#also normalizing wrinkles in general like why are we as a society so afraid?

[jacarandaaaas]

something I’ve never talked about before is how much I appreciate encanto giving not only the older madrigals forehead wrinkles! because everyone’s face wrinkles when you emote no matter your age and it’s really nice to see them show that on the younger madrigals ! like normalize facial wrinkles when you emote! (especially for women) we are not made of porcelain‼️

#encanto #encanto disney #disneys encanto #mirabel madrigal #isabela madrigal #dolores madrigal #luisa madrigal #it’s such a minor thing but i love it #like it peeves me so bad when faces just don’t have emotion or move at all #also love the unhinged expressions the madrigals are so real #I just think it adds a certain element of charm like #they feel more real? #also normalizing wrinkles in general like why are we as a society so afraid? #also look how pretty they all are when they emote #yes to expressions yes to stress lines and wrinkles yes to CHARACTER

[opossumanonymous]

How did he get in this mess?

Warnings: Inko literally uses her quirk to pull out AFOs pubic hair because I don't think anything else would immobilize him temporarily, talk of inko using her quirk to pull organs, guns mentioned

I wrote this on my phone so sorry if anything looks funky for computer users. If I made any mistakes or any characters are too ooc please tell me. Also this is a fanfic featuring AFO as Midoriya Hizashi and Inko as a ex-Black Widow and mostly features them please enjoy!~

******************************************************

How did he get in this mess, face kissing the floor and completely caught off guard?

Hizashi wasn't quite sure himself actually. One minute he was doing some 'work' before he heard the voice of his wife over his shoulder.

"Hizashi, what are you doing?"

Then he was on the floor a nearly blinding pain spread over his body leaving him in fetal position unable to think of nothing else.

Once his mind got clear again he turned his head to the side looking up at the woman who he thought was his wife. Her usually gentle smile was gone leaving a cold look on her face as she read through his files. One of her hands out stretched towards him while the other clicked through the computer.

Which made him briefly realize he may have to put plan B into action but before that he had to know if this was his wife or someone else. Last thing he wanted was to do something reckless if this wasn't his wife.

"Who-" Before Hizashi could utter a word he felt another painful pull causing him to ball up even further trying to somehow ease the pain. He choked on air as Inko? Stared at him with a blank expression now turned away from the computer. She crossed her legs as she watched him wither in pain looking at with him cold emotionless green eyes.

Who was this woman she can't be Inko! It gave him brief fear realizing that a shape-shifting spy might have tricked him somehow. After all theres no way his sweet wife could ambush him, let alone be capable of hurting him this badly! But if this is someone with a shape-shifting quirk there's no way they would also have wife's quirk as well. Unless they can copy the quirks of people they shape-shift into but then-

"So was this what you were doing while I was comforting our son?"

His eyes widened at that realization, it hit Hizashi hard as he broke out in a cold sweat. He looked up at Inko who still had that chilling look on her face making Hizashi for the first time in 200 years feel...afraid.

He didn't know whether to be impressed at her or disgusted in himself, him, All for One, the symbol of evil, the villain who has brought many heros and villains alike to their knees is...afraid? It sounds unreal just thinking about it that someone could still scare him.

Not by much but still it was a feat that no one before her had done in a long time.

He felt like he was getting whiplash knowing that the same woman who cooked him breakfast nearly every morning, who cried at anything sad or happy, and cuddled up to him at night was looming over him like some villain.

"Hizashi speak up your mumbling." She spoke harshly as he felt another pull, he's starting to lose feeling in his legs.

"I already knew." He said breathless feeling defeated almost, yet another feat none before her had accomplished. He could almost hear his brother laughing from his grave at this point. "What?" Her forehead wrinkled the cold look leaving her face for a moment making her look more like the Inko he knew.

"I checked Izuku years ago, I had my suspicions when he didn't develop his quirk after he turned 5. While I can't tell what a quirk is if I don't know it, I can sense them." He told her truthfully "When I reached into his subconscious one night after I tucked him in bed, I found no sign of a quirk." He knew their was a chance Izuku would be quirkless anyway, Hizashi was from the first generation of quirk users after all.

But he would never give his son a quirk, no he's not going to let history repeat itself, if there's anything he's learned in his 200 years of life it's never give your hero loving relatives a quirk.

Plus being a hero is 10 times more dangerous now, no thanks to him, he'd rather his precious son live quirkless.

Despite the ridicule quirkless people get from society atleast he won't ever get badly hurt or worse killed. Luckily Hizashi had a back up plan just in case he needed to protect his family from themselves.

But seeing Inko looming above him is starting to make him think about adding more reinforcements to the vault. After all she's not so much of a gullible woman like he once thought she was.

"I see but that doesn't change anything, you weren't there for our baby when he needed you most. That's why after this you're going to march into our sons room and comfort him like a good father should." He almost winched at her harsh tone. He honestly didn't know if he should be scared or not. He did still have an arsenal of quirks he could use but none that were non lethal from a long range he could use on her.

"And if I don't, what will you do?" He was curious in all honesty after all it's not every day your usually gentle and emotional wife does a 360 degree personality change on you.

"Then I'll keep ripping out your pubic hairs till you comply." He felt a slight tug again at the slight flick of her wrist causing him to flinch.

He had felt tempted to challenge her, now realizing it was a mistake seeing as she has him by the balls...literally.

"And if you try anything...well you'll be surprised at how many organs count as a small objects." She said with a chilling smile which he almost hates to admit made him flinch.

He always knew her quirk was suspicious despite only being limited to small objects it could still be a deadly quirk if used right. The number of deadly weapons considered small objects was big and considering she only needs a vague idea of where an object is located to pull it to her which includes organs...Hizashi's starting to realize he didn't really know his wife like he thought he did.

After all who would've guessed his sweet Inko would use her quirk so...creatively. He nodded, head still pressed to the hard wood floor of his office.

Inko gave a sigh of relief as she genuinely smiled running her hand through her green locks. "Good I'm glad we could come to an agreement." Hizashi felt the release of her quirk as she sat back legs still crossed.

He slowly sat on all fours before rising to his knees still feeling phantom pains with each slight movement.

Once he was on his knees he wrapped his arms around her waist laying his head in her stomach. She gently caressed his head of white curls causing him to sink further into her and let out a content hum. After a while he looked up at her, the cold look on her face gone now taking a more softer expression.

"I knew you where a villain since the first week after we got married." Hizashi didn't think Inko could shock him anymore but that honestly got him, and yet again she conquered another feat.

He would have never guessed that she knew about him being a villain before now. "Honestly I felt like I got rusty since I found out so late, but I guess living a normal civilian life will make anyone like that." She smiled gently at him looking more like the Inko he knew. Or atleast thought he knew, she was one of the most ordinary people he met from her average nursing job to her adorable naiveté at times.(which he now knows was probably just an act) She played him like a fiddle, he underestimated her and made him fall even harder for her.

That's right, he didn't think it was possible to love her even more than he already did, but this moment proved that wrong.

"Wait then if you knew why did you stay and why wait until now to bring it up?"

She furrowed her eyebrows again before turning her head away from him thinking about her answer for a second before looking back. "I'm not exactly who I said I was either..." She trailed off with a far away look in her eyes almost like she was looking through him and not at him.

He took her hand which had stopped rubbing his head and brought it to his cheek. This seemed to help her focus again as she gave him a tired smile.

"I'm not a good person either Hizashi I've done alot of things that I now regret." For a moment he guessed that she was an ex-villain that he'd just never heard of.

Although that was very unlikely seeing as he liked to keep tabs on most high profile villains to find anyone with good...potential. Inko definitely wasn't a low class villain she just didn't fit the profile of a bank robber or common street thug. Her aura gave off a more experienced air to it not to mention no low class villain would have the guts to look him in the eye once finding out who he really is.

"I was once apart of an organization who specialized in training those considered...unless in society." The way she said useless held a malice to it despite her still having a smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"They kidnapped me and many other young girls most of them either being quirkless or having 'weak' quirks." Quirkless trafficking while rare nowadays still went on but he'd never heard of an organization making quirkless people assassins. Wlep there's a first time for everything he guessed.

"They trained and raised all of us to be assassins, to put it simply, they chose us because they knew we'd be underestimated."

Assassins? If someone had told him is lovely wife was secretly an assassin he'd laugh in their face before killing them for saying such a thing. But now after being brought to his knees by her he honestly isn't surprised, at this point he'd believe anything that came out of her mouth. She could tell him she could kill someone with only a plastic spoon and he'd believe her.

"I was one of the lucky ones i was able to escape before my 'graduation' if you could call it that. I was even able to find my birth certificate after months of digging through missing persons reports." She now went back to stroking his white curls as she spoke.

"After escaping I decided to live the life my mother wanted me to or at least I like to think she'd want me to." He knew she was an orphan, she'd told him that on their second date he never thought much about it.

He never even really looked into her mother much either only knowing that she died when Inko was young and that she was Nana Shimura's sister. When he found this out at first he was suspicious but over time he let his guard down, if that was a mistake is still up for debate.

"They called us Black Widows." He'd heard that name before but it's been so long, last time he heard the words Black Widow he was reading a comic book to his sick brother. It's either unoriginal or genius considering most will only think of the comic book hero Black Widow opposed to it being a real organization.

Finally getting the feeling back in his legs he stood up stretching slightly while she watched him. He stared down at her now that he had the high ground it was time to give her what she deserved.

He leaned down towards her his hands coming up to her face menacingly. But she just sat there unfazed with a serene look on her face, their was no real use in trying she knew he wouldn't hurt her. He held her face as he leaned in and gave her lips a gentle kiss.

After pulling away he took her hand and helped her out of his office chair. "Now time to go see about Izuku hopefully I can get him out of his depressed mood."

Giving her a true smile only reserved for his family he lead her out of his office not before shutting down his computer and locking the door.

"Yes please talk to him because I didn't know what to do than to apologize to him." She sighed clearly distressed. "While it has been a long time since I escaped somethings I still just don't know the right words for." She looked defeated like she didn't just have Japan's greatest villain nearly kissing her feet.

"It's fine darling soon Izuku will go back to being that happy kid again, you'll see." He gave her a final kiss before heading to Izukus room ready to help his son or else face the wraith of his wife.

He briefly wondered just how good of an assassin his wife is and just how many she's killed. But quickly shook those thoughts away as he entered his son's All Might themed room.

While he'd never ask her anything more about her past as a Black Widow he soon came to realize she was highly skilled as he watched his son on TV.

He was watching UAs sports festival with Tomura at his current hideout the boy exclaiming in shock at this year's winner.

The one to take first place was UAs first quirkless student Midoriya Izuku who took out the competition with only a pair of electroshock bracelets as wepons.

Not to say that it was only the support tools that secured his win, the way he bended dodging attacks and hit his opponents with devastating blows to the head made him nearly laugh out loud.

It was almost hard to believe that this was the same kind boy he once tucked in bed but he had to admit his son was quite reckless.

He's in all honesty proud of his son especially for beating Mizuki's brat whose bullied his poor son for years. While he isnt happy that his son's well on his way to being a hero atleast Inko trained him well.

Just how did Hizashi get in this mess he'd hoped quirklessness would make his son reconsider being a hero but it seems Inko had other plans.

*****************************************************

Extras:

So originally Inko was gonna hold him at gun point but I felt like AFO wouldn't be sacred of a gun so....

Also Inko has wepons (mostly guns) hidden in every wall in the apartment after all you never know when the red room might strike.

Inko still gets chubby but not from stress over Izuku being quirkless it's more so over the red room possibly finding him and taking him. She's still bad ass tho, can kill anyone with a just plastic spoon.

She also ran away from the red room before they could sterilize her.

Izuku does eventually get One for all but it's after the sports festival instead, tho he does still parade as a quirkless hero even after One for all.

He also is a vigilante on the side under the name Black Widow tho most think he's a girl because of the Black Widow reference. He even wears his mom's old Black Widow suit.

You could say he's hero Deku by day and vigilante Black Widow by night!

AFO totally knows it's him tho because he knows Inko wouldn't be that reckless or feral.

Izuku has no idea his loving father is AFO but knows his mom's an ex-assassin.

#dad for one #hizashi midoriya is all for one #inko midoriya #inko midoriya is a black widow #inko midoriya just being a good mom #bnha fanfiction #canon divergence #black widow au #bnha dad for one

[ayellowcurtain]

Make me know you really care

Part 2

Robbe? Robbie, sweetheart?

Three muffled knocks, he feels that same strand of hair from earlier back to bother him again, tickling the outside corner of his eye. His neck is tight, and his arm basically dead underneath him, all his weight on top of it. Robbe moves the hand he can still feel to push his hair away from his eye.

Two knocks on the door and one attempt to turn the door knob and Robbe opens his eyes a few times, suddenly realizing it’s not part of his sleep, the noises and the voice calling his name. He pushes himself to turn and lie on his back, slowly moving his arm so the blood can run back to his tickling hand. The same plain walls, the same headboard, he is really back in his old bedroom. Last night really happened.

Milan is still at the door, his shadow - the dark cloud hair, the bright shirt and tall figure - clear on the glass but Robbe sees someone else next to him, not as clear, but clear enough for Robbe to recognize him, and he sits on the bed. Sander is there too, waiting one or two steps behind Milan. Robbe doesn’t need to see him to know he’s worried, thinking he went too far last night.

“Leave me alone, Milan.” He tries, aware that the same way he can see them well enough, they can see he’s sitting on the bed, very awake.

“Can you open the door, please? Or I’m gonna have to use the argument that you’re in my house…”

Robbe closes his eyes, still feeling like he didn’t sleep a single minute even though it’s bright outside, the sun almost disappearing at the top of the window.

His mouth is so dry and not smelling the greatest, he’s still using the clothes from last night, all wrinkled, a complete mess. He didn’t want Sander to see him like this, such a mess after that date that Robbe had to come back to the flat and sleep in his normal clothes. If it was the other way around, Robbe would worry if he found a sleepy, still smelling like beer Sander, sleeping on the same clothes he last saw him.

Robbe doesn’t try to make himself look any better while getting up, unlocking the door for the two but not enough that they’ll think he’s inviting them in. It’s not his bedroom but Robbe will act like it while he’s here. Milan has to mean his words when he told Robbe in the past that this would always be his room if he ever needed it back.

Sander is looking as perfect as any other day, clean, and with fresh new clothes too, the worry staying in his eyes, the way he frowns his eyebrows a little bit and the way he clenches his jaw but other than that, he’s fine.

“There he is!” Milan smiles and claps his hands excitedly, looking at Sander, and Robbe holds himself back from closing the door in their faces, “Good morning, princess.”

“How did you know I was here?” Robbe asks and regrets it instantly. His mouth is dry and bitter, and he doesn’t feel like talking to anybody right now enough to let them notice how terrible he looks and smells.

Sander is the one to explain, almost whispering as he looks at Milan. “He didn’t. But I stopped at your house and you weren’t there so I came here and I told him you were here.”

Robbe looks at him, afraid of who might have opened the door for him at the other flat. Sander finally looks at him again, reading his mind like always.

“He wasn’t there. But I guess his things aren’t there either…from what Jens told me.”

Well, he heard the message then.

The weird silence grows around the three of them and Milan connects the dots, opening his mouth in a wide and big 0.

“You broke up with your boyfriend?!”

Robbe looks at his friend and back to the ground, ashamed of himself for the way he did it. Nobody knows about the voice message, and Robbe is not sure how much he’s willing to tell. The break up is no news anymore so he nods his head.

“Oh, baby!” Milan pulls him by his shoulder, hugging him tight, his hands rubbing up and down Robbe’s back, turning them around so he’s the one looking at Sander and not Robbe. “He was such a loving, caring boyfriend, Sander. I know he’ll be fine, baby. And it wasn’t your intention to hurt him…” Robbe gently pushes Milan back, knowing he’s saying all of that to Sander, not exactly to him.

“Thank you…”

Milan looks from him to Sander, now standing a few steps from each other, nodding his head. “I’m gonna make some strong coffee for us, maybe go get some croissants for old time’s sake.”

They both watch as Milan grabs his coat on the hanger, waving goodbye as he leaves the flat to give them some privacy. Robbe looks around, the walls are ridiculously thin so they wouldn’t be able to talk any other way but Robbe is not sure if he wants to talk either.

Sander sighs, and Robbe sees him moving, putting his hands in his pockets.

“Some time ago I went shopping with Younes…”

Robbe frowns, and looks at him, not sure where this is going or how it has anything to do with him.

“He probably heard a lot of my thoughts about you, and us. So he thought that day that I needed to vent and he needed to go shopping. So yeah, we went out. And-“

Sander pulls his hands out again, opening one to show Robbe a ring. Suddenly he’s wide awake, as sober as one can be, very aware of everything they talked last night, or almost fought about. He steps aside, feeling dizzy and turns around to look at Sander and what he’s holding.

It’s a golden ring. It doesn’t seem new or cheap. Sander probably found it in one of the vintage shops he loves to lurk around. It’s beautiful, and Robbe’s triggered brain goes straight to that conversation they had years ago. About marriage and how Sander took it lightly, saying they were too young to give in to society’s expectations. He can feel Sander’s expecting stare on him, still looking at the ring, somewhere between terrified, amazed and hurt.

“This isn’t a wedding ring. It can be, I mean. Whenever you want. I’m just trying to say that I want it. To marry you, spend my life with you. If that’s what you want too. While we wait for the right time...this can be a promise ring.”

Robbe closes his eyes, trying to keep his nausea down on his body. For months while they were dating he thought about a wedding. Henever wanted some big event, with families and extended family they barely know. He didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.

He wanted the day, whenever that was, to be very intimate and theirs, nobody else’s. Robbe wanted to wake up aware that it was the day, he wanted to make them some delicious, movie-like breakfast, to help Sander cook whatever he felt like cooking that morning, to kiss him, smile against his lips, look at him and see Sander’s bright, shiny eyes excited to live that day. They would put some nicer clothes on, hold hands and walk to the place where they could sign the paper and take a cheesy picture with it after they were done. It would be a blue sky type of day, not too cold, not too warm, they could easily walk to their favorite restaurant, eat whatever they wanted for once without worrying about how expensive everything was. This would be a special date so they would worry about money all the other days of the month.

“Robbe?” He finally looks up, being reminded that Sander is still very much there. His hand is back down next to his body, his index finger swinging the ring while he holds it with his thumb and middle finger. “It never crossed my mind to be with someone else but you. I’m sorry if I made it seem like marrying you wasn’t for me. Or just marrying anyone. It is if we’re talking about you and me. I didn’t think it was such a big deal to you at the time.”

Robbe sighs, staring at Sander for too long. He knows years have passed since that fight but while he’s here now, standing across from Sander he really feels the years that have passed. It feels like a lifetime ago and also just a moment somehow. Robbe always struggled when he started thinking about time. How fast it might pass and how slow. He doesn’t really want to get old but he also feels like he had pretty shitty times in his past.

He turns left and goes to the kitchen to make that strong coffee Milan forgot to make before leaving. He hopes Sander is following him.

The kitchen is still the exact same, and the coffee machine is still where it was when he lived here. He knows Milan’s bedroom and the bathroom look different because Milan, Senne and Zoe painted those while they were all in quarantine together. He came here a million times after that, the green color in the bathroom is starting to annoy him, actually.

