#but our culture and the culture my family has been raised in revels in it

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: I know you’re a royalist and I enjoy your insightful and thoughtful posts on the institution rather than the gossip. However I was wondering if you will be reading Prince Harry’s memoir ’Spare’? What do you make of his public interviews and his Netflix series if you have seen them?

I shall not be reading Prince Harry’s memories ’Spare’ because what’s the point?

Everything we really needed to know has already spilled out across premature leaks of the book and gleeful splashes across the tabloid press. Thankfully I don’t have to read these rags where I live.

But you can’t escape. There seems to be a media blitz by the Duke and Duchess of Sussex in recent weeks. Even out in Verbier where I was enjoying a ski vacation with my family, since my return from Dubai, one couldn’t escape the Sussexes.

I can only blame myself for watching the 6 hour snooze fest that was the Netflix documentary series by Harry and Meghan. Those are 6 hours I can never get back. Now I’ve got chatty aunts who are blowing up my WhatsApp with infuriated texts at Harry and his interview and now the book publication. I’m just glad I’m on this side of the Channel in Paris and able to focus on more important things in life.

I’m actually quite sad rather than mad at Prince Harry and his folly. He’s hurting, he’s hurting badly since the death of his mother. If you comb through my blog you’ll know that I didn’t take a particularly negative stance towards Harry and Meghan because they were constitutionally irrelevant - and these are the things I’m really interested in rather than the daily tittle tattle. I’m more interested in Bagehot than royal bonking.

I also had another reason and that was loyalty to a brother officer. We served in the same Army Air Corps out in Afghanistan but our tours didn’t overlap at all as I was a few years behind him and so what I knew of his service was secondhand. But I’ve met him on a few occasions at regimental gatherings and social settings since our circle of friends have some overlap. I hastened to add that I don’t particularly know him but I liked him a lot. He had a disdain for the typical ‘Rupert’ (male officers of a privileged class) but he was quite down to earth and funny with the rank and file soldiers. He was easy going with me and maybe that’s because I was a female officer and I didn’t quite fit into that dominant male Rupert culture. I don’t know for sure. 

Still, perhaps it’s the way I’ve been raised but I couldn’t bring myself to comment on his personal life choices, even if one had reservations as to the consequences of them.

But I have to say out of all the revelations that irked me the most it was his revelation of how many Taliban ‘terrorists’ he killed out in Afghanistan. He said he killed around 25 Taliban fighters as a gunner on an Apache helicopter.

There is no reason not to believe him. These things can be easily verified to some extent when after a mission you look over the recorded footage. That’s not what irks me. What bothers me is why he chose to say all this.

There is a code amongst soldiers that you don’t talk about this shit. It’s so unprofessional and unseemly. Even amongst soldiers we don’t talk about it. We know about it but we still don’t talk about it. War is mostly tedious, boring, and waiting around for the shit to hit the fan. But when it does you move your arse into gear and get your job done. And when it’s done, come home, crack open a beer with comrades out of shared relief, be thankful you made it out alive, and then shut the fuck up.

I think Harry really has let himself down and his fellow army brothers and sisters. Forget for a moment the security risk because of his disclosure, amongst British veterans I chat with on private social media, they feel a sense of personal betrayal. I don’t feel that but I do feel Harry hasn’t done himself any favours in regaining the genuine respect every soldier had for him for getting his hands dirty in the trenches and not expecting any special favours because he was a royal.

It’s hard not to feel some sympathy for Harry. It can’t be easy being the spare, the younger brother whose role in the royal “firm” started in a position of subordination and has become steadily more subordinate as more direct heirs arrive to dilute his lineage. There are plenty of younger siblings who have suffered in this way although none of us can imagine the particular hardship of being the “spare” to a throne. Add to that the unimaginable repressed pain and grief of losing his mother and to do so in public is something none of us can fathom. No wonder he was happy in the army where he could be himself and achieve things on personal merit, and more importantly, be away from the fierce and unforgiving public glare.

But that was then. That was the Harry before he met Meghan Markle. A very different Harry has emerged. He sounded less British and more American with all this woke gobble gook. I mean this as no slight to my American friends but Harry should really trade in his British passport and become a permanent resident of California.

What I saw made me pity him. I saw a man so seething with resentment, so unaware of his own privilege, that he is eaten up with petty grievances. He complains about his stepmother turning his old bedroom at Clarence House into a dressing room – when he was 28 years old and in possession of an entire house of his own. We see a man so dim he sees no contradiction between expressing hope for a reconciliation with his family, at the very same time as bitching about them on the world stage. A man so lacking in self-awareness he sees no hypocrisy in complaining about the press intruding on his privacy, in the exact same breath as he tells tittle tattle tales about his brother and sister-in-law. A man so self-absorbed he has no notion of duty, service or respect – either to brotherly bonds, the royal family or the ‘code of silence’ among soldiers.

Why would anyone expose themselves to the world in this way?

A common explanation is that Harry is doing this for the money - that in order to fund his Montecito lifestyle he must sell his soul to Netflix and Penguin books. I’m not sure I buy that argument fully. Certainly through the the many interviews and hours of Netflix footage show no sign of a man held hostage, with personal details being cajoled out of him against his will. Another common explanation that Meghan puts him up to it but as popular as that prevailing view is in the UK, I really don’t think he had Meghan Markle by his side to be so insufferable and whiney. Ms. Markle may have given him the ammunition of language (‘unconscious bias’, ‘white privilege’, ‘lived experience’, ‘my truth’ etc) but the thoughts are all his. This is all on him and his repressed resentments towards his own family.

Watching Harry unload is as fascinating as watching a car crash in slow motion. To me Harry is a cautionary tale of what happens when we abandon all boundaries between the public and private spheres of our lives. Harry seems to have lost any sense of a border between his interior world of thoughts and feelings, and the outside world of speech; between the private realm of family and home and the public realm of work, responsibility and social convention.

Call me a stiff arsed Brit but I am not the only one. I feel I reflect the private horror of most British people that someone could be so confessional in such a shamelessly public way. It’s like the staple ending of all romcom Hollywood movies where the guy has to confess his error before the crowd to win back the girl.

We Brits take another approach. Families argue all the time. Siblings fight. We get angry and upset. And in the heat of the moment, we say things we might later regret. Crucially, this takes place behind closed doors, in private. The privacy of the home allows us to behave badly, but also to forgive each other and move on. Making details of private squabbles public imbues them with a permanence that they were never meant to have.

If the late Queen Elizabeth II represented an old set of values, Harry and Meghan best embody the new era. The two generations of royals could not be more different. Out goes the stiff upper lip, in comes public emoting. ‘Never complain, never explain’ has been replaced by a six-hour Netflix ‘pity party’. Service to others has been redefined as sharing mental-health struggles. Where the late Queen spoke of nationhood, the Sussexes speak of victimhood. The late Queen kept her cancer diagnosis secret until her death. We read about Meghan’s miscarriage in her column for the New York Times.

The late Queen’s commitment to serve represented more than just an individual pledge. It captured a generational ethos. Harry and Meghan embody the elite assumptions of their age.

There’s the identitarianism, masquerading as anti-racism. By presenting herself as a victim of racism – on, it must be said, rather spurious grounds of ‘unconscious bias’ a term so beloved of HR corporate departments – Meghan Markle has gained status and authority. And in marrying Meghan Markle, Harry is no longer the soldier who introduced us to his ‘little Paki friend’, but a warrior against racism. He is born again. Hallelujah!

Meghan’s gender supposedly makes her a victim, too. She takes every opportunity to remind us that, as a child, she wrote a letter complaining about a sexist advert for washing-up liquid.

Then there’s the Sussexes’ insistence on proclaiming ‘their truth’. Harry and Meghan claim that the truth is whatever they happen to feel at any point in time. If you feel that you were raised without siblings (Meghan) or that you were ‘literally’ brought up in Africa (Harry), then everyone else better just accept it. Although, as the queen so succinctly put it, ‘recollections may vary’.

Woke advocates like Harry and Meghan insist that truth is subordinate to the political narrative. You don’t need to bring any evidence when you’re railing against a supposedly racist media and a Brexit Britain still not over losing the empire.

This is not just about Harry and Meghan. The values this privileged couple embody and the ideas they articulate are continually affirmed by the cultural elite. Netflix, Spotify and book publishers stump up millions for their output. Just this month, the Sussexes were recognised for their ‘philanthropic work fighting against racism and oppression around the world’ by the Robert F Kennedy Human Rights organisation. Academics and journalists lend credibility to their remarks on the Commonwealth and their criticisms of the media. An army of tweeters and commentators are permanently ready to leap to the couple’s defence.

The late Queen’s death also seems to mean that taking pot-shots at the monarchy has become completely acceptable. In their Netflix series, Harry and Meghan criticise ‘the palace’ frequently. They moan about William’s shouting and Charles’s indifference. They mock rituals like curtseying, and visibly struggle with the notion of hierarchy.

Harry seems to resent his place on the hierarchy within the royal family. His resentment is no different in character from any sibling rivalry or our place in society’s hierarchal social and class structures.

Ideas of resentment and jealousy of course echo through time - all the way back to the Garden of Eden with Lucifer resenting God’s creation of Adam and Eve. They have also played a prominent part in the 19th Century, when philosophers sought to create new theories of morality without God. Friedrich Nietzsche, one of my favourite philosophers, borrowed a French word, ressentiment, to anchor the origins of his moral philosophy. By his estimation, Western moral thinking had its roots in the master-slave relationship.

The weak and marginalised members of society (such as persecuted Christians) resented those who oppressed them (the masters) and inverted the prevailing morality, turning humility, equality and compassion into the highest virtues. Nietzsche, one of my favourite philosophers, put it best, “While the noble man lives in trust and openness with himself … the man of ressentiment is neither upright nor naive nor honest and straightforward with himself. His soul squints; his spirit loves hiding places, secret paths and back doors, everything covert entices him as his world, his security, his refreshment.”

The dominant creed of the resentful for most of the 20th Century was Socialism. As George Orwell pointed out, socialists don’t generally love the poor, they hate the rich. When Marxist materialism became discredited with the realisation of the economic failures of the Soviet Union and the rising death counts of Communists and Socialist regimes around the world, the bearers of ‘ressentiment’ turned to other domains into which to inject their venom. Key targets were the spheres of culture, family life, sex, and race.

And so was born critical theory, the bastard child of Post-Modernism and Frankfurt School post-Marxism. To this conception we owe the hierarchy of victimhood, the one to which we must now all defer; it also spawned the language of the social justice warriors - words such as “my truth”, “lived experience”, “white privilege” (or any other kind of privilege for that matter) “intersectionality” and so on.

The virus of critical theory was smuggled into the American culture via academia (two members of the Frankfurt School - Marcuse and Adorno - actually emigrated from Germany to US universities before the war). And from academia, critical theory (popularly understood as wokery) has infected the media, publishing, newsrooms, Hollywood, sports commentators, public administration, HR departments, and even Big Tech. Perhaps the last place you would expect it to appear is the British Royal family. But here comes along Harry, a Prince in the House of Windsor.

I think deep down Harry’s resentment gives credence to his self-belief that he himself is a victim and therefore a loser in life’s lottery, even if he does come from the most privileged of the privileged. Harry has no doubt been deeply frustrated by his status within the family and the nature of his “spare”ness. There is resentment and there is jealousy. Of course the woke creed appeals. And no wonder Harry adopts its language. Which leaves us, ironically, with a hereditary Prince lecturing us about ‘privilege’.

Moreover, Harry’s conduct says a lot about the prevailing norms of our culture about confessing our ‘sins’, and therefore our souls. Harry has been taught to reveal every last intimate detail of his life. More likely, he has been taught by therapists and mentors that this is the right thing to do.

The popular assumption today is that keeping things private or ‘bottled up’ is bad. Complete openness is the best - indeed, the only - way to safeguard your mental health. Harry has imbibed the message that ‘speaking your truth’ is the route to authenticity. We live in an age when being authentic to our ‘true selves’ is considered the pinnacle of achievement. Where centring our own emotional needs above our work, community and even family members is considered not selfish, but imperative.

Fear-mongering about the dark side of privacy has been a popular pastime of psychologists since the time of Sigmund Freud. Over many decades, such beliefs have moved off the therapist’s couch to take root in our broader culture.

Today, the words ‘private’, ‘secret’ and ‘behind closed doors’ arouse suspicion. Rather than conjuring images of home, or the family, a haven in a heartless world, the private sphere has come to be seen as a site of abuse. Reserve, a stiff-upper lip and stoicism are all now considered negative personality traits denoting a lack of warmth and openness. The compulsion to share, to break down the barriers between public and private, is embedded in every aspect of our culture from primary school circle-time to social media, from the advice dished out in magazines to the platitudes spouted by celebrities.

Well, I say screw that.

The irony, of course, is that our sense of ourselves does not become stronger the more it is revealed – it becomes weaker. It leaves us to depend on others to validate our feelings and desires. This is what seems to lie behind Harry’s emotional incontinence. He is not a man exercising agency, in control, seeking only a fat pay cheque. He’s become a pathetic, fragile creature, incapable of seeing beyond his own immediate feelings, unable to exist without constant public validation.  

Look, there are of course other dimensions to Harry’s story. There is the tragic shadow of his mother and the diva attention seeking influence of his Hollywood D-list wife. But to the extent that he is a victim, he is the victim not only of his family circumstances but also of poisonous philosophers and the prevailing dominance of American cultural colonialism of wokery (in this the French intellectuals and commentators are 100% correct, as both left and right see it as a specific American wokery, but fail to see that they originally gave birth to this bastard of an incoherent and nihilistic ideology). Perhaps his example can be a cautionary tale to the rest of us. Harry shows us the importance of keeping some things private....because not everything is about you or me.

So, Harry, for the love of God or even for your much beloved granny, just shut the fuck up!

Thanks for your question.

#ask #question #prince harry #meghan markle #british monarchy #royalty #wokery #woke #resentment #confessional #culture #monarchy #britain #victimhood #freud was right #marcuse #adorno #philosophy #therapy #media #class #privilege #british army #spare #book #aristocracy #nobility #privacy #queen elizabeth II #king charles III

[ozmatippetarius]

The Secret History and A Separate Peace Comparisons/Analysis

I've been wanting to make a comparison post between The Secret History and A Separate Peace for almost a decade now, and the time has come. They're two of my favorite books of all time, and the relationship between the two is so delicious to me. (If you're a fan of TSH and haven't read ASP, go read it and then come back. It's short and you'll love it, I promise.)

(We'll skip right over the most trivial similarities, the academic New England settings and the [Article][Descriptor][Abstract Noun] titles.)

The Intros

We open to our narrators, now years removed from their time in academia, returning (either physically or metaphorically) to their youth to revisit the scene of a violent death by falling that shaped their lives forever.

Gene desperately wishes to find peace. In his visit, he finds reassurance - nothing is forever. He too will be able to heal, eventually.

Everything at Devon slowly changed and slowly harmonized with what had gone before. So it was logical to hope that since the buildings and the Deans and the curriculum could achieve this, I could achieve, perhaps unknowingly already had achieved, this growth and harmony myself. [...] The tree was not only stripped by the cold season, it seemed weary from age, enfeebled, dry. I was thankful, very thankful that I had seen it. So the more things remain the same, the more they change after all—plus c’est la même chose, plus ça change. Nothing endures, not a tree, not love, not even a death by violence.

Richard has something of the inverse experience. He had convinced himself by aggressively compartmentalizing that he had left Hampden unaffected by Bunny's death, and is only now coming to terms with the permanent impact it had on him. His conclusion is a lot more pessimistic, too: Richard does not think he'll ever truly be able to move on.

But walking through it all was one thing; walking away, unfortunately, has proved to be quite another, and though once I thought I had left that ravine forever on an April afternoon long ago, now I am not so sure. [...] I suppose at one time in my life I might have had any number of stories, but now there is no other. This is the only story I will ever be able to tell.

Finny/Bunny

All around, Bunny comes off as a very intentional subversion of Finny, a grittier and perhaps more modern take. In A Separate Peace Finny's naivete verging on social ineptitude, along with his general unawareness of his privilege, comes off as charming to most readers, even as it grates on Gene's nerves. The Secret History is a lot more blunt about the kind of casual bigotry that arises from being raised in the particular bubble that Finny and Bunny were.

John Knowles has stated publicly that Finny was based on a real classmate of his, David Hackett, who was best friends with Robert Kennedy and whose career was very solidly based upon his relationship with the Kennedys. Hackett's enthusiastic welcome was the primary reason for Bobby being socially accepted at their school, which had a "High WASP" culture and was "unwelcoming to Catholic new money". This article about him is really fascinating.

Bunny, on the other hand, fully embodies "High WASP" culture himself and spends much of the novel making fun of Catholics (and new money). It's an eye-opening revelation when, after his death, we learn that his family was obsessed with the Kennedys and that Bunny has on occasion posed as one for preferential treatment.

Although this scene doesn't exist in the novel version, here's Finny's introduction in the short story Phineas (precursor to A Separate Peace).

I had seen him at a distance around the school the previous winter and gotten the impression that he was bigger than I was.  But when he straightened up, our eyes met dead level.  For a second I thought he was going to say, “I bet my old man can lick your old man.”  Then his mouth broke into a grin, and he said, “Where did you get that dizzy shirt?” It was like one of the shifts which made him so good at sports: exactly what the opponent didn’t expect.  I had been prepared to introduce myself, or to waive that and exclaim, “Well, I guess we’re roommates!” or to begin negotiating an immediate, hostile division of the available floor space.  Instead he cut through everything and began criticizing my clothes—my clothes—while he stood there in hacked-off khaki pants and an undershirt.  As a matter of fact, I was wearing a lime-green, short-sleeved sports shirt with the bottom squared and worn outside the pants, much admired in the South.  “At home,” I said.  “Where did you think?” “I don’t know, but I can see that home is way down yonder.”

This should sound eerily familiar. Here's Bunny's first real introduction in The Secret History.

“By the way, love that jacket, old man,” Bunny said to me as we were getting out of the taxi. “Silk, isn’t it?” “Yes. It was my grandfather’s.” Bunny pinched a piece of the rich, yellowy cloth near the cuff and rubbed it back and forth between his fingers. “Lovely piece,” he said importantly. “Not quite the thing for this time of year, though.” “No?” I said. “Naw. This is the East Coast, boy. I know they’re pretty laissez-faire about dress in your neck of the woods, but back here they don’t let you run around in your bathing suit all year long. Blacks and blues, that’s the ticket, blacks and blues.…"

Gene (and John)/Richard (and the twins)

Gene is a scholarship student from down south. He's embarrassed by his background and uses fake pictures to give an impression of a lifestyle that he never had.

Over my cot I had long ago taped pictures which together amounted to a barefaced lie about my background—weepingly romantic views of plantation mansions, moss-hung trees by moonlight, lazy roads winding dustily [...] When asked about them I had acquired an accent appropriate to a town three states south of my own, and I had transmitted the impression, without actually stating it, that this was the old family place.

Meanwhile, here's Richard telling Julian about his own home life in California. Unlike Gene, Richard doesn't have any hold-ups lying explicitly about his background.

Orange groves, failed movie stars, lamplit cocktail hours by the swimming pool, cigarettes, ennui. He listened, his eyes fixed on mine, apparently entranced by these fraudulent recollections.

And then we have this (heartbreaking, to me) scene, where Richard destroys the only real photographic he has of his mother because he's afraid that it will uncover his embarrassing reality.

It was the most gratuitous sort of cruelty. My lies about my family were adequate, I suppose, but they could not stand up under these glaring attacks. Neither of my parents had finished high school; my mother did wear pants suits, which she purchased at a factory outlet. In the only photograph I had of her, a snapshot, she squinted blurrily at the camera, one hand on the Cyclone fence and the other on my father’s new riding lawn mower. This, ostensibly, was the reason that the photo had been sent me, my mother having some notion that I would be interested in the new acquisition; I’d kept it because it was the only picture I had of her, kept it tucked inside a Webster’s dictionary (under M for Mother) on my desk. But one night I rose from my bed, suddenly consumed with fear that Bunny would find it while snooping around my room. No hiding place seemed safe enough. Finally I burned it in an ashtray.

At the same time, Richard has maintained a (probably wrong) impression of the twins' home in Virginia that is eerily reminiscent of the story Gene cooked up: "a childhood I like to think about, with horses and rivers and sweet-gum trees."

Even more than the character Gene though, I think Richard correlates to the author John Knowles himself. Here's an exerpt from an old essay of his about his time at Exeter.

My father was in the coal business in West Virginia. Both dad and mother were, however, originally from Massachusetts; New England, to them, meant the place to go if you really wanted an education. My brother had, to be sure, gone to Mercersburg Academy in Pennsylvania, but then he dutifully went off to Dartmouth, deep in deepest New Hampshire. I was expected to follow him to Mercersburg, but picking up a catalog one day which was lying around the house, the catalog of Phillips Exeter Academy, I found a preliminary application form on the last page and, just for the hell of it, filled it out and mailed it. Soon, entrance examinations were arranged for me at the local high school, administered by the principal no less. Exeter was clearly an important place. I knew little else about it, knew no one who had ever gone there, and, although my family visited New England most summers, I had never seen the school.

Again, sound... eerily familiar? Moreover, Richard (first name John!) becomes an author himself and the entire framing device of the novel is his attempt to write the story of his personal experience in school, much as John Knowles did (with a much greater degree of fictionalization). The meta-fiction of it all is so satisfyingly multi-layered.

I'll close off with this laughably off-base review I stumbled upon while researching this post.

(Imagine being anti-intellectual enough to complain about the use of the phrase "gravity of the situation" and suggest "how serious it was" would have been a superior substitute, while also being insecure enough to throw words like "gaseous" around. Cracks me up.)

#the secret history #a separate peace

[bluewren]

WIP Wednesday

Taliesen lets Solas remove her vallaslin, having a brother at Skyhold means that unfortunately she couldn't avoid the topic with him, but Lex has been patient with her though.

“Are you ready to talk about what happened, when you were away with Solas?”

Lex folds his fingers on top of the tavern’s booth, unassuming but his eyes were attentive to his sister. Weary to approach their conversation with tact, no matter how shattering it was to his beliefs, Taliesen is still family and deserves any respect he can offer.

Taliesen bites her lip, eyes scattering again to avoid her brother's. She promised to tell her brother the truth Solas shared with her. Still no matter how much time passes, it never becomes easier. Lex has always believed harder than she did, Tali doesn't want to hurt him.

But with one final sigh, she begins speaking.

"Solas told me how our vallaslin were misinterpreted, we changed the meaning…" Her heart jumps before continuing. "They were slave markings."

"So our People got another thing wrong about our ancestors." Lex's voice softens with pursed lips.

"Correct." Tali nods.

"Alright."

"That's it?" She rapidly blinks at the simple response. "No further questions about them? You're letting this slide suspiciously easily."

Lex replies with a shrug. "What do you want me to say? It's not like, your face doesn't tell me most of everything else I needed to know."

Tali rolls her eyes, she grumbles like her brother often would. "I wasn't expecting you to take the revelation so readily. I was preparing for push-back."

"I could muster that up if you like." His lips curl into thuggish grin.

"I'd prefer if you didn't." Tali cowers her head.

"No. No. You seem disappointed." Lex takes a breath to bolster up a deeper bass. "Taliesen, you are the dumbest Dalish elf I've ever met."

"Stop."

"How could you let a flat ear persuade you to betray your identity?" A hand covers the tears that weren't falling.

"Please…"

"How did the hearthkeeper mean so little to you? Why would you let a flat ear do the impossible to you? Why?"

Tali concedes to drumming her fingers on their table, aware that persuading Lex was impossible.

"Did you forget the struggles of our People, reclaiming our forgotten culture, and our vow to never submit to the shems?"

"You proud of yourself?" Tali returns furrowed brows at her brother's absurd stunt.

"Yes." Lex crosses his arms and lets out a cackling snort. "I am very proud of myself."

“Be wary of every seat you take at Skyhold from now and forever.” Tali stares down her brother.

Lex returns a raised confused brow. “I’m your brother, the Inquisitor’s brother. I’m already sleeping with one eye open.”

“Fair point.” Her head crashes down to the table with an exasperated groan.

But Lex straightens himself, ending his relentless teasing for one moment. "But why did you think I cared what you did with your own face?"

Relaxing her head on her palm, Tali shrugs her shoulders. “I chose to remove my rite of adulthood. My dedication to benefiting our People. That should mean more to you.”

