to everyone dining with them. He pushes the thought away quickly, focuses on the plate in front of him, lifting the spoon to his lips.

Later, when Gabriel and the generals have retreated to their rooms, Lucien finds Vassa on deck, her head thrown back as she stares at the stars.

He should go to his room, cramped and dank as it is, but instead he stays watching Vassa. Despite the dark, he can see her bright eyes considering each constellation. He can hear the beat of her heart, louder than the waves.

He considers approaching her, asking her what she sees in the stars, if it’s beauty or some vision of the future that draws her. But Lucien is a mated male now, and although he’s sure the conversation would be innocent, increasingly, closer proximity to Vassa feels like a betrayal.

Finally, he forces himself to turn away, to walk to his room and bolt the door.

Elain could take a hundred years to want him. It doesn’t mean he can be in bed with another female (another woman) for that century of purgatory.

Still, maybe it’s the distance from Elain, maybe the sea itself has bewitched him, but even as he falls into sleep, he can’t stop seeing Vassa, luminous and sarcastic and brilliant, behind his eyelids. Imagining how she might feel if she were tangled up in this narrow bed with him.

&

&

&

They arrive in Prythian just in time, Vassa realizes later, once the sun has dipped below the horizon and she’s human again. She can only vaguely recall the sound of screaming, the iron scent of blood, the feeling of flesh under her talons. She had not known the firebird could attack.

Gabriel died at the hands of the King of Hybern, her generals tell her, and though she still walks through the ranks of her soldiers as she’d planned, she hardly registers the faces of the men and women who have guarded this world. She does not remember what she says to the wounded or to those who came out unscatched.

Afterwards, her hands are covered in blood.

She finds herself walking in the forest, not caring if she could be attacked. Surely any monsters have enough sense to fear the magic she witnessed on the battlefield.

Still, she startles when she hears the footsteps behind her. She whips around and there is Lucien, scratched but whole, golden even in the night, no matter the dark leather armor that covers his body like scales.

“You’re all right,” Lucien says, the relief in his voice so deep it’s practically a sob.

Vassa forgets all her reasons for keeping her distance as she launches herself into his arms, presses herself so tight against him that she can smell his citrus and sandalwood scent, hear the beating of his heart. So that the armor he wears digs into her cheek, her ear.

“There’s blood on your hands,” he says, reaching for her fingers, running his thumb over each digit. She tries not to shiver at the contact.

“I needed to visit the wounded. It’s a custom among Scythian queens, to thank their warriors personally. To grieve with them. But I have no idea what I told them. My people have not been at war since well before my reign.” Still, she was trained for this moment. She should have known.

He releases her fingers, his hands working up her arms, until he’s pulling her against him, his cheek resting on her head, the place where her crown belongs.

“No wonder your people love you,” he says.

A dozen sarcastic comments rise in her mind, but they are all wrong for this moment, when all she wants is to stay this close to him, held so tight that death and despair cannot come between them.

Eventually he says, “Your people will think that you were kidnapped by faeries.”

“If only they knew,” she tells him. “Do you think that I could speak with Feyre Cursebreaker tonight?”

Instantly he looks guarded, and then she remembers Elain, the faerie female who Lucien loves. She pulls herself away from him, just enough that she could step away if anybody found them in the woods.

“I think Feyre has been asleep for hours. Nobody is awake but the wounded and the healers and the guards.”

“Which one are you, then?”

“I could ask you the same question,” he says, and when he smirks at her, that flash of the teeth that mark him as High Fae, a thrill runs through her entire body.

Elain, she thinks, then says primly, “It is a queen’s prerogative to be wherever she likes, is it not?”

“There have been no queens in Prythian for thousands of years.” His hands are still on her back. His fingers are tangled in her hair, and if he wanted, Lucien could tug it, angle her mouth so as to be easily kissed. Instead he looks at her as if it’s the last time he’ll ever see her face. Maybe it is.

“You are quite a new thing, Vassa,” he says, after a moment or an eternity. She’s not sure.

It would be so easy to kiss him, she thinks, and Lucien is clearly honorable, more than even he realizes. He would never harm her, never leave her to be ashamed. If he accepted her kiss, surely something wonderful would begin between them.

But then she thinks of Gabriel Archeron, his warm gaze like a benediction on her, the kindness and bravery he showed when he rescued her from Koschei. The way he spoke of his daughter, Elain, the love that filled his voice when he spoke of her, the daughter he would never see again.

She finds that although it is easy to imagine kissing Lucien, his lips on hers, the opening of their mouths and her fingers searching for a gap in his armor, she cannot ask her body to make any of the required motions. Once, not so very long ago, she was well-schooled in honor.

“We should go back to camp. I’m tired.” It is the first lie that Vassa has ever told to Lucien. It will not be the last.

&

&

&

At political functions, much is made of conversations, tone and gesture. Even a too-long look can be made fodder for months of court gossip.

Even knowing this, even knowing he needs to make inroads with Tamlin, that at minimum all his emissary posts require him to converse with the members of the assembled courts, knowing the Night Court watches him, wondering when he will finally try and speak with Elain, Lucien cannot stop looking at Vassa.

Someone has provided her with a dress of sapphire silk and a diadem of gold and sapphire, has brushed her hair until it is practically a living flame falling riotous down her back. He has never seen anyone more radiant. No matter the ruined estate, the tense conversations, even if the whole world goes to hell in this meeting, it will have been worth it to see Vassa every inch a queen in this moment.

When he spots her talking with Jurian, Lucien can hardly contain his fury. He does not trust the man, no matter that he saved Feyre. Sometimes he barely trusts Feyre.

And when Jurian bends to press a kiss to the back of Vassa’s hand, Lucien has to acknowledge the feeling that’s hot inside him: jealousy.

It’s wrong, he knows, when his whole body shouts whenever Elain is near, his heart practically thumping out her name. Far from her, he was able to forget the effects of the mating bond, only the coldness inside him whenever she would not meet his eye.

Still, no matter how close Elain lets him get, he has never felt himself alight the way he did last night, when Vassa stood in his arms and let him pull her close. He has never scanned the horizon with worry that she will fall into the sea, never laughed at a single thing she’s said.

So although Lucien forces himself to let the conversation between Vassa and Jurian play out, tells himself over and over he might be good for her as if repetition will make him believe the sentiment, the moment Jurian steps away, Lucien strides directly to her side.

“I spoke with Feyre,” Vassa says, by way of hello. “She does not know how to break my curse.”

“Feyre has barely learned her powers.”

“Oh? Are you saying you can do better, One True Faerie?” She swats at him, fingers barely grazing his jacket. Still, he warms at the contact.

Smiling in spite of himself, he taps his temple, indicating his golden eye, the scars surrounding it. “I’ve been told I can see what others can’t, Your Majesty.”

“Don’t tell me that line has worked on a single woman.”

“Lucky for me that the females of my species are much more credulous than human queens.” He allows himself to bask in Vassa’s laughter, too loud to be dignified. “But now that we are in Prythian, there are others with the necessary skills. There are whole libraries that might be of assistance.”

He thinks, but does not speak of Helion as he summons his powers and takes another look at the curse, which is fashioned like a harness on her shoulders, crossing her clavicle and looping around her shoulderblades, Vassa’s heart surrounded by the trip of Koschei’s magic. The magical signature is foreign to him, a long and complicated sentence in a language not spoken in a thousand lifetimes.

“Jurian said there was a place for me in the human realms, if I wanted to take it,” she is saying, snapping him back to the present, the physics of the known world. “Do you think those faerie experts will remember me across the wall?”

“There is no wall anymore,” he says, rewards her with a low laugh when she rolls her eyes at him.

“You’re full of fairytales today, but I suppose that’s appropriate,” she shoots back.

“They won’t forget about you because I will constantly be reminding them that the human queen who saved their sorry selves is still bound by an enchantment.”

“For a moment I forgot how self-important you were.” In spite of her words, Vassa’s smile is sweet and hopeful, the kind of expression only humans wear. In all his long and miserable life, Lucien has never seen such a lovely smile. He hates himself for thinking it but cannot bring himself to turn away from her the way he should.

“There’s more I can do,” he says, breathing deep, letting the imminent mistake wash over him, like dangling his foot off a cliff. “I could stay with you and Jurian, if you wanted. If I wouldn’t be interrupting the two of you.”

She reaches for his hand and squeezes it, a squeal muffled between bitten lips.

“Jurian is a terrific ass and you’ll have to keep me from slicing him to ribbons.”

He’s so dazzled by the feeling of her fingers on his that he doesn’t even bother to look and see if anyone’s watching. For the first time he can remember, every thought leaves his mind.

&

&

&

Jurian would be the perfect man to marry, Vassa realizes within the first three days of their living together. An ancient warrior would not be a strange consort to a firebird queen. True, their arguments shake the walls, and his ideas are old-fashioned to an idiotic extent, and of course there’s the fact that Vassa cannot imagine herself ever falling in love with him. Still, he would be the right choice.

Far better, to be certain, than Greyson, Lord Nolan’s son, who at Vassa’s arrival is paraded with the pomp that would befit a king, not a minor aristocrat. She can tell that there was a sweetness to him once, but that it’s curdled, and what’s left to the boy seems now beneath her regard. She does not know how Elain Archeron once loved him. This fact alone makes her think less of the girl.

Then again, Vassa knows that she is inclined to judge Elain more harshly than she deserves. She tells herself that this is because of the dejected expression on Lucien’s face when he first returned from Velaris after the war, the way he goes quiet when she’s mentioned.

But in her secret heart, when she’s the only one awake in the Nolan manor, Vassa can admit that she’s jealous of Elain Archeron. She hates this emotion. It is not fair, it is not honorable, and yet Vassa feels jealousy wrapping its tendrils around her.

So when Lucien appears in the manor in between visits to the courts of Prythian, she is cordial. She is friendly. Sometimes she even allows her smile to break free, but only if he is telling her about progress towards the breaking of her curse. Only if the implication is that she could be free, and therefore far away from him.

More and more when she’s around him, Vassa feels as if her human self has merged with the firebird: unable to speak freely, bound by invisible chains.

If her arguments with Jurian grow a bit sharper and she smiles more wickedly when she bests him, well, between the curse that makes her a firebird and the heart that longs so furiously for what it cannot have, she cannot possibly be expected to have perfect forbearance.

&

&

&

Finally, there is an evening where Jurian goes to bed early and it’s only Lucien and Vassa in Nolan’s shockingly ample library, the last of the wine between them. Vassa’s cheeks are flushed from another argument with Jurian. Lucien had tried to read through it, but the history he’d selected was inaccurate and every time he looked up, Vassa and Jurian seemed to be grinning in spite of the heat and clamor of their words. They argue like lovers now, he kept thinking, the words spinning before him, turning nonsensical.

“Do you still think that Jurian is a terrific ass?” he asks, before he can stop himself, the wine stretching his words into a drawl. As if the question is unimportant. As if it is not dangerous.

“He’s exactly the kind of man my advisors would tell me to marry. Even my mother would have approved.” Her fingers, on the glass, have gone yellow-white from the strength of her grip. He cannot tell what she’s nervous about.

“I suppose he is miraculous, in his own way. As long as you enjoy going to battle every night.” A hint of the old smirk. Maybe it will unsettle her into revealing the truth.

For a few seconds, the room is still, so quiet he can hear the quickening thump of Vassa’s heartbeat. Weeks or months ago, maybe, Lucien would have been smug over his ability to rile her. Now he only waits to see what she will say.

“At least he’s not in love with someone else.” Vassa does not look at him, and for the first time since he’s known her, her blue eyes do not sparkle.

“I’m not--that is--” Already he has revealed too much. He can feel the heat of her gaze on him and now it’s he who cannot meet her eyes.

“I know about Elain. And I cannot...her father rescued me from Koschei. I will not dishonor his memory by stealing you away from her. No matter what I want.”

He thinks about saying, you have a high opinion of yourself, Queen of Scythia, the kind of thing he’d usually say to her, which would rob the moment of its tension, send them off to their separate beds. Likely, the usual jibe would set everything right. But Lucien has tried to play the dutiful suitor to his mate, has found her thoughtful gifts and has waited until her (their) heart warms, and still she cannot wait until he leaves her behind. Still his thoughts stray to Vassa. And the very thought of her with Jurian is worse than the guilt of leaving his mate for another. Let Elain take a thousand years to come around to the idea of him, let her break the mating bond itself, Lucien thinks, gulping down the last of his wine. She is not the problem. Probably she never was.

“I’m not in love with her,” he says, finally, the words like tumbling off a cliff. “She’s my mate. Chosen for me by the Cauldron. And if I could choose, Queen of Scythia, believe me that I would choose a woman who can win any argument, whose beauty is only eclipsed by her fierce intelligence, and who still has not told me how her hands, the hands of a queen, came to be so calloused.”

“In Scythia, women can be warriors. I’ve trained with a sword since I was seven.” The words are hardly a breath.

He rises from his chair. The book falls from his lap, lands on the carpet with a muffled thump, but he does not turn. He only looks at Vassa’s eyes, the blue deep and sparkling as the middle of the ocean, lit by the noonday sun. Vast and lovely and alive.

He waits for her to look away, but instead she stands up so that she’s right in front of him, the silk of her dress sighing against the toes of hits boots. He always forgets, until they stand close, that she’s nearly as tall as he is. How hard it has been to keep from kissing her, when her lips, the color of ripe berries, have been right in front of him for all these months.

Now, finally, his mouth is on hers, hot and sweet, her lips opening to his tongue, a groan escaping him because Vassa, lithe and lovely, is in his arms, so quick and urgent that he can’t remember whether he reached for her or if she embraced him first. Her calloused fingertips are on his wrists, his neck, working the buttons of his jacket until it falls to the ground.

“I do not want to ruin you,” he says, too far gone with need to blunt the words, trying not to think about the way his cock strains at the seams of his pants. Only the woman in his arms, flushed and disheveled and smiling as she rolls her eyes at him.

“I am the Queen of Scythia by birth and by my own desire. I cannot be ruined by anyone.”

He wants to believe her, and so he kisses her, stops only long enough to undo each button that fastens her gown, take a long look at her lean body, her small breasts that fit so perfectly in his palm, her muscles visible with each movement. Her golden brown skin is scattered with freckles, and he presses a kiss to each one until she tugs at his hair, hissing her frustration.

Between her legs, she’s molten velvet. He strokes her until her little sighs become moans, until her fingers scrabble to reach him, pull him even closer.

“Get inside me, Vanserra.” He nearly laughs at her approximation of a fierce growl, unraveled by the keening sound of desire, a mirror of his own. Still he holds himself apart from her, quirks a brow.

“Need I remind you how bastards are made, Your Majesty?”

“I’ve heard the tales about your contraceptive potions. If you want me tonight, stop stalling.” She crosses her arms over her breasts, and Lucien dearly wants to kiss the smug look off her face.

“I’m glad you’ve been studying our customs,” he says instead, pulling her down to the thick rug that covers the library floor.

At first, he tries to be gentle, but she pulls him closer, her eyes set on his, so that when he enters her with that first desperate stroke, he can see the moment of pain. He cups his hand around her chin, kisses her as he moves in and out, until she begins to pant against his mouth, saying please and yes until she goes stiff and ecstatic, and he follows her, need giving way to a roaring pleasure.

Later, she’s curled up next to him, weaving braids into his hair, and she says, “I know this is only for a little while.”

Before she can continue, Lucien scoops her up so that her body covers his, until he can’t see anything but Vassa’s face, the pensive look she can nearly hide behind her drooping eyelids, a languid smile.

“This is for as long as you’ll have me,” he says, pressing a kiss to her lips. “You are the one I choose, Vassa.”

They do not sleep for a moment of the night, and when she goes to meet the dawn, to become the firebird, Lucien holds tight to her hand.

&

&

&

In her dream, Vassa has fallen into the ocean and she cannot breathe. She tries to inhale the ocean water, she’s become that desperate, but her throat is closed, as if her drowning body has been filled with stones.

When she opens her eyes, the ocean is gone but she cannot breathe, and Lucien works frantically over her body, his eyes moving in every direction, his fingers moving through the air as if guiding a miniscule orchestra.

There’s a burning, raging and deep, where Koschei’s spell binds her. She feels the burning in her blood, as if the nature of her curse has changed and now she will remain a human queen, with the firebird doing battle inside her.

And the world is full of air she cannot breathe.

She thinks, looking up at Lucien, his face now revealing a bit more terror but his hands as sure as ever, that this was always going to be the way that she died: curled up in her bed, looking up at Lucien. Only, she’d always thought that she would be old and wheezing, perhaps a little bored of even their great love, ready for a new adventure.

