#church of the starry eyed children

[shadowbrightshine]

My gift to you @marvelmaniac715

Here's a little thing I made for that idea I was sharing with you. This is completely out of order from where I would want to start the story, but it's a thing I made as a little proof of concept. Unfortunately it's pretty rough, but I'm writing from a perspective of a self hating girl, and then a teen out of his depth. Once I write it proper, it'll feel more natural. For now, here is Cherry Lolly, or Janet from the Starry eyed children Revival, and Tim Hudson, the first prophet after the Lord's reformation you wrote. Say hi to the Homeless man! whoopies I wrote 2.5k words! enjoy everyoneeee. Fair warning, Janet's views on herself is not how I see things. Also Janet thinks in a more stilted way, so her narration is, like that. Reblogs appreciated!

Janet watched from the bush as Tim passed by with William. He’d changed since the accident that took away the use of his left leg. He was more confident and talked to everyone now. Janet watched him, him and the brightly colored friends he’d made. She didn’t mean to be creepy, but if anyone saw her they would run away. She knew that, she knew how hideous she was, with her top teeth covered in skin, a surgical adjustment and filter flap in her neck that made her look like a robot, not even a lower jaw to pretend to look like a normal girl. Her parents tried to tell her she was still pretty. The screams of those kids still haunted her and proved them wrong every single day she walked the earth. That’s why she had to hide in bushes and trees to watch the normal people go about their days. 

Tim had changed physically too. His fingers were longer, and his right leg was longer, she’d noticed his left leg drag less and less as the months went on, just slightly. She knew why, it had to do with William. She’d watched him and his brothers for a little while now. They weren’t normal, they could transform into new bodies. She would give her dominant arm up for a power like that. No one else remembered, but Tim used to have brown eyes. Whoever changed everyone’s minds must have forgotten her. No one remembers Janet. Tim used to have brownish eyes. Now one eye was a dull blue, and the other was still hazel now, it had a thick ring of green around it, and green near the pupil. No one else remembered, except for her. No one likes Janet but her parents, and they never tried to have another child, they learned their lesson. 

Janet felt gross. She was so gross watching others like this. But she couldn’t talk to them without revealing this awful deformity. She had to use her talk pad if she used the phone. Tim was special. Something was different about him now. She’d seen him give a present to the homeless man on Christmas Eve. She’d seen many things. She knew about Max Jagerman, the ghost of Hatchetfield who murdered her favorite girl. Ruth was the only other person she worked up the courage to interact with, and that was only a week before her death. Ruth didn’t care that she was disgusting, she’d called Janet pretty, she’d held hands with her, she even gave her these cherry hair clips she would never stop wearing. 

The brothers showed up on the night Max disappeared forever, and Janet could feel the shift in the air as time went on. The town was different now. They had something to do with it, and they could do things no one else could. Them and the sister, the girl who walked with Hannah. She’d tried to talk to Hannah, but her cowardice kept her back. Janet shivered, it was cold out and she didn’t have proper protection today. Wendy radiated warmth and a special magic, she could feel it. Janet crept back towards her home, the woods feeling more real to her than the town did. 

She carefully avoided crossing into the camp territory. She’d also watched girl Jeri and boy Jerry before. She was scared of the counselors. The adults didn’t seem to notice how strange they were, but she knew. She knew they were bad news, and she knew about little Jerry. He was nice to her, and she brought him muffins sometimes. Her family lived far away from the rest of the town. She knew why, it was because her parents were ashamed of her. That’s why they never went into town, or took her out to shop, or lived in town. They would lie and tell her it’s because this house was part of the family line. They told her lots of families lived in the woods. That part wasn’t a lie, she’d seen the other kids playing in the woods, but they couldn’t meet her. 

Janet was a monster, and she knew it. The only person other than her parents who was nice to her was a fellow monster. Normal people didn’t need to use a feeding line in her arm to stay alive. Normal people had tongues and chins and could talk. Normal people didn’t spend their days watching from the shadows. Normal people had friends. No one remembered the day she was born in the hospital and the nurses screamed in fear anymore. She knew she was a monster. But like a monster she couldn’t resist the draw of humanity. She wanted to be seen and loved. She spent hours writing in her notebooks, entire scripts, books, and stories. She’d explored every part of the forest. 

Tim was nice to the homeless man. No one was nice to him, everyone hated him and thought he was weird and gross. Janet had watched him stumble around and talk to himself all the time. She thought about trying to be his friend, but he’d probably assume she was a hallucination and ignore her. Better not to risk it. Tim though, Tim got him a gift, and he talked to him, and cared about him. Maybe…maybe he wouldn’t mock her. Maybe he would be nice to an animal like her. A monster like Janet. She had to try. 

Christmas Eve:

“Spare change for the homeless?” The man asked, it was one of the few things he could say easily. Tim shook his head and took a seat next to him. The homeless man scrambled to make room for him, staring at him with more  confused than usual eyes. Wiggly stood a few feet away, holding Tim’s crutches for him. The snow was thin here under the awning of the shoe store. Tim shivered, but his snow pants kept him dry. It was harder to get around in these, but they were warmer. 

Tim looked at the man’s shaking hands in the cold. “Do you have a name?” He asked, taking some gloves out of his pocket and handing them to the man. “Everyone walks past you and ignores you. I’ve seen you around since I was a baby.” The man used to speak more clearly, if just as strangely. Tim remembered when he would have conversations with random objects. Now his voice was really shaky and he couldn’t seem to form full sentences anymore.

The man struggled to get the gloves onto his hands, fingers numbed by cold and by some kind of disability that made all his movements strange or jerky. Maybe it was making his voice worse. Was it a degenerative condition? “A…A name…” He looked up at the sky, it was already getting dark, and the last bits of sunlight reflected off the clouds. “My na-naame, I had…” He shut his eyes. “I had a name…” He suddenly clutched his head and groaned. “I ca-can’t thinnnk about the pa’ anymore. Time hurts, it hurts!” 

Tim grabbed his arm in alarm. “Forget it, it’s ok! If you don’t have a name, maybe we can think of one!” 

The man uncurled and looked at the hand on his coated arm. No one had done that in years. “...A new one?” He rocked back and forth for a minute, eyes searching around for something. 

The teenager nodded, this wasn’t how he’d planned for this to go, but the homeless man needed help, and he wanted to help out if he could. “Yeah! Um…Uh…” He looked around and saw the holiday menu on the Beanie’s sign. “What about Noelle? Or maybe Noah if that’s too feminine?” The man scrunched up his face in concentration. 

“Noelle.” The man repeated the name a few times, each time less slurred than the last. “...I hav’a name now.” Noelle smiled, turning to Tim. “Thanks! That’s good stuff isn’t- yeah, pretty…good.” Tim watched how badly he was shivering. The cold was making things even worse. The cold makes your head foggy, or that’s what it does to Tim. A car went by, a green one. “Tim, thanks.” 

“How do you know my name?” 

“Whose…name?” Noelle looked around for another person, but they were the only ones on this street right now. He shivered and pulled his coat tighter over his body, and Tim noticed the buttons were all snapped or missing. Or the hole was torn and too big to keep the button in place. Noelle couldn’t close his coat anymore. 

Tim shook his head. “Never mind. Well, Noelle, I wanted to give you something. You’re broken, right? Your brain is broken, and you can’t do stuff normally anymore right? That’s why you do all those weird things all the time, and follow Peter around.” 

Noelle nodded. “Petey…” Tears formed in his eyes, which confused Tim, but he pushed forwards. He hadn’t planned this out very well, but something inside him told him to come to Noelle and help him. 

“Well, I’m broken too.” Tim gestured to his leg, which was currently sitting in an awkwardly painful position which Tim couldn’t feel. “My body got messed up, and I think my heart is broken, or…something inside me got broken when I was younger. See, broken people have to help each other.” Tim felt weird, this wasn’t how he usually talked, but he wasn’t sure if Noelle would understand him otherwise. Tim didn’t know how to explain these things. “I want to help you. If we don’t help each other, who will? Becky serves at the soup kitchen, but you always get there after it closes so she can’t give you anything.” He pulled out a gift wrapped box and offered it to Noelle. “So, maybe this will help.” 

Noelle happily took the box and looked at Tim. “New box!” 

“No, it’s in the box, it’s- it’s in the box Noelle.” Had Noelle ever been given a Christmas present before? Tim felt tears freeze on his cheeks. He should’ve done this years ago. Tim helped him unwrap the gift, revealing a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles watch. “My uncle Wilbur always tells me that it’s important to keep the time, so maybe if you have a watch too you can get to the kitchen before it closes.” Tim felt self conscious. “Sorry, I thought it would be better to use a cheaper watch so I can replace it for you if it gets broken, and if I got an expensive one it might get stolen from you. Is this ok?” 

Noelle stared at the ticking clock, fascinated by it. “Tick…Tock…” He nodded distractedly and slipped the watch onto his wrist. “What time?” Noelle had a weird cast to his eyes as he looked at the watch-face. 

Tim waved for Noelle to look at him. “It’s from 4pm to 6pm, so from here-” He made the clock time with his arms. “To there. As long as you come during that time, we can help you.” Tim looked at Wiggly, and then back to the man. “If you need more help, I want you to do this special knock, and then I’ll know it’s you. Blinky says you won’t hurt me, and even if you tried, Wiggly wouldn’t let you. So knock on my window and I’ll wake up to help you.” Tim knocked on the wall in a simple but strange way. “Ok, you do it.” 

Noelle tried, messing it up a few times before he got it down. “...That?” 

“Yeah, just knock like that on my window. In the box is a map to my house, and where my window is. I wanna help you, but don’t come unless you really need me, ok?” Tim waved Wiggly over and dug his water bottle out of his bag. “And…You can have this too, so you can get water from the fountains and take it with you.” 

Noelle held the water bottle and box in his arms, crying as his face made a strange smile. “Tha’s really nice. Thank you!” His eyes cleared for a moment, as if he was actually seeing Tim. His voice changed, and it sounded really familiar. “Tim…You’re the Hudson kid, you used to go to Beanie’s all the time, and you had a donut every time we ran into each other. I was trying to ask out- out- I…” The cloudiness came back to him and the strange smile returned along with his normal voice. “...Thanks…” 

Tim swallowed and wiped his eyes, a little disturbed by the exchange. It was much weirder for him to have clarity and then go back to his usual than to just be strange. “Um…right. Well, well, merry Christmas Noelle. I hope you can get soup now. Goodbye.” 