“Maybe,” Lex gives a weak, tired admission. Too worn out to care about yet another secret hidden from their People. “I might have also given up after the Temple. Remembering hasn’t been part of my life for a long time now. Let someone else be disappointed in you.”

“I suppose that’s fair to say.”

Tali purses her lips, she was reluctant to agree with her brother but she has carried the same thoughts for longer. It was yet another time they were distant from their clan, each time they’ve looked back they keep seeing all the faults with the meager lives the Dalish had. Worse this time with the bigger calling that they were both pulled into, there was no comfort in returning home for either of them anymore and so they keep walking the path they’re forced onto.

“Dalish told you to not be as difficult, didn’t she?”

“She certainly did.”

Tagging @dalishkadan | @roguelioness | @cleverblackcat | @anders-did-nothing-wrong | @celemee | @lailinightlight

#taliesen lavellan #lex lavellan #wip wednesday #siblings

[undrgrnd-nft]

UNDRGRND ARTIST: MENTALNOISE

BY CHAMALAND, ORIGINALLY POSTED OCTOBER 7TH, 2022 ON UNDRGRND.IO

UNTOUCHABLE

(This article is the result from a conversation between Mentalnoise and Lucasoxx on the PRTL Mezz, his Twitch Channel)

Born and raised in Caldas, a little town one hour away from Medellín, Colombia, Mentalnoise’s youth was conflictive, under the gaze of a traditional Christian family, most of her identity has been denied or judged even by her most inner circle. But when injustice constantly crosses you and hypocrisy prevails in the institutions of power claiming to dictate "the world's morality", there is a voice inside that emerges with more strength to fight against that impunity. There isn’t any speech that can overshadow what we see and feel every day when we go out on the street.

It's been a year since her first best-selling NFT came to light, in a wonderfully friendly event on Tezos, Objkt4Objkt. This was an impulse and a revelation to understand her work had a place in a new market prepared to see and consume her art. Recently, she quit her job as a designer to fully dedicate herself to NFTs.

The quarantine ended up consolidating her artistic project as we know it today. Mobilized by the high flow of information during the isolation, Mental encountered several cases of corruption in her country and a society that showed its different facets from the most supportive to the most cruel. It was at that moment that the idea of the mask, the evil bunny, emerged as the structure and concept of her next pieces.

Committed to the political, social and cultural reality of her country, art allows her to express what moves her; allows her to denounce evils in society; allows her to raise her voice in social networks with impact and generate critical thinking in the spectator. In her work we discover references to Colombian popular culture, the media show generated by politicians, and the injustices that surround us, added to her own internal universe, "the mental hole".

Mental says she likes "to generate images from the noise of my mind". The windows function as an analogy about observing the outside world during isolation or a mobile phone connected to the internet in which we observe constant information as if it were a window to the world. We live with our own mental noise and externalize it in one way or another. In her case, art functions as that nexus that connects what happens emotionally inside her with an external world in constant contradiction.

Undoubtedly, her journey has made her reflect on her place in the art world, the construction of her voice and the empowerment of her message. In her pieces, every detail is thought out and shared with her peers to generate a sincere and honest debate. The questioning is not only towards others, but also inward. In her own words, "it's not just about creating art and that's it, it's about generating interaction around the art created. Talking through the images and exchanging opinions with the community.”

The w3b has allowed her to reach goals she never thought possible and to express herself freely in a collaborative environment of artists and collectors from all over the world. It is very important for her to connect with colleagues, generate feedback on her pieces and share knowledge, even though she considers that she has a "paisa English" and that this is a barrier that at the moment prevents her from expanding her interaction even further. However, this does not stop Mental in her quest for construction. Today she is part of ArChain NFT Lab, La Creme de la Creme and Tokenómeno, spaces where artists and communities from all over the world come together.

As a woman artist, lesbian and Latin American, it is very important to be able to think about the impact that the w3b can have on an artist like her. The intersectionalities as inhabitants of the so-called "third world" often make our voices invisible. The cultural impact (real and virtual) that we can generate today from this technology is something that we are just building, but we bet that it can be the ideal place of expression not only for us, but also for future generations. From the "underground" of the world, from tezos and from our own realities we build a future in which we can work, formalize, identify problems and propose solutions to our art and culture. Mental is a great companion on this path, an artist who is definitely worth getting to know, and whose passing will not be forgotten in the path of the blockchain and posterity.

#UNDRGRND #tezos (xtz) #nftcommunity #nftmagazine #crypto #cryptoart #nft #undrgrnd #nftcollection #nftgallery #objktnft #nft marketplace #nft news #nft4art #nftcreators #nftdrop #nftproject

[mareenavee]

SPIRITUALITY :)

Hello! Thank you for asking :D

Positive Psychology Ask Game for Nyenna in my fic The World on Our Shoulders!

ask game is here.

SPIRITUALITY– Do they connect with things greater than themselves, or do they find it daunting? Do they want to have an impact on the world around them (for better or worse)?

Ooh these are actually two very excellent questions for Nyenna, and I think, due to the nature of her story and destiny and all that it's pretty poignant to talk about.

So the first part -- does she connect with something greater than herself? Yes, but some of them are not by choice. She has this thread between herself and Akatosh, being given the soul of a dragon. (There's more to it than that, as we know from playing through Skyrim.) These things were mostly outside of anyone's control. Culturally speaking, she was not raised in a family that prioritized religion or spirituality in general. Her mother wasn't born in Valenwood, and didn't follow the Green Pact. There wasn't any kind of strict adherence to anything religious, really, in her household in general.

Culturally, she'll say things like 'thank the Gods,' things like that, but without...eh...reverence? More or less, as she continues on her quest she has more questions as to why she'd been the one chosen for such things as fate and destiny etc etc. Others' opinions that legendary heroes are more like pawns for the gods than anything else sort of weigh on her a bit as well. There's other cultural considerations as well about how others might approach the topic and how spending time in certain places or with certain people will warp her perspective on it as well. It's complicated. She acknowledges but doesn't seem to revere and so has a sort of complicated connection to the Gods at least. I think, yeah, part of her would consider the whole thing fairly daunting.

Regarding wanting to have an impact on the world around her, I'd say absolutely yes. Even though she's afraid at first, and has to sort of heft this enormous weight of expectation as she walks into her power, there's a part of her who just wants to be good. To be worthy of being seen as a hero, despite whatever mistakes she's made along the way. She's frequently haunted by the fact that she simply didn't know who or what she was in time to save everyone, even though saving everyone is impossible by the very nature of the phrase. She can't be everything to everyone, no matter what the expectations are.

I have a fragment from earlier on in the story regarding this. From Chapter 12, which is already published:

“I choose what I do with my life,” he insisted, trying hard and failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “You don’t get to tell me who and what I am capable of saving, even if you are this legendary hero.”

And he knew they were fighting words. He knew because lately, especially, things being wrested out of her control caused so much pain and confusion. It was a sore point, an argument waiting to happen no matter who was on the other end. She did level her gaze on him again, and this time he could see a malice behind it, even if it did not belong entirely to her.

“So you would have me relive this fear every battle? You would distract me from what I’m supposed to do just because you think I need to be saved?” she said, words icy. And he didn’t mean that, no. He knew she was deflecting. Trying to cover up her uncertainty, her hesitancy. The fact that she didn’t believe in herself, not even a whit, even when he knew she should.

“Is that how you see me, Nyenna? A distraction?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed. It hurt to dig like this, but they were her words. Could she not hear how absurd this all sounded? She exhaled through her nose. Crossed her arms over her chest. Looked away.

“There were minutes in our last fight where I couldn’t be sure if you were alive or dead,” she said after a moment, shoulders sagging under the weight of the revelation. “It was like I was back at the border, watching Eris be cut down, taken from me forever, and all I could do was keep running. I had to leave him behind – couldn’t help even if I knew the magic then. And the ghost of that decision has stayed with me. It is unceasing, relentless fear, Athis. I can’t just make it go away. It’s always on my mind. What could happen to you is always on my mind.”

She didn’t exactly answer the question, nor did she apologize for her turn of phrase. But this was the heart of it. Fear. Something he could understand. He peeled one of her hands away from herself and held it in his.

“You don’t have to do this by yourself, love. No matter what you believe about who you are or what you’ve done, you have to trust that others are willing and able to stand by you, regardless of the danger,” he whispered. She quickly wiped away tears from both eyes with her free hand. She still frowned deeply.

“I hate being the reason so many people are dying. If I had known who and what I was sooner, I could have…” she started, but Athis stopped her.

“You can’t dwell on what might have been, Nyenna. You can’t,” he said. “And you’re not the reason behind all this. You didn’t do it. You’ve only been selected to help stop it. But as I said, it’s not something you have to do alone.”

“I don’t understand why it has to be me,” she said finally. “I never wanted this. The Gods chose wrong. I just want to go home.”Athis wasn’t sure that was even possible, that they could choose wrong. If the songs the bards had been singing had any truth to them at all, it had been some kind of prophecy. She had been foretold, in some way. The coming of this hero who would undo the chaos plaguing Skyrim. There was more, he felt, but neither of them knew the entire tale, or how much of it was true. She hadn’t spoken very candidly about what the Greybeards might have known, if anything at all. Farengar had no patience for mythology, even when it was his duty to research it. It was still shrouded in mystery. The truth was neither one of them knew how dangerous the path would be. It didn’t mean he wasn’t willing to fight. She wasn’t seeing that he wasn’t willing to risk her, either. They were stronger together. Was she willing to deny that, he wondered? It got under his skin, but he hadn’t found the words to relieve the itch of the revelation.

Anyway, great question (: I hope that brings a little light to this sort of facet of Nyenna! Thank you for the ask.

#AskMareena #MareenaWrites #The World on Our Shoulders #Nyenna #Athis #LDB/Athis #Skyrim #Elder Scrolls #tesblr #fanficblr #writeblr #skyrim fic #skyrim fanfiction #skyrim fanfic

[destinyimage]

Defeat the Molech Spirit with the Esther & Deborah Anointing

Early in the fall of 2020, I was spending time in the prayer room in our house, holding our six-month-old baby girl, Summer.

I heard the Lord say, “What would you do to save her?” I said, “Lord, anything.”

He said, “What if a policy was passed that said the government

could take her and kill her at any time.”

I said “I would never allow it! I would protect her with my life and would fight anyone who tried to take her away from me.”

The following week, when I had the vision of seven waves crashing into the United States, I heard the Lord say, “The second wave is the resurrection of the unborn.”

To be clear, this is not language I use in everyday life. I mean, when go out to get a coffee, I’m not throwing around words like “resurrection of the unborn.” To be honest, when I heard the word spoken to me, I had no grid for what God was talking about.

It is so important to sit, pray, and meditate on the things God is speaking to you. It is okay to ask questions and seek deeper revelation. As I prayed and processed this word, the Lord began to speak to me about the power of testimony. As the testimonies of women—who have had abortions and then have been saved, forgiven, and set free—go forth, these testimonies will release resurrection power! Where the enemy brought death, the Lord says, “I will bring LIFE!”

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The Esther Movement

There is an “Esther movement” arising, but the women are not who you think. God wants to bring truth and passion back into conservative Christians across America. In the days ahead, you will see a fresh anointing come upon women who have had abortions. This Esther movement isn’t giving women the opportunity for a new preaching circuit, these aren’t the women who feel called to preach and haven’t found their place. This is not a new wave of Christian feminism.

The Esther movement is the voice that has been silenced through shame—ironically by the people who need her voice the most—the voice that has been silenced by the Church.

I believe that some of the new Esthers movement women are holding the keys to the truth about abortion through their honest experience and testimony. They are the ones afraid to speak because they may be rejected. They are the ones shaking at the thought while reading this. However, the power of their testimony will release the angelic in such a profound and powerful way that it will shake this nation.

Statistically, 1 in 4 women are part of this Esther movement. Can you imagine the power of this collective voice? I believe that we will see the curse of abortion come off our nation, and a new Jesus movement arise of women who were once partners with the plans of the enemy— but will now be spies in the land for victory!

There is an innate trait in a woman to protect her children. Ask any mother. Abortion violates what is natural and replaces it with the demonic and the spirit of death. There is a role that the Christian woman plays that simply cannot be filled by a man in this movement. Men, I implore you to support, encourage, and protect these women who are speaking up for those who can’t speak for themselves—the unborn children.

In the biblical story of Esther, her uncle Mordecai encourages her to speak up to protect her people. Esther’s afraid to speak, but her uncle encourages her by saying these well-known words, “For if you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance for the Jews will arise from another place, but you and your father’s family will perish. And who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?” (Esther 4:14 NIV).

I believe that many men are being mantled with this Mordecai anointing. His words, are now some of the most famous verses in history “for such a time as this.” There is a rise of men who are strong, wise, and discerning—who know how to protect women as they overcome a culture that has every plan to destroy the family unit.

Here is the reality, God will raise up and protect the unborn. This is His will. However, this is also the hour for the Church to speak and train their congregations on healing, deliverance, and how to prioritize, love, and nurture the family unit.

Deborah and Esther Will Hold Hands

The Deborahs in this next wave are the female, uncompromised prophets whom God is unleashing with a fresh anointing as judges and defenders. The Deborahs will strategically hold hands with the Esthers and lead the charge of protecting the unborn.

A few weeks after I saw the wave vision, I had a strange dream that I am still processing to this day.

In the dream, there were several women in a coffee shop talking with one another, which was creating an echo. It sounded almost like whales talking. Jane Hamon was talking to younger women with the whale sounds as well. When I had the dream, I had only met Jane Hamon once prior, and I didn’t know much about her or her ministry. So, it was a bit unusual for her to be in my dream.

I wrote down the dream and began to process it to learn what God was showing me.

I believe that Jane Hamon represents mature female prophets. I believe that there will be a synergy of generations not competing with one another but building one another up in love. I believe the generations that have gone before, that have developed their prophetic anointing, will become mothers and will hold hands with Esther as she speaks up for the voiceless, the unborn.

The last thing I will share about this wave is that I saw it crash onto the shore, it expanded further out than the other waves. I believe that as the future waves will be crashing and impacting certain parts of the nation, this second waves extends out much further as a prophetic symbol of the global effect this movement will have.

Let us never forget, Jesus came to seek and save those who are lost and to destroy the works of the enemy (see Luke 19:10; 1 John 3:8 NLT).

Repentance of Worshipping Molech

The Lord forbids all worship of idols, and specifically child sacrifices to Molech:

You shall not give any of your children to offer them [by fire as a sacrifice] to Molech [the god of the Ammonites], nor shall you profane the name of your God [by honoring idols as gods]. I am the Lord (Leviticus 18:21 AMP).

In 1 Kings we see that even King Solomon had turned away from the Lord and began worshipping foreign gods, despite being given wisdom from the Lord: “Solomon worshiped Ashtoreth, the goddess of the Sidonians, and Molech, the detestable god of the Ammonites” (1 Kings 11:5).

Throughout 1 and 2 Kings, we see the rise and fall of Israel and kings obey or disobey the way of the Lord. The worship of Molech was a major indicator of the depravity and disregard for life within the Israelites at the time.

In addition to sexual rituals, Moloch worship included child sacrifice, or “passing children through the fire.” It is believed that idols of Molech were giant metal statues of a man with a bull’s head. Each image had a hole in the abdomen and possibly outstretched forearms that made a kind of ramp to the hole. A fire was lit in or around the statue. Babies were placed in the statue’s arms or in the hole. When a couple sacrificed their firstborn, they believed that Moloch would ensure financial prosperity for the family and future children.

It goes against the character of God to bless a nation that is sacrificing its children to idols. The apostle John commands us in his first epistle to guard ourselves against idols (see 1 John 5:21 AMP). This is militant language John is using. To guard oneself against something means we take a defensive combat position in response to it. It means, we have an opinion on the matter and oppose the demonic agenda attached to idol worship.

I believe we will see widespread repentance of worshipping Molech in America. I have seen it begin already in conferences across the nation. I have seen it in my own life. I pray that this nation will repent for sacrificing our children in the womb.

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[dirt-grub]

I’m very glad I’m doing union work and you all should get involved with a union too for your own sakes because like I’m a budding workaholic and to think there are businesses just clamoring to work me to the bone until I self destruct makes me insane

#connor talks #like I do this to myself and all those who have commissioned me have been wonderful and patient it’s all self inflicted #but to think that this hell im feeling right now is encouraged and sought after and exploited? fuck that #it does not feel good or satisfying to forget meals because of a mental illness quirk #but our culture and the culture my family has been raised in revels in it #this is not productivity this is mental illness and self destruction but it keeps me goddamn working don’t it!

[smallpwbbles]

THOUGHTS ON THE SONIC MOVIE

AIGHT had these notes for a bit about the movie cuz it’s a cinematic master piece and gave me everything we wanted

Where do I even start, bro I love how they just embrace the fact sonics a silly little kid who kinda revels in the fact he’s got a family to be silly with now

That bit where he’s pretending to be airport security didn’t have to be so fucking cute but now it lives rent free in my head

NOT EVEN 10 MINS IN I THINK AND THIS BOY WENT HOLY CRAP FJDHDJDJFFJA

Thark pointed out how smart it was for sonic to be calling peeps via FaceTime since he’s got a big ass head and his ears are on top of them (I’m so glad they don’t do the phone to the side of the head even when the characters ears aren’t there, just a lil thing I don’t like)

I bet that bit where sonic was like “your meant to be my friend, stop trying to be my dad” Tom has to repress every fatherly urge to not cry at hearing that

They just embrace the fact sonic is a Wachowski y’all we fucking WON

HE DID THE 🎵 THE WOOOOOORRRSSSSSSSST 🎵 THING

Sonic called Tom dad (the way I almost became a feral animal in the cinema)

The way lost it when Maddie was like “lets go get our kid”

Super sonic was fucking amazing, I got really worried when Knuckles said he isn’t the sonic they knew anymore then sonic basically went SIKE and did a Thor to manifest a chilidog. I can’t believe they straight up made super fucking GOD, like movie sonic is ACTUALLY the strongest version of sonic there is.

The way I might make a fleetway au again with the super thing going the way knuckles said

SPEAKING OF FUCKING KNUCKLES, favourite incarnation of knuckles so far, they did him SERVICE, Idris did amazing and I love this boy

He’s not dumb mans was just raised as a damn warrior his entire life so I fucking love it when he doesn’t get earth culture

Young knuckles also almost made me a feral animal

The way him and sonic survive a collapsing structure and sonic just starts pelting him with sand balls for no reason

The running gag of his grip breaking fingers was hilarious

I love the way he goes 🤨 when Eggmans being blatantly obvious with his lack of loyalty

They way he picked up tails at the end to carry him I’m biting my arms

TAILS MY SWEET BABY ANGEL, they gave him lethal weapons that HE MADE and address he’s doing crazy shit

God I wish during the scene when he gave his backstory we got to see him as a young kit in his village

THE WAY THEY PARALLEL TOM TUCKING IN SONIC WITH SONIC DOING IT TO TAILS THEN TAILS COVERING HIM WITH HIS TAILS MAN THEY ARE FUCKING BROTHERS

The way they let Rachel go off this movie and honestly good for her

I honestly wasn’t expecting the Wedding being a set up bit actually that was pretty cool

Man I wish they would explain why sonic and knuckles have the powers they do, seems it’s not necessarily connected with the emeralds unless they explain it in the knuckles series

I’m still reveling in the fact sonic has homies/brothers now, it was so sweet when all Tom was thinking about during volleyball was for his kid to have wingmen cuz Tom and Maddie are providing more parental roles than siblings/friend roles

Jeff really said this is my movie franchise and if I want shadow in the third movie I’m putting shadow in the third movie, and to that I say LETS FUCKING GOOOOO

Eggman and Stone are just fucking perfect this movie, I really love what they do with Stone like he looks like a straight man but he’s just really good at hiding how unhinged he is

Eggman is just a rabid animal this movie, Jim just transcends this role

I really wonder what they’re gonna do with shadows character, it’s clear he’s gonna have some of the same backstory since he’s been in stasis for 50 years, I just hope they don’t make his personality close to knuckles cuz he’s defo gonna be an antagonist for the third movie

It would be so funny if they just made him batshit and unhinged, mans just HATES people

#sonic movie 2 #sonic the hedgehog #sonic movie #sonic #sonic movie 2 spoilers #sonic movie spoilers

[breadqueen95]

Dress - Bucky Barnes

bucky barnes x fem!reader

wc: 5k

plot: bucky and y/n’s relationship is new, and they don’t want to share with their friends just yet. but something as simple as a dress can change anyone’s mind, even the winter soldier. 

content warnings: kissing. physical affection. flirting. allusions to sex. drinking. being drunk. language. bucky being a flirt. 

a/n: this is for @natasha-romancff and her taylor swift writing challenge! it took me awhile, but i’ve had a ton of fun writing this. so many bucky fics are angsty, and rightly so the man has some TRAUMA. but for my first bucky fic, based on dress by taylor swift, i wanted something happier for him 

***

Damn. That was a lot of leg.

“I don’t know,” you muttered as you stared into the mirror, “aren’t these things…a little classier than this?”

“Uh…have you met Tony Stark?” Natasha grumbled as she continued to scroll through her phone. “The man has never been classy a day in his life.”

“Well I know he isn’t, but fancy people show up to these things. I just don’t want to embarrass myself.” You were currently standing in front of the full-length mirror in Wanda’s room, staring at the reflection of a woman who didn’t quite look like you.

But it was you, wasn’t it? It was just…that you was wearing a very short, very sexy red cocktail dress. The sweetheart neckline was a nice touch, but the back was completely open. And that hemline? Definitely hiked way up past your knees.

“Y/n, relax,” Wanda reassured in her lilting accent, “sure, the dress is a little…spicier…than you’re used to, but it’s in a good way.”

“I’m pretty sure every single person would be able to tell I spend my days in tactical gear. God, I’m not sure I even know how to walk in heels this high!”

Heaving a dramatic sigh, Natasha threw her phone down and looked at you in the mirror. Her eyebrows were raised, and she was giving you her usual ‘don’t give me that shit’ look. It nearly had you shaking in your very strappy black heels.

“Are you kidding me, y/n? I’ve seen you strut in enough fancy parties during undercover missions to know that you’ve got this.”

“Yeah,” Wanda scoffed as she took a sip of red wine from her glass, “all she’s nervous about is what Bucky will think.”

Rolling your eyes, you tried to hide how much that sentence affected you.

“C’mon, Wanda. You know Bucky and I are just friends.”

“Do friends undress each other with their eyes whenever they’re in the same room?”

Damn it. Damn Wanda and her stupid perceptiveness.

“You’re reading too much into it, Wanda.” She just laughed at you, acting like she knew so much better.

What you knew and wasn’t ready to admit to your two best friends, was that she was right on the money.

Bucky Barnes, the infamous Winter Soldier, your favorite person in the entire world, was now your boyfriend. He had been for a few weeks now. The two of you were insanely private people. Hell, it had been years before the two of you had finally learned everything about each other. Once you had gotten past the walls the other had so carefully crafted, well…

At that point you were in love.

But the others didn’t need to know that, not yet at least. The Avengers were a family, your family. They were really the only true family you’d ever had. But Bucky…Bucky was finally yours. And you were his. You didn’t think it was crazy to just want to enjoy that, just the two of you, without everyone else sharing their jokes and opinions just yet. They did it out of love, you both knew that, but you just wanted him all to yourself.

As you looked back at your reflection in the mirror, you took a minute to really consider what Bucky’s reaction might be. He had the best poker face in the room no matter who he was with, but you knew him well enough to know how he was feeling just based on his eyes. He’d always said how much he loved red on you, and he adored every and any excuse to touch your skin. Those steel blue eyes of his would absolutely burn once he saw you in this dress.

And fuck, that was something you really wanted to see.

“Well, if you aren’t going to wear that dress, you better pick something else,” Nat said, jerking you from your fantasies, “we need to be there in twenty minutes, and we all need to touch up our makeup.”

“Actually…I think I’ll wear it,” you said confidently, trying to hide your grin as you ran your hands down the silky fabric.

What you didn’t see was Natasha and Wanda sharing a secret smirk behind you, like they’d known what you’d do the whole time.

***

Six weeks ago, everything had changed for you and Bucky.

You’d known how you felt for a long time. Bucky Barnes, despite his past, was the kind of man anyone could fall in love with. He was sincere, kind, generous, witty…everything you’d ever wanted in a partner. He had been your best friend for even longer.