Now all she can think is that she should have kissed him the first day they met. That she’ll die so far away from Scythia. That she’d never thought her lungs, deprived of air, could burn quite like this, as if she’d inhaled fire instead of air.

She reaches for Lucien just as whatever binds her falls away, and despite the relief that overwhelms her, the air that floods her, Vassa realizes with horror that it was her own hair that coiled around her neck, long and thick enough to form a rope.

“It took so long to find the right unbinding spell,” Lucien says, holding her hand tight in his own. His voice is small, the voice of a lost child. “I thought--”

“I need you to cut my hair short,” Vassa says, her voice rough. Each word burns her throat. “Or Koschei will kill me with it eventually.”

There are others who want to kill her, of course. There are always rivals and assassins and foreign rulers who worry that she will conquer the world with her will alone. But no one other than Koschei could activate the curse, could transform her blood into fire. The rope of hair was only the visible manifestation of his powers.

“I know the unbinding spell now.” He dips to kiss her cheek, her temple, and she’s grateful he knows that he cannot kiss her mouth, rest his body on hers, nothing that impedes her breathing. “I can keep you safe.”

“One day you will have court business that keeps you away overnight.”

“And what if Koschei uses a blanket?” His voice is rough over the question and she realizes that he’s imagining the scene.

“If you’re away, I will sleep on an empty bed and Jurian will watch over me all night long. Now go fetch your sword,” she says, trying to make her voice sound imperious, to make him sarcastic and smirking again, her own Lucien.

One flash and the mass of her hair falls to the floor. What remains hovers an inch over her shoulders, revealing her freckled clavicles, the half-wings of her shoulderblades.

“You are lovely,” Lucien says, laying the sword on the ground.

Normally she would take advantage of his position, guide his mouth to all the places that make her go wordless, but now she only catches his gaze, lets him see the fear on her face. It’s one of the expressions she never lets anybody see.

“This curse will kill me soon,” she tells him.

“I will go to every court in Prythian until we figure out how to unbind you from the death-lord. I swear it to you.”

“Every court in Prythian has forgotten me. And why should they remember? In their eyes, my life will go past in a blink.”

“I will never let them forget you,” he says, smoothing her newly shorn hair away from her face, pulling her close beside him, so that she can hear each breath and thump of his heart. “I will make sure that you are free.”

She does not tell him that it’s no longer freedom she craves, exactly. That she wants to be bound to him the way she is bound to her country, to her people, tied by blood and right and strength of will.

Instead she presses her mouth to his and allows herself to forget, just for a second, how to breathe.

&

&

&

Because humans do not celebrate the old Fae holidays, Vassa did not mind his spending the Solstice at the Night Court, but in spite of this, Lucien spent each minute calculating the earliest moment he could return to her.

She’s still awake, curled up on a sofa in the library, when he returns from Feyre and Rhysand’s estate, bearing a piece of cake he’d secreted away in a heavy cloth napkin.

“I didn’t think you would return before tomorrow,” she says, looking up from her book of history, thick with politics and deception and warring.

Always, he is surprised by the bright blue of her eyes, even in candlelight. Always, he knows, deep in his bones, this woman will enchant him.

“I wouldn’t miss a single night with you if it could be helped. And I have not given you your Solstice gift.”

“I thought we weren’t exchanging gifts,” she says, her mouth puckering into a frown.

“You should know better than to always take me at my word,” he says, raising a brow, watching the indignation rise on her face. He lets the napkin fall into her lap, and then a smaller package, which he’d wrapped carefully this morning, while she wheeled over the manor grounds, wings aflame.

She lets out a little gasp at the sapphire earrings which will turn each ear into a lattice of sparkling flowers, bright against the red-gold curls of her hair. He’d contracted a master jeweler months ago, measured Vassa’s ears when she lay sleeping, so that the fit is exact. It’s the kind of jewelry a queen would wear, he thought, when he gave the earrings their final inspection.

One day soon, Lucien knows, Vassa will be free of the curse that binds her. She’ll go back to Scythia and reclaim her rightful throne, earn and accept and enjoy the love of her people.

“I will follow you, ” he says, watching her smile grow as she studies each flawless sapphire, not a single one as brilliant as her eyes, “when you go back to Scythia.”

“You do not have to lie to me,” she says, and her voice catches in her throat with an emotion too complex to name. “These earrings are enough.”

“I will follow you,” he says again, and kisses her before she can argue, pulls her close.

In the morning, he wakes before the sunrise, walks hand in hand with her through the forest, the silence between them comfortable as their bodies move themselves from sleep.

The moment before the sun passes the horizon, Vassa lets go of Lucien’s hand, and turns toward him. An instant later, the firebird circles near his head, swooping around the trees. Lucien almost thinks there is a spark of recognition in those blue eyes, as if he’s managed to lodge inside that animal brain, wedge himself inside the curse, the first step to destroying it all together.

When the wing of the firebird passes over him, he is startled to realize he feels no pain at the heat of the flame.

“You’ve realized, of course, that I love you,” he says, feeling foolish at speaking into the snow-muffled silence, knowing that the animal before him cannot speak, likely does not understand.

But the firebird extends her wings and, with a great cry, shoots up into the air, keening over the forest, her own sun, before returning to the place where Lucien stands, beholding her glory.

For the rest of the day, she will not leave his side.

.

.

.

A/N 2: I've been a Vassien shipper ever since I watched Lucien light up while talking to Vassa in ACOWAR, and I love how this ship has everything: intelligence, beauty, mutual snark, and no problem standing up to the Night Court. Though I have no idea if this ship will sail in the next ACOTAR books, I can't help but root for these truly immaculate vibes.

Tag List: @vassiensupremacy @vassienweek @lucienvassa @lantsov-vanserra @bookstaninthesoul @fireborne6 @flowerbirdsblog (I tagged you if you previously reblogged my preview of this fic -- please let me know if you'd like to stay on or be removed from my Vassien tag list.)

[jamielea81]

Just a Simple Lie

Chapter 11

Description: Having worked on small independent films for the better part of a decade, your friend tells you about an opening for a script supervisor with a large studio. Wanting to advance your career, you apply and get an interview. The only downside, they prefer to hire crew who are married. It’s just a simple lie, right?

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of drinking. Minor angst. Fluff!

A/N: This is it, the final chapter. Thank you to those that stuck by me during my long break. I hope you love this final chapter as much as I do. 

Word Count: 2,657

Catch up with Chapter 10

**

“I agree. We need change that last scene around a bit too,” you spoke into the camera on your laptop.

The door behind you creaked open and you spun your chair around to see your intruder.

“Hey beautiful,” crinkling eyes greet you. “Who are you chatting with?” he asked, stepping closer to you, leaning down to view the screen.

“It’s Kimmie.”

“Hey, Kimmie!” Chris said a little too loudly, bending his knees to get a better look. You turned back to the screen, partially blocking his view that caused him to bob his head back and forth.

“Hey, Chris,” she replied back with a wave.

“Let me call you back in thirty.”

“No problem,” she grinned.

You clicked disconnect and pushed down the screen, spinning back around to face your boyfriend.

“You didn’t have to end your call on my account,” Chris said, taking a seat on the couch in your office. He kicked out his legs and rested his arms on the back of the couch.

Standing up, you stretched your arms over your head until you heard a small audible crack. The long hours in your desk chair were doing nothing to help with your stiffness. You walked the five steps to reach him, straddling his lap and giving him chaste kiss.

“I missed you. Taking a break is well deserved,” you murmured into his neck.

Chris lowered both arms, wrapping them around your waist and lowering them until they rested on your bottom. “Missed you too sweetheart. But if you really missed me, we’re going to need more than thirty minutes. You may need to give Kimmie a call back tomorrow.”

You lightly pushed on his chest, shaking your head but giving him a smile.

“I’m pretty sure I can get the job done in fifteen, but I wouldn’t mind taking the whole night off,” you replied, bending down and bringing your lips to his.

**

The two of you had been together for two years. It had taken a bit to get there because as it turned out, you both were very passionate people in and out of the studio.

Once your one month extended stay to help with editing ended, Chris was adamant you shouldn’t leave. You had unofficial moved into his bedroom two weeks prior and he had gotten used to you being there. You had gotten used to it as well if you were being honest. You changed your ticket for an additional week, but all too soon late-night arguments became the norm in the days leading up to your flight. He had trouble understanding that you had an apartment with all your belongings that you paid rent on to get back to. Meanwhile, you had trouble understanding that the two of you really needed this time together since it was so early in your relationship. By the time the plane touched down in L.A. you weren’t sure it would last.

Phone calls quickly became strained and almost a chore, but it was all you had. He was staying on the East coast to be close to family and work. Most jobs for you were in L.A. where the studios were located. You didn’t have a choice.

The majority of Chris’ past relationships had been with actresses who had the means to fly back and forth and the funds to take time off to dedicate to that relationship. That wasn’t you. Yes, you were in your thirties, but you didn’t make movie star money. While you did have a good chunk of money in savings, you still needed to either get back to bartending or get another contract for a movie so that money wasn’t quickly depleted.

When Chris hadn’t called or texted for a solid week, you were sure it was over with. This intense relationship that was all consuming apparently had gone up in smoke. You called in sick to your side job and spent an entire day crying. Gemma, being the good friend she is, came over with a bottle of tequila in hand to help drink your tears away. It worked for a little while, until you woke up with a pounding headache. Not to mention, the only reason you were awake was because someone was actually pounding at your door. Taking a one-eyed look at your alarm clock, you saw that it was only six in the morning.

“Who the fuck…” you groan, loud enough for the person on the other side of the door to hear.

You dragged yourself out of bed, only then realizing you were still dressed in yesterday’s jeans and top. Albeit, both heavily wrinkled and misshapen from your rough night of sleep. You didn’t catch your reflection in a mirror but were pretty sure your mascara was smeared everywhere but your eyelashes.

You flicked the lock and opened the door to a red eyed Chris. Before you could utter a greeting or a question, he pushed his way past you into your living room and began pacing. Closing the door softly, you moved past him into the kitchen turning the water on until it ran warm. Grabbing the pot from the coffee maker, you rinsed it before filling it, keeping your back to Chris. He still hadn’t uttered a word but you could hear his steps on the vinyl wood floor. You continued busying yourself with the grounds before flicking the switch to start it.

“I only have that caramel flavored one. I know it’s not your favorite...” you trailed off, still facing the machine rather than him.

Him being here in L.A., your apartment to be more specific, after not hearing from him was slowly putting you into a tailspin. What did it mean? Why wasn’t he speaking to you? Why the fuck is he here? These are questions you really needed to verbalize, but couldn’t, or wouldn’t.

“Come here,” his raspy voice called.

You cleared your throat and took a breath, turning around to see that he stopped pacing. His arms were at his sides but his fingers twitched. Not only were his eyes red, but he looked tired. His beard longer than you’d seen it and a little unkempt. You walked to him, stopping a couple of feet away, staying quiet and trying your best not to cry.  

Chris licked his lips and blinked slowly. “Do you love me?”

What? Do I love him?... Do I love him?

You closed your eyes tight as if it would help this flood of emotions you were feeling. Seconds ticked by. You felt Chris’ fingers touch your hand before the warmth quickly fell away.

Opening your eyes, you were met with his glassy ones. Your head started to nod before you could get the words out. “Yes.” It was weak. Clearing your throat, you tried again. “Yes, I love you.”

Chris grabbed your face almost harshly, but you didn’t care as his lips crashed into yours. It was a hungry kiss and you had to grab on to his shoulders so you wouldn’t fall. He pulled away, rubbing his nose against yours. “I love you. I fucking love you,” he growled.

His lips met yours once again. Your hands slipped from his shoulders to around his neck. You could feel the wetness on your face and you couldn’t tell if it was from his tears or yours.

The two of you eventually made it to your bed, the coffee long forgotten as you reclaimed the love you had gone weeks without. Sleep later took the both of you, only waking at the feel of his hand as it combed through your hair.

“You know,” he murmured. “You really shouldn’t go to sleep with your makeup on. S’not good for the skin.”

Opening your eyes slowly to see the smirk on his lips, you pouted your own. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t?” he questioned, lifting a brow.

“Nope.” You lifted your head and laid it on his chest. “Chris Evans loves me.”

“That’s true.”

“And if he can love me when I’m hungover with black mascara all over my face, I’m not going to lose sleep over it.”

His throaty chuckle made you smile. “We should probably talk,” you said into his chest after a quiet moment.

Chris’ fingertips slid softly up and down your bare arm. “We should, but I want to hold you for a bit longer.”

The talk didn’t happen until the next day as you both opted to stay in bed with Chris only leaving to pick up food for dinner. Your room smelled like garlic shrimp and sesame chicken, but you wouldn’t change a thing about how the day had gone.

Chris was making his primary residence in California as soon as he was done wrapping up the movie. You argued that Boston was home, but he insisted he had his house in Laurel Canyon just wasting away. He wanted to be with you. Needed to be with you.

“I can fly out East whenever I have an itch to. Take you along because I know Ma will want to see you.”

Who were you to argue?

As promised, two months later Chris was back on the West coast with you. And it stayed that way for almost a year until he had you flying out to Massachusetts for another film. This time it wasn’t one of his, but a friend of his that he put you in contact with. You didn’t like him doing you favors like that, but the producer had stated that you came highly recommended.

For several months you split your time between Rhode Island and Boston and grew to really love that part of the country.  It was breathtaking and covered in snow which you had to admit you kind of missed. You loved it when you were here with Chris the first time, but most of those days were spent reconnecting with Chris and worrying. This trip you really had the time to appreciate the beauty despite the coldness of the winter.

Kimmie was the screen writer on that film and the two of you had formed a fast friendship. She enlisted your help on another film keeping you employed and on the East coast much to Chris’ delight. By accident, you had added another career to your resume, consultant. And later, screenwriter.

You let your apartment go along with the furniture in it, packing up only your clothes and the items you couldn’t part with. You officially moved in with Chris in Boston even though you had been living with him for almost a year.

**

“How’s that script coming?” Chris asked over scrambled eggs with cheese the next day.

“Good. But I really need to call Kimmie back. You majorly distracted me yesterday. She’s going to find a new writing partner if I keep pulling stuff like that.”

Chris give you a closed mouth grin before scooping another bite into his mouth, shaking his head in disagreement. “You two work well together. Doubt she cares if you get distracted,” he said, his fingers making air quotes.

“Yeah, we’ll see,” you sighed. You really didn’t think she would kick you to the curb, but you wanted Chris to gravel a bit.

Chris pushed his chair back from the table, picking up his empty mug. He kissed the top of your head before refilling his cup. “I can send her flowers if you want.”

You chuckled and shook your head. “You barely send me flowers!”

“Well, that’s your damn cat’s fault. If he’d stop chewing on the stems, I’d bring you flowers home every day,” he argued taking his seat back at the table.

“You love Mr. Fluffykins. Admit it.”

“Only half the time. And that’s only because he’s cute with Dodger.”

Chris only had about thirty pictures on his phone of Mr. Fluffykins, Fluff for short, and Dodger cuddling together. The two of you lucked out on that friendship when you brought Fluff home from the shelter two months ago.

Rinsing your plate, you placed it in the dishwasher before walking over to Chris and kissing his lips. “I’m off to work dear.”

“Have a safe commute,” he said with a smile. It had been your little inside joke for awhile now since your in-home office was your place of business most days.

**

“Knock. Knock,” Chris said, entering your office. “Working late?”

You yawned, suddenly realizing what time it was. “Sorry. Got caught up on something new,” you said, standing and walking over to him. “Let’s go to bed.”

“I thought you and Kimmie finished up last week?” he said, pulling you over to the couch in the room instead.

“We did. This is something new. Something that’s just me,” you said timidly.

“Oh yeah? Just you?”

Leaning into him, he put an arm around your shoulders and kissed the top of your head.

“It’s a script I’m working on. Eric Sherman had asked if I had anything in the works and it got me thinking. Why don’t I have anything in the works? Kimmie and I can still develop scripts together, but there’s no reason I can’t work on a project that I’m really interested in. I might have her look it over when it’s done, but I kind of want to keep it to myself for a while.”

He lifted your face to his. “Just you? Not even little old me?”

You smiled and kissed his nose. “I suppose I could tell you.” You took a breath, sitting up straighter and turning your body to his. “It’s called Just a Simple Lie and it starts with a fake engagement.” Chris started a slow smile on his face. “Along the way, the lie gets a little out of hand and she ends up falling for a friend. I’m just not sure how it will end.”