“See’a kid! Merry merry merry- that. Merry!” He called as Wiggly gave him his crutches back and they headed home. Well, not home, but to Lex’s place for a Christmas party, with his Dad’s permission, of course.  

Wiggly glanced back at the man. “Do you know who he is?” Tim noticed the testing tone he had.

“No one knows who he is, or where he came from. I feel bad for him… Do you know him, Wiggly?” 

His friend paused and shook his head. “No, Tim, I do not.” Tim looked at him, something felt off about his answer, but Wiggly didn’t usually hide things if it wasn’t for a good reason. “You did a very good thing friendy wend.” 

Tim smiled and accepted his friend’s silent offer to carry him back, the crutches held by semi transparent tentacles that sort of waved around them. “I feel much better, knowing he has some gloves now. Thanks for buying those.” 

“Mhm, now it’s time to open those presents you made us. I’ve very excited Timmly wim.” Tim snickered at the name and relaxed his neck, looking up at the sky. It was dark enough that no one would’ve been able to see Wiggly’s magic extra limbs anyways. 

“You’re going to love them. All of you. I spent a long time making these.” It was Tim’s idea to give the brothers and sister their presents on Christmas Eve so they could spend the day with their respective favorite people. Tinky had invited himself to Peter’s house for the day. 

Wiggly met his eyes and gave him a smile. “I have a few gifts for you as well, and I think you’ll like them.” Wiggly’s smile stretched to a grin. “You may need some more wrapping paper.” 

Tim grinned back. “You’re the best, you know that right?” 

“Of course I do. I’m the king of Hatchetfield.” He gestured to the crown with a tentacle, which was hidden and poking from under his winter cap. The hat didn’t do much since it wouldn’t fit over his head properly, but Tim thought it was funny and didn’t point out how useless the hat actually was. 

“Yep! Kings and Queens and all the inbetweens! Let’s go party!!” Tim cheered. The two continued to talk as they made their way to Lex’s house.

#shine post #starkid #nerdy prudes must die #lords in black #starkid lords in black #the lords in black #wiggly #starkid wiggly #wiggog y'wrath #tim hudson #homeless man #ted spankoffski #teddy bear #christmas fic #prophet of the lib #church of the starry eyed children #the hatchetfield series #hatchetfield #hatchetverse #happy anniversary #blinky #hatchetfield au #starkid au #starkid fanfic

[sparrowsarus]

Walter and Susan; Or, When the Gates of Fairie are Shut

@gogandmagog since you were curious on the why.

When we think of Susan Pevensie, we think of a girl who became a queen; a girl who lost her kingdom, a girl who decided she wouldn't love anything who wouldn't bother loving her back.

We think of siblings betrayed--Lucy, hurt and confused by "Susan The Gentle" caring about boys, and lipstick; about Peter's short "Susan is no longer a friend to Narnia."

We think of a sensible girl, a doubting girl, a girl, not a woman, though she had to grow up twice over.

We think of "The Problem With Susan", a girl cast out of Narnia (Heaven; Salvation; call it what you will) for the crime of perceived femininity.

(So often we forget that Susan made a choice to leave.)

(Is it fair, how we think of Susan? I don't know.)

"There is such a place as fairyland - but only children can find the way to it. And they do not know that it is fairyland until they have grown so old that they forget the way. One bitter day, when they seek it and cannot find it, they realize what they have lost; and that is the tragedy of life. On that day the gates of Eden are shut behind them and the age of gold is over."

(Montgomery,L.M)

A girl: Just a girl, or a "silly, conceited young woman", who cared more about lipstick and boys than she did anything else--a girl who lost her entire family at the age of twenty-one.

Was it a punishment?

Was it a kindness?

It was a cruelty, regardless.

(Susan was Susan the Gentle, and don't tell me that wasn't a choice she made, every day she ruled.)

CS Lewis mentioned that Susan may find her own way back to Aslan's country; whether Susan would want to remains a mystery.

In contrast, we have Walter Blythe. The "hop out of kin", the dreamer, the coward (until he isn't.) The bard, the chronicler, the sacrificial lamb. Walter is not "sensible", or practical, or inclined to doubt (Note we are told he's a church member, while Jem Blythe isn't, despite being romantically linked with Minister's Daughter Faith, and isn't that interesting?)

Walter has to die in the Great War. There is no other future for him; this starry-eyed boy who knew he was signing up to die. Walter Blythe knows stories, knows he's in one, knows there's no happy ending.

Because even if had Walter lived, I do not believe the gossamer-fairy part of him would never have returned from France. Like Susan, he too would need to find Narnia on a longer, harder road, and there is no guarantee it would be the land he knew as a boy.

Only a few, who remain children at heart, can ever find that fair, lost path again; and blessed are they above mortals. They, and only they, can bring us tidings from that dear country where we once sojourned and from which we must evermore be exiles. The world calls them its singers and poets and artists and story-tellers; but they are just people who have never forgotten the way to fairyland."

The Piper called Walter, and there was no denying that call. Walter's way was set before him, and he could not stray; a different, harder path than he was promised as a boy. Walter is no exile; Walter chooses to leave, so others can take his place.

Walter dies, and everyone he loves lives.

Susan lives, and everyone she loves dies.

Now all that remains is:

Can they find their kingdoms again?

#chronicles of narnia #lm montgomery #Walter Blythe #Susan Pevensie #Is this gibberish? Maybe #But I love them your honour

[viviennelamb]

True Daughter Of God: A Poem

Happy Now Olivia

True Daughter of God

(Had to add the video also because the poem in it is so sweet and true.)

When a true Daughter of God builds an immortal, invincible, unconquerable subtle causal empire of experienced divinity to light the inner way of billions towards God, untouched by The Evil Forces of Delusion, Dogma & Distraction, what can The Scheming Scum of The World do about it?

Can they shoot down the sun? Can they burn down the stars? Can they take down the moon?

Can rats scratch the secrets of universe? Can pigs become saints? And though cockroaches may survive a nuclear apocalypse huddled in their dark underground “nobody-knows-about” Nazi underground cities…they will not survive the lethal-to-degenerates Radiant Radiation Behind My Nuclear Thoughts.

They shall all flee back to the hell from whence they have spawned their depraved World Domination Nightmares, or they will be scorched to renewable karmic compost in the immortal flames of Real Purity.

When a true Lover of God builds an empire of immaculate love and illuminating wisdom, it’s above the filthy minds of men, impossible for The Godless & The Faithless to perceive, for its various sanctified cosmic pavilions, its eternal gardens of beauty, its rivers of sweetness, its forests of bliss, its endless wonders of majesty, its mountain peaks of ecstasy, and its innumerable soul-lit courtyards of silent communion under the canopy of eternity

are accessed only through sincere devotion and deep concentration,

but though inaccessible to The Mindless Masses and The Cunning Cults of Bubonic Brethren, one thing will someday be holy apparent and made manifest to all:

the (terrifying to evil) 100% effective results of The Eternally Illuminating (Real) Influence of a true child of God:

i.e. the applied-purity of The Billions, the actual experience of God by The Many, and the acquired powerful divinity of The Few, who will go all the way to their full beatific Self-Realization, but by the “few by few” year after year, century after century will be made The Nuveau Nirvikalpa Pillars of The Higher Ages, who will guide by example and perfect wisdom, the new generations who will treasure and protect their hearts and minds as precious God-given and God-made instruments for the attainment of immaculate holiness.

Newly inspired starry-eyed generations will revere the awakening divinity within themselves, and within their brothers and sisters, keeping all evil at bay by the light of their atoms, emanating like holy swords to skewer the insolence of beasts and the hubris of men.

There’s nothing The Bottom Feeding Scum of The Sewers of Humanity can do against One Whose Realm of Thought Is In The Heavens & Way Way Beyond your little dreams…(but whose down-to-earth by-divine-command service to God is broadcast eternally on the electromagnetic waves of creation right here

and now). Tune into your divinity silently within and learn to establish yourselves there in the depths of inner communion, children of God, or you will be swallowed up by the mediocrity of men (not to mention drowned in their perpetual reincarnating seas of sin).

God said, “Be still [in the inner-communion born of real meditation] and know that I am God.” He did not say, “Be self-righteously confident and complacent in your useless social church circles where you never learn My Real Teachings (because unenlightened men have no clue as to My Real Teachings, much less do they ever practice them) nor do you ever bother to have even a single deep silent moment of contemplation, let alone real inner-communion (and be convinced, of course, that in spite of your spiritual sloth, Christ has saved you and your blindly indoctrinated children from your daily lust for all time…).”

[prismspark]

Conversations Carried in a Carriage

“Do you think you’ll ever retire?”

A simple, poignant question – the only words to have broken the hours of silence that reigned in the carriage since departing from Shalewind. For nearly two hours there had been naught to be heard but the shuffling of prayer beads and the rattling of rain against the window-panes. Then again, when the Bishop travelled that was often the way of things.

It had been just the two of them in the carriage since Father De Roux had gotten off at one of the small passing towns, just the Bishop – and the newly-vowed Sister Martene. Much of that time Martene had been trying to figure out and formulate just what she should ask the venerable Bishop, what sort of wisdom could be given to feed her starry-eyed idealism.

But Kessanella Prismspark was a difficult person to question. The whole trip she had barely so much as looked out the window to peer at the beautiful sights, focused entirely on her prayers and fixing her brilliant blue vestments. But now those soft blue eyes, eyes that seemed as if they should be so soft and kind, were focusing on her – and Martene felt none of their kindness. To be sure there was a motherly sort of affection, but it felt stern and strict. It felt…foreign.

Martene realized nearly half a minute had passed since her question, and no answer had been given. Her mind began to scramble, perhaps she should clarify.

“I just mean, well…Surely you want to be able to relax, to enjoy yourself? I would one day, I’d like to retire to the convent of Arnbrook and spend my days teaching the children and sewing. So I just thought…I just wondered.”