It had been a long time before you could even admit your feelings to yourself, let alone to him. After everything the two of you had been through, who had the time and mental capacity for romance? It just didn’t seem important. You just chalked up your feelings to being such close friends. All you wanted was to be near him, even if you just sat in silence doing different things. Just being in the same room as Bucky brought you a sort of peace you’d never had before. Whenever he touched you, even if it was just a brief hug or brushing your back to get past you, your skin erupted into goosebumps. But that was just because physical touch was still foreign to you, right?

And his smile. God, his wonderful smile…

Bucky didn’t smile much. He hid behind a mask of stoicism, a remnant from the trauma of his horrible history as the Winter Soldier. Showing any sort of emotion, especially happiness, was hard for him. But when he finally let himself smile? It was the most beautiful thing you’d ever see.        

It took several sleepless nights wrestling with those confusing feelings to figure it out. You didn’t just see Bucky as your best friend. You had it bad. Not just “oh my god he’s so handsome” bad, like the “I would take a bullet for you I’m so in love” bad. That revelation? It left you euphoric. It also left you scared.

Because you were so sure Bucky didn’t feel the same. And that thought was like a knife to the heart every time it flashed through your mind.

So you kept it to yourself. You tried to keep things as normal as possible, but your heart kept fluttering whenever he walked into a room. Being so close to Bucky meant you confided in each other about pretty much everything, and he knew you well enough to know you were hiding something.

It all exploded on a Tuesday night in the compound.

Tuesdays were your movie nights. Bucky had a lot of pop culture to catch up on, so on this night every week he would come by your room to watch a movie. It was a weekly tradition that kind of started by accident. You were shocked he still hadn’t made time to watch Lord of the Rings, so you forced him onto your couch with popcorn and The Fellowship of the Ring. He loved it so much, and immediately asked if you guys could watch The Two Towers the next week. How could you say no to him?

Tonight, you were watching 13 Going on 30. It was your all-time favorite romcom, and you figured you could both use a break from all the action and fantasy movies you’d been cycling through. Something with a happy ending was worth indulging in.

“Does that Matt guy look like Banner to you? Or is it just me?” Bucky asked through a mouthful of popcorn.

“Heh, maybe a little,” you said, “Give or take a few years.” He laughed at that, and you forced yourself to laugh quietly. You wanted to blurt out your feelings every time you looked at Bucky, so you’d gotten quieter and quieter every time you spent time with him. It was an awful reaction, and you knew he noticed. But it was better than losing his friendship, right?

After that awful and painfully obvious forced laugh, Bucky let out a huge sigh and paused the movie. He set the bowl of popcorn down on the coffee table in front of the couch, then turned to face you. Exasperation and hurt glimmered in his eyes.

“Y/n, what the fuck is going on with you?”

“W-what do you mean?”

“Oh come on, don’t give me that,” he said sharply, “I know you better than anyone, and I know for a fact there’s something you’re not telling me. Is it me? Did I do something wrong?”

“What? No, god no!” You exclaimed.

“Well it must be something I did, because you’ve never been this quiet around me and it keeps getting worse. I hate it, and I want to know what I did so I can fix it.”

“Bucky, I’m serious, it’s nothing you did—”

“Then why? Why are you shutting me out?” He cut you off angrily, arms thrown wide. “You’re my best friend, I just don’t get why—”

“I don’t want you like a best friend, Bucky!” Your eyes went wide as the words flew from your lips. In the most comical way, you clapped your hand over your mouth as if you could stop the words that had already been said. Bucky’s eyes narrowed in confusion.

Oh fuck. He didn’t get it. Curse him and his old man ways.

“What does that even mean, Y/n? Are you saying you don’t want me around anymore?”

“Bucky, of course not. God, I would never want that. Never in a million years.”

“Then you better explain, because if you haven’t noticed, I’m over 100 years old. I need a little help here.”

“It means, uh…um,” you stuttered, wringing your hands together. “Is there any chance we can just forget I said that?”

“Nope, not a chance.”

“It means…it means that I care about you. As more than a friend.”

His entire face seemed to crinkle as he processed that. If you weren’t freaking out, you’d be obsessing over how damn cute it made him look. Then his eyes got wide as he began to make the connection. Your stomach nearly fell out of your ass as his eyes lifted again to meet yours.

“I…I think I know what you’re saying,” he nearly whispered, “I just need you to get real specific real fast, because I’m not about to say anything until I know exactly what you mean.”

“It means I’m in love with you, okay?” You burst out. Even through your mortification, there was a sudden sense of relief. A secret as big as that had definitely been weighing you down. Now that it was out there, that was one less thing you had to worry about.

His eyes grew even wider. How that was possible, you didn’t even know. That beautiful mouth of his began to turn up into a small smile as he gazed softly at you.

“You’re in love with me?” He asked, his smile getting wider with each passing second.

“What, you need it carved into stone or something?” You couldn’t help but sass him. Did you fucking stutter?

“No, it’s just…I never thought you’d feel that way about me.”

“Well, clearly I do. So you – wait, you mean you’ve thought about this before?”

“Of course I have,” he said as he shrugged, “I’ve been in love with you for two years now, how could I not think about it?”

You were instantly filled with warmth and pure bliss. In all your obsessing over your own feelings, you’d never allowed yourself to consider that he might feel the same about you. It just didn’t seem possible.

“I’m sorry,” you burst out, holding a hand up, “you’re telling me you’ve been into me for two years and didn’t say anything?”

“Why didn’t you?” He shot back, inching closer to you.

“Because you’re my best friend. I didn’t want to lose you because of stupid feelings I have.”

“But…I have those same ‘stupid feelings’ for you. So can we just cut the whole act and get on with it?” Bucky brought a hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing along your skin so gently.

“Uh…um…get on with what?”

“Well I’d kinda like to kiss you, if you’re cool with it.”

“Bucky Barnes did you just use current slang to ask if you could kiss me?” You didn’t move an inch as his face moved right in front of yours, breath intermingling as you gazed into each other’s eyes. God, was this really happening?

“Yeah, guess your lessons worked,” he murmured.

“Well you better kiss me, then.”

As soon as your lips met, it was like coming home.

***

That memory, your favorite memory, replayed in your head as the three of you stepped into the elevator. Nat and Wanda were happily chatting about who would be there, what kind of antics Tony would cook up tonight, if there would be music we could actually dance to. You know, normal party things.

All you could think about was how long you had to stay until you could sneak off with your boyfriend.

You were so happy Wanda and Natasha had convinced you to wear this dress. When you’d first put it on, the difference from your normal look was so jarring that it took you a few minutes to get used to it. But now that you had, now that you felt the silky fabric shifting against your skin as you moved, now that you saw how dangerously long your legs looked in these heels…

Damn, you felt sexy.

And that sexy feeling? It made you want Bucky’s hands all over you.

But this was a party. A party thrown by Tony Stark, one of the most perceptive and observant people you’d ever met. If you left too soon, if he thought you weren’t “having enough fun”, he’d be more than a little upset. So you had to stay, drink, mingle, maybe dance a little…and then, maybe later, you could go do what you actually wanted.

The elevator pinged, indicating you had reached the topmost floor of the compound. This floor was home to a huge communal space, often used for just hanging out with the team. But on nights like tonight, Tony went all out and turned the space into something that resembled…a club?

The three of you stepped out into the massive room, upbeat music already blasting from the speakers. Typical Tony – he never really outgrew his love for dancing and parties. The bass thrummed through your body, making you want to move to the music. The lights were dim, but you could still tell who was around. It looked like you were some of the last members of the team to arrive. There was a huge bar off to the side, and Natasha headed that way right away. You turned to ask Wanda if she wanted to follow Nat, but she was already making a beeline for Vision. Smiling, you just turned right back around to follow Natasha. A drink sounded pretty good right now.

As you made your way to the bar, you felt more than a few pairs of eyes on you as you walked. You sneakily looked around as you went, noticing men and women watching you with admiration, and dare you say it, longing. As someone whose job was to blend in with the background all the time, this was a different and slightly addictive feeling. You leaned on the bar next to Nat right as the bartender slid her drink over to her.

“Straight whiskey tonight? Damn, going hard.” You quipped.

“Hey now, you know I can handle my liquor. It’s you we need to watch out for, you lightweight.”

Laughing, you scanned the party guests, looking for the one person you wanted to see. Tony had had arm around Pepper’s waist, both laughing at something Rhodey had said. Bruce lingered around them, drink in hand and looking a little nervous, but still happy to be included. Wanda and Vision were sitting quietly on one of the couches, both looking absolutely smitten with each other. Scott Lang, one of the newest additions, was busting some moves, while Peter Parker laughed as he watched. Thor, who was visiting from Asgard, laughed boisterously as he watched various guests try to lift his hammer. You couldn’t help the smile growing on your face. You loved these people so much.

Then, you saw him.

Bucky was with Sam and Steve, as usual. But even as Sam and Steve were talking animatedly next to him, those gorgeous blue eyes of his were glued to you. There was a kind of intensity in them you hadn’t seen before. Your breath whooshed from you body as he grinned at you. Trying to maintain the suggestive image your dress gave you, you managed to send a flirtatious smile his way, then turned back around to face the bar. Leaning against the counter, you knew he’d get an eyeful of your bare back. God, this was fun.

The bartender finally made his way over to you, and you ordered two tequila shots.

Nat turned to you, one eyebrow arched in surprise as she asked, “And you say I’m going hard? You can’t just down two shots right away, babe.”

“I’m not doing two shots; you think I’m stupid?” The bartender slid the shots over to you along with two lime wedges. “One is clearly for you.”

Unable to hold back a laugh, Natasha put her arm around your shoulders and pulled you into her side as she said, “Why the fuck not, let’s do it.” The two of you went through the process: salt, shot, lime. You couldn’t help but wince as you downed the harsh liquor. Of all the shots in the world, tequila probably tasted the worst. The only reason you kept going for it was the warmth it traced down your body, and you felt your muscles begin to loosen up.

“Two more,” you called over to the bartender.

“Uh, no,” Natasha shot at you, grabbing her whiskey, and pushing off the bar, “I’m good with my top shelf shit, you keep going after that gasoline if you want but I’m out.”

“C’mon, Nat,” you called out, “what am I gonna do with two shots?”

“I’m sure you’ll find someone else, babe.” She said with a wave over her shoulder.

Sighing, you turned back to the ridiculously pretty bar (seriously, how much had Tony paid for this thing?). Who else would help you look cool and sexy at a bar for your secret boyfriend?

Okay, that was the cringiest thought you’d ever had. Gross.

As the bartender slid the tequila in front of you, you steeled yourself for the nastiness that was about to happen.

“Fuck, I didn’t think this through,” you mumbled.

“Yeah, you tend to do that,” a deep voice answered on your right. Instead of being the slightest bit surprised, you couldn’t help but smile. You’d know that voice anywhere.

“Something I can do for you, Barnes?” You looked up at him from under your lashes.

“Well, it looks like you’ve got an extra shot there. Thought I could bail you out.”

“Is that all?”

Bucky shifted so that your arms were just barely touching. His hand was right next to yours, and you reached out with your pinky to lightly brush his.

“Doll, you have the gall to show up in that dress and ask what I want as if you don’t already know?”

“Sorry Buck, I’m a little slow, must be the tequila. You should probably be a little clearer.”

Putting on quite the show of reaching for one of the shots, his mouth somehow ended up right next to your ear.

“I want you.”

It was lucky everyone was so distracted and couldn’t see how you shuddered at his words. Trying to maintain brain function, you managed to take the shot with him. You were now fully facing each other. He was wearing the cockiest smirk you’d ever seen, one that would put Tony Stark to shame. You couldn’t help but respond with that same energy despite the jitteriness his three little words had reduced you to.

“Well why don’t you—”

“Hello, my friends!” A booming voice sounded between you as Thor threw a huge arm over each of you. Bucky, with his stupid super soldier strength, didn’t really have a reaction to it. You, on the other hand, stumbled a little under the weight and force of it. “It’s so good to be back with you tiny humans.”

Was…was he slurring his words?

“Thor…are you drunk right now?”

He simply laughed in response. Well, that answered that.

“Of course I am, tiny person! It can’t be a party without good Asgardian wine.”

“Wait…you have literal god wine?” Bucky, who had a look of vague irritation on his face up to this point, now looked interested. Maybe even a little excited?

“Of course, metal appendage.”

“Dude, you can’t just call Bucky ‘metal appendage’—”

“He can if he lets me have some,” Bucky interrupted.

“We have a bargain!” Thor slapped Bucky on the back before scurrying back over to where he had come from, probably to get the wine he had promised.

“Bucky, you can’t even get drunk,” you hissed, “what exactly is the point of this?”

“Since everything happened, I haven’t found any alcohol strong enough to get me drunk. I figure god wine is worth a shot.”

“Bucky—”

“When I kiss you against a wall later, I wanna be a little tipsy,” he whispered in your ear, “that cool with you?”

Unable to keep yourself from smiling again, you nodded as Thor sauntered back over. Ever since that moment a few weeks ago, right before he kissed you for the first time, asking “is that cool with you?” had become your thing.

And the idea of Bucky kissing you against a wall? Yeah, that sounded pretty good.

***

As it turns out, Asgardian wine is just as potent as Thor had promised.

For the first time in over seventy years, Bucky Barnes was certifiably drunk. It made him feel like the Bucky from all those years ago, and it was the most incredible thing. Here he was, over 100 years old, partying, and all his favorite people were here.

Including his ridiculously hot girlfriend.

Even as they both flitted around the party, Bucky and y/n still found each other’s eyes, even from across the room. They would send winks, smiles, even funny faces. All he wanted to do was be right next to her, talk and dance with her all night…

But they had agreed. They wanted to keep their relationship a secret for now, keep the attention off of them for a bit while they got to know each other in this new way.

But god damn, that dress.

Y/n in red was…indescribable. It didn’t matter what she wore, she was always the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. But in red? In this dress?

She was breathtaking.

“Buck, you breathing?”

A hand waved in front of his face, snapping Bucky’s attention back to the people around him from Y/n’s back. He had been imagining putting his hands all over that back later and had gotten more than a little mesmerized. He managed to get his eyes to refocus, finding a drunk Sam smirking right next to him and an even drunker Steve dancing next to him. But what Steve was doing couldn’t really be called ‘dancing’ per say…more like an aggressive wiggle.

“Why wouldn’t I be breathing?” Of all the things he could’ve said to get Sam’s attention off of him, that wasn’t it.

“Uh, probably because the girl you’re in love with decided to show up and show off tonight? Pretty sure you’re drooling, man.”

Despite himself, Bucky slapped a hand across his mouth, only reducing Sam to wheezing laughter. Knowing he had been caught, he rolled his eyes and grimaced a little. Of all the people to catch him, he wished it hadn’t been Sam.

“I wasn’t…staring… at y/n, I just never see her dressed up is all.”

“I never said anything about the girl being y/n.”

“…fuck.”

“LANGUAGE,” Steve yelled out, pointing a finger at his two friends before returning to his shimmying.

Turning back to him, Sam added, “Just go be with her, Buck. You’re not fooling anyone, and neither is she.”

“We’re that obvious?”

“A few weeks ago you’d at least try to hide it. Now I’m surprised you’re not jumping each other’s bones right here right now.”

“Point taken,” Bucky said, lightly slapping Sam’s shoulder before power walking over to his girl.

***

“Nat, if you don’t stop asking about Bucky and I’s relationship, I’m going to kick you,” you called over the music before taking another swig from your glass. It was no Asgardian wine, but the human stuff wasn’t half bad in your opinion. It wasn’t like you could drink the god shit, anyway. If you had even one sip, you’d be swinging from the ceiling like Miley fucking Cyrus. You were pretty drunk as it was.

“Okay, fine,” she said with a shrug as she took a sip of her whiskey, still as calm and collected as ever. “You’re almost as drunk as he is, you’ll be talking soon enough.”

“Oh? Is that your spy master plan?”

Natasha was still looking as unbothered as ever, but as she looked across the room over your shoulder, her face split into a savage grin.

“It was, but it looks like I might not need it.”

“What do you me—”

Your words were cut off as a large, warm hand enclosed around yours. Whirling around, you were suddenly face to face with the man himself. Bucky was clearly having a good time. His mouth was relaxed into the cutest smile you’d ever seen him wear, and he moved without his normal stiffness and intensity. He threaded your fingers together, smiling down at you with so much love it was a wonder Nat hadn’t said anything yet.

Looking back in front of you, ready to explain yourself, you only found empty air. Guess she’d seen all she needed to, but honestly, you really didn’t care. All you’d wanted the whole night was to be exactly where you were right now; hand in hand with the man you loved.

“We’re just kidding ourselves, doll,” Bucky called next to your ear, “Sam said we’ve been pretty obvious.”

“Nat said the same,” you answered with a sheepish smile, “kind of hard to keep my face under control when you’ve got that leather jacket on.”

“You’re blaming me?” He asked with mock indignation. “You’re the one who looks,” he gestured wildly to your whole body, “like that!”

Trying ignore the heat spreading over your cheeks, you shot back, “Like what?”

“Like the most…” he screwed his face up in the most adorable way as he searched for words, “like the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” As the last few words tumbled out of his mouth, he gazed at you with such a softness you almost melted right into the floor.

“Wanna get out of here?” You asked, finally giving up the game. It was pointless, really. Now, all you wanted to do was for your boyfriend to keep his promise and kiss you against a wall.

Wrapping an arm around your waist, he answered, “Absolutely.” Without looking at a single soul, the two of you began walking as quickly as you could for the exit. You and Bucky were both leaning on each other a bit, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Stepping out into the light of the hallway, you blinked as your eyes adjusted after the dark room you’d spent the last few hours in. Bucky led you until you were right in front of the elevator, and he lazily pressed the button to go up. There was tension in the air between you, like a thread that was being pulled. Biting your lip, you stared at the doors in front of you. You knew if you so much as looked at the man next to you, you’d jump him right then and there.

The shining doors slid open, and the pair of you walked in, his strong arm still around your waist. His grip wasn’t loose in any sense of the word. Bucky kept you right next to him, even as your legs wanted to drift all over the place. You pressed the button for the residential floor.

As soon as those doors slid shut, that thread of tension snapped.

Bucky whirled you to face him, then walked you backward until you were pressed against the wall of the elevator.

“I promised I’d kiss you against the wall, didn’t I?”

He didn’t even wait for a response. His mouth was on yours in an instant, lips moving together like a dance. The kiss was slow and unhurried. You tried to bring him closer, linking your hands behind his neck and pressing yourself to him. Instead of responding in kind, he unwound your arms from around him and pinned them above your head.

Oh damn.

Okay.

No complaints here.

“You’ve been teasin’ me all night just by wearing that dress, sweetheart,” he murmured in between the kisses he trailed down your jaw, “I think it’s my turn.”

“Would it change your mind knowing I only wore this dress so you could take it off?”

The heat that bloomed in those blue eyes of his was unmistakable. As the doors opened on your floor, he swept you up into his arms and began to walk purposefully to his apartment. All the while, he kept that signature cocky smirk of his you’d come to adore.

“Bucky?” You asked once he’d walked into his unit.

“That sentence was the single most attractive thing you’ve ever said,” he murmured as he set you down. Even still, he kept you pressed against him. “But nah, I’m a patient guy. I think I’ll take my time.” He followed this by resuming his slow and sensual kisses, and you couldn’t help but melt into them.

“I love you,” you whispered against his lips.

“I’ll never get tired of hearing that, doll. I love you too.”

***

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes imagines #bucky barnes x you #dress #jenna writes #i love lanie #laniestaylorswiftwc

[causeiwanttoandican]

Robert Lacey excerpt

I fully expect them to say William was the one commenting about the baby’s skin color after this. Battle stations! Book excerpt

The Times

Prince William ‘split his household from Prince Harry after Meghan bullying claims’

June 07 2021, 7.00am BST

‘So, are you saying,” asked Oprah Winfrey, talking to Meghan and Harry in their famous interview of March 2021, “that there were hints of jealousy?”

She was inquiring about the Sussexes’s wildly successful tour of Australia and the South Pacific of late October 2018, and the couple shifted uncomfortably in their plush wicker chairs.

“Look,” replied Harry, “I just wish that we would all learn from the past.”

By bringing up “the past”, the prince was venturing into an area that was almost taboo. He was making a sensational comparison between his mother and his wife. Harry was suggesting that Meghan had demonstrated in Australia the same massive star quality as Diana and was now having to face the family envy that went along with that.

“It really changed,” he said, “after the Australia tour, after our South Pacific tour . . . it was . . . the first time that the family got to see how incredible she is at the job. And that brought back memories.”

Memories of what? Again Harry shied away from putting words to the almost unmentionable. But Oprah had prepared and polished this moment, like so many others in the interview, and she had a reference ready to prompt her prince’s revelation. The latest, fourth season of TV’s The Crown had depicted Charles and Diana’s 1983 tour of Australia, showing how Diana had been “bedazzling” in her ability “to connect with people”. Episode six had depicted how the crowds would groan when they realised that Charles, not Diana, was walking down their side of the street — hence the beginnings of the “jealousy” on the family’s part.

“So is that what you’re talking about?” asked Oprah. “It brought back memories of that?”

“Yeah,” Harry finally replied in a fashion that was both dismal and unmistakably aggressive.

What on earth had happened, viewers had to wonder, to the old and once-familiar happy side of Prince Harry?

When trying to define the moment that marked the decisive rift with his brother William — the break-up and actual separation of the joint household they had established together in 2009 — Harry would fix upon his triumphant return with Meghan from their Australian tour at the end of October 2018. But if asked the same question, William would have fixed on a more specific event: the explosive argument he had had with his brother earlier that month.

Both brothers agreed how bitterly they had clashed back in the early days over William’s attempt to slow Harry’s courtship of Meghan — “Don’t feel like you need to rush this . . . ” But both of them had subsequently moved on. Harry’s transparent contentment with Meghan had relaxed the tensions, give or take the odd row over bridesmaids’ dresses. The “no speaks” had eased just a little by the time “best man” William escorted his brother down the aisle in May 2018.

Then five months later came the conclusive and determining rupture — the division that has lasted to the present day — though here the brothers’ retelling of history diverged. As Harry explained it to Oprah, Meghan’s Australian tour success sowed the jealousies that caused feelings to “change”. According to this scenario, William and Kate resented the Diana-like popularity that was generated by Harry’s wife. William had a different recollection.

We now know that Princes William and Harry were no longer on speaking terms before the Sussexes set off for Australia. Feelings had already “changed”, as Harry put it, and drastically so. The brothers had parted on extremely poor terms, with the trouble centring on Meghan’s stringent treatment and alleged bullying of her staff.

Most Kensington Palace courtiers were noted for the comparatively long tenures of their comfortable and prestigious jobs. But it came to look as if employees could not wait to escape service with Harry and Meghan. Those who left formed themselves into an informal fraternity that they titled the “Sussex Survivors’ Club”. They had finally hit back, and their organising agent had been PR man Jason Knauf.

The joint communications secretary for Kensington Palace — who was still, at that date, working on behalf of both of the brothers and their wives — had become concerned by the numerous stories of mistreatment being brought to him by colleagues whom he knew well and trusted.

Texas-born and New Zealand-educated, Knauf, 34, was a popular character in Kensington Palace, widely noted for his friendliness and loyalty towards his colleagues. He had been considered a real “catch” when the brothers snared him from the Royal Bank of Scotland in 2015, and one of his concerns was that professional management practices should be more effectively enforced inside the traditional British palace. Knauf’s American sensibilities caused him to see the Meghan situation as raising principles of human resources management in the palace system that needed to be formally addressed.

Knauf’s first priority was to set down the facts, as he saw them, for the record: “I’m very concerned,” he emailed to William’s private secretary Simon Case, in a document he drafted in October 2018, “that the duchess was able to bully two PAs out of the household in the past year.”

Knauf described Meghan’s treatment of one aide as “totally unacceptable . . . the duchess seems intent”, he wrote, “on always having someone in her sights”. Specifying another staff member, Knauf alleged Meghan had been bullying her as well, “seeking to undermine her confidence”. His office had received “report after report”, he wrote, from people who had witnessed “unacceptable behaviour” by Meghan towards this member of staff.

“Meghan governed by fear,” claimed one courtier. “So many people said it. Nothing was ever good enough for her. [She] humiliated staff in meetings, [would] shout at them, [would] cut them off email chains — and then demand to know why they hadn’t done anything.”