“I can’t wait to read it. When you’re ready for me to read it.” He tugged on your hand, pulling you out of your seat. “Let’s get ready for bed.”

**

Rubbing in your nightly moisturizer, you gave yourself a final look in the mirror before clicking off the bathroom light and walking into your shared bedroom. You gasped, your hands immediately going to your chest. Chris was facing the doorway, on one knee dressed in a pair of Snoopy pajama pants and gray t-shirt. One hand rested on his bent knee while the other held a ring by his pointer finger and thumb.

“I think I have an ending for your story,” he began. You still couldn’t speak nor could you move. “See, I met this amazing woman that took me by surprise and turned my life upside down, but in a good way. It might have started as a lie, but I know she only had good intentions. I couldn’t help but fall in love with her. The only way this story can end is with her promising to spend the rest of her life with me. Happily, ever after, if you will.” he shrugged. “So, what I’m trying to say is, will you continue to write this story with me, as my wife, my partner in life?”

You nodded your head, walking to him and dropping on your knees. You kissed him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Yes. Yes,” you whispered. “I love you so much.”

Chris took your left hand from around his neck and brought it close to his face, kissing it, and then placing the ring on your finger. “Love you too baby.” He kissed your hand again and pulled you into a hug.

After a minute or two, he kissed your lips and looked into your eyes. “I know we’re having a moment, but would you mind if I take my fiancée to bed?”

You chuckled and kissed him again. “Yes, fiancé. I’d like that very much.” The two of you got to your feet and climbed into bed. “I suppose the ground is pretty hard on those old knees of yours,” you teased.

“Such a brat,” he said, kissing your nose.

“You like it.”

“Yeah…I kind of love it.”

**

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[robotslenderman]

Ewww getting big privileged homophobe vibes from you. Blocking now.

Thank God.

I doubt you'll ever read this, but just in case hate-reading is your thing - I don't know why you bothered with anon. You're obviously not a follower because I talk about how queer I am here ALL THE TIME. I saw many queerphobes on that queer post, and even visited a few of their blogs. (Most of them were TERFs, except one - you, who claimed to be a trans dude. Maybe you are! Maybe you're not a TERF posing as a trans dude and you really are okay with being part of a movement absolutely dominated by TERFs!)

But there was only one that I left a comment on. You'd posted about how queer people are so horrible to call ourselves queer. Like the anthropomorphic personification of class and tact that I am, I trolled you by asking if my queer presence made you uncomfortable.

Clearly, it did. :)

So go ahead. Call me the first mean name that comes to your head, as if it bothered me what a random totally-not-anon thinks I am. I'm totally fine with queerphobes thinking my existence is homophobic, because the only way they'd understand otherwise is if I pretended I wasn't queer. My alleged homophobia is latched on to my identity as a queer person. The only way you would not accuse me of being homophobic is if I stopped calling myself queer.

So you use my very identity as a weapon against me. I am queer, and I am attached to not being a homophobe. You know that queer people do not want to be perceived as something they hate completely by anyone, strangers included, especially on a website where people harass first and listen later (if at all). So you hold us hostage - deny our queerness, and you'll drop your weapon. You'll drop the word "homophobic" and stop pointing it at me.

I'm not gonna cave to this.

Nor am I going to write an outraged essay about how I'm not homophobic. You know perfectly fucking well that not a SINGLE queer person is straight. You know perfectly fucking well that most queer people are same sex attracted or attracted to enbies. You know perfectly fucking well that queer people have accepted that part of us and aren't dealing with internalised homophobia or inflicting it on other people because we ACKNOWLEDGE our queerness and you can see this, otherwise you wouldn't be getting mad about it. In a homophobic society everyone has a degree of it, but by being what we are we have less of it than the great majority.

You know this perfectly well. Don't fucking pretend otherwise, I would have to believe that you are well and truly and sincerely STUPID to think for one second that you think I'm a straight person or a closeted gay person who's lashing out with malicious homophobia. Real homophobia, not "this person is part of a minority I am bigoted against, so I will claim they are inherently homophobic unless they get back in the closet or categorise themself in a way that allows me to fine tune my bigotry appropriately."

Because let's be real. Queer hasn't been used as a slur in decades and was reclaimed before I was even born. "Gay" was the slur of the time when I was growing up, but people like you never had a problem with that. Why? Because gay is clear cut and well defined. The problem people like you have with queers like me - the REAL problem, not the faux outraged you have made up about my label - is that queer means I have declined your insistence to more accurately categorise myself.

I mean, how else would you know specifically how to treat me? I could be bi and you might hate bi people, but if I'm a gay queer you don't want to aim the wrong type of bigotry at me by mistake - not because you care about gay people (you don't, because many gay people are also queer), but because you don't want to make yourself look silly by aiming the wrong type of bigotry at me. I could be queer because I'm an enby, and maybe you're truescum that would despise me for it, but you don't KNOW whether or not I'm an enby and that drives you mad! You don't want to risk alienating people who care about you by shitting on someone they might not agree is an acceptable target, so you target every queer and claim it's about a word when really, many queer people seek refugee under that term to hide from people like you, and you don't like that we can hide from you, so you try to strip our shelter away from us.

(And let's be honest. You probably don't even actually hate us. You're probably just afraid. Afraid of some identity you don't really understand because you've never taken the time to get to know us, or afraid that society will accept you less if we're "competing" for acceptance and so take some of the spotlight... I won't shit on you for fear, anon. We are all afraid of something. But I absolutely have a problem with how you're choosing to knowingly hurt people to cope with it. You called me "homophobe" to hurt me. There was no other way to possibly interpret the context of what you were saying. You meant to do this.)

So take away queer. Take away the shelter of queer. Force every queer person to divulge, upfront, who they are that makes them friends with queer. Force them out of the closet and pretend THAT'S not homophobic.

Send the gay queers back to the L and G of LGBT, let the TERFs flush out the trans people who are queer because they're trans* and shoo them away from LGBTQ spaces. Or maybe you really are trans, but you want to kick out straight trans people, or enbies, or pan people, or bi people, or ace people, or, one of the many populations that make up the true queer community.

* Not all trans people are queer, but many are BECAUSE they're trans. I would say "many are queer because they identify as queer" because that makes it sound like queerness isn't an inherent part of who we are and gives people like you ammo I have no interest in supplying you with. "Aha! So you CHOOSE to be a slur!" I just know you'd completely ignore everything I said to the contrary and say that.

Yes. The true queer community.

We've told you again and again that we're not calling you queer. We've told you again and again, if you're not queer, you're not part of the queer community. You're LGBT+, not queer. I'm not part of the LGBT+ community, I'm part of the queer community.

The queer community is not the true community of people who aren't straight and cis, that's not what I'm saying. We're not any more or less LGBT+ than you. I'm not invalidating the identities of people who aren't straight and/or cis, because they are who they are, and you don't need to be queer to be LGBT+. But we are the true queer community in that we are queer, and people who are LGBT+ but are not queer are not queer. Only queer people are queer.

("But people use queer community as an umbrella term to mean people who aren't queer, but are still LGBT+!" Buddy, if I have to deal with being called LGBT all the time even though it's not true, while having the people who use LGBT obviously mean me too because I'm not straight, then you can live with it too. That's mostly straights doing that, in which case you have no reason to get mad at US, or people who are are making something for a straight audience or a questioning audience, in which case they're making it accessible because not everyone knows the nuance of queer and LGBTALPHABETSOUP discourse. Or even - and I know this thought is incomprehensible to you, as the centre of the universe - it's actually referring to queer people and queer people only, not LGBT+ who aren't queer. Actually, I love that idea! Queer history is now history of queer people, no non-queer LGBT+ allowed :D)

I've never felt LGBT+ even when I thought I was one of the main four letters. But I've always felt queer, even as my understanding of my specific brand of queerness changed. Queer is an umbrella term that is opt in, that covers any and all LGBT+ people who know they are queer too, who know they're one of us, or who simply choose to call themselves queer for whatever fucking reason they want. Some of us are intrinsically queer, some choose to be queer because of the inclusiveness or relative opacity of the term, and you don't know which one a queer person is unless you have earned our trust enough for us to tell you.

And people like you fucking hate that.

So you know what?

I'm totally fine with you calling me a homophobe because the people who actually know more about me than the few sentences I've given you know that that's a joke, and their good opinion matters more to me than yours.

I'm totally fine with you calling me a homophobe because because it means I've won. I've gotten under your skin, just as your bigotry got right under mine. You're furious you can't categorise me. You're pissed off that I could be one of the LGBT+ people you actively dislike and want out of the LGBT+ community, but are finding a hell of a lot harder to flush out of the queer community because we all look the same at first glance and refuse to give you information you feel entitled to. Because it's easy to force people out of the closet in the LGBT+ community, but much fucking harder in a meritocracy like the queer community. To get into the LGBT+ community, you have to tell them which one you are. Queer? No questions asked, cause you already told us all we needed to know! Welcome home!

But let's say this is all a strawman.

That you really are some well meaning person who has nothing against the more obscure queer identities and that you really do just have a problem with the word. That you truly do think that queer people, the great majority of which experience same sex attraction, are... somehow... homophobic just for using the word despite their advocacy against homophobia and total acceptance of that aspect of themselves and others. That our fight for marriage equality and employment and housing protections and human rights is rendered COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY IRRELEVANT because we used a word that Boomers and even some of gen X hurled at each other because a guy was a little bit girly, or a girl refused to grow her hair long, or because men were scared that a man would treat them the way they treated women. (Because queer as an archaic slur, ultimately, comes from misogyny as much as homophobia.)

Let's say you really do mean well and really do know people who were called queers instead of fags, or you really did grow up hearing "that is so queer" to describe things people didn't like, or you really did have "queer" hurled at you by straight people as if there was something wrong with you for not being cis and straight.

(Notice something, there? You probably haven't actually experienced any of that, nor anyone you know. This wank about who I am as a queer person - it's always aimed at us. Never the straights that used it against us. Nobody uses the word queer except queer people any more, I am 99% certain that you don't know ANYBODY who has had it thrown at them AS a slur, so that means that the only people you can target on your crusade are... gender and sexual minorities. Not cis/straight people. Because they're not calling us queers and haven't in decades.

That means you are knowingly targeting minorities over this EXCLUSIVELY, I am completely fucking certain..

... but I'M the homophobe?)

In which case all I can say is: I hope that the well-meaningness that's made you put this hateful thing into my inbox, that's made you say such hateful things to a minority because of their identity (there's a word for treating people differently because they're a minority, especially hostile treatment..), will outshine the hatefulness of what you're saying and lead you to a better way to express your desire to protect people.

If you truly are coming from a misplaced belief that we're somehow deprecating ourselves by being queer, and not a desire to force us out of the closet or to run off any gender or sexual minority, then I apologise for my hostility, acknowledge that learning takes time (and patience that I am unable to give, for I am tired of bad actors pretending they're not and cannot do it), and wish you the best in learning to be inclusive and loving so we can count you one day, at least, as a friend of us queer folk. Maybe one day we'll even welcome you as one of us. I'd love to do that more than I'd like to deal with THIS crap. I can't imagine me going off on you will have helped at all, but from in my experience people who want to protect gender and sexual minorities protect them. They don't target them. That's why I am writing this post under the assumption that you wrote this because you have bad intentions towards me as a queer person, and not out of a well meaning desire to protect anyone you think I've somehow hurt by being me.

In which case? Get fucked.

[anarcho-smarmyism]

open letter to fenrir wolf: plague edition

Wolf, if you can hear this, it’s 2021, and it’s a plague this time around. my first letter was supposed to be an offering, not a goddamn invitation.

I remember the weekend before quarantine began, dancing (badly) with my Freyan friend at a pub last saint patrick’s day, the band joking about the elephant in the room, saying that everything was fine, they were all the way up on the stage, they wouldn’t get anyone sick. I had been thinking about the previous saint patrick’s day, but even then, even through my drunken haze and bitter memories, I thought I could hear a note of desperation in the singer’s voice; I remember the tremble of quiet dread. I told myself to stop being paranoid. everything’s always a false alarm, until one day it isn’t. this saint patrick’s day, against my better judgement, I went to a bar alone because I’d just bought a red dress, and honestly, because I needed to be away from my in-law’s house for a little while longer. I sat down and took off my mask once I’d entered one of the few places you’re allowed to irresponsibly have your mask off in, and it feels weirdly intimate to let people see my face in public by now; back when all I had was a black bandanna, I used to pretend I was an Old West outlaw, and wonder if I’ll ever grow out of pretending to be a cowboy from the movies…or if I I’d have the opportunity to. I had a couple beers, wondered for a few stupid moments why everyone was wearing green and shamrocks, and made idle small talk with the bartender while I stared blankly ahead and wondered how it could be a whole year, and also how it could be only one year, and how it is that all the world’s people let the rich and powerful shovel us by the millions into our graves.

when it started, they told us not to buy masks. everyone was panic buying everything else, and they wanted to make sure they didn’t run out for hospital workers and such. i was able to get some bandanas for me and Tyr’s kid before they ran out, while the TV was still discouraging us from buying them if they mentioned it at all, not to mention the current president’s rabid followers screaming at you in public for defying their leader’s lies that the virus is a hoax and the mass graves in italy and new york are fake news. he rolled his eyes at me at the time, but now the party line is that everyone ought to be wearing two masks if you can. no one seems to remember stuff like this; but then why should they, when the news is showing the last head of state’s supporters storming the capitol? panic buttons had been ripped out; someone refused to call the national guard over and over again, while the racist mob built a noose outside, breached the perimeter, and went looking for politicians to kill because they weren’t going to let their god-emperor stay in power. for aspiring revolutionaries, i must say they weren’t very ambitious; they killed a cop and got shot just to do nothing but take selfies once they got in and found no one inside to kill; they even walked obediently in line between the little velvet ropes on their way in. the only saving grace is that, since their god-emperor has spent 8 months telling them anyone who wears a mask is a pussy and a communist, they all left their hoods at home and many were identified. reports of off-duty cops being among the attackers trailed in. I worked customer service for 9 hours wondering if I was wasting precious time I’d need to look into getting a passport.

it almost worked, Wolf. Just like the nukes almost flew in the 80’s and the climate change is almost certainly going to reach the point of no return within a decade. how many almosts do we have left? Will we keep going from reckoning to reckoning of our own design, playing chicken with nature instead of trying to throw off these shackles and just live, until one day our luck runs out? I suppose that always was the plan on some scale, but I hoped we’d at least get to walk on another planet first. How can this be the end of history, with that great ineffable blanket of stars above us that we haven’t yet explored?

It was only a month or so ago that a blizzard hit Texas -not just where I used to live, where blizzards are rare but fierce and we build our houses to withstand them, but deeper south where a light dusting would make local news for weeks. the strain was too much for the grid; the politicians had made sure the state’s not connected to the rest of the nation’s infrastructure, so entire cities lost power…the poor parts of the cities, anyways. people were circulating infographics on how to resist hypothermia along with pictures of icicles forming on ceilings of their apartment buildings. then the stories started pouring in. children found huddled in their trailers around their younger siblings to try and keep them warm, dead of hypothermia. old ladies’ frozen bodies found by family who’d seen her alive and well mere days ago. families trapped in their houses, built to stay cool in the brutal desert heat, buried by the snow and unable to eat, stay warm, dig their way out, or call for help. some politician lost his job for telling people to stop asking for help because “the strong will survive”. the masters of our world, the ones that stand smugly guarding the gateways from this world to a better one and slaughtering all who approach, really think that surviving because you’re rich and powerful, because you struggle so little that life itself is something you take for granted, is the same thing as survival of the fittest. i saw my peers laughing and saying Texans deserved it for voting the wrong way, and I think something broke inside me, because when that rage erupted from that ugly hidden place that is always burning my hands shook and I wanted to howl until my throat started to bleed and I could’ve summoned you with all the hate that came over me, and who’s to say I didn’t, the way things are going? and this is the new normal, for the rest of my life if not for the rest of our species’. we are guaranteed so little time, and yet we throw it over our shoulders with both hands so we can make the numbers on our ATM screen go up. i feel like i would do anything to guarantee the survival of my species, but I can’t deny some part of me believes we deserve this.

because if this is really it, Wolf, people will blame you, but we are the ones who built this world. I wont bore you with more politics, but the scientists knew how to prevent the worst of it from day one. all we had to do was shut down industry for a few months -and oh, how I remember thinking I could almost hear you laughing as I watched them talk about it on TV as though they might actually try and save us, knowing deep in my bones that the movers and shakers of our species consider it no contest at all, between sacrificing billions in profits and millions of lives. they may be lying bastards, but their devotion to greed is as eternal and sincere as was your promise to make the ones who bound you pay -and they have no qualms about paying the same abominable price. My anger is making me reckless, and I know it, and I know that they always say you shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds you -and maybe it’s true, but it’s also true that they’re only feeding us at all because they know hungry people may swallow them whole. how can I blame the plague or the storms or the riots for our doom, when the extent of the death they’re causing are only the consequences of human actions? how can I hold my livid need to get back at the bastards with my duty to my own humanity in the same body, when they crash against each other like two asteroids headed in opposite directions?

we just heard that vaccines are available in our state, right when I was halfway through writing this. I’m sure it’ll be weeks until we can breathe without fear, Wolf, and even then, the storms and the riots, the coming famines and wars, means that reprieve will be small and bitter and filled with irony and dread. I’ll be sure to give you some raw meat and take a shot of that godawful whiskey so you can laugh at the face I make. sometimes I wonder if you’d be on my side, help me and my friends break their haughty power, reclaim the world, and start rebuilding the forests we squandered in our ignorance and greed, were you given the opportunity. I’d like to think so, and it seems like the kind of thing you’d be into -but then, we’ll never know, will we? Despite all I’ve said, I still hold out stubborn faith that one day humanity will learn that so long as one of us is imprisoned, none of us are truly free. We're not like you, so you'll have to take my word for it: humans need mercy like wolves need to hunt. Just because we can technically stay alive in these chains that force us to forget that the humans' only true strength was always only their cooperation with each other, doesn't mean it's good for us to live this way. If we can learn that we are strong enough if we stand together, we can take them down before they take us and countless other species down with them. People have been certain the world would end before; and they’ve all been wrong so far. perhaps it’ll take more than this to kill us.