He grabs two mugs out of the cupboard just above the coffee machine and puts them next to him, one ready to receive the first coffee.

“Do you still like your coffee the same way?”

Sander was at the kitchen door and it’s like the question is a permission for him to walk inside the kitchen, pulling a chair for him to sit. “Yeah. Burning hot, please.”

Robbe gives him his mug the second the coffee stops pouring and moves on to the fridge to find some milk for him to use for his coffee.

“And Ava?” He asks, grabbing his milk from the microwave, just warm enough not to ruin his coffee.

He can almost hear Sander saying what about Ava? but he doesn’t say that, thankfully.

“I broke up with her.”

Robbe pulls the other chair for him to sit, waiting a little so his coffee is drinkable.

“Does she know why?”

Sander lifts his eyebrows. “That I was about to come here the next morning to propose to you? No but she can probably guess it happened because of you generally.”

“Does she know anything about me?” Sander doesn’t answer with words but he nods his head, finishing his coffee already.

“She knows how much you mean to me, she knows we used to date. All those things. It’s hard for me to not talk about you, Robin.”

Robbe drinks a little bit of his coffee and adjusts his jacket, pulling the hood over his head again, feeling more comfortable this way, looking at Sander through his lashes, noticing how fondly Sander looks at him, with an almost smile right at the corners of his lips.

“You know Robin is not my name, right?”

Sander frowns. “Isn’t your name Robin IJzermans?”

Robbe snorts, and the front door is open and closed.

“Honey, I’m home!” He screams, and Robbe looks at the kitchen door, waiting for Milan to appear, making as much noise as he can thinking they would be making out at the kitchen counter or something.

He looks from one to the other in disbelief nothing is happening but he brushes it off, putting the plastic bag on the table for them to unpack.

“How many croissants?" Robbe pulls the heavy and deliciously warm paper bag and Sander pulls the coffee, and big nutella container.

“Three for each.”

“Better than Sander. He would only bring two every time.” Robbe steals a glance at him again and Sander is already looking.

“I always thought that would be enough of a hint but nobody ever left us alone, so I guess it didn’t work.”

Milan laughs, spinning around until he can lean against the sink, looking from one to the other, too curious to pretend for another second.

“And…?” He lifts his eyebrows.

Robbe stares at Sander for a little longer, unable to decide for the future but now it’s enough.

“We might get married at some point.”

Sander finally smiles shyly at that and Milan drops his shoulders like he’s disappointed.

“I wanted new news!”

[bigskydreaming]

Apropos of nothing other than fuyunoakegata making me think of it with that last post, I’ve gotten enough new followers lately that its worth a refresher slash introduction on one of my personal pet themes: that of the word ‘broken’ in regards to trauma/abuse/rape victims and survivors.

Again, nothing to do with them for using the word, but rather just an awareness of the many ways the word is used in those contexts in our society, and my personal opinion that a lot of those ways are very limited and could use some expansion beyond how we typically see these things talked about.

So the below excerpt is just one I think sums up my take on it all pretty well, and as such is a cornerstone viewpoint for a lot of the stuff I regularly express and/or circle back to, as well as being the scene I think I’ve probably gotten the most feedback/reactions to over the years out of pretty much anything I’ve written. Its YJ-verse, Dick and Dinah, utilizing the Tarantula storyline and the not-at-all-uncommon baby-in-the-aftermath trope, but stands fairly well on its own and doesn’t require any context or give any spoilers beyond that.

****

In the end, it was Dick who finally broke the newly fallen quiet.

"Does Batman know yet?"

Batman, not Bruce. Dinah shook her head. They're one and the same, she wanted to remind him, wanted to shake him, wanted to scream in Bruce's face every time she'd watch him insist on the distinction over the past ten years.

"He's waiting back at Mt. Justice," she said. "But no, he doesn't know yet. He knows something is wrong, but I convinced him to let me come alone and speak with you first."

Dick snorted. "At least he actually listens to you."

"I think this makes the third time in the fifteen years I've known him," Dinah said wryly. "Don't go thinking I'm special. He only listened because I convinced him barreling in here would only make things worse. And the last thing your father has ever wanted to do is make things worse for you. He manages it sometimes anyway, but it's never his intent."

Not that intent matters, or is any kind of excuse for the harm or damage one actually causes, Dinah reflected. And normally it wasn't a line of thinking she'd ever open a door to at all, but with the past two years worth of tension between Dick and his father still a major source of the young man's turmoil, she figured it was worth it to see if Dick would seize the opportunity to defend Bruce. Lord knows Dick could hold a grudge against his father like no one's business, but anyone else trying it in his presence was usually a nonstarter.

To her disappointment - but not her surprise - Dick ignored the bait and instead just grunted. He stared at the floor, face alternately pale and purple under the neon glow that washed through the window via a strip club's signage across the street.

"I wouldn't have broken, you know," Dick said, never looking up. His lips twisted beneath the words, as if they tasted like something sour. "If he came too. I didn't...I don't want him here, not now, or yet, I mean. But it's not like. It wouldn't have broken me or whatever you're thinking. That's all I mean."

"I didn't say that it would, Dick," Dinah said carefully. But not so carefully as to lay credence to the idea she thought he was fragile. Not an easy line to traverse. Where's a tightrope walker when you need one? Oh, right. Crumpled up on the floor of his unlit apartment, afraid to even look at his own baby. Things were off to a promising start. "It's not either or. You're not broken just because you're not alright and you're not alright just because you're not broken. There's room for space in between."

She sighed and cast around the cramped apartment, dragging a chair from the kitchen table to settle down in front of him. The room was such a far cry from the opulence of Wayne Manor. She knew Dick had never been one to buy into the trappings of his father's wealthy lifestyle. She and Ollie frequently attended the same functions as the Waynes, and she'd smothered many a giggle at Dick and Jason's antics as the two reveled in shocking the Gotham elite with loud and pointed reminders of their impoverished 'low class' backgrounds. Still, looking around, she couldn't help but wondering how much of Dick's apartment and its placement was purely a result of not caring about things like wealth and status, and how much of it was a deliberate rejection of those things, of Bruce? Did it even matter? Or was she just stalling?

"You know, I've never really liked when people use that word," she mused. The baby in her arms stirred restlessly, his nose wrinkling. God. As a general rule, she preferred waiting until children were teenagers before interacting with them. She wasn't big on babies, usually - most people who cooed over their shrunken little faces and called them the most beautiful things they'd ever seen were just lying, in her opinion. But this one was a charmer. Or maybe he wasn't, and she was just already hopelessly attached because Reasons. Crap. Of all the times for a maternal bone to materialize.

"Broken. What does that even mean, really? It's just a description of a physical state, but people often use it like a judgment. As though it describes what someone is, instead of simply what state they're in at a particular moment. You can break something and then put it back together so you can never tell the difference, so what does it mean that it was broken? Why does it matter?"

Dick shifted for the first time since she'd entered the apartment. She might not be Batman caliber, but her own reflexes were nothing to sneeze at. Still, the suddenness of his movements were unexpected enough to catch her offguard as he reached over to the side and snatched up one of the escrima sticks he carried as part of his Nightwing ensemble. A slim but sturdy shaft of polished black wood about a foot long in length, it made a hell of a crack when he held it in both hands and brought it down over one knee, hard and fast enough to snap it in two. He tossed the two broken pieces onto the hardwood floor. One rolled over to rest against her foot.

"Can't fix that with crazy glue."

Dinah smoothed her features into careful non-reaction as she bent and reached down to pick up the broken stick, still cradling the infant in one arm as she rolled the shattered weapon in her other palm.

"No, I suppose not. But I bet you I could find a hundred other uses for this piece right here. Plenty of other things you could do with it, or things you could build with it. Use it as the foundation to make something else entirely, or even just carve it, turn it into a work of art, something beautiful. And whatever you end up with, could you describe it as broken? Yes, it wouldn't be your escrima stick anymore, doesn't do the same thing, have the same purpose, maybe what it was is broken. But what it is? What you make of it? Would that be broken?"

Dick jutted his jaw out, mulish, stubborn. A mirror of the expression she'd last glimpsed under Batman's cowl, not even an hour ago. They couldn't be more alike if they were blood. "I know what you're doing," he said.

"What's that?"

"Exactly what I should have known you'd do before I told Artemis she could send Wally to get you. Knew it was a mistake the second he left. I don't need a shrink right now, Canary."

She shrugged. "Good, because I'm done trying to be your therapist. I realized what a waste it was, on my way over here. I never caught a whiff of this brewing under your surface this past year, so obviously our sessions have just been a waste of both our time. I forgot that arrogant smart people make the worst patients."

That was enough to jolt a noticeable reaction out of him. Finally. It was a calculated gamble, one she already regretted as a swift flicker of hurt winged across his face, half-glimpsed and vanished as quickly as it came. It was a little harder for him to banish his gaping mouth. "Yeah, not your usual session starter," he agreed, in only the barest facsimile of his usual clever humor. But it was a start. "So I'm arrogant, now?"

"You always have been," Dinah said gently, trying to soften the blow of her harsh words. She quirked her lips in a half smile. "Just like your father. Difference is, you actually bother with social interaction and you're charming, so you can get away with it where he can't. And Dick...I'm not saying it as an insult. Or that it's a bad thing. I think you and Bruce are arrogant in certain ways, yes. I think you have to be. To do what you both do."

"You're both human, no superpowers, no magic, not even advanced technology giving you an edge. And yet you not only hold your own amidst heroes who have all those advantages and more, you take charge. You lead. You inspire. Mere confidence isn't enough to allow you to do that. You need something that goes beyond that, something that can only be called arrogance, because it's such a bone deep certainty that you can do all the things you profess you can do, that you are the right people to fight the battles you fight, that it's above questioning. There are a million and one reasons you both shouldn't be able to do the things you both do, and if there was even a second you doubted that you could, you probably wouldn't be able to. When you leap off ten story buildings with just a grapple line and your acrobatics to bring you safely to the ground, it's because you believe, no, you know, that you can defy gravity. Even though for seven billion other humans, gravity can't be defied. Dick, I'm an Olympic level gymnast. You don't see me leaping off ten story buildings if I can help it because I know I'm good, yes, but that doesn't mean I know in a battle of me vs gravity, I'm always going to win. You do. You know that. You believe that. And that is arrogance, yes. But it also happens to be justified, in your case."

He mulled that over, not looking thrilled, but at least looking engaged now, and she breathed a bit easier. Good. Engaged she could work with. It was a start. "Okay. Fine. So what about that makes me a terrible patient?"

"I never said terrible," she protested lightly. "I said the worst."

He glared.

She relented. "It's like Superman's invulnerability. Most of the time, that's exactly what he needs to keep him safe. It's all he needs. But in some specific, rare instances, even if it's only 1% of the time, the very thing that makes him so hard to hurt, makes him hard to help. All it takes is that one bullet that can pierce his skin, either because it's Kryptonite, or it's enchanted, or something else....and suddenly, that same invulnerability that keeps him safe 99% of the time is the very thing making it so hard to operate on him, to cut into him and dig out the one bullet that made it past his defenses. Dick, answer me this. What's the first thing you do when you're confronted with a problem?"

"I assess the situation and determine a course of action, I guess," he frowned. "Why?"

"Because when the problem is you, when it's something that's happened to you or something involving your behavior, the kinds of things that a therapist is meant to help you with, you do exactly that. You assess the situation, you assess yourself, your own behavior, and you come to a conclusion. Which means by the time you ever arrive at my doorstep for a session, you've already diagnosed yourself. You've made up your mind. That arrogance that gives you the strength, the certainty, the conviction you need to tackle every other obstacle you face without hesitation, it has you equally convinced that the conclusion you've already drawn about what's wrong with you or your behavior, it must be true. That you've got it already figured out. And so instead of our sessions being about me helping to guide you to a conclusion or helping you find the inconsistencies in your own logic or reasoning - that's not what you're actually there for. Because you're sure you already have the answer, and so instead of looking for it, you're really just looking for it to be validated."

She gave him a moment to absorb that, drawing a breath before continuing.

"And here's where you being so damn smart becomes a problem - because you're brilliant, Dick, just like Bruce is, you know how to read people, you know how to manipulate people, you can do it without even having to think about it. And so instead of telling me what you need to say, you tell me what you think I want to hear. And we get further and further away from actually helping you as you steer our sessions towards the conclusions you've made because of what's bothering you....instead of towards the conclusions you'd draw if you were ready to face it."

Dick leaped to his feet, face flushed in the moonlight. He stepped forward, aborted that when it drew him closer to her and the baby, features twisting in a heart-wrenching moment of agony for the briefest instant before he stepped away again. Carefully breathing in, making a visible effort to drop his voice despite his obvious agitation. Good. Awareness of his surroundings. Thinking beyond the moment to consequences of each action. Engaging more and more with his surroundings. She'd piss him off to Hell and back if that's what it took. Be angry, Dick. Rage. Scream. Yell. Hurt.

"So what?" He asked with a sharp, acidic laugh. He paced, arms buried in his armpits, hunched over, eyes on his boots as he wandered in circles. Pent up, restless energy. All the frenetic motion of Robin, of Nightwing, of a bird made for flying yet still stuck on the ground.

"You think I don't know what's bothering me? You think...I freak out a little and Wally runs to you and tells you something and you come back and find me all freaked out on the floor and you've got it all figured out from there, from just that, but you think I can't figure it out on my own? I'm brilliant, you said, but you think I'm all messed up because I can't face it, I can't see it even when its right in front of me?"

"That's not what I'm saying Dick," Dinah tried, but he just laughed again. Jabbed a hand towards the baby in her arms, took it back halfway.

"I know what happened, Canary," he bit out. "I was there. I don't need you to hold my hand and walk me through it so I can face it. Yeah, okay, I get it. I was raped. Tarantula raped me. I can say it. I'm not - I'm not in denial. I've been doing this since I was ten, I'm not...I know the statistics, I know it's not any different just because I'm a guy. I get that men can get raped, that they can be raped by women, that there's no other word for what happened to me. That it wasn't my fault, that I was in shock, that I can't be blamed for her taking advantage of me in that state. I know all that okay? It's not a fucking revelation to me, I don't need anyone's help to fucking face that!"

"Then what's the problem, Dick?" Dinah asked softly when he ran out of steam, or breath or both. His hair was wild in disarray, his stance a contradiction of defensiveness and a pending attack. His chest heaved like a bellows even though he'd yet to raise his voice past a low-pitched hiss. "If you know all that already, where's the problem? What are you having trouble with here? What reason does someone who's already faced all that have for hiding it from his friends and family for a year?"

"There's no problem, that's my whole point," Dick insisted, throwing his arms wide. "Fine, I freaked out for a minute because I just found out my rapist had my fucking baby, and I thought it was over and done with but....jesus. I'm not...it's not because I can't deal with what happened. God, nothing even happened! It was barely anything. I barely even remember it I was so out of it, and then it was over. She didn't hurt me, its not like it was painful or I was drugged or it left me damaged or something, okay? I told you, I've been doing this for ten years. I've SEEN victims okay, real victims, women and even men who are so fucking traumatized by what some sicko did to them they can barely get out of bed in the morning. I've seen victims left beaten and bloody by their attackers, who've...it was nothing like that, okay?"

Dinah nodded. "And that. That right there. That's exactly what I'm talking about."

Dick blinked and rocked back on his heels. Blindsided by her calm and her seeming non sequitur. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you misdiagnosed," she said with a helpless shrug. "You've been so busy reacting to what you thought was your problem, what you were convinced must be bothering you - whether or not you were able to admit that you were raped, that you could be raped even though you're a man, let alone an accomplished fighter able to protect himself - that you left yourself wide open to something else entirely. Tell me. What do you know about Impostor Syndrome?"

"It's a term sometimes used to describe over-achievers who have trouble internalizing their accomplishments. Perfectionists who think they're frauds because they don't know how to take credit for their own achievements and say its because of luck or timing or something other people did," Dick frowned, puzzling through both the question and the aim of it. He raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't sound like something that applies to someone as arrogant as me."

"Don't be a little shit, Dick," Dinah said with small smirk. "And you're right, I don't think any of that applies to you. However, it's also used in another capacity, to describe trauma survivors who are unable to internalize their own trauma. Who deflect from it, or mitigate it, treat it as less than it is on the basis that it wasn't as bad as what's happened to someone else. It's especially common in trauma survivors who are noted for being especially empathetic or who have caregiver personality types. People who are so used to self-identifying as someone whose role or purpose is in helping others, that they find themselves unable to identify as traumatized because it might shift the focus to themselves instead of people they feel need it more. Does that behavior sound a little more familiar?"

Dick hesitated, eyes on the floor and darting every which way as though looking for escape from a trap.

"It should," she pressed on. "Considering you've been doing that for a long time, much longer than just this past year. Pretty much as long as I've known you, in fact."

"What are you talking about?"

"What do you do whenever someone brings up your parents or their deaths?" Dinah asked softly. He flinched. Ducked his head to the side. Jaw tightened again. "You say it was a long time ago. Or that at least you have Bruce now. Or that you wish other orphaned kids could be as lucky as you ended up. Always shying away from the idea that you might need sympathy or comfort because of what happened to your parents and pointing instead to everyone else who needs it more. And it only got worse when Bruce adopted Jason."

"Don't -" Dick warned. His head snapped back up, fire in his eyes, but she refused to be deterred. Not when she finally had his full attention.

"You never allowed anyone to dwell on any of your myriad traumas once Jason came along. Not just your parents, but what happened with Two-Face, the first time you faced the Joker, nothing. You'd always deflect, always shift things back around to Jason. And what a hard life he'd had. So much harder than you, you insisted. At least your parents loved you. At least they didn't abuse you like Jason's father abused him, or were a drug addict like his mother was. Someone mentioned the time you spent in a juvenile detention center as an eight year old, all because some racist bitch of a social worker didn't like that you were Romani, and your response was that at least you didn't have to live on the streets like Jason did before he met Bruce."

"This has nothing to do with Jason!" Dick ground out, heated.

"It's not about Jason, Dick. It's about you. Because your brother had a hard life, yes. It's true. He suffered terrible traumas before Bruce found him and adopted him. And not a single one of those things are made less true, or invalidated or in any way threatened just because terrible things happened to you too. So why do you insist your pain was less than his? That yours didn't matter just because his existed?"

"It's not the same thing," Dick insisted stubbornly. "You can't compare what happened to my parents to the twelve years of shit Jason had to live through."

"I'm not though, Dick. You are. You're the only one saying one must be worse than the other. All I'm saying is both existed."

She sighed. "Trauma isn't a scale to be measured on. It doesn't require a minimum threshold, and it doesn't have a ranking order. It's not about how much harm was caused or how much damage someone did, because at the end of the day, trauma is transformation."

"What do you mean?"

Dinah held up his broken escrima stick, still cradled in her hand. "Trauma is force that causes change. It's not about the act of damaging. It's about what's left behind once the damage is done. I could break this stick into two pieces. It would take a certain amount of force, a certain amount of damage. And once that was done, we'd be left with two pieces here instead of this one. But then give me another stick the same size, same dimensions, only this one is made of metal. I could break that in two as well. But it would require a whole different kind of force, a whole different order of damage. But in the end, once it was done, we'd still be left with two pieces of that too, instead of the one we started with."