As early as 2017, around the time of the couple’s engagement, according to a subsequent report in The Times, a senior aide had spoken to the couple about the difficulties caused by their treatment of staff. “It’s not my job to coddle people,” Meghan was said to have replied.

“Americans can be much more direct,” wrote the authors Omid Scobie and Carolyn Durand in defence of the duchess, “and that often doesn’t sit well in the much more refined institution of the monarchy.”

A Brit might have raised an eyebrow at Meghan’s alleged behaviour, then looked the other way. The Yank decided to act. Knauf was actually one of Meghan’s most senior advisers — her chief adviser, in fact, when it came to public relations. Earlier that year she had gone to Knauf for help when drafting the disputed letter of severance that she sent to her father. She valued his PR expertise.

Before that, Knauf had helped Harry to word the fierce anti-media statements that he had framed to try to protect Meghan from press harassment, both as his girlfriend and then as his fiancée. The PR man had taken considerable stick from some of his non-royal contacts who criticised him as being overprotective in fighting the newcomer’s corner. Like so many people in all the palaces, Knauf had started off on Meghan’s side.

But as the months went by the American’s feelings became more ambiguous, as numerous colleagues — women whom he greatly respected — continued to bring him stories of what they said they had suffered at Meghan’s hands.

“I can’t stop shaking,” one aide had told a colleague in anticipation of an encounter with Meghan. Another reported that the prospect of confrontation with the duchess had made her “feel sick”. “Emotional cruelty and manipulation”, were the words of a third, “which I guess could also be called bullying.”

The b-word featured prominently in the accounts of several, along with an even more sinister set of initials: PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder was a deeply serious condition to allege — flashbacks, nightmares and feelings of deep anxiety — but that was how one complainant said that they had felt.

Several people maintained they had been “humiliated” by the duchess, and that criticism extended to Harry as well.

“I overheard a conversation between Harry and one of his top aides,” recalled one Kensington Palace courtier. “Harry was screaming and screaming down the phone. Team Sussex was a really toxic environment. People shouting and screaming in each other’s faces.”

Shouting and screaming? PTSD? Making people feel sick? Prince William went ballistic when he heard the “dossier of distress” that Knauf had gathered. We do not know whether the communications secretary brought his allegations directly to his boss or submitted them via Simon Case. What we do know is that the prince was astonished and horrified. He was instantly furious at what he heard.

“I remember Christian Jones [William’s press secretary and later private secretary] explaining to me how the Cams [the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge] are paternalistic with their staff,” recalls one royal correspondent. “They copy the Queen in that respect with all her Christmas parties and Christmas presents to her people. They’re proud to treat their staff like family. They recognise that they don’t get paid loads of money, so they are just really nice to them. So this was a very deep clash of philosophies, with Meghan being used to a Hollywood service culture — getting exactly what she wanted whenever she wanted in that famous way that Harry said.”

William personally knew and liked all the individuals whom Knauf had named in his dossier. The prince regarded them as assets to his household — colleagues to be cherished and for whom he was responsible. Human beings. Like Knauf, the prince was appalled that his respected staff may have been put in this position.

For William, Knauf’s allegations also clarified something that the prince had long believed — that Meghan was fundamentally hostile towards the royal system, which she failed to understand as an outsider. William wondered if she had not wanted to leave from the very start — even dreaming, perhaps, that she could whisk Harry back with her to North America.

But Meghan’s lawyers and PR representatives said this was quite the wrong interpretation of their client’s thinking and behaviour in a statement that they issued to The Times early in March 2021. They denied all allegations of bullying as inaccurate and the product of what they described as a “smear campaign”. The duchess wished to fit in and be accepted, they insisted. She had left her life in North America to commit herself to her new role.

I have never met Jason Knauf. What you have just read is based upon the published accusations that Knauf set down on paper — refuted as “defamatory”, it must be stressed again, and “based on misleading and harmful information” in the view of the Duchess of Sussex’s lawyers. It also relies upon William’s personal account of these events to one of his friends who then spoke to this author.

The moment the prince heard the bullying allegations, he related to this friend, he got straight on the phone to talk to Harry — and when Harry flared up in furious defence of his wife, the elder brother persisted. Harry shut off his phone angrily, so William went to speak to him personally. The prince was horrified by what he had just been told about Meghan’s alleged behaviour, and he wanted to hear what Harry had to say.

The showdown between the two siblings was fierce and bitter. William’s pre-engagement questioning of Meghan’s suitability had been quite reasonable, in William’s opinion. His fraternal doubts had been provisional, based upon how the new recruit appeared to be. The elder brother did not really know Meghan in those early days.

But now William had seen enough of his sister-in-law to feel sure that, sadly, he did know her and that many of his reservations linked unhappily with what Knauf’s colleagues had alleged. William believed Meghan was following a plan — “agenda” was the word he used to his friend — and the accusations he had just heard were alarming. Kate, he said, had been wary of her from the start.

Meghan was undermining some precious principles of the monarchy, if she really was treating her staff in this way, and William was upset that she seemed to be stealing his beloved brother away from him. Later courtiers would coin a hashtag — #freeHarry. It was only half a joke.

“Meghan portrayed herself as the victim,” recalled one Kensington Palace staffer, “but she was the bully. People felt run over by her. They didn’t know how to handle this woman. They thought she was a complete narcissist and sociopath — basically unhinged. Which was why the pair of them were drawn to each other in the first place — both damaged goods.”

William felt deeply wounded. “Hurt” and “betrayed” were the two feelings that he described to his friend. The elder brother had always felt so protective. He had seen it as his job to look out for Harry but this was the moment the protection had to stop. At the end of the day the British crown and all it stood for with its ancient traditions, styles and values — the mission of the monarchy — had to matter more to William than his brother did.

Harry, for his part, was equally furious that William should give credence to the accusations against Meghan, and he was fiercely combative in his wife’s defence. Some sources maintain that in the heat of the argument Harry actually accused someone in the family of concepts that were “racist”. But it must be stressed that neither brother has ever confirmed that the hateful r-word was used face to face.

Only William and Harry can know what they said to each other and they have respectfully maintained their silence on that. But Harry made clear to the world in his interview with Oprah that he considered his family’s response to Meghan to have been essentially racist — using the heavily freighted code words “unconscious bias” to provide an intellectual framework for his analysis.

Where could the two brothers go after such painful and damning notions had been thrown into their debate?

We have reached the crux of the drama. What painfully unforgettable and surely unforgivable things have been said? These are not passing differences. They are two core sets of values in conflict — love versus duty — going to the very heart and deriving from the deepest beliefs and loyalties of each man. Two opposing identities butting heads. In the months following the tragic and not-obviously bridgeable rift of October 2018 between William and Harry, the younger brother solidified his belief that his family were suffering from “unconscious bias”.

William, for his part, felt just as strongly about Meghan and the need for her subversive “agenda” to be removed from the operations of the British monarchy, which she did not appear to understand or respect. He certainly wanted Meghan removed, for a start, from the hitherto harmonious joint household that he and his brother had operated together for the best part of a decade. William simply did not want her or Harry around any more.

When accounts of the rift started seeping out through the winter months that followed, it was generally assumed that the volatile Harry must have set the pace in the splitting up of the joint Kensington Palace household. He was the brother who visibly departed, stalking off to set up a new home in Windsor, with offices for himself and Meghan in Buckingham Palace.

But the reverse was the case. It was William who made the decisive move. Following his furious confrontation with his younger brother in the autumn of 2018, the prince instructed Simon Case to start the process of dividing their two households immediately. William wished to be separated from Meghan on a day-to-day basis — and that meant being separated from his brother as well.

“William,” says a friend, “threw Harry out.”

©Robert Lacey 2021 Extracted from Battle of Brothers: William, Harry and the Inside Story of a Family in Tumult by Robert Lacey, to be published by William Collins on June 24 at £9.99

[gatheringbones]

["We are offered some false gains to keep us from making that choice to stand with women different from ourselves. One is that of a material security equal to the men of our culture, if we side with them as we move outside the home, into the larger world. We are offered, not the nightmare image of the slaughtered woman, but the image that, as a girl, I saw flashed on the screen in a darkened theatre: a beautiful young white woman is weeping because her past affluence is gone, her plantations and her slaves; her family is without food, the garden trampled, but she digs her hands into the red clay and vows: "I'm never going to be hungry again. No, nor any of my folks. If I have to steal or kill— as God is my witness, I'm never going to be hungry again." She goes on to become financially secure, using white men for protection when necessary, using her "connections" to make sure she lets nothing go to others during the social revolution of Emancipation and Reconstruction.

When I was a child, Scarlett was a heroine, in her strength as a woman within the myth of my land as I learned it: today she is to me a person ready to take what is offered to her as a woman who is white, a lady of the culture, with no caring about where the land came from and who has worked it, willing to leave all others except her immediate family behind, in order to secure a narrow place of safety, that she foolishly thinks is secure: the place of equality with white men.

That this is foolish security is evidenced by the number of women in poverty in this country, white as well as women of color, a number increasing every year. Anne Braden points out that historically the struggle for economic and social justice for the most disadvantaged group, Blacks in slavery, substantially benefited all other folk who were not in control of land and money; she likens this to a shift in the foundation stone of a house that causes all else to move.

Today the economic foundation of this country is resting on the backs of women of color here, and in Third World countries: they are harvesting the eggplants and lettuce for Safeway, they are typing secretarial work sent by New York firms to the West Indies by satellite. The real gain in our material security as white women would come most surely if we did not limit our economic struggle to salaries of equal or comparable worth to white men in the U.S., but if we expanded this struggle to a restructuring of this country's economy so that we do not live off the lives and work of Third World Women.

A second false gain that we, if we are privileged women, are being offered now is more "protection"; this time not just in our "sacred homes," but protection of us living in the U.S. from the "powers of evil" in the rest of the world. The foreign policy of the Reagan administration is being shaped by evangelical Christian beliefs that hold the U.S. has a divine calling to "protect the free world" from godless, evil, "perverted" communism. This apocalyptic thinking interprets all world events as reenacting Biblical prophecies, especially those in Ezekiel, Daniel, and Revelations, which predict, evangelicals think, a struggle between the "forces of good and evil," the U.S. and Russia, culminating in the battle of Armageddon on the Hill of Megiddo, near Haifa, Israel.

(...) The U.S. economy is being mobilized to enact a Christian morality play, with U.S. soldiers, or forces in the pay of the U.S., acting as an Army of God, fighting "anti-communist" interventions throughout the world, especially now in the Caribbean and in Central America, as well as in the Middle East. In the statements of the men running this country, I hear echoes of the condemnation by my folk of the civil rights movement of Black people; Third World people fighting for economic and political freedom are condemned as "communists" and "godless"; under these comments are the old racist beliefs: that people of color are "uncivilized," "immoral," "dirty," "naturally evil," "need to be controlled." Meanwhile, Third World countries like Nicaragua, that need to use limited resources for literacy and health campaigns, for building a self-sufficient economy, instead must spend enormous sums of money for arms to defend against a U.S. that is re-enacting the Crusades, trying to "save" the Western hemisphere.

And the people at home supposedly "protected" by these actions are suffering also. To fund the military build-up, cuts have been made to health programs, educational programs, job-training programs, with disproportionately severe effects on all women and children, and on people of color, while about 9,500 jobs for all women are lost for every $1 billion shifted from civilian to military spending; 63% of the current U.S. budget goes to pay for preparation for war and the debt for past wars. And the Children's Defense Fund has said, "One third of President Reagan's proposed military increase could lift every single American child out of poverty." Again, it seems that if we are women who want a place for ourselves and other women in a just, peaceful, free world, we should be saying, as white and Christian-raised women, Not in my name."]

Minnie Bruce Pratt, from Yours In Struggle: Three Feminist Perspectives on Anti-Semitism and Racism, Firebrand Books, 1984

#minnie bruce pratt #history stuff #lesbian literature #wasteland radio

[geekgirles]

Your Heart

Chapter 8 -- Aftershocks

Word Count: 13482

READ ON AO3

Margaret’s quarters had to be one of the most glamourous in the entire manor. Designed to be a duplex, it consisted of two different spacesーthree, if you count the bathroomーthe lower floor held the living room, and the higher one was where the Council member’s actual bedroom was. 

The living room resembled that of a wealthy family’s. A deep red velvet hue gave a touch of colour to the walls, which were decorated by several portraits revealing pieces of contemporary art. Now, Sam loved going to museums and culture in general, but she couldn’t identify what the artists had tried to portray to save her life. When asking about the meaning of one of the paintings, Margaret once told her it was an allegory to the passage of time. How could a smear of red, a blue smudge, and a black, straight line mean any of that she had no idea.

Questionable taste in decor aside, Margaret’s quarters also consisted of a parquet flooring that always seemed to have been recently varnished, so shiny and clean one could eat from it. Just from a small glimpse at her room, one could guess the older witch had a weakness for rococo furniture; a set of golden couches and chairs with cream upholstery was scattered around the place. A backless seat was in front of the piano at the far corner of the room, a loveseat could be seen located under a particularly large painting, Sam and Margaret were both seated, one in front of the other, on two chairs…

Ironically for someone as elegant and graceful as Margaret, all her plants were made of plastic. Grandma Ida had once told her in confidence the clan’s best spellcaster was also the worst gardener she’d ever seen. According to her grandma, when Margaret was still just a witch in training her teachers ended up forbidding her from getting near to their supplies of mandrake; she always killed them all and the plant was very difficult to find. 

At the far corner of the room, to the side of the piano, a white staircase with a golden banister led to the Council member’s room. What secrets her bedroom held, however, Sam didn’t know. Margaret was very particular about who she let in on her personal life, and bedrooms were extremely personal. 

Which was enough of a hint to understand she hadn’t been called just to chat and have some tea with her. “Your Majesty,” Margaret broke her out of her musings and from inspecting her personal chambers, “I understand you already know why I have summoned you here, correct?”

Even when she was about to scold her, the older witch always looked like the epitome of grace and dignity. They were currently seated on two of her rococo chairs, which Sam had to admit, were pretty but not necessarily comfortable; a coffee table with a porcelain tea set alongside different types of biscuits, scones (a favourite of Margaret since she spent some time abroad in London in her youth), and sandwiches were in full display in between the two. 

Knowing how seriously Margaret took table manners, Sam put her teacup on its respective plate before delicately placing both down on the coffee table. “I have an inkling as to why that might be.”

The African-American woman’s perfect posture never faltered. “In that case, I will get straight to the point: sending Miss Baker and Miss Zhou back home while you were left alone with the Ghost King was unbelievably unwise.”

Sam couldn’t help but wince when Margaret’s forest green eyes laid on her, an icy quality to them. “I understand your concern, Margaret, believe me, I do, but…”

“‘But?’” Margaret cut her off, raising an eyebrow as her cup of tea was halfway to her mouth. “Your Majesty, in case you forgot, you are our queen. Amity Park clan’s leader. Dozens of women depend on you for guidance. Your sole presence keeps us from going to war over the throne!”

Unable to hear the same things over and over, the young queen turned her head to the side, as if pained by her words. “I know, I know.” She raised a hand to silence her. “Margaret, you needn’t remind me the very reason why I even stepped up to become queen. Keeping the clan from succumbing to chaos and honouring my grandmother are my main motivations for everything I do.”

“You and me both know that, my Queen.” Margaret conceded, stirring her second cup of tea. “But that does not change the fact that what you did was foolish. However, I also know that you never do anything without reason, so I am willing to hear it.”

With a gesture of her hand, she motioned for Sam to explain herself. Sighing, the violet-eyed girl did just that. “I know my life is precious, but the circumstances were dire and even now I can’t shake the feeling that it’s a miracle I’m even alive.”

“Forgive me, your Majesty. But I fail to see how that is helping your case.” The green-eyed woman pointed out. Deep down she knew Sam probably had a good reason for doing what she did, but as second-in-command, it was her duty to ensure their queen never made a mistake like that ever again. 

“I’m getting there, I promise.” Sam hastily said. 

With a nod, Margaret gestured for her to continue. “I don’t feel comfortable putting my safety before others’ just because of my position.” She finished, and even Margaret’s stoic mask cracked a little at the revelation. “Stephanie and Susan were with me, Margaret. They were in as much danger as I was, I couldn’t risk their lives like that.”

“Miss Zhou and Miss Baker both volunteered to escort you to your visits to the Ghost Zone, your Majesty.” Her fellow Council member reminded her in between sips. “Had anything happened to them, they were just doing their job.”

“And I wouldn’t be able to live with myself knowing their loyalty would force them to pay such a high price.” 

Margaret was about to take another sip of her tea when Sam’s solemn words made her eyes widen. Looking over at her, she noticed her tense posture, her stiff shoulders, her slim fingers clutching tightly at the fabric of her black and purple plaid skirt...And the resolution in her eyes. The older witch could’ve sworn she saw the same fire that was so characteristic of her grandmother in Sam’s violet gaze. 

Unaware of the reaction she’d caused to the woman in front of her, Sam went on. “I’m the queen, Margaret. It’s my duty to make sure our people are safe. How do you expect me to just leave them behind, not knowing if they’ll even make it alive!? Even if the black hole had been taken care of without my assistance and they would’ve been safe from it, how do we know the ghosts wouldn’t have taken advantage of the chaos to attack them?! 

“Even if I have a feeling King Phantom would’ve tried to protect them, it was still too risky. I would never have been able to live with myself if anything had happened to them because, somehow, my life’s more important than theirs!”

Setting her now cold teacup down, the African-American witch clasped her hands together on her lap. She regarded the young queen with a face that betrayed no emotion. “Your Majesty, you do realise every single one of your points can also be applied to your own situation, right? Just like Miss Baker and Miss Zhou could have been in danger at the hands of the ghosts, so could have you. Except an attempt against your life would be grounds for going to war.”

Knowing she was right, Sam averted her gaze to the side. Suddenly that one painting with the impossible-to-understand analogy on the passage of time seemed much more interesting than ten minutes ago. 

Margaret sighed as she stood up. Her high heels clicking against the parquet, she hovered over Sam, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Samantha, I know choosing what is best for our people is hard, especially if it comes into conflict with our personal beliefs and desires, but duty must come first.”

The young sorceress started at the sound of her full name. She really hated being called ‘Samantha’, but knew that was the most personal Margaret would ever get with her, so it'd only be rude of her to complain. “I know,” she sighed dejectedly. “I know, it’s just...I can’t just do that to them! Susan is still just a teenager; no matter how good of a potion-maker and warrior she is, she’s still too young. She has so much to live, I can’t afford to make her miss out on all that for my sake…”

“But what about Miss Baker? I believe you two are the same age; you both still have so much to live, as well.”

“You mean Stephanie still has so much to live for. I gave up on that a long time ago…” Sam couldn’t resist the urge to scoff. 

Even if all witches had to make compromises to balance their lives inside and outside of the coven, Sam’s entire life had revolved around giving up on one passion after the other. Growing up she couldn’t make friends because other girls weren’t allowed to go near the queen’s granddaughter. Her world was reduced to the manor and her house, to her family and her teachers, to her lessons and the very scarce moments where she could pretend she was a kid like any other. After her grandma died, under the threat of her coven falling into anarchy until they found a new leader, she sacrificed her one chance at a relatively normal life in exchange of being elected the future queen. For four years her extensive studying and isolation were self-imposed; the only times she allowed herself to take a break where her birthday ーso her dad wouldn’t get suspicious as to what was so important she couldn’t celebrate her own birthdayーand the anniversary of her grandma’s death; because there was no way she’d ever have the energy to work on the most painful day of the year. And now that she was queen, every waking moment was dedicated to looking after her people.

Stephanie was just a shy girl who loved books. Between the two of them, she was the only one who really had a chance at experiencing life outside of the manor’s walls. And Sam refused to be the reason why she lost that chance. 

Understanding dawning on her, Margaret’s face softened. “Your motives were noble, my Queen, and I am sure the Baker and Zhou families are extremely grateful for having their children returned to them. Just try to keep in mind that with great power comes great responsibility, and more often than not, that means making sacrifices for the greater good.”

As the spellcaster went back to her chair, Sam could only stare after her like she’d just nonchalantly revealed the meaning of life to her. “...did you just quote Spider-Man?”

Picking her teacup back up, she just chuckled in amusement. “I am a woman of culture, your Majesty. Now, pour yourself another cup of tea or help yourself to some snacks, before it gets cold.”

Reaching over for the kettle to pour some more tea on her cup at the same time as she started munching on a vegetarian sandwich, a comfortable silence settled between them. The only sounds disturbing the quiet atmosphere were the occasional sound of sipping and of plates clattering. In the midst of the silence, Sam’s mind couldn’t help but race back to the moment right after Phantom stopped the blackhole. 

She wasn’t lying when she told Margaret she believed he wouldn’t have let anything happen to Susan and Stephanie, for her own protection seemed to be one of his top priorities. That and their last interaction before she returned to Earth had been replaying inside her head over the last several hours. 

As she and Phantom stared at each other, unbeknownst to them, both thinking that they could indeed make things work as long as they worked together, Sam’s mind unexpectedly wandered to uncharted territory. Now that she was looking at him up close, a part of her had to agree with all the fangirls who’d squeal every time Phantom appeared on TV; he was quite handsome. 

It was undeniable that the Ghost King’s defined physique was anything but hard on the eyes. She didn’t know what it was, but something about himーmaybe the inches he had on her, or maybe the way he’d pressed her close to his chest earlier when he was trying to put her to safety, or maybe the intensity of his neon green eyesーmade her feel safe. 

Now that they weren’t separated by a large table and a few feets of distance, Sam could appreciate his chiseled jaw and how his Adam’s apple moved up and down when he gulped, sending a heatwave straight to her very core. His intoxicating eyes no longer looked at her with suspicion and disdain, but with gratefulness and with a candour whose origins she couldn’t quite identify, and at that very moment she was sure nothing would’ve been able to get her to tear her own violet gaze away from them. His shock-white hair alongside his characteristically ghostly glowーthat glow she used to interpret as a warning sign; a reminder of his true natureーall of a sudden made him look ethereal, otherworldly. Like a guardian from beyond sent to protect everyone from evil. Like...Like…

Like an angel.

And his lips...Oh, God. They were so inviting. The mere thought of kissing those lips was incredibly exhilarating. From where she stood, Sam could already imagine his lips on hers, coming together in a slow, passionate dance; their touch so rough and yet so gentle; both breathing her to life and leaving her breathless; and the way he was moving them at that very moment only helped in further cementing her beliefsーwait a minute. They were moving?

“Lady Arcana, are you okay?” Phantom asked, even though he looked a little out of sorts himself. “Your face is a little red. Should we have someone check it out?”

“No!” Sam exclaimed a little too quickly and a little too loudly, shaking her hands before her and already feeling the scorching heat on her cheeks. She barely resisted the urge to facepalm herself. What was she thinking?! Drooling over Phantom? Fantasising with kissing him?! Did she lose her mind?! Maybe he wasn’t as bad as she originally believedーshe was still debating on itーbut he was still a ghost. And ghosts and witches didn’t mix, especially like that. Hell, not even when they were still allies did a ghost and a witch ever end up together!

Noticing the Ghost King staring at her quizzically, the witch cleared her throat in an attempt to appear nonchalant. “I mean, no; I’m fine, really. Probably just a little affected from all the excitement.” Averting her gaze, she jerked her thumb behind her. “I, uh, I should probably go back to my people. They’re probably recruiting an army to come and save me as we speak.” She laughed it off weakly. 

Phantom’s eyes shot open at that. “Oh, right! Yeah, it’ll probably be for the best. Wouldn’t want to start a war over a misunderstanding…” He rubbed the back of his neck as he, too, looked away. “I...I’ll let you be.”

“Yeah, well, thanks for saving me.” Sam told him, missing the way his eyes softened at her words. She put a little distance between the two, ready to cast the spell that would send her home, when Phantom’s voice stopped her in her tracks. Turning around, she raised an eyebrow at him, “What?”

“Are there going to be any more meetings after this?” He asked. “I mean, after this whole fiasco, I wouldn’t blame you if you decided to call it quits…”

In spite of herself, the young witch couldn’t help but give him a small smile. “We still need to solve the portal problem, don’t we?” Then, she smirked. “You won’t get rid of me that easily, Phantom!”

The relieved expression he sent her way sent her heart aflutter. Feeling the blush coming back, she hastily turned around once more, ready to leave. “Well, until next time!” Again, she was getting ready to leave when Phantom’s voice stopped her.

“Wait, Lady Arcana!”

“Yes?”

“I...u-uh,...well…” He stuttered before taking a deep breath. “Thank you for saving me, too.”

