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danny-chase · 2 years

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The whole 'Lazarus Pit Madness' sounds like something some author decided to explore in a fic and suddenly BAM, everyone was using that or thinking it was canon. It happens a lot in the fandom, like Stephanie loving waffles or baby stalker Tim Drake. Honestly I'm really curious if the whole "Bruce started using Jason's death as a cautionary tale/he dismissed Jason's accomplishments as Robin" is true or also popular fanon. Any thoughts on that one?

So like... it's hard to say and it's also tricky territory because author's 100% come off as victim blamey when they have characters talk about Jason as Robin because they needed to somehow justify Tim being Robin after Jason died.

Some of this also has to do with the differences between pre-crisis and post-crisis Jason. A lot of the way fandom thinks of Jason's time as Robin seems to be influenced by both - the stealing tires off the Batmobile comes from post-crisis and the happy go lucky kid comes more from pre-crisis. Post-crisis Jason also wasn't around for a ton of time before he died, but he's the one all forms of modern Jason are based off of (in flashbacks as well). (And side note, it's not 100% clear how much of pre-crisis appearances carried over, but I'm 95% sure Jason's appearances in The New Teen Titans/The New Titans carry over because of a few lines surrounding Dick reacting to Jason's death).

Part of the reason fandom claims Jason was turned into a cautionary tale by Bruce is that whenever characters think about Jason they describe him as reckless. These characters do not remember pre-crisis Jason. This is the Jason they remember:

Batman (1940) #415

In this case Jason attacks Crane by himself, putting on a gas mask and throwing a bucket down to smash the glass... despite Bruce telling him not to. He does succeed at taking down the scarecrow but Bruce is annoyed because he didn't follow the instructions and doesn't want him "taking any unnecessary risk before I think he's ready."

It's hardly the only time Bruce scolds Jason for being reckless, in post-crisis, Jason swaps himself for hostages in his very first mission

Batman (1940) #410

(He's also a little nerd which is hilarious like do you mind if i stay up to do extra homework ssbjfjeksks). But I do want to highlight here that at least at first Bruce saw the recklessness not as a problem. In the issue after this he's momentarily dissapointed by Jason losing his temper against Two-Face (he just found out Two-Face was presumed responsible for his father's death).

In #416 Brue calls Jason "sloppy" while narrating and notes that it's not easy keeping him alive. Dick is annoyed because Jason messed up his drug bust (by the end of the issue they do kick ass together and Dick leaves on good terms).

By #421 we're here

Batman (1940) #421

Notably after this is the Felipe Garzonas case and Jason dies shortly after. My point in all this is laying out the context in which Bruce viewed Jason leading up to his death.

Here's some of his narration from #426, the first issue of death in the family.

"I should have known something like this would happen. Robin-- Jason Todd-- had been acting odd of late. Very moody. Resentful. Reckless. That attitude is about to get him killed."

"He obviously has a dangerously high level of aggressive energy to work off."

Basically Bruce comes to the conclusion that he should have like gotten Jason help coping with his parents deaths before he started training him to be Robin and fires Jason from Robin, and from there you know the story. All of this is to point out that Bruce watched Jason steadily grow more violent and reckless up to his death (and before I get angry anons saying all those people deserved it, yes the reason for Jason's actions is understandable, but to Bruce, this is what he's observing). I've seen people almost be surprised when it comes up in recent canon (most recently with the Nightwing Annual). But they started the whole "Jason is reckless" thing right after post-crisis hit.

Now with this added context, when the characters talk about Jason post him dying what they're saying isn't quite as idk damning. Jason dying also recontextualized how Bruce saw his relationship with Dick (remember when he said being reckless was something Dick would have done)

From The New Titans #55

Bruce: "You were lucky. When you didn't listen to me, your injuries weren't fatal. Of course, by the time I properly trained you--"

Dick: "Bruce, c'mon... lay off. I'm not here to fight."

And later

Bruce: "Why did I think I needed a partner? They slow you down! They make you worry about them rather than doing your job! He wouldn't listen. He wanted to do everything his way. He was just like you. In a few years I would have had to fire him as I did to you."

And so to some extent Dick has also been recontextualized as a reckless Robin in the modern era, most notably in his Robin: Year One story and in his origin story which has been told countless times. So this phenomenon isn't unique to Jason it's part of how DC justifies Bruce taking the first two Robins in, in the first place.

Now getting to the times in canon where Jason's been discussed to the younger members of the Batfam. First off we have Tim, who already knows Jason died and wasn't really told anything about it. In his introduction he kind of has a weird bias against Jason.

From Batman (1940) #440

Tim (narrating): "He [Bruce] seemed happier with Dick."

He also is pretty obsessed with Dick. Even recounting their first meeting he talks about remembering nothing about the circus except Dick and the show, and had tons of nightmares due to the whole watching Dick's parents die thing, which cemented the quadruple flip in his brain. So he's pretty biased. Anyways, no one actually told him what really happens and he makes a lot of assumptions about Jason, based on the news reports and clips he's seen of post-crisis Jason (he was also following the news on Dick as well). Here's how he talks about Jason (and remember, Dick and Bruce haven't actually told him anything about Jason):

He's kinder in his analysis of Jason here, Detective Comics #618:

Tim (narrating): "When Gotham needed him, he was there. When the Batman needed him, he was there. He was a hero. But he was nothing special, really. Just a boy, who was taught-- trained-- brought to his full potential by someone who knew how. Just a boy... like me. I can do it. I know I can. One day I'll be as good as Jason. One day I'll wear the suit."

From Batman (1940) #445, he's more judgemental:

Tim (narrating): "You think my anger will boil over, the way Jason's did. I can assure you, it won't."

And in the next issue he hallucinates/dreams (he wakes up at the end) Dick and Jason and here's what his mind conjures up:

Batman (1940) #456

😬😬😬😬 So 100% Jason was turned into a cautionary tale here, but it wasn't by Bruce it was by Tim. It's not completely bad takes all the time, though, the arc shows he feels pressure to live up to the mantle's expectations (Dick making the mantle a world wide icon and Jason dying for it are 2 things he cites).

Now the next time I recall Jason being brought up by Tim is when Dick and Tim have the following conversation, and for context this is also the issue where Dick tells the story of almost getting beaten to death by Two Face.

Robin (1993) #0 aka Tim forces Dick to talk about his trauma because we needed exposition

Dick (about Two Face story): "Look, can we talk about this later?"

Tim: "I'm sorry, Nightwing. It's just that you can answer lot of questions for me."

Dick: "Okay, fire another one at me."

Tim: "How about Jason Todd?"

Dick: "You don't throw softballs, do you? Jason was a different case. He was a street kid, a thief. Batman saw something in Jason-- a toughness. Maybe he decided it was time for a new kind of Robin. Jason had the right stuff. He held his own against the worst Gotham had to offer. But Jason was reckless. The role of Robin turned him into a daredevil. He took chances. Openly defied Batman's orders."

Dick: "And that's what killed him. He went solo against the Joker. I never thought there'd be another Robin after that."

And I'm not sure why Dick came to this conclusion, unlike Tim he wasn't following the news, and he met Jason. Bruce never actually told Dick how Jason died, so my assumption is that at some point he read the case file, which may or may not have had Bruce noting that he fired Jason for being reckless right before Jason died. And the whole "he died because he was like you" thing definitely left an impact onto how Dick saw Jason. Dick's not lecturing Tim here though about some kind of cautionary tale, Tim asked about Jason and he answered based off his post-crisis memories of Jason.

Post this, Tim brings Jason up in this argument insinuating he thinks Jason was reckless:

Teen Titans (2003) #6

Bruce: "You need to listen to reason, Robin. You're acting too emotional. Disobeying orders, like--"

Tim: "Like Jason?"

Bruce: "You're nothing like Jason."

And being willing to bring up Jason in arguments isn't a one time thing.

Batman: Gotham Knights #26

Dick: "One: as long as you're with Batman-- or me-- you're safe. Neither of us would ever let anything happen to you. Two: We don't quit. Not once has anyone who knows Batman's mission failed to get up again after being knocked down. And three: Batman doesn't kill. Not ever."

Tim: "One: Jason Todd. Two: James Gordon. Three: So far. Sorry."

Which is off the beaten track of cautionary tale but it's still not very respectful of Jason's memory (at least he apologizes in Gotham Knights though).

So that's it for Tim, moving onto Cass. This is the first time Jason's brought up by Bruce to a protege (that I've found). For context Cass lost her perfect fighting skills and Bruce fires her from Batgirl because he doesn't want her getting killed:

Batgirl (2000) #7

This is a pretty far cry from the Bruce we saw before, talking about how reckless Jason was and how Dick was lucky, etc. etc. Out of universe I think this is partly because we don't need to justify Cass becoming Batgirl the way there needed to be justification for Tim (your average joe) becoming Robin. In universe it could point to Bruce having some growth and accepting that all of them are reckless (unfortunately he looses it by the time UTRH happens). To me Jason isn't a cautionary tale here, rather he's the reason Bruce is so committed to keeping his proteges safe.

However probably the scene that people took and ran with is this one (link) from Detective Comics #790. Bruce draws parallels between Jason and Steph here, describing them both at reckless (again, he's not wrong, but he's still a hypocrite), and saying "maybe it's not too late for Stephanie." But he doesn't use this as a cautionary tale for someone straight to their face, he's telling this to Cass, and only Cass. He doesn't go blabbing this theory to Barbara, Dick, or Tim. And it does come out of a legitimate concern of seeing areas where Steph and Jason were similar. However he is using Jason's death to justify keeping Steph out of action. (Side note: which is complete bullshit, the way he treats Steph screams of misogyny because she's not all that much different than Tim and it's implied by Alfred he used her as Robin to bait Tim into coming back) Anyways, this all happens right before War Games and so... this was basically a scene foreshadowing Steph's death.

Something else to point out is Cass notes that no one ever talks about Jason. They don't bring him up willy nilly - neither Dick or Bruce likes talking about Jason.

Onto Damian. I think if Dick tried lecturing Damian about how he needs to be careful or something because Jason died, Damian would call him a loser. After the events of Battle for the Cowl, Damian does his homework on the Red Hood, as even though no one told him anything, he knows enough to insult Jason.

Batman & Robin (2009) #5

Dick: "Jason Todd. Be careful, he's--"

Damian: "The second Robin, the one after you. He looked different the last time we slapped him around."

Damian: "Back for more? I heard you had your brains beaten out by the Joker, but I had no idea you were this big of an idiot."

Later in this issue we get Dick's incredibly brief explanation to Damian being:

Dick: "Bruce thought he could save Jason... and he might have if the Joker hadn't gotten to him first with a crowbar and high explosives."

So to Damian, Jason was very much not a cautionary tale.

As for the other kids? Steph never even heard about Jason, because the writers never took her as a serious part of the Batfam (outside of maybe Dixon, who's own writing was steeped in misogyny). Duke roasts Jason for dying, which is hilarious, but in the new52 and rebirth Jason's alive, so there's not really a point to cautionary tales. I don't even know if Harper knows he died.

TL;DR: In the comics I've read, Jason's not treated as a cautionary tale by Bruce for the most part, with a couple exceptions that I've listed here. It's not anywhere close to the magnitude of what fandom makes it out to be 🤷‍♀️

#batfam #batfamily #batman #jason todd #asks #momo don't look #image description in alt

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giorno-plays-piano · 4 years

Text

The Paths We Take

Pairing: Fairy King!Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, kidnapping, mentions of stalking.

Words: 2789.

Summary: As your little sister has been kidnapped by the fair folk, you have to set her free, exchanging your life for hers.

________________

"Remember, you shall not give him your name." The old woman told you, putting a little iron coin into your mouth. "Wait for him to give you his word. Unless he does, neither you nor your sister are safe."

You bowed your head to her, thankful for all her advices that could save your life - this woman was the only one to escape faerie ring and stay alive. She was a young girl when she got lost and returned when her hair turned grey, her skin wrinkled. Her scarred face warned the ones wandering the woods from going too far to the north.

"Do not be afraid." She said gently, caressing your cheek wet from tears with her rough, work-weary hand. "Your sister is still alive. Do everything right, and you will set her free."

You nodded and lifted a heavy basket filled with jugs and jars with wine, honey and butter, your offering to the wee folk to pass safely. If not your stupid, uncaring sister, you would never have to set your foot so far into the forest. But with no one to seek protection from, you had to go there yourself.

If only your sister didn't spend her days dancing in the woods despite all your warnings. You admitted you didn't raise her well, yet with no one by your side you spent all your time trying to provide for the both of you - life in this little village surrounded by woods had never been an easy one, especially for orphans.

As she had never listened to your pleas, no wonder one day your sister didn't return. The villagers had immediately gathered to start the search, but the only thing they found was a piece of your sister's dress hanging on a bush right near the faerie ring. Everyone knew then what had happened to her, and no one was ready to risk their life to save a silly young girl who didn't know better but enter the realm of the fair folk. People were helpless against the faeries, and many of the villagers had lost their loved ones to them. You could still find human bones if you went too far into the woods.

The basket was heavy, and you exhaled loudly as you set your foot outside of the elderly woman's hut, looking at the dark gigantic trees far away with worry. The woman told you that you wouldn't return - you would ask the fairies to take you away instead of your poor little sister.

"Wait, Y/N!" You heard someone's voice and turned around to see another woman, her hair all grey too despite her age - she was the one who had lost her only daugther to the wee folk a few years back. Since then she had aged faster than any other woman in the village. "I... I have something to help you!"

You blinked when she got close to you and reached out to your face, a little bottle in her hand. You closed her eyes as she rubbed a strange smelling salve into your eyelid, covering your eye with something that made you feel like someone poured a bucket of cold water over your head. Inhaling deeply, you opened your eyes and realized one eye was seeing much better than the other. The objects became sharper, the colors more bright as you stared in the woman's face with confusion. What was that?

"This is what one witch gave me when I was looking for my daughter." She whispered quietly as if she was afraid the Fae would hear her. "Now they won't fool you with their glamor. But don't show them you can see everything!"

"I won't." You assured the woman quickly and squeezed her shoulder gratefully. "God bless you for your kindness."

She nodded and hurried away, hiding the bottle inside her long worn out dress and never looking back at you. You knew she was scared. No one dared to come with you to the faerie ring, afraid to be tacken away by the creatures they feared and detested. Yet you were grateful to the woman - she knew how much it hurt to lose your beloved ones to the fair folk.

Turning to the woods, you licked the iron coin in your mouth and pushed it to the side, pouching it in your cheek. It didn't feel pleasant, but it was the least of your worries now as you went closer and closer to the gloomy forest, thinking of all the dangers it hid. Why did you sister go there? Why didn't she dance somewhere on the meadow, basking in the sun? What made her forget all the warnings every child was given?

Biting your cheek, you stepped inside the forest and clenched your fists, following the path an elderly woman had showed you. You stopped near the huge stump, taking a few pieces of fresh bread out of your basket and placing them on an improvised wooden altar for little forest sprites as an offering. Although you didn't need them to guide you, you asked them not to play with your path, twisting it such way you might end in the village again instead of the faerie ring. Losing their favor was not wise.

As you moved further, you sensed yourself speeding up despite feeling lightweight as if you were a little feather carried by the wind. For a moment you felt frightened, but then realized the sprites took a liking to the offering you brought them and helped you on your way. Did they know why you were coming so far into the woods? Maybe they did.

The further you moved, the more nervous you became, afraid to put your head up and look upon your surroundings - you saw elderflower glowing on your left and averted your eyes immediately, afraid to be charmed before you reached your destination. Then a few blue sparkles lit up the trees to your right, and you hurried further into the woods, wiping away your tears. You could make it. You could save your sister despite fairies' attempts to charm or scare you away.

Soon you moved to the left, leaving the path, and saw the ring formed by those little white mushrooms. It looked odd as the ring was the perfect round shape as if someone purposely made it.

Sighing heavily, you had doused your lantern and set it on the grass. Dear God, you were truly doing it. Licking the iron coin in your mouth, you pressed your lips into a thin line and stepped inside the ring, closing your eyes for a second. The moment you were past the line of mushrooms, your senses were clouded, your head light, your body almost flowing in the air - you could feel you entered the other realm as the forest lit up around you, and you heard the laugh and charming voices.

When you opened your eyes, you saw a great fire and many strange-looking creatures circling it. They danced, screamed, laughed and cried as they sat together, certainly celebrating something, and you stared at them in awe, blinking and unable to move. Your left eye showed you graceful fairies with their long curly hair laying on their shoulders, their faces strikingly beautiful, their bodies glowing warmly as they sat close to the fire. But your right eye, the one covered with that salve... it showed you ugly, revolting creatures with their fingers crooked, their faces dry and wrinkled, tree branches piercing their backs, their silky clothes being just some dirty rags. Not all the fairies looked distgusting, but many, many of them did. You almost flinched when they looked at you, standing in the ring with your large basket full of food and wine.

You didn't see the man sitting on what appeared to be a throne on the other side of the cirle, hid by the flames of the fire, but once he rose to his feet everyone fell silent. He was tall, well-built, looking stronger than any man in the village, his dress made out of pure golden threads. Certainly, his glamor spell was way stronger than the charmed salve made by the witch as both your eyes showed only one of his forms, unlike the other fairies.

He was the fae's lord, you realized as you bowed deeply, refusing to look him into his deep blue eyes. You didn't even see his face clearly as you stared at your own shoes, clenching the basket.

"What a lovely human I see." The man said, and you heard the wee folk chuckling at his words, whispering something to each other. "Will you give me your name, little one?"

You gulped and froze on the spot. You knew well you should never respond to the fae's question with your name as you would simply hand them the power over you with it, "giving" yourself to them. But staying silent was considered rude, nonetheless.

"Forgive me, lord fae, for I cannot. But I can tell you it is Acantha."

A thorn. It wasn't your true name, of course, as even saying, not giving it to the fair folk was dangerous and unwise. The lord fae knew it well, of course, and narrowed his eyes at you, smiling.

"My name is Steven, little one. I am the King of the Fae, and this forest belongs to me just like the meadows, fields, rivers, and lakes." Though he was smiling, it didn't reach his eyes - you didn't realize you weren't bowing to him anymore and stared at his pale face, glowing in the dark. "Why did you come here, little one? What are you searching for?"

As you heard nasty cackling to your right, you clenched your teeth, realizing these very creatures had trapped your poor sister for their fun. Now you saw many of them drinking not only ambrosia and wine, but also a dark red liquid that looked like blood.

Murderers. Ugly beasts banished by God himself to all the darkest places, unworthy of sunlight. Did they claim they owned the meadows and rivers and lakes? No, the villagers did. And they would drive out and kill all the fair folk with iron knives and pitchforks who would dare to come out the woods. The forest was the only place humans were afraid to enter.

Gritting your teeth, you bowed your head again and gently set the basket in front of the fairy's circle, taking a step away. You had to keep calm. You needed to get your sister out.

"I am searching for my sister, fae lord. She's a silly little thing, and I'm afraid she took the wrong path in the forest, disturbing your kind folk with her dancing." You said, choosing your words wisely and not looking at anyone, savouring the taste of iron in your mouth. The coin was muffling your words, but no fairy had sensed anything yet. "I came to plead you for help, fae lord. Please, bring her to me, let her come back to the realm she belongs to safely, and I will give you whatever you would like me to."

You sighed, squeezing your eyes shut. You said it. You just exchanged your life with hers. If he took your word, you would be trapped here, in this cursed place belonging to The Unseelie Court.

The King looked content with you being so courteous, your offering very generous for a simple village girl, indeed. He motioned to two forest sprites to bring your basket to him and pulled a jug filled with the finest wine you could find, setting it near his thrones while handing the basket to others. As they flew to it, ripping it apart and claiming whatever they could reach, you bit down on your tongue, feeling utterly disgusted. All of them deserved a pair of shoes made from branding iron.

"You have good manners, little one." The King smiled at you, and the next moment he wasn't standing near his throne made from gold and decorated with gemstones shining in the dark, but cupping your chin as he stared down at you, his warm breath tickling your skin. "You brought a nice offering. I will give your sister back to you, and sprites will escourt her to your people. I give you my word."

Your eyes went wide. He said exactly what you wanted him to, and it only took you an offering and a plea. How was it possible? You knew well how cunning, haughty, and treacherous the wee folk could be. But the King himself gave you his word. It was an oath the fae couldn't break.