A lofted brow from the Bishop silenced her, Martene quickly glancing away and out the window.

 “One must have a life to be able to enjoy themselves, Sister Martene. One must be a fool not attending to duty to think they ever have a moment to relax.” The Bishop’s soft voice had risen, and Martene still felt that heavy gaze upon her. “We of the Church have no such luxuries. Soon enough you will realize this, and you will realize that enjoyment, relaxation? They’re lies. They’re petty and passing things that give us no true happiness. Only in utter dedication, only in utter sacrifice of ourselves may we find true happiness. And the more miserable we think we feel in this world, the more we die to ourselves for others? The more we shall be truly happy.”

Martene finally pulled her gaze from the water-dropped window panes to peer at the Bishop, and was somewhat relieved to find her gaze had seemingly lightened, now soft and kindly. “I…But surely there must be some time, some space that—”

  “No.” The Bishop silenced her with an upraised hand. “No. There is never time for that, not for those with true dedication. It is rare to find that, even in the Church – but when it is found, it must be encouraged. Allow me to pose a question to you, Sister Martene. Is any person perfect? Is any person free of flaws?”

 Martene paused to consider the question a moment, before shaking her head. “It would seem not, your grace.”

“Then true virtue, true holiness can be found only in death of the ‘person,’ of the self. Do not take me to mean that we should go throwing ourselves off of cliffs to achieve this. No, we must simply deny all that we are, and embrace all that our office is. You will see for yourself the failures of the wretched sinners who try to avoid this death. Bishop Williams, Lady Thane...Lord Montclair I might once have included too – but work on him bears fruit. They, all of them, they refuse to die to the self. They selfishly cling on to the filthy garbage that is them, and ignore the true happiness they might find elsewise.”

Another little pause, the Sister almost scared to speak. The Bishop’s gaze had left her for the window, simply silence might be an escape. But she could not restrain herself. “And Bishop Prismspark, too?”

The Bishop’s eyes returned to her then, but it was a smile and a kindly visage that peered at her. “Not Bishop Prismspark, no. Kessanella Prismspark? Yes. But she died many years ago, Sister Martene – I slew her myself. Desire, wants, enjoyments – all of them are dead. All are passed away. And by doing so, I am truly happy. To be sure, Bishop Prismspark has some things that emulate the appearance of those. But they are the Bishop’s, not the dead Kessanella’s. Far more content would she be to still be a curate wandering Elwynn—”

  “Far more content would you be, you mean, your grace?”

A pause then, the Bishop letting her gaze flit to the window, to the passing scenery. “If Kessanella Prismspark lived, you would be correct. But she is dead – and Bishop Prismspark remains. A Bishop cannot retire, cannot falter, cannot shirk. And so I shall never retire – not matter how loudly the echoes of Kessanella try to cry for it.”

#moonguard #roleplay #moon guard

[shinebrightlikeanarwhal]

what do you think Travis' music taste would be 🏃

Why are you running

WHY ARE YOU RUNNING!?

Travis would have such a massive interest in music! He wasn’t allowed to listen to anything but Christian/Catholic songs of worship. Classical when his father was home. When he was younger he was afraid of the loud music of rock bands. Kenneth cursed pop music for ‘ruining’ the children.

Sal has caught him staring starry eyed in the malls at albums and concert tour posters for artists. He surprisingly likes most genres. His top are Rock and Pop, even R&B music! Not many in their sleepy little town liked those types of music.

One of his favorite artists is Madonna, closely followed by Cindy Lauper! He was very often spotted dancing with Neil’s cousin to “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” during family functions.

He definitely has trauma with Classical music but still enjoys it. But Sal and Larry learn first hand how religious music is not something he can stomache now. Larry witnessing him physically sickened by the music and wondering times he mocked Travis at church for TRAUMA.

#travis phelps #sally face #sally face au #larry johnson #sal fisher #larry x travis #larvis #laravis #salvis #sal x travis #sally face headcanons #sally face hcs #Travis doing the material girl trend #but it’s actual footage of them when they were younger #Larry actually does share music with Travis to bond #they go on dates to the album store and many times come back with multiple albums for everyone and funny stories about the date

[a-napoleon-lover-at-17]

Je t'aime (Self Insert)

( @arsnovacadenza @batteryrose Credits go to you. Your works are so beautiful and inspiring, it made me write this.)

-------------------------------------

Hands clasped together, she watched him. 

Her chocolate brown eyes followed him as he moved, her dark skin flushing red at the beautiful man who walked past. 

Napoléon Bonaparte. 

Eyes of turquoise, hair like the night sky, dark but silvery, skin as smooth as polished ivory, he looked like an angel who had descended straight from heaven. 

What truly made him angelic, though, was his kindness. His life, his very name was associated with controversy, a thousand questionable actions. But that could not mask his kindness. How he cared for people, strangers or those close. He strove to protect. In his past life, and this one too. He had no reason to do all this. But he did. He tried to help people, for no real reason. And that was perhaps what she adored most about him. 

Selflessness. 

The capability and willingness to sacrifice so much for the greater good. Sacrificing any chance at a normal life, any chance of true happiness, of his own peace of mind, his morals for the sake of his country. Sullying his hands with the blood and bone of so many. All for his country. 

And choosing to live with that? Willingly taking all that responsibility? 

That took a kind of strength and nobility character that few could possess. To look yourself in the eye and say, "Yes, I did this. I accept it. And I'll live with it." When your actions were questionable to say the least, that would gain you so many enemies, give you so much pain… How could she not respect that? 

How could she not love him? 

She hid her face in her asymmetrical, wavy and straight black hair, hoping to hide her blush. Hoping to God he wouldn't see her. It would be too embarrassing. 

He was so perceptive. So quick to see through someone. And he used this ability to bring people at ease. To help them. This was why many said that he was charismatic, and could sway people to see his point and agree. She knew that desire of wanting to be understood and heard, and having that desire fulfilled would make one soft for the person who fulfilled that desire. 

She would know. She had been waiting her whole life for it. 

As a result, he was so loved by people. Men, women, children, everyone. So many women vied for his attention and affection. Maybe even men. She didn't want to seem like another one of those people. 

But she was. 

She knew that she'd be dismissed as a starry-eyed naïevete should she ever approach him. With kindness and gentleness, true, he was too good a man to toy with people's feelings. He could act upon his kindness in this life, and he'd do the same with her. 

She only knew of le Comte's mansion and the people inside from accidentally eavesdropping on Father Faust talking to someone else in church. She kept it to herself, for who'd believe her?

The more she learnt about the residents, the more she learnt about Napoléon, the more she fell for him, the more she realised that she didn't stand a chance. He had seen so much of the world. Meet so many people. Done so many things. Had so many lovers, she thought bitterly. Why would he settle for a hopeless romantic and optimist? A simple girl who didn't even speak his mother tongue, who hadn't seen what he had. A girl who was decently intelligent, but had her head in the clouds and was average looking at best. Why on Earth would he want her? 

Tears pricked her eyes as these thoughts crossed her mind, watching him walk by, listening to his beautiful voice saying something to his amethyst eyed companion. Jean d'Arc, the Saint of New Orleans. He knew people like that. What made you think he'd ever like YOU? 

Monsieur d'Arc said something to him in French. With her limited knowledge of the language she could tell what a few words meant. "La jeune femme là-bas vous regarde." She understood only a few words. 'The' 'woman' 'looking'. 

Are they talking about me? 

Napoléon turned to discreetly look at the gaze he had felt upon him the moment he came to the market with Jean. A young woman, fairly chubby with dark skin and eyes, dressed in white, a basket in hand had her face covered in her hair. The minute she saw him look at her, she turned and ran. He blinked. "What a strange woman."

Scarlett ran as fast as her feet could take her, stopping only at the flower field she loved so much. She collapsed on the grass, basket clutched close to her bosom, out of breath and flushed. I haven't run like that in days. 

Closing her eyes to steady and rest herself for a few moments, she sighed. "Stupid. That was too obvious. And so creepy!" She pursed her lips, and then laughed bitterly. "But what else to expect from me, hmm?"

She lay there for a while, then got up in a sitting position. 

A gentle breeze blew across the field, making her hair billow away from her face. 

A red rose came dancing through the wind, landing on her lap. "That's odd. Someone probably plucked it and forgot, I guess." She picked it up and held it near her nose. 

Roses. They reminded her of him. So many petals, so many layers, all beautiful. 

Thinking of him, the tears came again. Closing her eyes, she kissed the rose, thinking of him, wishing it were him, whispering words he would never hear. Not from her, anyway. 

"Je t'aime."

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevam #ikevamp napoleon #napoleon bonaparte #ikevam napoleon #ikevam jean #ikevam jeanne #ikemen vampire napoleon #ikemen vampire jean d'arc #self insert #lowkey angst #unrequited love

[mamichigo]

Title: glass bottles

Pairing: Kokichi/Shuichi

Rating: G

Word count: 2,1k

Tags: Fantasy, Fairytale Elements, Phantom Thief Thief Kokichi (with a twist), First kiss

Summary: Shuichi has something of his stolen in the quiet of night, by a boy with mischief in his eyes.

Notes: Gift for participant #29 in the @kokichigiftexchange

*

Shuichi had seen them only briefly. One glimpse of a large smile with sharp teeth and purple eyes that seemed to glow. They were light on their feet, quiet as the night as they made it inside Shuichi's room on their tiptoes, like a particularly graceful ballerina. Shuichi didn't have a chance to speak up before the person raised a hand and blew glittering powder into his face. He had collapsed on the spot, but not before the mysterious person supported his swaying body by keeping a hand on his back and another to the back of his head.

The next morning, Shuichi woke up with glitter in his hair and on his fingers, along with a sense that something had gone wrong. Or, like something had gone missing.

He didn't realize the source of that impression until his friend, noticing Shuichi failed to react at all to upsetting events, joked that maybe his emotions had been snatched while he wasn't looking. Kaede had also been startled when he pinned her with an intense gaze and agreed with a terse nod.

"Is it really possible to steal someone's emotions?" Shuichi asked.