"Two different sticks,” Dinah continued. “Two different traumas. Two different applications of force. And the only thing in common is in the end....both sticks would be transformed. Neither would be what they were originally. Not less. Not more. But different. Changed by the trauma they endured. You want to quantify that trauma? You probably could. It'd be arbitrary, but you could do it. You could calculate the force used, define parameters for the damage it caused. But what would that mean? What's the outcome? What happens because you decided one trauma was greater than the other? How does that alter the fact, the reality, that in the end, the survivors of those two different traumas are changed? Something different from what they started as?"

"But it is different," Dick insisted. He looked confused though, rather than forceful. "Context matters. The situations matter."

"Yes, they do," Dinah agreed. "But it's a question of focus, not degree. Which trauma was worse only really matters when you're focused on the trauma. When you're looking at what the trauma leaves behind though? When you focus on the survivors? All that really matters is...how are they different? How were they changed?"

"Dick, you only started getting angry and frustrated when you compared what you went through to what other rape victims you've seen over the years have gone through. What they went through is terrible, yes. It doesn't mean what happened to you wasn't terrible as well. You said you weren't hurt, it wasn't painful, she didn't damage you physically. That doesn't matter though. Because rape isn't about any of those things. It's not about pain, it's not about how much it hurt. Rape is about theft."

He flinched at that, taking a step back.

"Rape is theft,” Dinah pressed forward. “It's betrayal. It's someone taking something they have no right to, something precious, something that can't be taken back. It's taking away someone's right to choose who they share their body with, its using someone's body against them, against their wishes. That's what Tarantula did to you. Whether it hurt or not, whether you remember it fuzzily or in full detail...she took something from you, something you can't get back, and in doing so, she changed you forever."

He shook his head, eyes back on the ground. Denial but not denial. Acceptance but not acceptance. She forged on.

"And the thing is, you're right. You haven't been in denial about what happened. You know that she raped you, that that's what it is. What you haven't faced though is that it's not about how much that hurt you. It's about how much it changed you. Because you're different now, aren't you? And you're smart enough that you figured that out as soon as it happened, that you're not the same anymore, because I'm willing to bet everything looks different to you now. Because you lost something you didn't even know you could lose until it was gone. A sense of security you took for granted, that something like this could never happen to you, except now you know that it can, and it did. We're all made up of our experiences and your experiences now include something they didn't before, something big, something that left a sizable impact, and the be all and end of it all is that you've changed, and you know that....and you keep looking for an answer as to why. Why is everything so different now? Why are you so different?”

She sighed softly.

“And the problem is the only answer you have for that, you decided wasn't good enough for you. Because it wasn't as bad as it could have been. As bad as what happened to other people. And so you've trapped yourself because you know something's different but the thing that caused it, the thing that changed you....it wasn't big enough to explain this change, you decided. You didn't suffer enough, it didn't hurt enough, and so it's not a good enough reason for you to not be who you used to be. And so you keep finding the flaw in yourself, deciding that it must be that you're weak, that everything unsettling you, upsetting you, it's not because what Tarantula did warrants those changes, it's because you can't cut it. That's what you've been telling yourself, haven't you? You're not a survivor, because you don't think there was anything for you to survive. You're not traumatized because the trauma doesn't count. You didn't suffer enough, so that can't excuse all the turmoil you feel."

Dick paced restlessly, all that frenetic energy he always carried with him ratcheted up in intensity until Dinah was half convinced he was going to shake himself to pieces if he didn't find an outlet soon. Unfortunately, she wasn't quite ready to stop.

"All those other victims you described seeing over the years. When you helped them, did you tell them you were sorry for what they went through?"

Dick paused and raised haggard eyes. "Of course I did. Why?"

"Why did you?" Dinah asked, arching a brow. "You didn't do anything to them. You weren't apologizing for something you caused. So what did it mean, to tell them you were sorry?"

"I don't know. It's just...it's what you do. It's a comfort."

"Why though? What about it makes it a comfort?"

"I don't know, it just is. It lets them know somebody cares, I guess," Dick raged. "What are you getting at? You have all the answers, you tell me!"

"Think it through, Dick," Dinah said, firm. "They don't know you. You're a stranger to them. What does it mean for a stranger to tell a victim they're sorry, that they care. What does it matter? What does it do for them?"

Dick stared at her. His face wide and open and searching as he hunted for answers in the shadows of his room, of his own mind. He looked like he'd run a marathon, his body limp and exhausted seeming, like he was only remaining upright by the barest of threads.

"When I tell someone I'm sorry for what happened to them. I don't know. It tells them I see them, I guess," he said hesitantly. She nodded, encouraging him to go on. "That I see what they've been through. That I'm sorry they went through it."

He focused his eyes on hers, with a little more clarity this time. "I tell them...they survived, I guess. That what happened to them...it didn't just happen, it wasn't supposed to happen. But it did. It mattered. What happened to them mattered."

"Yes," Dinah agreed softly. "And every victim you've ever helped, as Robin or as Nightwing, every survivor you've told 'I'm sorry this happened to you' - every time one of them looks in the mirror and recognizes that they aren't the person they were before it happened, that they've changed...they can hold on to that memory of you saying you're sorry. And they know. It happened. It mattered. It is the reason they're different. It is the reason they changed."

Dinah hesitated, and then she said: "I'm sorry it happened to you, Dick. I'm sorry it changed you. I'm sorry that you can't go back to the way things were. I can't tell you it will get better with time. You aren't injured. This isn't a wound that will scar over if you just leave it alone long enough. You can't heal a transformation. But you can decide what you change into. You can decide who you become, even if its not what you were. It'll still be you. A whole you. A complete you. Just a different you. Just like you became someone different after your parents died. I never knew you before that changed you. But that didn't make the you I met any less worth knowing."

He sobbed. Just once, like it was ripped out of him. A tangled, tormented wreck of a sound, his face contorted in a rictus of misery beneath eyes that glistened with a watery sheen, reflecting the wan illumination. It was all he allowed himself, before he found his usual iron control and slammed the gates shut, expression going blank, but it was enough. It was a beginning.

#rape tw

[santalsaburablog]

Adventures of Santal. Chapter 5: First Lesson

Only a well-earned lesson is beneficial.

     Corellia! A temperate Core Worlds planet of rolling hills, dense forests, lush meadows and deep seas, renowned for its fast, rugged starships and talented pilots. It was there, by the decision of the Jedi Council, that Master Yoda went on a diplomatic mission. And at this time a very interesting announcement appeared in Goloseti.

     Cad Bane sat quietly in a bar chair, chewing on a toothpick. The last order from the Syndicate of Rations was not so difficult. Steal a valuable thing. Of course, there were murders. So what? How many times has he done this kind of thing? Can't count it anymore. So it's a matter of everyday life. Suddenly, the datapad beeped.

     - What's the matter? - asked the duros, receiving the drink.

     “A new order has just arrived,” the bartender replied.

     Excellent. So, it turns out that no one has tackled it yet. But he will do it!

     - Give it to me. The man pulled out the datapad. From a distance everything is as it should be. Heading in big letters, everything else in small letters. Photo after the title.

     As soon as Bane saw the photo, he almost choked. This is the SAME GIRL! Well, exactly. The text itself was like this:

                                                                      THE GIRL IS LOST.                                   

                                    Name is Santal Sabura.                                     Age 3.5 years.                                     An orphan.                                     Kala'uun city, planet Ryloth.                                     Signs: cold brown hair, braided in two tails, brown eyes,                                        honey shade. The physique is normal.                                     Clothes: white nightdress, brown shoes.                                     Uncle and aunt are very worried.                                     There is a suspicion that the child was stolen.                                     Call XXXXXXXX.                                     Please provide any information.                                     Need help from volunteers.                                     HELP TO FIND A CHILD!

     That's all. But Bane was wary of something. He read the ad again and noticed that there was not a word about the reward. Why Most likely, one of two things: they forgot to write or the return is free. In any case, it is necessary to clarify. Moreover, he had already seen the girl.

     The call was answered five seconds later.

     - Yes! I am listening to you! Speak quickly! Did you learn anything ?! - answered a middle-aged female voice and, apparently, was on the verge of hysteria.

     - Hello. I am about your announcement. I would like to get down to business. Find your niece. “Cad always tried to be polite, courteous and helpful when talking to a client.

     But all the same it was unpleasant for him to listen to the voice of this woman.

     - Oh, thank you! Noby, did you hear? - the woman screamed with joy. She was answered in a muffled tone.

     “I just wanted to clarify the amount of the reward,” the duros asked, just as politely.

     - What? The woman changed her tone to suspicious. - I heard right? Did you ask about the reward? Who are you anyway?

     - Yes. I'm a bounty hunter.

     Bane was rudely interrupted:

     - Well, you must. For some reason I didn't even doubt. How dare you ?! Scum! Demand money for the return of our only treasure! Impudent! Monster! Bandit! Don't even dare try to search! For someone like you, a place in prison! Our niece is priceless. Returns FREE! Got it ?! IS FREE! And don't you dare call anymore! Rubbish! Don't you dare touch Santal!

     Cad stopped the stream of curses at him with a banal press of the call end button.

     What a woman! Bane was amazed. He doesn't like his nephew. It's a pity for money. However, she may not be rich. So what? Those who value their children will get out of their skin and collect a large sum. So the Duros thought. Crazy woman. Immediately visible.

     The man exhaled and left the bar, leaving the drink unfinished and the datapad on the table. Nothing. He will have many more customers and generous fees in his life. You just have to be patient.

     - Santal Sabura. - Duros decided to test the name not only with his eyes and by ear, but also with his tongue.

     San tal. Well, they came up with a name for the child. Couldn't it have been better? Sounds ringing somehow. And it tastes like steel and at the same time a cake. Exactly!

     But here's what's strange. If before that he did not pay much attention, now he looked closely at the photo and ... This silly thing reminded him of someone. But who? Unclear. The Duros have always been famous for their eidetic memory, and Cad was no exception, but he still couldn't remember. In the end, he killed as many people as he crossed paths with. And he is already twenty-six years old.

     Well, okay. What is this little fellow from Ryloth to him? For this he does not work. He shouldn't worry about her. And the Duros had no desire to get involved with this hysterical woman in the future. No wonder her niece ran away from her. So he even just did her a favor, and she should be grateful to him.

     And indeed, very quickly the thoughts of the girl disappeared from my head completely.

      ***

     Elina's nostrils almost emitted steam from rage, like an angry animal. At that moment, Nobi ran into the room.

     - Honey, what happened? I heard you screaming. And what are you doing?

     The Letan was about to drop her comlink on the floor and crush it, but her husband snatched it out of her hands in time.

        - I am angry! That's what! Literally just now some degenerate called and asked about the reward! Well, we agreed.     

        - Of course, we agreed. Who was that? Not an hour a mercenary?    

        - Sure. Or a bounty hunter. No difference. All the same degenerates. And this is clearly a bastard. You don't have to look at him to understand this. I suppose my father is a great alcoholic. And my mother died begging on the street. Or in general it was easy behavior.     

       - What are you…      

       - And how? I was told, and I think so myself: bounty hunters are the most vile scum. Dregs of society. The lowest category.     

       Nobi didn't argue because he agreed. Then the couple sat down on the sofa and began to pray that everything was in order and Santal was found, returned home and never met the idiot with whom Elina had just talked.

                                                         ***

     - Hello, child.

     Santal looked around until she found the owner of the voice. It was ... an animal. A very unusual talking animal of green color and funny ears. The tip of one was sticking up, the other - down. There are wrinkles on the forehead. In the hands of a cane. And he himself is about the same height as Santal. Or a little less.

     “Hello,” Santal answered timidly. And this slight fear did not hide from the interlocutor.

     - Are you afraid, I see.

     - Yes. You're right. I have never met anyone like you before.

     Santal was indeed a little scared. Another unusual creature, only very small this time. But even though this ... animal - although what an animal he is, he's in good clothes - and not as tall as the uncle, this does not mean that he cannot do harm.

     - Haven't met, hmm? - The animal examined the girl from head to toe. - In a nightgown, I see you. - And he chuckled, stating the fact.

     Santal was embarrassed, not knowing what to say. But, fortunately, green somehow felt it and helped:

     - Who are you? Where are you going?

     - Well, I'm in a hurry. On Ryloth, the girl replied.

     - Your planet is far away. How did you get here?

     - It's not my fault! - Santal exclaimed hotly and began to tell from the very beginning.

     The only lie in her story was that the uncle was wearing a mask, not a hat. And she kept silent about the moment with vomiting. Sabura did not want to betray the man. Although she did not give her word to him, she did give her word to herself. And somehow it turned out illogical. She swore to him so loudly that she would not tell, and then - on you! Tells the green creature everything. Santal thought it was wrong. She's decent and honest. She must confirm her intentions in practice.

     - Hmm. - The animal put its paw with three fingers to the chin. “I can help you, child. What's your name?

     - I am Santal Sabura. Sorry for not introducing myself right away. - The girl even bowed slightly.

     The animal nodded in understanding, and then said this, which made the daughter of the Jedi stunned:

     - I feel that you are not deprived of the Power.

     Santal blinked her eyes.

     - What is it?

     - Strength is an endless mystery. She is everywhere. Surrounds and pervades us. Ties the galaxy together. And in you she is strong enough. - Zeleny smiled.

     - Enough for what?

     - Enough to be able to become a Jedi.

     - That is, the guardian of the world? My aunt told me.

     - Yes. Master Yoda I. Pleased to meet you. - The newly made acquaintance slightly bowed his head.

     - I am glad, too. - Santal repeated the movement, slowly getting rid of a slight fright.

     - So you agree?

     - I dont know. “The girl really didn't know what to do.

     On the one hand, I really wanted to go home. Finally! On the other hand, the prospect of becoming a Jedi, like her parents, fascinated her. Santal, without knowing it, found herself at a crossroads. Left - a chance to return to family and old life. On the right - the opportunity to start from scratch, learn a lot. There is a chance to find out the truth about parents, to get a profession right now. They say that such opportunities are not given every day, and, perhaps, there is only one attempt. You will go to one side, you will not go to the other. The girl somehow understood this.

     Seeing that the baby hesitated, Yoda invited her to walk with him. And Santal went. During the walk, green told the girl what the Jedi were doing: they selflessly help, keep the peace. They follow the path of spiritual and physical improvement. Jedi are the protectors of peace in the galaxy. They use their powers to guard and defend — never to attack others. The Jedi respect every life, in every form, serve others rather than dominate them for the good of the galaxy. They strive for self-improvement through knowledge and training. I spoke a little about midi-chlorians. The more there are, the more sensitive you are to the Force.

     - How many of them do I have?

     - We can find out.

     Yoda took out some kind of device and asked for a finger. Santal reacted calmly because she was already going through it. Even in a dream.

     - About fourteen to fifteen thousand you have.

     - A lot of.

     “More than enough to become a Jedi.

     - And how much midichlorivan do you need to feel?

     “Midichlorian,” Yoda corrected. - Eight to nine thousand.

     - By the way, I just wanted to ask. From early childhood, I constantly feel something. For example, it seemed to me that something would happen. Or felt someone's presence. As if someone is directing me, indicating what to do. Exactly this way and nothing else. Does it work, does the Force tell me?

     - Yes. Strong, it seems, is your connection with her. This is good, but it can also be dangerous as the future is in constant flux. Choose your path wisely.

     - And I often have dreams. Scary and not.

     - Another sign of a stronger connection with the Force.

     - I.e…

     “If you want to know more, you better become a Jedi.

     - Then I agree! - Now Santal was able to make a decision.     

     - Are you sure, m? The path of a Jedi is not easy and lasts a lifetime. To become a Jedi requires a keen mind and deep commitment to the cause of the Order. Live by the Code. It means entering on this path by dedicating your life to serving the ideals that we sacredly honor.      

     Only the girl got rid of old doubts, so now they have been replaced by new ones. What to do?

    “I agree anyway,” Santal said firmly, although inwardly she continued to worry.     

     - Let's go then.      

    The Green Jedi and his companion boarded the ship. In size, it was much smaller than the previous two, in which Santal traveled. They took off.      

   - Where are we flying?      

   - To Coruscant. To the Temple that will become your home.      

   Yoda, while still on Coruscant, sensed that there was some kind of Force surge on the planet Corellia. There was something there. Something powerful. And this "something" was a little girl. She looks three or four years old, but it is already felt that the Power is great in her. Such a child cannot be in bad hands. Fortunately, Santal herself is not averse to becoming a Jedi. There are simply doubts. She also said about some dreams. The Force must be trying to warn Santal about something. Most likely, these are Visions. And they cannot be ignored. But the girl finds out about it later. Now we must not frighten her, but take her to the Temple for training, put her in order, enroll in the Order.     

    The girl did not know what Yoda was thinking, but she was worried anyway. Not only because of ignorance, but in general. Suddenly this green one - the same as that uncle, wants to sell and lures. Moreover, the method is very interesting and effective.      

   At that moment it sounded. Yoda took the call. Later it turned out that the green should fly to Alderaan, which Santal mistakenly called "Aldevran". And then to Naboo. Why, she didn't know. But I decided, just in case, that there was nothing wrong with that.      

   During the flight, Sabura learned even more about the world around her. So she found out that she met with Yoda on the planet Corellia. I walked around the capital of Coronet, visited a place called Golden Beaches. Played in the sea and lay in the sand. And she came to this planet on a Rodian ship. That thing attached to the hunter's thigh is a blaster. And this is not a complete list of what the girl learned. 

    Once in the blue space, Yoda warned that he would fly now to Alderaan, then to Naboo. At the first stop, Santal thought she would stay next to the ship and wait for Yoda to do everything. The girl did not feel very well due to the fact that she did not immediately get to Coruscant. What if it's a trap, and green is another crook, like uncle, if not worse? And Santal still hasn’t decided whether she needs it or not. Maybe still go home to your aunt?      

   On Alderaan, the family needed help. Yoda left Santal with a woman who at first complained about why it was late, but when she saw the little girl and what state she was in, she took pity, took her to the kitchen, gave him blue milk, put three plates with a bunch of food on the table, and then sat down to eat. Sabura ate and ate everything, so some boy, probably a son, wondered how hungry the girl was.         

     Then Yoda returned with the boy, like two peas in a pod, similar to the first. The woman rushed to hug and kiss the child, thanked him. And the duo went to Naboo. There Santal was waiting for a small excursion to the local beauties, and that was all. No stupid adventures.      

     And now, when they gathered in the capital of the Republic, Yoda's room rang. Devaron has problems with bandits. And the green one agreed to help. Just because he wanted to, Santal decided.      

    To say that it was bad on the planet is to say nothing. Screams, panic, and some animals with fangs and claws on two legs were running around with weapons. More with tails.      

     It was then that Sabura first saw the Jedi in action. Yoda turned into a green spot, endlessly jumping and twirling with a strange thing with a long green, like himself, end. How clever he is, the girl was surprised. And seemingly not young.  

      Finally it was over. And it could have happened earlier, if the animals responded to the request to surrender. And as for Yoda, he managed to please Santal just for this proposal:     

     “You'd better surrender.      

     The animals were taken away somewhere.      

     “It's time for you to go home,” said the green one. Sabura nodded.      