Before you could bow your head again and express your gratitude, however, the King had suddenly put his warm palms on your shoulders and turned you around, forcing you to stare at the procession, several fairies leading your still dancing sister to the fire. You could see her feet bleeding, but she had that strange little smile stretching his lips and enlightening his eyes as she kept moving, laughing and throwing her hands into the air. Her clothes were dirty, her hair disheveled, yet she didn't see it, caring about nothing but dancing.

You realized you were crying only when the King gently wiped your cheek with his palm.

"Set her free once she steps out the ring." He said as fairies lured her to that little circle of mushrooms. "Bring her home safely and make her forget all that she saw. Do not ever let her come back."

You tried to make a step towards her, take her into your embrace, kiss her cheeks, whisper her to never set her foot into the forest again, and ask her to promise she would take care of herself, but the King still had his hands on your shoulders, and his grip was becoming tighter and tighter, forcing you to stay still despite all your attempts to run to her. He wouldn't let you tell goodbye to your own sister. You were made to watch as she was taken away from you, and your eyes were full with tears again. Dear Lord, why? Why didn't he let you approach her for a mere minute? You wanted to scream and cry, but realized you couldn't open your mouth. The Fae King had charmed you.

Once your sister disappeared inside the faerie ring, you had collapsed to the ground, your fingers buried into your hair, pulling at the roots in despair. You would never see that little girl again. Cruel laugh of the fairies surrounding you made you face wet from all the humiliation and pain.

"Shhh." You heard the Fae King speaking as he got down to you and caressed your hair gently. "It will be alright. She will live her life like all humans do, and you will stay here and forget all your sorrows."

You cried harder at his words, and an iron coin the elderly woman gave you slipped on your tongue. The King had immediately reached out to your face and opened his hand, looking at you patiently. Now he knew you carried a coin in your mouth.

Pausing for a moment, you realized it was meaningless: it was over now. You were in the hands of the wee folk, and no one would come to save you. You submitted, dropping a coin to the fae lord's hand - he hissed as it burnt his skin, but once he clenched his huge fist the coin disappeared as if you had never brought it in your mouth.

"See? It's easy, little one." The fairy murmured, dropping a kiss to the top of your head and making you turn your face up as he wiped the remains of the salve from your eyelid - he saw it, too. In the next moment the darkness became light, and ugly creatures surrounding you turned into the most beautiful beings you had ever seen. "You will forget. Don't you know you were born under the Milk Moon, little one? You shouldn't live the life full of hardships as a peasants' daughter. You deserve to be happy in my lands."

With me, you could hear his whisper inside your head.

He didn't tell you he had been watching you gathering herbs and berries in his forest close to the village for years. He didn't tell you he lured your sister into the faerie ring, knowing you would follow and try to save her, ready to trade your own life for hers.

You didn't tell him you kept an iron nail in the pocket of your dress, prepared to fight for your life till the very end. You weren't born to become a little doll of the Fairy King, and you were ready to prove it.

________________

Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki @helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin @void-hoechlin @abyssaint @heeeyitskay @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @navegandoaciegas @rosalynshields @brattycherubwrites @sllooney @angrythingstarlight @lovelydarkdaydream

#steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers #steve rogers #captain america #yandere

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3laxx · 3 years

Text

Bring It Home - Chapter 11

Turning her golden eyes up to the memorial, she winced. Luz looked so lifelike, so authentic, that she almost felt as if the young teen could start moving at any moment. She stood proudly, as Amity had remembered her, her chest puffed out and her hands holding a light glyph while her coat fluttered behind her.

And finally, the end is here. The legacy Luz left to the isles. A very smart person told me that a legacy is planting seeds in a garden you never get to see (yea ofc it's a Hamilton quote xD) and honestly, that's exactly what Luz did in this series.

Ao3 / FF.net

---

Slowly, Amity approached the memorial they had erected for Luz only last week. Matt and Gus had been working on it like mad, to get it finished right after they had torn down the statue of the emperor just after the riot had started.

Her entire body ached and she was heavily leaning onto her crutches, but she hadn’t wanted to push this event out any further than need be.

As soon as the healing coven had announced that she was safe to go, she had jumped up from the bed and gotten ready for the ceremony.

Matt and Gus had managed to capture Luz’s spirit so well, Amity’s heart ached.

Grunting, she took step after step, before Willow joined her side and Gus started coming from the other. They took a short break, still watched by the people of Bonesborough before Amity could move on again. Eda was already waiting for them by the memorial, along with Raine, Lilith, and Camila.

Amity gave a strained smile, then she straightened up and managed to take the steps up to the monument. The people of Bonesborough, many of which had taken part in the revolution in the past four years, stayed respectfully quiet.

Amity turned to let her gaze wander over the crowd which had closed after her, looking down into expectant faces, before turning back to her family. Edric and Emira had joined Eda on the other side and softly smiled at her.

The years after they had opened the portal door to the human realm had rapidly picked up the pace. Belos had discovered them building an illegal portal and had started chasing them, hunting them down, her family and friends and everyone keeping ties to Amity and Eda.

After running away, they had formed a rebellion, under Eda’s and her administration, together with everyone brave enough to come to join them. Word had spread fast, and they had been able to build a base, practice fighting, and gear up in a matter of three years.

More and more people from all over the isles had joined their cause until they had become a powerful opposition to Belos’ unbroken power.

Even Principal Bump had joined their forces, after pronouncing the school a neutral ground to ensure the young generations’ safety.

The fighting had picked up. Some members of the Covens had sided with Belos, some with the rebellion, and the Emperor’s Coven had only picked up in strength.

About a week before, Amity had finally led the invasion of the castle grounds and had managed to corner the emperor and kill him. His right hand, Kikimora, and some other coven guards had fought ferociously, but the rebellion had won. Finally, they had overthrown the totalitarian government and had implemented a completely new, emergency senate, as Lilith had called it, to decide on the best possible system to found now that they had all doors open again.

Camila had been put in as an advisor on human systems, as well as Bump as a historian on ancient Isles systems and they were currently in the process of finding a form of government that was fit for everyone on the Isles.

Along with a lot of other fighters, Amity had been injured and put on bed rest for a week, but she had announced before their invasion, that she’d devote this uprising to Luz.

After all, the human had kicked off the idea of a revolution, she had managed to change Amity’s mind, and she had been the cause of all this to start, after all, the portal she had come through had been the turning point of Belos’ reign.

He had carried his aspirations into the grave with him. Amity had never learned what he had wanted to do with the portal, but she hadn’t cared, either.

All she had cared about was to end his terror, to end the coven system, and to make things fair again on the Boiling Isles, after fifty years of a tight-knitted and violent reign.

And, of course, to make a legacy. For Luz.

Sniffling, she nodded at Matt to step forward, presenting her a metal box of Luz’s most important belongings. Camila, Eda, and her had searched them out together to donate them to this cause.

Her gaze flickered over to her family once more, finding all eyes glued to her.

Edric and Emira had fought all battles on her side, after breaking completely with their parents upon learning that they had staffed Belos’ ranks with abomatons over the years. They had joined the rebellion as some of the first to do so, and they were both bandaged as well. Emira was sporting a pretty nasty scar over one half of her face where an abomaton had used a fire spell on her. According to Viney it only gave her “more character”, as ridiculously cheesy as Amity thought that was.

Edric had lost a leg, but he had quickly been able to get a prosthesis by their skilled healers, and by now it was almost invisible, except for the slight stumble every time he started walking and briefly forgot he was missing a leg. Amity could still only shake her head at her brother’s statement to forget something like that. Eda was smiling at her, with King standing beside her. He was a good head taller than her by now and at eighteen years of age, he had significantly grown.

She and Eda had grown closer after Luz had died, and she had almost become a sort of mother figure to her as she had become to Luz. Lilith next to her gave her a small nod and Amity gratefully nodded back. Her mentor had stepped up as a leading figure in both Amity’s life and the rebellion, and she had managed to save Amity a few times, from her own ferocity sometimes.

Camila gave her a small smile as well. After they had gotten to know each other, they had hit it off quite well, Amity even starting to live with her when the Owl House got too crowded for Amity’s anxiety. She had almost become the same warm energy in her life as Luz had been and it hadn’t been hard for her to understand why Luz had wanted to get back so desperately after she had struggled with that due to her own issues with her mother.

Willow placed a hand on Amity’s shoulder and caught her gaze. Managing her crutches, Amity placed her bandaged hand on top of hers and squeezed softly.

She had stayed with her through it all, not even wavering in her stance when her fathers had been arrested in the hopes of blackmailing one of Amity’s closest friends. Unquestioningly, she had followed Amity into every battle, and even when she had lost an eye, she hadn’t backed down as Amity’s closest and most important commander.

Gus on her other side softly pulled her into a one-armed hug, before she looked over to him. He had thrown himself headfirst into the rebellion and hadn’t even rested once to fight for their cause, only when Willow had forced him to.

Humming, Amity finally handed her crutches to Willow and let Gus hold her upright, so she could search out the bucket list she had kept with her all these years.

It had become thinner and more fragile with all the use, ripping along a few more folding lines, one edge even coming off. Amity had had to glue it back on.

But it had overcome, had traveled with her for over ten years. She gave the piece of paper a soft look, gulping down her tears before stroking all the tasks she had written down.

The paper looked so worn and old, she almost didn’t believe it had only been ten years.

Sniffling, she traced her old handwriting, before tapping over all the checks.

She had decided to leave the first task open. What even was a real witch?

It didn’t matter to her. It didn’t matter in the least. She had known Luz and had watched her become a great witch against all expectations. She didn’t care if Luz was a real witch, or if she had been, or Eda or Belos or anyone for that matter. It wasn’t that she had given up on searching for an answer.

It just gave her a certain kind of satisfaction to leave this task open, as the only one, to leave all possibilities open as well. She had no idea what kind of witch Luz would’ve become in the future, and she had no idea where her path would be leading after all this.

She knew damn well, though, that she was proud of both Luz’s and her accomplishments.

Part of her had contemplated setting a neat little check behind the first task, but leaving it undone left all uncertainties for the future. Had she checked that off in the beginning, she had never known that ten years later, she would emerge victorious from a revolution. Who knew where she would be ten or twenty years from now?

Checking it off felt restricting to her, so she had refused to deem it a complete task.

She had no right defining what a real witch was.

With Willow holding the Azura book up that had helped Amity and Luz bond, she put the list down on it and checked off the very last task on the list. Make a legacy.

Luz had laughed, she had learned and danced and snuck into peoples’ hearts.

She had changed the world, she had changed Amity’s life and touched so many others. She had been the cause for this revolution and Amity would see to it that her name would appear in the history books.

Luz had changed the demon realm, by touching everything with her light and joy, and she had given magic to magicless demons by rediscovering the ancient ways.

This was her legacy.

Willow placed the book in the box which contained Luz’s Grom picture, her cat hoodie which hadn’t entirely washed out all the blood from her attack, and some other personal items, as well as locks of hair from her mother Camila, Eda, and her closest friends Amity, Willow and Gus.

As the last thing, Amity put in the bucket list, with all the checks but one.

Eda stepped forward and put a preservation spell over all the things in the box to keep them from falling apart and rotting, then she pressed a soft kiss to Amity’s forehead.

Smiling, she felt a tear rolling down her cheek while watching Matt closing the box and sealing it with another spell.

The box was placed in a hole they had dug at the foot of the statue and buried before a heavy stone slate was placed over it and sealed in place. For a moment, they stayed silent, before Amity turned to the people to lift her fist, propping herself up heavily on her crutch that she had gotten back from Willow.

“For freedom!”, she exclaimed, and the Bonesborough citizens repeated a thousandfold with their chant back, deafening cheers filling the whole city before Amity turned back to the monument.

Her friends accompanied Eda and Camila in the descend down the stairs, while Amity stayed back, just before the stone slate they had just fixed in place.

A wave of emotions overcame her, with the cheers of Bonesborough behind her, that she slowly placed her crutches in front of her and propped herself up heavily, before lowering herself down.

She didn’t see how her family and friends jumped, before freezing in place upon realizing what she was doing.

The chants died out when her knee hit the ground, her hands still holding onto the crutches as she lowered her head.

The city got silent again before a wave of rustling and some steps sounded.

Everyone started copying her, everyone lowering themselves to one knee and keeping their gaze downcast, while Amity kneeled.

She didn’t realize any of this.

Droning out everything around her, she breathed, slowly, before smiling to herself.

This was Luz’s legacy. She wouldn’t be able to dance with her anymore, but she could remember it. She could remember Luz’s smile and her light whenever she would talk or think about her and keep her alive that way.

Finally, she lifted her head again and softly groaned in pain, but finally, she felt free of her burden. The tears welling up in her eyes would most likely stay, as well as the lump in her throat, but her burden was gone, and she knew, she had freed Luz.

Smiling to herself, she blinked the slight blur from her vision.

“I love you…”, she mumbled while looking up to Luz’s distinct features, “I never stopped.”

The twenty-four-year-old witch slowly rose to her feet again and turned, looking over the kneeling population of the isles, before giving a small smile as she remembered how she had experienced Luz ten years ago.

“For Luz.”

---

Let me know if you liked it and if I should open suggestions for you guys?

#toh #the owl house #home series #bring it home #fanfic #amity blight #willow park #gus porter #eda clawthorne #lilith clawthorne #edric blight #emira blight #raine whispers #camila noceda #revolution #sadness #legacy

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valiantly-onward · 3 years

Text

The Serpentine War Ch. 5

Chapter 5: Fire And Water

Ray drew a hand across the back of his scruff. He needed a shave, badly. He used to shave every other day. But used to was so long ago. Ray hadn’t realized how many months had flown by until Maya mentioned something about his improvement since the New Year.

“What?” he said, parrying her strike.

Maya lowered her katana. “Your form. It actually looks like a form now.”

In Maya-speak, that meant brilliant, so Ray took it.

Maya frowned in concentration. She was about his age, seventeen or eighteen, and wore a simple red outfit that made Ray feel self-conscious about his own ripped jacket. Black hair hung lightly over her shoulders. She had a proud face - high cheekbones and dark, pretty eyes.

She raised the blade again. “I’ll defend this time.”

So she did. Back and forth they went, so painfully slow that Ray wanted to burst. But it was working - last week, they’d reviewed the moves at full speed and Ray kept up.

They worked themselves to a sweat until the monastery door slid open. They stopped to face Wu as he stepped down into the courtyard.

“Good morning, Master Wu.” Maya bowed.

Ray tried not to wrinkle his nose. Maya always called the guy Master but the word felt alien on Ray’s tongue, especially applied to a man who looked barely older than Ray himself (though Ray suspected he wasn’t). And Wu didn’t seem to mind, title or no.

Nevertheless, Ray nodded his head respectfully. Steam wafted from the teacup in Wu’s hand. In his other hand was the ever-present Nin-Jo, the bamboo weapon that Maya favored. Ray had laughed the first time he saw her training with it. Three seconds later, when the butt of the staff swung against his gut, he promised himself he’d never laugh again.

Wu sipped his tea. “Good morning. Today, we shall train powers.”

A frown flitted across Ray’s face, which Wu ignored. Ray thought of all those months ago, and the promise the Master made.

I am a ninja, Wu had said. But I will not teach you to be a ninja. I will teach you what you need to know to face the Serpentine. You will learn your powers. You will learn strength. More will follow in time.

But Ray had not faced the Serpentine. He had not learned his powers either. They refused to emerge. A dark thought lingered in Ray’s mind. Was it possible for Elemental powers to skip two generations?

Ray’s only consolation was that Maya was struggling too, and she’d been at this much longer than he had. At least she could move water. Fire would not listen to Ray.

Wu left his cup on the patio for a moment and stepped toward them. He set a water bucket down right before Maya - where had that come from? - and said, “Maya, remember what we’ve talked about. Flow. Move with the water, like the water.”

Maya nodded and faced Ray with an unreadable expression. From what Ray could gather, Maya was a private person, which meant that was about as much as Ray could gather. What little else he knew? A) she was pretty, b) she was smart, c) her presence at the monastery was about getting out from under her parents’ thumbs, and d) the two of them were alike like that. But unlike him, she’d been training with Wu for years.

“Ray,” Wu said, and Ray tried not to treat it like a rude interruption of his thoughts. “Your powers are being stubborn. But fire is not stubborn. It leaps out, eager to consume all it touches. Harness that feeling.”

“Let’s just do it.” Ray closed his eyes as he’d watched Maya do.

He tried. For many long moments, he tried. The mountain wind mussed his hair. He could hear the water in Maya’s bucket swishing. The good thing about Maya, he had to admit, was that she never rubbed anything in his face. Not even this.

No. Don’t think about the water. Just fire. Fire.

For a moment, Ray thought he’d found it. It was there, a word on the tip of his tongue, Serpentine sand slipping through fingers. Just - a moment - longer -

Ray growled with frustration and forced his eyes open. Maya was scowling at her bucket. The swishing was just the wind playing with it.

Ray kicked over the bucket.

“Hey!” Maya’s gaze shot up. Water spilled over the stones, darkening them.

“This is taking too much time!” Ray protested. He turned toward Wu for a moment, who looked concerned. “The Serpentine are out there and we’re here - doing this!”

When Wu said nothing, Ray fisted his hand and strode toward the monastery doors. “I’m just no good at this. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Ray,” Maya called.

Ray did not reply.

“Ray!” Maya bellowed.

Ray spun around, meaning to bellow back, but he pulled up short. Just between him and Maya, a small ribbon of red light flickered in the air. No, not light. Flame, disembodied from either candle or torch.

Ray stepped forward, circling the hovering flame but not touching it. “How -”

“You weren’t trying so hard,” Maya said. “Maybe that has something to do with it.”

He fumed. “So don’t try. How am I supposed to focus by not focusing?”

Then Wu stepped forward from his long silence on the patio. His expression hadn’t changed, still drawn and serious, but it seemed lighter somehow. He stopped between them, just shy of the fire.

“I believe we need to switch teachings,” he said finally. “Maya.” He tapped her shoulder with his staff. “You must be fierce. After all, a tsunami is the fiercest force in all nature. Ray.” Wu let his fingers curl around the floating flame. “You must flow. Let go. Fire can flow, and even become something beautiful.”

He gathered the spark above his palm and tossed it like he was tossing a ball. Ray caught it by reflex. It twirled over his fingers once before vanishing.

Ray opened his mouth to ask a question, but suddenly Wu stiffened, like he’d been struck. His gaze fixed on something over Ray’s head. Ray turned, squinting into the cloudy sky. Then he saw it. Up high, something was darkening a piece of the sun.

“Is that -” Maya started.

But Wu was already moving toward the red monastery doors. Ray exchanged a look with Maya, and rushed after him.

The dragon landed in the rocks outside the walls. Ray could tell immediately it was an Elemental dragon akin to the golden one Wu could create. Smoke rolled off its dark wings. It was grey, with cracks like white lava splitting its scales. Green frills sprouted around its neck.

As soon as the rider slipped to the ground, the dragon vanished in a whirl of grey smoke. The woman scrambled over the rocks, urgency in every movement.

“Wu,” the woman said when she reached the stairs. “They’ve done it. They’ve broken the line along the Sea of Sand.”

Wu took her arm as she nearly slipped on the stone stairs. “Their movements?”

“North. No Anacondrai yet, but they will soon follow.”

“They will try to break through the Echo Canyons. If we could hold them there…” Wu trailed off as he noticed Ray and Maya standing in the great doorway. The woman noticed them too. She wore purple robes, all cheekbones and dark hair. She pressed her pink lips together as she considered them alongside Wu. Ray was surprised that she looked about his age. But seeing as twenty-something Wu was actually a hundred years old or older, Ray didn’t trust his eyes much.

“Lei,” Wu said. “These are the young Masters of Water and Fire. Ray, Maya, this is Lei, the Master of Shadow.”

“That’s not an element,” Ray said.

Lei sniffed. “Don’t get haughty because yours is an Element of creation, Master of Fire. Wu, we need to move.”

Ray’s heart began racing. For these many months, Wu had apprised them of the situation. Small battles raged across the Sea of Sand. The Elemental Masters had erected a defensive line from Primeval’s Eye to the southern tip of the Echo Canyons. But there was only so much nine Elemental Masters could do against the armies of the Serpentine. That they had held out this long was incredible. But if the line was broken…

He realized Wu was frowning at him. Ray got the feeling that the guy knew exactly what was going through Ray’s head and he didn’t like it.

“You’re not ready, Ray,” Wu said.

“All due respect, Wu,” Lei interjected. “But it doesn’t matter if they’re ready or not. We need everyone.”

All was silent for a moment. Wu tapped his foot angrily.

“Tell the Elemental Masters to fall back to the Echo Canyons,” he said finally. “I will send these two with you to guard Jamanakai Village. Can your dragon carry them?”