Kaede, never one to ignore even his silliest remarks when he was serious about it, put a hand to her chin. "It's not impossible around these parts. I might have heard something like that before, but it's more of a story to scare children than an existing fact."

"But we can't say for sure it doesn't exist?"

"That's right."

Satisfied, Shuichi relented and allowed the topic to change. As soon as he was done, Shuichi set out to research if there was any chance that he had been robbed of his emotions after all. After days of talking to more people than he was comfortable with, Shuichi found somewhat of a specialist (or so that was what he claimed to be). He had an oppressing, almost scary aura to him, but the man spoke of tails that made Shuichi go a little bit starry-eyed.

"Spirits are quite the trick loving bunch," Korekiyo explained over a cup of tea, "perhaps to compensate for what they didn't have the chance to do in life."

"So they're dead…?"

Though Shuichi couldn't see Korekiyo's mouth, he was sure he was smiling somewhat mockingly. "Yes, that would be the logical conclusion."

Shuichi hummed and looked down at his hands. Maybe he'd feel a little sad for this person, if they hadn't stolen his ability to do so.

"Is there any chance for me to find them?"

"Luckily for you, I have many reasons to believe you've encountered a spirit I'm already familiar with."

From the subsequent long monologue that he listened to, Shuichi extracted two important pieces of information: go north, find the closed orphanage that stands at the top of the hill; and, his little robber was apparently a boy who called himself a phantom thief. Or rather, the Phantom Thief, capitalized. Shuichi was doubtful that was his true name.

Nonetheless, Shuichi set out just as instructed. On the sunset of the next day, Shuichi had found himself facing the building that looked a bit like an abandoned church rather than an orphanage, if only because all the windows were stained glass colored vibrant red and pink, for the most part. Shuichi squinted at the building as he struggled to catch his breath.

Though Korekiyo had believed the opposite, Shuichi didn't feel safe, after all. Even a village kid as him knew the stories about people who encountered spirits and never came back afterwards, and knew even more of the ones who returned but not as themselves. Shuichi clutched the sleeves of his shirt.

While he pondered if he should go in or not, the doors slammed open on their own. A giggling voice could be heard, distant; a whistle of the wind. Shuichi tensed up, but shrugged to himself. That was as much of a friendly invitation as he would get, he decided.

The atmosphere inside the orphanage was strange, but perhaps only because he passed rows and more rows of open bedrooms, with beds as small as the ones he used to have in his room when he was nothing but a child. The place was covered in dust and debris, as well as wildlife, like it had been standing so long it was now splitting at the seams.

Though Shuichi was sure he had been wandering without aim, his feet took him to the only room that seemed lived in, to a sense. The dining hall had a table in the middle that went on for miles, and it was the first object Shuichi saw in here that was not dirty. It was also lined with candles in fancy candelabra, making the room just a bit too warm.

The room changed once he stepped properly into it. The bare, rotting walls were now covered in an intricate, elegant wallpaper; the table was surrounded by too tall chairs with plushy looking cushions; the table itself was now full of plates of all kinds of sweets that Shuichi had never seen before. At the center of it all, a carefully balanced tower of beautiful glass vials, adorned with flowers or stars or wings.

Finally, at the head of the table, swimming in his chair, sat a boy who watched him predatorily. Shuichi recognized his teeth first, bared in a childish smile. His face was framed by swirls of red paint, but the rest of his attire was perfectly pure white.

"Phantom Thief," Shuichi greeted.

"So you already know who I am," the Phantom Thief drawled his words, pleased with this outcome. "I'm so glad you went through the trouble of finding me!"

Guessing it was alright to do so, Shuichi sat on the opposite side of the table. The glass tower in the middle obstructed their vision, and they both inclined their heads at the same time to look at each other.

"Of course I did, you have something of mine," Shuichi said, straight to the point.

The Phantom Thief pouted. "We could've made a game out of it, you didn't need to say that right away." He heaved a forlorn sigh. "The rudeness of it all."

"Game?"

"Of course, I love games. Don't you?"

"Occasionally."

The Phantom Thief nodded twice, then dipped his finger into the nearest platter of food. He stuck his finger into his mouth, and promptly spat out whatever it was he just ate.

"Let's talk business, then," the Phantom announced magnanimously. "You're here for what I've stolen from you, is that right?"

"Yes."

"And what are you willing to do to have it back?"

Shuichi blinked. "I don't have to do anything since it's rightfully mine."

There was a stunned silence, followed by loud laughter. The Phantom Thief clutched his sides and his head dipped out of sight for several moments, but Shuichi could imagine the amused expression that was currently on his face.

"That's not how it works here, sorry." He didn't sound apologetic at all. "You have to try harder than that if you want your flask back."

Immediately, Shuichi's eyes were drawn to the glass standing between them. The Phantom Thief applauded him.

"That's right, that's where it is!"

The Phantom Thief stood up and turned to face his chair, then he put one foot up on it, followed by the other. He climbed onto the cushion, then the table with the nimble movements Shuichi just vaguely remembered from their first encounter.

"You see, this wasn't my first heist," the Phantom spoke while he kicked food, delicate china and expensive cutlery aside with the tip of his shoes. He walked to the middle of the table until he could reach for the vials shining in the candlelight. "Yours wasn't all that difficult to catch, either. But it's very special to me, so I can't give it back so easily."

The vial at the very top, placed in the spot of honor, was removed from the overall tower by the Phantom's hands, then held to his chest as if cradling a child.

"So, what is your proposition?"

Shuichi frowned as he watched the navy blue liquid inside slosh. He wondered what would happen if it fell, then broke. Shuichi clutched his hands to his knees.

"What could you possibly see in my sadness?" Shuichi inquired, and if he sounded miffed, well. He was. "Wouldn't it be more rewarding to steal someone's happiness?"

The Phantom contorted his face into a grimace. It made the paint on his cheek distort disturbingly.

"For the record, we don't steal anyone's happiness. That's against the rules." He tilted his head. "Right?"

The question wasn't directed at him. He saw nine heads, nine people all dressed similar to the Phantom Thief, nod in agreement then disappear before Shuichi could process that he wasn't hallucinating. He shuddered as he realized he was being watched by whoever those people were.

"I suppose that's fair," Shuichi conceded. He added, mildly, "But that doesn't explain why you did it, and why you won't return it to me."

The Phantom Thief rolled the flask in his hands and spun a circle himself as he went over the question.

"You wouldn't remember anyway," the Phantom decided.

"Enlighten me."

The Phantom was slightly taken aback by the response, a small stumble to his steps a proof of it.

"...Huh." The Phantom thought and thought, and finally said, "You felt sadness for me."

Shuichi furrowed his head. He was sure he wouldn't have forgotten about an encounter like that.

"When?"

"In a dream."

The Phantom decided to continue his track, this time towards Shuichi. There was more clatter as everything in his path was damaged beyond use. He came to stand above Shuichi, chin tilted up as he looked down on Shuichi.

"Or maybe I'm lying,?" The Phantom Thief challenged. "You'll have to find out yourself, all you have to do is remember. Now, I'll be taking this--"

Shuichi grabbed his ankle before the Phantom could turn on his heels. The Phantom tested the strength of his grip, but didn't try to break free.

"What do you want?" Shuichi asked.

"Oh?"

"We could strike a bargain."

The Phantom smiled in clear self-satisfaction, and from this angle it looked especially cat-like.

"Aren't you the courageous type," the Phantom complimented.

"It can't be anything too bad," Shuichi defied, but the words weren't convincing even to himself.

"You're so lucky I have just the thing in mind today, and it should cause you little to no pain, as long as you don't struggle too much." The Phantom Thief bent down, and suddenly he was crouching and leaning close to Shuichi. "How about it?"

"I'd like to hear what it is, first."

The Phantom Thief giggled. "Alright." He tilted the vial this and that way, showing it up to Shuichi. He inched himself a tad bit closer. "I'll give you your precious emotions, the one I've been treasuring… I'll give it to you, as long as you kiss me in return."

Shuichi couldn't help but gape. He was back to clutching his knees, for an entirely different reason. 

"...Is that all?" Shuichi choked.

"You're blushing," The Phantom pointed out without mercy. He watched Shuichi as his face went through the full spectrum of the color red. "So, what will it be? Take it or leave it, I won't take any other bargains, and I won't wait forever. Tick tock, Shuichi."

Shuichi swallowed dryly, and, with his head blessedly blank, pushed himself up by the chair's armrest, and his head met the Phantom's halfway. Shuichi expected him to be cold, to be a corpse covered by a porcelain face, but the Phantom was warm and pliant above him. The Phantom's hands trembled and Shuichi had to grab for the vial before it fell. The sudden touch of skin on skin broke Shuichi's thread of reason, and his other hand found the Phantom's hair and stroked the back of his head.

The Phantom's lips tasted of nothing. Shuichi exhaled softly and found some echo of a distant memory, not his own. Shuichi pulled back, vial in hand.

"Was that enough?" Shuichi asked, voice hoarse.

The Phantom was unresponsive for a beat. Then, he leaped forward, kissed the corner of Shuichi's mouth and demanded, "Call me Kokichi."

"I can do that."

Without a moment's delay, Shuichi downed the contents of the glass vials. It went down like a block of ice. Shuichi watched Kokichi from the corner of his eyes, and the boy did the same.

"This won't be the last you'll see of me, you know," Kokichi commented.

"I'm not afraid."

Kokichi smiled, sharp teeth in his mouth and glitter at the corner of his eyes, with a mess of a hair that framed his innocent looking face.

"Good, I won't stop until I have your heart."

Shuichi chose not to reply. As he left Kokichi standing alone atop the table, too small among the too big furniture, Shuichi could finally feel the stab of sadness that came from the sight. 

#kokichi ouma #shuichi saihara #saiouma #oumasai #danganronpa #ndrv3 #my writing

[eightyonekilograms]

I don’t know if someone has already come up with a snappy name for it, but there’s a particular cognitive failure where someone goes, “There’s a contemporary problem, but we solved it once before. We just have to get our old mojo back and solve it the way we did last time”, without really checking whether we actually did solve it last time, or if there were just fortunate circumstances that solved it for us. And that’s a problem, because when you succumb to this line of thinking. you start wasting time chasing solutions that won’t work, instead of realizing that the problem probably has to be attacked from scratch (and is probably much harder than you realize)

That was all a bit abstract. Let me give some concrete examples that hopefully demonstrate what I mean.