-but that’s the thing, isn’t it? more is coming. it always has been.

But I really, really want to thank you for dancing 'til the end You found a way to break out You're not afraid to break out

[elles-writing]

Ghosts of past - platonic!Tauriel x reader x Kili - Day 7/13

Ghosts of the past

Pairing:  platonic!Tauriel x reader x Kili

Warnings/triggers: mentions of death, broken heart, feels

Genre: angst

Word: Ghost – Day 7

Word count: 2685

A/N: I came up with this idea after I’ve red this oneshot – Scouting Party (by @dumbassunderthemountain) , where was Tauriel x reader, though that was fluff and this is angst.

I wasn’t really sure if I should write it down, because she’s not one of my most favourite characters in The Hobbit, I’ve never wrote anything similar before (and I’m straight, so I was not sure if I would capture it right), though at some point it felt like I should write it down. I took my own experiences of those feelings when I was broken-hearted over one guy, so I hope I didn’t messed up.

My friend, that I consider as my good friend, is lesbian, so if she would be interested in TH, this fandom and would be reading a fanfics in English (and had a Tumblr), I’d dedicated it to her, though this is pure angst and fun fluff would fit much more to her.

Also, I almost cried during writing, sometimes I had to stop to not to cry, so...yeah.

Tags: @dumbassunderthemountain​ @moony-artnstuff @artsywaterlily @claraofthepen​ @red-riding​

Message me if you want to be added/removed to taglist!

She didn’t knew how long she’s been sitting here. It was dark and cold there, yet she couldn’t get up. She was crying, tears streaming down her face. It was the night of Feast of Starlight, yet she could not celebrate.

She looked over those two graves and a sting pierced through her heart.

It was you and your husband, Kili. Both of you lived untill your very last days.

Tauriel sat quietly here, wishing she could stop that pain in her chest. Her hand runned over the runes on your grave. She knew you almost your whole life, and never thought it would end up this way. That she wouldn’t sit next to your grave, crying and praying for the pain in her chest, in her heart, to stop.

She quietly sobbed and remembered the day when her and Legolas found you in the forest. Her mind flashed back to that day, decades ago.

They were on a scouting mission to kill some spiders. It would have been like any other day on a mission, really. But then she noticed a small child, just a bit older than a toddler, sitting on the ground, crying.

She was protecting you from all the spiders that came too close to you. When they were all dead, she turned towards you. You were looking at her, scared, your eyes and cheeks red.

„Don’t kill me, please,“ you almost begged. She carefully spoke.

„I won’t hurt you, little one. What’s your name?“ She asked you. You shot her a glare, full of untrust, and didn’t spoken a word.

„Tauriel, what-“ Legolas noticed you sitting on the ground. You looked at him and quickly got up.

„N-no,“ You whispered and tried to run away, when he gently catched your hand. You turned to him.

„We can’t leave her here,“ Tauriel stated. Legolas nodded.

„We won’t hurt you, little one.“ She said kindly and you frowned at her. She noticed your ears. They were human, but now, when she looked closely, she could see they weren’t as large as human ears would be.

They somehow got you to the palace. You probably realized you couldn’t run away from them. When she tried to ask you about it later, you didn’t remembered that moment. You were too young then.

„Ada,“ Legolas told the king. Thranduil turned to him.

„We found this child in the forest.“ He said and Tauriel nudged you a bit to take a few steps forward. You were hidden behind her, finding her probably the best option to hid to, from what you had.

Thranduil looked down at you, his eyes slightly widening. You’ve had the same eye colour, the same hair colour and length, facial features like Legolas‘ mother had. He looked over to your ears, noticing their shape.

That night, you’ve stayed. The next day, you explained to them that you and your parents were trespassing Mirkwood to Dale. Your father had some elvish blood, his great-grandfather married a half-elven woman from Rivendell, and your mother was a human. Lately, your family had a problems, though you didn’t knew what type of problems that was, perhaps it was because you weren’t full human and many people were talking about it in the village that you lived in previously.

You’ve lost your path, and your parents, though they were skilled warriors, were outnumbered against the spiders, and they sended you to run away in a hope you’d find a way out. They told you to not trust anything in that forest, so that was why you were acting the way you did towards Legolas and Tauriel when they found you.

Thranduil adopted you, but Tauriel was secretly very happy she could spend time with you. Once you got to used to it all and when the pain of death of your parents got a bit dull after few years, you were all laugh and giggles. If she could, she spended hours with you, reading you, teaching you to shoot arrows since you were able to, and trained with you, once you were old enough.

It wasn’t until you were a young adult, when she realized her feelings weren’t in a sibling or friendly way. No, she developed a crush on you.

It was once when you admited her you’ve got a crush. It was a crush on Legolas, the Mirkwood prince. You told her everything, thinking of her as your best friend you could tell anything.

When she found out Legolas had a crush on her, when he admited it to her, she was confused. Later she found you broken, lying down on the floor of your room, crying and sobbing. You looked up at her, your eyes red, cheeks wet from tears, you hair tangled and messy. She realized you overheard their converstaion.

„Why?“ You asked her and broke down again.

„Why doesn’t he loves me? What’s wrong with me?“ You sobbed again, trying to find an answer in her face, full of confusion, concern and surprise. She sat down to you and patted your back, carefully. Your personality was different from an elf. At that point, you were fully human.

„It’s because I’m not a full elf?“ You whispered and started crying again. She hesitated for a moment, but she decided to hug you, so now you were sobbing into her guard uniform. She patted your hair.

„It’s not your fault. If something, he’s not good enough for you,“ she said in firm voice, meaning every word. Your sobbs stopped for a while.

„B-but I love him, Tauriel. I love him...why does love have to hurt so much?“ A cry escaped your mouth, and she felt a sting going through her heart. She was combing her fingers through your hair, fixing the knots in them.

„I...I don’t know,“ she admited.

Then, a few years later, you didn’t had a crush on Legolas anymore. You realized you could never be together – he seemed to be becoming more and more like his father. And at that time, the dwarves appeared. Her heart filled with jealousy, when she noticed the looks you and the dark-haired dwarf were changing. She placed her palm on your shoulder, then.

„Don’t go to the dungeons. Stay away from there, so you are safe,“ she hissed into your ear, being a completely different person than she usually was. You thought she maybe thought they were too dangerous. Despise you being an adult, you looked at the world in more naive way, than most elves.

Later that night, she was hiding near, while feeling her heart to be torn into pieces. You and that dwarf, Kili, were talking, and she realized you and him were meant to be. Two souls, that met and couldn’t stay away from one another anymore.

She knew you helped them to escape. She knew you got shot by that poisoned arrow. She just knew that, and also that nothing could stop you from saving him. You were too stubborn for that. She knew you’d do it again, again and again.

So she runned after you, to heal you. But before that, him, Kili, told her you told him you’ve loved him. She’ve seen no lie in his eyes, only fear and worry for you.

When she healed you, she cupped your cheek in her palm. Your face fitted there so perfectly, and yet you were destinated to Kili. In that moment, you whispered.

„You will always run after me and take care of me, whether I am a toddler, or an adult, won’t you, sister?“ Then, you fell asleep. She froze and stood there, stunned.

Sister.

That was everything she ever was to you, and will be. She will always be sister and best friend for you.

When the Erebor was reclaimed, you talked with Thorin, and he let Tauriel to be your personal guard, because she was your sister, and a great warrior you wouldn’t mind to be following you the whole day.

Yours and Kili’s wedding was beautiful, she had to admit that. The dwarves weren’t very fond of her, as expected, but when she knew you were happy, it was all worth it.

A few months after the wedding, you weren’t feeling your best, and you even fainted in one hall. She quickly catched you and took you to the healer. It was the day when you found out you were pregnant, two weeks so far, and she congratulated to you.

A months later, when your belly began to grow, it was harder for you to go up or down the stairs. She was always there to help you out. Like a sister. Like a friend. A best friend.

You and Kili had four children – the older one was a girl, then two boys – twins, and another daughter.

Your oldest daughter was nice to Tauriel, but she often spended her time rather on training yard, wanting to be as good as her grand-uncle Thorin.

Your two boys liked her a bit more, though they were rather spending time by pulling pranks and jokes. Let’s just say, their grandmother wasn’t too surprised.

You youngest daugher was usually siting somewhere with a book. She reminded Tauriel of you, when you were a child. She would also listen to ‚Auntie Tauriel‘ almost all the time, about life in Mirkwood and all of that. She loved stories of any kind.

When one of your sons was about to marry, Tauriel noticed the wrinkles in your face. They weren’t really too deep, but they were there. She realized what happened.

You were aging. You and your husband, your children, everyone. You weren’t immortal like she was, she realized. One day, you will have to go, and she won’t have any other choice than to accept that.

Later in the evening, when everyone went to sleep, she started quietly crying in her chambers. She didn’t even looked like she aged, and yet the passing time was clear on everybody else in Erebor and Dale. She felt guilty for it, though she knew it was not hers or anybody’s else’s choice.

She looked over Kili’s grave, being illuminated by moonlight. She talked to him a few days before the wedding, basically growling at him, that if he fucks up and she finds out you’re unhappy with him, she will personally make sure he will regret. He was a bit like puppy, and assured her, that he won’t harm you in any way.

Tauriel softly smiled through the tears. He held his word, your marriage and love was incredibly passionate, happy, never fading, you were clearly made for each other. On your wedding day, when he was helping you to prepare, she couldn’t help, but trew you a glance every now and then. You looked amazing, everyone had to admit that.

A princess for a prince.

She looked back to your grave. She whispered.

„You were happy, weren’t you? So, so happy. I was happy for you, though.“

She remembered that moment she couldn’t help and told you everything. She couldn’t bear it anymore.

It was a late evening, Kili was at one another meeting that him and Fili had to attend. You sighed and shook your head, being tired. It was the day you found out you were pregnant with your first child.

„It’s a bit strange, when we’re not around much. We’re wedded, and we don’t see each other as much as when we were courting.“ Tauriel took a deep breath. You noticed how tense she suddenly became.

„What’s happening, Tauriel? You know you can tell me, we’re sisters and you’re my best friend.“ You said. She sighed.

„That’s all we will ever be, right?“ She suddenly asked. You turned to her, confusion writen all over your face.

„Tauriel-“

„It’s because I love you,“ she whispered, holding back tears. You furrowed your brows in curiousity and confusion. Oh, how she loved that expression of yours.

„I love you too, we’re sisters and-“ You started, confused, but she shook her head.

„No, that’s not it, I...I think I love you in a way you love someone...outside of the family,“ she barely whispered. You stood up, stunned, your hand on your mouth.

„Oh, Tauriel, I-I didn’t knew that you...felt this way about me,“ You whispered. She shook her head.

„I’m happy for you and Kili, though. You are going to have a baby, how couldn’t I be happy for you? You are going to be perfect parents.“ She said. You looked at her with worry. You could see the world in more naive way, but she couldn’t fool you.

„Why didn’t you told me earlier?“ You asked her with sad eyes, feeling bad because you didn’t noticed.

„How long do you-“

„I realized when you broke down, when you found out Legolas has a crush on me,“ She said and you both chuckled a bit.

„Well, I don’t have a crush on him for a while.“ Then your face turned serious, again.

„Tauriel, I-“

„Would you listen to me for a second? Would you-would you hate me, if you would knew?“  She more than stated just asked, anxious about your reaction.

„I’m not going to tell you I’m shocked, I’ve always took you as my family, as you know,“ You started carefully.

„I don’t remember my parents too much, and you’ve always been like a big sister and best friend to me. It’s-I don’t hate you. I’m, well, surprised, a bit shocked, perhaps. I-I need to just think about it.“ You said. She nodded.

„Of course,“ She mumbled and left you alone.

What she didn’t knew, was that Kili found you, looking downhearted and confused, and refused to give up on making you to smile, until you’d told him what was going on. You were lying in your bed on your side, your leg over his waist and you were in his arms, telling him that you know you shoud not be guilty, but you could not help, because you didn’t noticed earlier and found out today, after years. He was patting your hair, gently, telling you that Tauriel told you herself when she was ready, and that she surely wanted you to be happy, and not feeling guilty of something you didn’t even knew about.

You accepted that, though. You felt like there were no secrets between you anymore, and you and Kili kept it to yourselves, just to make sure she will stay. And she did.

She was still like a sister to you, and after a few years, she admitted you she was taking you as a best friend and sister, too, but still way too dear to lose.

Or did she pushed all those feelings deep down and let herself to be much more happy, that you and Kili had children, and ignore what she felt?

She didn’t knew. She wasn’t sure.

She looked at your grave, again.

„I hope you’re happy where you are,“ She whispered to your grave, her voice being the only sound in that empty space. She knew that this was a part of her life that will stay with her until she dies.

With all of those ghosts of the past, she will live. She will have to live.

And even if it was well-lived and happy chapter...

It will still hurt.

Even more than when she lost her parents, and when her heart broke, and yet, she was happy for you.

She looked up, her sight was blurry through the tears, moonlinght illuminating her face and yours and Kili’s grave.

„I hope you both are in the best place.“ She whispered and started sobbing once again, when a cold hand patted her shoulder.

„I will see you once, again, sister,“ A voice whispered, which she couldn’t hear. A voice of woman, who found her piece, but came to visit her sister, on the day when she passed away. If she would look up, she’d noticed soft light and her, Y/N, looking the same, just like the day she took an arrow for her soulmate, when her sister saved her life for the second time.

[purplehairedwonder]

Hearts With(out) Chains Chapter 8

Fandom: One Piece Rating: PG-13 Pairings: Gen (eventual Lawlu) Words: 3629 Characters: Trafalgar Law, Monkey D. Luffy, Nico Robin, Usopp, Sanji, Vergo Note: I’m taking my turn at the Corazon!Law AU because my brain won’t leave me alone until this is written down. Tags will be updated as the chapters come out.

The story title is based on the Ellie Goulding song “Hearts Without Chains.”

Summary: Law is reclaimed by the Family when he's 17 and, with Doflamingo holding the lives of his crew as collateral for his good behavior, eventually becomes the third Corazon. Years later, trapped by his impossible situation, Law finds a strange connection to Monkey D. Luffy, which offers a glimpse of something he's repeatedly had ripped away from him: hope.

Previous chapters: Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

Read also at AO3 / FF.N

Robin watched as Luffy came out of the infirmary, a smile on his face as he shut the door behind him. She’d left an ear on the desk, disguised by her book, and she had to admit she was surprised by the conversation—especially that Luffy had gotten their guest (prisoner, despite what Luffy wanted) to volunteer his name. During her time with the Revolutionary Army, she’d known of many attempts by the Revolutionaries and others to learn Corazon’s real name. She filed the name Trafalgar Law away to look into later while once more marveling at her captain’s ability to read—and reach—people.

She rose from her seat and walked over to Luffy, who’d been intercepted by Usopp just outside the door.

“So, what happened?” Usopp was asking, glancing between Luffy and the closed door.