Against her better judgement, Sam’s expression softened. “You’re welcome, Phantom.” Finally, she focused on her anima, willing a purple light to engulf her as she chanted, “Omnes viae Romam ducunt.”

She could almost feel how every individual cell in her body separated before being rearranged again. The tingling sensation was similar to when she’d phased through Phantom’s lair, except it was warm rather than chilly. Spellcasting felt like being cocooned in a thousand blankets inside your home during a particularly cold winter night, while the sensation brought by ghost powers was akin to sticking your head into the freezer when it was 104 º outside. 

Both experiences were incredibly pleasant, albeit drastically different from one another.

When Sam opened her eyes, everything was mayhem. 

She’d arrived in the middle of the Grand Hall inside 917 Maplestreet, and every single witch present was looking straight at her. Judging from their positionsーsome had risen from their seats, their hands slamming the tables; others had their arms raised as if making suggestions or waiting for their turns to speak up; a few were arguing amongst themselves…ー, she’d just interrupted a council meeting. Most likely to discuss her current situation. 

Oh, great. 

“Your Majesty!” A voice cried out, and Sam almost fell back upon impact, for someone had slammed into her chest with great force, almost knocking the wind out of her. 

Looking down, she realised the iron grip she suddenly found herself in belonged to none other than Susan. The poor thing was sobbing and hiccuping uncontrollably against her chest. Automatically, Sam put her own arms around her in an attempt to sooth her. With how fierce and disciplined she usually was, it was easy to forget she was, technically, still a kid. She had much to learn before she became completely desensitised to the world’s horrors. 

“It’s fine, Susan.” The queen soothed, caressing her hair. “I’m fine.”

Right at that moment, the room erupted in a row of applause and cheering, alongside many questions directed her way. Before Sam could so much as tell them to speak one at a time, she felt something being discreetly slipped under her dress. Turning her head to the side in surprise, she found herself face to face with Stephanie. “Welcome home, your Majesty. I am so glad you have returned.”

When the strawberry blonde winked at her, Sam understood everything. Steph had taken advantage of the current chaos, and of her tied up skirt, to return Arcana’s Grimoire to her. Sam couldn’t help but smile; she was worth much more than people often gave her credit for. 

Paulina and Star almost tripped over themselves trying to reach her. Rushing to her side, both simultaneously looking panicked and relieved beyond belief, the moment they reached her side they started fussing about her personal care, promising to prepare a warm bubble bath immediately.

“Your Majesty!” Paulina exclaimed in between pants, “You have no idea how glad we are that you’re back!”

“Totally,” Star agreed beside her friend, nodding but equally winded. “One minute Pauli was trash-talking Ms. Gorilla, and the next news reached us that you hadn’t returned from the Ghost Zone!”

“I’m sorry,” a sultry voice from behind startled them, while Sam shook her head in pity, anticipating what was to come, “you were doing what?” Delilah asked the two ladies-in-waiting sharply, her unforgiving eyes narrowed on them.

The Witch Queen could only roll her eyes knowingly at the way Paulina and Star flinched upon noticing the shapeshifter heard them. ‘Ms. Gorilla’, as Star helpfully supplied when they were assigned to her upon becoming the clan leader, was a moniker Paulina had come up with at the height of her jealousy towards the stunning Council member. Sam, despite her love for animals and nature, hadn’t noticed until they pointed it out, but Delilah shared her name with the famous Purple Back Gorilla that was discovered to be female by a high school student working on extra credit back when she was fourteen. 

The thing is, as good-natured and laid-back as Delilah could be, she did not appreciate being compared to such a majestic creature. “I’m waiting, Miss Anderson. What did you say you were doing before you heard the news?”

From where she stood, still being held by Susan’s iron grip, Sam could see how Star was beginning to sweat. The blonde usually didn’t have trouble saying what she thought of others, even if it was mean-spirited or uncalled for, but even she knew it was foolish to anger another witch, especially when her position was much higher than hers. 

Squirming under the shapeshifter’s harsh glare, the handmaiden couldn’t do anything but stutter. “Uh...um...w-well...we...we were…and the...the gorilla...b-but then...” She trailed off, luckily for her, Paulina chose that very moment to jump in on the conversation. 

“We were just talking about the new gorilla-inspired fashion collection!” The Latina lied and, if you listened closely, you could hear the way her already pronounced accent thickened. Paulina was a good liar, but even she sometimes had trouble working under pressure. “It’s absolutely fabulous! Almost as much as your blouse,” she complimented as she reached out to touch the fabric, “Is it new?”

Unamused, Delilah decided against pushing the issue...for now. Gently swatting the Latina’s hand away from her clothes, she directed a much kinder expression towards Sam. “It’s good to have you back, my Queen. We were worried sick for your safety.”

The violet-eyed queen smiled in return. “It’s good to be back.”

Suddenly, an imposing voice made itself heard from the other side of the room. Heads snapping to the origin of the sound, everyone’s eyes landed on Margaret standing with her hands behind her back by the entrance. She looked as poised and collected as usual.

Somehow, Sam knew she was in for a world of trouble. 

“Your Majesty,” Margaret began, and her voice commanded such respect a pin drop could be heard in the middle of the previously loud room, “you have no idea how grateful we are for your safe return. If what Miss Zhou and Miss Baker told us is true,” both witches at her side sent their queen an apologetic look, “then you must be exhausted. Please, after you’re well-rested, come tomorrow to my personal chambers.” She ordered, because she didn’t even ask for an answer, before turning away. Just as she was about to leave the room, she called out over her shoulder, “We have much to discuss.”

Oh, yeah. She was indubitably, thoroughly screwed. 

Her instincts were proven correct the moment she was given the third degree by the woman in front of her. As she pondered Margaret’s previous words, however, a question materialised itself inside Sam’s mind. 

Furrowing her brow, she called out to her fellow Council member. “Margaret?”

“Yes, your Majesty?”

“You said we more often than not have to make sacrifices in the name of the greater good, even if it goes against our personal beliefs and desires…” she started carefully, looking down at her cup. “Have you ever had to sacrifice something you cared deeply about or wanted desperately for the sake of the coven?”

For a moment, the silence had returned, only it now hung heavily over them, when just a few minutes it’d been comfortable. After a few minutes had passed and she still received no answer, Sam was about to ask again when Margaret finally answered. “Yes, I have.”

Her head shooting at her uncharacteristically lifeless voice, Sam almost gasped. Before her, Margaret wore the saddest expression she’d ever seen of her face. Her deep, green eyes, usually so vibrant and full of colour, were now bleak and devastated, reminiscent of a forest after a wildfire. The otherwise calm and collected Council member now looked heartbroken and desolate, like a piece of her was missing. Margaret certainly wasn’t crying, but she seemed so miserable Sam could feel tears of her own stinging her eyes. 

“I...I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.”

“Uh...right! O-of course. Don’t worry.” The lavender-eyed witch hastily said, too shell shocked to be more eloquent. Margaret never used contractions when talking to her. 

Margaret acknowledged her with a respectful nod of her head. “Thank you, your Majesty.” Then she went back to drinking her tea. 

Deciding it’d be best to imitate her and pretend nothing had happened, Sam couldn't help but wonder what might’ve happened to Margaret to make her so miserable. But above all else, she could only hope she’d never have to sacrifice the same thing. Somehow, she had a feeling death would be less painful.

...........

The forest in the outskirts of Amity Park could be described as anything but a walk in the park. The tree trunks knotted and twisted, forming shapes made out of the stuff of nightmares. The wind rustling the leaves sounded like a ghostly wail, not unlike Danny’s, albeit much quieter. That only made it more sinister. And the sound of twigs, dead leaves, and fallen tree branches crunching beneath had him frantically looking around for the slightest sign of danger. Since it was mid-October, nearing Halloween, the weather was beginning to change as well. For instance, temperatures were starting to drop from the cool yet warm ones that reigned during late September, and the first fall rainstorm hit the town just the night before.

And since it’d just rained the night before, that meant Tucker was now stepping on mud. He was stepping on mud with his new boots on. He was stepping on mud and getting his new boots that cost him a fortune, mind you, dirty. Already irritated and spooked beyond belief, he called out to the person walking in front of him, “Care to remind me why the fuck I didn’t turn you down on your invitation to, and I quote, ‘a fun fieldtrip?’”

Stopping momentarily to look over her shoulder, Jazz scolded him, “Language.” With that out of the way, she turned her head back around and kept on walking through the forest. “And to answer your question, you agreed to come with me because you want to help Danny as much as I do.” 

Tucker rolled his eyes, taking advantage of her back, turned to him, and followed her close behind. “Yeah, that I know. What I mean to say is, how is hiking aimlessly around the woods going to do anything to help Danny?!”

They’d been trekking around that damned forest for three hours, with absolutely nothing to guide them but an old, probably outdated, map some ranger had given to Jazz back at the information booth. Three hours wandering around a forest that was creepier than Mr. Lancer’s ‘sculptured summer physique’ back in summer camp, and the most resting they’d done was when Jazz would suddenly halt to check the map or crouch down to get some samples. 

Just like she was doing at that very moment. “Look at this, Tucker. Ocimum basilicum!” She reached her hand out to show it to him before putting it inside a little glass jar. She brought the jar close to her face. “Did you know in Christianity this plant is said to have sprouted when Jesus’ blood fell to the ground?”

“No, I didn’t know that.” The technopath said, unimpressed. “What I do know is that Ocimum basilicum and basil are the exact same thing! Care to tell me why you’re so transfixed on a mere spice? As much as I love myself a good pizza, even I have to admit this is just ridiculous.”

Sliding her backpack across her shoulder, the redhead put away the basil. With that taken care of, she sent her friend a bored look, standing up from the floor and coming to stand beside him. “It’s important because it’sー.”

“‘It’s going to help Danny.’” Tucker finished for her, doing a poor impression of her voice. “You said that over a million times already! Can you at least tell me how it’s going to help Danny?”

Jazz looked away, sulking. “Because...because it just is, okay?! Trust me, Tucker, I know what I’m doing.”

But the African American young man wasn’t buying it. That answer was far too childish, especially coming from someone like Jazz, who’d been acting like someone twice her age for almost as long as he could remember. Something was definitely off. 

“But what could it be?” He asked himself as they resumed their march. She said she knew what she was doing, and that was all great and dandy, except he had no idea what they were doing! He was the technician of the team, his specialty were computers, viruses, and thwarting technology-dependent ghosts’ plans! He was not made to hike, looking for God knows what, in the middle of a forest! 

And Jazz?! He barely held back a scoff. No matter how much more physically adept than him she was, the eldest Fenton was no field agent, either. For years, her way of assisting Danny in ghost-hunting had been through research, bringing back-up,helping work out the tricky details in their plans, now she was obsessed with finding out more about the witches…

Wait a minute. 

Tucker stopped dead in his tracks, fists curled at his sides and a very angry glare directed at the back of the head of his best friend’s older sister appeared on his face. “You dragged me here to help you research witches and avoid Danny’s wrath.”

It wasn’t a question and she knew it. Wincing at the, accurate, accusation, the redhead turned around slowly. “I...I have no idea what you’re talking about…” She tried playing dumb. 

In an instant, Tucker got in her face, wagging a chastising finger at her. “Oh, don’t you dare play innocent, little missy! You might have been able to fool your parents all these years, but that’s only because they’re surprisingly gullible. You can’t fool me; we’re here to research witches aren’t we?”

Looking down on the floor, Jazz ultimately gave in, sighing. “Yes, we are.”

“And I’m guessing Danny knows nothing about this which is why; first, you went out of your way to organise this on my free day, which, for the record, also happens to be the day Danny’s schedule is packed; second, you wouldn’t tell me why we’re here; and third, you’re just picking random things up, because not even you know what you’re looking for.” 

She bit her lip, knowing she’d been caught. She always forgot how observant Tucker could be. “Maybe?”

“Jazz!” 

“Look, I’m sorry, okay?!” She snapped. “I know I shouldn’t have lied to you or Danny, but I just can’t sit idly by and watch as he enters the lion’s den, completely unprepared!” She stepped closer to Tucker, looking him dead in the eye. “You know Danny, Tucker. He shoulders everything and refuses to let us help. Please, you have to understand; I have to help my little brother.”

Looking down at her pleading eyes, the techno geek’s own teal orbs softened. He did understand. He really wished Danny would let them help more often. It was just painful watching him come back looking like death, knowing he’d been sticking his neck out for a town that didn’t always appreciate him, and not being able to do much because even then he was protecting them. 

It was maddening, really. 

Sighing, he grabbed Jazz by her shoulders, trying to show her just how much he understood her plight. “Listen, I know how you feel. You know I know how you feel. But we gotta make sure us going behind Danny’s back will really be for his own good. We can’t just wander aimlessly with no real plan in mind! Never mind how good our intentions are.” Seeing as she only stared at him, unblinkingly, he sighed and let her go. “Face it, Jazz. We’re about as lost as Danny when it comes to witches.”

He was sure what he said would be discouraging, hence why he didn’t understand the way her eyes lit up. “That’s where you’re wrong!” She exclaimed just as she started rummaging through her backpack. After a few seconds, she pulled a book out. “This is a book on plants, arthropods, and other ingredients traditionally used by witches in folklore. If we find a place where many of said ingredients grow or inhabit, we might know where to find them!”

“Right…” he drawled, he should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy to keep Jazz from her goal. “Because there’s no way a group of women from the 21st century have learned to grow or breed those things from the comfort of their homes.” He deadpanned in response. “Is that why we’re here? To look for a bunch of plants and insects?”

Her right hand still clutching the book close to her chest, the other hand fisted on her hip, Jazz sent him an irritated look. “As a matter of fact, I was thinking the witches’ lair could actually be around here.”

Tucker’s brows shot up at that. “What makes you think that?”

“Because it’s tradition!” She exclaimed, before pulling her phone out of her pocket and shoving it in his face. “Did you know Baba Yaga was said to inhabit the Russian forests?”

Glaring at her, he carefully got her phone out of his face. “Yeah...She was also said to be an old hag, with a blue nose, and a bone leg. Pretty sure the Witch Queen Danny meets up with is supposed to be quite the looker. So, try something else.”

Jazz pouted, before trying to come up with a theory that would please him. “Well, what if there are Russian witches in Amity Park? Maybe they stayed true to tradition, taking advantage of the locals’ ignorance to remain inconspicuous.”

“Nice theory,” he clapped sarcastically, “only one tiny, itsy, bitsy detail, though. I doubt the Cold War made it easy for Russian witches to move to the USA. Instead of putting them up to trial for being witches, they’d have been accused of being spies.”

She was beginning to get frustrated with Tucker’s lack of cooperation. Groaning, she snapped. “What do you suggest we do, then?!”

“How about get back to civilisation and forget all about this silly quest, huh?!” He snapped back, dramatically flailing his arms in the air in exasperation. Seriously, were all Fentons supposed to be stubborn to the point of idiocy? Didn’t they understand some things weren’t worth falling-outs and even their lives? He loved that family to death, but if he was going to die for them, he at least would like it to be because of something useful. 

Jazz just kept staring back at him, frowning in annoyance, before turning away from him in a huff. Tucker was about to call her out on her behaviour when she beat him to it. “I know I’m being difficult. I know I’m looking for things that aren’t there, but I just need to help Danny!” She whirled back around to look him in the eye, desperation clearly laced in her voice. “Please, Tucker. You have to understand.”

“Uh, no. Not that! Anything but that!” He cried, frantically covering his eyes with his hands. She was pleading, giving him the trademark Fenton, sad, puppy-dog look. The damned thing was so effective he was genuinely surprised it didn’t count as a persuasion technique. Peeking through his fingers, he chanced to look, only to close his eyes shut not long after. Nope, she was still doing that look. 

With a dismayed moan, he gave in after a while. “Fiiiiiine!” He groaned, only to subsequently send a glare at Jazz’s direction when he saw her fist-bumping from the corner of his eye. He quickly squared his posture, jabbing his finger against her chest. “But if Danny busts us, you’re explaining things to him!”

He so hated the way she was beaming at him, completely ignoring his threat. “No problem!” She then slapped his hand away, causing him to let out a sound of complaint. The grin had been replaced by an irritated frown. “If you ever touch my chest again, though, I’m going to blast you with the Fenton Ghost Peeler until your skin falls off and only your non-existent muscles remain.”

“Hey!” He began to protest against her comment, only to back-pedal when she sent him a withering glare in warning. “No touching your chest ever again. Got it.” He smiled sheepishly at her. When that seemed to please her, she turned her focus on her book, prompting Tucker to ask. “So, what now?”

“Now we look for evidence that proves the witches of Amity Park visit this place.” She replied, not looking up from her book. 

“No, I got that. I mean how are we going to do that?”

“Well, if witches really do need certain ingredients for their spells and potions, then I’d suggest we look for things that could possibly grow around here.” Jazz kept reading the paragraphs detailed in her book, turning pages at the speed of lightning. Stopping at a certain page, she tapped her chin with one finger as she pondered their options before showing the book to Tucker. “Do you think we could find some newts around here? They’re said to have been highly demanded as an ingredient for their eyes.”

Taking a look at the slimy creature pictured in the book, the techno geek recoiled in disgust. He couldn’t hold back a shudder before regaining his composure. “First of all,” he lifted his index finger in the air, “the closest lake in the area is Lake Eerie, a good three hours away from here. So I highly doubt we’ll be finding any newts any time soon.” He fiddled with his PDA before showing it to her, a map appearing on the screen. “And second, even if there were any lakes around here, there’s no way I’m gonna touch an amphibian. I’m a techno geek, not a biology geek. If you want help collecting those little guys, you’re going to have to ask Sam for help.”

That perked the redhead’s interest. “You mean the Manson heiress?” She asked, not missing a beat. Even if the topic of conversation had changed greatly, her focus was still on her book. If newts weren’t an option, something else had to be. She just had to find it. “Is it me, or is there something going on between her and Danny?”

Not one to resist some good gossip, especially when it was related to Danny’s love life, Tucker leaned in closer to Jazz, as if he were about to share a conspiratorial theory with her. “Oh, something is definitely going on. I haven’t seen Danny act so comfortably yet bashful around a girl since Valerie. As for Sam, let’s just say I don’t usually see her with other guys. Period. As a matter of fact…” Eyes snapping open, he trailed off. What Jazz had said about Sam finally catching up to him. 

The psychology understudy looked over at him in concern. Unlike her friend, she wasn’t one to gossip, but her little brother’s mental health and social life was something she cared deeply about. Moreso because the two aspects tended to go hand in hand. “Uh, Tucker? Is everything okay?”

“What did you just say?” He practically mumbled in a voice so low Jazz had to strain her ears to hear him. 

“Um,” she stammered, “I said, ‘is everything okay?’”

“No, no.” The African American man shook his head and hands, indicating that wasn’t what he meant. “Before that.”

“I literally said ‘uh, Tucker.’” She repeated, looking at him like he’d grown a second head or something. Did a branch fall on his head while they were hiking and she hadn’t noticed?

Oh, for the love of God...This was getting ridiculous! Did he have to spell it out for her? Scrubbing his face with one hand, growing frustrated, he tried one last time. “No, Jazz.” He gritted out as gently as possible. “I’m asking what you called Sam earlier.”

“You mean when I said ‘the Manson heiress?’” She raised an eyebrow in confusion. 

“Yes, that!” He exclaimed, before returning Jazz’s confused expression with one of his own. “What do you mean by that?”

“You really don’t know?” She asked in disbelief. Considering that, no, he really had no idea what she was even talking about, the technophile could only shake his head and wait for answers. “Oh! Wow...So turns out Danny isn’t the only person in Amity Park who doesn’t know!” She meant to mutter that part to herself, but her disbelief was so great she forgot to lower her voice, causing Tucker to hear her just fine. 

He didn’t know why, but the moment the Fenton girl’s aqua eyes landed on him, Tucker couldn’t help but feel he was being regarded with pity. The fact that she nervously rubbed her arm holding the book up and down while avoiding his gaze didn’t help matters any. “Um, you see...You know Sam’s name, right?”

That made him furrow his brow, not quite following. “Obviously,” he scoffed. “Her name’s Sam Manson. But how come her ID makes her an heiress?!”

“Because she’s not just a Manson,” Jazz corrected him gently, “she’s the only child of the Mansons.”

“Are you saying she’s related to that psycho serial killer?” He squeaked, rightfully freaked out. Deep down, however, he knew that couldn’t be right. Sure, Sam had a spooky taste in...everything, really. But she would never hurtーno, wait a minute. She could definitely inflict pain on others through elaborate and well-thought schemes. But she just couldn’t be related to a serial killer!

...or could she?

“What?!” The redhead gasped. “No, of course not! I’m saying she’s related to the Manson family,” when he was about to comment further, she stopped him with a raised hand, “as in, the descendants of Izzy Manson,” she stressed, annoyed; “the creator of the cellophane-wrapping machine used for chopsticks.”

Growing frustrated at Tucker’s blank face, she made an indecipherable sound at the back of her throat before snapping. “Darn it, Tucker! Rich, I’m saying she’s filthy, stinking rich!” She rolled her eyes when the techno geek’s jaw almost touched the floor. “Gosh! I swear, you’re even more hopeless than Danny!”

“Wait a minute, Sam is rich?!” He all but screeched. “How come she never told me?!”

Feeling sorry for him, she could only shrug in response, her previous aggravation gone. Honestly, she’d only met the girl once, and not even a prodigy like her would’ve been able to determine her thought process with just one session. “I don’t know. If I’m being honest, I’m a bit more surprised you never figured it out.”

That gave him pause. “What do you mean?”

“I mean...” she crossed her arms. How could she put this gently? “I mean, you’ve known her for a while, haven’t you?” Slowly, he nodded. “And you’re way more into the wealthy and powerful than Danny, and, come on, Sam’s an ultra-recyclo-vegetarian Goth.” She sent him a pointed look. “Goth clothing and vegetarian food aren’t cheap, you know.”

Tucker could only grimace, knowing she had a point. “I know who the Mansons are, but I’ve never seen Sam in any of the pictures taken of her family’s sophisticated parties. And, really, would you seriously take a look at her parents and go, ‘Yep, no doubt. These preppy, cheerful folks are definitely related to cynical, brooding Sam Manson.’” He defended himself, and judging by Jazz’s expression, he knew she concurred. Then, he added, almost as an afterthought, “And honestly, I legit thought she basically ate grass and mud, so…”

Sympathising with him, Jazz put a soothing hand on his shoulder, smiling kindly at him. At first he returned the gesture, before furrowing his brow in concentration. Something wasn’t right... “Wait, how do you know any of this? How do you even know Sam?”

“Ah, Danny and I ran into her and her dad last Saturday at that new Vegetarian Mexican restaurant.”

The bespectacled young man couldn’t do much but blink in astonishment. Then, suddenly, he let himself fall to his knees, crouching down before crossing his arms over his chest, pouting. “How can I possibly be that out of the loop?!”

Jazz flashed him a meek smile in response as she lowered herself to his level; literally. The tug in his lips turned into a full blown smirk as a devious thought came to him. “Was there UST between the two?”

The older girl let out a loud cackle at his question. “Oh, you have no idea!”

With a ‘hm’, he settled for a content smile that Jazz knew was only half-hearted. “That’s enough for me...for now.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively at Jazz, trying to joke, but the way she was looking at him made it clear she didn’t buy his attempts to lighten up the mood. 

“Why don’t you ask her yourself, huh?” She offered softly. “You speak so fondly of her, and she seemed to know you well enough when we talked about you the other day. I’m sure she’ll come clean to you if you let her know you feel hurt over not knowing who she is.”

Normally he hated when Jazz psychoanalysed the situation, more so if it involved him. But now he couldn’t help but feel grateful for having the eldest Fenton’s advice and support. “Yeah, I...I think I’ll do that.” He smiled at her. “Thanks.”

She smiled back, “You’re welcome.” The quiet atmosphere soon dissipated when she got back up on her feet as she dusted herself off. “Well, we’d better find something that’ll hint us on the witches’ hideout!”

Getting up from the ground as well, Tucker watched as Jazz pulled out the map from her backpack at the same time as she leafed through her book using just her thumb, that girl’s ability to multitask was both impressive and unnerving. She was clearly searching for a clue to get them started on their quest. Rolling his eyes fondly at her, he started fidgeting with his PDA, looking for clues of his own through the best way he knew; technology. 