     But halfway to the ship, the girl had a premonition. And indeed, when Santal decided to turn around, tired of being nervous, she realized that Yoda had overlooked one animal after all. Only the fanged one raised his weapon, Santal shouted automatically:     

   - No! - She stretched her arms in front of her, and the beast flew to the side.     

   The girl looked at her palms in horror. Everything is just like in a dream! Only the heroes are different.     

   “We forgot one,” Yoda chuckled.      

   Then they dragged this one where it was necessary. And the green one asked:   

     - Well, what have you decided?      

   “I've been thinking all the time,” Santal began. It seemed to her that there was no need to answer in one word. - At first I was afraid. Total. If I can become a Jedi, well, that is, I have what it takes. Will you succeed? What will your aunt say? What's in store for me? What if I don't succeed and I become a laughing stock? Maybe I don't belong there? But now, after what just happened ... I stopped the enemy without weapons. No anger. Do you understand, yes? And I, it turns out, used the Force?      

     Yoda nodded.      

     - If this is how I can, then it would be better for me to learn how to manage such power so as not to harm anyone. What else can I do mechanically? Mali what else could happen? So I decided. I will go to the Order and study to be a Jedi. My parents will be proud of me. I feel it. And my aunt ... I hope she understands.     

     “In that case, according to etiquette, call me Master. - The corners of the green lips crept upward. And he himself bowed slightly.      

   - Okay, Master. - Santal easily agreed. Yes, and my soul became easier.      

    - Time to the Temple, youngling Sabura.      

     When they took off, the girl seriously thought. What lessons did she learn over the entire period?      

      Don't walk the streets alone at night. Do not let your guard down. Sometimes you have to take something without asking. Some people don't like being spied on. Do not taste drinks that you do not know, otherwise you will vomit. Some are not moved by any pleading. To be honest, Santal wanted to be so hard herself. If you help someone just like that, without expecting gratitude, that someone will want to help in return.      

      The sea on the planet Corellia is the best thing in the world. And she will come back here someday. And in general, traveling is very cool! Just recently I was in such a whirlwind and now I am not against repetition. Not right now, but later.      

     Whatever the beast looks like, you don't take his word for it. We need to check. It is very important. She's calm about Yoda now. He will not deceive her. He's a Jedi.      

     And uncle? What about him? Where is he? Does he think about her? Probably not. Well, let. She's thinking about him now. Santal had clearly decided that if she was ever destined to meet him again, she would certainly teach him a lesson. Need to punish the hatter, teach him a lesson. Show that it is useless to hurt little girls. Even if everything ended well for her, but still ... it is necessary. Really needed. The main thing is not to forget about your desire.      

   And completely confident, Santal walked alongside Yoda, leaning on a cane, to the ship, whose final stop was Coruscant. Towards destiny.      

    By the way, the daughter of the Jedi made another conclusion for herself. The main conclusion. Only now did she realize that the rules must be followed. You don't love, you don't want to, you are lazy or not lazy, but you have to live by the rules. This is the law. Otherwise, you can get into such a story that you don't recognize your own. Therefore, on that day, Santal Sabura took an oath that she would always observe and honor all laws, rules, regulations, codes and so on. Until a ripe old age.

#cad bane #cad bane x oc

[jedimaesteryoda]

Septon Meribald: Septon to the Poor

Septon Meribald is a character who we see for a short while through Brienne’s POV in A Feast for Crows, and manages to become a popular minor character in both the book and series. Alongside Arya’s journey through the riverlands from ACOK to ASOS, Brienne’s journey highlights the effects of war on the civilian population, and Meribald serves as an important voice for the smallfolk during this arc. Meribald as per Martin’s characterization, wouldn’t be out of place in any medieval fantasy when you first meet him, but is also a three-dimensional character with a past that would make him out of place in that same setting. He is best remembered for his “Broken Men” speech in the chapter we meet him. The speech is eloquent in how it captures some of the grim realities of war, and contains some of Martin’s best prose. However, while I will analyze his speech, I think he deserves a more thorough examination and analysis based on more than just one speech.

Introduction:

"There's a man," Ser Hyle said. "A septon. He came in through my gate the day before you turned up. Meribald, his name is. River-born and river-bred and he's served here all his life. He's departing on the morrow to make his circuit, and he always calls at Saltpans. We should go with him."

- AFFC Brienne V

The donkey carried such a heavy load that Brienne was half afraid its back would break. "Food for the poor and hungry of the riverlands," Septon Meribald told them at the gates of Maidenpool. "Seeds and nuts and dried fruit, oaten porridge, flour, barley bread, three wheels of yellow cheese from the inn by the Fool's Gate, salt cod for me, salt mutton for Dog . . . oh, and salt. Onions, carrots, turnips, two sacks of beans, four of barley, and nine of oranges.”

- AFFC Brienne V

Meribald is introduced as a traveling septon who works and lived in the riverlands his whole life.

Circuit riders, as they were called, were a not uncommon feature in the early United States, especially west of the Appalachians as many settlers pushed westward. With an increase in the US population and many people living in rural areas, the Methodist church had to deal with too few ministers to staff parishes in these small, rural and some of them, new communities. They also had to deal with the fact that permanent, full-time ministers weren’t economical and have enough “work” in a community with a very small congregation. The US Methodist Church dealt with this issue by assigning ministers multiple officiates in an area that formed a “circuit” as the minister was to travel to and attend each parish on a regular basis.

Meribald is a septon in this vein who makes his regular circuit providing religious services to the villages that are too small and poor to have a septry as well as distributing food to the poor. He provides both material and spiritual sustenance to the smallfolk throughout the riverlands.

“The septon could neither read nor write, as he cheerfully confessed along the road, but he knew a hundred different prayers and could recite long passages from The Seven-Pointed Star from memory, which was all that was required in the villages. He had a seamed, windburnt face, a shock of thick grey hair, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Though a big man, six feet tall, he had a way of hunching forward as he walked that made him seem much shorter. His hands were large and leathery, with red knuckles and dirt beneath the nails, and he had the biggest feet that Brienne had ever seen, bare and black and hard as horn.”

- AFFC Brienne V

“I have a weakness for the orange, I confess. I got these from a sailor, and I fear they will be the last I'll taste till spring."

- AFFC Brienne V

His unkempt appearance of a windburnt face, leathery hands, dirt-filled nails, and black, hard feet give the picture of a man who has lived a hard life without much of anything in the way of luxury, and if anything, avoids it. He is a down-to-earth man whose only luxury he’ll let himself have is oranges, and he gives most of those away. His feet show that he doesn’t own any shoes, something even most smallfolk wear, and he goes barefoot with a simple wooden staff like the popular Saint Francis of Assisi (more on him later). The dirt in his nails show he doesn’t seem to adhere to the maxim of cleanliness being close to godliness, and with his bare feet, give him a kind of earthiness, being close to the land and its people. Septon Meribald is described as tall, but his posture makes him appear smaller, a physical representation of Meribald’s humble attitude with the way he lowers himself towards the people he interacts with. Generally, they are the smallfolk where a septon like himself would normally enjoy a marginal higher status, and one can see the gentleness he shows towards them. He confesses “cheerfully” his illiteracy, which resulted from a lack of formal education that is usually provided by maesters to the upper classes in castles and the Citadel. That is part of his veneration of simplicity rather than anti-intellectualism with all the passages and prayers he knows he learned by rote like Brutha from Practchett’s Small Gods. His unkempt appearance and illiteracy also give the misleading impression of a man who seems simple, but actually possesses a profound intelligence.

Septon Meribald walking beside them with his quarterstaff, leading a small donkey and a large dog

- AFFC Brienne V

Septon Meribald is always accompanied by two animal companions: a donkey and a dog. The donkey is an animal that features prominently in the Gospels. It was used to carry the pregnant Virgin Mary to the inn where she gives birth to Jesus, and later was used as a mount for Jesus upon entering Jerusalem. Donkeys were (and still are) used as beasts of burden meant for carrying loads on their backs and pulling carts and plows. They also were occasionally used as mounts by those who were too poor to afford horses. They were and still are considered to be the cheapest form of agricultural power after human power. That is opposed to the more expensive stallions, especially coursers and destriers, that are often used for cavalry or war chariots. That Meribald would use a donkey as opposed to a stallion fits perfectly with his veneration of poverty and simplicity as well as his anti-war views which we’ll get into later.

"It must make for a lonely life, septon."

"The Seven are always with me," said Meribald, "and I have my faithful servant, and Dog."

"Does your dog have a name?" asked Podrick Payne.

"He must," said Meribald, "but he is not my dog. Not him."

The dog barked and wagged his tail. He was a huge, shaggy creature, ten stone of dog at least, but friendly.

"Who does he belong to?" asked Podrick.

"Why, to himself, and to the Seven. As to his name, he has not told me what it is. I call him Dog."

- AFFC Brienne V

"Dog keeps me safe upon the roads, even in such trying times as these. Neither wolf nor outlaw dare molest me when Dog is at my side."

- AFFC Brienne V

Meribald is also accompanied by his Canine Companion, a large sheepdog he simply calls “Dog.” Dog isn’t used for hunting, a common leisure activity for aristocrats as well as one of survival for smallfolk, nor is he a regular pet. He appears to just be Meribald’s traveling companion as well as protector. He is described as a big dog that is capable of killing wolves, but is nonetheless friendly. The Starks and their direwolves will make you forget that wolves have a history of usually being portrayed in literature, especially religious texts, as evil with the shepherd protecting his flock from wolves is a common trope in Christianity. Dog fulfills the function of a sheepdog for Meribald, protecting him from wolves and outlaws, and his presence helps to emphasize Meribald acting as a shepherd to the smallfolk wherever he goes. Meribald’s treatment of Dog is unusual compared to other dog owners in both Westeros and real life. He doesn’t do something so simple as name the dog, because the way he sees it, he doesn’t own Dog, and thus, has no right to impose a name on him. Meribald treats Dog, not as a pet, but as belonging “to himself, and to the Seven,” an autonomous creature entitled to the dignity and respect of a living being. People demonstrating their humanity or lack thereof through their treatment of animals and relationship with nature is a trope used throughout fiction. Fantasy is no exception with Tolkien portraying the good races, like elves, as in harmony with nature while portraying the bad races, like orcs, as at odds with nature, exemplified by the eagles and trees (Ents) aiding the good races against the bad. Francis of Assisi even remarked on the connection between man’s relationship with animals and that with his fellow man: "If you have men who will exclude any of God's creatures from the shelter of compassion and pity, you will have men who will deal likewise with their fellow men." He wasn’t the only one to observe that. Philosopher Immanuel Kant stated “He who is cruel to animals becomes hard also in his dealings with men. We can judge the heart of a man by his treatment of animals.” Meribald’s treatment of Dog makes him stand out in his treatment of all life as deserving of kindness and compassion, including those valued the least by society: the poor and animals.

"The brothers will ferry us over on the morning tide, though I fear what we shall find there. Let us enjoy a good hot meal before we face that. The brothers always have a bone to spare for Dog." Dog barked and wagged his tail.

- AFFC Brienne VI

"And your tides," suggested Meribald. Dog barked agreement.

- AFFC Brienne VI

"I shall make time," said Meribald, "though I hope you have some better sins than the last time I came through." Dog barked. "You see? Even Dog was bored."

- AFFC Brienne VI

"Gladly," said Meribald. Dog barked.

- AFFC Brienne VI

"It is being common-born that is dangerous, when the great lords play their game of thrones," said Septon Meribald. "Isn't that so, Dog?" Dog barked agreement.

- AFFC Brienne VII

"We'll have silver. Else you can sleep in the woods with the dead men." Willow glanced toward the donkey, and the casks and bundles on his back. "Is that food? Where did you get it?"

"Maidenpool," said Meribald. Dog barked.

- AFFC Brienne VII

It helps that the author manages to give Dog an almost human-like quality. There are plenty of scenes where Dog barks right after Meribald says something as if Dog understands what he is saying and expresses agreement with him, and even Meribald acts as if Dog actually does. It manages to emphasize the bond between the two as fellow companions with Dog providing protection and Meribald providing food.

Backstory

Now, we go into Meribald’s personal backstory. We learn from the start that he is a lowborn riverman, the son of a peasant. We learn about his life before becoming a septon, and what likely led him to become one. We’ll start with the earliest, his part of the past he mentions right after he delivers his “Broken Men” speech that explains a large part of his character.

The quiet stretched and stretched, until finally she said, "How old were you when they marched you off to war?"

"Why, no older than your boy," Meribald replied. "Too young for such, in truth, but my brothers were all going, and I would not be left behind. Willam said I could be his squire, though Will was no knight, only a potboy armed with a kitchen knife he'd stolen from the inn. He died upon the Stepstones, and never struck a blow. It was fever did for him, and for my brother Robin. Owen died from a mace that split his head apart, and his friend Jon Pox was hanged for rape."

"The War of the Ninepenny Kings?" asked Hyle Hunt.

"So they called it, though I never saw a king, nor earned a penny. It was a war, though. That it was."

- AFFC Brienne V

Meribald is a veteran of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, and he fought when he was just a boy aged no older than thirteen. It puts his comments to Podrick Payne: "I have never known a boy who did not love the Warrior” in another light. Meribald was probably no exception to the rule. He had his head filled with the songs praising war when he first enlisted to avoid feeling left out, and thought it would be a glorious adventure the way Quentyn Martell did of his journey to Daenerys. This romantic notion is further emphasized by his older brother William saying Meribald could be his squire as if he were a knight, which the protagonist in these kinds of songs usually is. And as is the case in the series, these romantic notions crashed into brutal reality as Meribald lost his three brothers along with a family friend. It is no secret that war can be a traumatizing experience with many veterans suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). I once studied alongside a veteran of US wars in Iraq and Afghanistan in college who was around my current age. He confessed to suffering from PTSD to the point that when he sat down for lectures he always sat at the end of the seat rows so no one could sneak up on him. Of course, while he was an adult when he fought, Meribald was still a child, even by Westerosi standards. His knowledge of broken men is so detailed, because he was one. His words at the end of the chapter show that the trauma from that experience still haunts him to the present-day. After the war, Meribald couldn’t adjust to life like it was before, and that experience is ultimately what led him to decide to become a septon.

"Going barefoot was my penance. Even holy septons can be sinners, and my flesh was weak as weak could be. I was young and full of sap, and the girls . . . a septon can seem as gallant as a prince if he is the only man you know who has ever been more than a mile from your village. I would recite to them from The Seven-Pointed Star. The Maiden's Book worked best. Oh, I was a wicked man, before I threw away my shoes. It shames me to think of all the maidens I deflowered."

- AFFC Brienne V

We learn that for all his saintly qualities, Meribald is still human. He ashamedly admits that in violation of his vows of celibacy, he abused his position as a septon by going to isolated villages seducing inexperienced, young women while preaching. His war experience likely plays into that early part of his career. People have different ways of dealing with pain as Robert did with womanizing and drinking, and the trauma from the War of the Ninepenny Kings likely played a role in Meribald’s womanizing. His biography doesn’t exactly make him a complete saint, although to be fair, the Church is filled with saints with worse records than Meribald’s. Famed theologian St. Augustine of Hippo had a history of frequenting prostitutes and womanizing including impregnating the daughter of the wealthy Roman family he served. St. Moses the Black was a former highwayman who robbed and likely murdered a number of people. St.Ignatius of Loyola, founder of the Jesuits, was a military man with a history of gambling, womanizing/whoring, and brawling and dueling, especially since he was sensitive to insults. It does make one wonder what standards are used for picking saints.

The reason he doesn’t wear shoes is because he went barefoot as penance for his womanizing ways. The act itself of throwing away his shoes basically symbolized a turning point for him in terms of personal development by turning back on his old ways akin to Jean Valjean of Les Miserables deciding to turn a new leaf after his remorse over stealing from Petit Gervais. Meribald’s backstory shows him to be, not a born saint, but a flawed human being who had to undergo some personal growth to become the man he is today.

Faith and Philosophy

He led his donkey down the slope, beckoning them to follow. "If you would sleep beneath a roof tonight, you must climb off your horses and cross the mud with me. The path of faith, we call it. Only the faithful may cross safely. The wicked are swallowed by the quicksands, or drowned when the tide comes rushing in. None of you are wicked, I hope? Even so, I would be careful where I set my feet. Walk only where I walk, and you shall reach the other side."

The path of faith was a crooked one, Brienne could not help but note. Though the island seemed to rise to the northeast of where they left the shore, Septon Meribald did not make directly for it . . . His footprints filled up with water as soon as he moved on. By the time the ground grew firmer and began to rise beneath the feet, they had walked at least a mile and a half.

- AFFC Brienne VI

Essentially in this scene, with his staff, he is Moses leading his followers through the Red Sea to a literal land of milk and honey: the Quiet Isle. His footprints filling with water is could also be referencing Jesus walking on water. I think this passage can itself be an allegory for the path to spirituality/enlightenment with a priest leading his followers through treacherous terrain to safe haven. As Meribald probably sees it, it isn’t a direct, straight path, but a longer, crooked path as Brienne notes. In Herman Hesse’s most famous novel, Siddhartha, the titular character starts out as a Brahmin’s son wanting to achieve enlightenment, becomes an ascetic, and then becomes a merchant gambling, making love to a courtesan and living a hedonistic lifestyle. He later finds himself having sunk so low he goes to the river to commit suicide, only to reconsider at the last minute. He finds a teacher in the ferryman, and by “listening” to the river, finally achieves the enlightenment in his older years that he started out seeking as a teen. Meribald’s own path to spirituality was similar: a peasant’s son from the riverlands who became a soldier, and later as a result of that, became a broken man and a septon who slept around in spite of his vows of celibacy until he reformed into the man we meet in A Feast for Crows. Given his own story, he knows that people can change, and there can be bumps and turns along the road to faith and personal development.

History shows that everyone approaches faith differently. Interpretation of Scripture can largely depend on the interpreter. As Reza Aslan pointed out, up to the Civil War, people on both sides of the debate over slavery used the Bible to support their arguments, including drawing from the same passages. It can go both ways; people will draw values from Scripture and at the same time, people will often insert their own values into Scripture. To give an example, Meribald is like the last High Septon AKA the High Sparrow in being a barefoot, traveling septon from the riverlands with sympathies towards the smallfolk, but his approach and practices separate him from the more zealous, power hungry High Septon, especially in their attitudes towards armed conflict given Meribald’s experience as a soldier. There are also people who use faith for their own self-aggrandizement from bishops and popes of medieval times all the way to televangelists and megachurch pastors of modern-day.

In Geoffrey Chaucer’s magnum opus, Canterbury Tales, alongside some bawdy tales, there was some commentary on the Roman Catholic Church in the subtext. In the first group of pilgrims being made up of aristocrats, one sees the problems of corruption within the Church represented by the Monk who liked to ride, hunt and wear expensive clothes in violation of his vows of poverty, and the corrupt Friar who took bribes for offering absolution, preferred associating with the wealthy over the poor and slept around in violation of his vows of celibacy. Martin is similar with his treatment of the Catholic Church analogue in his series with the Faith of the Seven, and the corruption within the institution is plain to see. The High Septons and Most Devout wear cloth-of-gold and cloth-of-silver along with the High Septon wearing a crown made of crystal and spun gold. The first High Septon we see is given to the vice of gluttony as demonstrated by his obesity when the rest of King’s Landing was starving in A Clash of Kings to the point that Moon Boy jokes about it. Among the Most Devout, Septons Raynard and Ollidor visit brothels in King’s Landing, and Septon Luceon (Frey) served Arbor gold and suckling pig to thirty of the Most Devout in an effort to buy their votes for his campaign to be the next High Septon. The process seen for selecting the next High Septon among the Most Devout mimics actual history when the college of cardinals would elect a new pope with many bribes and deal making behind the scenes to win, or rather buy, cardinals’ votes for the preferred candidates. A number of the Most Devout and the High Septon (the fat one) would fit right in with the Monk and the Friar’s group. However, in one of the last groups consisting of the very poor, one finds the Parson.