Lei’s face seemed to fall a little but she nodded.

“Good.” Wu surveyed the three of them. “Come. Let’s get our friend some food, and then we’ll talk.”

~~~

The good thing about having nothing was that there was very little to pack. Ray stuffed a sleeping roll in his bag, along with an extra pair of underclothes and robes. The robes were the red ones Wu had given him upon arrival, the robes of a Master of Fire. Using the monastery forge, Ray had crafted an armored chest plate and pauldrons to go with them. But after he’d finished, staring at the dragon head engraved in metal and the red robes laid across his bed, Ray couldn’t bring himself to put them on. He didn’t feel worthy of them, not yet.

Maybe, at Jamanakai, he would.

Ray stepped out of his room. Maya was moving about in her quarters, just down the hall. For the first time, the door was thrown wide open. Ray slipped his bag over his shoulder and strode to the open doorway. Leaning against the frame, he watched Maya sit on her floor, her legs folded beneath her as she closed her bag.

Her room was cleaner than his, even though she had collected more things from her years at the monastery. A few seashells and stones sat neatly on a bedside shelf. Her screen window was open to the red-leafed trees that clung to the mountainside.

“He’s right,” Maya said, without looking up. “We’re not ready.”

“You’re telling me.” Ray knocked his head against the frame and let his eyes wander to the window. He started to say something but nothing came out.

Maya climbed to her feet. “You’re a good warrior, Ray. You’ve learned a lot in such limited time. Even without your powers, you’ll be okay.”

This was the most that Maya had ever said to him in one setting, and the nicest thing he’d heard come out of her mouth. Ray stared at her. “But my powers.”

“There’s something called true potential.” Maya hugged her bag. “Master Wu told me about it. When you reach your true potential, its supposed to help you unlock the full extent of your powers.”

True potential. “When?”

Maya shrugged. “If I knew, I’d tell you. I haven’t found mine yet. That’s why I can’t control water like I should.” She paused, hesitating. “I...procrastinated training all these years. Focused on weapons. Wu let me, but I don’t think he will any longer.”

Ray’s heart fell. If in years of training Maya hadn’t found her true potential, what hope did Ray have? “So I might never reach it.”

“I didn’t say that,” Maya replied.

“Didn’t you?”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Ray’s heart thumped unexpectedly, even as his frustration cooled. They always seemed so ready to argue - or rather, he did, but he wasn’t sure how to stop himself.

Maya looked away, taking her bag by the straps. “See you out there.”

She shoved past him into the hallway. Ray remained for a moment. He released a sound of frustration before pushing himself off the doorframe.

He paused as he passed the forge on the way back out. It was cold most days. Unless you counted Ray, it had been a long time since the monastery had a proper blacksmith. But it was in the forge that Ray felt the most like the proclaimed Master of Fire - surrounded by flames he could manipulate, by heat he was able to withstand when no one else could.

Ray stared at the hearth for a moment. Then he continued on to the courtyard, and Lei, and the war.

@greenygreenland

#ninjago #ninjago fic #serpentine war #ninjago ray #ninjago maya #wu ninjago

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bellamyblake · 4 years

Text

For the prompt: “Are you cold? Then why are you shivering?”

A/N: Hey, guys! Something short I wrote the other day following a prompt I stumbled upon. There’s a part 2 I finished today that mirrors this one, only it’s about Bell being sick! Thanks for reading!

Things at camp were never calm.

There could be less busy days or extremely horrible days but there was never peaceful days, at least not for Bellamy and Clarke.

Despite their mutual disagreement they worked very well especially during the hard days and without having to say so they were always there for each other, taking off some of the weight or forcing the other to take a few minutes off before completely going insane.

So when Bellamy starts feeling a headache forming before it’s even noon, he’s pissed off because there’s no sight of his princess and things were piling up at camp-kids ran from every direction asking him about hunting, water, wood chopping, herbs gathering and who’s to stand on watch today and he felt like digging a hole in the ground and hiding in it;

Finally, when he snaps at Jasper who has decided that now is the time to ask about whether or not he and Monty can make more moonshine using the fire in the middle of camp and Bellamy gives him a hard “No!” and a speech that makes the kid’s eyes fill with tears, he decides it’s time to find Clarke;

He checks her tent, then the mess hall in case she miraculously decided to get lunch on her own without him having to shove her down there before finally heading to check the dropship.

After calling her name a couple of times, he hears some commotion in the stock room where they kept all the medical herbs and supplies and finds her curled up in the corner, knees up, head buried in them.

“Clarke?”

“Go away!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’ll be out in a second.” he takes a moment to estimate whether or not she’s telling the truth and when she sees he’s not moving, she lifts her head up and snaps at him.

“I said go away, Blake, I’ll be there to hold your hand in a minute.”

He’d almost let his anger get the better of him when he notices how tired her eyes are and how red her nose is.

He takes a step forward and realizes she’s shivering and bad.

“Are you cold?” she shakes her head at that “Then why are you shivering?” he prods curiously and when she opens her mouth to give him one of her flashy retorts, she sneezes not once but twice and groans frustrated, burying her head back in her knees.

He smiles-she was adorable like that-all messy and beautiful in all her sick glory, something tugged at his heart and he recognized it easily because it wasn’t the first time it happened, but for the sake of everyone and herself, he ignored it, came close and knelt, gently touching her shoulder.

“Princess....will you look up at me?”

“No.” she grunts back and he wants to laugh but holds it for her sake more than anything else.

Carefully, he reaches and cups her cheek, picking her head up and looking at her estimating how bad it is.

It was pretty bad.

Her skin was clammy and warm, bordering on hot, her cheeks flushed and her eyes glassy.

Her nose ran down, the liquid gathering above her lip even if she tried to suck her snort back in quite unsuccessfully, which made her even more miserable and frustrated.

She tried to pull away from his grip and take care of it herself but he stopped her with a firm grip of his hand on her chin after which he pulled his sleeve up and brushed it away.

For a moment they just stare at each other’s faces and she can feel his breath fanning her hot face, her nose, though pretty stuffed, could detect the smell of him-of chopped wood and fire and as much as she was scared before, for being the one to get sick now, she feels a little comfort knowing he’s there.

“Think you can stand up?”

“Of course I can stand up!” she huffs, pushing him away, breaking the moment.

She didn’t need Bellamy “asshole” Blake worrying over her.

She could walk this off, keep doing her job even if she had a minor cold. It was nothing and she couldn’t leave him to deal alone with everything in camp.

She stands up so abruptly, though that she sways on her feet and staggers to the left.

She thinks that’s it, she’ll hit the ground when his strong arm slides on her back and under her feet before she can say anything and he’s picked her up bridal style.

“You were saying?”

“Let me go!”

“No way, princess.”

“Bellamy, I mean it, I was just...it’s the blood pressure, when I stood too rapidly I lost my footing, you can let me go now.” he ignored her and kept walking straight ahead, exiting the storage room and heading to the line of cots on the left of the dropship, carefully placing her on the closest one.

“Bellamy-”

“First of all, princess, it’s called iron deficiency and not blood pressure. You should know that, you’re the doctor around here.” he mocks her when he places her down on the cot “Alleged doctor I guess.”

“Doctor in TRAINING!” she huffs in his face but is interrupted by a cough that shakes her entire being and though she was holding onto his shoulders and trying to keep herself upright, she absolutely fails now, falls on the pillow with a thud that springs another joke out of him but she’s too dizzy and delusional to know what he’s saying.

Her head falls to the side and she coughs her lungs out.

“Here-” he brings a glass of water to her lips and she takes a few sips after which she feels the gentle way of his hand on her neck, putting her carefully back on the pillow.

When she opens her eyes and forces them to focus on what’s before her, she almost regrets it, because she’s never seen Bellamy Blake that worried before unless of course Octavia was missing or hurt.

She covers her mouth when another cough interrupts her thought process and he curses quietly.

“What can I do?”

“Thought you knew more than me, jackass.”

“Come on, princess,now is not the time to be smart. Just tell me what to do.”

“Put more pillows behind my back so I don’t choke to death here.” she instructs and he quickly grabs the extra pillows from the other cots and puts them behind her, raising her up a little.

She’s still shivering too badly so he picks another blanket and throws it over her.

What she doesn’t expect is to feel his big hand on her forehead.

It’s actually so enormous, it’s covering her eyes too and she breathes in that familiar scent again, that calming one of woods and fire even if for just a brief moment.

“Dammit, princess, you’re...you’re burning.”

“I’m fine...just-” she coughs again and he winces at the sound of it cause it is bad.

When did she even get so sick? How did he not notice it earlier?

She did seem a little off last night...sleepy and leaning onto Raven’s shoulder a bit too much, trying to keep herself together.

He had given it out to her being tired and swore that tomorrow he’d take on more tasks than her and force her to have an early evening but...why hadn’t he seen her red cheeks or her stuffed nose?

Why hadn’t he done something about it.

“Just get me some seaweed tea and I’ll be fine.”

He sighs and runs his hand through his hair.

“I’ll make the kids bring some water and get it boiled in a minute,princess.” he’s surprised when she opens her eyes and he sees fear there. It takes him a moment to realize what it stemmed for until he remembered the empty medbay they were in, the big cold stony walls of the drop ship and her...lying all alone there, in all her princessy sick adorable glory.

She was afraid of being alone.

And he knew that despite everything she...didn’t have anyone else to ask to be here for her.

Wells was gone and she got along well with the girls but none of them were truly close to her.

His sister was too preoccupied with Lincoln and Raven...things with her would always be hard because of Finn, no matter how much time had passed.

The rest of them-Monty, Jasper, Harper, Monroe...they looked up to her but that was it...she was like a mom to them, he had even heard the kids calling the two of them mom and dad and as much as it annoyed him it was in ways true-she took care of them-she patched up their injuries, listened to their problems, gave advice, taught them which plants to use for eating and which to gather for her so she can use as medicine.

They weren’t her friends...they were her younger siblings and all they’d do if they came here was worry and ask him a bunch of questions about “When will she be fine?” and “What are you doing about it?” that would surely make her recovery and his headache worse.

But he...he understood what this was like-they were leaders and though they carried it all on their shoulders and handled this camp in the most badass of ways, they could also...be vulnerable with one another.

She may be a little shy having him see her like this, she may have tried to hide it but both of them knew that him finding her in that storage room was the best scenario.

“Or I could just radio them and we’ll tell them you feel a bit under the weather.”

“You don’t have to stay.”

“I want to.” he promises, reaching to squeeze her hand and giving her a light smile. “And trust me...this is fun for me too. Seeing the princess brought down to her knees-”

She slaps his arm and he chuckles.

“Shut up, you ass.”

“At your services, doc.” he salutes her and picks up the radio, before heading for the corner where he gives Monty and Jasper specific instructions without freaking them too much.

When they come ten minutes later and try to barge in, he stops them at the dropship door and takes the steaming hot kettle from their hands before instructing them what needs to be done before dinner and making sure they don’t forget to bring Clarke some food as well.

By the time he comes back to her, she’s asleep, curled up on her side and still trembling really badly, her nose running and her cheeks flushed.

He finds some clean rags and a bucket of cold water and he uses it to ease her fever, placing a cold cloth over her forehead.

She exhales in her sleep and it’s one of the most adorable sounds he’s ever heard.

That is until she starts quietly snoring too.

Her nose is stuffed but her mouth is opened and at first she begins it ever so quietly but at some point it raises to a louder pitch and he has to cover his mouth so as not to laugh at how a small creature like her can produce such a loud noise.

Like a badass lioness, he thinks as he tucks a wet strand of hair from her cheek behind her burning ear.

At some point an hour or so later, he wakes her up and forces her to drink some tea.

Though she’s weak she still tries to boss him around, saying that they had to check on the wall and change Monroe’s wrist bandage and then something else he couldn’t make out but which makes his heart clench at the sight of her yet again-despite her condition, the kids and this camp were still her number one priority.

When the evening falls Monty brings up a bowl of soup and tries to convince Bellamy to let him see Clarke but he’s relentless.

“Monty, no and don’t even try to get in here, not you or the others. We don’t want you getting this thing and I have it handled.”

“What about you?”

“I don’t get sick.” he waves his hand “Now listen, send Miller here later so I can give him instructions for tomorrow” and once again reiterates how important it is that no one sets food inside the drop ship.

Monty gives him a weird look but nods once again before leaving.

Soon after, Miller comes by and Bellamy makes him write down what needs to be done, tasks that will keep them busy for at least the next few days but that weren’t too dangerous or hard.

It’d be enough to stir them away from trouble or drinking themselves to oblivion and give Clarke the time she needs to recover.

The next time she wakes, he tries to force her to eat some of the soup but she’s too weak, so the best he manages to do is give her more tea and lift her up enough to help her clear up some of the snots clogging her nose.

“I’m so gross...I can’t believe hot shot threesome Bellamy Blake of all people has to see me like this.”

He wets yet another rag and carefully wipes her face from the sweat and awfulness of the disease and she leans a little too much into his touch, exhaling in relief.

“I’m not that person anymore.”

“Huh?” she asks and it’s the most adorable cute huh in the world, he thinks, with her nose all stuffed and her eyes barely opened but pinned on him.

“I don’t sleep around.”

“Well congratulations to you.” he smiles “Is that why you’ve been so uptight lately? Haven’t had the chance to fuck it off?”

“Oh please, if someone needs to have sex it’s you, princess.”

“I’ll consider this an offer.” that makes him stiffen, mouth agape and she actually laughs at his face “That was rude, princess.”

“Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it, Blake. I know you see women as something to conquer.”

“That’s not true.” he shakes his head and she must detect the anger in his voice because her eyes open a little wider and she gives him a curious look.

“In fact, I hate that...my mother she...when we were on the Ark she had to sleep with guards to know when there’d be a surprised inspection. Sometimes she’d come back with bruises and I just-”

Clarke reaches to touch his wrist.

“I’m sorry, it was wrong of me to say that.”

“I don’t see women as something to conquer.” he says quietly “Only as something to admire because you’re badass.”

“Damn right we are.” she smiles and finally so does he.

“I can see why you made that assumption, though and I don’t blame you for it. If anything, it is my fault and my cross to bear.”

“Stop being so hard on yourself.” she scolds mildly when she turns to the side and he tucks her back in “We all make mistakes, it’s important that we learn from them.”

He nods and while he’s too busy thinking over her words, he misses how she fell asleep.

A smile plays on his face when she starts snoring again but it quickly disappears when at around midnight her fever spikes too much and she’s shaking so bad, he has no idea what to do.

The best he can come up with is change the cold rags on her forehead and force her to drink tea even if she’s barely conscious but it’s the worst when her snores quiet down and she starts coughing in her sleep.

He’s afraid she’ll choke on it, suffocate so he does the best thing he can think of-he carefully moves her into a sitting position and slides behind her, pushing her back to his chest and holding her tight, trying to provide both the much needed warmth she so desperately craved and ease her breathing.

It works, she actually manages to fall into a fitting sleep but she’s still hot as hell and he’s starting to get really scared that her fever’s not breaking.

A few hours later he rolls them over to the side and covers her up with three blankets and his jacket wrapped around her shoulders.

He smiles when her fingers reach and wrap around his collar, pushing it to her face and...smelling it in which makes him tilt his head in surprise before he remembers what he was about to do.

He tries to cool her down as best as he can and at some point he’s so desperate he takes her hand in his and closes his eyes as he kneels by the cot.

“Come on, princess, I know you can do this...I know you can kick this stupid fever in the butt, alright? I know it. You’re damn Clarke Griffin...you’re stubborn and strong and beautiful and...and you never give up, alright? You can’t give up...those kids out there, they need you...they love you so much. And I need you too. I know I rarely admit it but...I’d be a fucking mess without you there to kick my ass, okay? So please just...get it together and stop playing with my poor heart here.”

There’s a silence for a few minutes and then he feels her fingers squeeze his hand back.

“You’re...telling me...you actually...have one?” he looks up all wide eyed and finds her eyes barely opened lips parted in a small smile and he can’t remember ever feeling so worried as when he reaches to touch her forehead and feels her skin having cooled down even if a bit.

“Your fever’s breaking.”

“It had no choice...I couldn’t leave you to deal with those insane kids on your own.” he smiles and actually cups her cheek with his big hand which is hot and feels good against her still shivering body even if she was technically feverish.

She leans into his touch and smiles, allows herself this short moment of peace and quiet, a moment of vulnerability with the only person she knew she could show it to.

He doesn’t make a snarky remark, doesn’t say something stupid, but just stays there and lets her act like a kid.

She almost scolds herself for it, tries to pull away but he moves his hand to her neck and keeps her still, as if having read her thoughts.

“Hey, no...none of that.” he scolds mildly “I said you’re a badass but you’re allowed to feel...weak, you’re allowed to cry and be sick and feel vulnerable, okay? Just because you’re a leader doesn’t mean you can’t have feelings. Let’s not forget the fact that you are more or less a child like those idiots out there who call you mom just because you’re a few years older than them.”

“They need someone to look up to.” she says pinning her eyes to the cot.

“And you’re a great example but...what I mean is, you can let go a little, Clarke, you can...live your youth, alright?”

“And you can’t?” he furrows his eyebrows at that and she reaches to wrap her clammy hand around his wrist.

“You’re not seventy Bellamy...as much as your back says otherwise.” he huffs a small smile at that “I can’t imagine what it was like growing up with Octavia, having that responsibility but...I assume it forced you into adulthood way too early. You can ...relax a little too.”

“When I can go around camp and scold the kids for being stupid idiots...nah, this is more fun” he gives her a half smile but she sees through him and tightens her grip.

“You can let go for one night...the world won’t stop spinning if you have some fun.”

“Ahh, that drink you so much insist on us getting comes up yet again, Griffin?” he plays it cool again and she shakes her head, deciding she’ll pick this serious subject again another time,when she’s not too sick and barely keeping herself awake and he’s not insistent on holding the world, this camp and all the children in it on his shoulders.

“Well you did promise...all those months ago.”

“I’ll let you drink a barrel of that moonshine shit as long as you get better.” he must’ve realized what he said cause he stiffens at the words but he decides not to beat him up for it now, not when she’s about to doze off again, so she simply pulls at his hand and looks up with big bright blue eyes “I mean-” he tries to shrug it off but she just smiles.

“Come to bed, Bellamy.”

“But you’re...I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You kept me warm and I am still cold and feverish so I need you to keep doing what you did before okay? No funny business!”

He chuckles and relents, carefully peeling off the blankets and sliding behind her, putting his hand on her stomach and pushing her to his chest.

There’s something so comforting about being in his embrace-his big arm holding her tight, making her fears about disappearing into the sweaty nightmarish darkness of this sickness go away and his warmth...he’s like a fire that’s just been started, the freshly chopped woods catching the flames with ease, spreading a softness in her body that she didn’t expect, warming her up to the core, all the way to her toes that were always freezing and even though he makes a joke about her snoring, when he drifts off, she hears him snore too and thinks of woods cracking in the fire and how they sound like the deepest and most honest of belly laughs and she wonders...if she had ever actually heard Bellamy Blake laugh.

But she thinks she’ll make it her mission to witness it at least once, with or without the involvement of a barrel full of moonshine.

#bellarke fanfiction #bellarke #bellamy blake #clarke griffin #hurt/comfort #sickfic #my writing

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charlottestarchild · 4 years

Text

Abuela Ayahuasca

I think it was about 3 or 4 years ago when I read about Ayahuasca in Time Magazine for the first time. What was described there sounded far from appealing or spiritual. The piece was about a Ayahuasca center somewhere in New York I believe, where groups of 20 people would come together to take the medicine and then all vomit into their buckets during the process.

Since then, I came across Ayahuasca a couple of times in various conversations. One very good friend of mine started talking to me about it about a year ago and described it as a beautiful experience that heals the body and the mind. Slowly I started thinking that maybe there is more to it than the image of a group of people barfing violently I had carried in my mind since reading that article.

But I was hesitant. I had been dealing with depression and burn out for a few years and I knew I was carrying a lot of baggage regarding my family, so I wasn’t sure if I wanted to open that “door” and see what’s behind it. By this description you can already tell what sort of an expectation I had. To me, taking Ayahuasca meant discovering something hidden. Something I didn’t know or wasn’t aware before. Like there was something locked down inside of me that was the reason for why I was just a shadow of myself, never enjoying the present moment, always ruminating. And if only I could open that door and see, everything would make sense and I would finally start to live my life.

Another year passed and my friend told me that there would be a ceremony on the 27th of December. He mentioned it casually but I knew he mentioned it because he wanted me to go. He was certain it would be good for me. Heal my heart and align my mind. Well, that’s what I need right? It’s what I’ve been craving for. For someone or something to finally align my mind and stop me from overthinking every single bit and start to actually enjoy, treasure and value my life.