“We talked,” Luffy said, entwining his fingers behind his head. “Torao’s a good guy!”

Usopp frowned. “Torao?”

“Shishishi,” Luffy chuckled. “His name!”

Bemused, Usopp glanced at Robin, who smiled. “I believe our captain convinced Corazon to reveal his real name.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because I asked,” Luffy replied as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. Perhaps it was to him. Usopp sputtered, and Robin patted his shoulder.

“Usopp’s right, though.” They looked up to see Sanji emerge from the kitchen. He was still moving carefully, but he looked much better than when they’d first arrived outside the lab. “Names have power, and that guy’s been going by an alias for years. Why share something so dangerous with his enemies?”

There were a number of potential answers to that question, but Robin had a feeling it was the Luffy Effect in action.

“We’re not enemies,” Luffy said, crossing his arms and frowning.

“He tried to kill us!” Usopp protested.

“He electrocuted me,” Sanji added, lighting a cigarette.

“And we have him locked up in Seastone,” Robin felt obliged to point out.

But Luffy shook his head. “Jimbei made it sound like he took a big risk helping us at Marineford. He said that Mingo guy would be angry, but he did it anyway.”

Robin knew the rumors about Doflamingo’s abilities, his crew, and his underground operations. His cruelty and brutality. Doflamingo saw his crew as a family, with his executives being his most trusted. And he did not stand for disloyalty in his Family. She could only imagine how he might have reacted to his second-in-command helping rival pirates.

“Luffy,” she said gently, waiting for her captain’s eyes to find her, “Corazon was already infamous when we met him on Sabaody. But over the last two years, his reputation has only gotten darker. They call him the Surgeon of Death.”

She had a feeling this wouldn’t dissuade him—little tended to once Luffy had made his mind up about something or someone—but she wanted to make sure he knew anyway.

As expected, Luffy shook his head again while Usopp spluttered in the background. “He saved me.”

There had been endless speculation over the last two years about why Corazon had saved Luffy and Jimbei, ranging from an attempted coup within the Family to a secret love affair (Robin had laughed aloud when this had been floated).

As she’d sat in the infirmary waiting for Corazon to regain consciousness, she found herself watching him. From what she could work out about him, he was a few years younger than her yet had risen to the rank of second in command of the Donquixote Pirates more than half a decade earlier; how young had he been when he had joined such an infamous pirate group to rise so high at such a young age? She knew a thing or two about joining criminal organizations and the way they took advantage of children.

Corazon’s defensiveness upon waking up had been unsurprising, and she again found herself wondering why he had saved Luffy—but then she’d seen the way he’d frozen when Luffy had entered the room, the breath catching in his throat and something in his expression. And he’d given Luffy his real name.

“Luffy,” Usopp said, pulling Robin from her thoughts, “the guy he works for owns this lab where they are experimenting on kids. He’s trying to protect that.”

Luffy huffed. “I don’t know how to explain it. I can just feel it,” he said, a hand going to his chest where the scar—from Corazon’s life-saving operation—was hidden under his winter coat. “I can feel that he’s a good person. He helped me, and I think maybe I’m supposed to help him.”

Robin exchanged glances with Sanji and Usopp. They all knew Luffy’s senses when it came to people were beyond rational explanation but somehow right. Robin in particular knew the power of Luffy’s intuition, having been saved from her own darkness because he wouldn’t let her go. If that intuition was telling him that Corazon—Trafalgar Law—was similarly important and worth helping, then there wasn’t much more to argue.

That was the Luffy Effect.

“Okay,” Robin said.

Sanji and Usopp took a moment longer but also nodded grudgingly. They might not understand it, but they’d trust their captain. (But, if need be, they’d protect him, too.)

-----

Once the door shut behind Straw Hat, Law dropped his head back against the wall and shut his eyes, suddenly exhausted. His head throbbed from the hit from Zoro’s blade, and he considered getting up to look for some painkillers in the infirmary supplies but decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. Outside the door, he could hear the Straw Hats talking, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying.

As he sat there, he couldn’t stop Straw Hat’s words from playing over and over in his mind.

“Jimbei said that you’d be in trouble with that Mingo guy for helping us, and I was worried. Were you? In trouble?”

“I fail to see how that matters.”

“But you helped me anyway. And I’m grateful! So, you’re a good guy. No matter what anyone says.”

“No, I’m really not. You should listen to Nico-ya.”

“Nope, I can feel it. Right here.”

Law had no illusions about what kind of person he was. He’d joined the Donquixote Pirates as a terminally ill ten-year-old, determined to do as much damage as he could before he died, and in many ways, he’d never outgrown that broken boy with bombs on his chest. He was the second in command to one of the biggest names in the slave trade, among other morally reprehensible operations. And though he was a doctor, he’d killed more than he’d saved, the letters tattooed on his fingers a promise as much as a warning.

Perhaps worst of all, though, he’d stopped feeling anything when he killed.

He shuddered to think what Cora-san would think of the man he’d become.

And yet, Straw Hat looked at him and—impossibly—saw something worthwhile. Felt that Law was something worthwhile. Felt it in the same place Law had felt the tug that pulled him to Marineford two years earlier.

What did it mean?

What did Law do with that?

The Seastone cuffs weighed heavily on his wrists, clanking as he opened his eyes and rubbed his face through his hands. He stared up at the ceiling, the words of his nakama from before his departure ringing through his head in the wake of Straw Hat’s declaration:

“I know you spooked when I lost my arm. But it’s not your fault.”

“You’re not this person you’ve let yourself become. They might think of you as Corazon, but to us, you’re Captain.”

Two years of pushing his crew away to protect them, of doing nothing to earn their trust or affection, yet they refused to give up on him. Like Straw Hat, they looked at him and saw something worthwhile. But how could Law accept that from them after what he’d cost them?

Despite what Violet said, Law knew he was, inside and out, Doflamingo’s creature. He knew what he saw when he looked in the mirror, the marks of claiming left on his skin and the emptiness in his eyes. After what he’d lost, Law was too tired to fight it any longer.

So why did people keep looking at him like he was anything but Doflamingo’s broken doll?

Law was startled from his reverie by a loud thud from the deck of the ship. He straightened as he heard the tone of the Straw Hats’ voices change in response to whatever had happened. Punk Hazard was unfriendly territory for them and full of more hazards than they could have known about when they anchored on the island. And most things unfriendly to the Straw Hats should be friendly to Law as Joker’s second.

Law rose and made his way to the door in an attempt to hear more clearly. He was wondering at the odds of using this distraction to search for the key to his cuffs when a familiar voice responded to the Straw Hats’ demands of who he was. Law’s stomach dropped.

“—ase commander of G-5,” Vergo was saying as Law pulled open the infirmary door.

The Straw Hats looked back at him, surprised, but Law ignored them, his eyes focused on Vergo. Vergo inclined his head when Law appeared, which was not a good sign.

“Torao, you should—”

“What are you doing here, Vergo?” Law demanded over Straw Hat.

“You two know each other?” Long Nose asked, glancing between them nervously.

“Your ally?” Black Leg asked, stance turning defensive. “But he’s a Marine.”

There was no way Vergo was here to help Law. But why had he come? Doffy hadn’t wanted him to blow his cover; that the entire reason for sending Law to Punk Hazard in the first place.

“It seems Joker was right to send me to check on your allegiance, Corazon,” Vergo said, lips twisting mockingly around the title he’d once worn himself. “I’ve been warning him for years that you were disloyal, and now I find you defecting.”

Law’s eyes narrowed, and he raised his shackled wrists. “Does this look like defecting, Vergo?” he hissed. Not that it would make a difference; Law was certain Vergo didn’t actually think he had defected. “I’m a prisoner.”

Vergo smirked. “No matter. All Joker needs to know is that I found his favorite plaything standing with the very crew whose captain he betrayed Joker to save two years ago.” His expression darkened. “And don’t forget the -san, boy.”

Law flinched at being called a plaything.

“What’s going on?” Straw Hat asked, frowning between the two. Law ignored him.

“What do you think Joker will do to your crew when he hears you betrayed him again?” Vergo went on.

Law felt the color drain from his face. “You son of a bitch.”

Straw Hat turned to look directly at Law, his expression turning concerned when he saw that Law had gone pale. “Torao—”

Turning his back on Vergo was a mistake. Law’s eyes widened as Vergo drew his bamboo stick, and, as he surged forward, coated it with haki. He swung at Straw Hat’s exposed back. Straw Hat sensed him coming, but Vergo’s speed took him off-guard; Vergo swung his bamboo, and Straw Hat tried to dodge but took enough of a blow to his side that it knocked him off-balance. He yelped in surprise as Vergo swung again, sending him over the ship’s railing into the water below.

Law inhaled sharply as Long Nose and Black Leg both cursed. Long Nose turned to Black Leg.

“Stay with Robin,” he said before taking a running leap and jumping overboard after his sinking captain.

Without missing a beat, Black Leg and Nico Robin took defensive postures in front of Law. Law looked at their backs in disbelief. Why? Why would they help him?

“I have no quarrel with you,” Vergo said to them. “Step aside. This is Family business.”

Black Leg snorted in disbelief, and Nico Robin smiled in that knowing way of hers. “Donquixote Doflamingo wouldn’t want it known he has a spy so high up in the Marines. You won’t let us go.”

Vergo straightened his glasses. “You caught me. But if you step aside, I’ll make your deaths quick.”

“I don’t think so,” Black Leg replied.

Vergo frowned, clearly as confused as Law himself. “Why would you protect him? He tried to kill you.”

So Vergo saw the fight. He must have followed Law from Dressrosa, leaving right behind him. That bastard was just looking for an excuse to cut Law down and finish what he’d started on Minion Island. Had Doffy told him to come, or was Vergo acting on his own?

“Our idiot captain seems to like him,” Black Leg replied with a shrug.

Law started as Nico Robin gave him a small smile before turning back to Vergo. “And Luffy is a very good judge of character. Even if we don’t understand his reasons at first.”

Law’s breath caught in his throat.

Vergo hefted his bamboo. “So be it.”

He charged once more, swinging his bamboo at Nico Robin. Black Leg intercepted the blow with his leg. Vergo fell back and Black Leg charged in a flurry of kicks. Vergo met him blow for blow until the two stopped in the middle of the deck, legs locked. Law winced at the sound of cracking bone. Black Leg slumped, and Law momentarily regretted hitting him with Counter Shock earlier.

“Sanji-kun!” Nico Robin called, worried.

“Where’s the key to these cuffs?” Law demanded urgently as Vergo turned back toward them. He did not want to be defenseless again with Vergo bearing down on him. And he was not going to let Vergo kill Nico Robin for protecting him. Too many people had been hurt or killed protecting Law, and he didn’t deserve any of it.

“Usopp has it,” she said, glancing toward the railing.

“Great,” Law muttered.

As Vergo approached, Nico Robin summoned giant hands, creating a wall between them and Vergo. Law knew it wouldn’t hold against Vergo’s Demon Bamboo. She winced as Vergo slammed against it, the structure shaking under his strength.

“Take Black Leg-ya and get out of here,” Law told her. Hopefully, Long Nose had rescued Straw Hat by now, and they could recover on shore. Vergo would let her go, at least temporarily; he was here because of Law, after all.

She looked at him, startled. “And leave you? You’re powerless.”

“You have no reason to protect me, Nico-ya. I tried to kill your friends. I wouldn’t have stopped, either.” She winced again as the wall trembled against Vergo’s onslaught. “We may both work for Doflamingo, but Vergo wouldn’t hesitate to kill me if given the chance. And now he has the chance.” He shook his head. “Get out of here and regroup with your crew. This is Family business.”

Nico Robin opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted by bamboo tearing through her wall. She cried out as the wall collapsed. Vergo met Law’s eye and smirked. Law gasped in pain and surprise as, in a flash, bamboo met his side and sent him flying into the ship’s railing. Slowly, he pushed himself upright and blinked against his spinning vision in time to see Vergo grab Nico Robin by the neck.

“Demon Child Nico Robin,” he said. “I should kill you, but I have a feeling Joker could make good use of you.”

“No thanks,” she choked out between gasps. “I have a crew.”

Vergo simply laughed—a sound that made Law’s skin crawl—and flung her across the deck. She slammed into Black Leg, who was struggling to balance with a fractured leg, and the pair were knocked into the far wall.

Law pushed himself to his feet. Vergo turned to look at him, the malice radiating from him palpable on the winter air. If Law had access to his powers, he would have no problem taking Vergo on. But with the Seastone shackles blocking him from his Fruit and draining his strength, he was as helpless in the face of Vergo’s rage now as he had been as a sick child—and they both knew it.

Vergo moved and suddenly Law’s back slammed into the wall, a haki-clad hand around his throat. Law’s feet dangled off the ground as he struggled to breathe. He grasped at Vergo’s wrist, struggling vainly to loosen the grip stealing his air.

“I’ve been waiting for this for a long time, Law.”

“Beating a terminally-ill child nearly to death wasn’t enough for you?” Law wheezed. It somehow seemed fitting that Vergo would finish the job he’d started on a winter island on the winter side of Punk Hazard. There was a feeling of things coming full circle as the snow fell around them.

“Once a traitor, always a traitor,” Vergo growled. “You’ve never been good enough for Doffy. Yet he brings you back and elevates you to his right hand.”

As darkness encroached on the edges of Law’s vision, it hit him that Vergo wasn’t simply holding a grudge about Cora-san’s betrayal. Since Law’s return to the Family nearly a decade earlier, Doffy had kept Law close, giving him no opportunities for betrayal. Holding Law’s crew hostage, he’d groomed Law—teaching him, training him, even fucking him. He did everything to make sure his ownership of Law was complete. Law had hated every moment of it—the only freedom he’d found was leaving Dressrosa on the Polar Tang with his crew on missions—but Vergo was jealous.

Law croaked out a disbelieving laugh at the realization.

Vergo frowned. “What’s so funny?”

“I didn’t take you for the jealous type, Vergo.”

Vergo snarled wordlessly and tightened his grip. Law gasped, feeling what little strength he had leaving him. His lungs screamed, he was light-headed, and his eyes started to close.

Would it really be so bad if Vergo killed him now? It would end nearly a decade of hell, the daily physical and emotional torture that had beaten him down to the point of pushing his nakama away…

Law’s eyes flew open at the thought of his nakama. He couldn’t die and leave them alone to face Doffy’s retribution. He couldn’t die without them knowing how much they meant to him, that even if he’d been a poor excuse for a captain, there was no greater honor than leading them.

A sudden fire burning in his chest, Law’s gaze sharpened, and he dropped his hands from Vergo’s wrist. Vergo looked at him in confusion—clearly, he’d thought Law had been about to succumb—and Law took his moment of distraction to loop the Seastone shackles over Vergo’s neck and cross his arms to tighten them with his waning strength. Vergo didn’t have a Devil Fruit so the Seastone wouldn’t affect him, but he would feel the bite of metal into his skin.

In his current position, Law didn’t have enough strength to truly strangle Vergo, but the move was enough to startle Vergo and cause pain. Reflexively, he loosened his grip, and Law gulped in the delicious, frigid air. Letting go of Law’s neck, Vergo grabbed Law’s arms.

“Let go,” he growled.

“You can’t kill me, Vergo,” Law rasped.

Vergo regarded him through those sunglasses. “Why not?” He only had to strain a bit to speak against Law’s attempted strangulation.

“Doffy has plans for my death, and we both know it.”

The surprise was evident on Vergo’s features. “How did you know—”

Law scoffed. “You don’t think I know why they call the Ope Ope no Mi the ultimate Devil Fruit? Kill me now and Doffy will have to look for the Fruit all over again if he wants that operation.”

Law never intended to go through with the operation, but it was leverage Vergo couldn’t ignore.

“Doffy always says you’re too clever for your own good,” Vergo said, lips curling in distaste. But Law knew he had the other man; Vergo was completely devoted to Doffy, and he wouldn’t do anything to risk his master’s chance of receiving immortality.

In one sudden motion, Vergo let go of Law’s arms and grabbed the chain wrapped around his neck. He pulled it free and held the chain above his head, leaving Law dangling in midair by the wrists. Law hissed in surprise.

“Now what, Vergo-san?” Law asked, sneering the oft-demanded honorific.

“I take you back to Dressrosa, a fallen traitor,” Vergo taunted. “Doffy will finally see you for what you are—nothing better than his miserable excuse for a brother. You can watch Doffy slowly destroy your crew one by one. Maybe he’ll even make you kill some of them.” He sounded amused at the prospect. “And then he’ll make you beg to perform the Perennial Youth operation—and only then will you die, doing one useful thing in your miserable life.”