Why haven’t we gone back to the Moon? - There’s been a lot of handwringing about why American space exploration totally fizzled after Apollo (we do currently have vague Moon/Mars plans sort of in the works, but-- and I’m saying this as the world’s biggest NASA fanboy-- it’s easy to see the distinct lack of real enthusiasm and focus for these plans. On a prediction market I’d bet good money they won’t amount to anything). Typically this handwringing segues into 60′s nostalgia along the lines of, “Back Then we had a national drive for exploration and Big Science projects, we’ve gotta get that back”

And for a long time, the standard cynical response to this has been, “Uh, no? Even 60′s America wouldn’t have spent 150 billion taxpayer dollars on starry-eyed “fuck yeah science” missions. We only did it because were were in a dick-waving contest with the Soviets.”

But if that was true, we could at least invent a new rival to get the space groove back (what’s up, China?) Unfortunately, the problem is worse than even the cynics realize: Neal Stephenson has made a very convincing argument that actually the development of rockets and the Space Race were mostly due to an astonishing series of coincidences, of which the Cold War was just one, and that it’s unlikely we’ll ever get so lucky again. It turns out we never actually had an innate national drive to go to space, and if we want to go again, we need to start looking for arguments that are persuasive in the here-and-now, rather than mythologizing about why we did it last time, because those circumstances will not recur.

Why are birth rates falling? - The trads love to say that declining birth rates are obviously caused by modern secular degeneracy, and if people just went back to That Old-Time Religion the problem would clear up right away. 

But the facts don’t bear this out. To me, it looks like the conventional wisdom that religiosity increases fertility is true in the short-term but wrong in the long-term, and that what it really does is provide only a temporary buffer against society-wide declines. Modern society has a new baseline fertility number, and religion only shifts the logistic curve to the right, it doesn’t change that number. To show you what I mean, look at the most recent American fertility data and note that the famously-fecund Mormons don’t actually seem to be beating the trend: Utah is highest, but falling third-fastest, and the other red states also have the steepest declines, while blue states have more or less bottomed out. This is all exactly what you’d predict from logistic curves shifted in time but otherwise identical, and such curves eventually all converge on the same value.

The alternative (and correct) hypothesis, is that religion or no, low birthrates became inevitable the moment the world shifted from agrarian societies (where children are a net profit as free labor to help out on the farm) to industrial and post-industrial ones (where children are a net cost). The decision on whether or not to have children, and how many to have, has always been an economic one; it only looked like people were obeying the Church’s teachings because for about 1,850 years the Church’s teachings were just what people were going to do anyway. Which gave rise to the understandable, but totally false, belief that the Church knows how to fix falling fertility.

Again, here’s why this matters beyond just dunking on trads: assuming low birth rates are a problem that needs to be solved (you can certainly dispute that assumption-- I do-- but just go with it for the sake of argument), we need to actually begin looking for solutions that will work. The trads have never had the solution, it just looked like they did because of a coincidence. It turns out that we don’t have, and have never had, an effective way to get people to have more children than their economic incentives dictate (which of course is a sub-class of the more general problem that we don’t really have a way to get people to do anything against their economic incentives), and that if we want to change this we will be starting more or less from scratch. Pushing non-solutions like religion is just wasting valuable time.

There are a bunch more examples of this, of people looking to the past for solutions that only worked because of peculiar circumstances and no longer apply, when new solutions need to be invented instead.

#effortpost

[blondrichclosetwitch]

“The sunlight eventually shows the path, and the obscurity of the darkness fades away.”

Cold as December but never remember what winter did

See, in a perfect world, I'll choose faith over riches

I'll choose work over bitches, I'll make schools out of prison

(It seems worth mentioning that one of the times I was told blond was in prison, I spent hours talking to her through the pendulum explaining that she could use this time to study with master teachers since she obviously had this gift of communicating psychically, and I encouraged her to study under my master teacher, Random. Now looking back, blond, I have to thank you for throwing me into a world where not only was it a masters program in all things occult, but ended up being a phD. However......there is something to be said for consent. And no one likes being lied to. How many police stations did I call, trying to find out where you were held, because you begged me to come visit because you said you needed me?)

In another life, I surely was there

Me, I wasn't taught to share, but care

I care, I care

Maybe I wasn't there

“This refrain questions the statements made in the chorus. Wherever Kendrick believed he was, he isn’t too sure of it anymore.

He may be referring to the concept of survivor’s guilt, a frequented topic on To Pimp a Butterfly, particularly on “Mortal Man” and “Hood Politics.” In this case, Kendrick questions whether he was there for his loved ones back in Compton, as he used his success to escape the violence, leaving others behind.”

So I wake in the morning and I dress

I hang that charm of gold around my neck

And I haul to her window and look

And I crawl on inside and wake her up

So, apart from the things I touched

Nothing got broke all that much

And apart from the things I took

Nothing got stolen babe, and look:

You can love me foolishly

Love me foolish-like

(This is from blond’s point of view. I’m guessing the charm of gold that they’re referring to the necklace I was told to leave with the painting, at the church in May. The love me foolishly line both refers to the fool card, which is about giving yourself to whatever adventure you’re on with reckless abandon, and also to the fact that I fell hook, line and sinker for what she was insisting about wanting to be my girlfriend. I believed it until one of my teachers who did our past life work insisted that it was all a game to hurt me. )

Sunlight splatters dawn with answers

Darkness shrugs and bids the day good-bye

At night I walk the streets Lookin' for romance

But I always end up stumblin' In a half trance

(That’s about me being led all

Over brooklyn & Manhattan)

God made a mistake

I've been half a million places

I've seen half a million people who stare

I've been a star and down and out

I've been put on, sat on, punched and spat on

They've called me a faggot, a spiv and a fake

They can knock me down and tread on my face

They can't stop the music playing on

Starry-eyed is about me always trying to see Jakk to figure out what’s going on, and him never saying a word.

And the tower and the wheel of fortune fell out of the deck.

On Ostara, bitches!

The wind is chock full of references.

“And listen to the wind blow

And listen to the wind blowing”

WOMAN no one died in the hurricane. you know that? a city ripped apart, but no people.

MAN i think one did. where did you go?

WOMAN to a park. girl with a deathwish. three blocks away. straight shot. what did you do?

MAN hung out in the dark with the dog and listened to the wind.

Also this song is sorta fixated on how the main character doesn’t have a husband, and apparently loads of women go to her chapel to pray for a husband. And also, “she dreamt of children’s voices”.

Thought I should just mention that that dylan song played for the first time.

#bob dylan #pj harvey #kendrick lamar #phosphorescent #the grateful dead #bruce springsteen #bill hicks #the kinks #cinerama #the tower #wheel of fortune #ostara #art imitates life

[historytaker]

Fly Away Vincent

Sometimes art tells us something the artist is unsure they mean to say. But that had always been one of the tragedies of Vincent Van Gogh’s dramas. His paintings were earthy, mucky blends: sermons and pleas to find something. Yet, it was precisely at the penultimate moment in Vincent Van Gogh’s career did he finally give us a farewell that probably was not supposed to be a farewell. For it would be the Spring of 1890 that Vincent Van Gogh would produce Wheatfield With Crows, and shortly after kill himself. Ever the composer and the symphony, Van Gogh mashed opposites in his paintings in greedy jabs of oil, demanding us to take it in and meanwhile being the servant to his impulses that played out in the work.  He struck the balance in Wheatfield with Crows.  But in that balance he put a punctuation on his mastery, his gifts, his sermon.  Could Heaven and Earth meet? Maybe.  Wheatfield with Crows say exactly that.

               Vincent Van Gogh was not well. He suffered bouts of manic activity often followed by deep spells of self-loathing and loneliness. He was also epileptic. He had a cunning self awareness though that often meant that his suffering was the expiation or price to be paid for being one of God’s children. Never far away from his religious zeal, burned a patriotic self-indulgence of love for the common man and the earthy struggle.  Smothered in much of his works are these influences; his mental health, searching for God, and political thought.

               Van Gogh thought it only right and proper to take his sermon to the people who deserved God the most, and equally needed God the most. The tramp, the whore, the beggar, the drunkard, the miscreant all God’s people… they just did not know it yet. Often this meant a life of even more privation than the would-be parishioners of the Church of Saint Vincent. He cobbled together a pittance in trading drawings for crumbs. His real lifeline was his beloved brother Theo, however.  

               In fact, it would be this relationship with his brother that would ultimately sustain Van Gogh’s life. Theo, always the true believer, would attempt to sell or promote the works Van Gogh produced. Sometimes, indeed, most times, the work was not appreciated. In his early years, Van Gogh was enraptured by the aplomb but simple landscapes and toiling work of the indescribable laborer, the everyman. Where Van Gogh’s contemporaries patronized the subject as rustic, Van Gogh blended his subjects mercilessly with the mud. They were the mud. No better picture did this radiate more totally than with Potato Eaters.  The brown grey effluviates all over the canvas. The people surrounding the table, gaunt, strung-out, wide eyed, are communing over ashen potatoes and earthily mud brown coffee. They have the emaciated look of the overworked, underfed, neglected. But pulling in the room, keeping everything together, granting all of these diners the chance to partake in their concord is the singular illumination of a flame hung sturdily overhead by lamp.

                                                       In a rare moment for early Van Gogh, he knows he created something worth feeling accomplished by. How incredibly sad it must have been, when Theo maintained that the picture did none of the things the sort of people who bought art wanted it to do. It was ghastly after all. No matter.

               Van Gogh kept at it and would build on this work. And like lightening, we begin to see sunburst almost literally in his landscapes. The thing about Van Gogh was, he became a deeply ardent lover of Japanese landscape art; Where if people are involved at all in the scenes, they exist in the most miniscule of parts. Tiny homes, tiny boats. Infinitesimally minute, casually present human touches in the landscape hammered home the humbling truth that we are not separate from nature, but nature. In that, Van Gogh attempted to bring down Heaven into Earth. “Don’t you see,” we can hear him say, “God is here.”