So after a few weeks of sitting on the idea I decided to go for it. The only reason I was hesitating was because I was mortified of shitting my pants in front of other people or otherwise embarrass myself. And another part of me was afraid I would have an allergic reaction or lose my mind and come out of the experience a vegetable. But hey, no risk no fun. Maybe this is the step I need to take to be free.

I asked my friend to sign me up and asked for some instructions. What to wear, what should I bring, should I stop eating at some point during the day? The first surprise was that the ceremony would go through the night starting 9pm and ending around 9am. Ok... one night in the jungle it is. I knew the place where the ceremony would be held. I had done a Temazcal there a few months back and thought it was a beautiful experience. I knew some of the people but was still nervous because my friend was not able to attend and be by my side (he didn’t have the money, 1500 pesos was just not in it for him right now). He assured me though that his family of friends would take could care of me.

The day of the ceremony I felt slightly nervous. Still mostly worried I would end up in hospital. But at some point I decided to let go. I hitched a ride with another German who also went there and did it for the first time. What a comfort.

We arrived and there was a circle of grass mats in a wide open area among beautiful trees. It was dark already so I couldn’t really see the faces of people and had no idea if I knew anyone or not. There was one familiar face though, a guy - super handsome - from the neighbouring village who met a year ago. I was pleasantly surprised that he remembered me. I sat next to the other German girl, who sat next to pretty guy and we waited for things to settle. It took quite some time and I’m guessing it took about 2 hours of sitting around before things started happening.

The Shaman was from Ecuador and he came with a full entourage who were all sitting right next to us. His “wife and daughters” - which was puzzling me a bit because the 3 ladies right next to me all looked of the same age and it was hard to tell which was which. I could sense scepticism in the back of my head of the credibility of this bunch. One of the women had a small baby, I’m guessing 1 year old.

The Shaman started explaining in Spanish and then translated a bit into English because there was one other foreigner among us. Me and the other German thought to speak enough to understand so we didn’t out ourselves as needing English translation. I felt a bit guilty for making the other foreigner feel like he’s the only one. Guess it would have made him feel better if he knew there’s other non native Spanish speakers.

We were told that you always walk in a circle from left to right and usually you do a full circle before exiting the circe but because Ayahuasca is so strong and has its own ways it’s ok to just go from your place to the exit and back. One should still respect a few rules though, like not leaving the circle when chanting is going on and not crossing in front of someone who is barfing. There it was. Barfing. He said it. So that seems to be a thing indeed.

He continued to explain that if you need to vomit you should do it straight in front of you. Apparently something to do with energy. Someone would then come and put soil on top of the vomit so not to worry. There would be two occasions where tobacco pipes will be smoked. In the beginning and the end of the ceremony and it is recommended to be present in the circle during those times.

Ok. Leave the circle only from the inside walking left to the “exit” but not when someone is vomiting or chanting; if you need to vomit, just vomit. All clear. I think I’m ready.

After quite a bit more talk and explanations on how the dry toilets work, the Shaman took the pipe and started saying his “prayers” and thank yous. Chanting started and then he would take the big glass jug filled with Bordeaux coloured liquid and start to distribute it going through the circle one by one, handing everyone a small shot glass full of the medicine. I’m 4th in line after the wife and 2 daughters. I take the glass, swallow the juice, it tastes bitter but not horrible. A small plate with slices of apple is passed on, apparently to help against the bitter taste. I chew on a slice.

The Shaman walks the whole circle and serves everyone an equal portion of the medicine. And to my bewilderment, he also serves it to a few of the kids. I’m bad at guessing kids ages but I’d say they are around 8 or 9. I’m surprised, maybe a little shocked even. But hey, I’m not their parents and I’m not here to judge. I watch the Shaman finish the circle and sit down. We all sit in silence for a while and then the entourage starts chanting.

At this point I’ve been sitting cross legged for probably 4 hours so I decide to lie down.

I’m not sure how much time passes but suddenly I realize that I’m seeing things. My eyes are closed but I am surrounded by bright white light, more like I’m in an all bright white room and on the ceiling garlands of bright colors start to appear. Many colors, bright rainbow colors, it’s almost comic like, kind of what I always thought it must be to be on LSD. Once I realize that something is happening I force myself to open my eyes. I want to see what the world around me looks like high... So I slowly open my eyes, lying on my back on the ground and I look up towards the sky. I startle a little bit because the trees that are looming above me don’t look like trees anymore. They look more like woven nets or a mosaic made of geometrical shapes and they look like they’re looking at me, for a second I’m seeing a small monster sitting in the crown of the tree looking at me with curious eyes. I close my eyes again, gather some more strength and force myself to look again. And once I get over the initial scare I see how beautiful it looks. It’s a beautiful vision, hallucination and I start to smile at its beauty. Right that very moment when a smile forms on my lips a huge leave lands right on my face and I twitch to the side in shock and quickly wipe the leave off my face with my hand - we’re in the middle of the jungle after all, anything could have landed on my face. But it was just a leave and I start to relax again. I look up at the trees again and they still look beautiful. It’s a weird structure, kind of reminding me of the huichol beaded art that they sell here everywhere. There are no colors though, it’s almost only black and white. I smile again, smiling kind of takes an effort, I need to deliberately command my face muscles to “smile” and it feels like my face is made of rubber.

After a while I decide that it’s time to get up. I can’t be sitting around all the time. So I make an effort to put myself up right to a sitting position. When I get up and look around it’s like everyone is in a trance, moving in wavy motions back and forth. The ground seems to be shifting as well. I think I hear someone barf. The whole scene is rather odd and I’m not sure I’m liking it.

I sit upright for a while, looking around, looking at the fire in the middle of us. I can’t really tell for how long I sit there but at some point I feel like the hallucinations stopped and I have my wits together again. I look up at the sky, the trees and the trees just look like trees again. At some point I think I decide to lie down again. I’m feeling my body, kind of trying to see if I feel ill. But I seem to be feeling fine. Suddenly my stomach starts to squeeze but it’s not too bad. Then, lying down again, I start to feel different body parts, my legs, thighs, my hands, my face, it’s kind of tingling, numbing sensation. It feels kind of nice. I think I’m drifting off into sleep. Suddenly I’m wide awake again and I feel incredibly drowsy and heavy. I thought I was done but out of the blue the medicine decided to kick me into the stomach. I am lying on my side and notice that I’m talking to myself in my head “I don’t want this anymore. Please, make it stop. I just want to go home. I don’t want this anymore”. I answer back to myself “stop whining, you wanted answers no try and live through this and make the best of it”. But my stomach isn’t having it and I realize I have to get to the toilet as soon as humanly possible. So in my utter delirium I get onto my feet and wobble out of the circle. It’s a miracle that I am not falling face flat into the flames of the fire pit that is right in front of me. I walk as fast as my legs carry me towards the dry toilet only to notice that it’s occupied. Fuck. Fuck it. I have to poop. I sit down next to the dry toilet building, pull down my pants just in time for explosive like poop to make its way onto the jungle floor. I squat on the ground and try not to wobble or topple over. I have no clue who is in the toilet and I couldn’t, literally, give less of a shit about that person hearing me shit loudly like I never shat before. At some point the person leaves the dry toilet and walks by me. I look to the floor for him or her not to see my face. I wipe my but with a piece of paper I find in my pants pocket and make my way into the now available dry toilet. But I’m done. I sit for a while and then get back to the circle, again wobbling like I’m made out of rubber, passing people vomiting (fuck the rule of not passing someone who is vomiting), I need to get back to my place and sit / lie down.

I’m not sure what happens next. I think I fall asleep. I’m done. None of this is fun anymore. People left and right are barfing like there’s no tomorrow, loudly as if they’re throwing up their intestines. I feel sorry for them.

I hear a baby crying. Right, one of the Shaman’s harem ladies had a baby with her. It’s crying. And someone is comforting it but it sounds like the person is doing it too harshly. I’m worried. And annoyed. How could someone be so irresponsible to bring a baby into this circle of hallucinations and projectile vomit? Everyone in the circle drank the Ayahuasca. Everyone. Not a single person stayed sober. What if someone needs help? Who would be able to drive to the hospital? All sorts of things could happen.

The Shaman asks once or twice if anyone wants more Ayahuasca and a few people say yes.

Some more time passes and I drift in and out of sleep. I think the worst part is over. I feel ok. Rather sober in fact. I listen to the chanting. It’s beautiful. Also the other people around me seem to be sobering up.

The wife of the Shaman is walking around the circle with a fan made of eagle feathers, doing some cleansing ritual. When she’s done, she grabs the jug of Ayahuasca and proclaims that now, we will all have the last round of Ayahuasca and that, although not mandatory, it is strongly recommended that everyone takes some. She’s saying it in her rooster, cocky kind of way, kind of jokingly but with an authority that I don’t feel she deserves.

She starts to make the round. I’ve made up my mind that I will not have any more of this devils potion. “No valio la pena” as the Mexican would say. Not worth it. I just got over feeling super shit and happy it’s over. So when she reaches me, I politely smile at her and say “no gracias”. She looks at me in astonishment and talks to me like I’m a small child, insisting I take some more. It’s just a little sip and I will be surrounded by beautiful flowers and love and I should have some. Have some. She pushes the shot glass in my face and push-over as I am, I take the glass and swallow the brew. I’m annoyed. This is my first time and a no should be a no. WTF.

I’m only hoping that the tiny bit won’t really do much. And it actually doesn’t. No hallucinations and I only feel a little nauseous at some point. I don’t even need to poop. Well, how could I, there is no chance there’s anything left in my stomach. So after I feel safe that no further run to the bathroom is required I decide I’m ending this and go to sleep. I manage to sleep quite well. I even have a dream but I can’t remember what it was after waking up.

The sky looks like we must be getting closer to sun rise. What a relieve. This feeling is confirmed by the Shaman preparing the tobacco pipe. “We will have two tobacco ceremonies - at the beginning and the end” he said. So this must be the end. He prepares the pipe, takes a puff and starts to talk. And talk. And talk. And talk. I am sure, some of it, if not a lot of it is lost in translation. But I’d like to believe that my understanding of Spanish is good enough by now to be able to tell that what he is saying is of absolutely no substance. All I hear is “let’s be grateful for our sea, mountains, trees, .... listing all possible natural elements.... for our family, our cousins, mothers, fathers, kids, .... listing all possible relatives... and he says that in various ways in what seems an endless loop. Finally he passes the pipe on to the next person. The wife of the owner of the land we’re on. And while I thought “well, she’s surely gonna cut it short since he was rambling for like ever, she too, goes into an endless monologue of gratefulness. I mean like, she talks for 15min non stop.

I don’t want to sound like an asshole here but I am exhausted and all this talk really doesn’t speak to me. The few words that my friend Memo usually says during his Yoga classes seem so much more meaningful to me than this endless bla bla of statements that seem so utterly self explanatory that I just don’t see the point. This is preaching to the quire out of the books.

After the pipe finally makes it’s way back to the Shaman it seems we’re nearing the end of the ceremony for real. We’re all awake now, nobody is barfing anymore and nobody seems to have taken any major damage. Even the baby and the kids are fine.

Water is being passed around. Which again turns into a ritual of endless talking before the first person actually gets to take a sip. The person passing around the water is the owner of the land, my good friend Memo’s friend and the person Memo would say would also make sure that I am fine. When he finally gets to me and passes me the water, I make eye contact and say thank you for the water, we shake hands, say “buenas dias” like he did with everyone and he moves on. Wouldn’t it have been nice of him to ask “how are you? everything ok”. But no. He chit chatted with others but he didn’t seem bothered to inquire about my wellbeing. Fair enough.

They’re inviting us to stay for the Temazcal which will be prepared within 1,5h but right now I think I just want to go home. Not even so much because I feel exhausted, but because I don’t feel comfortable. I don’t feel like anyone in this round was particularly interested in me feeling comfortable. After I came back from the bathroom, it seems my alarm went off and so my phone had been ringing. A lady pointed at my bag and snapped at me “your phone has been ringing for like 5min”. It’s 8.02 so as a matter of fact it had been ringing for 2min. Which can be annoying, I get it but the ceremony was over, people were standing around and chatting. It’s not like it went off in the middle of the ceremony.

And besides, before ANYONE ELSE, it was the Shamans wife who took her phone out first thing after the ceremony officially ended. Give me a break.

It’s funny how even in supposedly spiritual situations like this I study and analyze the people around me. Or more like, how some people stand out for better or worse. There was pretty guy, gay guy, red head gringo guy and there was the Colombian girl who so obviously wanted to be “teachers favorite” that it really annoyed me. The way and the kind of questions she asked and everytime the “mic would be opened to the public” meaning other people than the Shaman and his close circle could speak she would start to speak so fake poetically that I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. And of course at the end of her speech she would start crying. Oh my.

But also the wife of the Shaman was, in my honest and very personal opinion, full of Bullshit. A pretty woman, no doubt, and very aware of it she would walk around the circle like a all too proud rooster. And at times, she would even interrupt the Shaman. I might have to give her benefit of doubt due to language barrier but sometimes she would bluntly interrupt the Shaman and she would kind of make a joke of what he had just said. You know, the kind of like when someone says “The sky is blue” and the other person kind of goes like “blue, eh?” as if to say “aren’t you just stating the obvious”.

So what do I think about all this now that a few days have passed? I think my conclusion is that it was an interesting but not a very nice experience. 30 people are way too many people to have an intimate experience. Sure, if you know all 30 and consider them your friends then you might feel alright and comfortable. But for a stranger, it really didn’t work. Neither did I feel save, nor particularly welcome or taken care of. And some things just seemed like bullshit too me. At least I didn’t feel like it was an authentic experience. Maybe if the Shaman would have been on his own yes, but the whole entourage around him - I didn’t get that. I don’t understand for example how his wife had the authority to pass around the medicine. She liked her role way too much and that’s the problem. She was playing a role.

As for the actual medicine. It wasn’t worth the trouble. The little hallucinations I had didn’t feel spiritual in any way. I didn’t feel like I learned something new about myself or felt more connected to nature in any way. And just for some pretty rainbow colors and monsters in trees I don’t need to be surrounded by barfing people for a whole night.

I also couldn’t really say that it would have helped me afterwards with any of my conditions. Quite the opposite. I found myself propelled back into a major depression, my skin issues flaring up again big time. Things I had worked hard to get over and instead of helping me progress I felt I made 5 steps back.

All in all, I don’t regret having done it but definitely feel like I could have spent my time and money more wisely. Maybe I’ll just get a nice massage next time.

#ayahuasca #spiritualjourney #mexico #shaman #medicine #drugs #ancient medicine #ecuador #authentic #self love #nature

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statusquoergo · 5 years

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Part I

A couple of weeks later, I assume, but probably actually the next day, Katrina shows up in court to her dismissal hearing fifteen minutes late and wearing large plastic sunglasses to tip us the viewers off that she is having a migraine attack at the least convenient time.

She does her damnedest to struggle through the hearing but has to default to Susan to field a question about precedent, and the judge, who must be having a real bad day, accuses Katrina of not taking the hearing seriously on account of having her associate speak for her. (Hearings are actually great learning opportunities for associates, but…reality.) Brian, remembering that Katrina gets migraines when she’s stressed, asks for a continuance. Friends helping friends!

A little transition filler: Donna disapproves of Harvey and Louis’s plan to seek help from Faye’s ex on the grounds that they’re digging into her personal life, Harvey says she made it personal when she fired Samantha, and wow that “I don’t trust you anymore” charge sure didn’t last long. Andrews calls Alex to complain that his niece is blackmailing him for $10M and Alex not-so-subtly suggests that he ask Samantha for help, so that plan’s in motion, whatever it is.

Katrina calls Brian to tell him he didn’t need to ask for a continuance on her account, and he says it’s okay because they’re both conflicted about going up against each other. Plus he owes her one for not getting him thrown off the case, so I guess they’re square now, and I really hope this doesn’t end up back in love triangle territory.

It seems that Gretchen’s network of contacts isn’t as confidential as she thought; Faye’s gotten word that “someone was looking into [her] communications from back then” and immediately figures out that it must have been George who pointed them in that direction. He admits that he left out a few details when he told Harvey and Louis what happened, but “those two didn’t seem particularly interested in nuance” (no shit, welcome to Suits); she calls him a son of a bitch, he calls her a hypocrite, it’s nice they were able to end things so amicably, don’t you think? (Minor aside, I’m so over the phrase “cross a line”; it’s painfully nonspecific and doesn’t carry any real sense of damage. Heat up fish in the office microwave? Crossed a line. Dating your superior? Crossed a line. Fabricated evidence implicating a former partner because you can’t legitimately prove his illegal and unethical conduct? Crossed a line. These words mean nothing.)

In a move no one could possibly have seen coming, Susan has been learning from her surroundings and picked up some of her superiors’ less savory habits; to wit, she now wants to petition the judge for access to Kurt’s private emails in the hopes that he was stupid enough to leave an electronic trail indicating that he was happy with his payout. But how are they going to slip this one past Judge Rigid Legislative Protocol? By exploiting Katrina’s history with Brian, of course! “Just because [she’s] his soft spot doesn’t mean [he] has to be [hers],” you know how it is.

Pretending as hard as she can that she and Alex weren’t in on this together from the beginning, Samantha meets Andrews in an airplane hanger that he probably owns (he’s very rich) and agrees to record his niece accepting the ten mil as a bribe, so long as he gives Samantha $5M of her very own as payment “for doing this damn thing,” pointing out that $10M is just a drop in the bucket compared to the addition $50M his niece will squeeze him for if they don’t stop her now. (No, seriously, he’s very rich.)

In open court rather than the judge’s chambers for no discernible reason, Katrina argues that they have a right to include Kurt’s personal emails in discovery not based on any legal precedent (such as, I don’t know, Campbell v. Chadbourne & Park LLP) but simply because “it’s how life is.” (Brian objects on the grounds that this is speculation; I would’ve gone with “calls for conclusion,” or “lack of foundation,” or “this is a court of law, Your Honor, not a philosophy conference,” but whatever.) They have a fabulously irrelevant exchange about how they became friends while he was her associate and she argues that that means she has every right to see Kurt’s emails, and when Brian chooses not to object again because Katrina has “more integrity than any lawyer [he’s] ever seen,” the judge, who I have to assume is just fucking with them at this point, orders him to hand the emails over immediately.

Backstory time! Faye wants to know what George told Harvey and, shockingly, it turns out that his heavy implication that she leveraged him for cash is not quite the whole truth; yes, she took his money and stopped the bar from investigating him, but she also worked three years at the firm salary-free to square things with the clients he fucked over. Why, you ask? Because she has a daughter who she didn't want to grow up knowing her father was a criminal. (How fortunate for her that this overused plot thread is exactly Harvey's weak spot.) Harvey proposes that she hire Samantha back and then resign and they’ll call it even, somehow, but she refuses to “horse trade” her way out of this; he declares that he’ll find proof of this thing she just freely admitted to having done, she points out that what she did, she did for her child, whereas Samantha did what she did to win a case (not to mention, specifically attack Mike Ross), and oh no! Is Harvey starting to empathize with the enemy?

Seems that Katrina’s motion of questionable credibility bore some fruit after all: Susan found an email Kurt sent to his best friend “bragging about the yacht he was about to buy with the proceeds from his awesome deal.” Dumbass. Katrina is thrilled that this will allow them to force a settlement, but Susan quite rightly points out that she’s doing their client a disservice by not using it to annihilate Brian just because they’re friends.

Interrupting Harvey’s soulful staring into the bathroom mirror, Louis gleefully informs him that Gretchen’s network did in fact come through in the form of “two emails from Faye Richardson to the bar specifically asking to quash any investigation into her husband.” (How the hell did that even work, though? I’d think such a request would make them more likely to investigate…) Harvey’s unenthusiastic response prompts Louis to ask what the problem is, but when Harvey explains the situation with Faye’s daughter, Louis is the one to backpedal on their plan, proposing instead to wait and see if Alex and Samantha have any success at kicking her out “without doing something like this to a family.” Harvey concedes to give them one day to get their shit together and I will say it again but surely not for the last time: This. Boy. Needs. Therapy.

Robert catches Alex about to get into his Lexus™ to go meet Samantha and asks to go in his place because Samantha “has a history with the FBI…that could come back and bite her in the ass,” and I guess Robert’s better equipped to deal with her being reckless and stupid. Apparently Tom’s not the only one who’s forgotten about the crime-fraud exception, because Robert’s plan is to, number one, represent himself as Samantha’s attorney, and number two, demand blanket immunity for anything Samantha has ever done in relation to Gavin Andrews in exchange for the information she gathered on him. Samantha makes the mistake of referring to Robert by name, thereby cluing Tom in that he’s dealing with Robert Zane, disbarred former attorney, but rather than immediately nail him for impersonating a lawyer (oh, the irony), Tom signs the immunity waiver and spitefully informs them that he couldn’t find “a goddamn thing” on Faye, leaving with the admonishment to never call him again and cementing his place on my good side in perpetuity.