But rather would he give, in case of doubt,

Unto those poor parishioners about,

Part of his income, even of his goods.

Enough with little, coloured all his moods.

Wide was his parish, houses far asunder,

But never did he fail, for rain or thunder,

In sickness, or in sin, or any state,

To visit to the farthest, small and great,

Going afoot, and in his hand, a stave.

This fine example to his flock he gave,

That first he wrought and afterwards he taught;

Out of the gospel then that text he caught,

And this figure he added thereunto-

That, if gold rust, what shall poor iron do?

For if the priest be foul, in whom we trust,

What wonder if a layman yield to lust?

And shame it is, if priest take thought for keep,

A shitty shepherd, shepherding clean sheep.

Well ought a priest example good to give,

By his own cleanness, how his flock should live.

. . .

He had no thirst for pomp or reverence,

Nor made himself a special, spiced conscience,

But Christ's own lore, and His apostles' twelve

He taught, but first he followed it himselve.

-Canterbury Tales: General Prologue (Translated for modern audiences)

I glimpse the castles of the great lords only at a distance, but I know the market towns and holdfasts, the villages too small to have a name, the hedges and the hills, the rills where a thirsty man can drink and the caves where he can shelter. And the roads the smallfolk use, the crooked muddy tracks that do not appear on parchment maps, I know them too.

- AFFC Brienne V

While acknowledging the pervasive corruption within the Church, Chaucer wasn’t wholly cynical towards the Church and Christianity. He uses the Parson as an exemplary character, and puts him in the group where Chaucer made each person, although very poor, represent all the Christian virtues. The Parson is a model cleric who lives a simple life of poverty, travels far to reach his parishioners, and shares his income and goods with the poorest of them. The Parson practices what he preaches, setting an example for his parishioners, and serves as a representation of the ideals of Christianity. The clergy closer to the aristocrats tend to be corrupt while the ones closer to the poor tend to be virtuous. Meribald would fit right in with the Parson’s group. His speaking of being far from castles, but visiting the towns, holdfasts and villages demonstrate his association with the smallfolk and poorer members of society while foregoing association with the aristocrats. While he is not opposed to aristocrats as shown by his treatment of Brienne, Hyle and Pod, he prefers to be with smallfolk. His parish is effectively the riverlands within his circuit; he always travels far to attend to people, and gives his food to the poorest parishioners. Meribald is to the Faith in this story as the Parson is to the Church in Chaucer’s: he is a representation of his faith’s ideals of humanity, peace, charity and justice. He provides a direct contrast to the corrupt clerics who run the Faith. As Victor Hugo told his son in response to his opposition towards making a bishop, Myriel, "a prototype of perfection and intelligence" in Les Miserables: “I cannot put the future into the past. My novel takes place in 1815. For the rest, this Catholic priest, this pure and lofty figure of true priesthood, offers the most savage satire on the priesthood today.”

His association with the smallfolk can be seen further in his preference among the Seven.

"I have never known a boy who did not love the Warrior. I am old, though, and being old, I love the Smith. Without his labor, what would the Warrior defend? Every town has a smith, and every castle. They make the plows we need to plant our crops, the nails we use to build our ships, iron shoes to save the hooves of our faithful horses, the bright swords of our lords. No one could doubt the value of a smith, and so we name one of the Seven in his honor, but we might as easily have called him the Farmer or the Fisherman, the Carpenter or the Cobbler. What he works at makes no matter. What matters is, he works. The Father rules, the Warrior fights, the Smith labors, and together they perform all that is rightful for a man. Just as the Smith is one aspect of the godhead, the Cobbler is one aspect of the Smith. It was he who heard my prayer and healed my feet."

- AFFC Brienne V

Meribald’s preference for the Smith is very much in line with Jesus and Isaiah of favoring peaceful, productive labor over war and conflict (swords beaten into plowshares). Meribald’s comments on the Cobbler reveal an understanding of the ideas behind it, and it further emphasizes his association with the common people by preferring the common-oriented Smith over the more aristocrat-oriented Warrior. His statement regarding the Smith, and extending it to other tradesmen, even farmers and fishermen, displays a social consciousness, an acknowledgement that the laborers and craftsmen are the ones who actually add value to society and keep it running as opposed to the generally unproductive warrior caste that rules over Westerosi society. As the smith creates the “bright swords of our lords” suggests, he points out that even the martial aristocrats are wholly dependent on this segment of society that they usually look down on. His own personal experience with war would also make him reluctant to favor the Warrior. He himself knows the negative effects war can have just going by the speech he is best known for.

"More less than more. There are many sorts of outlaws, just as there are many sorts of birds. A sandpiper and a sea eagle both have wings, but they are not the same. The singers love to sing of good men forced to go outside the law to fight some wicked lord, but most outlaws are more like this ravening Hound than they are the lightning lord. They are evil men, driven by greed, soured by malice, despising the gods and caring only for themselves. Broken men are more deserving of our pity, though they may be just as dangerous. Almost all are common-born, simple folk who had never been more than a mile from the house where they were born until the day some lord came round to take them off to war. Poorly shod and poorly clad, they march away beneath his banners, ofttimes with no better arms than a sickle or a sharpened hoe, or a maul they made themselves by lashing a stone to a stick with strips of hide. Brothers march with brothers, sons with fathers, friends with friends. They've heard the songs and stories, so they go off with eager hearts, dreaming of the wonders they will see, of the wealth and glory they will win. War seems a fine adventure, the greatest most of them will ever know.

"Then they get a taste of battle.

"For some, that one taste is enough to break them. Others go on for years, until they lose count of all the battles they have fought in, but even a man who has survived a hundred fights can break in his hundred-and-first. Brothers watch their brothers die, fathers lose their sons, friends see their friends trying to hold their entrails in after they've been gutted by an axe.

"They see the lord who led them there cut down, and some other lord shouts that they are his now. They take a wound, and when that's still half-healed they take another. There is never enough to eat, their shoes fall to pieces from the marching, their clothes are torn and rotting, and half of them are shitting in their breeches from drinking bad water.

"If they want new boots or a warmer cloak or maybe a rusted iron halfhelm, they need to take them from a corpse, and before long they are stealing from the living too, from the smallfolk whose lands they're fighting in, men very like the men they used to be. They slaughter their sheep and steal their chickens, and from there it's just a short step to carrying off their daughters too. And one day they look around and realize all their friends and kin are gone, that they are fighting beside strangers beneath a banner that they hardly recognize. They don't know where they are or how to get back home and the lord they're fighting for does not know their names, yet here he comes, shouting for them to form up, to make a line with their spears and scythes and sharpened hoes, to stand their ground. And the knights come down on them, faceless men clad all in steel, and the iron thunder of their charge seems to fill the world . . .

"And the man breaks.

"He turns and runs, or crawls off afterward over the corpses of the slain, or steals away in the black of night, and he finds someplace to hide. All thought of home is gone by then, and kings and lords and gods mean less to him than a haunch of spoiled meat that will let him live another day, or a skin of bad wine that might drown his fear for a few hours. The broken man lives from day to day, from meal to meal, more beast than man. Lady Brienne is not wrong. In times like these, the traveler must beware of broken men, and fear them . . . but he should pity them as well."

- AFFC Brienne V

This is the speech that earned Meribald his notoriety among the fandom. It is one of the few times where GRRM is very on the nose, and hammers his message into the text explicitly. The speech is a beautiful passage that stands as the biggest denunciation of war in the series, and showcases the anti-war stance of Martin, himself a conscientious objector during the Vietnam War. Every battle that the reader has seen firsthand or been informed about is generally through the view of a member of the nobility, including Davos, who while being born one of the smallfolk, is still a nobleman. The lords are first and foremost a warrior caste who have usually trained for battle their whole lives up to that point, and usually go to battle well-armed, armored and mounted. Here, Meribald presents a very thorough, eloquent and articulate view of war through the eyes of the smallfolk who often lack the extensive military training and armaments of the lords, and yet, make up the majority of feudal armies that engage in battle.

In battle, the smallfolk in these feudal levies can take wounds, both physical and mental, from the injuries sustained in battle, the act of killing itself, the terror of the battle and seeing the people they knew die in gruesome fashion. After battle, they strip the dead of necessities like armor, clothes, weapons and any coin the bodies may have on their persons. Due to the poor supplying of feudal armies, if the infantrymen want to eat, they have to resort to foraging, or taking supplies by force from local smallfolk. They also kill the livestock as part of chevauchee, and rape the local women, since law enforcement is notoriously difficult in warzones. Then, after having undergone so much trauma, some men break during battle and desert. Broken men are deserters suffering from PTSD, usually in an unfamiliar land, where their feudal obligations to serve their lords no longer mean anything nor their fear of divine judgement, but everything takes a backseat to survival. They have often retained their weapons or at least some of them, along with the tactic of foraging. The application of these things can usually result in broken men engaging in banditry to survive. Even when the war is over, the effects of it can remain.

"It is being common-born that is dangerous, when the great lords play their game of thrones," said Septon Meribald.

- AFFC Brienne VII

Meribald’s anti-war attitude is drawn not just from his personal experience as a soldier and broken man, but likely witnessing the destruction and suffering among civilians in the War of the Ninepenny Kings and the War of Five Kings. Along his circuit, he likely has seen villages and towns destroyed and people ravaged by the Lannisters, Brave Companions and Starks. His comments on the smallfolk suffering when the lords go to war is comparable to the observation made by Varys: "The High Septon once told me that as we sin, so do we suffer. If that's true, Lord Eddard, tell me … why is it always the innocents who suffer most, when you high lords play your game of thrones?” The smallfolk always bear the greatest costs of war from the broken men to the foraged, and even massacred, smallfolk. With Meribald’s words, we can look at Tyrion’s description of the army defeated by Robb at Oxcross being largely made up of “raw—apprentice boys, miners, fieldhands, fisherfolk, the sweepings of Lannisport,” in a new light, with much of the people killed in battle being poor smallfolk who are there by circumstance.

They can often be the group in battle to suffer the highest casualties and receive the fewest personal gains. The former is especially true given as Gendry points out: "Knights and lordlings, they take each other captive and pay ransoms, but they don't care if the likes of you yield or not." Highborn combatants are worth ransoms or can make useful hostages, creating an incentive to capture rather than kill them while lowborn combatants have no wealth or connections to call upon, and as prisoners-of-war would be just more mouths to feed in an army that crawls on its stomach, leaving little incentive to capture them.Excluding chivalry, with exceptions like Elia Martell, Lord Hewitt’s daughter and Bracken’s daughter, highborn women usually have some protection from rape via their status with anyone knowing her family would have swords to call upon to defend her honor while women among the smallfolk have no such protection with no swords to call upon. The lords can be rewarded with lands and castles for their services and ransoms from captured lords or knights in service while the smallfolk see hardly any of those rewards, except small ones such as the loot they can obtain if they sack someplace, or strip a dead body. If they’re really lucky, and perform some great feat, like saving a lord in battle, they can be richly rewarded with gold, lands, a keep and their sons serving as squires, or essentially be welcomed into the nobility and get a foot through the door into lordship for their families. That was the case with Ser Bartimus and the man-at-arms who saved Ser Harys Swyft in the Battle of the Blackwater. To borrow from the American Civil War, Westerosi wars can be perfectly summed up as a “rich man’s war, but a poor man’s fight.”

We come across examples of both broken men and raided smallfolk in Brienne’s POV with the raid on Saltpans led by Rorge. We see much of it caused by broken men, and an example of a lord neglecting the obligations of his status.

"Back on the road, the septon said, "We would do well to keep a watch tonight, my friends. The villagers say they've seen three broken men skulking round the dunes, west of the old watchtower.”

"Only three?" Ser Hyle smiled. "Three is honey to our swordswench. They're not like to trouble armed men.”

"Unless they're starving," the septon said. "There is food in these marshes, but only for those with the eyes to find it, and these men are strangers here, survivors from some battle. If they should accost us, ser, I beg you, leave them to me."

"What will you do with them?"

"Feed them. Ask them to confess their sins, so that I might forgive them. Invite them to come with us to the Quiet Isle." 

-AFFC Brienne V

"Ser Quincy is an old man," said Septon Meribald gently. "His sons and good-sons are far away or dead, his grandsons are still boys, and he has two daughters. What could he have done, one man against so many?"

- AFFC Brienne VI

It was Hyle Hunt who finally put words to what all of them had realized. "These are the men who raided Saltpans."

"May the Father judge them harshly," said Meribald, who had been a friend to the town's aged septon.

- AFFC Brienne VII

Where everyone else, is faulting Ser Quincy Cox for not defending his town when it was brutally sacked by Rorge, Meribald is the only one that tries to express some understanding towards Cox. He says that Ser Cox was likely afraid for his family as well as himself, and knew he couldn’t have done much against the raiders. This can be partly due to Meribald himself being a veteran, and knowing what it is like to be afraid facing an onslaught. He was also willing to help three broken men who he knew might be dangerous and potentially harm him by giving them food, knowing they might be starving, and an offer to perform services for them and take them to the Quiet Isle for refuge. One of the closest times we’ve ever gotten to Meribald judging and badmouthing someone is his comments regarding the hanged raiders of Saltpans. He doesn’t show pity for the hanged men likely being broken men despite his words in his famous speech, and deviates from “May the Father judge them justly” to “May the Father judge them harshly.” Of course, in this case, his anger is completely and understandably justified. Meribald’s comments regarding Ser Cox when taken with his sympathy towards broken men show him to be a compassionate man who tries to be understanding and avoid judging people too harshly. This can be partly given to him acknowledging his own mistakes in the past, and thus, be less judgmental towards others’ shortcomings as opposed to someone like the inquisitorial High Sparrow

Meribald’s background largely influenced his own approach to life and faith. His experience in the War of the Ninepenny Kings gave him anti-war views, and his past mistakes helped him to acknowledge that people are people and anyone can fall off track. His experience as one of and interactions with the smallfolk as well as the hardships they face explain his smallfolk-centric worldview. We can look at a historical figure in Catholic Church hagiography that likely inspired Meribald’s character.

Meribald’s Real-Life Counterpart

If there is any historical influence for Meribald, it should be obvious for anyone who has even a basic knowledge of Catholic saints: Francis of Assisi. To give a little basic info, he is one of the patron saints of Italy and the environment, the eponym for San Francisco (in a way fitting with the city’s liberal reptuation) as well as Pope Francis and founder of the Order of Friars Minor, more commonly known as the Franciscan Order. He is also described as the first to receive the stigmata, or receive wounds/marks on his hands, feet and side corresponding to Christ’s wounds from his crucifixion, and credited with creating the first Nativity scene. Francis is a very popular saint, even in Protestantism with Franciscan orders in the Anglican and Lutheran churches, given he embodies many of the qualities that one would look for in a saint. It is said no one was more dedicated in imitating Christ and carrying out the Christ’s work in Christ’s way than Francis to the point that he is even sometimes described as alter Christus, or literally “another Christ.” It comes as no surprise then, that he was canonized less than two years after his death.

Francis was born Giovanni di Bernardone in 12th century Assisi, the son of a wealthy cloth merchant and a noblewoman from Provence. He was informally called Francesco or “the Frenchman” by his father to honor his business success and enthusiasm for French things. Francis wore lavish clothes, and was known to be one of the biggest party animals in town. Albeit, better born than Meribald, Francis shared the commonality of being a veteran whose war experience caused him to re-evaluate his life. Francis originally wanted to be a knight joining in Assisi’s war against Perugia. He was taken prisoner at the Battle of Ponte San Giovanni, and spent a year imprisoned in Collestrada where he suffered a long fever. During the fever, he started to re-evaluate his life. Two years later, his search for victory and glory lead him to leave to fight for Apulia, serving under Count Walter III of Brienne (I kid you not). Apparently, a strange vision made him return home to Assisi. Francis later decided to foreswear his inheritance and become a wandering beggar, and taking Christ’s words literally, stripped himself of the lavish clothes he once liked to wear, and replaced them with a coarse woolen tunic tied with a knotted rope in place of a belt. He traveled from place to place, working to rebuild ruined churches in the countryside of Assisi and Umbria, nursing the sick, including the outcast lepers and giving alms to the poor. He preached brotherly love, peace and penance to the ordinary people in the countryside despite not being an anointed priest. Francis, as Meribald does, celebrated and venerated his poverty, and traveled the countryside preaching and giving aid to the poor. Win Wenders, when talking about the film he made about Pope Francis, described St. Francis as having “an incredible social consciousness, and identified with the outcasts and the poor of his time, and really lived a life of radical solidarity with the poor and outcasts.”

Francis also went so far as to go over enemy lines during the Fifth Crusade to speak with Sultan al-Kamil of Egypt to convert him, or be martyred in the attempt (he failed at both). Francis and Meribald fought wars in their youth only to become men of peace when they grew older in both word and action. There are legends such as Francis healing a leper through prayer. Another being one of his friars scolding three robbers for stealing food and drink from Francis’s monks, and Francis responding by having his friar apologize to them and give them bread and wine. Those three robbers would be moved enough to join Francis’s order. It reminds me of Meribald’s comments regarding what to do if three broken men in the dunes come upon them: "Feed them. Ask them to confess their sins, so that I might forgive them. Invite them to come with us to the Quiet Isle."

Francis is the patron saint of animals and the environment given he displayed kindness and respect towards animals in a way Meribald wouldn’t disapprove of if Dog is anything to go by. He saw nature as a “mirror of God,” and he referred to animals as “brothers and sisters.” His attitude towards animals would have been met with approval from the SPCA and other animal rights organizations with words such as “Not to hurt our humble brethren is our first duty to them, but to stop there is not enough. We have a higher mission - to be of service to them whenever they require it.” There are stories and legends of birds gathering to hear him preach, half-frozen bees crawling towards him to be fed and the famous tale of the Wolf of Gubbio.

The story goes that the town of Gubbio was terrorized by a large wolf that preyed originally on its flocks, then also began to feed on the townspeople and finally switched to eating only people. It supposedly could not be harmed by an weapon, devouring anyone who tried to kill it. Francis went up to confront it and chastised the wolf for its actions, with the wolf responding by bowing its head in submission. Francis than made a deal with the wolf: “I promise thee that thou shalt be fed every day by the inhabitants of this land so long as thou shalt live among them; thou shalt no longer suffer hunger, as it is hunger which has made thee do so much evil; but if I obtain all this for thee, thou must promise, on thy side, never again to attack any animal or any human being; dost thou make this promise?" The wolf placed a forepaw in Francis’s outstretched hand in agreement to the oath. Francis then walked with the wolf following him to town to the surprise of the townspeople. The wolf died two years later, and the town was saddened given he had become a symbol of Francis’s sanctity and divine power. The legend says they gave the wolf an honorable burial and later built a church at the site.