Printed books and maps were fine and all, but it didn’t take long for them to become outdated. With the Internet and his trusty PDA, Tucker always had the latest information in the palm of his hand. Literally. As his eyes scanned over dozens of articles from the day before to several decades prior, his eyes landed on one story in particular. 

Gasping, he called out to Jazz. The girl looked up from her own research to see Tucker motioning for her to come closer with his hand. Curious, she did just that. The moment she was within touching distance, he handed the PDA to her. “Look!”

She squinted her eyes on the screen. What appeared  was an old newspaper article, around thirty years old. When she read it over, however, her eyes widened. “Is this what I think it is?” She whispered in disbelief, as she turned to Tucker, who was smirking. 

“You’d better believe it!” Snatching the device from her hands, he began scrolling down and zooming in on certain fragments of the article. “It’s a news segment dedicated to two rangers’ retelling!” He exclaimed, his eyes not once looking away from the screen. “According to them, a few days before the interview with the newspaper, they were patrolling around the woods when they came upon what appeared to be a garden entirely made up of mandrake! Which took them aback because, first, that was a restricted area to the public; and second, mandrake usually grows in Mediterranean weather!

“Since it was getting late, they decided to investigate the following day first thing in the morning. But when they tried getting to the garden, they found they couldn’t. Somehow, whenever they thought they were getting closer, they kept getting lost and further away, something that was odd because they’d both been working as rangers, walking through the woods, for more than twenty years!” He finished, looking far more excited at the prospect of their research than he’d been before. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Her hands clasped in front of her beaming face, Jazz could only nod eagerly. “Mandrake is one of the plants that are most popularly associated with witches and magic, and the rangers kept getting lost because they’d found a patch of mandrake and the witches wanted to keep them away in order to protect their secret!”

“And you said Internet searches were only going to lead us to Satanist sites.” He flashed her a shit-eating grin, feeling proud of himself. 

“Ugh, knock it off!” She playfully shoved him away, before growing serious again. Her joy being replaced by uncertainty. “Just a question, though?”

“What?”

“How are we going to find this mandrake patch? It’s been over thirty years! And if the witches were able to make two seasoned rangers wander aimlessly through the forest, what chances do we have of finding it ourselves?”

Tucker opened his mouth, only to close it again, realising he didn’t have an answer to her question. Yep, that could definitely be a problem. “Well, the rangers didn’t know they were facing off against a group of spellcasting women; we do.” He tried steering the conversation in the right direction. “What do we know about witches?” She was about to speak when he cut her off, “ Aside from the obvious.”

Bringing a fist to her chin, Jazz began to revise everything she’d learned on them ever since Danny shared his latest plan with them. “Hm, Danny said witches used to be able to summon ghosts from the Ghost Zone and make them cross over to Earth. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Hm, it might.” Tucker replied, the gears already turning in his head. “You know how every ghost has its own ecto-signature?”

“Yeah?”

“What if the witches have something like that?” He suggested, his mind already focused on the possibilities. 

Jazz gasped, her eyes widening at the possibility. “Then maybe we could create our own version of the ghost radar, except that instead of ghosts, it’d latched onto a witch’s own signature!” She added, practically bouncing up and down.

“That way, we could lead the radar to someplace with a particularly strong magical signature, and therefore guide us to the mandrake patch without getting lost!” Tucker continued, equally excited. 

“Which would then allow us to track any witch that comes to the garden.” Jazz said.

“And eventually lead us to their hideout!” Tucker finished. The two of them high-fived the other, reeling from the revelation. They were so hyped they almost forgot to address the most important part of the plan.

“So,” Tucker started, slipping his PDA back in his pocket. “What about Danny? Do we tell him about this?”

Against her better judgement, Jazz shook her head. “No. I believe it’d be best if we don’t.”

“Are you sure?” Tucker raised an eyebrow. “Arguably, this affects him much more than it does us.”

“I know, but we need to give him an edge over the witches. An ace up his sleeve! Something to use as leverage if the queen ultimately turns against him.” She explained. “Telling him of our plan before we even have a clue would only make things more difficult for him.” Noticing Tucker’s unsure expression, she rushed to reassure him. “I promise, the moment we know where they gather, we’ll tell him. Okay?”

Tucker didn’t look convinced. Excluding Danny in something this important just felt wrong! But, on second thought, Jazz was his older sister; she’d been taking care of and protecting him long before she learned about the accident. Jazz was always looking out for her baby brother’s best interests. Sighing, he gave in. “Okay.”

“Thank you, Tucker.” She grinned in appreciation before she looked down at her phone and noticed the time. “Now, come on! We still have to get back before Danny finishes his classes and notices we’re nowhere to be found. We don’t want him to get suspicious, do we?”

As he followed her back through the way they’d come from, Tucker could only hope their decision wouldn't bite them in the ass. 

..........

“Remind me again why we’re here?”

“Because we needed to meet up and the You Mocha Me Crazy was closed today.” Tucker smirked smugly at her from the seat across from her; a mixture of grease and sauce dripping from his fingertips. “My, what a tragedy!” He lamented in mock sadness. 

Her body leaned forward and her elbow propped up on the wobbly table, Sam sent him a nasty look. “Knock it off! You like the café and you know it.” 

The techno geek shrugged, unconcerned. “I’ll admit, they make good sandwiches. But nothing can beat my love for the Nasty Burger. It was about time I dragged you here for a change.”

Danny was sure the Goth girl was about to deliver  a very colourful string of words their friend’s way hadn’t he intervened. “Remember, Sam,” he warned,  putting a hand on her shoulder, making her look at him instead, “this is a kid-friendly space.” He took her huffing and crossing her arms over her chest as she slumped on her seat as a victory. “Look on the bright side,” he pointed at the trail of food in front of her, “at least they serve vegetarian menus.”

“It was a pleasant surprise.” She admitted, looking down at the tofu-soy melt she’d been served. “I honestly thought their only options would be a bunch of so-called salads with more meat than lettuce.” Picking the sandwich up, her face wrinkled in disgust when she brought it to her face. Averting her eyes, she promptly set it back down, before sliding the trail away from her. “That being said, that thing’s soggier than a quarterback’s socks after a football game.”

“Then it should be just like you like it!” The techno geek quipped, causing Sam to fling some of his own fries at him in retaliation. Tucker could’ve tried shielding his face from the assault, but that would've meant dropping his burger, leaving him no choice but to become an easy target. “You’re gonna pay for those fries.” He deadpanned, his scowl only deepened when the Goth girl blew him a raspberry in response. 

“I believe it’d be more accurate to say football players’ socks are stiff after a game, giving the poor hygiene of the guys at our high school,” Danny pointed out matter-of-factly, trying to keep the peace between the two, before noticing the possible innuendo thanks to the help of Tucker and Sam’s meaningful looks. “But I get what you mean.” He finished lamely. 

Changing her position so she was looking directly at him, her face leaning on the hand resting on the table, Sam raised an amused eyebrow in his direction. “No offence, Danny, but teenage boys aren’t exactly known for their impeccable hygiene.” With a noncommittal shrug she leaned back against her seat. “There isn’t much of a difference between you guys and pigs; you’re both more voracious than a pack of hyenas and your body odor is arguably stronger than a pig-pen’s stench.” She pinched her nose with her fingers for emphasis, the smirk never leaving her face. 

Both guys seated with her shot her matching glares. “I resent that.” They said in unison, making her laugh. 

“FYI, Sam,” Tucker said between bites of his Mega Meaty Nasty Burger, “Danny and I had to learn the wonders of personal hygiene much sooner than any other guy at our school.” Setting the remainder of his burger down on its trail, his arm resting close to it, he leaned closer to Sam, as if he were about to share a secret. “For all the cruel things the girls said about us behind our backsー”

“Or to our faces.” Danny reminded him with a pained mumble. 

“Or to our faces.” Tucker agreed. “Despite everything, they never, not even once, complained about the way we smelled.” He leaned back against his seat with a triumphant grin, the burger already in his hands. “That’s way more than the jocks ever got.”

“Now that you mention it, Tuck,” the blue-eyed boy started, “I think the closest we ever got to a compliment from the A-list girls was when Paulina, grossed out by Dash trying to flirt with her all sweaty after P.E., screeched, ‘Get away from me! Not even those losers of Foley and Fenton smell nearly as bad as you!’” He mimicked in a very whiny, high-pitched voice. 

While Danny’s imitation got him and Tucker in stitches, it got Sam thinking. Did he say Paulina? She didn’t want to just assume the Paulina she knew was the only one in town, but she couldn’t help but think of her. “Uh, guys?” She waited until they gave her their full attention. “Um, sorry if this is weird, but I just realised I never got around to asking you; which high school did you go to?”

“Casper High.” They replied at the same time. “Why?”

Okay...so they were talking about the Paulina she knew. The Latina wasn’t kidding when she said she used to be the queen bee at Casper High when she and Star studied there, if Danny and Tucker’s retelling, as the lowest end of the food chain, was anything to go by. “Um...no reason, really. I was just curious, that’s all.” Not feeling up to compromising her, for once, plausible answer, she quickly tried changing the subject. “If what you’re telling me is true, though, how come you were such prodigies in the art of not smelling like garbage that’s spent way too much time under the sun?”

“Ghosts.” Tucker replied simply. Panicking, Danny discreetly kicked him in the shins, the only reason his best friend didn’t yelp in pain was the warning glare the raven-haired boy was sending him. He was about to ask him what he wanted when Sam supplied the answer. 

“Ghosts?” She echoed, tilting her head to the side.

Flinching at the realisation of what he’d just said, he immediately tried to cover his slip-up. “Y-yeah! Ghosts!” He vaguely registered Danny rubbing his temple with two fingers from the corner of his eye. “You...you remember Danny’s a Fenton, right?”

“Yeah?” She raised a quizzical eyebrow, while Danny’s head shot up at that, wondering what his best friend was up to. 

“You see,” Tucker said with the same tone of voice a teacher would use when enlightening his students on his subject, “since Danny’s folks are ghost hunters, ever since the spooks started haunting Amity Park, Mr. and Mrs. F. have been a little...say, trigger-happy. So every time they thought a ghost was near, we’d accidentally end up covered in whatever goop they were developing. Hence, why we were always taking showers.”

Catching onto what he’s best friend was up to, Danny was quick to add. “In fact, my sister used to have long, flowing hair, but ended up cutting it to a pixie cut after one too many accidents.”

“That’s...weird as fuck.” Sam said, and for a moment the two men feared she’d seen through them. Until she bobbed one shoulder up and down as she readied herself for round two against her tofu-soy melt. “But I guess it makes sense.”

“It does?” Danny asked, before Tucker’s foot painfully stomping on top of his brought him back to his senses. “I-I mean! Of course it makes sense...well, it shouldn’t, but that��s my family for you!” He made a helpless gesture as he shot her a sheepish grin her way. 

Their antics made her frown in suspicion, “Are you guys okay? You’re acting weird, and that’s saying something.” 

“We’re perfectly fine!” Tucker rushed in to say, at the same time as Danny tried with, “Just tired!” They shared furtive glances at each other when the dissonance registered in their brains. Then they tried again, only for Tucker to squeak, “Just tired!” at the same time as Danny assured, “We’re perfectly fine!”

A little creeped out by what was taking place right in front of her, the girl munched on her sandwich painfully slowly. “Uh huh…” She drawled, not buying it. She swallowed her food before addressing them again, her hazel-eyes strained on the two nervous-looking boys. “So, which one is it? Are you perfectly fine, or are you tired?”

Gulping loudly, Danny chose to speak for the two of them, seeing as their usual ‘bronnection’ was failing them. “Come on, Sam. We obviously mean we’re a little tired, with all our assignments and whatnot, but overall, we’re perfectly fine!” The halfa tried alleviating the tension with a motion of his hand. “That’s just your usual college student life. What’re you gonna do? Right, Tuck?” He elbowed his bespectacled friend, urging for support. 

The African American young man started, “Oh! Um...sure” He stammered at first. “Totally. Nothing going on but your typical college life problems.” He let out an awkward laugh. 

Sam just kept staring at them just as intently as before, her intertwined hands resting on the table. With her eyes narrowed on them like a gangster deciding whether to kill or torture a snitch that’d ratted them out to the cops. The pair of best friends could barely contain the urge to squirm under her scrutiny. Finally she shook her head and, for a moment, they were sure she’d made her choice; they were dead. “We definitely can’t come back here. The food’s so bad it’s rotting your brains!” She shook her head in mock concern. “And it’s not like you had many to begin with…”

“Wait a minute!” Tucker protested while Danny let out a relieved sigh, “You leave the Nasty Burger out of this!”

“I just say it as I see it.” Sam countered in a sing-song voice. It was so easy to get a rise out of him, she just couldn’t resist. 

As his two friends started bickering, Danny limited himself to watching them, amused and content to have them in his life. A part of him still couldn’t believe how easily Sam had filled the space he didn’t even know was empty. His whole life he thought Tucker’s companionship was all he neededーexcept for his early high school days when he dreamed of being part of the A-listers, but he’d since wisened up. With ghost-hunting overcomplicating his life, he’d long given up on expanding his social circle outside of his sister and best friend, and serious girlfriends were an all-time no-no, but in just a few meetings, the Goth changed that. 

Her individualism and strong moral compass were the perfect addition to his dry sense of humour and awkwardness, and Tucker’s optimism and desire to do something big. It was like they balanced each other out. Sam’s own sense of justice aligned itself nicely with Danny’s own need to do the right thing and protect others, while she shared the need to stand outーalbeit in different waysーwith Tucker, as opposed to his efforts of blending in. Even their differences were a great addition to their friendship, for they forced them to open their eyes to new possibilities they might have overlooked. 

Danny wished Clockwork would just stop time right at that very moment. There, in the middle of the crowded and not always sanitary Nasty Burger, surrounded by teens complaining about the struggles of high school and underpaid workers, everything was perfect. Being there with Tucker and Sam, watching them bicker and mediating when things threatened to get out of hand, felt like things were as they should have always been. 

They weren’t even there to talk about witches! Somewhere along the way hanging out with Sam just became normal; the right thing to do. And to think not that long ago he didn’t even know she existed…

Watching her bring a hand to the shaved half her face, as if she were about to push away some hair blocking her view only to stop in mid-air and sheepishly put her hand back down on the table when she remembered there was nothing to push awayーmaybe she still wasn’t used to missing half of her raven locksーwarmed his heart. For a moment, she redirected her focus on him, probably sensing his eyes on her, and she flushed prettily, causing heat to creep up on Danny’s own cheeks as a result. 

They immediately averted their eyes and focused on something else; Sam looked back at Tuckerーwho was trying very hard to keep his impish grin off his faceーand Danny found himself looking at the ceiling. He’d never noticed there were pieces of gum up there...

For someone who’d sworn off romance after sophomore year of high school, he was doing a very poor job at steering clear of it. Just like the route his treacherous mind had taken the other day as he locked eyes with Lady Arcana…

The halfa could feel his heart squeezing in his chest just by looking into those heliotrope orbs of hers. From the moment he first laid eyes on her, he knew not even his glowing gaze could compare to them in uniqueness. Regrettably, the usual frostiness he found in them hindered their beauty. But now that she was staring at him with great esteem and, dare he hope, a hint of admiration, it was as if spring had finally arrived and had defrosted her gaze; revealing the field of lilacs hidden underneath. 

The content smile tugging at her lips illuminated her entire visage, accentuating that tantalising beauty he chose to overlook due to the rocky nature of their relationship. In all his years coming back and forth between the Ghost Zone and Amity Park, he was sure he’d never met anyone who represented the beauty of both worlds quite like she did; and he was a halfa! 

Her amethyst eyes and her paranormal nature made her stand out even in a dimension populated by powerful entities, each possessor of a unique gift. The way the eery light coming from the ectoplasmic swirls around them reflected on her slick, black hair gave her an appropriately otherworldly glowーso beautiful it eclipsed anything he’d ever seen before. It was almost like she belonged in the Ghost Zone. 

But her personality wasn’t like any he’d ever encountered before, let alone in a spirit. He hadn’t realised it until now, or rather, he hadn't allowed himself to see it, but there was no denying the glimpses of something incredibly humane within her. As unusual a sight it might be, her love for her carnivorous plant wasn’t any different from that of a little girl playing with her puppy. The care she felt for it was evident in the curve of her smile whenever she glanced down at her little, potted friend. Her love and loyalty for her people were admirable as well. He’d been lying if he said he hadn’t been taken aback by her insistence of staying behind in order to protect her two subjects. As vain as it sounded, he’d only seen that kind of dedication and sacrifice in himselfーright when he took off to take on Pariah Dark. She’d even saved him, a ghost! Her alleged worst enemy! And all because she saw him in need and couldn’t sit idly by and do nothing. 

He could see it now. Lady Arcana represented the best of both worlds. It was like she belonged with him…

Eyes widening in shock, he quickly tried to shake off the strange feelings taking residence in his core. Maybe he’d been too quick to judge Lady Arcana, but she was still a witch! It’d be incredibly foolish of him to ignore centuries of beef between their people just for a pretty face. Besides, even if ghosts and witches weren’t enemies, he still could never date her. It’d be too dangerous. 

He had to snap out of those delusions, pronto.  “Lady Arcana.” He called out to her. A few seconds passed and she said nothing, causing him to worry. Now that he looked closely at her, she seemed a little flushed; what if something was wrong with her?

“Lady Arcana, are you okay?” Phantom asked, even though, unbeknownst to him, he looked a little out of sorts himself. “Your face is a little red. Should we have someone check it out?”

“No!” She exclaimed a little too quickly and a little too loudly, which only made him worry more for her sake. She was frantically shaking her hands before her and her cheeks only took on a deeper shade of red.

Looking at him like she’d been caught doing something bad, the witch cleared her throat, although it looked a little forced. “I mean, no; I’m fine, really. Probably just a little affected from all the excitement.” Averting her gaze, she jerked her thumb behind her. “I, uh, I should probably go back to my people. They’re probably recruiting an army to come and save me as we speak.” She laughed it off weakly. 

The halfa’s eyes shot open at that. Duh! What was he thinking!? Of course not seeing their queen return from the Ghost Zone would cause an uproar among her clan! “Oh, right! Yeah, it’ll probably be for the best. Wouldn’t want to start a war over a misunderstanding…” He rubbed the back of his neck as he, too, looked away. “I...I’ll let you be.”

“Yeah, well, thanks for saving me.” Lady Arcana  said softly, and Danny could feel his heart swelling at her words. Unbidden, his expression fell a little when she put a little distance between the two. She was about to cast the spell that would send her home when his voice acted before his brain had time to catch up to it. “Wait!”

Turning around, she raised an eyebrow at him, “What?”

“Are there going to be any more meetings after this?” He asked. “I mean, after this whole fiasco, I wouldn’t blame you if you decided to call it quits…”

In spite of himself, he couldn’t keep the seed of hope from being planted when she gave him a small smile. “We still need to solve the portal problem, don’t we?” Then, she smirked. “You won’t get rid of me that easily, Phantom!”

Danny was pretty sure he’d just smiled appreciatively at her, which was why he didn’t understand when she hastily turned around once more, ready to leave. “Well, until next time!” 

“Wait, Lady Arcana!” He called out to her once more, hating how desperate he sounded. 

“Yes?”

“I...u-uh,...well…” He stuttered before taking a deep breath. “Thank you for saving me, too.”

The way her expression softened was enough to bring forth emotions he long believed dead and buried. “You’re welcome, Phantom.” Finally, she focused on her anima, willing a purple light to engulf her as she chanted, “Omnes viae Romam ducunt.”

And with that, she was gone. 

The snow-white haired ghost kept staring off into the distance even after she was long gone, his mind still trying to process the day’s events. But there was something that, hard as he might, he just couldn’t make sense of. She’d been able to grab him while he was intangible, but how? At first he thought it was a specific spell or something, but that theory was soon proven mistaken when not even Lady Arcana seemed to know how she’d been able to touch him. 

Only one thing was for sure; he needed answers. And he had a pretty good idea where he’d be able to get them. 

Danny’s musings were abruptly interrupted by the sight of his best friend pointing a fry accusingly at Sam, “When were you going to tell me you’re rich?”

A heavy silence suddenly filled their booth. It was like someone had forced a horrible screech out of a vinyl disc by scratching on its surface. Looking over at Sam, the halfa was sure she was about to drop her food, too stunned to even move. The way her eyes had popped open would’ve been comical, hadn’t it been for the tense atmosphere. 

Shaking her head lightly, the Goth girl finally regained her senses, her shocked face morphing itself into a scowl. “Say it a little louder, Tucker.” She grumbled. “I don’t think they’ve heard you all the way to Siberia.”

Now it was Tucker’s turn to scowl. “Uh, no. You don’t get to be mad at me for saying it aloud.” He slumped back on his seat, turning his head away from her. “Not when you never even told me yourself; I had to find out through Jazz.”

“Jazz?” Danny repeated, confused. “When did you talk about this with Jazz?”

“Uh...we were texting each other and it came up.” He shrugged his concerns off. “But that’s not important right now. What matters,” he said hotly as he shot the brunette a pointed look, “is that we’ve been friends for over a year and you never told me! How come Danny and Jazz get to know you’re part of the Mansons but I don’t?!”

The youngest Fenton was about to try and explain things to the techno geek when Sam beat him to it, “Tucker, it’s not like I planned this! I was just having dinner with my dad when Danny and his sister appeared at the restaurant.” She explained, exasperated. “And honestly? The only reason Danny knows is because Jazz already did. It’s not like I saw them come in and waved at them like, ‘Hey, guys! I’m here with my Hella wealthy father! You wanna come with to our yacht in the Mediterranean?’” She droned in an overly cheery, sugary-sweet voice, her lashes fluttering excessively.

“You have a yacht in the Mediterranean?” Both boys asked, incredulous. 

Her scowl deepened. “That’s irrelevant.”

“Yeah, well..,” His shoulders slouched, Tucker could only sulk, hurt. “Could’ve still told me. I thought we were friends, Sam.”

His words were like a knife piercing through her heart. They were friends, weren’t they? Despite their differences and some of his most obnoxious flaws, Tucker was still the first person to ever approach her without ulterior motives in mind. Even after they’d made it clear they could never work as a couple, he stayed with her. Annoying he may be, he was still the first friend she’d ever made on her own, and she loved him for it. He was right; he didn’t deserve to be hurt due to her secretive nature. 

With a sigh, she scrubbed her face with one hand, feeling remorseful. “Tuck, I’m...I’m really sorry.” She confessed, earning the techno geek’s full attention. “You’re right, even if the secret was mine to tell, I should’ve let you know sooner.” She sighed once more, unable to meet his eyes. Sam hated allowing herself to be vulnerable in front of others; growing up, she’d learned to depend on no one but herself, therefore, showing her helpless, weaker, side to others was incredibly hard to do. “Listen, you’re the first friend I’ve made in a very long time. I was afraid of losing you.”

Although his posture was still guarded, Tucker couldn’t deny her words piqued his interest. “What do you mean, Sam? How is me knowing who you are going to lead to you losing me?”

“I sort of agree with Tucker.” Danny commented. “If anything, it’d bring you two closer.”

“Right?”

Chuckling mirthlessly, the Goth shook her head. Both boys flinched when they saw the pain reflected in her hazel eyes. “Look, being me isn’t easy, okay? I’m not saying life in general ain’t shitty, because that’d be lying, but my life is especially complicated. 

“I grew up trying to live up to insanely high expectations, a childhood no kid should ever be forced to go through. I was constantly reminded of the near impossibility that was me making real friends, and I guess, once I reached puberty, it just made me cynical.” Sam admitted quietly, not looking up from her trail of food. “By the time I could try making friends of my own, I was already convinced the moment they learned of my family’s wealth, they’d start seeing me as their personal credit card, instead of my own person who deserves to be loved and accepted just for being who I am.”

Although she desperately tried to hide it, Danny and Tucker immediately exchanged concerned glances the instant she sniffled. Their hearts broke in two for the girl sitting with them. Sure, they’d been Casper High’s laughing stock from the beginning to end of their high school experience, but they always had each other. Sam...Sam spent the majority of her life alone. It was impossible not to feel for her. 

“In...in the end,” God, how she hated the way her voice shook! “I decided hiding that part of me was easier. I wanted friends who liked me for me, and having a Black MasterCard was surely going to make things difficult.”

“You have a Black MasterCard?” Tucker accidentally let out. When Danny’s neon green glare started burning a hole in his skull, he backtracked. “I’m sorry, Sam. I mean...I guess I mean I’m sorry.”

“You are? But I’m the one who’s kept you in the dark this long!”