Katrina and Brian continue to project their emotions all over the Kurt’s Coffee case as Katrina informs Brian that they’re going to countersue for slander if he doesn’t drop the suit and Brian says that Kurt wasn’t entirely lying because he really did regret leaving, sliding right into a confession that he took this case because he misses spending time with her. Katrina does everyone a favor by reminding Brian that she wanted to keep working together as friends and he was the one who made the decision to leave, and he can pursue the suit if he wants, but if he doesn’t drop it by tomorrow, she’ll have him removed. Disaster averted, thanks Katrina!

Donna steps in to play the role of Harvey’s conscience as he fails to see the forest for the trees and insists on moving forward with his plan to get rid of Faye; informing him that she “[doesn’t] want to be a part of doing this to someone’s family,” Donna points out that Faye “was just doing her job,” which she apparently respects now for some reason, and Harvey admits that it’s his fault Samantha was fired because they could’ve had their fight anywhere, “the roof, the street, the file room,” and Faye never would have found out, “but instead [he] chose to have it right in the middle of the office, where anyone could see it.” Not to put too fine a point on it, but I think that more people would have seen a fight on the street, and I’m also not sure it’s Harvey’s fault Samantha was fired because Faye found out she fabricated evidence so much as it is Samantha’s fault for, you know, fabricating evidence. Donna ties this back to Harvey’s mother, because what issue in his life isn’t secretly about his mother, and asks, if afforded the opportunity, wouldn’t he “go back in time and not know about [his] mother what [he] knows,” apparently as some kind of favor to himself? So I guess the point of this conversation is that…people are going to do bad things, but it isn’t Harvey’s fault, even if he’s the reason those people are found out. I think.

Look, I know Donna’s at peace with this whole “If you could go back in time and do it different” game she seems to play every time something bad happens, but you know what else might be good is learning to live with their mistakes and then also how not to repeat them, and you know what might help with that is THERAPY.

Anyway Brian drops the suit and Katrina takes Susan on as her associate, Faye thanks Donna for convincing Harvey not to report her to the bar, and Harvey invites Samantha over to his place to tell her that they found a way to get rid of Faye but they didn’t use it. Despite the fact that he “wanted [her] to hear it from [him],” turns out that Donna already filled her in, and Samantha’s so touched by Faye’s determination to protect her child that she’s fine with all of it. Oh also she hired a PI to find her birth parents and her biological father’s in Pittsburgh, and Harvey instantly gets over his hurt feelings by offering to go with her to visit him. Tomorrow, because it’s not like these people have jobs or anything.

Incidentally, next week USA is re-airing the pilot instead of a new episode, plus some filler interview snippets with the cast, if anyone wants to tune in for some nostalgia.

#suits usa #s09e06 #season 9 #analysis

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jackshithere · 5 years

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How would you describe each of the Rammstein members to someone who knew nothing about them?

Oh man… If we’re being honest, you don’t really start with the juicy bits (that keep making people come for more) if it’s someone who really doesn’t know anything about them. But I will try to make this as newbie-friendly as possible, and add enough simple details to maybe explain the level of fanatic adoration for them. (But I must admit that 1- this will be loooong as fuck and 2- I fangirl about them for their professionalism, so it won’t be as humorous as one might hope)

I’ll do a collection of posts later throughout the week tagged “Rammstein glossary” about each member, maybe get other blogs on board, but I’ll keep this exclusively newbie friendly, if a tad bit too long

Ok, so, first things first. Facts you can gleam from any wikipedia, with a little introduction on the side.

There are 6 members of the band:

Till Lindemann - the singer, the poet and a professional pyromaniac

He’s an intimidating man, with tall frame and a build of a panzer tank. Till commands the stage with incredibly rich baritone voice and penchant for being set on fire, or carrying big ass flame throwers.

Matter of fact is he’s shy, introverted, doesn’t like being stared at (hence the fire, to distract from his form) and is a soft spoken, polite man - also, his speaking voice is much much softer and gentler. People generally find him fascinating for this paradoxical character.

Richard Z. Kruspe - the guitarist and founder of Rammstein

He is..how do I put this? The typical artist. Diva and control freak, plagued by doubt and striving for perfection, which all make for one hard man to work with. Richard is somewhat of a Tumblr’s sweetheart. He’s aware of those traits, and the most talkative of the group - especially about his mental health, and the problems he faced. Which means people often relate to him, and he’s genuinely a kind and engaging conversationalist, so there are a lot of his interviews to be found online.

Also, it helps that he’s easy on the eyes, let’s be real. Also, he’s a natural meme inducer. Everything that man does and say is meme-able as shit.

Paul Landers - the other guitarist

Always smiling and extraordinarily exuberant, he’s seen as the most approachable and somewhat of a goofball of the group, always up to some antics in the background. He’s the shortest and openly the silliest of the group, so Paul does sometimes get a bit.. infantilized by some fans.

He’s got an unexpectedly rich singing voice, and he’s probably a bit of a control freak himself. For a guy that talks a lot, he doesn’t share personal details as often as Richard, so he’s also somewhat of an unexplored entity. He used to be in a previously successful punk band “Feeling B” with Flake

Christian “Flake” (fla-keh) Lorenz - the keyboardist

This is all you need to know about him. Joking. He’s extremely tall, lanky and born with a soul of a cranky old man. He was with Paul in the previously mentioned band.

He’s.. how do I describe him.. I think he’s the only member you have to go anecdotal to explain him. When they play live, he has a treadmill that he paces on during the entire concert because he gets bored easily. Flake has this sort of… interpretive giraffe-being-tazed-by-electric-fence dance that he does. He’s …somehow he’s the craziest of the group, I really have no vanilla explanation for him. If you get into Rammstein, you’ll get it.

Oliver Riedel - bassist

True to the stereotype about bassists, he’s tall as fuck, quiet and people forget he exists most of the time. Ollie is the youngest of them all, extremely private, and generally a sweetheart. There really isn’t a lot to be said about him - he’s the outdoors-y, athletic type and he also joins in on Paul and Schneider’s antics.

That’s how you do proper crowd surfing

Christoph “Doom” Schneider - the drummer

The sassiest of the bunch. I would categorize him as an extrovert, but a very well contained one. He prefers being called by his last name, though the Doom nickname came from the time he needed a name for the German copyright agency (Christoph Schneider is like John Smith of Germany), and he was suggested by Paul to use Doom, because they like the game. Incredibly confident, but also quite silly man.

In one video, he was dressed as a woman - often referred to as Frau Schneider - and he did it so well (uptight mannerisms, pursed lips, sitting posture that would bring Petunia Dudley to tears all packed in a shockingly beautiful face - I mean, look at him!) that it’s now a part of the live show for him to appear with make up and a wig.

Now, the band, Rammstein.Let’s skip the things you’ll find out from a quick read through of wikipedia, like the name, when they were founded, and all that, instead let’s go for:

What genre are they even?

What songs would you recommend a first time listener?

Why are they so well liked?

What’s so special about them?

The debate about the genre is still on going. You have people claiming they are metal band, you got the German Neue Deutsche Härte genre, you got… tons. Best way to describe, if you want to go for a solid genre label, is Alternative Hard Rock - because they are not really a metal band. But if you’re aiming for the heart of it, it’s Industrial. It’s “abrasive and aggressive fusion of rock and electronic music, with a side dash of punk”. More on their style later.

For a newbie, you got different types:

Not a fan of metal or hard rock at all - If you want to go for easier sounds, where Till’s vocal’s are more prominent, and the instruments are not as aggressively in your face, I recommend Amour for an easy introduction to his vocal style, Ohne Dich, Rosenrot and then Seemann and Mutter

Preferes rock to metal - Amerika, Mein Land, Ich Will

Fine with metal, but generally sticks to upbeat songs - Ich Tu Dir Weh, Weisses Fleisch, Haifisch and Du Riechst So Gut

Open to metal, but prefers the gothic or more alternative genres - Mein Herz Brennt, Engel, Rammstein

Metal (take it with a grain of salt, not everyone would call it metal, but the sound is hardest in these) - Mann Gegen Mann, Mein Teil and …Benzin? hesitant on the last one

Of course, this is purely my suggestion, and some won’t agree with this classification, but I think it’s a solid introduction to them. Also if you can convince a friend not to watch the video until they hear the song first, I think that would make it somewhat easier to get them into it (because hey, you made them listen to it twice, and they are watching a video so not as focused and they’ll get int— is it obvious that I forced 3 friends to do exactly that and that’s how I got them all into Rammstein?)

This is getting so long at this point, I am putting more effort into this than into my college essays..Why are they so well liked? In short: Fire, Professionalism, Democracy, Music and Controversy1) Fire. “Other bands play, Rammstein burns!“

Ok, not just fire. Though it’s pretty cool.

2) The ultimate professionalism. I am not kidding when I say that giant, well planned Broadway Musicals pale in comparison to the sheer perfection and amount of panache they put in their live gigs.

It’s considered that it should be on everyone’s bucket list to see Rammstein live at least once.

I don’t want to stereotype Germans and working like machines, but what makes Rammstein so good, is that they really stick to that stereotype where everything is a perfectly executed machine with no space for fucking around.

3) Democracy. This influences the professionalism part in the sense that, since all the members of the band have an equal amount of vote over what gets done and how, it means that they all criticize each other’s ideas until they find the middle ground. That middle ground is how they kept their specific genre, while managing to churn out wonderful after wonderful album (I am being very biased here, I just really like every single album, all for different reasons), all with a firm idea of what Rammstein is for all of them

4) Lyrics

First of all, about the lyrics - they are all written by Till. Yet on all songs, credits go to all the members, because everyone gets an input. It really cannot be understated how much of a group project this is. It’s a democratic band where everyone holds the same weight.

My personal favourite ones are Dalai Lama and Klavier. I am sucker for story telling songs and the words he uses are so perfectly chosen! The first one is a twist on Goethe’s poem while the second one is a very dark love song.

5) Controversy

Since this has gotten embarrassingly long, let me say this in shortest way possible: Some people like provocative, others abhor it and together when they argue they market Rammstein like no other. Rammstein has been blamed like any other metal band for school shootings, Nazi imagery, promoting physically abusive relationships, inciting youths to unlawful/harmful behavior etc. while doing none of that.

But in general, Rammstein has a wonderful attitude of “Interpret out lyrics anyway you want to, we just draw the line at being called Nazis.” and they usually make a point of just telling a story/ presenting a song whose lyrics and/or video are but an element to the entire thing.

Oh my god, I finally scrolled up to check if I answered everything, and you didn’t even ask for all the rest, I just kept spewing on and on D:Sorry!Once I start about Rammstein, I keep going on and on and on. I hope that at least was a good enough introduction, I’ll do those little glossaries with in jokes and fun facts later, as I promised all the way at the beginning

#Rammstein #answered

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concerningwolves · 6 years

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Writing Romance | The Ins, Outs and All-Arounds

Here’s a fun fact before we get started: you don’t have to like the typical romance novel to enjoy writing romance yourself. You don’t even have to be a romantic person. I see so many writers saying things like “I don’t like romance, I’m not romantic, I’ve never had a romantic relationship!! I can’t write romance!!” These things are not mutually exclusive to one another.

Can’t do it? Then stop. Walk away and find a TV show or a book series and run over to Archive of Our Own to hunt down some fanfiction, then write some of your own. This works best for the non-canon but super hinted-at ships, like Destiel or Johnlock, the kind of ships where the characters are friends, but their chemistry is so strong that everyone winds up agreeing that these canon-stated heterosexual characters are actually closeted non-straights in love with one another. In the long run this doesn’t matter too much, since you need to ship the ship yourself, but that’s the gist of it.

The only thing to do from there on in is practise, practise, practise. The groundwork has been done for you, which means all you have to do is write something that keeps true to the characters’ relationship, carries over the qualities that make people ship them in the first place, show some intimacy, and. Oh. Look! Romance! (please bear in mind this is simplified and I’m about to get into the gritty details now)

That’s all good, but how do you go about then making your own groundwork?

Consider the things that go before attraction is the answer. Whether your characters go from friends to lovers or enemies to lovers, or anything else along that spectrum, there is a list of things that must, must must be present before any kind of romance can begin. Most media misses these out and thus warps our perception of how we as writers should be showing love, adding to this idea that we just can’t write it. If you look past the bullcrap of consumer-orientated romance, you’ll notice these fundementals missing:

Respect

This is more than Him holding the door for Her and thinking about how great her hair smells. Respect is knowing who the person is, understanding them, and not trying to shape them into your opinion of how they should be. It is asking for consent, not kissing to cut off an argument, accepting set boundaries, being willing to communicate, to try, to give space and know when space would be damaging. Respect is such a broad term, encompassing everything from basic human decency to the begginning of admiration, understanding and adoration. Romance is nothing without respect.

Understanding

Your two young women in love are never going to be able to take that love further until they understand one another and what makes them tick. And when I say “what makes them tick” I am not talking about turn-ons or sex, not in this context anyway. Loving someone without ever understanding them is tantamount to being in love with the idea of someone you hero-worship, or adoring a Victorian house for its antiquity based on the facade when the inside has been completely modernized.

Understanding isn’t always knowing your significant other’s turbulent past and understanding that it has warped their moral compass and trying to fix them (Don’t use the moral saviour trope in romance building, ever). More often than not, understanding is knowing that your Significant Other(s) doesn’t like loud places and respecting them enough to just take them out of that place; it is understanding that your SO will tell you why they have this problem in their own time, if at all, and that they don’t like having questions asked.

See now that these two things are both exclusive to their own, and intrinsically linked? You can’t have one without the other, and you can’t even begin to think about inching your plot or sublot into romance territory unless they’re present. Respect and understanding are how you have two characters forming a connection of some description. Ergo, groundwork.

So what is the groundwork anyway?

Groundwork is all of the aspects listed below. It’s the things that happen after, or in tandem with, some very basic respect and understanding being established between your characters. They’re not a recipe for loving or crushing- that happens on its own, and I’ll come back to how to write that later on- but they are a recipe for writing your blooming romance into an actual relationship that people will love.

Pre-established relationship

This can be a friendship or a fued- (if you’ve ever looked at the Romeo and Juliet fandom, you’ll see a huge amount of people shipping the sworn enemies, Mercutio and Tybalt with gleeful abandon)- a previous meeting years ago, High School friends, whatever. There just has to be something there, and that something needs to be some sort of chemistry. Love is chemicals, after all, and nothing comes from nothing.

Chemistry

Thinking of Romeo and Juliet, let’s study this classic example of “love at first sight”. Whether or not it was actually love is something I can debate for hours, but it could definitely have become love of the strongest kind. And what was the clincher for this? Chemistry. They had that in bucket-loads, and given a healthy environment, they could’ve built a solid relationship. Romeo was head-over-heels with Juliet’s beauty, she stopped him short with her wit; he suggested, she responded; she was level-headed while he was headstrong. They balanced one another so perfectly. Shakespeare knew what he was writing about. People are still shipping and writing fanfiction of this play 400 years later.

Chemistry can go in another direction, too. Let’s look at Destiel, the most popular ship on Ao3. God, Dean is so frustrated with Castiel, and Cass, in turn, is so aloof until he learns some humanity. The two of them go back and forth, back and forth. Granted. I’ve just finished season seven, but the chemistry in there so far is enough to set something on fire through an exothermal reaction. It’s hatred, love and loyalty in turns. Anger, despair, betrayal. Maybe not the healthiest, but it’s still chemistry, and fans lap it up.

Feeling Things

Indifference is the death of love; things are where it starts. Slow burn and enemies to lovers are some of the top rising tropes in fiction today. That’s not to say you can have someone loving the abusive jock who used to bully them or a serial killer who took their family- there are lines, and you as a writer have got to lay them out- but when the protag brings out the best qualities in the antag without changing who they are, that’s good romance material. Any strong emotion provides a great framework for romantic attraction to someone.

Basics down, let’s look at how to write love itself

The best part of any romance plot or romantic subplot is the buildup, but only if done well. If done wrong, it turns out like an infatuation, and that’s just unhealthy- or as indifference, indifference, oh wait they’re together? Love, done correctly, is a really fun emotion to write. You can take so much liberty with narrative, and even the way you use the English language! The possibilities are huge and with all the tools available, there is no such thing as “I can’t write romance”

It’s the little things...

If you’ve ever felt anything even slightly more than friendship for anyone, you’ll know that it’s the little things that catch your focus: the smile, the small quirks, hand actions, things nobody else notices but you do. There is something so delightfully intimate about these details, and it’s fairly simple to convey these feelings through writing by including- yes- details! I reiterate: your character is going to start noticing little things about their love interest(s) that other people generally would not. There is a misconception that writing these details is the buildup to a sexual relationship, but it isn’t; it’s a simple fact of any kind of romantic involvement. If your relationship is going to be sexual as well as romantic, then maybe your character will notice sunlight on skin, glimpses of exposed neck, etc etc, but generally speaking these details are actions that would be simple to anyone else, but become endearing.

An example:

Jack smiled. It was the kind of smile that Aryn had to respond to: gaptooth, lopsided. A youthful shift in a weary face that always made Aryn’s chest tighten, just a touch. Only a touch. It couldn’t be any more than that, but, he was unable to deny the safety in the way Jack’s eyes wrinkled at the corners.

That was pretty cliche, so here’s another one that’s less so and does the same thing:

He had a way of running his thumb under his bottom lip when nervous, a tic that reminded Cooper of a bird, in some ways. Or maybe not. It was familiar anyhow, and quaint, after the fashion of the colourful characters of childhood film.

I’m assuming here that Cooper really likes birds. Not that I know who Cooper is, but the point of the exercise is that the descriptions link back to positive things, some of which are specific to the viewpoint character. With the second one, I didn’t even need to describe how Cooper was feeling- no butterflies, breathlessness or any other cliches of the romance genre that I find hard to write- just left the description open to positive interpretation.

If a character’s love interest makes them feel safe or dizzy, include words linked to these ideas in the descriptions and narrative, such as Cooper’s birds or the boyishness to Jack’s smile.

I mentioned sex. I guess I owe it to you now to explain how to put this in, too

It isn’t a part of a relationship for everyone, but for some people, the attraction within a romance is physical as well as romantic. When that happens, you’re free to unleash sensual and sensory language to get your readers excited and your characters’ chemistry really boiling. Make a list of words/phrases that relate to sensuality and sexuality and scatter them in the paragraphs leading up to a sex scene (whether you decide to write this as explicit, implied, or somewhere in between). such as:

Nessa watched Athenais’ fingers caress the curves of the chair absently, the skin of her hand a soft charcoal blue in the dim light. The night was sticky and wrapped itself around them.

This is the same technique used for demonstrating feelings of endearment and love, but taken to a new level. The words should be closer together, the description not too heavy but not backing up either. This helps with the tension and anticipation of the moment.

Some other ways to write attraction, physical or emotional, are:

viewpoint character paying unsual interest to how their love interest(s) walks/moves/talks

Intense conversation

Noticing freckles, beauty marks etc and wondering if they continue below the line of clothes

Glancing away, unable to meet eyes, trips of the tongue, blushing (but these in moderation.)

“She’s so good at singing, it’s amazing!” I don’t think she’s that good. “I do! Really-” (Heightened opinion, especially in comparison to that of other characters)

And last of all, swings and roundabouts

Your budding romance shouldn’t happen in a linear fashion. Characters need to recognise their feelings, push them away, deny them, attempt to reduce them to platonic ones; maybe one of the characters is afraid of having a relationship, while the other isn’t, but they both really want it. The rule of thumb in writing is create conflict, and that in no way ends when you write romance. Only this time, it’s a conflict of interest, of emotion, internal conflict.

The tug and pull is what makes romance fun. You can drag out the angst and build up to a lovely, healthy relationship that your readers ship and you feel fulfilled writing.

I’ve done my best to condense all I’ve learned in how to write romance, but if you’re still struggling with one aspect or another, send me an ask. I hope that this has helped: best wishes and happy writing!