               That was the hope anyhow. Van Gogh was notoriously nomadic. The lightening rod of Christ was somehow present and elusive for the artist. He was always searching for this emotionally true feeling. In moments he bathed in it, and in others he was absolutely bereft of the spiritual elixir. So it was that when he painted, he searched. Along the way, the full gamut of the human experience, he tells to us in his work. Everything, we learn quickly, Van Gogh experiences is intense. We all know the type. He was noted for shaking peoples hands heartily. He verbally reprimanded himself for aging himself 10 years early because of the intensity of his smiles and frowns. His face wore the marks of raw emotions. He had deltas in his face for tears, mountains of peaked flesh across gaunt cheeks when he donned a smile. Buried beneath was a brilliant sun burnt red beard.

               It would be no surprise to our sensibilities then, that when Van Gogh took off and painted, and really got into it, the experience was flooded with emotions and personal euphoria. Perhaps no painting wraps more completely the need Van Gogh had for pairing opposites, companionship, God on earth…a taradise if you will, and somehow innocently enough, sexual explosion all at once than Sower At Sunset. The hallmark of Van Gogh that the background is the picture more than the subject is takes place. The Sun, the singular entity wholly prominent shoots strings of brilliant light at us. Gobs of purple, golden browns, stream everywhere. Our farmer vanishes in the fully loaded paint thrust Vincent elects to give. We are positively covered in the essence of the seeds being planted. Don’t take my words for it, Van Gogh refers to his paintings as a sort-of orgasm, jouissance. His ecstasy is permeating in the picture.

               By this point, Van Gogh was finding himself. He was no aesthete, but he was finding his expression. And for all the tears, bouts of madness, brilliance, personal victories he is remembered for two things even the most minimal observer can tell you, Starry Night and he cut off his ear.

Starry Night is the return of the darker blues. While he was ward of the hospital he stayed at, he paints Starry Night. Giving us the timeless scene. It is perhaps the most prolific of his works and deserves all the credit it receives. We are moved as it moves. We feel the solitude and purity of the moment the painting gives. But for my money Starry Night does none of the things Van Gogh needed for himself quite like Wheatfield with Crows Does.

               For in Wheatfield with Crows, we have climax. Vincent had always been nomadic, looking for a path that had a clear direction, he gives us a path but stopped trying to say where it went and from where it came. There is no redeeming work to be done by a casual artisan working the field. Those nightscape blues tell us a storm is coming or just went. Our crows are minimal strokes – afterthoughts—flying away or landing. Those brilliant bursts of yellow weren’t sources of vitality emanating from a giving Sun, but there is life in there yet. Grassy paths yawn with earthy mud. He is at peace. It is a troubled mind realizing itself. “The zenith of the Sun is in you,” we get the feeling he is saying,  “no need for looking for it in the painting, get the picture?”

                               Not long after this is done, Van Gogh shoots himself. He was finally being seen by his contemporaries as the visionary. His sermons were reaching eyes and not ears, finally. What the parishioners of Saint Vincent needed, Van Gogh at last found for himself. And then, when for a change, he was ready to be the lifeline of the family’s needs, he withdrew himself from the picture. And for my sensibilities, I would say it was the greatest of all his works. It mirrors the best that Turner made us do with his watercolors; he gives us the final stroke of the brush and tells us to decide what we are seeing. What do we need from this? Is it salvation? Is it acceptance? Is the point of life the living of it, or does the path actually go somewhere? Its existential without meaning to be. It’s a gospel without fantastical happenings. It is our comings and our goings. It is everything and it is nothing. Heaven meets earth, finally.

#@history

[simping-on-the-daily]

Get to know Chelsea uncomfortably well! I just hope I can give credit to the person who wrote out the questions. XD

1. What is you middle name? “Not for me!” 2. How old are you? “Well, Thomas is twenty-nine and I was created when he was five, so........twenty-four?” 3. What is your birthday? September 25th!” 4. What is your zodiac sign? “Libra!” 5. What is your favorite color? Pink! Or black! Depends.” 6. What's your lucky number? “19th of December!” 7. Do you have any pets? “Oh, I wish!” 8. Where are you from? “The Mindscape.” 9. How tall are you? “6′1!” 10. What shoe size are you? “I think I mentioned this in another post?” 11. How many pairs of shoes do you own? “As many as I want! We don’t need to ‘buy’ stuff.” 12. What was your last dream about? “Virgil and me were riding on a giant carrot. Don’t ask. XD” 13. What talents do you have? ”Really good at Origami!” 14. Are you psychic in any way? “I can sense when people are feeling sad, so sorta?” 15. Favorite song? ”It’s All Love from Trolls: World Tour.” 16. Favorite movie? “The BNHA/MHA movies!” 17. Who would be your ideal partner? “I already have my ideal partner.” 18. Do you want children? “WE CAN HAVE KIDS?!?!” 19. Do you want a church wedding? “I’d prefer a garden wedding!” 20. Are you religious? “Not me personally, but Thomas was raised with a Catholic view.” 21. Have you ever been to the hospital? ”My boyfriend makes sure that never happens. Virgil truly lives up to his name as the protector!” 22. Have you ever got in trouble with the law? “Nah. We don’t even have laws here! Just basic human decency.” 23. Have you ever met any celebrities? “I was literally created by a celebrity. Of course!” 24. Baths or showers? “Baths! They’re so relaxing!” 25. What color socks are you wearing? “Same as before; black and white striped socks.” 26. Have you ever been famous? “Probably! I am part of a famous YouTube program, so maybe. XD” 27. Would you like to be a big celebrity? “I think I already am.” 28. What type of music do you like? “Inspirational Songs! Virgil’s gotten me into Panic! At The Disco.” 29. Have you ever been skinny dipping? “This question better fits Remus. :p” 30. How many pillows do you sleep with? “Already answered this!” 31. What position do you usually sleep in? “I’m always hugging something! Whether it’s Virgil or a pillow, nothing can escape my cuddles. >:3″ 32. How big is your house? “It’s always changing because of Roman.” 33. What do you typically have for breakfast? “Usually a pop tart or some pancakes.” 34. Have you ever fired a gun? “Noooooooooooo........” 35. Have you ever tried archery? “Saw Roman try it, did it, broke my foot, cried, and got cuddled.” 36. Favorite clean word? So......just a word?” 37. Favorite swear word? “None!” 38. What's the longest you've ever gone without sleep? “Thirty-one hours, I think?” 39. Do you have any scars? “If I had, they would’ve healed.” 40. Have you ever had a secret admirer? “Nah. Virgil was more like a non-subtle piner.” 41. Are you a good liar? “Not really? I don’t lie a whole lot, so I’m a little rusty.” 42. Are you a good judge of character? “I’ll leave that one in the air.” 43. Can you do any other accents other than your own? “My ability to make my voice more relaxing does instinctively change to people’s preferences. If some people think a British accent is calming, I get a British accent.” 44. Do you have a strong accent? “Nah!” 45. What is your favorite accent? “This is a question?” 46. What is your personality type? “?????????” 47. What is your most expensive piece of clothing? “I don’t it’s ‘expensive’ when you didn’t even buy it in the first place. :p” 48. Can you curl your tongue? “Yep!” 49. Are you an innie or an outie? “Insert the “I AM CONFUSION MEME” right now, please.” 50. Left or right handed? “Men to the left, because woman are always right. :D Quotes aside though, I’m a leftie!” 51. Are you scared of spiders? “Unless they’re watching me in the shower like a perv, then no.” 52. Favorite food? *insert a starry eyed Chelsea rambling about junk food* 53. Favorite foreign food? “Pizza counts, right?” 54. Are you a clean or messy person? “Depends.” 55. Most used phrased? ”I’m here for you.” 56. Most used word? “Love.” 57. How long does it take for you to get ready? “Not long! We can just snap our fingers and poof, we’re camera ready.” 58. Do you have much of an ego? “I’d like to think I’m pretty modest!” 59. Do you suck or bite lollipops? “Who. Bites. Lollipops?” 60. Do you talk to yourself? “It’s instinctive. I don’t know I do it until someone points it out. ;p” 61. Do you sing to yourself? “More like I hum to myself!” 62. Are you a good singer? “I’d like to think so!” 63. Biggest Fear? “Letting people down.” 64. Are you a gossip? “.........No?” 65. Best dramatic movie you've seen? “Thinking face: activate.” 66. Do you like long or short hair? “Hair’s hair!” 67. Can you name all 50 states of America? “Nope-” 68. Favorite school subject? “Art was always fun! Even if you technically never went to class....” 69. Extrovert or Introvert? “Extrovert!” 70. Have you ever been scuba diving? ”I think Thomas has, but not me myself.” 71. What makes you nervous? “Not helping others. ‘We need to talk’ is also pretty nerve wracking.” 72. Are you scared of the dark? “I’m not scared of the dark, I’m scared of what's in the dark.........YES I AM-” 73. Do you correct people when they make mistakes? “Only if it’s like ‘hey, you used that word wrong and it’s actually really offensive.’“ 74. Are you ticklish? “Please don’t let Virgil know-” 75. Have you ever started a rumor? “It was a very minor rumor that never hurt anyone!” 76. Have you ever been in a position of authority? “Does being part of the jury in the courtroom count?” 77. Have you ever drank underage? “I was a very good rule following child!” 78. Have you ever done drugs? ”NO-” 79. Who was your first real crush? “Virgil. By extension, he’s my first boyfriend! Hopefully my only.” 80. How many piercings do you have? ”Nippity nopeity none!” 81. Can you roll your R’s? “Bold of you to assume I can even roll my R’s.” 82. How fast can you type? “Pretty fast!” 83. How fast can you run? “Pretty slow!” 84. What color is your hair? “Already answered this, but it’s sorta like a light salmon? Lightish reddish pink?” 85. What color is your eyes? “Magenta and pink! It’s got a sorta effect to it.” 86. What are you allergic to? “I feel really bad for the people who are allergic!” 87. Do you keep a journal? “Used to, and I still have it!” 88. What do your parents do? “I don’t have parents, try again.” 89. Do you like your age? ”Not sure on how to answer this?” 90. What makes you angry? “Like Mr. Rogers said, people hurting other people.” 91. Do you like your own name? “Why do people like this question so much-” 92. Have you already thought of baby names, and if so what are they? “I have! For a boy, I think I said Aiden, Connor and Jacob. For a girl I went with Faith, Hope and Harmony.” 93. Do you want a boy a girl for a child? “My child is my child, and I’ll love them regardless of their gender!” 94. What are you strengths? “I’m upbeat, optimistic, and comforting! At least, that’s what I think.” 95. What are your weaknesses? “I don’t like these kind of questions? I don’t wanna dwaddle on the bad bits of myself.....” 96. How did you get your name? ”We all came up with our names during high school! Aisha came up with her name and since we both imaginary friends created in the same year, I stuck with the ‘ending with a’ pattern and got Chelsea!” 97. Were your ancestors royalty? “I don’t even have ancestors-” 98. Do you have any scars? “I’m pretty sure we had this question already-” 99. Color of your bedspread? ”Black and pink!” 100. Color of your room? “My bedroom walls? Well, it’s white.”