 “Yeah, and it hurts.” He admitted. “But it’s obvious you had your reasons and after hearing them, man, I can’t blame you. I would also hide all that cash if I were you. Even though the temptation of flaunting my own private jet in front of all the asholes who used to shove me into lockers would be too great.”

Despite herself, his joke made her laugh. “Thanks Tuck. Friends?” She rubbed her eyes to wipe the imaginary tears away. She was relieved to know she didn’t cry; crying was something Sam Manson just didn’t do. It would’ve been mortifying.

He leaned over to rest a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We’re still friends. But you’re paying for our next meal.” That earned him a playful punch on the arm from the Goth, but the smile on her face betrayed her true emotions. 

Shaking her head good-naturedly, she scoffed. “Deal.”

After that, the three kept talking amongst themselves. About everything and nothing. Nearing the end of their meal, Danny and Tucker were too engrossed reminiscing about their high school days per her request. Admittedly, just hearing the traumatising experiences they’d been through made her feel suddenly grateful for never attending the dreaded place herself. Still, after the tenth story retelling how some jackass had forced Danny to eat his jockstrap after losing a betーew!ー her mind wandered elsewhere. 

Her last encounter with Phantom sent her reeling. The way they both complemented each other when they worked as a team was astounding. It reminded her of Grandma Ida’s tales of how things used to be before the ghosts forced them into hiding, when the two species were practically symbiotic of each other. 

For the first time since she received his letter, she found herself trusting him. Most importantly, a part of herself came to wish she could indeed trust him. Perhaps all the centuries apart and resentment had clouded their people’s minds. Maybe they were really better off together than separated. She had to admit her knowledge on ghosts was very limited aside from what she’d been taught her entire life, and if there was something Sam was, that was inquisitive. She never took anything by face value, so why did she do just that with ghosts?

She needed to learn more about them. She needed to act like an individual, rather than a bee awaiting orders from the queen, and do a little research of her own. 

She needed answers and, crazy as it might be, she knew where to find them. 

“Hey, Danny?” Her voice stopped short Tucker’s retelling of his hellish experience dating the second most popular girl in school. When Danny’s baby blue eyes met hers, she almost lost her nerve. Almost. “Um, would you mind taking me to FentonWorks?”

#Danny Phantom #dp #dp fic #my fic #your heart #danny fenton #sam manson #tucker foley #jazz fenton #Paulina Sanchez #star dp #Amethyst Ocean #ghost king! danny #ghost king au #witch queen au #witch queen! sam #enemies to friends to lovers

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Ontario's drug-dealer premier is shockingly bad at distributing vaccines

Ontario politics are a wild ride, but they rarely escape the province, or, at most, the nation. Which is weird, because Ontario has been a leading indicator of neoliberalism's cruelty, paranoia, and surrealism since (at least) the mid-nineties.

Start with the 1995 election of Conservative Premier Mike Harris, a bland, dead-eyed sociopath whose "Common Sense Revolution" slashed Ontario's excellent public services and implemented a forced-labor program for poor people, AKA "workfare."

Harris was a Romneyish sort of fellow: a personality-free, interchangeable suit who didn't raise anyone's pulse but excelled at administration. His major achievement was the amalgamation of Toronto: a forced merger of the City of Toronto with its heretofore separate suburbs.

This was an incredible power-move. The old City of Toronto is the province's economic engine and the seat of its parliament. It is far, far to the left of the suburbs, and has entirely different priorities from them.

Dissolving the City of Toronto let Harris depose the popular left-leaning Mayor Barbara Hall. The election that followed saw the clownish crook Mel Lastman - who long ruled over my birth-suburb of North York - promoted to the big league, as the megacity's first mayor.

Lastman was a shitshow. He was known for his discount appliance store TV ads and for a string of scandals, from fathering and abandoning a secret child with one of his employees to covering up his wife's shoplifting arrest by threatening to murder a reporter.

He also pioneered a lot of the performative, own-the-libs culture-war bullshit that dominates our politics today, with idiotic stunts like ordering the free weekly Now Magazine removed from City Hall over its personal ads.

When the residents of old Toronto had Lastman forced on them by their suburban neighbours, it set the tone for Toronto/Ontario politics for decades, as Harris's masterstroke of disenfranchisement ensured Torontonians would never again get a say in their governance.

In electoral map after electoral map, you can see mayors and premiers coming to office despite the overwhelming disapproval of City of Toronto voters. This 2010 map by Torontoist's Marc Lostracco is pretty typical.

https://torontoist.com/2010/10/which_wards_voted_for_who_for_mayor/

Amazingly, Mel Lastman was the *least* clownish champion of Toronto's suburban voters. These voters quickly converged on the uh, colourful Ford brothers, Doug and Rob.

You remember Rob, right? The crack-smoking mayor who brought sex workers to City Hall, engaged in routine public racism and homophobia, and made demeaning cunnilingus jokes when asked about his marital infidelity?

He and his (marginally smarter) brother Doug ended up in city government thanks to their father - Doug Sr, a Tory MPP who made a fortune with his label-printing business - and their Rush Limbaugh-style talk radio show.

This was the show that featured their paid stooges, who'd call up pretending to be outraged Ontarians who'd rail at socialism or whatever and praise the Fords for their excellence.

https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/toronto/rob-ford-s-friend-dave-made-calls-to-mayor-s-radio-show-1.1405251

But that revelation did nothing to cool suburban Toronto's ardour for the failsons of a label-making kingpin. For these low-information voters, a steady output of xenophobia, cruelty, and racism trumped any scandal. And I do mean ANY scandal.

In 2013, the Globe and Mail's Shannon Kari and Greg McArthur broke a *huge* Ford story, detailing Doug's career as a major hashish dealer and his brother Randy's involvement in a drug-related kidnapping.

https://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/toronto/globe-investigation-the-ford-familys-history-with-drug-dealing/article12153014/

And then there was his sister Kathy and her circle of violent racist cronies. Kathy was once shot in the face by a hash dealer, who remained in the Fords' good books, appearing with his family in videos and pictures, hanging out with Doug at an election-night party.

But nothing stuck. After Rob Ford died of cancer, Doug Ford - incredibly - became leader of the Ontario Conservative Party and won an election through the most laughable, corrupt politics imaginable.

For example, he refused most press interviews, and instead hired a "journalist" to ask him softball questions for his own Youtube channel (ladies and gentlemen, I give you the 'personal responsibility' movement!).

https://www.thestar.com/opinion/editorials/2018/05/06/doug-ford-evades-real-scrutiny-by-hiring-his-own-reporter.html

The Fords were Canada's Trumps, and Doug's 2018 election campaign shamelessly stole from the Trump playbook, right down to the paid actors going nuts at his rallies:

https://www.thestar.com/news/gta/2018/05/08/doug-ford-campaign-confirms-actors-were-hired-to-play-the-part-of-pc-supporters-at-mondays-debate-rally.html

Despite all this, the suburban voters continued to support him, even after Rob Ford's widow accused Doug of stealing her children's inheritance, misappropriating millions of dollars from Rob's estate:

https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/toronto/doug-ford-faces-multimillion-dollar-lawsuit-1.4691378

Doug Ford really proved that millions of selfish assholes will vote for rotting roadkill if it promises them $0.25 off their tax bill, blended with gratuitous cruelty. Doug's GOOD at cruelty, vicious stuff like eliminating sedation for colonoscopies:

https://www.thestar.com/news/gta/2018/05/08/doug-ford-campaign-confirms-actors-were-hired-to-play-the-part-of-pc-supporters-at-mondays-debate-rally.html

But Doug is a Trump, not a Romney. He is good at performative culture-war bullshit, but he sucks at making deep structural changes. When the national government levied a carbon tax on gas, Ford ordered stickers on every pump decrying the tax.

But in you-can't-make-this-up failson fashion, these labels - ordered by the son of Ontario's most successful label-making kingpin - all fell off the pumps thanks to their defective adhesive.

https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/toronto/anit-carbon-tax-stickers-falling-off-1.5287869

Of course, none of this matters to the roadkill-and-tax-cuts Ford base who continued to support him through a series of blunders...until the pandemic. Turns out you can't defeat a public health scourge with racist jokes and paeans to personal responsibility.

Toronto is heading back into lockdown (again). From nursing homes to First Nations reservations, the province has been scoured by covid on Ford's watch. And Ontario's vaccinations are an utter shitshow.

https://www.thestar.com/news/city_hall/2021/03/30/tight-lockdown-coming-for-toronto-predicts-member-of-ontarios-science-advisory-table.html

As ever, this crisis has awakened the best in political satirists, notably The Beaverton's Luke Gordon Field, whose "Drug dealer shockingly bad at getting people drugs" deserves a place in the gallows humour hall of fame.

https://www.thebeaverton.com/2021/03/drug-dealer-shockingly-bad-at-getting-people-drugs/

> “Electing a guy whose only work experience was ‘drug dealing’, ‘running the family business into ground’ and ‘doing a weight loss challenge with his more popular brother’ was always going to be a risk,” said Political analyst Keith Burns. “But we thought the one thing he is well-suited for would be distributing powerful drugs in an efficient and organized manner.”

> Ford denied that he was failing his “customers. I mean taxpayers. I mean citizens.” He made it clear that if anyone has any issues, the fault lay entirely with his supplier JT.

For a more serious - and ongoing - take on Doug Ford, tune into Canadaland's excellent "Wag the Doug" podcast, wherein Jonathan Goldsbie and Allison Smith document the rampant bumblefuckery of the Ford regime.

https://www.canadaland.com/shows/wag-the-doug/

#pluralistic

[nealiios]

The Supernatural 70s: Part I - Corruption of An Innocent

"We're mutants. There's something wrong with us, something very, very wrong with us. Something seriously wrong with us - we're soldiers writers."

-- with apologies to the screenwriter of "Stripes"

Dear reader, I have the darkest of revelations to make to you, a truth when fully and wholly disclosed shall most assuredly chill you to the bone, a tale that shall make you question all that you hold to be true and good and holy about my personal history. While you may have come in search of that narrative designer best known for his works of interactive high fantasy, you should know that he is also a crafter of a darker art, a scribbler of twisted tales filled with ghosts, and ghouls, and gargoyles. I am, dear innocent, a devotee of horrors! Mwahahahaha!

[cue thunderclap, lightning, pipe organ music]

Given the genre of writing for which most of you know me, I forgive you if you think of me principally as a fantasy writer. I don't object to that classification because I do enjoy mucking about with magic and dark woods and mysterious ancient civilizations. But if you are to truly know who I am as a writer, you must realize that the image I hold of myself is principally as a creator of weird tales.

To understand how and why I came to be drawn to this sub-genre of fantastic fiction, you first must understand that I come from peculiar folks. Maybe I don't have the Ipswich look, or I didn't grow up in a castle, but my pedigree for oddity has been there from the start. My mother was declared dead at birth by her doctor, and often heard voices calling to her in the dead of night that no one else could hear. Her mother would periodically ring us up to discuss events in our lives about which she couldn't possibly have known. My father's people still share ghost stories about a family homestead that burned down mysteriously in the 1960s. Even my older brother has outré memories about events he says cannot possibly be true, and as a kid was kicked off the Tulsa city bookmobile for attempting to check out books about UFOs, bigfoot, and ESP. It's fair to say I was doomed - or destined - for weirdness from the start.

If the above listed circumstances had not been enough, I grew up in an area where neighbors whispered stories about a horrifically deformed Bulldog Man who stalked kids who "parked" on the Old North Road near my house. The state in which I was raised was rife with legends of bigfoots, deer women, and devil men. Even in my childhood household there existed a pantheon of mythological entities invented explicitly to keep me in line. If I was a good boy, The Repairman would leave me little gifts of Hot Wheels cars or candy. If I was being terrible, however, my father would dress in a skeleton costume, rise from the basement and threaten to drag me down into everlasting hellfire (evidently there was a secret portal in our basement.) There were monsters, monsters EVERYWHERE I looked in my childhood world. Given that I was told as a fledgling writer to write what I knew, how could anyone have been surprised that the first stories I wrote were filled with the supernatural?

"The Nightmare" by John Henry Fuseli (1781)

My formative years during the late sixties and early seventies took place at a strange juncture in our American cultural history. At the same time that we were loudly proclaiming the supremacy of scientific thought because we'd landed men on the moon, we were also in the midst of a counter cultural explosion of interest in astrology, witchcraft, ghosts, extra sensory perception, and flying saucers. Occult-related books were flying off the shelves as sales surged by more than 100% between 1966 and 1969. Cultural historians would come to refer to this is as the "occult boom," and its aftershocks would impact popular cultural for decades to come.

My first contact with tales of the supernatural were innocuous, largely sanitized for consumption by children. I vividly remember watching Casper the Friendly Ghost and the Disney version of the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. I read to shreds numerous copies of both Where the Wild Things Are and Gus the Ghost. Likely the most important exposure for me was to the original Scooby Doo, Where Are You? cartoon which attempted to inoculate us from our fears of ghosts and aliens by convincing us that ultimately the monster was always just a bad man in a mask. (It's fascinating to me that modern incarnations of Scooby Doo seem to have completely lost this point and instead make all the monsters real.)

ABOVE: Although the original cartoon Scooby Doo, Where Are You? ran only for one season from 1969 to 1970, it remained in heavy reruns and syndication for decades. It is notable for having been a program that perfectly embodied the conflict between reason and superstition in popular culture, and was originally intended to provide children with critical thinking skills so they would reject the idea of monsters, ghosts, and the like. Ironically, modern takes on Scooby Doo have almost entirely subverted this idea and usually present the culprits of their mysteries as real monsters.

During that same time, television also introduced me to my first onscreen crush in the form of the beautiful and charming Samantha Stevens, a witch who struggles to not to use her powers while married to a frequently intolerant mortal advertising executive in Bewitched. The Munsters and The Addams Family gave me my first taste for "goth" living even before it would become all the rage in the dance clubs of the 1980s. Late night movies on TV would bring all the important horror classics of the past in my living room as Dracula, Frankenstein, the Wolf Man, the Invisible Man, the Phantom of the Opera, The Creature from the Black Lagoon, and Godzilla all became childhood friends. Over time the darkened castles, creaking doors, foggy graveyards, howling wolves, and ever present witches and vampires became so engrained in my psyche that today they remain the "comfort viewing" to which I retreat when I'm sick or in need of other distractions from modern life.

ABOVE: Elizabeth Montgomery starred in Bewitched (1964 - 1972) as Samantha Stephens, a witch who married "mortal" advertising executive Darren Stephens (played for the first five seasons by actor Dick York). Inspired by movies like I Married a Witch (1942) and Bell, Book and Candle (1958), it was a long running series that explored the complex relationship dynamics between those who possess magic and those who don't. Social commentators have referred to it as an allegory both for mixed marriages and also about the challenges faced by minorities, homosexuals, cultural deviants, or generally creative folks in a non heterogeneous community. It was also one of the first American television programs to portray witches not as worshippers of Satan, but simply as a group of people ostracized for their culture and their supernatural skills.

Even before I began elementary school, there was one piece of must-see gothic horror programming that I went out of my way to catch every day. Dark Shadows aired at 3:30 p.m. on our local ABC affiliate in Tulsa, Oklahoma which usually allowed me to catch most of it if I ran home from school (or even more if my mom or brother picked me up.) In theory it was a soap opera, but the show featured a regular parade of supernatural characters and themes. The lead was a 175 year old vampire named Barnabas Collins (played by Johnathan Frid), and the show revolved around his timeless pursuit of his lost love, Josette. It was also a program that regularly dealt with reincarnation, precognition, werewolves, time travel, witchcraft, and other occult themes. Though it regularly provoked criticism from religious groups about its content, it ran from June of 1966 until it's final cancellation in April of 1971. (I would discover it in the early 1970s as it ran in syndication.) Dark Shadows would spin off two feature-length movies based on the original, a series of tie-in novels, an excellent reboot series in 1991 (starring Ben Cross as Barnabas), and a positively embarrassingly awful movie directed by Tim Burton in 1991.

ABOVE: Johnathan Frid starred as Barnabas Collins, one of the leading characters of the original Dark Shadows television series. The influence of the series cannot be understated. In many ways Dark Shadows paved the way for the inclusion of supernatural elements in other soap operas of the 1970s and the 1980s, and was largely responsible for the explosion of romance novels featuring supernatural themes over the same time period.

While Dark Shadows was a favorite early television program for me, another show would prove not only to be a borderline obsession, but also a major influence on my career as a storyteller. Night Gallery (1969-1973) was a weekly anthology television show from Rod Serling, better known as the creator and host of the original Twilight Zone. Like Twilight Zone before it, Night Gallery was a deep and complex commentary on the human condition, but unlike its predecessor the outcomes for the characters almost always skewed towards the horrific and the truly outré. In "The Painted Mirror," an antiques dealer uses a magic painting to trap an enemy in the prehistoric past. Jack Cassidy plots to use astral projection to kill his romantic rival in "The Last Laurel" but accidentally ends up killing himself. In "Eyes" a young Stephen Spielberg directs Joan Crawford in a story about an entitled rich woman who plots to take the sight of a poor man. Week after week it delivered some of the best-written horror television of the early 1970s.

In retrospect I find it surprising that I was allowed to watch Night Gallery at all. I was very young while it was airing, and some of the content was dark and often quite shocking for its time. Nevertheless, I was so attached to the show that I'd throw a literal temper tantrum if I missed a single, solitary episode. If our family needed to go somewhere on an evening that Night Gallery was scheduled, either my parents would either have to wait until after it had aired before we left, or they'd make arrangements in advance with whomever we were visiting to make sure it was okay that I could watch Night Gallery there. I was, in a word, a fanatic.

ABOVE: Every segment of Night Gallery was introduced by series creator Rod Serling standing before a painting created explicitly for the series. Director Guillermo del Toro credits Serling's series as being the most important and influential show on his own work, even more so than the more famous Twilight Zone.

#horror #70s #occult #supernatural #television #writing

[phantoms-lair]

Ok, but Zuko's crew figuring it out after just a week or so and having had enough time to propperly convince him before finding Aang (because he might have seen reason but he's still stubborn and what else are they gonna do? Open a tea shop?) Zuko: *didn't think he'd get this far* 'THIS IS SO AWKWARD; WHAT DO I DO?!?!' Lt. Jee, who knows kids need other kids their age around them, seeing the Gaang: 'They're friend shaped!'

“Here we are, the Southern Air Temple.” “It looks amazing Aang,” Katara couldn’t help but be breathless at the sight. Even so she couldn’t help the feeling of trepidation. Aang was from a time of peace long past. No matter how much they told him otherwise, he wouldn’t truly understand what the Fire Nation was capable of till he saw t with his own eyes. And this was the place she feared it would happen.

Aang led them up a long and winding path, chattering excitedly about everything he knew about the place. “And that’s the field where we played Air Ball, and that’s where the air bison slept and-” he broke off, sadness filling his voice. “This place used to be so different. It was full of monks and life. Now there’s nothing here. I can’t believe how much things have changed.” “Maybe not.” Sokka was looking around with sharp eyes. “If this place was really abandoned, there should be all sorts of weeds and overgrowth.  But everything’s neatly kept. Someone’s been here, and a lot more recently than a hundred years ago,”

His voice was filled with dark suspicion, but it went right over Aang’s head. The last airbender perked up. “You’re right! Come on let’s find them!”  “Aang wait!” But it was too late. Aang had taken off on his air scooter, following the path as quickly as he could. He came to an abrupt stop, air dissipating, and stared at the two figures wearing blotchy grey clothes standing in front of him. One of them, a woman, dropped the bundle of sticks and weeds she was holding. The other, a man with sideburns whispered “An airbender...” under his breath. “Get Iroh, he’s meditating in the Avatar Chamber.” He then bowed deeply as the woman ran off. “Honored Monk, would you and your companions please join us for some tea. I know our leader would be honored to speak with you.”

Aang nodded, but he seemed a lot more subdued than before. They were led into a large room. Sokka kept one hand on his boomerang, just waiting to see if trouble would start. On the way they saw several more grey-clothed people staring at them in wonder.

“Iroh should be here shortly.” the man explained. “My name is Jee.” “Iroh’s the one in charge?” Katara asked. “Everyone but he himself would tell you so.” Jee had a half smile. “Iroh sees our little group as a collection of equals, but in times of crisis or question, we tend to turn to him or Zuko.”

“Who’s-” But before Sokka could finish asking who Zuko was (and for that matter who this group was) he was interrupted by heavy footsteps running towards the door and throwing it open. “Jee is it true?” An elderly man was panting, clearly not used to running like he was. “An airbender has returned?”

Jee nodded. “This good Monk and his friends just arrived at the temple.”

“Spirits be praised.” The mans face twisted as tears began to flow from his eyes. “That the balance might not be destroyed, it’s more than I dared hope.” Then he seemed to catch himself and dried his eyes. “Where are my manners. My name is Iroh, let me make you some tea.” “Thank you. I’m Aang, these are my friends Katara and Sokka.” Aang introduced. “But may I ask, please, how did people from the Fire Nation get here. I thought this temple could only be reached by flying bison.” “Fire Nation!” Sokka rose from his seat, grabbing his boomerang. Likewise Katara reached for the water Iroh was pouring into the teapot.

“Peace.” Iroh sad calmly. “No one here wishes any of you harm.”  “How can you say that?” Katara spat. “You’re Fire Nation!”

Iroh looked directly to Aang. “Will you hear our story, honored Monk?”

“I will.” Aang turned to his friends. “We can’t attack before we’ve heard them out.”

“Watch me.” But despite his words, Sokka made no move to attack.

Iroh poured more water in the kettle, to replace what Katara had taken. “I am curious myself, how you identified us so quickly.”

“You’re wearing ash-dyed clothes.” Aang explained. “That’s what Fire Nation people wear in mourning.”

“A custom no longer practiced, sadly. We have taken it for our own as we mourn the loss of so much in the world, and seek to save as much as we can. If we can call ourselves anything, we are Restorationists.” Iroh handed each of them and Jee a cup, before pouring one for himself.

“Our story began three years ago, in the Fire Lord’s war council. My nephew, Zuko, was about your age and had talked his way inside to observe and learn. Like all children of the Fire Nation he’d been raised to believe the Nation was perfect and the war just. And it was in this meeting those beliefs were destroyed.”

“A General suggested a plan that would end in the sacrifice of the youngest Fire Nation recruits in a gambit that would gain very little, for you see the Firelord cares as little for his own people as those of other nations. The War Room was usually divided into two factions. Those like the General who reveled in slaughter, and those like myself who knew there was nothing we could say to stop it. Except that day there was another.” “Zuko spoke out, loudly and passionately, about how wrong the plan was. He was told he’d have to fight an honor duel for his disrespect. Zuko was pleased to fight someone as dishonorable as the General. Only on the day of the duel, his opponent wasn’t the general, but his own father.”

Sokka drew in a hissing breath. “The Firelord made him fight his own father?”

Iroh took a long sip of tea. “He forced Zuko, yes. But it was not involuntary on both sides. My brother longed to be rid of his kind-hearted son, and saw the duel as an opportunity. But my nephew thwarted him.” Iroh smiled to himself. “He surrendered, refusing to harm his own father. As a result my brother couldn’t land a killing blow without being disgraced himself. Instead he scarred Zuko and had him banished in disgrace for his ‘cowardice’.” 

For the first time they heard anger in Iroh’s voice. “No child should have to learn so young that their Nation is disgraceful, that their family has no honor. It was a terrible lesson, and yet one he did learn. The Firelord gave him an impossible task in order to rescind his banishment, but it’s one Zuko has no interest in pursuing. Instead he set out to learn how much more of what he knew was a lie. I’m sure you know what he found.” 

“Zuko wanted to make a pilgrimage to the places most harmed by the Fire Nation, starting with the Air Temples, the Western Air Temple in particular. We told him only an Air Bender could reach it. We underestimated him. Within a day he had managed to get inside. What he reported back to us was...it was nothing less than a tragedy. The corpses of Fire nation Soldiers and Air Nomads alike were strewn over the temple, which, as you can imagine, had fallen into serious disrepair.”

“Over the next few weeks, we had removed the bodies of the soldiers and gave them tradition field rites as per the Fire Nation. But we agreed we did not want to disrespect the Air Nomads further by denying them the proper rites. We searched the temple in hopes of finding the instructions, which we did.” “Please Iroh,” Aang looked like he was a moment away from sobbing. “Can you tell me...I just want to be sure.” Iroh nodded. “We burned them on an outdoor pyre, eight people in attendance at the cardinal directions. Four people facing the pyre, praying for the spirit of the fallen monk, four facing away, praying to the spirits to guide them. When the fire burned out, we spread the ashes to the four winds.”