Crazy enough, during the renovation of the Church of Saint Francis of Peace in 1872, the same church where the wolf was said to be buried, under a slab near the wall of the church they found the skeleton of a large wolf that was likely several centuries old. They reburied the wolf skeleton inside. My guess is that in real-life, a wolf may have preyed on Gubbio’s flocks, and Francis came up with a simple solution: feed the wolf and it wouldn’t have to feed on their flocks. The description of the Wolf of Gubbio does also bring to mind a certain canine in the series.

“They say the pack is led by a monstrous she-wolf, a stalking shadow grim and grey and huge. They will tell you that she has been known to bring aurochs down all by herself, that no trap nor snare can hold her, that she fears neither steel nor fire, slays any wolf that tries to mount her, and devours no other flesh but man."

- AFFC Brienne V

I wouldn’t be surprised if a similar situation happens with Meribald regarding a seemingly invincible, large wolf terrorizing the riverlands, devouring its flocks and people: Nymeria. Dog wouldn’t be able to protect him from Nymeria if she came upon him, and Meribald, being a man of peace, would deal with her in a way that men of war have tried and failed to do. I’m willing to bet money on it.

Conclusion:

Meribald plays the role of guide for his fellow travelers as well as the reader, and the mouthpiece of the author on war. Being the only one among the group who is one of the smallfolk and not the nobility, he provides a much needed perspective on war through the eyes of 99% of the population. His good-natured, country bumpkin-esque appearance masks an intelligent man with profound insight on war, society and faith. He probably has a worse background prior to joining the Faith and shortly after than most of the Most Devout and High Septons, but he turned out a better man than any of them. He is the closest to a saint we’ve seen in this series, more so than any other septon we’ve encountered. Hopefully, I think we will meet him again in the series, and I look forward to hearing what more insights he has.

#asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #septon meribald #a feast for crows #team smallfolk #game of thrones #got #brienne the beauty #brienne #faith #faith of the seven #antiwar #stfrancis #saint francis #saint francis of assissi

[wordydelights]

first chapter of the first book i ever tried to write

When Galaxies Collide

11:39 AM, November 29th

As I tapped my no. 2 against the side of my desk, I could tell others around me were becoming annoyed. But, that didn't seem to bother me much. The ticking of each second passing by echoed throughout my eardrums. The day was going slower than normal.

It was torture.

I'd usually be scribbling something on the corner of my notebook by now, but the inspiration I needed wasn't present at the moment. I was just waiting for it to walk through the door.

11:43 AM

The classrooms' temperature caused my hands to numb and drift asleep.The dull environment, dry with boredom, painted the students' faces with clear disinterest. Blank sheets of paper sat on each desk, patiently awaiting to be written on, alas no one could find the strength to lift their fingers.

The teachers here refer to us as a lazy generation, concluding we only spend our time watching 'screens' all day and don't know how to socialize, on account of being caught up in our make-believe worlds. They also believe that the public school system is a well established institute for education...and our school's sports teams don't suck. So who's the real loser?

My yawning began to fog the glasses now resting on the tip of my nose. I gently removed the specs, carefully wiping them off with the knit sleeve of my sweater. I'd occasionally wear contacts but I was usually too lazy to deal with carefully shoving plastic underneath my eyelids.

I had sat in the back of the classroom, three rows to the left, giving me a perfect view of my fellow peers, the white board and the lovely scenery of the school's totally non-crappy parking lot, outside the window.

A faint sound began to tickle my ears. As it grew louder I was able to make out my name. Don't worry, I thought. Hearing your name being called is the sign of a healthy mind. Either that or I was becoming schizophrenic. But, unfortunately this wasn't a figment of my imagination, let alone a psychotic voice in my head.

"Jackson."

I snapped my head up towards the front of the classroom, like being resurrected with a sudden jolt. My eyes met the shiny forehead, wrinkled with distress of The Professor. He was a World History teacher at Oakwood High. No one seemed to refer to him by his real name, honestly, I think most of us had forgotten it.

The Professor had always made a huge deal about universities, how hard it is to get in and statistically most of us will end up at a dead-end community college with a degree in flipping burnt burgers. To make matters worse, he constantly bragged about his past employment at Harvard.

The big question he hadn't answered however was 'how he got from Harvard to a low budget public school in Forest Grove, Oregon.' Bigger question, 'how he was removed from Harvard's distinguished faculty?.'

Never once did he object to this sarcastic nickname which was used to describe his unhealthy obsession. As a matter-of-fact he took pride in it. Probably because it reminded him of the times he once had a bigger paycheck, respectful students and a school with an IQ average larger than 60. Or partly because he was an arrogant asshole, who enjoys dwelling on the past.

"Daydreaming again, I see," he said expressionless. His specialty.

"No s-s-ir," my voice cracked.

I heard snickers from multiple students around the room.

Damn you puberty.

"I was just looking for a bit of inspiration."

"Inspiration," he smirked. "How is that related to the lesson?"

My eyes darted across the whiteboard, searching for the title of today's topic, written in it's general bold letters.

The Age of Enlightenment.

"Well sir, during the Enlightenment period, inspiration was what all people were searching for."

"And have you found any inspiration?"

"Not yet, it hasn't seemed to arrive."

He squinted his eyes as if trying to read to me. Scanning my body language, then absorbing the information obtained. I knew I was about to be asked to explain to the class something complex, that I obviously don't know about the Enlightenment. It was his typical routine for making me look like an idiot, not like he had to try.

11:47 AM

As soon as he opened his mouth to speak, the words on the tip of his tongue, the door swung open. Inspiration had arrived.

"Hi sorry...you would not believe the hallway traffic."

She was on her usual time. Not too late to be counted absent, but late enough to piss of The Professor.

"Pass?" The tone in his voice was dripping with frustration.

She walked up with a certain confidence in her stride. Not the prideful, vain kind. The bold kind. Too bold. So bold it was a cover up for something dark lying within.

She pushed the hair out of her face, and flashed a smile, a fake, phony, I-hate-you smile, proceeding to hand over a crumpled up hall pass.

The Professor snatched the piece of paper out of her hand, quickly analyzed it and sighed,

"Just go sit down."

"Gladly," she'd snap back without missing a beat.

I watched as she made her way to her desk dropping the bag to the floor and whipping her classic black and white chucks up onto the empty seat in front of her, then continued to twist the stained silver ring on her finger.

Some days were better than others. She never truly disrupted class. She just threw on a show whenever she came in.

Never once did she acknowledge my presence this entire year. I doubt she even vaguely remembered me.

She had changed so much since the four-foot-three Serene Easton from elementary school.

No longer did she wear that burgundy ribbon in her hair, candy bracelets or fuzzy scrunchies on her wrists. She moved away one summer just as we were about to start the seventh grade. I don't know where or why, but I do know I bawled my eyes out for a month straight.

I just couldn't bare the thought of her not being there for me when I needed her most. I don't even really remember much of the time we spent together. It was mostly Halo dragging me along her wild goose chases, getting busted with Halo for tagging along those wild goose chases, and brief moments with Noel during those wild goose chases, probably only lasting half a second, that had been sown in my being.

I told her to write. She didn't. I told her to call. No calls received. I told her to send a damn email. No emails sent.

Her response to each of my requests was a half smile, followed by a nod and sincere look in her eyes. I was like a puppy being left at the local Humane Society, thinking, surely their owner will be back for them.

But, they never were.

Oddly enough, my parents thought it was good, healthy even, that the only friend I had was leaving. My mother was afraid I would become too dependent on Halo if our friendship sustained. And I'm fairly certain my father was becoming worried about my sexuality.

Being a young boy, who wasn't quite as athletically gifted as others and only able to maintain one friend who happened to be female, caused him to raise some suspicions. Also, my incriminating actions might have come into play. Such as, not being able to change in front of other boys or perhaps stumbling upon gay porn on their computer, but I swear, it was already there when I went to use the laptop.

Nevertheless, my family supported me through thick and thin, but at the same time, had awkward conversations about how they accept me for who I am and will always love me not matter what.

Despite my parents' 'words of wisdom,' I will never forget Halo's last words she said to me before she left.

"The story continues."

She said it cryptically, like it was my job to decode the message behind it. The mystery bouncing within the light of her eyes.

Halo had never found pleasure in saying goodbyes, as a result she would say things like 'see ya later' or 'until next time.' In her own words; goodbye is too permanent. But, this time, this saying was different. What did she mean by 'the story continues'? What was the story? Was it her life? Was I just a mere chapter or an adventure to move on from? Or was the story both of us? How we have future journeys lying ahead, just waiting to be ventured upon. Maybe her moving away was just an example of the plot thickening.

I might never realize what she truly meant, however, it gives me hope.

Lunch at Oakwood was pretty much what you would expect for your customary high school. Freshman sitting with freshman, sophomores with sophomores...yeah, you get the gist. Girls on one side, guys on the other, then a couple of mixed tables scattered across the sea of pubescent bodies.

It's a small school. Our last graduating class contained about 136 students. Out of a total population of 584.

Everyone had a place and if you didn't it's because you chose not to have one. That was just my theory at least. I'd always been that shy, quiet guy.

I had become a master of blending in, being overlooked by almost everyone was my speciality.

"Jackson, mah brotha from anotha motha!" Ravon announced as he approached the table. His feign, early 2000's, ghetto slang caused me to cringe. The buttons on the back pockets of his acid wash jeans scraped against the seat next to Aditi, as he began to sit down, creating a group of three. He advanced to unraveling his brown, paper, lunch bag, revealing his masterpiece of a PB&J.

"Hey," he pointed. "Check out that spicy chocolate mama."

Ravon drew Aditi and I's attention over towards Jasmine Baker, senior class president. We watched as she made her way over to her pretentious, intellectually gifted friends. Her hips swayed with each step followed by the sound of her high heeled boots clicking against the marble floor.

"Bow-chicka-wow-wow," Aditi exclaimed.

His thick Indian accent made it hard not to burst into laughter. I snorted.

Aditi was a foreign exchange student from India. He didn't know much English, so he would say words completely irrelevant to the topic, however, I was surprised to hear how much he had improved.

"M-m-mmm," Ravon drooled. "That's one stone cold fox."

I awkwardly shrugged, picking at the glutinous macaroni and cheese, now glued to the paper tray.

"Aw, hell nah."

Ravon stared at me with an almost how-dare-you expression slapped across his face.

"What?" I asked.

He moved closer to my face. So close, I could smell the potent peanut butter aroma permeating the air from his mouth."Did you just diss the chocolate mamas?"

"No, I just don't find Jasmine very appealing."

Which was true. I didn't find girls who covered up their insecurities with false confidence very attractive. Girls who lived for themselves instead were more my type.

I finally looked from my pathetic excuse for a meal and up at Ravon. His dark skin in piercing contrast with his coral polo shirt. He blinked twice. I couldn't tell if he was about explode into a full-fledged rant about how dissing the 'chocolate mamas' was like sucker punching his future love child Tyron. And nobody touches little Tyron. Or laugh it off, pat my back and put this insignificant feud behind us.

Ravon was an interesting character. For example, using words which were televised in the late 90's and dressing in similar fashion to a cast member from a Fresh Prince rerun.

The tension in the air was becoming too thick to breathe. Luckily Aditi broke the ice.

"Bay-gull," He exclaimed in his way of saying the word bagel. At least, so we think..

"Yes, Aditi," Ravon hesitated. "Bagel indeed."

There was something uneasy about the way he spoke, nonetheless, I disregarded it..

Out of the corner of my eye, I captured a glimpse of Halo eagerly walking towards the outdoor lunch patio. I guess I made it obvious as to what I was staring at, because I received unnecessary commentary to my vision.

"Hellooo," Ravon flirtatiously said, lifting both of his eyebrows. "Vanilla mama."

"You're obsession with comparing women to pieces of candy is becoming disturbing," I mumbled while burying my face into my palms. Through the cracks of my fingers, I spotted the back of Halo vanishing behind the corner of school, racing to the usual spot where her group of 'juvenile delinquents' sat. Gone, once again.

I spent the rest of the period listening to Ravon ramble about getting to second-base with a girl waiting in line at the mall. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure I saw him there the other day groping a mannequin.

It was relatively easy pretending to pay attention to Ravon. All you had to do was nod and half smile occasionally. He was that type of person who lived in a false reality. Choosing not to believe the fact that the only people he had to speak to included someone who obviously couldn't care less and someone who didn't understand half of what he was saying.

The problem with me was that it became so hard to connect, to feel any emotion whatsoever. It's better when it's just me. My mind and I, we go well together. We agree about everything. It's really all I need. Friends come and go, leading to grief. Why waste all that energy on the expected? So yes, I'm not actually friends with Aditi or Ravon. They just happen to be people in this specific chapter of my life. By the time I'm thirty, I probably won't even remember them. Sad, but true.

I just prefer thinking realistically.

With a hop, skip and jump in my step, I was dumped on the side of the road, attempting to avoid slamming into the bright, red stop sign. I was possibly the only junior at Oakwood who still road the bus to school instead of driving their own 'set of wheels.' The stop was half a mile away from my house, which was far, but not too far to walk home. It happened to be very calm and reflective. I don't know why, but there is something about walking alone that just helps you forget all of the pesky problems in life. Cars passed by me leaving a gust of wind to be remembered by. Puddles were dispersed across the road, which wasn't quite unusual when living in Oregon. The trees were almost bare, only few Amber and ruby colored leaves attached to the claws of their branches. Every now and then I'd see someone I recognize from school, but I don't think I'd look as familiar to them as they do to me.

About a quarter of a mile away from my destination I'd pass a small white house. Its curtains closed, concealing secrets to the curious eye. It looked like your average suburban home. A welcome mat by the front door, wind chimes hanging from over its porch, and a lawn in slight need of a good mow. It definitely did not appear to be the type of home you'd expect Halo Easton to be living in.

I wasn't quite sure if she was home at the moment, there appeared to be no activity coming from within, except for the slight flickering of a light, most likely from a television screen, piercing through the closed blinds. Then again, Halo was the type of person that never seemed to be at home.

By the time I had arrived, my mother was in the front yard hauling what had the appearance of tacky couch from the 70's, from our family pickup truck. One end of the abomination was tilted against the driveway, the other leaning against the tailgate of the vehicle.

"Oh! Jackson, honey, could you come help me with this?"

Sweat poured from the top of her head, as she wiped her face with the white apron she normally used for cleaning.

I made my way over towards the hideous piece of furniture, it's yellowish piss coloring, velvet fabric, with brown and white stripes outlining it's unflattering frame.

"Mom, did you buy this?" I asked while trying to hide my horrified expression.

"No, sweetheart you know me better than that," She paused, catching her breath.

"I found it in of one of our neighbors front yards! Can you believe someone was just giving it away!?"

My mother was a hoarder. As hard as she wanted to admit it, she was. She liked collecting junk, adding to her insatiable collection of stuff she will most likely never use. I guess she thought she would sometime, in the near distant future, fix her junk up or put it to some sort of benefit, unfortunately she never did. So, now we had achieved a garage filled from bicycles missing wheels, to the largest world collection of disfigured beanie babies. Even though she was a bit crazy, I sort of admired her for it in a way. She was able to see a beauty, that no one else did, in the things she found. After all, I had to get my artistic side from somewhere.

"Ok, one, two, three, lift."

The nonexistent muscles I had in my arms, were straining. I was unprepared for the amount of weight I was now lifting. I felt my heart beating twice as fast, almost as if screaming, 'Shouldn't have skipped gym you weak bitch.'

Somehow we managed to tilt the 'couch from hell' rightside up. Mostly because I let it fall to the ground at the last second.

"Good, now help me move it into the garage."

I might've started screaming bloody murder, if my little sister Gracie hadn't opened the front door and shouted, "Daddy's home!"

Slowly, my father's blue minivan rolled up the driveway. Gracie, with a sheet of notebook paper covered with multicolored scribbles in her hands, ran towards the door of the car, excitedly tapping on its window.

My father calmly walked out, but I could tell by his constant glances over towards the new piece of furniture we now owned, which he now had to help move, was ready to burn mother's garage full of trinkets.

"Daddy look." Gracie held up her art, stained with a bit of 100% grape juicy juice.

"Aren't I just as good as Jackson? It's abstract. Just like the one drawing you guys really liked that he did, except mine has color!"

"It's beautiful," my father faintly smiled, but the reassurance in his voice wasn't very prominent.

I smirked at her jealousy of the talents I possessed. She always looked up to her big brother Landon, but he had been away at college for the past few months, so I guess I was her backup plan. However, she didn't hold the same sort of honor she had for me as she had for Landon. It was that 'middle child honor.' The type of honor that truly does look up to you, just doesn't like showing it. The type of honor that likes to bring up embarrassing moments that will haunt you for the rest of your life, steal your towel and clothes while taking a shower and eat the last bite of your favorite cereal.

Luckily, I had my revenge planned. When she really pisses me off I can finally tell her the truth about her unplanned conception.

"How was work dad?" I never usually acted this interested in my father's occupation, mostly because it involved unclogging the shit out of people's toilets, but I was trying to avoid carrying the monstrosity of a sofa to the garage.

"Eh," his common response. He wasn't the most emotional person, especially on days when he was in one of his 'moods.' This was one of those days.

He made his way towards mother, despite her stockpile-syndrome, you could tell he loved her more than life itself.

"Hey hon," he said, softly pecking her on the lips.

It was like her insanity was a part of him that he adored. The part that kept him young, helping him remember their early blossoming romance. They were complete opposites, yet each mirrored the other. Each bringing out the other's character.

As I see it, everything needs it's opposing pair. It wouldn't be whole without it.

What would the moon be without the sun, the light without darkness, bitter without sweet, grief without joy, love without hate? These forces balance each other out. My parents are like that.

My mother smiled, then began, "Hey! Oooo, do you think you could help me move thi-" mother began but was cut off.

"I'm already on it," my father laughed, lifting one side of the couch, clearly exhausted.

I started to walk into the house, the straps of my backpack now chaffing my shoulders. We had lived in this house for about 18 years. Apparently after mom found out she was pregnant once again, they figured it was best to start searching for a place other than the one bedroom condo they were already living in. They found our home thinking it would be a proper family home. Instead, it turned out to be infested with termites, gnawing away at the wooden beams supporting our ceilings. Of course, an exterminator was hired. After that slight bump in the road, a paint job and serious cleaning, it turned out to be the domicile we would spend the rest of our childhood in. All of our precious memories, which we held dear, lied within it's walls.

I raced up the stairway to my room. The house, unlike our garage, was rather neat. My Father and I had always shared a passion for order. I guess I wasn't quite as uptight as he was, although I did become slightly OCD about a backwards roll of toilet paper.

My bedroom was whitewashed with well. . .white. Colorless and bland.

It's not that I was a boring stick-in-the-mud, I just didn't want to ruin the elegance my room pertained. It was like an empty canvas, a blank sheet of paper. Having so much potential. Potential that could easily be destroyed.

My fear was screwing things up.

As an aspiring artist, you might find it odd how I'm exceptionally organized, rather dull and basic. Not all artists have to be these messy slobs, using vibrant colors, seeing things differently than others.