#sander sides #sanders sides #sander sides ocs #sanders sides ocs #sanders sides chelsea #chelxiety #anxiety sanders #sanders sides anxiety #virgil sanders #sanders sides virgil #c!thomas #get to know me uncomfortably well

[remnantoforario]

Blue Lions Ending

Finally finished the Blue Lion Path. Here’s my endings:

Gilbert returned to Fhirdiad and resumed his duty as a knight, serving Dimitri for yeas. When he finally retired he spent his days coaching the young prince in the art of combat.

Flayn disappeared from Garreg Mach immediately after the war, at the same time Linhardt abandoned his claim to House Hevring and disappeared as well. Everyone assumed the eloped, but no one knew where they went. A decade later, after the Officers Academy had been rebuilt, a sleepy young girl with antiquated clothing and the major crest of Cethleann enrolled at the school Over the next two years a boy and girl with the same crest also enrolled. Crest scholars deduced they were siblings, but nothing could be proven.

Seteth remained at the monastery and worked to restore the authority of the Church of Seiros, adopting a tolerant stance towards all. His encouragement of believers to respect those of other faiths helped the people of Fodlan find common ground with others.

Lysithea (See Black Eagle Ending)

Petra returned to Brigid and inherited the throne from her grandfather. She declared independence from Fodlan and worked to secure friendly relations with Fodlan and Dagda. Her descendants carried the torch she lit, securing her people’s future.

Hilda and Marianne stayed in touch and deepened their friendship through letters after returning to their respective homes. Hilda started an artisan academy and Marianne pledged financial support of the house of Margrave Edmund. Soon, artisan schools appeared all over Fodlan, producing many craftsmen and high-quality trade goods that bolstered Fodlan’s prosperity. The accessories Hilda made for Marianne personally became some of the mostly highly valuable in history.

Bernadetta (See Black Eagle Ending) 

Manuela and Dorothea returned to the Mittelfrank Opera Company, breathing new life and prominence into the once collapsing troupe. They toured all over Fodlan, sometimes even the front lines, soothing hearts with their songs and donating profits to relief and rebuilding efforts. Once the damage from the war had healed, the pair once again retired, this time to a private life together. It’s said their relationship was full of light and love.

Leonie (See Black Eagle Ending) 

Mercedes traveled to Fhirdiad to pay a visit to her father after the war where she introduced Ferdinand, though left out they were engaged to be wed. Marrying in secret, the couple worked together to reform the new Duke Aegir’s territory. They were so successful that Ferdinand was offered to work as a leader in the central government. It was busy work, but coming home to a smiling family made all the hard work worth it.

Ashe was formally knighted after the war and appointed the new head of House Gaspard, which had no successors. He faced a great deal of difficulty in governing until he met his new adviser, Cyril. Using the skills her learned as a student, Cyril helped Ashe grow into a worthy lord. Ashe gained the respect of his people and his land prospered. The pair swore to help one another and remains best friends for the rest of their lives.

Annette returned to Fhirdiad, taking up a teaching position at the School of Sorcery mentoring many great sages. However, she remained quite clumsy and was prone to many accidents; one neartly taking her life. Separated from her students in the mountains, she thought she would be forever lost until she was found by Caspar - who was passing through during his worldly travels. He escorted her back to Fhirdiad, and the two fell in love during his time there. Their story inspired a generation of starry-eyed students.

Dedue returned to Fhirdiad to support King Dimitri after the war as his vassal. Shamir was close as both Dedue’s trusted partner and mercenary for the royal family. Their relationship blossomed into love, and they were soon married. It was said that when no one was around, they would let their guards down and engage in secret jokes and idle chit chat.

Sylvain devoted his life to improving relations with the people of Sreng as Margrave Gautier. Under his leadership, nobles were persuaded that relics and crests were not as necessary as they thought. Though he went down in history as an extraordinary lord, he couldn’t have done so without his wife, Ingrid. Sylvain was ever loyal to his wife and they had many children, and while none bore a Crest, they were wholeheartedly loved. 

Dimtiri assumed the Throne of Faerghus and spent his life ruling justly, along with with his right hand adviser, Duke Felix Fraldarius. Their bond was so strong that when Dimitri passed, it was said Felix’s grief was more potent than the Queen’s. Their stories were passed down to future generations as chivalric tales that rivaled those of Loog and his sworn friend Kyphon.

Byleth announced his marriage to Catherine shortly after becoming archbishop of the Church of Seiros. While he focused on the rebuilding effort, Catherine worked as his bodyguard and mobilized the troops when the situation called for military force. Fodlan entered a new era of piece under her watchful eye. A common saying among the people was that the archbishop had two weapons: the Sword of the Creator, and his fearsome wife.         

#Fire Emblem #Fire Emblem Three Houses #gilbert pronislav #Gustave eddie dominic #Flayn #Cethleann #linhardt von hevring #Seteth #cichol #lysithea von ordelia #petra macneary #hilda valentine goneril #marianne von edmund #manuela casagranda #dorothea arnault #bernadetta von varley #Leonie Pinelli #mercedes von martritz #ferdinand von aegir #ashe ubert #cyril #annette fantine dominic #caspar von bergliez #dedue molinaro #shamir nevrand #Sylvain Jose Gautier #ingrid brandi galatea #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #Byleth #cassandra rubens charon

[welcometophu]

Into the Split: Revolution - Interlude

Twinned Book 3: Into the Split

Revolution - Interlude

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According to the history as recorded by Sigma Delta, the first known Talent in the military enlisted in 1911, and flew for the Air Force in the first world war. He was a Weather Witch, and fog rolled in to cover his flights, while lightning cracked to foil his enemies. He didn’t tell his commanders about his Talent so much as he was discovered, when he took a young Clan soldier under his wing, and the two were overheard discussing their respective abilities.

The government was curious, wary, and delighted all at once to discover this untold wealth, and they put great effort into combing through the ranks and unearthing Talented people, pulling them together as special forces within the different branches of the military.

In 1963, Sigma Delta was formed, and the active recruitment of Talent began. I joined in 1985, fresh out of high school after having been highly encouraged to join JROTC during my teenage years. I could have gone to college with an ROTC scholarship, but I was starry-eyed and hopeful that we could bring Talent to bear to end the Cold War and create a new, safer world and I wanted to do that by being an active duty soldier. I wanted to make a world that would be a safe haven for my eventual children and grandchildren.

SD is a good effort. A strong effort that works not just within the US, but also forging relationships and alliances around the world. We bring together Talent in a way that the world has failed to bring together its citizens. We rise above prejudice.

We are the protectors, and we want to create a new world where no one goes hungry, and where war doesn’t destroy our lands and our people. We want to unite, and move forward together, as one humankind.

We studied Talent. Not just our own, but the history of Talent, gathering stories from around the world. We studied not just those we could observe in the modern era, but the myths that lie beneath Talent. We know that the Oracle of Greece was a true Predictive Talent. We know that Saint George was an allegory for a Church that strove to drive Clan out, and thus, slay the dragons. We know that where myth lies, Talent rests beneath it.

I teethed on stories of the deadly ones. Some people thought of Death as a wraith in a cloak and cowl, bearing a scythe; I knew that a Deathstalker could creep from the shadows and cover the mouth of a man in his bed and steal his last breath. We found our first Deathstalker in 1993, trapped her in a room where she couldn’t slip into the darkness and escape.

She was surprisingly normal, for all that she fed on the dying breath of those who were ready to leave the world. She couldn’t explain how she knew, only that she was drawn to them in those last moments, and that she was a necessary part of the world as it is. She was not alone; Death would still walk without her. But she fed on those throes, on the fear of what might come, and on those final moments of acceptance. She fed on that final acquiescence as the soul slipped into darkness.

Then she’d return to her job in the daylight, and her small children and husband who had no idea that she was Talented at all.

She chose to join SD, to help us in our efforts. She was as natural as breathing, a part of life and death after all.

We met our first Shadowwalker not long after. She was a friend of Marion’s, brought into SD one day as they both walked in through the darkness. Rebecca also seemed so normal, for all that she could become a shadow and then slide through them to anywhere she could imagine.

Anywhere. Truly anywhere. Rebecca told tales of visiting worlds that were not our own. For all I know, she may have come from one, but chose to settle here.

I liked them both, and they were true friends, drawn together by similar Talents.

There was a moment, one day, where Marion went stiff in the middle of a conversation, rose and turned, one hand out. On the other side of the room, one of our group stood abruptly, making a strangled noise. Marion was at his side in an instant, following him down to the floor, her hand on his chest as she shushed him. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I’m with you. I’ll make it easy.”

He was dead in moments.

There were those who said we might have saved him, although the coroner said his heart could not have been resurrected.

There were those who recognized what Marion had done, and how we could use it.

In 1998, we began a new effort, trying to understand everything about how the Deathstalkers eased people into death, and how the Shadows could travel so much further than the Deathstalkers in the darkness. We wanted to know how to combine them, how to leverage this to help bring our world into peace.