#artie gives advice #romance #writing romance #writing advice #writer advice #writing help #writeblr #writer #writer blogging #writers on writing #writers of tumblr #writers on tumblr #writing love

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bravonovel · 3 years

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Read Don't Mess with this Son-in-Law novel online on Bravonovel

Don't Mess with this Son-in-Law

Don't Mess with this Son-in-Law novel is a Romance story about Alex Jefferson and Heather.

You can read Don't Mess with this Son-in-Law novel on Bravonovel App.

Don't Mess with this Son-in-Law novel Trial Reading

'I’m busy right now. You should attend the boy’s parent-teacher meeting at his school‘

At the entrance of Four Seas Corporation.

Alex Jefferson had been standing on duty as usual, when his wife had suddenly rung him up.

Before he could utter a word, the line went dead. It was almost as abrupt as his wife’s tone.

Staring at the phone in his hands, a bitter smile spread across Alex’s face.

His wife’s recent attitude towards him had taken a toll for the worse. Whenever she looked at him, her gaze was always laced with coldness and disappointment.

For others, a relationship usually turned sour, at the age of thirty. Unfortunately, the perils of a failing relationship had arrived at his doorstep, four years early.

Raising his head to glance at the dark clouds that swept across the sky, he realized that there was going to be torrential rain very soon.

Regardless of whether or not he was going to attend the parent-teacher meeting, he still needed to pick his son up from school.

Thus, he put aside his phone and walked toward the manager’s office.

Meanwhile, the manager of the security department, James Langdon, was flirting with the pretty receptionist. He was visibly infuriated, at the sight of Alex barging in without warning, interrupting his romantic advances.

'I didn’t see anything. Do carry on.‘ Startled, Alex turned to leave.

However, the pretty receptionist was increasingly flustered, as she soon rushed out, before he could even take a step forward.

'Get back here!‘

Leaning back on his chair, James pulled out a cigarette and lit it, with much annoyance. Then, he asked impatiently, 'What are you doing here? Why aren’t you on duty?‘

Alex turned around and replied awkwardly, 'Um, Manager, I would like to take a half-day off.‘

'Why?‘ James lazily puffed out a cloud of smoke.

'It’s going to rain any time now. I need to attend my son’s parent-teacher meeting...‘

'All you do is laze around, all day at work. Do you think that this is your family-owned company?‘

Slamming a fist on the table, James stood up in fury and pointed a finger at Alex, 'Look at yourself! A live-in son-in-law of the Jenningses! You bring shame to us men, do you know that? All you do is laze around at work, without doing much. Do you think that this company is the Jennings family, where you can leech off from?‘

Alex’s expression darkened, as annoyance crept up in his heart.

Nonetheless, when he thought of the scandal that he had witnessed earlier between James and the receptionist, he realized that the man was simply trying to intimidate him. Hence, he controlled his temper and muttered, 'This is the first time I’ve asked for a leave, to attend my son’s parent-teacher meeting...‘

'Attend your son’s parent-teacher meeting? Look at how useless you are. How do you have the audacity to attend your son’s parent-teacher meeting?‘

James continued to hurl insults, 'Henry Hale is a security guard, whom you’d personally mentored. He has simply been here for a year, yet he’s already been promoted to team leader. Look at you! You’ve been here for four years, yet you’re still a lowly security guard. Don’t you feel an ounce of shame, facing your wife and son back home? You’re not even worth a bucket of warm spit!‘

'Enough!‘

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Alex curled his fists into balls, suppressing the urge to punch James and break his nose. 'I just happened to witness your scandal, that’s all! What do you need to intimidate me for? You’ll approve this leave for me, even if you don’t want to!‘

He angrily spun around to leave.

'Alex Jefferson, if you dare to step even half a foot out of the company today, you’re fired!‘ James was beside himself with rage. He’s a piece of trash living off of his woman! How dare he talk back to me?

Startled at his words, Alex clenched his fists tighter. Nonetheless, he still pushed open the door and walked out.

Outside the room, a few security guards were watching the fun. When they saw Alex coming out in a fit of rage, surprise flitted across each of their faces.

They were astonished that this loser from the security department would dare to talk back to the manager today.

Under everyone’s flabbergasted gazes, Alex strode out of the lobby. Even the pretty receptionist from earlier was too ashamed to look up at him.

Getting on his electric scooter, Alex drove to his son’s kindergarten without looking back.

Before he reached, the dark sky opened up. Plump droplets of rain started to fall. In a flash, the light pitter-patter turned into a heavy torrent, hammering on Alex’s body and dinging off his scooter.

However, he did not find a place to take shelter. Rushing through the unforgiving storm, he headed to the kindergarten as fast as he could.

'Miss, I’m sorry. The storm’s rather bad outside, so I’m slightly late.‘

At this moment, a crowd of parents was attending the parent-teacher meeting with their children. Heads turned, as all eyes fell on Alex, who was standing outside the door, completely drenched from head-to-toe.

'Hey, who is this? He’s even late for his child’s parent-teacher meeting. How irresponsible is he?‘

'He’s the live-in son-in-law of the Jennings family, and the famous parasite of Nebula City.‘

'Oh, so he’s the one who’d made the tabloid headlines previously. He really brings shame to all men.‘

'If my husband were like him, I would’ve kicked him out, without any hesitation!‘

The group of parents gossiped amongst themselves as they insulted and mocked Alex.

'Everyone, please settle down. Let me make the introductions. This is Alex Jefferson, Stanley Jennings’ father. Alex, do come in,‘ urged Ms. Haden.

'Sure.‘ Alex shook off the water from his body and started to walk towards his son, who was sitting in the back row.

'Ms. Haden, you must be mistaken. Shouldn’t Stanley Jennings’ father carry the last name, Jennings? Why is his last name Jefferson instead?‘ A woman spoke up.

Everyone understood the implied meaning behind her words, as the crowd soon erupted into laughter.

'Even a parasite has to do something in return for its host, okay? The fact remains that he’s a dog of the Jennings family, used for breeding purposes only.‘

Alex’s body stiffened when he heard that. With his eyes filled with flames of fury, his fists curled into tight balls out of anger.

Did I get up on the wrong side of the bed today? Why am I encountering such s***ty luck?

Although he had faced many insults before, he felt especially infuriated today.

'Daddy!‘ At this moment, Stanley called out, from his seat in the back row.

Seeing his son being boycotted and isolated at the very back of the classroom, a sense of guilt rose in Alex’s heart as he strode over to the little boy sitting all alone.

'Stanley, I’m sorry. I didn’t come late on purpose.‘ Alex sat beside Stanley, wanting to hug him. However, upon realizing that he was completely drenched, he had no choice but to pat the boy on the head instead.

'Daddy has to go to work. I’m aware of that,‘ Stanley obediently answered.

A tear formed at the corners of Alex’s eyes. Stanley was only four years old, yet he was already more thoughtful and obedient than most peers his age. However, Alex had not given him a better life or much attention at all. He suddenly felt a pang of remorse at his bad parenting.

Stanley, just wait for me, alright? Trust me! After some time, I’ll definitely groom you to become the most enviable rich kid in the entire world!

Alex clenched his fists together as if he had made a big decision.

......

Continue to read Don't Mess with this Son-in-Law

Read more chapters of Don't Mess with this Son-in-Law novel on Bravonovel App

#Don't Mess with this Son-in-Law #Bravonovel #Alex Jefferson #Heather #romance

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techcrunchappcom · 4 years

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New Post has been published on https://techcrunchapp.com/clean-tech-news-views-solar-energy-news-wind-energy-news-ev-news-more-11/

Clean Tech News & Views: Solar Energy News. Wind Energy News. EV News. & More.

Clean Power

Published on June 1st, 2020 | by Michael Barnard

June 1st, 2020 by Michael Barnard

SpaceX and NASA did something awesome over the weekend. They successfully launched two astronauts, Bob and Doug — cue Canadian humor clip — to the ISS on the SpaceX Crew Dragon from American soil. This is the first time since July 8th, 2011, when the last Shuttle launch occurred.

This led me to dust off some old calculations I’d done around powering the Shuttle entirely with renewable energy. At the time, I figured that we could turn water into rocket fuel sufficient for a Shuttle launch using a month’s wind power from a small wind farm at a cost of about $285,000, a bit more than market prices but a drop in the bucket compared to the $450 million to $1.5 billion per Space Shuttle launch.

Space Shuttle launch image courtesy NASA.gov

How does that work out? Let’s start with what most rocket propellant is.

“LOX and liquid hydrogen, used in the Space Shuttle orbiter, the Centaur upper stage of the Atlas V, Saturn V upper stages, the newer Delta IV rocket, the H-IIA rocket, and most stages of the European Ariane 5 rocket.”

LOX is not something you eat with bagels and cream cheese, but liquid oxygen.

So, basically one form of rocket fuel is oxygen and hydrogen. And one of the most common chemical compounds around is H2O, or two hydrogen and one oxygen bound together to form water, which is about as non-combustible as things get. It’s so non-combustible that it’s the most common mechanism used for putting out fires.

Okay, so far, so good. We have water which contains only the two things we need to make rocket fuel. But what about getting at it? Could we do that with renewable energy?

Absolutely, it turns out. Turning water into hydrogen and oxygen gases is done by a process called electrolysis, which unsurprisingly uses electricity. And it’s easy and cheap to make lots of electricity with wind and solar energy, that’s why they are the fastest growing sources of energy globally, with China, for example, having put in almost as much solar energy in the first three months of 2015 [guess when I wrote this Quora answer originally] as exists in the US, and China’s wind power at 115 GW now has more nameplate capacity than all of the US’ nuclear plants and is expected to reach 200 GW by 2020. Then more electricity is required to supercool the hydrogen and oxygen into liquids.

So we can get sufficient electricity and we can use it to turn water into rocket fuel. And hey, when we burn them shoving rockets into space we get water back. That sounds pretty good!

So what’s the kicker? Well, rockets use a lot of fuel. For this, I’ll just turn to the space expert and NASA engineer, Robert Frost, and his detailed assessment of the number of pounds of rocket fuel necessary to propel a pound of mass in Earth’s orbit from sea level.

“So, if our imaginary rocket with a final mass of 1 kg started off at 10.39 kg, then 90.3% of the mass of the rocket was propellant. Our rule of thumb was pretty darn close.”

Even that is a bit of an understatement, because a lot of stuff you throw into orbit is just there to contain the actually useful payload, whether that’s a military stealth satellite that can catch people cheating on their taxes or an astronaut who does a rocking version of Bowie’s Space Oddity.

Let’s look at the Space Shuttle for a nostalgic and mildly sad example.

“The Space Shuttle weighed 165,000 pounds empty. Its external tank weighed 78,100 pounds empty and its two solid rocket boosters weighed 185,000 pounds empty each. Each solid rocket booster held 1.1 million pounds of fuel. The external tank held 143,000 gallons of liquid oxygen (1,359,000 pounds) and 383,000 gallons of liquid hydrogen (226,000 pounds). The fuel weighed almost 20 times more than the Shuttle. At launch, the Shuttle, external tank, solid rocket boosters and all the fuel combined had a total weight of 4.4 million pounds. The Shuttle could also carry a 65,000 [sic] payload.”

That’s about 24 pounds of fuel for each pound of payload. That’s not quite the 90% that the rule of thumb talks about, but good enough.

So how much electricity would it take to put a loaded shuttle into orbit? Let’s start with how much hydrogen and oxygen a kWh of electricity could create from water:

“1 kilowatt hour of electricity can split about 270 grams of water and produce about 350 liters of hydrogen and 175 liters of oxygen.”

Making LOX and liquid hydrogen doesn’t change the mass of the elements, so 270 grams of water could be divided into the total mass of fuel and you’d get an approximation, but it wouldn’t be accurate. Let’s look at the mass of hydrogen and hydrogen separately:

“1 litre of water weighs 1 kilo and when electrolysed will produce hydrogen and oxygen as described by the following equation: 2 H2O(l) → 2 H2(g) + O2(g) in atomic weight terms 36.0012kg of water with give 4.0032kg of hydrogen and 31.998kg of oxygen So a single kilo you will get 4.0032/36.0012 or 111.19gm of hydrogen and 31.998/36.0012 or 888.81gm of oxygen”

So we need 617,727 kilos of LOX and 102,727 kilos of liquid hydrogen. The mass doesn’t change when you change state, it just gets a lot denser. That means that we would need about 925,471 liters of water to get the necessary hydrogen, and only 695,639 liters for the oxygen. As such, we can limit ourselves to the amount needed for hydrogen and we’ll have some left over oxygen to get high on.

Because we know a kWh can electrolyze 270 grams of water, we can do some simple math and voila, we can see that we need 3.427 GWh of electricity to produce sufficient LOX and hydrogen.

Aveston-3 Mills wind farm

Is that a feasible amount of electricity to produce with renewables? Absolutely. It would only take about a month for a 13.6 MW renewable source with a capacity factor of 35% to generate that much electricity. That’s a wind farm of maybe 8 turbines.

But that’s to produce these gases at room temperature. We need the gases turned into liquids, which means spending even more electricity to cool and compress them. Oddly, that information isn’t easy to find, mostly because it’s a complex calculation which is process dependent — different combinations of compression and cooling in different environments will have significantly different results –, but we can make some approximations. Let’s start with liquid oxygen.

“Liquid oxygen has a density of 1.141 g/cm3 (1.141 kg/L or 1141 kg/m3) and is cryogenic with a freezing point of 54.36 K (−361.82 °F, −218.79 °C) and a boiling point of 90.19 K (−297.33 °F, −182.96 °C) at 101.325 kPa (760 mmHg).”

Then let’s look at liquid hydrogen.

“To exist as a liquid, H2 must be cooled below hydrogen’s critical point of 33 K. However, for hydrogen to be in a full liquid state without boiling at atmospheric pressure, it needs to be cooled to 20.28 K (−423.17 °F/−252.87°C).”

So we have to cool 617,727 kilos of oxygen to 90.19 K from about 295 K, and 102,727 kilos of hydrogen to 33 K from about 295 K. Specific heat is the energy required to raise one kilogram of a material one degree Kelvin. It changes depending on the degree of compression and the temperature, but we can make an approximation by picking a point partway down. For oxygen we’ll use a specific heat of 0.910 kJ/kg.K at 175 K. For hydrogen we’ll use a specific heat of 13.12 kJ/kg.K at 175 K. Note that it takes 14 times more energy to cool (or heat) hydrogen than oxygen. That means it will take in the range of 115,000,000 kJ to liquify the oxygen and 350,000,000 kJ to liquify the hydrogen.

Of course, as everyone with access to Google knows, a kiloJoule is equivalent to 0.000277778 of a KWH, so it will take about another 130 MWH to liquify the gases.

So is it economical? Well, 3.567 GWH of electricity at 8 cents per KWH is about $285,000 worth of electricity. That doesn’t seem out of line, especially given the average cost of launching the shuttle was $450 million and if you actually amortized development the cost was about $1.5 billion per launch. And according to one source, buying the LOX and liquid hydrogen at market prices would cost around $200,000, which is in the ballpark.

This of course ignores the solid fuel rockets also used in Shuttle launches. Of course, the wind farm electricity is only useful for launches from ground to space, as there is no moving atmosphere to speak of in space. Replace the wind energy with solar energy and the river or lake water with comets or Martian/Lunar polar ice, and the result is a lot of rocket propellant ready to be made in the solar system. Follow CleanTechnica on Google News.

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Tags: Crew Dragon, Elon Musk, International Space Station, Space Shuttle, SpaceX, united states

About the Author

Michael Barnard is Chief Strategist with TFIE Strategy Inc. He works with startups, existing businesses and investors to identify opportunities for significant bottom line growth and cost takeout in our rapidly transforming world. He is editor of The Future is Electric, a Medium publication. He regularly publishes analyses of low-carbon technology and policy in sites including Newsweek, Slate, Forbes, Huffington Post, Quartz, CleanTechnica and RenewEconomy, and his work is regularly included in textbooks. Third-party articles on his analyses and interviews have been published in dozens of news sites globally and have reached #1 on Reddit Science. Much of his work originates on Quora.com, where Mike has been a Top Writer annually since 2012. He’s available for consulting engagements, speaking engagements and Board positions.

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aion-rsa · 4 years

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How Wonder Twins Became the Funniest DC Superhero Book

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Mark Russell and Stephen Byrne have made the Wonder Twins the most unlikely superhero reboot success story of our time.

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For all of the high profile storm clouds gathering on the horizon of the DC Universe between Year of the Villain, some decidedly Crisis-y vibes in Justice League, and the fact that the Batman Who Laughs gets his jollies by turning the heroes of the DC Universe into evil versions of themselves, you might think that it's all bad vibes in the DCU. Ah, but you would be wrong. Each month, Wonder Twins (yes, those Wonder Twins) delivers a blast of hilarity and social commentary, all set right under the noses of the Justice League at the Hall of Justice. Imagine a DC superhero comic as steeped in deep superhero and animation knowledge as a show like Venture Bros., packed with the same irreverent and manic energy, and with a similarly sympathetic eye towards the failings of its heroes and villains. That's Wonder Twins.

And really, it shouldn't work. The titular Wonder Twins, Zan and Jayna, were alien sidekicks from the planet Exxor who hung around on episodes of the Super Friends in the late 1970s and early '80s. Both are shape shifters, although their respective power sets are somewhat limited in this regard. Jan can take on the "form of" anything related to water, while Jan takes on the "shape of" various animals. Of course they can only activate these powers when they're together, and really, there's only so many times a giant purple eagle can carry a bucket of water with a face on it to put out a fire or whatever, so their powers aren't exactly their most compelling aspect. Nor are there purple uniforms, snazzy as they are, or weirdly uncool-cool-for-like-5-minutes-in-the-late-90s-then-uncool-again haircuts really the thing that makes Wonder Twins such a great book.

No, that would be the jokes. So many of them. All of the jokes allowed by the Comics Code were that still a thing (which it thankfully is not). Jokes from the minds, pens, and brushes of Mark Russell (of the similarly hilarious and shockingly poignant The Flintstones and The Snagglepuss Chronicles) and Stephen Byrne (lots of cool things but especially a bunch of gorgeously animated genre-fan friendly viral videos that you have almost certainly seen...and if you haven't you should fix that right now). Jokes that are packed into the backgrounds of panels and arrive at such a pace you sometimes have moved on to another page before they've all fully landed. Hell, even jokes at the expense of Superman and that notorious buzzkill Batman.

But threaded through the humor is a genuine understanding of the human condition, a sympathetic eye given to all who deserve it (even the book's villains), and a genuine understanding of and even respect for how the DC Universe should work, even when we're all laughing with (or at) the sheer ridiculousness of it all. It's that balance that probably helped Wonder Twins, originally planned as a six part mini-series get expanded to 12. And with the first volume out now collecting those initial six issues, there's no better time to get to know Zan and Jayna...or the creators behind them. So...activate!

Den of Geek: The thing that really strikes me about this book is how animated it feels even on the page. What’s your process is like working together? Are you acting these scripts out? Are you hearing the script in your head when you start doing it?

Mark Russell: Well it starts with the process of trying to think of what I would tell myself if I had the ability to go back in time and talk to myself as a 16 or 17-year-old kid and think about what that means in the modern context. If I can tell them one thing today, what would it be? I try to tell it in as visual way as possible. I know that Stephen's going to take the ball and run with that in ways I can't even foresee. Our process is mainly me just telling him what I have to say and just waiting for him to come up with visual ways to make that happen.

read more - The Secret Origin of Green Lantern: Far Sector

Stephen Byrne: I guess from an art perspective, I have a background in animation and the main place where people know the characters from originally was the Super Friends cartoon. So I'm sort of trying to bring a little touch of that vibe into it with the bright colors and the simple line work, but then to inject it with more darkness and deepness and emotion. You can be more creative with the types of compositions and shots you're doing that they wouldn't have had the budget for in the old Wonder Twins cartoon. I want it to feel artistically familiar to how people know the characters, but also make it a much more emotional and meaningful.

Mark: I feel like Wonder Twins is ultimately sort of a dystopian book, but I feel like a dystopian America will be colorful.

Stephen: Doesn't dystopia imply futuristic? Isn't it just present day dystopia?

Mark: Right. It's a dystopia that will take place in the next 18 months. I feel like dystopias you see in literature are all gray and dark like George Orwell's 1984. They all kind of look like East Germany in 1976. I feel like in dystopian America, we might not even recognize the dystopia because it will look like a Taco Bell. It'll be like, purple and orange and stuff. That's why Steven is so good because he represents these dystopian topics, but in a way that's very sort of colorful and almost attractive.

read more: The Secret Origin of Superman Smashes the Klan

Stephen: I like that because I think of the book as dealing with some of the unresolvable tragedies of our time. That's overall in the themes, but then moment to moment on every single page, there's something that'll make you laugh or some funny joke. I try and keep it light and brief in the moment to moment because the story carries that extra satirical social commentary.

Mark: I think the central theme of the story is that the world is terrible, but we find things worth saving in it, that our lives are still good despite the fact the world is terrible.

Stephen: Sometimes.

Mark: We find ways to make life worth living and I think that's what the Wonder Twins do. They make the life they have worth living, even though they’re exiled on a planet they know nothing about, living in a sort of screwed up culture that they had no role in creating, but they find a way to make it work for them.

There's so many background gags in there ... are these all written by Mark or is Stephen sneaking stuff in the background too?

Mark: I think it's both..

Stephen: But I'd say it's mostly you and you started doing it and then once in a while I will take the lead and put it in something because I know that's kind of the tone of what you're going for.

Mark: That's kind of how I get to know an artist. I say, "Here's some background gags I want you to sneak in at some point." Then I think that they get me after that point. They get the sensibility and they feel more comfortable including their own thing. I think the worst thing you can do is just have every scene in what looks like a CSI set. There needs to be things that give you your character and your perspective in the background that set it apart from other sorts of things. I'm very adamant about writing in background gags or details that will give it this air of not being like the set of a primetime TV show.