I saw things for the way they were.

I laid my backpack down by the side of my bed, it's zipper clanking against the metal frame. It was time for my daily procrastination. I rolled open the drawer to my drafting table. Its polished wooden frame, still held the freshly cut pine scent, regardless of how old it was. Delicately choosing a pencil from my collection. It needed to be ideal. It's lead not too stubby, so I didn't have to find the energy to choose a new tool, yet not too sharp so it wouldn't break during the process. I tried taking a few short breaths. Attempting to clear my mind.

I liked playing a game with myself. The first thought which popped into my head, I would draw. I counted to four. Not three. Not five. Four. It was the number in between, commonly overlooked as a number to count to.

Just like me.

One....Two....Three...Four.

The gears in my brain started turning, sorting through the files of my mind, seeking for the perfect thought. It scanned through the alphabet.

A...B...C...D....E...STOP!

Yes, E.

The word became clear, its letters floating about.

Emptiness.

Beginning is always the hardest part. It is the foundation for everything. All the work you do from that point on stands upon the structure you created.

The first thing that came to mind when picturing the word was someone hiding behind a mask. Disguising their pain.

I proceeded to sketch a young girl, probably around Gracie's age. Her hair, hiding half her face. Each strand, unkempt, and untamed. She was smiling, yet the crinkles near her eyes told another story. A vacant heart.

A label was printed across her forehead. Numbers, like an ID.

18, 5, 10, 5, 3, 20, 5, 4.

Each number representing a letter. Each letter forming a word. A word that was the root cause of all emptiness. Being rejected.

She could fool anyone who was gullible enough to believe her false sense of contentment. Only those who looked close enough were able to see the agony beneath her facade.

Later that evening, while shading the striking features of the girl's face, darkening her glassy, tear-filled eyes, I was called down for dinner. My creative flow now interrupted, I made my way downstairs. My family each in their traditional seats. We use to have a big fancy dinner table, for guests, but I guess after the first awkward dinner with the Peterson's, and the fact we rarely ever had guests over, we sold it and bought a table much more accustomed to the size of our family. We only had one extra seat, of course in the garage, which was for Landon when he returned from (insert school name here). I plopped into the last available chair, my nose meeting the delicious fragrance of chinese take-out.

Egg rolls, white rice with baby shrimp, teriyaki chicken and those oh-so-sweet stargoons. I guess mom was too lazy to cook tonight. Again.

But, I wasn't complaining.

It was at that moment when I realized just how starving I was. I had forgotten I didn't eat my lunch.

I commenced to quietly dip my egg roll into a small packet of 'duck sauce' or whatever the hell it was and continued to stuff my face with a bite far too large for my mouth.

"So, Jackson, Gracie, you're father and I have some news."

I raised my head, my cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk trying to store his precious supply of nuts. Haha, nuts.

Dad just sat idly by while my mother eagerly took his hand. He seemed clueless. As if he was a random passerby who had just won a lifetime supply of pastries for buying the millionth funnel cake.

"Landon's coming home for the weekend," she exclaimed.

Gracie enthusiastically shrieked like a mating dolphin from the top of her lungs.

"Not inside the house Grace," Dad grimaced.

"Jackson, honey, isn't that great?"

I guess the lack of emotion on my face and the fact I had said not a word might have given the impression I wasn't thrilled to be reuniting with my dear brother, who I had profoundly missed, or was taking his trip home for granted. No, it wasn't either of those things, I was only slightly busy attempting not to choke on the rather sizeable amount of egg roll I had just consumed. The lump in my throat felt as if it was the size of golf ball. The shells' sharp edges slowly slid down my throat.

Amazingly I was able to swallow the choking hazard.

"Yeah mom, that's awesome."

Lately my parents had been acting more attentive towards my needs, assuming I'm depressed or unhappy with my circumstances. I suppose they have noticed my increase in afternoon naps, deadpan smiles and most of my life being spent in my room.

Perhaps they thought bringing Landon back home for a little while, might help recover the 'old Jackson' whose absence had been accounted for.

Yes, I admit it. Landon leaving did make things difficult. But, it was my fault for getting so hung up on the situation. I knew he was leaving. I couldn't help but also feeling slight resentment towards Landon.

He left me. However, Landon wasn't to blame. This was a step he had to take in life. I never expected for him to stay home to tend to his emotional brothers' needs. It just gave me a taste of the truth. Even family will not always be there for you.

Although, I did begin acting unlike my common self around the time when Landon left, he wasn't the only factor that had come into play of my mysterious change in personality. I guess his disappearance was just the gateway to all of the crap I had been storing in my heart for years.

Think of it like Jenga, the more blocks you pile up, the more come tumbling down.

I was never the type of person to talk about their issues and receive perceptive insight, causing my life to magically become picture perfect, solving every single one of my problems, then rolling the credits with the Friends theme song.

Because life just wasn't that simple.

That night was probably like most. Laying in bed staring at my ceiling, weary yet unable to let loose and drift away. All that was left for me to do was think. Think about the inevitable fact that I would soon fall asleep, unfortunately I would have to spend the next few minutes, before that happens, and suffer. I guess this was mother nature's way of letting you reflect on your actions, those humiliating moments we regret, causing us the gut-wrenching feeling of condemnation.

But, there were no moments belonging to me I had to ponder. I could only ask myself, what the hell happened to her?

Halo was a mission impossible movie. There was always something exciting and adventurous just around the corner. Her motto once was there would be no rules without rebellion. She'd then emphasize the statement saying how technically she was enforcing the rules by breaking them. She was one of those people who would have an idea, not take a second longer to think about what had just entered her mind and do it. From what it seemed, her impulsiveness had not changed much or her thirst for an adrenaline rush. No, what had changed was the wholesome tone she use to have in her voice. Each word was now filled with no meaning and each action was driven from a burning desire to fill the void in her soul, only enlarging.

If only I could just find enough courage to talk to her.

But, what would I say?

"Hey, uh, remember me? Jackson Novak. We use to hang out when were like ten, and I've noticed you recently moved back into the neighborhood this past year. Sorry if you ever caught me stalkerishly staring at your house, I was just wondering if you were home and what you might've doing."

Oh yeah, she'd probably just fall right into my arms after that glorious soliloquy.

Actually she might just jackslap me in the face for even considering speaking to her. After all, she had made it very clear she either never wanted to talk to me again, or suffered a terrible case of amnesia, causing her to lose about four years worth of her memory.

In all fairness, we were young.

We have matured quite a bit since our last rendezvous. She definitely wasn't that flat chested little girl from the fifth grade anymore. So, maybe it's possible she didn't recognize me?

That's ridiculous, I hadn't changed that much. I was still rather freckled face, sustaining your basic non-aerobic physique, just a foot and a half taller and different pair of glasses. I couldn't have changed to a certain degree making me unrecognizable.

Yes, it had been about five years, I'll give her that, but wouldn't she find me the slightest bit familiar?

Maybe, her life just didn't have enough room for me at the moment. She was already busy with her other friends, she just hadn't found the words to say to me yet.

Or maybe, my special gift of blending into the crowd was becoming better than I intended.

"Yeah, that was it," I tried telling myself, sinking into denial. Even though I hadn't chosen a possible theory to which I agreed with.

It was sometimes easier to deceive yourself than accepting the facts.

But, what's the point? She's moved on.

I wanted to hate her. To hate her for planting seeds of hope. For making me wish she would look at me and smile, reminiscing on a moment we once shared. She left me in suspense, on the edge of my seat, eagerly waiting to see what her next move would be.

But, I didn't hate her. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't.

#the title is when galaxies collide #writeblr #writelr #YA #young adult #teen fiction #awkward #lit #literature #aspiring author #writers of tumblr

[find-your-rp-partner]

Looking for a OnexOne Longterm Roleplay Partner

Hello All!

I’m Courtney, I’m 24 years old living in the Eastern Time Zone of the US of A.  I’ll get down to the nitty gritty of what I’m looking for in a Roleplay partner.  I’m not at all interested in Fandoms.  I only am interested in roleplaying with original characters and ultimately in collaborating with someone on a story.  I’ve got a plot (sort of, wanting to develop it more with a potential partner) and I’m going to actually post a little taste of what I’ve written so far to see if that would give potential partners an idea of where I’m coming from.  But I'm completely open to coming up with something new as well.  

First lets get a few details out of the way.  Please be 18+ as smut and violence are inevitable in my stories.  Also, be comfortable roleplaying multiple characters, I have a Female and Male character for this story and I expect that you would be willing to develop at least two or more characters for this as well.  I only roleplay smut with heterosexual pairings however as that is what I’m most comfortable with.

Second, be open with ideas.  I feel like collaboration is an open sharing process and I never want any of my partners to feel too afraid to pitch an idea or contribution to the plot.  

Third, I only roleplay over Skype or kik as it’s the quickest when it comes to responses though since I work full time those responses typically are maybe 2-3 times a day.  But also it allows us to talk more freely.  If what you read below interests you feel free to hit me up at: Bakesalehottie2 on Skype or bakesalehottie2 on kik.

So here it is, I hope to hear from some of you!:

I have always wondered that maybe one day my dreams could become reality and that maybe one day, this world would change if not for the better.  My kind does not usually dream so big, my kind does not usually hope for a better tomorrow.  We are different in ways normal people cannot even imagine for we are destined to become better than the average man.  If there is a God, then why has he tainted us with this stain of superiority?  The truth is, if there were a God, he’d never let something as terrible as this fall upon one of his children.  We, the few who know of the cruelties of this world, thus far, deny his existence.  The few who have experienced the life with different attributes.  Some of us, if in the wrong hands, can be used as weapons.  Some of us can be used for good.  Though not many of us even realize we have a meaning.  After all, it seems like just yesterday that we were all normal in one way or another. 

I always have five minutes time in order to prepare.  It just seems to hit me, sort of like a shot of whiskey because it’s always a rushing pain up my nostrils which then in turn shocks my brain telling it to wake the fuck up.  But this happens every minute, sometimes every two or three seconds.  Over the years I’ve managed to pass it off as just a simple headache, but in reality it’s equal to having a migraine all the fuckin’ time.  I used to not be able to think clearly with it or even talk normally.  But with time comes experience and in any case headaches aren’t near as horrible as having your head split in two twenty-four seven.  Still, it’s no joy, receiving this jolt of electricity, because it’s code for a name.  This name is always random, never of the same race four times in a row, I can usually tell by the origins.  Yet nonetheless, it is a person, and it is a person whose life will end in five minutes.

Five minutes is hardly enough to time to make a decision for oneself let alone decide if you should save this life or not.  I have learned that not all the names I constantly receive are people I’m able to save.  But on occasion I will at random decide if this person sounds worthy enough of being saved.  This night I was feeling particularly generous, for a name had been transcribed into my thoughts that would not leave for the life of me:  Jacqueline Frey.  Seemed normal enough to me, but as I said, we were all once normal just yesterday.  Had I not been living in New York City at the time I wouldn’t have been able to sense this name so strongly.  It meant that she was nearby, so close that I could almost feel her pulse vibrating through my veins like the violent rampage of a chattering squirrels teeth on its lower incisors. 

Her heart rate was flying through the roof; whatever she was doing she was doing it with a lot of exertion of energy.  I grit my teeth, stepping out from the comfort of the alleyway to scan the street.  It was sunset, something I hadn’t noticed since I’d slept most of the day.  After all, I’d been up all night drinking; it wasn’t abnormal to have wasted away the daylight hours.  There were a few cars, but not much activity as far as life goes.  Yet I could feel the movement of others.  The stench of metal and shit was thick in the air, yet I wasn’t even close to a garbage dump nor was I close to any sort of factory.  Wrinkling my nose, I scuffed the ground beneath me and proceeded to head down the sidewalk.  Shoving my hands into my pockets I managed to let out a sigh of boredom, before something flickered across my eyes that was unexpected.  The pain was unimaginable, unlike anything I’d ever felt before.  Daggers were piercing my skull, thrusting deeper through the light membrane that coated its hollow shell and plunging into the most important organ in my body.

Needles seemed to follow, forcing my eyes shut and my knees buckling.  Biting down hard out of instinct on my lower lip I found my hands had crawled their way up into my tresses.  Vexatious amounts of blood were coursing through my cerebrum, my heartbeat was louder than ever in my ears and my veins felt about on the verge of explosion.  Only one thing was running through my thoughts, screaming to be heard.  A name.  Simon Blackwell.  After a moment I realized that whatever had been triggering this dolorific event had subsided and I no longer felt so distressed.  Yet nothing else but that name was transcribed into my memory.  Something was wrong.  This had never happened before, what did this mean?  Why was it so sudden?  And why did I feel as if this man was as close as Jacqueline had been?  Ignoring the blood that had collected on the inside of my lips I managed to push myself up off the pavement, stumbling towards the end of the street.  Something new was coursing through my veins, a new pulse that was causing my head to spin wildly and my senses to be thwarted.  This man was scared; his erratic heart was thudding inside my own body so wildly that even I could feel that fear, that desperate hope.  He was wild, maybe mad and for some reason, but either way his death was coming.

I needed an answer; I needed to appease my mind.  Otherwise this happening would haunt me for the rest of my times.  Trivial as it may be I was sure I could solve this matter.  Sweat was dripping from my face in what felt like gallons and my eyes were struggling to stay open, yet I pushed forward with all the energy I could muster.  Reaching for the edge of the building to my right was like reaching for the side of a cliff until a force struck me hard in the gut, taking the wind out of my lungs for a split second.  It felt as if my innards were being corn-holed as I was set back a moment in order to catch my breath.  Coughing up what felt like phlegm into my hands I gasped for air. Letting out an exasperated breath I clenched my stomach, tearing at the cloth around my stalky build, wishing that this would just go away, that this sudden moment of pure agony would leave me.  But it wasn’t allowing me freedom; it wasn’t making the next step forward any easier, only delaying me further.  Determined to conquer this I gripped the wall hard.  Swallowing back the pain my eyes snapped to attention and I leapt forward, turning on a swift heel and breaking an invisible barrier between me and the scene before my eyes.

The answers to my questions were disturbing in the least.  I’d heard stories of others like me, with abilities that had set them above the curve of society, but I’d never actually seen one of my kind for myself.  I’d only stumbled along the trail in search of more but always coming up short.  The picture painted before me now, though, was terrifying.  I’d never imagined that the first person I’d meet like myself would be a murderer, let alone a woman.  Jacqueline Frey was standing on the opposite side of the street, her delicate arm outstretched and facing me, her fingers coiled into a tightly wound fist.  Something about her stature was eerie, and I couldn’t stop myself from taking a long sideways glance her way.  Hazel eyes seemed set in stone beyond her long brunette locks, which appeared to be whipping about her angular face in a terrifying fashion.  Yet her appearance was nothing compared to the man quite close to me who was embedded in the brick of the building.  Simon Blackwell.  Yet not really much of a man anymore, his eyes were popping from his skull, hanging through his sockets by the veins.  His jawbone had been disfigured, set aside to the left of his cranium.  Blood coated the wall beneath his cerebrum and outlined the rest of his form with spurts outward as if he was the center of the universe.  His gut had been pummeled through, blood was still pouring out of his body though I couldn’t see why since most of his digestive tracts had been forced from him and his organs were spilling out onto the pavement.  Though the man was dead his picture was imprinted onto my lenses forever more.  For his fingers twitched and his muscles spasmed as his dark red blood stained the sidewalk and my coat as it continued to splatter the area about him.  I had to divert my eyes because soon the nausea I felt gurgling in my skull would purge my stomach if I didn’t look away.

Sure, I’d seen death, even like this.  But I never said that I’d been able to keep my lunch down while witnessing it.  I’d never had a stomach for battle, never had the eyes of a warrior, though I’d lived long enough to see some of the most barbaric wars I was still a coward when it came to the taking of lives.  All my life I’d avoided getting drafted because of my appearance, yet I’d still seen the horrors of mankind.  Still, it was hard to grasp the idea that this young woman was capable of harming another being.  For her frail body was muscular in a lean sort of way, her legs thick with visible tendons beneath layers of flesh as they were exposed underneath a pair of ragged jean shorts.  Now that I looked more closely at her figure I noticed the shadows cast upon the length of her outstretched limb and the indents it created in her skin where muscles were contracting beneath the surface.  Her jaw was set in a hard line as if she meant never to speak again as her hazel eyes were gleaming in the sunlight causing sparks of gold to crackle through her irises.  The invisible forces of air that was causing her locks to wave around her face died as she pulled back her arm in an even and silent movement that read across her countenance.  Only once did her gaze flicker over me and in that instant I saw the same killing instinct that had driven her to squash this Simon Blackwell like a tomato.  I knew this woman, but I couldn’t believe she was the same woman I’d met years and years ago.  That woman was dead, not by my hands, but by someone else’s, and this could not have been her.

“Bloody English.”

*P.S. I roleplay in both first and third person, this little tidbit was just better in first person.*

#rp partner search #rp partner ad #rp ad #rp search #original #skype #kik #submission

[blooblooded]

Flick kidnaps 3 people

Just some quick worldbuilding that I once again got tired of. I figure Flick isn’t just an asthmatic, he has a whole handful of other fucked up issues (think I imply he has ehlers-danlos) to make him suck more. Florence is technically good but imo she’s a proto-Silas because it’s weird that like all of her people are....18-19 in the very beginning. I made an attempt at alluding to the different areas in the North including the fucked up blood magic corruption place that is cool in my head.

Also all of these men are extremely not heterosexual and I hate their society. At least Flick is self-aware of his desires and apparently does honeypot operations w dudes to get his spy info...Anatole is very ‘straight’ and Jules is completely naive. Oh yeah and poor Dog :(

Also why can’t I fucking format paragraphs/spacing on tumblr I hate this website.

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        The witches would come out of the seclusion of the Hinterlands forests every few months, to sell their wares and buy the things they needed. They always went to the towns of the Valley. Somehow, they knew, that if they went into the larger cities of the Capitol or of Kemenka, they would not fare well due to the civil war. It affected everyone.

        “The old woman isn’t with them,” said Flick, as he watched his targets. As usual he was dressed in civilian clothes, all black and easy to move in. His weapons were concealed, but then, he never had to worry about hiding a sword or a gun. He leaned against a wall of a housing complex as he observed the witches barter with a shopkeeper. “Why isn’t she with them?”

        His companion was less curious. Anatole Surkhov was not happy about being unarmed, not happy about wearing civilian clothes, and even less happy about having to deal with unnatural forces which frightened him. He looked uncomfortable in jeans and a long wool jacket instead of his uniform. He hunched over beside Flick with his arms crossed, a grim look upon his handsome tan face. “The General is not going to like this,” he said. “She wants the old woman, not some girls and a child.”

        “She’ll have to deal with the disappointment,” said Flick. He stayed perfectly still, comfortable in his knowledge that nobody would notice him. It was easy for him to blend into an environment, to feel at ease. And the small towns of the Valley were his home.

        His companion stuck out like a sore thumb. He stood like a soldier; every muscle ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. Flick elbowed him, trying to get him to relax. There was a war going on, after all.

        The witches finished their transaction in the booth across the street. They also did not fit into what the average farmers and bakers of the area looked like. They dressed in layers of shapeless dark wool. One of the girls was around Flick’s age, 18 or 19, and was thin and pinched. The other was in her early 20’s, softly heavyset with flushed cheeks. There was a child with them as well and even from a distance it was clear there was something wrong with him.