Chest clenching, Law thought of his crew. Of kind Bepo. Of goofy Shachi. Of brave Penguin. Penguin’s words came back then, sharp and pointed.

“You want to pull that, maybe you should start acting like a captain again.”

No. I won’t let that happen. He was done failing them as their captain.

His eyes flew open as Vergo’s haki-coated fist connected with his stomach. The breath left his lungs—again—and he would have curled in on himself if he wasn’t hanging in midair. Vergo let go of the chain and Law dropped to the grass of the Thousand Sunny’s deck. He looked up in time to see Vergo’s bamboo coming right for his head.

“Torao!” he heard in the distance.

Then nothing.

Next chapter

[quakerjoe]

Is America really ready to reclaim democracy?

I’m going to share a fact with you — and you’re not going to like it.

America’s problems can be reduced to the following. White Americans want America to be a failed state — and that is its fundamental, deep, and long standing problem. That is how America ended up here — more than half a century of white hostility to any kind of social progress whatsoever — which resulted in social collapse, and culminated in Trumpism. White people made America a failed state.

But are white people ready to own this problem, of their own extremism? Is that long-term social position really about to change this election, finally, after more than half a century? Are white Americans ready to become a modern, functioning society? The answer, right about now, is a kind of hysterical “yes!” We all — all of us sane and thoughtful people anyways — want Biden to win, and put an end to the long nightmare of the Trump years. But — despite what the polls might say — how realistic is that?

“Kill Umair! Get him!!!” Maybe you’re foaming at the mouth, ready to dispute my simple fact. So take a hard look at the chart above. What does it say?

I have some bad news, and then I have some worse news. Don’t worry, you’ll thank me later. The first piece of bad news is this. Here’s a fact that most people underestimate. America is still about 80% white. 80%. Given the record-breaking turnout, this election is going to be more about America’s white majority than about minorities, probably, at least if every group turns out in record numbers roughly equally. Minorities have much less power than many imagine, precisely because they are still seriously in the…minority. This election is about white America, and if it really wants to live in a democracy — or if it’s happier living in a fascist society.

You might think that sounds over the top, so here’s the worse news. The chart above says this. It says that white Americans, as a group, have never, as a group, voted for a Democratic President. Never in modern history. In fact, the chart above in fact understates the problem. This trend goes back to JFK and perhaps before. Are you beginning to see the problem here? Why I say “America’s problem is that white people want it to be a failed state?”

Let me make it clearer. White Americans can be relied on, in the majority, as a group, to “vote Republican.” I put it in quotes because it’s worth examining what that anodyne statement really means. Liberal, sane, thoughtful White Americans often overestimate how many of them there are, how widespread their cause is. The result is that when I say “Americans are…” meaning of course the majority, which is still white, I get a wave of protest. Americans aren’t dumb! Americans aren’t dumb! They’re not violent, stupid racists! They want to live in a modern society! Are they, do they — at least the white majority? Let’s take a brief and hard look at reality.

Here are some things white Americans have been for, as a group, in their majority. Segregation. Endless war. Inequality. Billionaires. Capital. Guns and religion as primary social values. That is what the voting pattern above means. Conversely, here are some thing white Americans have been against, as a group, in their majority. Desegregation. Civil rights. Womens’ rights. Their own healthcare, retirement, and childcare. Public goods of any kind whatsoever. That is what the “voting pattern” above means in the real world. Need I go on? America’s problem is that white Americans as a social group, its majority social group, want America to be a failed state. They don’t want to live in a modern, civilised democracy, and never have.

White America is America’s problem. A big, white, ignorant problem. The problem of the white American voter — that white Americans don’t want to admit — goes back more than half a century at this point. If the answer is “Make America Great Again!” then the question is: “well, who brought it this point of self-destruction?” and the answer is….white Americans. They’re the ones responsible for the self-destruction of the society they still rule as a massive majority. Nobody else is responsible for their poverty, despair, and humiliation but them. That is what the chart above makes crystal clear.

Who voted, over and over again, to have worse lives? No healthcare, retirement, affordable education, childcare — no public goods of any kind whatsoever? White Americans did. What the? The question baffles the world. Why would anyone choose a worse life? The answer is that white Americans would not accept a society of true equals. “I won’t pay for those dirty, filthy peoples’ educations, healthcare, retirements! Why, their grandparents were my grandpappy’s slaves!” White Americans chose to retain power, supremacy, superiority, even in a failing society. They chose staying on top of decline and ruin, rather than prospering as equals.

Let me make that even clearer, by putting it in a global perspective. This is the part you’re really not going to like.

White Americans are the rich world’s most hostile, ignorant, violent, cruel, and selfish social group — by a very long way. “Voting conservative” after all doesn’t mean nearly the same thing in Europe or Canada. There, even conservative parties agree on the basics — people should have healthcare, education, retirement, that the only point of the public purse isn’t endless war and death machines. Conservatism in America is off the charts, and so “voting” that way carries a very different meaning. It means that White Americans are the rich world’s most regressive, ignorant, and self-destructive political bloc — by such a long way that they might as well not be in the rich world at all.

I don’t mean any of that as an insult, by the way. I mean it objectively, literally, factually. You’d think that by now White Americans would have figured out that voting against their own standards of living ever rising just because it meant black and brown people would have public goods too was…imbecilic. Especially watching Europe and Canada rise and prosper. They’ve had more than half a century to figure that out. But they still haven’t. What else do you call the inability to learn from the world and history but…ignorance?

Do you know what the word imbecile means? Someone who can’t look after themselves. But that’s what has happened: white people are the ones who wrecked their very own lives, futures, and society — beginning the moment, decades back, that minorities finally gained a few rights, in a giant, stupid, endless, escalating temper tantrum, that culminated in Trumpism.

I know this sounds insulting. But to speak factually and empirically about levels of self-destruction this immense requires us to reach beyond the lines of everyday discourse. Let me try again, then.

White Americans really are different. From their peers — or at least the people they believe are their peers. But the truth that their political choices over decades reveals is this. White Americans have almost nothing in common with White Europeans or Canadians — who back the expansive social contracts of social democracies reliably. White Americans reliably reject such choices, which is how they made their society collapse. instead, they have more in common with the ethnic-religious-fundamentalist majorities of nations like Iran, or the authoritarian-nationalist majorities of nations like Russia. They are regressive, sectarian, fundamentalist, unable to change, trapped by their own ideologies.

That is how and why America collapsed. Black People didn’t make it so. Brown People didn’t. Native Americans didn’t. America is still about 80% white, and white Americans make a certain choice reliably and consistently and predictably as a group — they vote “conservative,” but conservative in America doesn’t mean what it does in the rest of the rich world — it means something much more like Iran or Russia. Bang.

White Americans impoverished themselves, through decades of such folly. Voting against their very own basic public goods. Which meant they had to pay monopolists eye-watering prices for those very things which could and should have been socially provided — healthcare, higher education, retirement, and so on. Today, the average American dies in $62,000 of debt. Do you know what that predicted, a few years ago? A fascist implosion. When majorities grow impoverished, they turn even more regressive, violent, ignorant, and brutal. America’s white majority was already all those things — and then they became even more so.

A demagogue came along, Trump, who blamed white America’s problems on everyone but white Americans. Mexican babies. Black mothers. Latino immigrants. Syrian refugees. Gay minority couples. Everyone but white Americans was responsible for the plight of white Americans. But how could they be? America was and is still 80% white. Nobody was ever responsible for white America’s stunning plunge into poverty, humiliation, and despair — but white America.

But nobody wants to blame themselves, do they? It’s only human to project one’s failings onto others. So white America took Trump’s bait. And it was easier, too, to sell that line of nonsense, that racism, that prejudice, that bigotry, to a white majority that was already those things, and always had been. It was a self-reinforcing process, which was inevitable once America’s white middle and working class began to implode. Fascism was coming to America.

And it did.

Those of us who warned of it were called alarmists and hysterics and so on, when we warned of camps, genocide, bans, raids, purges. As all those things came to pass, and, sick to our stomachs, we survivors tried to warn all over again, we were mocked, shamed, and condemned. By white Americans. Even the good ones. We were told we were underestimating the power of white America to do the right thing.

But we understood something that white American never has about itself. White America has never done the right thing. Ever. At least not in modern history. White America, again, the chart shows us, has been for segregation and war and brutality — and against desegregation, women’s rights, civil rights, and so on. White America, as a group, as a majority, has never, ever voted for anything even slightly towards greater equality, justice, freedom, for all. It has only ever voted to preserve, maintain, and expand its own power. Ever.

White Americans — the good and reasonable ones — overestimate their social group so badly that they probably imagine a majority of white people voted for Obama. Wrong. Even Obama couldn’t win a majority of whites. The only candidate who came close was Bill Clinton — and even he failed. White Americans, again, never voted any way but fanatically “conservative”, which, in global terms, means more like majorities in Iran or Russia than Canada or Europe — regressive, ignorant, brutal, hostile, selfish, and supremacist, not modern, gentle, fair, wise, sophisticated, thoughtful, peaceful, tolerant.

White America’s escalating temper tantrum — its pattern of regressive voting — finally escalated in Trumpism. That is how all of America ended up here. Ruled by white America’s fascists and fanatics, too. Which even the sane and thoughtful white Americans despair at. But will they finally understand themselves? Can they look in the mirror once and for all?

We survivors and scholars have seen all this before — the phenomenon of the deceptive majority. By “deceptive majority,” I mean the idea that good and reasonable white Americans have about themselves. That as a majority, they are good and reasonable, and so goodness and sanity and reason will prevail in the end. They have not in America precisely because white Americans badly overestimate just how sane and reasonable their group in society is. How can they be, when they think guns matter more than healthcare and human rights?

I’m sorry if that sounds harsh. But again, I am only speaking to you factually, empirically, objectively. White Americans have voted over again and again for their guns and their Bibles — but they have never, ever voted as group to have healthcare or retirement for all or any single aspect of a functioning modern society whatsoever. Not to this day.

White America seemed to prefer supremacism and theocracy and authoritarian-fascism over modernity, as a social group. And that is how America ended up being a failed state. That, my friend, is the ugly and difficult fact.

That is the problem of the white American voter. And it spells real trouble.

Because when we say things like “Biden will win in a landslide!” what we are really saying is: white American as a group will, for the first time in modern history, not vote Republican. That they will, as a group, vote for something other than regressivism of the most extreme kind on offer. That the massive tide and force of history will suddenly turn on its head. That a decades long trend will simply reverse itself en masse, like never before.

We are asking for something greater than we may know — for history to deliver us a genuine transformation in long-standing political and social attitudes amongst a majority that has never, ever felt the way we wish them to. Who have never, ever been on the side of modernity or greater democracy or more civilization.

We are hoping for change of the deepest kind. Are we overconfident, then?

I’m not saying that a Biden landslide is impossible. But I am willing, at this stage, to call it unlikely. I don’t think white America is suddenly going to reverse decades of history. I think history has a terrible momentum and inertia, which doesn’t turn itself around so easily. I think social attitudes and political preferences don’t simply magically upend themselves overnight. I don’t think white America as a majority is going to back Biden. (If it does, it will be thanks to young people, though.)

Where does that leave us? Not in a very good place. The problem of the white American voter is very, very real. More real than white Americans know — which is precisely why their pundits and intellectuals never discuss it: they are giving their own social group’s regressivism and imbecility a free pass. But it’s the elephant in the room, just how different white Americans really are, as a group, in the majority, how regressive, cruel, hostile, ignorant, and backwards. That’s not an opinion — it’s a sad, terrible, frightening fact.

It’s possible that minorities will deliver the election for Biden. That’s if turnout for them is much, much higher than for whites. We don’t know, really, if that’s the case. I’d say while the chances are slim, they are very real.

More likely, though, is the following scenario. White America votes the way it always has as a group, as a majority — to screw everyone else over, as hard as possible, even if it itself pays a price. That will lead to three possible outcomes. One, an outright Trump victory. Two, a undecided election, which the Supreme Court will obviously hand to Trump. Or three, the most likely, in my estimation, months of chaos, as America tries to figure out what to do next, about the mess its in, and the GOP makes every grab for raw power.

And the protests of the good and thoughtful white Americans don’t help: “not all of us!” Sure, Chet, not all of you. But enough of you have been like this for most of modern history. Embittered, hostile, cruel, backwards.

Is that about to change? I don’t know, my friends. I doubt it, but I hope so. So why do I tell you this? Because we minorities are what we have always been: barely tolerated interlopers and hated intruders in the Promised Land. You, my white American friend, are the only one with the power to change any of it.

Umair October 2020

[lisarichardsonbylines]

How to Tell Your Husband You’re a Witch

Witches we need you. Now more than ever. In the time of COVID-19 we can find respite in place-based reverence, plant magic and the divine feminine. So writes Lisa Richardson, who came to witchiness with nothing but white hetero straight-lacedness and a crush on a yoga teacher.

Lisa Richardson | Longreads | April 2020 | 15 minutes (4,084 words)

On a Friday afternoon, pre-COVID-19, my husband dropped some ice-cubes into glasses, ready to make us screwdrivers and cheers to surviving another week of working/parenting/wondering where the hell the years were going, only, the vodka bottle was empty.

“Oh yeah,” I said, my eyes sliding sideways, trying to not cause a fuss, “I used it for medicine.” The previous week, the kitchen counter had been cluttered with a giant mason jar full of oily plant matter. “Balm of Gilead!” I explained, brightly, as he wiped away the breakfast crumbs around it.

“But what is it?”

“Cottonwood tips in oil.”

His eyes had flicked, then, over to the brand-new bottle of extra virgin olive oil that was now nearly empty, as I enumerated the medicinal benefits of this old herbal remedy (and all this from a tree in our backyard!). Twenty-four years together means I could hear the abacus in his brain clicking, as he wordlessly calculated the cost per milliliter of a gallon jar of plant matter masticating in top-shelf olive oil, against the cost per unit of a bottle of generic aspirin tables, overlaid with the probability of me losing interest in this project.

First the olive oil. Now the vodka for dozens of little jars of tinctures — garden herbs and weeds soaking in now-undrinkable booze. My midlife quest to attune more deeply to the rhythms of the natural world was starting to incur unexpected, but real, costs.

He was quiet, as he opened the fridge and pulled out a beer instead.

* * *

In my defense, I could have pointed my finger at Natalie Rousseau, a yoga teacher living in my 5,000 person village, who I’d first encountered leading a solstice yoga class billed as a way to survive the madness of the holidays (in slightly more gracious language). Thanks to her offerings of insight I did survive the commercial horror of the “festive” season, and a few months later, as the new moon entered Aries (whatever that actually means), I plonked down $200 to subscribe to her online 13 Moons course — my foray into “slowing down and being more present,” as I pitched it to my husband when he inquired about the strange entry on the credit card statement.

But I did not deflect the simmering tension between us by naming Natalie as the instigator of these “kitchen witch” experiments. Even though I am not a member of any kind of coven or cult, (I don’t think book club counts), I know deep in my bones to never throw another woman onto the fire for helping you. That has been done too many times.

But there it is. The word. Witch. The wound.

* * *

Every day, after COVID-19 entered our world, Natalie Rousseau has responded with an offering, a teaching — a meditation, an ancient mantra of protection, a yoga practice for managing anxiety, a how-to video on harvesting poplar medicine. It’s as if she’s been resourcing herself for this moment to develop the richest arsenal imaginable, to navigate, not the public health crisis, but the billion personal crises each of us is forced to confront as life as we know it slams into pandemic mode. It’s not what I thought a witch would do, if I ever thought about them at all.

Natalie doesn’t look like a witch either — not in the way I conceived it for last year’s Halloween costume, with my long black skirt, dollar-store pointy hat, and heavy black eyeliner, walking alongside my 6-year-old vampire-werewolf. Natalie is petite, just a few inches over five feet, her long blond hair still evoking the decade she spent living in a west coast surf town, her chest and lean muscled arms bright with full sleeve flowery tattoos and Mary Oliver quotes. She moves like a dancer, demonstrating yoga poses as if she’s transcending gravity. As a teacher, she speaks exactly, even in Sanskrit, and guides movement precisely, padding gently and soundlessly through the room, making an adjustment here, offering an instruction there.

So, I was surprised when she used the word “witch” to launch her new online offering, The Witches Wheel. The lure was irresistible. Natalie was claiming the word “witch” without flinching, without anger, without provocation, not as a way to reclaim feminine power and stick it to the men, warranted as that may be: It was essentially an invitation to observe the cycle of the seasons.

A threshold beckoned.