read more: New DC Universe Timeline Explained

Stephen: That's funny because I used to do satirical newspaper cartoons and I would do the main joke or whatever in the strip, but if possible, I would always sneak a little something in the background for people. I think people like that if they notice something that they know not everyone noticed. You get a little extra satisfaction out of it.

Mark: It makes the world feel more fully populated. Oh, this isn't just somebody making it up as they go along. They've created this whole world for me to live in.

Any of those jokes not make it into the final book?

Stephen: I probably didn't know about it. By the time it got to me, they were already gone.

Mark: There's some that were just a little too dark to make it into the Wonder Twins comic. It's like ‘we don't really need these jokes in a comic about a guy who turns into water’ was one of the comments I got from one of the editors.

Anything that you're allowed to talk about or not?

Mark: I'll leave it there.

Okay, that's fair. Stephen, have there ever been any that you had to get on Skype and say, "Mark, I'm not doing this. I'm not drawing this."

Stephen: No, I don't think so. I think by the time...

Mark: The editors get to do that. Then by the time Steven sees it, it's a little sanitized.

Stephen: When it gets to me, it's all very above board.

What kind of voices do you envision for these characters because obviously we all remember the Super Friends voices, but possibly my favorite panel in this whole series is still from the date story when Zan is like, "I'll have the scared tuna," with this look on his face. The only voice I can ever hear when I read that panel is Hank Venture's. How do you guys envision their voices?

Mark: Well I kind of approached the Wonder Twins like they’re one really well adjusted person tragically split in half. Jayna's the one with the deeper intelligence and the wittiness and Zan's the guy who's optimistic and ready for any adventure, but he's kind of dopey and clueless about the world at the same time. That's the way I tried to have that. He's ultimately just optimistic and ready to venture opinions about things he knows nothing about. Jayna's more shy and sort of a quiet genius, but not ready to talk about the things that she knows very well.

read more: Inside the Return of the Justice Society of America to the DC Universe

Stephen: I hadn't specifically thought about their voices, but I think their characters come through in the words really strongly. When I'm drawing Zan, he's always over-excited and making a fool of himself and being sort of zany and weird, living in the moment. He's like a puppy. Whatever's going on, he's just excited about. Then I think of Jayna as much more introspective, contemplative, thoughtful...

Mark: She sees the deeper tragedy in everything around her.

Stephen: Yeah, very self serious. Zan is usually bouncing off the walls and smiling and she's usually sitting, thinking about everything that's terrible all the time. I have thought about it in the way that I do their body language and stuff like that, but not specifically their voices.

Mark: Jayna's probably more of the person I am and Zan's probably more of the person I wish I was.

Stephen: Yeah, I'm a Jayna for sure.

How much of this book is an actual critique of superheroes and how much of this is you trying to relate to superheroes in terms of this world?

Mark: Well, I think a lot of it is my critique of society in general, which is that our institutions no longer serve us. The institutions were created to serve us, but then at some point it changes. And so we then begin serving the institutions, and we forget why they exist except for that we know that we must serve them. And I feel at some point the superheroes themselves become an institution, and they forget why they're superheroes. They forget why they're doing this. They just know that this is what they've always done. And so I try to question that. I try to force them into these circumstances where they have to wonder why am I doing this or is this the best way to serve society, five superheroes converging on a purse snatcher? Is this really what society needs more than anything? I couldn't be doing anything else more valuable with my powers than this? I try to ask these questions in my scripts.

Stephen: I think of it as a commentary on superheroes but also a celebration at the same time. Like the best self-referential work, it can poke fun at the thing it's about also being a great version of what it's about.

What about body language? The body language that you give Superman is not the body language you often associate with the character.

Stephen: We're seeing him in a different context than we usually would. And so he's dealing with interns which isn't his usual thing. And so you're just getting to see a slightly different side of him.

Mark: He's more of a father figure in this one because he's got these two foundlings that he brought over from Exxor to Earth. He's their father figure now. It's his super power not being so much his speed or his strength, but his wisdom, and it's a side of Superman you don't see a lot, but just him understanding what it is as an outsider the human race needs. And then explaining that to Zan and Jayna I think sort of defined Superman for this series in a different way than he is sometimes presented in other series.

You're often writing characters who are the smartest people in the room. You have a Filo Math and Polly Math and you just did that great Riddler special as well. That's not the easiest thing to do, especially in the superhero world. So how do you put yourself in that head space and then how do you distinguish them from the characters that are less visible?

Mark: I just think smart people are more interesting. I also think that we are all sort of the geniuses of ourselves. We all understand our own perspective better than anybody else. So what I try to do is just give the character room to explore right or wrong. This is why I feel the way I do and make a stand for why they are the way they are. And I feel like that's what allows people to connect with these characters to make them feel relevant. It's like we all have that moment where the world does not understand us, but if we only had this moment where we could talk to somebody through the pages of a comic book and explain ourselves, then we would be the heroes of our own story.

read more: Frank Miller's Return to the Dark Knight Universe

Stephen: My answer is much less sophisticated. I draw the intelligent people wearing suits and ties and glasses. There's some body language and expression stuff too, but that's definitely part of it is just sort of the way they present themselves. They're smart people.

Since that was way too straightforward and serious an answer, let's go back to the funny stuff. And what do you feel is the most ridiculous thing you've gotten to draw in the book so far? Whether it was the funniest or whether it was a thing that you were just like, how the hell am I going to make this work in this comic?

Stephen: First thing that came to mind, although there's so many, right? It's like there's something every issue that's insane. But the first thing that comes to mind was a giant gorilla punching an alcoholic vampire through the air, which I was just like, this is so weird and funny and comedic in tone and yet in like three pages time, you're going to get an emotional punch in the gut for the conclusion of that story, which was so tragic. So I love drawing the funny stuff and I love drawing the emotional stuff and I love that you can kind of oscillate between them in such a short space of time. I think a lot of that is down to Mr. Russell.

Mark: And I think one of the things I try to bring out in the scripts is that these are two dimensional, funny comic book characters where there's always a third dimension lurking somewhere in the background. There is a backstory or a tragic shadow to this person that makes what they're doing makes sense and Stephen does a very good job of bringing that out in the artwork.

Mike Cecchini is the Editor in Chief of Den of Geek. You can read more of his work here. Follow him on Twitter @wayoutstuff.

Read and download the Den of Geek NYCC 2019 Special Edition Magazine right here!

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Interview Mike Cecchini

Nov 13, 2019

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beingadicktosadpeople · 7 years

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Meeting

In the midday heat, everything slowed to a stop.

The shops closed, the streets cleared out, everyone went home. Even the stray cats slunk away into the shade for a reprieve from the heat. The sun was too bright and life seemed to melt under its burning gaze.

Jovan should turn in for an afternoon nap. There was nothing else for him to do at this time of day, no customers to attend to. The streets were quiet, save the constant screeching of bugs hidden in the trees and on the sides of buildings.

It was peaceful.

It was also boring. Jovan told himself again to get up from the counter of his open shop front and go to the back room. It was cool and dark back there, with a wide bed and soft sheets perfect for a nap. Everyone else with any sense was a sleep at this time of day, and he had no business being awake.

Even so, he lingered at the front of his shop with his head pillowed on his arms, watching the empty street before him. A light breeze picked up and rustled the lines of bells and bundles of herbs hanging over his head. It did little to cool him, instead leaving him in the stifling heat with his dark curled hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.

He sighed and picked an olive out of the half empty bowl beside his elbow. It was salty and sharp, just the way he remembered them in the kitchen of his childhood home. His younger sister had run by a sealed bucket of olives that morning when she came by for her weekly fortune. As usual, she asked things about the family business, about her own future, and then questions about romance and the like that their older sister would not condone.

“Jono, stop putting these romantic notions into Caris’ head!” Usha would say at their family dinners while Jovan gorged himself on free food. Of course, Jovan wasn’t the one putting these ideas into her head. He was hardly a romantic himself, and could barely hold onto a bed partner for more than a few months. In fact, he had a habit of setting his own partners up with one another, after he’d had a taste of course. No, his sister was young and interested in love.

Their brother Devdas had been much the same at her age, and he had enjoyed a happy fate for it. As the youngest, she had no obligation to take over the business the way Usha did, and instead turned her attention to marriage and producing offspring. Jovan saw no harm in entertaining Caris’ romantic notions and told her the fortunes dutifully.

This morning, he told her to go to the flower stand a few blocks over, the one with the thieving parrot who tricked customers into paying double the prices for flowers when the shop owner was away. The shop owner’s twin nephews were around, and maybe one of them would be a good match. They were poor, true enough, but that hardly mattered. Money and names went through the hands of women, so all a husband had to do was provide the right ingredients for heirs and perhaps tend to the house. If the husband was found to be sterile, he could be kept of love and the woman could take on a second husband, or he could be discarded entirely. If Caris played her cards right, she might even reel in both of the twins. No one would begrudge her that, and the shop owner might be pleased to see his nephews with such a well off woman.

Jovan supposed he was lucky it was not his fate to be married off at the convenience of his eldest sister the way their brother had. At only a few years older than Jovan, Devdas had been married a decade ago at 18 and had fathered a fair flock of dark skinned children. His wife was wealthy and agreeable, and Usha was pleased with the match. It tied together merchants and increased the family wealth for both Jovan’s family, the Apravai family, and the Pura family now tied to them. Had he not shown a talent for magic, Jovan would likely be living a dull wealthy life like his brother. Being a witch, Jovan would not be wed. Witches did not tend to marry at all, save in the rare cases of those too lovestruck to see beyond their own hearts. Witches could not often hold onto a single person for long in a world they drifted in and out of like dazed spirits. Jono instead followed his grandfather’s footsteps and took over his shop once the old man moved back into the main house. It had its slow moments, but he never worried about money. His name alone gave him some measure of popularity, and he received payments often enough in the form of jewelry well beyond the cost of his services. His own talents did the rest of the work.

Like his grandfather, Jovan worked primarily in fortunes and charms and curses, though he had a small talent for healing and herbalism. Things were peaceful, and his talents went into asinine predictions. He told pretty faced girls that they would be doomed to die unmarried if they did not follow his advice. He told cold hearted boys secrets to winning the favor of local matriarchs so as to improve their own lots. Sometimes he'd place a curse on the horse of a lover’s rival, only to have his skill dismissed as trickery. Those who scorned him met with their own difficult fates, just as their rivals did.

It was exactly that sort of thing, his grandfather had told him, that would come back to bite him someday.

His grandfather called him lazy and prideful. Jovan couldn’t disagree. In his youth, not so long after he’d gotten the first set of charms tattooed into his skin at the tender age of eight, he’d directed all of his ill will at a mean spirited boy that lived near his grandfather’s shop. The boy had lost all of the fingers on his right hand, save his thumb, in a metal doorway. Years later, Jovan found he couldn’t say he regretted it. The boy never bothered him again, and from then on Jovan was the young witch to go to if someone wanted action above words.

It wasn’t that he didn’t think he grandfather was right about fate offering revenge for his actions, but he found that fate did as it pleased regardless of what he did. It was pointless to try to change its mind. Jovan sighed. His eyes blurred in the heat and he thought to close his eyes and nap at the counter with the company of his olives.

Or rather, the company of his olives and an odd raven brave enough to land on the countertop beside him. It picked intently at a stolen olive, tearing apart the fruit with its beak and a single long toe. When the bird felt his eyes on it, it flapped backward, taking the olive with it. The raven’s long dark claws scratched against the worn and stained wood, and it hopped from side to side under Jovan’s gaze.

He watched it for a moment. There were plenty of black birds in the city, ravenous things big enough to fight off the cats and hungry children. They were brave too, and clever. He’d seen them stealing strips of flatbread straight from the hands of unsuspecting shoppers. This one, though as large as the others, did not seem so aggressive. It watched him with its bead-like eyes, quiet and cautious, and did not fight him for the bowl of olives.

“Hm…” He hummed at the bird and extended a finger toward its beak. It blinked at him, then nipped carefully at his fingertip. Jovan shifted closer, head still resting on his arm, and ran the back of his finger down the bird’s front. It gave a curious squawk, but only ruffled its black feathers under his touch. It was a bold thing to let him touch it.

Impressed with the creature’s bravery, Jovan let it be with its stolen fruit. When the raven picked the last of the meat from the olive, Jovan plucked another from the bowl and placed it on the counter. The bird gave an appreciative squawk and started on that one as well.

They shared quiet company like this through the hottest hours of the day. The bird was polite, only stirring him from his daydreaming when it had run out of flesh to pick off of an olive pit, and Jovan would lazily offer another.

He found himself wondering at the stubborn women in white he spotted peeking into storefronts just down the street. They were priestesses, or something like it, from a neighboring country. Jovan didn’t concern himself much with their story, not when he couldn’t do anything about them. These women were an invading force all on their own, even without the use of weapons or magic. They thrived on shame and guilt, converting the locals to their ways by convincing them that regional customs were barbaric and outdated.

All invaders were the same, Jovan thought. They went for the legs and toppled nations. That these were priestesses and not soldiers made no difference. They were helping the people, they claimed, helping unenlightened become modernized and sophisticated. Jovan hadn’t seen them give anything but grief. Instead, they took the culture and stomped it under their booted feet. If they had their way, all of the witches in the city would be locked up in the cells under the chapel where they could do no harm to the public. Jovan wasn’t sure what harm they expected of him, not when carried no staff or halberd the way witches from across the sea did. The little knife hanging from his belt was no more suited for fighting than the Golden Sisters’ heavy robes were suited for this heat. The only blood the blade had ever spilled was his own, as was used in old sorts of magic.

The Sisters had convinced more than a few witches to move into their dungeon. They used threats of demons and damnation to do so, though Jovan wondered how much those words influenced the witches. Those he’d seen go into the chapel tended to have abilities that could never put food on the table. They were the sorts of witches who would strike fear in a man’s heart with their thoughts or set alight buildings with no more than a flick of their hands. Jovan could command a bit of fire himself, but he’d been lucky enough to have useful gifts as well. Those who were not so fortunate had little choice but to go up into the tower in hopes of finding a bed and a meal.

It wasn’t as though the priestesses had and legal authority in the city, but they certainly acted as though they did. From time to time they’d stop by Jovan’s shop and suggest he put on a proper shirt and come with them to one of their cult meetings. Jovan wondered why a shirt would be necessary, especially in this heat. He could see them sweating through their robes, revealing more and more flesh as the white fabric grew transparent. For all their claims of chastity, these women seemed to be clueless about the properties of their own clothing. A shortly cropped vest and loose pants that tucked tight around his calves kept him plenty cool in the summer. Like most of the locals, he didn’t even bother with shoes until winter came around. This seemed to drive the priestesses mad, and they made all sorts of claims about the barbarity of the locals.

“Ah,” he grunted, waking from his thoughts as the women drew closer. Jovan looked to the raven and offered his forearm. The bird tipped its head to the side and cawed at him. “They don’t like us much, my friend. Too dark. Too wild.” The raven seemed to understand this much and hopped up onto his arm. It shifted about, wings extended until it could find purchase against the layers of bangles and beads extending halfway up Jovan’s arm, then crowed again. Jovan hummed quietly and lifted himself from his stool. He ducked his head under the hanging herbs and lead his companion into the back room. The cool air welcomed them both as they retreated into darkness. Metal and glass lamps sprang to life as they entered, illuminating baskets of gems and jewelry among piles of books and herbs, lines of dark bottles and bones, on every surface. Wooden masks painted with red and black and white paint hung from the walls alongside old scrolls with paintings of flowers and animals.

At first glance, the room was a mess. At second, there seemed to be an order to the madness. Everything was in its place, though there was far too much occupying the shelves and tables. The raven was settled on the windowsill as Jovan opened the shutters to let light in. A tiding of magpies jostled about the ground just outside, and he threw them a bit of bread he had no plan on eating. They picked at each other as they fought over it, filling the air with angry cackles and the sound of wings beating against one another. The raven watched them squabble with a tipped head and cawed at Jovan. The man shrugged and placed a piece of the bread on the sill beside it. It picked at the offering and seemed to forget about him entirely.

He was a little reluctant to leave the window open when the magpies were so drawn to the shiny baubles inside, but the Sisters were likely to cause a ruckus if he didn’t return to the front of the shop. They were all the nosy type that wouldn’t be deterred by his absence and were far worse than curious birds.

“Behave,” Jovan commanded the magpies, who paid him no mind and continued their bickering over bread. The raven made a pleased noise and tore a heavy strip from its own meal. He closed the door to the back room and made his way to back the counter.

The priestesses clothed in near sheer white were waiting for him at the front of the shop. Each was adorned with a golden sun pendant hanging on a long chain so that it rested between their breasts or high on their bellies. They puffed themselves up and adjusted their robes when they saw him coming and turned their lips into stern frowns. There were more than Jovan had remembered. They seemed to multiply with each passing day. Where once there had been no more than a dozen pale faced women, now locals joined their ranks and mimicked their severe expressions. Those local women in this flock hung further back, perhaps for fear of Jovan’s reputation.

“Still tempting good citizens with your dark magic, I see,” sniffed the oldest of the bunch, a slender, angry looking woman with permanent lines along between her brows and along the corners of her lips. She was one of the foreign women, with now burnt skin and light hair drawn tight under her headscarf. Her eyes were blue and icy cold in their censure. Sweat dripped down her face, following along the lines on her face. She looked like she was drowning in the heat.

“Yes,” said Jovan, and took his seat. There were still a few olives left in the bowl and he popped one between his lips.

“A wealthy woman was struck by a carriage last night. Her young lover is set to take all of her inheritance,” she continued. Her fingers steeped together in front of her hips.

“Is that so?” Jovan dutifully responded, not so much a question as an acknowledgment. He was busily doing his best not to look at the outline of her breasts through her robe. It was terribly distracting, despite his general repulsion to her and her flock.

“She was one of our own, a good woman.” The priestess attempted to skewer him with her eyes while her fellows shuffled with irritation. Jovan expected they had already determined his guilt and wanted some sort of confession from him. That they hadn’t dragged him out in the street already was evidence enough that they were stabbing in the dark. No one had yet harmed any of the priestesses, but he had little doubt they’d be merciless if they knew who caused the death of one of their precious converts. “Her lover is said to have used witchcraft to seduce her.”

“Hm,” he rumbled and spit the olive pit into the street at their feet. That didn’t narrow it down much. All sorts of men and women called on magic to win the hearts of their desired mates, for loving and monetary reasons alike. These women had been around long enough that they should understand as much, but they seemed willfully ignorant of such things.

The Sister curled her lip, then caught herself and folded her expression back into one of bland judgment. “Those who use witchcraft to harm others will be crushed under the weight of their own ill judgment,” she recited, the same lecture Jovan heard every time her kind came by his shop.

“Hm,” he repeated and bit into another olive.

Either contented with her daily condemnation or unwilling to lose face at Jovan’s lack of appropriate reaction, the priestess drew up the bottom of her robes from the ground and gave him a curt nod.

“Keep that in mind,” she said by way of farewell and huffed away with her followers. They swept down the street as a flight of ivory doves, robes and scarves fluttering like feathers.

The local women let their eyes linger on Jovan as they left. He thought he recognized a couple of them. Those who lived in the market part of the city were close knit, exchanging goods and services rather than coin. He suspected they must be shopkeepers’ daughters, or perhaps sisters. The women who ran the shops were too hard headed and clever to go along with the white robed priestesses, but those young or powerless could fall victim to the cunning foreign cult.