        Florence wanted to get her hands on them. Even Flick was not sure why. She knew the old woman, the witch who was in charge, from the time she was a teenager and was just married. This was likely the reason he never had any brothers and sisters, which he didn’t mind so much. But Florence claimed she needed the witches for the good of the Rebellion. She needed their magic, even if she had to force them to use it.

        That didn’t make sense. That was not how you won a civil war.

        But Flick never argued with the woman who had once been his mother.

        The witches walked down the street, unaware of the men who watched them. They talked quietly between themselves. Each of them carried a few things: rope, a basket, some tools. As they passed, the child made fleeting eye-contact with Flick. He gave the kid a smile and a little friendly wave. Most children-- and this child was around 5 or 6-- would have smiled back, but the witch’s boy remained expressionless and did not look at him for long. The chunky child hurried after his mother.

        Anatole made the sign against evil with his left hand, thumb pressed to the middle two fingers.

        “So superstitious,” Flick commented. The witches entered a tavern and he stopped slouching against the wall once there was no chance of them seeing him. He turned to his companion. Comparatively, the two of them were like day and night and sometimes being around Anatole reminded him exactly how weak and defective he was. He wheezed when he breathed and his joints were prone to popping and overextending themselves. There would never come a time where he would prove his bravery on the battlefield. Relegated to the sidelines, the shadows. But in this, at least, he knew he was superior. “I didn’t know you would be so scared of a couple of women, or I would have asked somebody else to help me grab them. Reed, maybe, or Beatrice.”

        The allegation of cowardice made Anatole’s beautiful mouth twist up. “If you were smart, you’d be afraid of them too. You haven’t seen the kind of destruction blood magic has brought to my people. Not just the poisoned wells. The pits. it’s like an infection.”

        Not that he would ever tell this stupid boy, but Flick had traveled east to Kemenka, like he had traveled all over the Northern Territories. He had not stayed there long; as curious as he had been about the changes that had been made to the landscape, it was not safe for him. Blood magic had ruined a good third of the land there in retribution. Florence warned him not to drink the water. He remembered one of the pits. Instead of dirt, it was lined with slimy flesh that pulsated as if it was alive. The wrinkled, flabby material spread out of the pit and to the rocks and trees around it. Sweaty, fungal body-odor wafted out of it. Warm. Why had it been so warm and wet? He nearly had an asthma attack.

        It was beyond him and it had frightened him, so he had left. There were things in this world that he did not want to understand and blood magic was one of them. Even now when he saw raw meat, he would think about it...

        That infection was the reason Florence had half her army, though. The King refused to help, of course. Even the proudest people can only go through so much, and Anatole’s people were not loyal to the Monarchy: they were loyal to the son of the Butcher, Mikhail Surkhov.

        Even so, he rolled his eyes at the other boy. “These witches don’t use blood magic, they’re entirely different. No, I haven’t been to Kemenka, but I’ve heard of what the (COME UP WITH TERM FOR CULTISTS) did to it out of revenge for the time nearly all of them were slaughtered, on your father’s orders. What do you call that? Genocide?”

        “I would challenge you for that if you weren’t a cripple,” said Anatole nastily.

        “I guess it’s a good thing I’m a cripple. Come on, let’s go inside, buy our lovely ladies a couple of drinks. Flirt with them, pretend we’re a couple of friends interested in their company. That will make it far easier to drag them back to HQ without a problem.”

        Anatole’s face was still twisted but he could not be ugly if he tried. He straightened his heavy black coat and pushed his hair out of his eyes. The lazy brown curls fell to his ears and normally he wore it back in a short ponytail. His right hand drifted to his left hip, but found it bare.

        Was he useless without a weapon? Maybe. But that was not the reason Flick had asked him to help carry out Florence’s kidnapping orders. Anatole’s use in this particular situation was his beauty, his tall muscular frame, and his charm; he was irresistible to any woman. As for Flick’s charms? He knew he had some, and was well able to utilize them when he needed to gather information. But it was rarely women who were attracted to him.

        His companion whistled sharply. Flick sighed. Apart from his arrogant stupidity, Anatole had one other significant weakness.

        “That whistling shit makes me sick,” he told him.  

        Anatole’s terrible shadow made his way over to them. Flick had protested his presence for personal reasons as well as practical ones. He had forced him to sit 20 feet away from the two of them at all times, so as not to call attention to them. After all, the boy known as Dog was freakishly large at nearly 7 feet tall and broader than any grown man in the Blue Army. It was not his size that made him so frightening though; he could grab, rend, and tear things with his mind as if he had dozens of hands of great length and size under his control. This enormous strength and power was offset by his intellectual and emotional incapacities.

        One night, Florence told him all she knew about Dog. It turned out that Beatrice was his sister, but even she did not know what happened to him after they were separated as young children. She did not want to know why he acted like, well, a dog. Why he could barely speak. It turned out that he had been kept in a kennel for 6 years, only taken out when he was being forced to kill.

        In the end, he’d torn the man who did that to him to pieces.

        That was not the confusing part. The real enigma was why Anatole allowed Dog to live when he was the sort to challenge someone if they even called his father “The Butcher”.

        Dog loomed over them. Over the year Flick had known him, his behaviors had improved exponentially, but remained just disconcerting enough to provoke disgust. The enormous young man wore the same dark heavy wool that Anatole did. His eyes were trusting, and he always cocked his head to one side when someone talked to him. The cold did not bother him, although it was well below freezing; his size protected him while everyone else shivered.

        “You are not coming in with us,” said Flick. “We���re trying to not be suspicious, Surkhov, and bringing a giant into a tavern is a sure way to get noticed, to scare the ladies away. We want to get them drunk and pliable. That isn’t going to happen with your man lurking around behind us as we try to charm them.”

        “I’m sure they would be charmed to hear you speaking about them like that,” sneered Anatole. He put a hand on Dog’s arm, and the large boy flinched but quickly remembered himself. “Stay outside. If one of the witches comes through the door, grab her.”

        It turned out that even simpletons could carry superstitions. Dog looked down at his boots. “But Tolya…” he whined, in the canine sense.

        Upon hearing the childish diminutive, Anatole raised his right hand to strike him. It was not his fault, he had been raised in violence and he had been raised watching others be mistreated or killed for the slightest offenses. As fast as he was, Flick was able to catch him by the wrist before he landed a blow. He squeezed and anticipated getting cuffed himself.

        If this operation ended with all of them squabbling in the street, Florence would...well, she wouldn’t do anything, but she would blame Flick for screwing it all up which was worse.

        Anatole regained his composure. He wrenched his arm away with such force that Flick’s shoulder popped. “Don’t grab me like that.”

        “Let’s keep our minds on the objective, gentlemen,” said Flick, smiling. His shoulder hurt and he rotated it gingerly. The mystery of what was wrong with him had not been solved after 19 years, and he knew that he would never know. It was some kind of connective tissue disorder that messed up his joints and made him bruise easily. On the plus side, his body was excessively flexible and mobile. Unfortunately it also left him with chronic pain and prone to dislocations and sprains. On more than one occasion he had to stay in bed all day to recover. “Get that scowl off your face, you’re playing a common merchant, not a soldier.”

        The snow fell lightly above them. Flakes of it landed in their hair, melted on their cheeks. It made Dog shake himself. Flick simply brushed the snow off with the back of one hand so that it didn’t lower his already body temperature any more.

        Anatole let the snow hang in his curls. His face untwisted from its scowl and he was handsome again. He straightened his coat, the perpetual discomfort of not being in uniform, of not being armed evident upon him. “Fine,” he said, and he pushed past Flick to walk to the tavern. “I call the skinny one.”

        Flick rolled his eyes and followed. His legs were shorter than his companion’s and his boots broke through the icy crust on the street, sinking down into the mud up to his ankles.

        The towns in the Valley did not have the infrastructure that the Capitol had, or even that Kemenka had. Most of the roads were unpaved, and electricity had to be rationed. They had more natural resources than the other Territories, but none of the wealth. The King expropriated more than 70% of what was grown there, in the temperate fertile fields. He would have done the same to what was grown in Kemenka, had that Territory not been vile muskeg bogland corrupted by blood magic. The best resource there was the fierce people; the men who had not revolted and joined the Blue Army were forcibly conscripted into the Imperial Guard. Compared to the majority of the population in the Capitol, they were all treated like laborers to exploit.

        That’s what they were fighting for.

        The Valley and Kemenka shared next to nothing culturally, but in this civil war they shared a common enemy.

        These dark perspectives were banished from Flick’s mind as he entered the tavern. It was exactly like every other unnamed tavern in the small towns of this region: wooden, warm, lit by a coal-burning hearth in one corner. The building itself was small and rectangular, with a second story which was the space in which the proprietors lived. A small bar was located near the door, and behind it an equally small kitchen could be glimpsed. It was barely past one in the afternoon so there were few people inside-- the witches and their child, a bartender, and four merchants who were taking their break. A single television was mounted on the wall above the bar, its picture blurry.

        Either the owners were long-term supporters of the rebellion, or they were only now just brave enough to show it. Next to the television hung a flag with Florence’s symbol on it: a green rowan branch with red berries, over a white background. And beside it, a photograph of her husband on the day of his execution a decade ago, standing tall and unafraid on the scaffold.

        He had been made a martyr that day in the eyes of many people. Flick looked away. He remembered the type of man his father had been, despite his noble cause and deeds.

        The witches sat at the bar, talking quietly amongst themselves. The skinny younger one had pushed back her fur-lined hood. She seemed to be the one in charge, the one who kept a wallet with money in it; she counted her money anxiously. Her limp black hair fell to her shoulders. The other one, the obvious mother of the child due to the flat, heavy face which they shared, was more dull. She chimed in every now and then, but kept her dark eyes on her folded hands. The little boy sat on the floor and busied himself with pulling off his mittens and scarves.

        They did not look dangerous. Flick and Anatole shared a glance before they advanced.

“        Ladies,” said Anatole, approaching the bar and taking a seat on a stool next to the skinny one. All of his mannerisms changed now that he was dealing with women. If he was still afraid, he did not show it. He pushed his curls out of his eyes with one hand, and leaned on his elbow. Somehow he came across as charming, in a knightly way rather than a scoundrel-y one. “Keeping out of the cold?”

        The witches looked up, wary as wild animals. The child hunkered down on the floor and went perfectly still.

        Flick sat down beside Anatole. He also had an easy smile, but could not pull off that kind of charm. His skill in seduction went hand in hand with espionage, he could not flirt for the sake of flirting. It was easier to just get somebody into bed and then gather the information he needed through pillow-talk, after their minds were nice and relaxed with the release of oxytocin.

        “It isn’t that cold,” said the skinny witch in a low lilting voice. She was no beauty. Her face was too sharp and the olive skin on her cheeks and across her nose was damaged by the cold. Her lips parted to reveal a noticeable overbite. “The hills here keep the wind from biting too badly. We’ve seen much worse.” The layers of her clothing made her shapeless. In the warmth of the tavern, she took off her gloves which were sewn from rabbit skin with the fur on the inside. She unwrapped her cowl-like scarf and draped it on the back of her chair.

        It took all of two minutes for Flick to realize that this witch was actually a boy. Like everyone else in the North, he did not exactly have a complex understanding of gender, but due to the nature of some of his work he was better than most. The clothes both witches were wearing were, after all, shapeless and genderless. He did not know much about witches and up until that point, had believed them all to be women. Why was that? They were always women in the stories, but he saw no reason a man could be a witch if it was indeed something genetic like blood magic or Dog and Beatrice’s Ability.

        It did not change anything.

“I’m Anatole,” said his idiot companion. His IQ had to be around 20, and in his backwards Territory, any issues surrounding gender boiled down to ‘men fight and women cook’. “Can I buy you a drink?”

        Flick wondered if he should step in. If this boy, this man really, believed that Anatole was flirting with him, a fight might break out. Most people were so touchy over things like that. He remembered how his comrade had once been and it was doubtful that he had changed at 19.

        “Jules,” said the witch boy. For a second his black eyes narrowed into slits, but then he smiled nervously. His cheeks colored beneath the dark spots. “You can buy me a drink, if you buy food for my family as well. Ivy, Mary, do you want something to eat?”

        From the floor, the little boy --Mary?-- made a noise that mimicked the yip of a fox. His heavy, dull-expression mother only nodded, her gaze fixed on the TV. She appeared removed from reality and her attention was elsewhere; eyes completely glazed over. Flick amended his plan in his mind as he did not believe this woman would be able to put up much of a fight.

        It was clear that Anatole was flirting. It showed in the way he smiled at Jules, and everyone knew that when men are interested, they offer to buy drinks. But Jules smiled right back, unabashed and in a public establishment. It was true that the Valley did not prosecute homosexuality in the same severe ways they did in the other Territories, but that did not mean people went about their business in the open. There were always consequences. Jules was either the boldest person Flick had ever come across, or he was a foolish gay boy who had been isolated in the Hinterlands woods his whole life and did not truly grasp the consequences of what would happen to him if he acted freely. Perhaps he did not yet understand that who he was was...wrong.

        Reflecting on such an idyllic existence made Flick feel jealous. He had always known that there was something wrong with him because he was a cripple. Then when he was 12, he found out that there was something else wrong with him when another boy beat him to a pulp after he clumsily made a pass in the same way he did with girls. If Jules was 18 or 19 and had not yet learned this lesson, he was very lucky.

        Well, he would learn that lesson very soon. Again, Flick wondered if he should step in so that Anatole didn’t go into some kind of rage and kill the little witch.

        Anatole waved the bartender over. She was a busty middle aged blonde with a terrible scar on her face, most likely a parting gift from the Imperial Guard’s rampage 10 years ago. “Bring us whatever you have that’s hot,” he told her, and he put his wallet on the bar to indicate that he had money. “And-- what do you drink, Jules?”

        “Gin,” said the witch. He was still smiling but looked increasingly nervous, the way people look when they get hit on for the first time. There were bracelets made out of bone and shell on his skinny wrists and he played with them. “Just gin.”

        “Interesting,” said Anatole, and nodded at the bartender. “Gin. Most girls I meet drink cider, especially here where the orchards are so plentiful.”

        “Huh?” said Jules, stupid and young and naive after a lifetime of loneliness.

        Flick sighed. If he sat back and let Anatole kill this guy, Florence would be angry with him. He slid off the barstool. The child was sitting on the floor pulling on his shoelaces, and he hated to see that as well. He took his communication device -- an old model, from the industry-rich Capitol-- out of one of his jacket pockets and handed it to the kid. That was how his mother always kept him quiet and entertained when she was doing important things. Mary didn’t make eye-contact with him, but took the device regardless and began to examine it with his chunky hands.

        “We’re merchants,” Flick said loudly, changing the subject. He inserted himself between Jules and Ivy’s stools and put a hand on Jule’s bony shoulder to forcibly establish a connection. His proximity to Ivy made her look away from the television and stare at him confusedly. “We noticed you selling your wares. What do you bring, all the way from the Hinterlands forests? It’s possible we could be interested.”

        Jules’s troubled expression did not leave his narrow face. His thin black eyebrows furrowed. Up close he was even more effeminate, no wonder Anatole was confused. He wore jewelry in his earlobes like women did, except instead of gold or stones his earrings were made of bone. Protective charms? Parts of some ritual? Or were they just a stylistic choice? “Medicine. Mixtures of herbs, some rare, some less so. We make boxes of tea in bulk, but when we can get glass bottles tinctures sell twice as well. We’re herbalists.”

        “What’s popular?”

        “Oh, tinctures of valerian for sure. It helps you sleep. I mix chamomile into it for more strength.”

        “Tansy and pennyroyal tea too,” said Ivy, still dully looking at the television.

        For the first time, fear flashed across Jules’s countenance. Selling or using abortifacients was a crime worse than sodomy, since the King believed that it went hand in hand with infanticide. It was punishable by death. Flick pretended he did not know what those herbs were for, and was confident that Anatole did not know either. He didn’t care about all that, but then, he didn’t care about much of anything.

       “ R-right,” said Jules. He fiddled with his bracelets, tucked a necklace made of shell back under some folds of clothing.

        The bartender brought out a bottle of gin and several shot glasses. Jules poured the first drink, to calm himself after Ivy nearly outed the two of them. He knocked it back and then poured another. For all his bravado, he was not a seasoned drinker; he grimaced at the strong taste of liquor.

        Anatole smiled and now the scoundrel showed through him. He took off his heavy black coat and hung it behind him. Underneath he wore a simple blue shirt with buttons that went down halfway. He undid the top 3 buttons as if he was overheated. Jules stared at the hollow of his throat. “You have a useful skill,” he said. “Did someone teach you or did you learn by yourself?”

        “I’m an apprentice.” Jules poured himself a third shot. Now Flick felt bad for him. He was so nervous, he was acting like one of those poor girls Anatole set his sights on. “We’re both apprentices. I have a lot to learn.” Between the alcohol and the fire in the hearth, he was actually overheating. With some difficulty, he removed one of his outer layers. Beneath it he was even thinner; was the old woman even feeding him? “What do you do?”

        “We just told you that we’re merchants,” said Flick, a little crossly. He looked at Anatole, attempting to indicate that he wanted to grab the witches now. He did not want this to escalate.

        “Oh.”

        From the floor came a series of beeps and buzzes. Mary was fixated on playing with the communication device as if he had never seen one before. Up until that point he had been blank faced and serious, but he began to smile slightly. He was a cute child. When Florence was done doing whatever-it-was she wanted to do with the witches, maybe she could find somebody good to raise him. Somebody who wouldn’t screw him up.

        Suddenly, bright lights flashed from the device’s screen. Mary had found some kind of video with excessively coruscating images and sound. He froze, stiff as a board for several seconds. The child began to shake and twitch all over, his eyelids fluttering. He made a noise like a kitten getting the air pressed out of it, then fell over onto his face, his limbs making tiny jerking movements.

        Jules jumped up unsteadily and almost tripped over his own feet. He crouched over the child and secured him on his side, jabbering in a strange language that was not English, French, nor Russian. The mother only watched with dull, cow-like indifference.

        “The time!” slurred Jules, urgently. “I need to know the time.”

        Flick and Anatole looked at each other once again. Flick raised his eyebrows. Anatole shrugged. It was as good a time as ever; their target distracted and half-intoxicated while a child had a seizure. Sure, it was not necessarily ethical or moral, but what was in a time such as this?

        “The time!” insisted Jules. “I need to know how long it lasts!”

        It was the wrong moment to try and be funny, but Flick could not help it. He pulled the knife from inside of his jacket, where he had been secreting it all day. When Anatole saw it, he grew annoyed: after all, he had been told to leave his beloved sword behind. As fast as anything, Flick had the blade at Ivy’s soft throat. She barely reacted, so he did not press it down. He would not need to if the witch boy did what he told him to do.

        “It’s time for you to come with us,” he told him. “The kid will be fine. Get him under control. You witches are hereby wards of Florence Gauthier and the Blue Army. Don’t try to resist or I’ll gut her; we only need one of you. Be smart, Jules.”

        The words that left Jules’s tongue sounded like English being spoken backwards.

        And then his hands glowed white.

#writing