* * *

Natalie, a recent empty-nester, lives with her husband Paul and two dogs in a modest townhome, with a creek and a dozen rogue gardens installed by various residents running behind it. The garage is full of motorbikes. The porch is swept clean on the day I visit, six months into the 13 Moons program, wanting to talk with her about this radical word and why, in a world still unsure what to do with powerful women, she’s not afraid that she’s exposing herself to pitchforks and fires, haters, and trolls.

Even though I am not a member of any kind of coven or cult, (I don’t think book club counts), I know deep in my bones to never throw another woman onto the fire for helping you. That has been done too many times.

A tea blend of her own mixing — vanilla chaga chai — is brewing on the stove in an open saucepan. She tends to it, as I settle in, sneaking glimpses around the room, looking for evidence of witchcraft — pentagrams, cloaks, bottled frogs. Nothing. The space is uncluttered, a throw-rug on the armchair, a couple of stark white deer skulls are mounted, European-style, on a wall against a reclaimed barn board — definitely more Soho chic than occult-goth. Her husband returns from town, where he has picked up fresh croissants for us. He’s tall and strong, with a tightly cropped red beard — he looks like a guy you’d run into at the gym, at the surf break, at the hardware store.

“So, what’s it like living with a witch?” I ask him as Natalie attends to our tea, a light-hearted question sprouting out of the great compost of fears I am thinking. Is it impossibly hard to be with a woman who comfortably claims her own power, magic, cycles, voice? What kind of a man can love and honor a witch? And lurking deep beneath it all: Will my husband be one of them?

Paul rolls his eyes, overly-dramatically, pointing up to the light fixture in the kitchen — light bulbs housed in mason jars of all sizes, evoking summer cabins and fireflies and Kinfolk magazine dinner party lanterns. “I made this for her because everything ends up in jars. Have you seen inside these cupboards?” He walks around the house, in faux-exasperation, opening doors to reveal neat stacks of jars, full of dried petals, leaves, syrups, tonics, salves, salts. “And there’s more upstairs!” If it hadn’t been for the dinner party they’d hosted the previous night, most of their apartment’s horizontal surfaces would be covered in jars, he tells me, and the front porch would have housed a dead raven and a dead Cooper’s hawk.

“She’s always sending me out in search of dead things,” he jokes. He picks up roadkill in case she can salvage feathers or skulls.

“When he first met me, I was already a skull collector, and now he goes and finds them for me and brings them back,” says Natalie. “He’s gotten really good at living with witchy stuff.”

The two of them are remarkably self-sufficient — an animal lover (“he loves animals more than people”), Paul realized veganism left him tired and undernourished, so took up hunting to procure his own meat humanely; one of the deer skulls mounted on the wall was harvested this fall, its meat now fills their freezer. They grow a garden, wildcraft, eat well. There is an ease between them — a tidal push and pull as they navigate their modest shared space and the morning routine, without evidence of fake niceness, of power trips or struggles.

Witchcraft, in Natalie Rousseau’s mind, is too non-dogmatic and non-hierarchical to submit to a single all-encompassing definition. “As a practice, it’s so highly individual,” she says, “but across the board, it is very place-based, land-based and body-based. For me, it’s about cultivating a relationship with your own body, your own mind, your emotions, and subtle sensing faculties. It’s learning how to trust your intuition. It’s about reclaiming your own instincts, but also being able to feel: this is what stress feels like in my body, this is what relaxation feels like, this is what it feels like to say yes to something out of a sense of obligation or pressure, this is what it feels like to have a boundary. This is what it feels like when I’m safe. These cues come to us from our bodies. It has to be, for it to work well, otherwise, you’re always reaching outside yourself for another authority.”

This is what she wants to help women, particularly, to reclaim: their sense that they are the first authority on themselves, that they can trust their bodies’ wisdom.

“The biggest thing I want to share with people,” says Natalie of her teaching and online courses, “is how to trust themselves. Everyone can very easily make the medicines that their household would need for common household complaints — colds and flus and chest colds and menstrual cramps — so many basic things that anyone can make very simply, quite affordably. I’m not anti-pharmaceutical. There are many medications people have to take daily to live. And if I have a serious infection, I’m going to take antibiotics; if I am seriously ill, I am going to go to the doctor; if I have any kind of trauma, I’m going to be so grateful for that form of medicine. But I believe the role kitchen medicine has is in the maintenance and prevention of illness.”

One of her biggest laments, though, as she makes videos and handouts and shares them with her online community, is that even people who have paid to do her course don’t feel that they have the time to take it into their kitchens. “Making a tincture is literally pouring vodka over plant materials and leaving it on your counter for four weeks!” she says. But it is easier for most people to just buy one online and have it delivered to their doorstep. “I am saddened by how easily women give their power over. This is the biggest thing I’ve noticed as a teacher in the past couple of years — how quickly women will say, ‘but how do you do this? I don’t know how to do this! I’m afraid to try this because I might not be good at it, I might be doing it wrong. I’m an imposter.’ I really struggle with this. Where is it coming from?”

But she knows. We have relinquished our power, over a thousand years or more, of wounding, of witch-burnings, of patriarchy either convincing us we have none or forcibly stripping it away, (hello Harvey Weinstein), until all we feel empowered to do, now, in 2020, is consume. And we’ve been doing that with all our might.

We override the listening, we ignore the nudges, we push through, like good soldiers. “Most people are running so hard,” observes Natalie. “Our culture is so focussed on productivity. We are so overly heroic — it’s all or nothing. I can’t do something unless I’m an expert. I don’t want to try. But this is a craft. It’s a path of education.”

Natalie’s invitation is gentle, and she’s crafted her online course to serve that: Start with one plant and learn its taste, its smell. Spend five minutes a day on meditation or in conscious ritual and begin to notice what’s going on in your nervous system, in your mind, in your body.

“When he first met me, I was already a skull collector, and now he goes and finds them for me and brings them back,” says Natalie. “He’s gotten really good at living with witchy stuff.”

Don’t get so distracted by the word witch, that you fail to notice that it is connected to craft. Witchcraft, for Natalie, is a path of learning “how to trust and problem solve, from within, knowing that we are in a system of power that, for better, for worse, will strip us of any ability to trust ourselves and to always feel empty so we have to keep buying more stuff.”

When she says this, a deep thrill of recognition hums in me, accompanied by a shiver of fear. Those are revolutionary things to say out loud, to cast into the open air. I recognize it viscerally as the kind of talk that gets people in trouble.

* * *

Last summer, before I met Natalie, I had stepped from my backyard patio stones onto freshly cut grass and spied the sinuous form of a wandering garter snake. I leaned in quickly, excitedly, about to call my 6-year-old over to glimpse the garden visitor before it shimmied away. But it was eerily still. Ugly slash wounds marked its body. It was dead. Innocent victim to the ride-on lawnmower. Obliterated by our oblivion.

“Oh no,” I muttered. “I’m so sorry!”

I had already begun to wake up to the natural world, it’s rhythms, it’s offerings of medicine, it’s otherness, but it had come with a shadow side, a growing despair at what we were doing to the world. Even without a malicious intention, I was causing death and destruction — just mowing the lawn, drinking my coffee, wiping my ass: My actions, all our human activity, had compounding impacts that were destroying the snakes, the ocean, the atmosphere, the forests, the icecaps — beyond repair.

I wanted my garden to be a habitat. I wanted the bees to waggle-dance directions to my sunflowers to their hive-mates, I wanted the wandering garter snakes to nest in their hibernacula through the winter and bask in the long grass in the summer, I wanted to lie on my back and watch butterflies dance through the flowers and the hummingbirds zoom in and out, I wanted to inhabit innocence again.

I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. My penitence froze me in place, scared to make a move for fear of ruining something else. Then, regret overriding my squeamishness, I fetched the flat-bladed shovel and edged it under the dead snake. I carried her body over to the vegetable patch, and in a space between the beds, where the mower never goes, I laid her down. I picked marigolds and calendula from around the garden, where they’d been planted to keep the snails away, and lay the bright orange blossoms in a circle around her.

Grandmother snake, I whispered, hoping that some force that exists beyond the definitively dead snake at my feet, might spread the word among the entire species, “I’m sorry. We didn’t mean it. I will try to be more careful.”

It was a made-up ritual, the kind that a kid might perform deep in her dream world at the bottom of the garden, and it made my 44 year-old-self feel a little bit better. At least I’d made a gesture of repair, had expressed my desire to return into balance with the living world around me. If it had any effect, I’d never know. I went back inside, said nothing.

A few days later, out in the garden, my husband tripped over the skeleton of a decomposing snake, ringed by wilted flowers, half consumed by ants.

“That was spooky,” he confronted me. “What’s going on? Are you some kind of witch?”

* * *

* * *

Natalie has always been comfortable with the word. Now she’s having fun inviting people to consider the archetype, circle it, unpack it, stumble upon some kind of recognition: Wait a second! Maybe I am a witch!

“It’s cool how people in the western world can take a description that has been used mostly as a slur, and turn it around to use as something empowering,” she says.

For thousands of years, witch was a term used to incite violence against women. By the most conservative estimates, half a million people, mostly women, were executed in the European witch craze between 1300 and 1650. Accusations of witchcraft were used against women, says Rousseau, “in ways that were extremely dangerous and terrifying. It was really about getting power from them, and getting land back. So, to use a word like that in an empowered way, even today, you have to know you’re safe to do it. And it’s important to realize that in many places in the world, it’s still not safe for women to say that. But if we can, in safe places, take that word and turn it around, that, to me, is extremely powerful.”

I wanted the bees to waggle-dance directions to my sunflowers to their hive-mates, I wanted the wandering garter snakes to nest in their hibernacula through the winter and bask in the long grass in the summer, I wanted to lie on my back and watch butterflies dance through the flowers and the hummingbirds zoom in and out, I wanted to inhabit innocence again.

Natalie herself embodies empowerment. Not in the traditional way I have come to recognize power — as someone standing over, dominating someone else, her source of power comes from within.

She doesn’t need to take any from her partner.

“Do you find this relationship at all emasculating?” I joke to Natalie’s husband.

“I don’t. Not at all. No,” he replies.

“We’ve always given each other space to be ourselves.”

But that’s not always a guarantee of safety.

If it is dangerous to be an empowered woman in the world, then it’s dangerous, too, for the men who love them.

Lyla June Johnston is an author and activist of Diné and European heritage. Her inquiry into her disowned European heritage led to a realization: The millions of women burned alive, drowned alive, dismembered alive, beaten, raped and otherwise tortured as so-called, “witches,” were not witches at all. They were the medicine people of old Europe. Her lens, as a contemporary indigenous woman, and as a survivor of sexual violence, helped her identify that those were the women who understood the herbal medicines, the ones who prayed with stones, the ones who passed on sacred chants. And the all-out warfare of the witch burnings didn’t just harm the women. It had a profound effect on the men who loved them, their husbands, sons, brothers. She recognizes the echo of this in the story of her own time, of her own people. “Nothing makes a man go mad like watching the women of his family get burned alive. If the men respond to this hatred with hatred, the hatred is passed on. And who can blame them? While peace and love are the correct response to hatred, it is not an easy response by any means.”

How many men have kept their women down, tried to keep them at home, have become the handcuffs that the women fought against because they were answering to their own unarticulated primal instinct to keep them safe?

Natalie Rousseau speculates, “I am sure historically you had lots of husbands telling their wives to tone it down, not because they didn’t respect their power, but because they were genuinely afraid. I’d apply that to any women described as uppity — getting involved politically, or getting involved in local stuff that’s happening, fighting for the environment: Stop getting noticed so much. This could be dangerous.”

Some dangers are too great to be able to protect each other from. And so we turn the fight on each other — little domestic power-trips that distract us from the fact that we’ve relinquished all our power any way to the Great Machine.

* * *

My tentative inquiries into witchcraft, becoming fluent in my own moods and emotions, and paying attention to the seasons, barely prepared me for the abrupt slow-the-fuck-down order that came when COVID-19 landed in British Columbia, in my village, as school broke for spring break. The emergency handbrake was pulled. Everything came to a squealing stop — all my plans, canceled; all the stores, closing; the whole damn world, under house arrest and in a panic. The whiplash from the stunning speed of that shift has left my whole being hypersensitive to any sudden movement, to being jerked around. But the first things I have staked my trust in, in that space of uncertainty, were Natalie’s teachings: First, trust your body. Pause. Listen.

In self-imposed isolation with my husband and just-turned-7-year-old, I dance with anxiety and curiosity and disconnection and too-much-information. The well-trodden pathways we have all been racing along, flexing our power and exercising our entitlements as consumers, are suddenly bordered up with emergency tape. This invitation that Natalie has been dripping out, month after month, takes root. There is far more potency available to us, than shopping, driving, holidaying, consuming, endlessly moving around the planet.

There is potency in all the feelings that have been showing up at my door. Oh, good morning frustration. Ah grief, yes, I suppose you’d like a cup of tea. Hello there, existential terror, I wondered when you’d pop by. There is potency in sitting with my back against a huge cedar tree and listening, in slowing down so much that I can give my 7-year-old my full attention. There is potency even in my words, when I soothe him down from a tantrum by saying, “you know, this is a really hard time for everyone in the whole world right now because no one knows what’s going to happen and no one can play with their friends. I’m really proud of you.” And I can feel his body relax into this space of being acknowledged in his struggles and his efforts.

I don’t know if there are any medicinal properties in the tincture of St John’s Wort and valerian that I drop into water and hand my husband, to gentle his nervous system. Or in the jar of immune-boosting oxymel, that I brewed up with grated ginger and turmeric and orange peel, and shake every day. But even if it’s a placebo, there’s a relief for me in feeling I can do something, can offer my people some kind of healing intention in a little glass, that I can acknowledge that this is hard for my husband too, and that acknowledgment isn’t a concession that takes away from my own sense of struggle.

For decades, we’ve bought into the illusion that our power is as consumers. Now that stores are closing and the shelves are emptying and we have to stay home and not immediately indulge every whim that arises, we all feel powerless. But that was never our truest source of power. There’s another source that we can all plug back into, our deep relationship and interbeing with the life force. Maybe, this is our threshold moment. Maybe, this is a chance to craft a few little spells, to speak the words of the world we long to inhabit — a place where the currency of kindness and wonder flow, where humans return to a deep memory of belonging among the plants and creatures, and to brew up a cup of tea, light a candle, and dream it into existence. Maybe it’s an invitation to say, “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to, I will try and be more careful,” and to build a little altar, even if you feel kind of cray cray doing it. Let your nervous system settle as you invent some small ritual, (just ask your inner 5-year-old for guidance, she probably remembers exactly what to do), and make a gesture of repair.

“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have on my Apocalypse team,” I tell my husband, the night the global virus countertops 400,000. He’s been chopping wood, auditing the pantry, getting our kid across the finish line of the LEGO project that has absorbed him for four days. My husband was a farm kid. He’s always been practical, my polar opposite. Even when we have battled each other, (am I giving up too much of my power to him? If I acknowledge his pain and his needs, will that cancel mine out?) I’ve always known he would do anything to keep me safe. “Not that I can request an upgrade now,” I joke. “But I bet you’re glad to be stuck with me. One always wants a daydreamer at your side in a pinch.”

“Oh yeah,” he spoofs me: “’ The stock market is collapsing, let me just go check my Tarot cards.’”

We laugh. And hold each other. We can’t buy our way out of this. None of us. Our entire species, our global community, is being vividly reminded that we are all in this together, inextricably connected, epidemiologically entwined, in our vulnerability and our sweet potential. We didn’t need Amazon and airlines and online shopping to know what the witches have been telling us all this time. All the power we need is right here — between us, around us, within us. We just have to remember it.

* * *

Lisa Richarson

is a senior contributor to Coast Mountain Culture magazine and a columnist for Pique newsmagazine and edits the hyperlocal websites,

TheWellnessAlmanac.com

and

TracedElements.com.

She’s deep into a decade-long mission to slow the fuck down, but still optimize life for happiness and productivity. Born and raised in Australia, she has lived as a guest on the unceded territory of the Líl̓wat Nation since a ski vacation went rogue 20-odd years ago.

Editor: Carolyn Wells

Posted by

Lisa Richardson

on

April 8, 2020

https://longreads.com/2020/04/08/how-to-tell-your-husband-youre-a-witch/

[gosagacious]

HAWK fails at a postapocalyptic future

I’m waiting for my copy of HAWK from the library, but from what I’ve heard from other readers, it sounds like it hasn’t changed much since the ARC. That’s frustrating. Partly because there were so many plot holes.