Aang let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” His voice shook and Katara pulled him into a hug. Iroh nodded. “But the search for the proper rites drove home to my nephew how much had been lost. We spent much of the first year at the temple, finding what we could on Air Nomad Culture, as well as undoing what damage had been done. We were few to start with, barely thirty people. But as we traveled, more came to us. Most were former soldiers of the Fire Nation who could not stomach what they were asked to do. Some were Earth Kingdom scholars, seeking to uncover what had been lost to the war. We have restored all but the Norther Air Temple, as well as several places in the Earth Kingdom.”

“What about the South Pole.” Sokka crossed his arms. “You said you were going to places the Fire Nation hit hardest.” “The South Pole is still occupied, and I doubt the current residents would appreciate us showing up. We have found some various parchment scrolls, which we have copied into our caches, but not much.”

“Hold up, what caches?” Katara demanded.

“We didn’t want to make it easy for The Firelord’s servants to destroy the histories of the fallen peoples again. All the information we’ve found has been copied and placed in caches. We have one places in each of the locations we’ve restored, as well as several other hidden places throughout the Earth Kingdom. The memories of these people will not be forgotten again.”

“You’re more than welcome to look through the cache here for any knowledge lost to you tribe.” Jee said kindly. “And we would greatly appreciate anything Monk Aang could add. We’ve done our best, but that’s not the same as someone who’s lived in the culture.”

Iroh bowed his head. “For that matter, we recognize that this place and the other Air Temples belong to your people. If your people do not want us in their ancestral home, we will of course leave.”

Aang felt a lump in his throat as he realized that Iroh, and probably the rest of the Restorationists, had made a mistake. They thought he was one of a group of Air Nomads who had escaped. Not that he was the last. And...and if they had been to all the temples, except maybe the Northern One, he very well could be.

“Would you mind if I took a look at the cache.” To be honest he was less interested in it’s contents and more...he just needed some time to sort all this out.

Iroh nodded his head. “Of course. The cache for the Southern Air Temple is in the Atrium of the Southern Wind. I trust you know where that is?”

Aang nodded and rose. “Thank you for the tea.”” He gave a small bow an left, Katara by he side. Sokka hung back a bit and heard a snatch of conversation as he shut the door.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Jee asked.

Sokka froze, listening carefully.

“It depends on what you think I’m thinking.” Iroh said amicably.

“I’m thinking your bastard of a brother never let Zuko interact with other children and he never had the chance to once he took the responsibility to undue sins from before he was born. You’re hoping the Monk and his companions will be friends to him.”

“You know me too well.”

Sokka slid away, not sure if he was disappointed or relieved.

“What are you thinking Aang?” Katara asked as Sokka caught up. “Should we make a break for it.”

“No, if they wanted to hurt us, they would have tried already.” Aang said heavily. He sighed. “I really am the last, aren’t I?”

Katara gripped his hand and Sokka slung an arm around his shoulder. “You’re not alone thought. You know that right?” Katara asked him.

He gave her a sad smile. “Thanks guys.”

The Atrium of the Southern Wind was a tall chamber that was open beneath the ceiling so the wind rushed through. Though open to the air, it let little light in, so when the opened the door the chamber was flooded with light.

There was a single person inside, shielding his eyes as the new light greatly outshone the small candle he had been using. “I told you, Miki. I’ll take a break as soon as I finish transcribing this. Codebreaking is easier than reading Monk Chaiyun’s handwriting.” He was significantly younger than the other Restorationists they had seen. He also seemed to be wearing a strange white fur hat.

Katara and Sokka instinctively stood in front of Aang, who chuckled. “It really was bad.”

The Restorationist’s head shot up, causing his hat to fall off with a startled squeak. “You’re not-How did you get up here?” Then he shook his head. “That’s egotistical, we got up after all, sorry.” he rubbed the back of his neck nervously.

Katara and Sokka felt their stomachs twist. Iroh had said his nephew had been scarred, and they though they had understood what that meant. They had seeen plenty of scars on the men of the village, life at the mercy of the ocean wasn’t kind. Almost all members of the tribe has some scars, from light gashes on fingertips struck with fish hooks, to the broad slash across Chinuk’s chest from when he’s been hit with shrapnel from Fire nation cannons on their last raid.

Nothing they imagined prepared them for the burn covering most of the left side of Zuko’s face. It was like someone with a flaming hand grabbed it and held on. Knowing it was his own father who’d done this, who wanted to do this, sickened them.

Aang’s attention, though, was on his ‘hat’. “Is that a lemur?” he asked, delight entering his voice for the first time.

Zuko smiled. “Yeah. I gave him some food and he’s stuck with me ever since. Do you want to give him some food?”

“Do I? Aang excitedly asked.

Zuko reached into a satchel and pulled out some berries and handed them to Aang. Aang offered them to the lemur who sniffed, then grabbed one, scootign away to eat it.

“I don’t suppose you have some meat in there?” Sokka stared at the satchel longingly. 

“No, but I feel you though. We don’t bring meat to the Temples since the Air Nomads were vegetarians and we don’t want to disrespect them. But I miss it too. I do have some Rabbiyak cheese though.” He reached into the bag and handed a soft yellow wedge to Sokka.

“Good enough!” Sokka grabbed it and shoved it in his mouth, practically melting in joy. 

Katara laughed, both at her brother and her friend, who now had the lemur climbing over him. “You made a new friend, Aang?” Zuko perked up “Aang? You were named after Avatar Aang?”

“Avatar Aang?” Katara asked, thanking the Spirits that the Lemur was on Aang’s face, so Zuko didn’t see his reaction. 

“The last Avatar we have any information on,” Zuko explained. “He grew up in this very Temple. The last piece of information we have on him was that he was going to the Eastern Air Temple. We don’t know if he made it or not though.”

He didn’t. But neither of the siblings wanted to tell anyone from the Fire Nation that, not matter how much goodwill that cheese had bought from Sokka.

Sokka swallowed the last of the cheese. “Iroh said the cache in here might have some lost knowledge from our Tribe?”

“Oh he did?” Zuko looked surprised. “You’re from the Southern Water tribe? I mean, you’d have to be, we don’t have anything from the Northern.” He opened a stone chest next to him. It looked normal from the outside, but opening revealed a strange shape to the interior, as if there were teeth withing the lid. Zuko pulled out multiple scrolls, which he handed to the siblings.

Sokka opened one and was surprised to find a message within stating that this scroll was a reproduction, and described what the original scroll had looked like, from the type of parchment and ink used, to the carvings on the handles. The scroll itself contained information on building a rigging system for a ship.

“Are there Fire Nation Scrolls in here?” Aang asked, the lemur curled up on his head as it had been on Zuko’s.

“Yep.” Zuko scowled, which looked even worse with his scar. “Seems each Firelord does their best to wipe out a culture. Sozin launched the strike on the Air Nomads. Azulon pretty much destroyed all Fire Nation culture that couldn’t be used to prop up the war. So like, the Fire Festival is still on, because ‘Rah Rah Fire Good’, but the Festival of Rebirth, which centered around sowing the fields with ashes to benefit crops was struck from records and history books because it was ‘too Earth Nation’. A vast majority of our culture just...gone.” There was no hiding the bitterness is Zuko’s voice. “And despite the Earth Kingdoms being the single greatest force of Resistance, Ozai’s been obsessed with the Water Tribes, so I guess that will leave Azula with Earth.”

“If they don’t get stopped.” Sokka pointed out.

“I hope so.” Zuko sighed. “If the rest of the world would band together, they could have been stopped a hundred years ago, but too many keep saying ‘not my problem’ till Ozai’s armies are at their doorstep. Everyone keeps saying stuff like ‘If only the Avatar would return, but he’s just one man? Or woman. Like, sure he can bend all the elements, but you just need four people for that. Maybe try to work on stuff yourself rather than rely on one person???” 

“You don’t think the Avatar can save the world?” Sokka asked, eyebrow raised. Sure he like how easily Zuko admitted to the Fire Nation needing to be stopped, but still...

Zuko shrugged. “It’s less I don’t think he can and more...I guess I don’t feel he should have to, I mean, the Fire Nation is about the size and a half of Ba Sing Se. It wouldn’t have stood a chance if all the Earth Kingdoms gave a United front against it in the beginning, much less both Water Tribes assisting.  But only a few Kingdoms and the Southern Tribe did more than protect their own borders. It just doesn’t seem fair to put it all on one person.”

Thank you Aang thought. He wasn’t ready to admit who he was to the Restorationists. In fact, he would have been happy if no one had known. But Zuko saying it didn’t all have to be on his shoulders...no one but Gyatsu had told him that.

“This would mean so much to the Tribe.” Katara said softly, looking at a scroll describing building elaborate structures from ice.

“Would if be better to get the original or copies?” Zuko asked.

Katara gave him a look that was just shy of a glare. “What do you think?” “Depends on how quickly you need the information. We always put originals in the closest cache to where we find them. Like this Waterbending scroll-” Zuko opened one. “-we recovered from pirates in the Earth Kingdom. You can tell from this marking that the original is in our cache in the Fuxai ruins.” He pointed to a small green emblem at the top of the note explaining it was a reproduction. “That’s quite a distance from here. So if the goal is to get the information to your tribe as quickly as possible, it would be easier for me to get a few hands and copy all we have. We’d probably be finished by this evening, which means you could leave to return with it as soon as tomorrow morning. However if it’s important is the cultural history, it makes more sense to get the originals, even though traveling to all the caches would be months worth of work.”

“Oh,” That was...well thought out. It occurred to Katara this may not have been the first time the true owners  of what the Restorationists recovered had come claiming what was theirs.

“Do you think you could do both?” Sokka asked seriously. “Make the copies now and, since we’re going on a journey with Aang, we can swap out the new copies for originals if we pass by.”

“Certainly.” Zuko smiled. “And it gives me a convenient excuse to take a break form trying to decipher Monk Chaiyun’s script for a little while.”

“One question though. If you thought you could be done by tonight and it was important, why would we wait till tomorrow to leave?” Aang wondered.

“And the others say I’m reckless.” Zuko rolled his eyes. “You guys just scaled the mountain. You know how dangerous it is to navigate in broad daylight. In the dark? Even I’d call it a death trap.”

“Actually we don’t. We flew in on my flying bison.” Aang explained.

Zuko froze, then looked at Aang as though he was seeing him for the first time. “A...a real...you really are a...” His mouth opened and closed several times. “Can I see it?” he finally said, then buried his face in his hands as thought that wasn’t at all what he’d wanted to say out loud.

“Sure!” Aang rose to his feet, wind swirling around him. Zuko gaped openly, but followed the monk outside to where they’d entered the temple from.

Zuko hadn’t been the only one interested in Appa. A large group of Restorationists were staring, albeit from a good distance away.

“This is Appa. He’s been my best friend since we were little.” Aang introduced.

Zuko stared in wide eyed wonder. “Can I touch him?”

“Sure, Appa’s friendly. Aren’t you?’ Aang asked, as if expecting the bison to answer.

Zuko tentatively reached out  and touched Appa. He stroked it for a few minutes before impulsively hugging Appa, burying himself in the white fur.

“He’s so fluffy,” Zuko proclaimed in a muffled voice.

Katara laughed and even Sokka smiled. “Still not sure on the rest of them, but this Fire Nation guy’s alright.”

Katara smiled back at him, and at Aang, who was eagerly showing Zuko the best way to pet Appa. Yeah. This one was okay.

#Anonymous #AtLA #So...this got a little out fo hand #It just kept going #Incidentally the oddly shaped chest is to make it harder for insects or water to get inside and ruin the contents #Also checked a map and yeah #Fire Nation is the tiniest of all the territoyes #Not much smaller than the Air Nomads but still #Restorationist AU

[virovac]

Nature of  Ghouls

Lovecraftian Xenology #3: Ghouls [by  Leila Hann Before continuing with Carter and the Pussycats, I'm going to be taking a closer look at the creatures that made their debut in "Pickman's Model" before receiving their official name here in "Dream-Quest." This is going to be a tricky one. Reading "Pickman's Model" in isolation gives you a very strong impression of the ghouls, what they are, and where they come from. However, reading it alongside the other, earlier Dreamlands tales - particularly "Celephais" and "The Festival" - one walks away with a completely different interpretation. As for their reappearance in "Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath," well. On one hand "Dream-Quest" does silly things with other stories' continuities and perhaps should be best ignored. On the other, in the case of the ghouls, "Dream-Quest" not only expands on them in much greater detail than their debut story ever did, but is also the source of their official name. As such, I'm going to be taking the continuity approach, and looking at the ghouls within the framework of the Dreamlands series as a whole. ​The funny thing about "Pickman's Model" is that while the narrator is probably reliable, he's mostly relaying information that he learned from Richard Pickman, who seems to be much less so. As I noted while reading that story, there's a very obvious disconnect between the actions that Pickman depicted the ghouls performing in his art - particularly the "Subway Accident" piece - and what they could have possibly really done. Throughout his presentation, Pickman comes across as very much a showman, trying to create fear and horror in his audience and reveling mean-spiritedly in his success. Then, there's the detail of him interacting with the ghoul who tried to walk in on him and the narrator in the same way that a circus animal-tamer would with an unruly beast; not at all what you'd expect from a man who's trying to talk down a sapient, malevolent, possibly transhuman demon. As such, I think we need to take Pickman's art with a hefty grain of salt when it comes to inferring things about his models. This is supported by the ghouls' appearance in "Dream-Quest." They are described as hideous, frightening, and generally unpleasant, but they don't seem to be all that dangerous (unlike the zoogs, who are said to be dangerous to MOST people besides Carter, the ghouls don't even get an aside to this effect). Other than their antisocial habit of eating bodies from cemeteries that the deceased's friends and families would probably rather stay in their coffins, they really don't seem so bad. As far as the stories have reliably communicated, the ghouls are thieves and desecrators, but not the murderers and causers of disaster and misfortune that Pickman would want us to believe in. In fact, everything about the ghouls, from their appearance to their diet to their penchant for tombstones, scary noises, and dark, underground spaces, says that they aren't a force of destruction so much as one of horror. And, looking at "Pickman's Model" from that angle, we can definitely see how Pickman was helping them grow stronger in their element. Camel Spiders and Harnessed Horrors There's an animal called a solifugid, also called a pseudoscorpion or a camel-spider, that came to the western public's attention some time ago. Its a scary-looking arachnid, and one that you could easily believe was deadly if you saw it. Solifugids are mostly nocturnal, and so when they're forced to venture out of their lairs during the day they prefer to stick to the shadows...including the shadows of people, which they will chase after for that purpose. They're fast enough to keep up with a running human, and the rubbing of their legs when they move creates a squealing noise that could easily be mistaken for an aggressive vocalization. They also are always on the lookout for soft fibers to line their nests with; they got the name "camel spider" by being seen climbing on the bodies of dead or sleeping camels to cut off bits of their hair. In some cultures, this association was so great that people came to believe that the solifugids had actually killed the camels themselves. Less commonly, solifugids will crawl up onto the head of a sleeping human for similar hair-stealing operations. More than one American soldier sleeping in a tent in Iraq or Saudi Arabia has been woken up by a six inch specimen crawling across their face to see it opening its deadly-looking mouthparts just below their hairline. The solifugid is also completely harmless. In fact, its one of the only members of the arachnid class to have no venom whatsoever. It can even be a beneficial creature to have around, as it preys heavily on other arachnids including spiders and scorpions that actually are dangerous. During the early to mid 2000's, there was a rash of hoaxes about solifugids growing to lobster-size, being venomous, and even using a fictitious numbing agent to paralyze sleeping humans so they can slowly disembowel them alive. Someone was finding a misanthropic delight in taking this creature, which seems to have been practically designed by nature for this purpose with its appearance and habits, and crafting it into an instrument of irrational fear. This fear didn't come from nowhere, mind. The legend of the camel-spider harnesses the very rational human fears of venomous insects and being threatened in your sleep. But it takes those abstract rational fears and uses them to prop up a concrete figurehead of horror that is, itself, irrational. I'm an amateur horror writer myself, and I fell in love with the solifugids the instant I learned about them. I even had the pleasure of meeting a few during my time in the Arava Desert. I don't think that my soft spot for these arthropods and my choice of genres is a coincidence. In the Dreamlands, the cruel realities of the universe seem to be embodied in the Outer Gods, and anthropomorphized in their soul and messenger Nyarlathotep. If the ghouls are, as Pickman's art implied, meant to be like the witches of Puritan superstition, responsible for everything that goes wrong for humanity at the whims of a universe beyond our control, then it would make sense for them to be minions of Nyarlathotep. It would have been the easiest thing in the world for Lovecraft to cast them as such in "Dream-Quest" if that was really his intent; the story already calls for Nyarlathotep's agents to appear in numerous scenes, and the ghouls could have been among them. But they aren't. Instead, Carter meets the ghouls back on Dreamlands Earth, in entirely friendly circumstances, with them as the loyal servants of Carter's (trans)human friend Pickman. The ghouls are creatures of the relatable and imaginative Gods of Earth, not the apathetic and inhuman Gods of Space. Rather than being a cause or manifestation of our problems, the ghouls might even be one of our defenses against them. The witch was created so that we would have some kind of enemy to hunt down and revenge ourselves on when we suffer a tragedy caused by impersonal forces of nature such as disease or weather. The boogeyman in the closet exists because the darkness it hides in is so much worse, and putting a FACE on the unknown lets us believe that we can deal with it in a form we understand. The ghouls are indeed connected to the nightmarish witch superstitions that Pickman referenced, but it is a metafictional connection: they are the legend of the witch and boogeyman, and an embodiment of the psychology that leads to the birth of those legends. They harness the rational fears of human powerlessness, victimhood, and mortality, and embody them as an irrational archetype-creature, and in this form - as Carter just demonstrated in the latest episode of "Dream-Quest" - our fears can be useful tools. Even if the purpose of that tool is just confronting other people with their fears for fun and (in the case of Lovecraft, King, etc) profit. At several points in both "Pickman's Model" and "The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath," Lovecraft described the ghouls as being "gargoyle-like." They even look a lot like Gothic gargoyles, with their doglike faces, hoofed feet, and (in the case of at least one or two specimens that Lovecraft described) devilish horns. The purpose of the gargoyles in the European cathedrals wasn't to honor or appease the Devil; it was to mock him, and thereby rob him of some of his power. Ghoul-Changelings and Pickman's Transformation Given that Earth's Dreamlands are shaped by metaphors and symbolism taken from the subconscious of human dreamers (at least in part), its hard to say what is and isn't "literally" true about its inhabitants. Unlike most Dreamlands creatures, however, the ghouls are quite active in the waking world as well if only for brief periods at a time. As such, there are some objective observations that can be made. 1) Ghouls inhabit a network of caves in the Dreamlands' deep underground that contains portals to various urban dungeons and necropoli in the waking world, particularly in the New England area where the dream-sorcerers may have interacted with or even deliberately summoned them. 2) Ghouls eat the corpses of humans and other sapient creatures that they recover from both the waking world and the Dreamlands, but seem to be less interested in live prey. They also collect old tombstones and grave-goods. 3) After they've finished eating, the ghouls toss the bones into the chasm beneath their cave complex, which over time has become positively covered in bones, and attracted giant worm scavengers. 4) Richard Upton Pickman turned into a ghoul. The former three points are fairly self explanatory. The fourth, however, raises a lot of questions. In Pickman's art, he portrayed ghouls exchanging their own young with human babies in the classic fairy changeling mould, with both the changelings and the stolen babies eventually becoming ghouls themselves. Pickman also portrayed a Puritan-era changeling that bore a great physical resemblance to himself. Some readers have taken this to mean that rather than simply being a descendant of the Native American dream-sorcerers like Carter, Pickman was the descendant of a ghoul changeling, and the character he depicted in that painting was one of his own ancestors. Others, that Pickman was himself just one of many changelings from throughout history, and that he identified himself with an earlier New England instance out of whimsy. However, I find it a bit conspicuous that while Carter identified the fully transformed ghoul-Pickman and specified that he had once been human, he never mentions the possibility of any of the other ghouls being the same. Thus, its possible that what happened to Pickman is actually unique, or at least very rare, and that the changeling scenario depicted in his art was purely symbolic of the horror-artist's role as a devil's advocate to the rest of humanity and an ambassador to the dark forces of the universe. ​ Pickman's transformation. ​I'm inclined to believe that what caused Pickman's transformation was not him being a ghoul pup switched with a human at birth, but a product of him being both a) an almost obsessive devotee of horror, and b) a powerful dreamer with access to the Dreamlands, perhaps helped along in accessing them by some recovered magic from his oneiromancer ancestors just like Carter was. It could even be that rather than his art depicting something that had or could have already happened with the ghoul-transformation, Pickman's acts of imagining and drawing a transformation were what CREATED THE POSSIBILITY for such a transformation to actually happen. An idea of his was made real through the power of his dreaming, warping his own flesh into one of his ghouls in a similar - but more visceral - manner as Kyle being transformed into Kuranes. Another question about Pickman's transformation pertains to him having mostly forgotten how to speak English by the time Carter met him again in the Dreamlands. Did his transformation rob him of his English, or did he just forget it after spending so long in the Dreamlands interacting only with other ghouls? For that matter, how long HAD Pickman been a ghoul by the time Carter stumbled into the bone pit? Months? Years? Centuries? Time in the Dreamlands seems to work in arbitrary ways, as evidenced by how Carter can be timelooped in the waking world while living through consecutive centuries as an explorer in the Dreamlands. In "The Silver Key," we learned that the Dreamlands (or at least, Dreamlands related artifacts) can even send you BACK in time. Origins? Since time in the Dreamlands interacts in very unpredictable ways with the waking world's timeline, its very difficult to say when and where the ghouls first came into existence. Since Pickman's art is also of questionable waking world veracity, we can't really tell if the ghouls have actually been popping up in the New England witch tunnels since the 1700's, and - even if they have - they could have been born in the Dreamlands from an event that had not yet happened in the waking world's timeline and popped out of those tunnels earlier in history as we waking earthlings perceive it. Another interesting fact to point out here is that Randolph Carter, Dreamlands explorer extraordinaire, only knew about the ghouls BECAUSE he met Pickman during his waking life. Its possible that the ghouls are a manifestation of some core archetype within the human collective unconscious. The Horror, the Boogeyman, the terrifying friend to artists and writers who delight in confronting their fellow humans with humanity's frailties and fears. The creatures that appeared in the dreams of H.R. Giger and caused him to wake up in heart-stopping terror on so many different nights, and yet that he adopted and came to love. Even if his own fear of them never diminished, it became HIS fear, and they became HIS monsters, and he began to feel possessive of them and delight in sharing their terror with others who lacked his mastery over them. The creatures that appeared in the dreams of Stephen King and inspired him to turn the anxieties of the modern United States against it, while cackling about keeping the hearts of fictitious young children in his study. The creatures that haunted the dreams of H.P. Lovecraft, and inspired him to write stories like "Pickman's Model," delighting in his own ability to scare Weird Tales' readers just as Pickman delighted in scaring the narrator. There is a moment in "Pickman's Model" when the ghoul walks in on them and Pickman has to go make it leave, when PICKMAN HIMSELF is described as looking terrified. And yet, despite that, he was able to reassert control over the ghoul and command it to leave him alone until he wanted it to return. I suspect that if Pickman ever stopped being afraid of the ghouls himself, they would have abandoned him and sought a fresh artist to inspire. Such is the relationship between the horrorist and the monster. There is another possibility, though. And that is that rather than being a universal manifestation of horror that serve as muses to numerous masters of the craft, the ghouls are the specific nightmare-turned-minion of one specific master of horror. Kyle/Kuranes dreamed Celephais and its people into existence, and then abandoned the waking world entirely to rule them for all time. What might another instance of this look like, if the dreamer in question was less of a sensitive too-good-for-this-world melancholic, and more of an angry misanthrope with a fixation with his Salem ancestry and an almost monomaniacal obsession with showing us fear in a handful of grave-dust? Perhaps it was just Richard Upton Pickman who loved his own, personal, imaginary monsters so much. And, through the power of the Dreamlands, they were able to love him back.​

So ghouls are a combination of guardians, Halloweentown, and irreverance of 4chan.

A more benevolent take than my past one.

#dreamlands #ghouls #lovecraft