In 1999 we met out first Soulstealer, and a new plan was born.

It took almost a decade to figure out how, and it took the combined forces of Talents around the world to create this Ritual. We created carefully controlled conditions, using Ritual to enhance the abilities of our Talented guinea pigs, and hoping that by allowing the Soulstealers, Deathstalkers, and Shadowwalkers to become one Talent—as much of history already assumed they were—that we would have a weapon that no one could possibly fight against.

In the aftermath, we know we were wrong.

None of these Talents were dangerous on their own, but the newly created Soulless ones are a dire creature that has intellect and no remorse. They are shameless killers, starving and desperate to feed. And the energy used to create them was magnified, pushed throughout the world through our network of Talent, reverberating in both good and bad ways.

The Emergence means there will be more soldiers for SD. More people to fight for the good in the world.

But the Soulless continue to multiply. To Emerge, and to kill.

We have made a grave mistake, and it is to our graves that we will go in payment.

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#welcome to phu #welcometophu #into the split #phu twinned #twinned #its revolution

[deathpoke1qa]

This is kind of late, but thank you @rottenpossvm​ for tagging me (and tagging me in the other thing, I swear I’ll get to it). 

Rules: Answer 21 questions, then tag 21 people you want to get to know better.

Nickname: People call me Franklin, Frankie or Frank and that’s all okay (except Frank makes me sound like an old man). Jury is still out on Frankster Gangster though and my mom called me Frankie Foo Foo as a kid so there’s that. Zodiac: Proud Capricorn Height: 6′ Last Thing Searched: witch familiars from history (im trying to find good familiar names for my RoM sims) Favorite Musicians: In no particular order: The Birthday Massacre, The Pretty Reckless, Drab Majesty, Dead Spells, Christian Death (Rozz Era), Ladytron, Children on Stun, Boy Harsher, The Cure and Johnny Hollow. Song Stuck in Head: Stripdown by Agent Side Grinder If you had a time machine, would you go back in time or visit the future? There are just so many unsolved mysteries of the past that I would just go back and solve them all but I’d probably focus around Ancient Egypt. Do I Get Asks: Occasionally  Following: I try to only follow sims-related blogs but I am a little trigger happy with the follow button because there’s so many great blogs out there like the one that tagged me. Currently following 762 blogs and counting.  Would you rather be rich or famous? Rich. I’d buy some cool boots and then donate the rest to charity. Amount of Sleep: I can and will sleep anytime but I am never well rested Lucky Number: 13 What I’m Wearing: Well, at this very moment, it’s a skull tee and boxer briefs but earlier I was wearing this sort of sporty goth look because I went to a football game and I dress to depress. Check it out here. Dream Job: To be a social worker, which is what I’m currently going to college for. Specifically, though, I would want to work with rehabilitating prisoners (or delinquent teens). Dream Trip: A world round trip visiting tons of famous churches and cemeteries. If you were an animal, what would you be? A Vampyroteuthis Infernalis Favorite Food: Breakfast at any time of the day What are some of your favorite books/films/shows/games/etc? 

Books: The Divine Comedy, The Phantom of the Opera and Dracula Films: Black Swan, Mother!, A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night, It’s Such a Beautiful Day, Children of Men, 28 Days Later and The Good Neighbor Shows: I’ve really only ever watched the shows Stranger Things and iZombie, I don’t typically like watching shows Games: The Sims Franchise, The Assassin’s Creed Franchise and Kameo

Play Any Instruments: I can play the piano Language(s): Just english Describe Yourself as Aesthetics: The Monster Fighters Lego sets, specifically either the Vampyre Castle or the Haunted House.

I tag: @tabbyrhsims4simblr, @wistfulpoltergeist, @simandy, @forestmother2424, @erosims, @loricsimmer, @cecealiasims, @bloomous, @starry-eyed-simss, @elfiesim, @lunasysims, @plasmavamp, @plasma-tree, @eggysimblr, @scarlettxxsims, @srslysims, @mathcopesims, @hookareh, @peachtonium, @secretlotsixam and @thealienships

I’m sorry if any of you have already done this. I also would like to tag anyone who sees this and wants in on the tag game action. Of course, I went into a little more detail on a lot of the questions, but that isn’t required at all. I just like to talk a lot. 

#thanks again for tagging me #tag game #tag #personality tag #non sims #all about me #music recs

[ffxiv-swarm]

30 Day WoL Challenge 10: Sacred

There are no churches for Hydaelyn. Her children think of her—if they think of her at all—in the privacy of their own hearts, in whispered words, in oblique references lest people look at them strangely. If others even know of the Mothercrystal, they certainly don’t think she speaks, never mind that her chosen children can hear her. All those who serve her do so alone.

And when one of her children falls…

After the longest two weeks of Ritanelle’s life, she finally makes it back to Moghome. She’s heard that heretics honor her in their own spaces—indeed, she’s thought of going to Anyx Trine or Sohm Al for this—but when she thinks of Ysayle it is here, gazing in starry-eyed adoration at dancing moogles. She’ll never forget the sight of the woman giggling as she was showered by pink light. The moogles themselves are happy to see her, but something in her expression warns them to stay away; she thanks the gods for that, because if she opens her mouth yet she will cry.

The plateau above Moghome is quiet; as dusk falls, it is lit by glowing Dravanian puffball trees and the faraway light of the moon. It’s the work of a moment for her to make a fire and set out a tiny pot of stew to warm. It is, objectively, terrible stew; Ysayle had made it with stringy dried meat and overboiled root vegetables and no seasoning besides salt, but the taste is seared into Rita’s memory. And then she sits, with her back against a carved stone, and prays.

Mother Hydaelyn. Your beloved daughter, Ysayle Dangoulain...let her rest in your embrace. Let her find peace in whatever awaits beyond. Let...let her memory…

She chokes on a sob, scrubbing her eyes with the back of her hand as memories flicker behind her eyelids—memories of a woman ready to fight for her convictions and atone for her sins, a woman who loved her comrades so fiercely it had lit up the sky. She remembers cooking together, Ysayle teaching her how to set up a tent that wouldn’t collapse in Coerthan winds, joining her in bawdy songs until even Estinien had had to slam his helm’s visor down to hide a blush. She remembers standing atop Zenith as Hraesvelgr shattered Ysayle’s world, hugging the taller woman tightly as she sobbed.

Mum, she thinks fiercely, you best make sure she knows she’s loved.

The stew tastes better than she remembers.

#Ritanelle #seaswolchallenge #FFXIV #ysayle #fire the headcanons #IN YSAYLE'S NAME

[rememberingrivera]

What’s in a name?

(Disclaimer - as a native English speaker with zero natural connection to Mexican culture, I welcome any additions, corrections, criticisms, or insights from those who are fortunate enough to be more educated or experienced than me!)

So, I was initially confused as to why Mama Imelda chose to keep Hector’s surname when all other hints of his existence were purged from memory. It seemed a bit out of character for her. Further questioning led me to wonder why Miguel, the son of a distinctly maternal line, is still proudly claimed as “a Rivera.” 

Some quick research clued me in to the basics. Traditionally, children born in Mexico are given two surnames - the first is the family name of the father, and the second, the family name of the mother. Suddenly, “Miguel Rivera” makes much more sense to me. “Rivera” must have been Imelda’s family name. She keeps it because it belongs to her, not to Hector. 

And this is where we enter headcanon territory. 

Why, then, is Hector referred to as “Hector Rivera?” 

Of course, it’s likely that there are Mexican naming traditions that I’m not aware of, or an in-universe explanation that I haven’t encountered. I am pretty new to this fandom, so any corrections, canonical or cultural, are welcomed!

But my favorite theory is that Hector is an orphan - he doesn’t have a family name. Or at least, he doesn’t know his. 

Hector was born in a time when conception out of wedlock was the worst thing that could happen to a woman. And naturally, the same sexual double standards that have plagued women throughout history would have been in full-force during Porfirian-era Mexico. I won’t speculate on the details of Hector’s parentage. All he knows is that his mother was very young and heavily pregnant when she sought help from the local church. Nobody knew where she came from, and she refused to answer any questions. She died during childbirth, alone and scared. Her name was Maria. 

Hector spent his early childhood in a crowded orphanage on the outskirts of Santa Cecilia. His memories of that place are vague, and he doesn’t like to talk about it, not even to Imelda. As soon as he’s old enough, Hector begins to spend as much time as possible away from that cursed place, and by the time he’s nine years old, Hector escapes altogether. He is officially a street kid. 

(ask me later about Ernesto)

Marrying into the Rivera family would have been huge for Hector! (The story of Imelda’s family is one for another post). Not just because Hector is starry-eyed in love with Imelda - though that’s a big enough perk on its own! But for the first time in his life, Hector can claim a name. A place to belong. A family. 

And so it’s a little funny and a little sad, how both of them cling so desperately to the name of Rivera. 

Imelda because Rivera belongs solely to her. She can rip photos, silence voices, and stifle stories, but try as she might, she cannot erase the memory of Hector from the many sleepless nights or scrub the little quirks of his personality from her daughter. 

So she claims what is hers. She proudly displays her family name above the little shop, the name of a woman. She builds her kingdom from the dirt up, and when Julio peeks hesitantly into the workshop to discuss his intentions with Coco, Imelda looks him hard in the eye and lays down her law. If Julio wants to marry her daughter, he will marry into her family. No more music. No more dancing. No other name. Julio will be a Rivera, through and through, because Coco is a Rivera, through and through. 

And so the tradition continues. 

And Hector. Hector embraces the name of Rivera just as fiercely as Imelda because in a way, it is also his. Maybe he wasn’t born into this family, but Imelda chose him. Wanted him. Named him. He clings to that name for 96 years in the same way that he clings to the memories of his precious daughter and the conviction of true, timeless love. It is all he has. To deny his name, Rivera, is to deny everything that he was, and is, and desperately hopes for his future. 

#pixar coco #coco #hector rivera #imelda rivera #coco headcanon #coco 2017 #i seriously have so many headcanons #and it's hard not to dump them all into one massive post #ask box is open #or shoot me a message! #i am here to make friends #hector rivera protection squad