In Maximum Ride Forever, the world has been hit by a meteor, and then gone through not only that fallout but numerous weapons like a lab-created plague and nuclear bombs. Major cities are flooded, or cratered, or experiencing nuclear fallout. A significant part of the population is dead. We meet only a handful of adults. The vast majority of survivors who we see are children, and quite a few of those are mutants. The ending features a battle between child armies. 

In MRF, we are given to believe that these are the people on whom the rebuilt future rests. 

In HAWK, we get a completely different fallout.

Take all of that stuff from MRF and add in a four-year-long nuclear winter. The surviving child soldiers do have resources and can work on planning, but all the characters we know of go into underground bunkers to survive.

Eleven years after that – sixteen years total since the extinction-level event - there are multiple cities full of people of all ages. These cities feature skyscrapers, massive drug labs, evil science facilities, tanks, cars, guns with government chips in them, paved streets, plumbing. Film studios, movie cameras, animated cartoons! There is a hidden canyon city with houses carved into the walls, which one imagines would have taken a very long time, but which is apparently quite well-established. There are doctors and nurses. Where did they get their degrees? Are they all in their thirties and younger, or were they adults who we didn’t meet in MRF? 

It’s difficult to tell the ratio of mutants to humans, but from what we see, mutants are occasional but rare. (So much for Itex’s plan to have their mutants rule the world.)

On to the social status quo. Now, bear in mind that Hawk never got an education and has lived in one place for as long as she can remember. Okay: Hawk does not know what the ocean is. She does not know what a squirrel is. She believes that horses and pandas are mythical creatures, and she talks about “Crismins” instead of Christmas.

More widely, everyone, including Americans, has adopted the metric system, people talk about the “gods” and some worship statues. Okay. Fine, I guess. I can even sort of take Max’s inspirational speech reminding the citizens that they deserve to be treated like human beings.

But it’s difficult to tell how much of this is Hawk being clueless and growing up in a hellhole of a city, and how much is meant to be genuine worldbuilding of “See! See how different this dark, gritty future is! See how much has been forgotten! Our main character has heard only a garbled version of the word ‘Christmas!’”

Except that it has been only sixteen years since the world ended. It has only been eleven years since they really had the chance to start rebuilding.  I know we only see two cities and one prison island, and it’s hinted there’s more of a connection to the previous world in the free city of Tetra, but this is ridiculous.

Technology, infrastructure and population should be low. Connection to the previous world’s pop culture and society should be high. There are adults running around for whom sixteen years is only a fraction of their lives. There would still be teenagers who would have been born before the apocalypse.

Instead, the book treats things as if it has been much longer. High population, infrastructure and technology. Low connection to the previous world. 

After sixteen years, things have changed so much that a girl born at the pivotal point does not know the word Christmas. She does not know what the ocean is; she has never heard anyone talk about islands, or cruises, or going to the beach. In a world where TV is a constant presence, she thinks horses are made up. But Christmas is what really gets me. Look at how much Christmas takes over stores and media around December. Are you telling me that in under two decades, people forgot the word Christmas?! They have TV and cartoons, and in the past decade and a half, nobody has ever cranked up some old carols?? 

After all this, I want to try a quick worldbuilding of what the Maximum Ride future might look like. This is just spitballing; there are any number of directions it could go.

What HAWK could look like if the future followed a sensible pattern:

To begin: after natural disasters, plague, nuclear bombings, and a four-year nuclear winter, you’d have a vastly shrunken population. Most of the characters seen in Maximum Ride Forever are orphaned children. There will be huge gaps in the age population. I’ll hypothesize that most adults died in the plague. By the time of HAWK, you probably don’t see anyone over 65, and even that might be pushing it.

On the other hand, I expect there will be a huge emphasis on repopulating the planet. The survival of the human race is still in question. Let’s say there was a baby boom right after the nuclear winter ended and people started leaving their bunkers. You see a lot of kids around 10-11 years old. Hawk will hardly ever meet anyone her age; she was born in a patch of time when pretty much nobody was having babies. There are no abusive orphanages. Children are far too treasured. Even if death rates are high and orphans are common, there will be people anxiously collecting up those orphans and raising them in a safe place. Hawk’s orphanage could still be a weird place, but the kids wouldn’t be disappearing or taken off to evil laboratories. Although—more on that in a minute.

By the time of HAWK, the Apocalypse’s shadow still looms; anyone 20 or older can remember where they were and what they were doing That Day. They reminisce to each other or to their children about the old days. Hawk can be skeptical, as in canon, that some of these stories are true. Enough people that the world was struggling with overpopulation? How is that possible?

The survivors are people who went down into bunkers. Let’s say there were bunkers scattered all over the world. You’ll get a lot of wacky survivalist types, and also probably some of those scientists and major businessmen who were talking about the end of the world in the older MR books, and who could afford to build bunkers. Speaking of which: Himmel! This was the main villain’s bunker that the Flock and their army of child soldiers ended up moving into. Chock-full of advanced technology.

The groups in these bunkers would have lived together for four years in close quarters, relying on each other to survive (or maybe fighting to the death, I don’t know). Groups like the one in Himmel will probably be incredibly close-knit. Even after the nuclear winter is over, it will make sense for people to use those bunkers as bases. Towns, and one day cities, will grow up around them. Some people may still live primarily in underground apartments.

Maybe (I could be pushing it here) there are some people who stayed out of the bunkers and ended up in a hunter-gatherer caveman-type existence. If they survived, this could be an important allyship or a source of tension with the bunker-dwellers. Do they join up? Do they keep their distance?

Major cities do not exist (so no “City of the Dead”). The older cities are uninhabitable and being reclaimed by nature, long stripped of resources even if they aren’t just piles of rubble. Most people are not concerned about rebuilding them right now, and there probably aren’t even enough surviving workers with the right knowledge; a lot of professions will have to be re-developed from the ground up. Suffice to say there are no new skyscrapers going up.

The immediate concern will be food. Agriculture will have suffered from the nuclear winter. Some people are working on traditional farms, but we do have that advanced technology from Himmel, and the surviving scientists will be in high demand for developing new food sources.

I’m thinking of lots of farming communities centered around the safety of the bunkers. They will spread outwards only gradually. And there was a large population of mutant “Aquatics”, so new towns may not necessarily be built on land. We could have towns built on or under the water, and farms focused on fish and seaweed.

Mutants make up a major percentage of the surviving population. There’s no more of scientists coming after mutants and picking them off. Mutants are the scientists now, in many cases; the mutant kids growing up in Himmel would have been studying the resources there and learning to build things necessary for the new world.

However, there’s a possibility of prejudice against mutants. Perhaps some of the human survivors, particularly from other bunkers, resent the mutants or see them as tied to the Apocalypse. The question of reproduction and having the human race survive? Maybe some people want humanity to be “pure.” They don’t want bird or fish DNA floating around in there. 

There will likely be a problem of ruffian bands who try to raid these settlements for food. Sometimes settlements raid each other. There may also be corrupt administrations, or gangs who offer “protection.”

There isn’t the same kind of worldwide connection. Although they certainly have the technology for long-distance communication, it will take a long time to rebuild the infrastructure and carry it all over the world. The postal system is gone. The transportation system is gone. Instead of booking a flight at the airport, you ask your buddy Susan if she can give you a ride in her crop duster to the next settlement. 

There are no huge, high-tech prisons, either. Nobody’s got the time or resources to devote to that, and there simply aren’t enough prisoners to fill up something like that. Prisons in this world? I’m picturing big old pits like in The Dark Knight Rises.

So here’s a shot at reworking the beginning of HAWK: Hawk’s parents leave her with a babysitter in a farming community, but while they’re away, it’s hit by raiders. In the destruction, along with food, the raiders also take kids to sell them. Hawk ends up in a weird orphanage obsessed with raising the new generation of the world and ensuring humanity’s survival. However, one of the administrators is bigoted against mutants, and when it’s discovered that Hawk is a mutant, she’s put aside with the other "non-ideal” kids, who are treated like servants. The orphanage might be under the “protection” of a gang - the Paters. Pietro can even still be around—except please less boring and maybe with a name that doesn’t sound like a tongue twister—and he might be a rare kid born around the same time as Hawk, maybe a year older, whose parents made it through the Apocalypse and kept their infant son alive because of their wealth.

That’s something I could have accepted. I can’t accept smacking Hawk in the middle of a generic dystopian city that seems a century or further into the future, when it should be only sixteen.

[unluckyadept]

Character Journal Entry: Felix

{July 16th, 2021T}

[Felix did not return to his letter drafts right away when his shift ended the next day. Instead, he sat alone, holding onto his iconic mask.

He wanted to express his thoughts, but one thing had become clear over time: he truly had to provide the context, or else it just wouldn’t make sense. His streak of Mars in particular.

He was no longer all that concerned about being fiery. He had plenty of enemies who were out to kill him, people who wanted to inflict great suffering in every imaginable way; he truly didn’t have the patience anymore to grovel. He would never be in complete agreement with his close friends—but that was just the way of the world. 

He looked up with unseeing eyes, his mind caught in the weight of the past and the gravity of the present.

It was like he had mentioned in one of his previous drafts: this was the true end. He could feel it. He could feel it in his very soul; Lalivero was safe in the eye of the storm, but the only way through these troubles was through the squalls that besieged them. There was no turning back.

Either they would break free from the violent tempest, unhindered as they made for shore in a clear sunrise…

…or they would be dashed upon the rocks and drown.]

+=+=+=+

"{Keep your spirits up, lad. Too much for you to do to be dwelling in darkness.}"

+=+=+=+

[He closed his eyes and surrendered a silent sigh.]

({What was it that Sir Glenn said? Something about not… not resenting the lamentation at wishing to reclaim what was lost.})

[He rubbed a hand against his face, still dwelling in a deep mental cloud.

One of the things that had always bothered him in the past was his lasting sense of pain, and the weight that suffering had chained to his heart. He had worried that the way it haunted him would drive others away; they would surely find deep discomfort if he were more vocal about what was on his mind during these times. After all… he hadn’t known anyone else who would broach such topics to him, let alone on a frequent basis.

But he still hurt. Oh, he still hurt. These wounds ran deep… and when they ached, the scars were filled with blinding fire.

Such matters had been weighing more heavily in his heart for over a year and a half now. For the pain was no longer of the decades past, but of the living present.

And the reminder of this was enough to make it harder to breathe again, from stress alone—

It was a silent cry of a suffering soul as his heart protested the crushing, suffocating clutches of sorrowful despair.

His grip on the mask tightened, and he curled the hand pressed against his face into a clenched fist.

His adoptive grandfather would not want him to be held back like this, let alone falter in his faith in his convictions.]

+=+=+=+=+

“{There is good in everything that happens. Sometimes you have to spend a little bit more time looking for it, and sometimes it doesn’t reveal itself immediately. But there’s always good in everything that happens.}”

+=+=+=+=+

[He could feel tears building at the memory of the man’s reassuring confidence.]

+=+=+=+=+

“{It may not reveal itself immediately, and even in the most dire circumstances, if you just wait, if you just remain open to things, the good in it will reveal itself.}”

+=+=+=+=+

[He tried to shake it off, but the tears remained poised as he remembered snatches of what the great Ranger had taught him.]

+=+=+=+=+

“{If disaster is coming our way, we don’t just sit there and endure it. We come up with ways to avoid it, to beat it back, to overcome it, but we don’t just sit there and accept it.}”

+=+=+=+=+

[He gritted his teeth against the sense of loss, still (futilely, and he knew it) fighting back tears.]

+=+=+=+=+

“{But I don’t believe our darkest days are ahead of us. I never have. [You] have been asking, ‘You’ve always told us you’d tell us when it’s time to panic. Is it time?’ It’s never time to panic, [Earth-son].}”

+=+=+=+=+

[He let the mask fall into his lap so he could press both hands against his face, instinctively holding his breath as a result of the crushing void of loss.]

+=+=+=+=+

“{It’s never, ever gonna be time to give up on our [people]. It will never be time to give up on the [dedication to build dreams].}”

+=+=+=+=+

[It was all he could do to seek comfort in the words again in this dark time.]

+=+=+=+=+

“{It will never be time to give up on yourself.}”

+=+=+=+=+

[For all the thrill of victory at having lasted this long in open war against the Tolbi regime—and particularly the importance of having disrupted the flow of supplies from their capital city to the troops in Northern Gondowan—

It was still all so overwhelming.]

[After the pretense was discarded last autumn, their enemy seizing the opportunity to use cowardly tactics in an attempt to overwhelm them at lightning speed—

After he was taken prisoner and not one of them would even consider speaking to him as a fellow human being…

…eventually, in the “end”, he had fallen into despair.

They had done everything they possibly could to prevent it… and it had been cruelly subverted by hateful Pride. He had sought to treat even his tormentors with respect—and he had, as best he could!—and to appeal to basic human decency, for the chance to learn what mattered to them… and they wouldn’t even deign to speak any more beyond their brutal contempt of blinding Pride.

If all his power had not been enough—if they had brought their full strength against the enemy and only barely survived—there, in those moments as he lay dying, and in those days after he was brought back… he couldn’t help but wonder, at first.

He had asked himself: with all that in mind, could he really trust that they would be able to overcome such deep-rooted tyranny?]

+=+=+=+=+

“{Trust me.}”

+=+=+=+=+

[It had taken a very long time for him to begin to recover.

And just as he was starting to do so…

…he received the news that he would hear such words of encouragement… no more.

Not again within this world would he be able to turn to the man who had been like a second father to him—the one person who had never doubted his ability to thrive and succeed, despite his background, despite his temperament… despite everything that would have otherwise long since overwhelmed his will to keep struggling and clawing his way through the darkness.

There had been long periods of time where the only things that kept him from succumbing to insane levels of agony—the only reasons he had stayed his hand, even as he looked into the abyss with a desire to embrace it—the only reasons he had even bothered to continue were: the obligations of duty to toil until relieved from his role in this life… and that man’s unshaken certainty that he was capable enough to overcome the noose of shadows and walk in the sunlight of hard-earned dreams.

And now…]

({I just want to hear your voice again, one more time! Even… even though I know what you would say.})

[He understood, now, why Mikhail had never asked him to use the Tomegathericon to allow him to speak to his late wife. He had once thought that strange, in the back of his mind—it had stood out, at least. Clearly, the man suffered deeply from her loss, and yearned for her presence. Why should he then willfully avoid any means of contacting her? And why had she not visited, the way other spirits had?

Now he knew. He understood.

As much as this hurt, he knew that his Proxan grandfather had been ferried across the river into the sea of Light—and he did not now have the heart to even ask to recall him back into these days of sorrow.

He’d been close enough to such an experience himself to properly appreciate it—after such an exhausting journey, it was a relief to be free of such burdens of responsibility.

Such burdens were for the living to carry.

For him to carry.

For him to Live.]

({We stand upon a spearhead of fire. The first to fall shall be engulfed in crushing irons, such as to prevent them from rising up again for generations. We are so close to breaking the stranglehold they have on the region once and for all…! If only we can outlast their corrosive and hateful Hubris.})

[He pulled his hands away from his face, curling one closed and placing his other hand over it, his eyes closed in weariness and focus.]

({So it is that the task falls to us, as your generation takes the road to dawn. You have raised us upright in virtue to take on this load, and lead the charge against the darkness that we might yet have self-controlled destinies for ourselves and our children.})

[The tears had dried, now, and he opened his eyes, staring off into nothing.

They had been victorious, but word had reached him of the forces rallying for another massive charge. He needed to entrust some of the others to take command of the area, to keep up the pressure on their enemy so that they would not be able to slip through again unnoticed.

They had won another battle, but the war was far from over. At this rate, it would be over a year before anything definitive happened—unless things escalated AGAIN, wildly out of control.

Felix sighed, taking hold of his mask once more.]

({If they have their way, then I know what shall happen. We’ve seen this song and dance before—we know how the story ends.})

[Such things had happened to the people of Garoh, after all.]

[He remembered Maha telling him about such matters.

And he had been warned by others, too—

They would punish him for refusing to submit, if they found him. And they would make much more of an effort to ensure he would not escape their ultimate answer to his “offensive” existence.]

({This is why I have to succeed, Grandfather. Oh, Iris, I beg of you to petition our grievances! The immortal soul is too fierce to be contained in a mortal body, and yet this is the only Life we have ever known. We must defend the right to achieve our destiny, no matter how atrociously the darkness assaults us; we can never obtain paradise in such a divided world, but we are called to pursue our inner fire that we may be at peace with what we have earned.})

[…He was too tired to think much more.

Perhaps it would be best if he just went home for the night—out in the Wilderness—to get some proper sleep.]