He could see fear in their eyes. They knew him. They knew who he was and what he did. He expected as much; all the locals in the market district knew him, and some in wealthier homes recognized him well as Usha’s fortune teller. Jovan spit the pit at their back. Even the most well-meaning of the lot were kin to the rest of the invaders. They’d given up on their traditions and beliefs, had crumbled under harsh eyes and sharp words. He had seen this coming the second he saw the white priestesses hanging about outside his grandfather’s shop, but that did not take away the burn of betrayal he felt every time the women stopped by. The priestesses might consider themselves lucky. He had no plans to place any curses on them. They’d done nothing more than criticize him so far, and that hardly did him any harm. They didn’t yet warrant retaliation, but Jovan doubted that would last much longer. The women in white were getting more and more aggressive with each passing year.

He frowned and turned from the store front. They’d be back tomorrow, and he could reconsider doing something about them then.

His part-time bedroom and full-time workshop was a mess when he opened the door. The magpies had taken over the tiny room, flapping about and picking at jewels far too heavy for their slight frames. Jovan rubbed a disbelieving hand over his face and watched in silent horror with his teeth digging into his finger. One bird managed to find an earring light enough to steal away and took flight, crashing into another magpie and they tumbled to the ground in a mess of wings.

Jono sighed and searched the room for a sign of the raven, but it was gone. Only a cluster of shiny black feathers on the bed indicated it had ever been there. Some days later, the raven returned.

It settled on the counter beside a bowl of figs and picked at their leathery skin. Jono took mercy on the creature and split one open with his thumb. The raven crowed in delight and picked at the red flesh with the sharp curve of its beak. Jovan watched it absently, rocking a dark mottled piece of turquoise under his fingertip.

He’d spent the better part of the morning with his fingers curled around the ornate hilt of his knife, working on the wishes of a desperate business woman. Her son had run off and married a young woman who worked in the darker parts of the cities selling goods on the black market. Apparently, such goods were terribly dangerous and had led to the woman’s son falling into addiction and ultimately a series of seizures that left him all but useless. With that, his lover spurned him and he was left in his mother’s care. Like all good mothers, this woman wanted revenge for these crimes.

He was used to such requests. The people here could be vindictive in the face of constant heat and the pressures of foreign nations constantly banging at the doors. Every injustice was subject to a greater retaliation--and Jono did not distinguish between the just and unjust requests for revenge. If his clients paid, he would do as they asked regardless.

The sort of revenge this woman wanted took a toll on Jovan’s body, and he was left feeling drained in more ways than one. His magical energies were drained, and he’d lost a fair bit of blood. Not only had he cut a familiar line across his palm with the blade, but he’d also done his fingers as well.

The blade was usually used to slice open the tips of his fingers, each dyed with such a dark red ink that wounds never showed. Even slices across his palm, as were sometimes necessary with grander curses, were hidden behind ornate designs of flowers and suns and eyes spread from fingertip to wrist, and sometimes up to his elbow. Most local men and women wore such designs on their skin as marks of fortune or status, but the witches had found ways to adopt these into their own charmed tattoos. The patterns Jovan wore most often were meant to extend his sight into the years. Sometimes he wore patterns to extend his reach. They were redone every couple of weeks, and the ink would tell his customers what he was best suited to at the time.

Today he wore the patterns of suns and flowers with vines extending from them around his arm and curling just short of his elbows. The vengeful types would come to him today, along with those seeking blessings. To keep the two straight, he gave gifts with his left hand, and curses with his right. His right hand was battered and scarred beneath the stains of ink, while his left seemed almost clean by comparison. That was the way things were.

He’d healed up the wounds as soon as the curse was done, and the skin under the ink was smooth. The woman left, tears in her eyes and clutching the gem used in her palm. When it cracked, she would know that the deed had been done. In exchange, she pressed a piece of turquoise the size of a walnut into his palm and slid a ruby gemmed silver ring onto his last finger.

Now well paid, Jovan was left alone in his shop. It was as though nothing had happened, save the way he paled when he stood for too long.

This made the company of the raven all the more pleasant. He could sit in his daze without having to converse, but all the same was not lonely. The raven made contented noises from time to time, and was happy to perch beside him and pull seeds from the fig.

It was a curious thing, Jovan found, as it studied the layers of bangles extending up his arm. Hints of ink, both temporary and permanent, peeked out between beads and metal. Jovan turned his palm upwards toward the raven and it tilted its head, apparently studying the patterns on his hand. It ruffled its feathers and shifted its gaze back up to Jovan’s face. It seemed to be asking about the markings, so Jovan explained.

“This is the sun,” he said, letting the turquoise drop from his other hand and tracing the circle in the center of his palm. “And this is the moon.” His finger followed the patterning around smaller circle. “The petals of the world are here, and its arms are vines extending out, holding it all together. Between the petals are runes. They enhance my magic.” As he spoke, Jovan drew his fingertip along each aspect of the design and let it linger on a small, square shape cut in half, and then one half was cut through again diagonally. This particular rune was meant to protect his mind from the strain of his magic. It was one of the many precautions he took to keep himself sane, just as all other witches did. It would not save him completely, and in time he’d end up the confused old man his grandfather had become. This too was the way things were.

At the sound of an inquisitive coo, Jovan frowned and looked the bird in its dark eyes. There was something about it, something he couldn't recognize. It didn't have the aura of a simple beast, nothing like the magpies he fed on the window out of the back room, and nothing like the wild cats that picked their way through the garbage on the streets. It seemed too aware of what he was saying, of what was going on around it. He’d seen the raven indicate gratitude and intellectual interest, beyond that of a mindless beast.

He couldn't claim what this meant, not when he could hardly understand the aura when he saw it in humans as well. A spirit bird, perhaps, or one possessed. Such things were not unheard of around here, where the dead were called to regularly by some of the city’s witches. From time to time, a spirit would linger and attach itself to something without a full consciousness of its own. So long as the spirit was not vengeful, it would fade away on its own. It didn't matter much to him so long as it did no harm. The raven became a quick and comfortable companion. It returned most days and sampled whatever snacks Jovan was enjoying that day. It always flew in just after his early morning appointments and would stay with him until he either turned in to nap in the day’s heat or another customer took his attention.

Jovan made a point of filling his bowl with something different every day. So far, the bird seemed to find almost everything agreeable. The olives preserved with slices of spicy peppers inside seemed to be the only the raven refused to eat, and after that Jovan kept his snacks mild.

Not knowing what the raven knew about the area, Jovan told it all sorts of stories. He told it about the witches around the city, the ones that told fortunes and the ones that brought back spirits. He told it about the Golden Sisters, how they’d arrived one day when he was young and had been growing in number and power since. He told it about his concern that the priestesses might become more dangerous if they continue on like this.

But he also told it that as a witch, it was his job to watch and wait and to advise when the time came. Witches didn’t kill, he told it. Not people, and not animals. Witches had to buy all their meat pre-slaughtered, or abstain from it entirely. If a witch were to take a life, he or she would feel the entirety of the life taken, and depending on how long or vivid that life was, would go mad from the strain. Even the sort of magic he preformed, running on his own blood and sometimes indirectly causing the deaths of his victims through accidents, took its toll on him. He didn’t tell the raven all of this, of course. Witches had their secrets, and on the off chance that the raven was an evil spirit, he did not wish to find himself at the mercy of it.

The raven seemed particularly interested in talk of the priestesses. It cocked its head and watched him intently as he told the raven about the maze of dungeons beneath the city that the cult now occupied. Once upon a time, those dungeons had been used for heretics of a forgotten regime, and it was only fitting that the cultists called it home. He told the raven about the witches desperate enough to turn to the priestesses for help. In exchange for shelter, the witches joined the cult.

Or rather, so everyone assumed. He’d yet to see any of the witches return from the dungeons. He wondered if they really were allowed to join, seeing as so far he’d only seen female priestesses, and many of the desperate witches were male. Jovan had been lucky to have a wealthy family and fortune-telling abilities. Anything else and he might end up in those dungeons himself.

The witches of the city had not yet agreed on what to do about the Sisters, and most were in favor of waiting until something happened. Jovan was one of those sorts, but a fair few insisted that by the time something happened, it would be too late. Jovan told the raven that he understood that, but this was an aging empire and if they upset the priestesses and their nation, the natives would not be able to fight off a true invasion. And anyway, it wasn’t as though the cultists had done much harm to him personally. Those who converted did so willingly enough. Jovan might not do so himself, but he saw no reason to fight over it.

Talking about the state of his city wore on him, and in time he’d trail off and sigh, looking out with unclear eyes at the streets and houses and shops before him. The raven would grow restless then. It would stretch its wings and hop about the counter, seemingly looking for some sort of solution to nation’s dilemma on its own.

After one such one sided conversation, Jovan spotted familiar white robes down the way. He sighed and lifted himself from his seat. For a moment, the world spun around him and he braced himself against the counter with his forearm. He’d overdone it that morning, he knew it. It was too late to do anything about now though. A little rest and some spiced meat and he’d be well enough to do it again tomorrow. He always was.

“Come, my friend,” he rumbled at the raven and held out his arm. For all their companionship, he’d yet to determine what the bird was. He’d not thought about it particularly hard, and found that it really didn’t matter. If it was a demon all this time, then it would kill him whether or not he knew. If it was not, then his fate might be different.

The raven hopped up onto his arm and found purchase between the layers of bracelets. Its wings unfolded to keep it perched safely there as Jovan led them into the back room once more and this time did not crack the window for it. He would release the bird as soon as the cultists were gone, but he would not allow the magpies back into his bedroom. It had taken him far too long to clean up the mess the birds left last time, and even now he sometimes found a loose gemstone under his feet.

He settled the bird on the broad window sill once more and left it with a cracker. With any luck, the priestesses would be gone before the raven grew bored and sought out entertainment elsewhere.

This time when he returned to the front of the shop, he was greeted by a dark skinned woman in the white robes, and several others behind her. She was a native who, as a girl, had run around the streets with Jovan and the other children. This had been long before the incident with the bully, but he still recognized her. He thought he recalled hearing she’d taken on a husband, and then another when she was given no children. Local gossip said that the problem lay with her, though such talk was too scandalous to be heard anywhere but behind closed doors.

Jovan supposed it made sense that the cult had caught her. A woman like her would be desperate to find some sort of meaning in her life, especially in the face of having no heirs to her name. A smart woman might adopt, find a lost child and raise it as her own, but this woman was likely too proud or heartbroken to do such a thing. It was a shame, Jovan thought, but not so very surprising.

“Jono,” the woman said, using Jovan’s childhood nickname. Most of the locals used that name for him as well, remembering when he’d been young and quiet and curious. Back then his face had been sweet and open, and his neighbors expected him to turn out like his brother. They’d all been surprised when Jovan grew until an aloof and grumpy man with a stern set to his face that could wilt flowers. There hadn’t been a reason for the change. It was just how he was.

“Jono,” she said again, and this time offered her hand across the counter. Jovan stared at it. “I hear you have been practicing dark magic. You’ll end up as mad as your grandfather if you keep that up.”

Unlike the pale foreign Sisters, this woman--Ayati was her name, Jovan remembered it now--knew enough about the local culture to get to him. He would go mad, there was no doubt about it. He could stop his magic now and he might be saved, but he would not. Ayati should know better. All of the witches in the area were the same. To them, the cost was worth the power it gave.

“I know,” he mumbled and scooped the discarded turquoise off of the counter. He frowned at the stone in his palm. “Probably sooner.”

Ayati let her fingers meet his and she traced them over the designs painted on his skin. She sighed and let her thumb press against a run hidden in the vines wrapping around his wrist. “You can stop this. All of you can. Listen to us and we will save you.” Her free hand swept back toward the women lingering behind her. “We have so much to offer this nation.”

For a moment, he thought he might hear her out. He was supposed to be neutral, after all. None of this affected him. No one had dragged him away to the dungeons. There had been no war on witches, no violence in the streets, no murders or forced abductions. This wasn’t his problem, not yet.

He frowned and curled his fingers around the turquoise. He wanted to believe that this wasn’t his problem, and yet here was Ayati at his shop. He’d been harassed by the priestesses plenty in recent months; they seemed to grow more and more aggressive as their numbers swelled. They wanted to convert him, take him away like the other witches. It was the same for all of them. Now though, now they were sending converts after him. In his eyes, this woman, this girl he’d called a friend as a child, was dead. Was that the goal? To tell him that their culture and history was losing this battle? Jovan swallowed the hot coal in his throat.

“What do the foreigners have to offer that we do not already have?” he hissed. “Our medicine is better. We have machines they cannot understand. We have magic they cannot comprehend.” His vision swam with increased pressure against the rune.

His lip curled and his voice dropped into the rough street dialect only the locals spoke, “Your friends will drag us with them into the ages of despair and fear.” She caught his arm and dug her fingers into his pulse. Her lips set in a firm line and her eyes narrowed. The wind lifted and Jovan caught a scent of her perfume. She smelled of cypress wood.

“You were supposed to be the voice of reason among these blood soaked demons,” she said, low and dark in the common tongue. She dragged his arm close, and let her nails grind against the fragile bones of his wrist. “I see you are madder than I thought.”

Jovan’s temper got the better of him then and he slammed his free fist into the counter. The jars resting on the far edge of the shop shook with the force. A chorus of startled gasps and murmurs sounded from the street, where the rest of the priestesses huddled together and watched him with wide eyes.

“Was that a threat?” he demanded, “You’ve betrayed your people. Why? Why are you doing this?” His words were unintelligible to the pale faced women behind Ayati. They seemed to cringe back at the angry baritone of his voice. Jovan couldn’t blame them. He wanted them scared. “There is no place for someone like me among your friends. You’ll have me put behind bars like the rest!”

Instead of responding, Ayati snatched her hand away and clutched the golden sun hanging between her breasts. She turned curtly on her heel, back straight and steps long and confident. The women rushed to meet her and stared back and Jovan with accusing eyes. They couldn’t do anything to him so long as he’d not laid a hand on Ayati, but Jovan could see the cold calculation in their eyes. How far could they push him until he snapped and raised a fist to one of them? Jovan knew he’d be digging his own grave if he ever did.

It took considerable effort, but Jovan stamped down his temper and turned from the front of the shop. The cultists were done for the day and wouldn’t risk drawing him back in his rage now.

With his back to the open shop front, Jovan rubbed an ink stained hand over his face. He did not know Ayati particularly well, but it still cut him deeply to see her with the Golden Sisters. Before, they had largely been a problem for the city’s most impoverished citizens. Jovan almost thought they did some good in the Tarai, offering comfort and blessing to those who could not attend Israan’s temples in the Talavair district.

Now they were not satisfied with the poor. Witches were a deeply ingrained part of Nysanai culture, and the priestesses seemed to take offense to this. He did not know enough of them to understand fully, but Usha had told him once that the traders from the south did not bring witches onto their ships. At the time, Jovan thought this to be extremely foolish. Certain witches could predict weather and control the elements. They were essential to Nysanai traders, yet southerners seemed to think them bad luck. If he thought about it, Jovan couldn’t recall ever having met a witch from south of Nysanais. He did not think that meant anything good for the fate of witches in Israan if the Golden Sisters got their way.

With a deep breath, Jovan pushed his hand against the door to the back room. It creaked open, and inside there was the sound of a chair toppling over and books falling from a shelf. Certain the raven had gotten into trouble while he was away, Jovan sighed and flung the door fully open.

Instead of a raven, he was given an eyeful of pale bare skin and a mess of mousy hair.

He blinked, taking in the sight of a fair skinned man bent over and attempting to pull a pair of Jovan’s loose sirwal over his thighs. The man had tripped over the tight ankle of the pants and fell against a nearby table, sending its contents falling to the ground. Bowls of stones and flowers spilled across the ground, along with piles of books and scrolls.

Unlike the dark skinned and dark haired people native to these parts, this man had skin reddened by the coastal sun, and hair lighter than that of any local, even in his private areas. Darker spots ran across the man’s shoulders and cheeks, a constellation of freckles decorating his skin. The man had no tattoos or piercings so far as Jovan could see. Jovan’s own people tended to use tattoos as stories, rites of passage, accessories. Earrings were a fashion must, and anyone with anything to spare had at least one at all times. Only children had unmarred skin, and this made Jovan wondered just how old the man could be.

Under Jovan’s inquiring eyes, the man had the sense to look a little sheepish as he finally managed to drag the pants up over his ass. He looked like he wanted to say something, but his voice came out in a rough cough that gave no words. With the front of the pants bunched in his first to hold them up (as apparently, he did not know how to lace them so that they’d stay up), the man held up a placating hand and tipped his head forward submissively.

Jovan’s lips took a downward turn and he let his eyes trail down the man’s body. He looked more like the foreign priestesses than any of the locals but held none of the cold judgment those women did. From what Jovan could see in the man’s character, drawn from the aura about him so intangible that he could never put it to words, this was not an invader the way those women were. Foreign, certainly, but not a conqueror.

“Ah,” Jovan said, his eyes catching on a black feather near his feet. His rage melted away instantly at the absurdity of the situation. He bent to pluck it from the ground and spun it absently between his thumb and forefinger. He pressed it against his nose and lips and let his gaze return to the foreign man. If he wondered what had been so odd about the raven before, Jovan supposed the mystery was solved now.

When he straightened again, he pointed toward a low dresser at the far side of the room. Its top was cluttered with a corked wine bottle and a pile of yellow-paged books. “If you want a shirt.”

Then he backed away from the door and closed it firmly behind him, the pale man on the other side.

#jovan stack #writing #oc #short story #jovan #magic #fantasy #original writing #i wrote this for part of nanowrimo months ago wups

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cybertronianlovenest · 7 years

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The bitch named Karma: Section 1

The bitch named Karma 4/3/16 Chilisha POV: I shook my head as I finally parted fully from my extinguished vessel. I had gotten very little notice this time around and it left me scrambling to pull together lose strings in the few days I’d gotten. Thankfully I’d just gotten everything set in time before being run over by a bus. It’s not fucking funny! Being human had really sucked and I was so ready to be something else for a while. Lucky for me, I had connections. ‘I’m out Wave. I assume you had a good reason for herding me into traffic.’ A prod over our bond let me know that he heard me as the blue hummer pulled away and drove off. ‘I thought maybe you’d be up for revenge. Megatron is going through a heat cycle currently. Soundwave would not be adverse to being your sparker. I miss having Melody scampering about. Jazz is welcome as well if Melody would like. It may be beneficial to have you both the same age, Soundwave doubts Melody will retain memories and it will be difficult since you’re bonded.’ I hadn’t really thought about it. It would be fun watching that fragger squirm when he found out he was carrying twins. I knew Wave would make sure he didn’t have us destabilized, and it would be nice to have Jazz with me. I reached out over my bond and poked him gently. He was recharging but I didn’t think he’d be that way for long. A few more light prods and he pushed back giddy happiness. 'Hey babe! Haven’t heard from ya in so long! What’s up!?’ As I thought, he was fully awake now. 'Missing you. I need to talk to you though. Wave just helped me from my vessel and offered to become our sparker. I was hoping you’d come with…’ He paused for a second. Apprehension and unease flickering in his field. 'Jazz?… You know if you don’t want to start over, its OK…’ He groaned and tugged me into his side of the bond so I could see Prowl sleeping next to him. 'Ah wanna come, and am going to. Ah just have to try and explain everything to Prowl… We got close Flames… Ah wanna make him like us…’ For a few long seconds I could just stand there. 'Flames?… Please don’t be mad. Ah still love ya!-’ 'I’m not mad Jazz. I just didn’t think after all this time you’d find someone else. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not opposed to it at all. I wish I would have known sooner but I’m all in for Prowl joining us, as long as he is. Keep in mind though, this isn’t for everyone and he may not choose us. I will let you talk to him.’ 'Hey wait! Ya didn’t tell meh who our carriers gonna be.’ I smirked, this was the fun part. 'Soundwave is evil. Megatron is going through a heat cycle. Wave is gonna pick his processor until we’re too far along to get rid of. It’ll likely put a damper on, if not end the war. This could end very well for us. Then I don’t even have to kill him, I love the way Wave thinks!’ Jazz pushed along agreement and no small amount of love. 'Ah’ll talk to ya later lil lady. Hopefully Prowler takes the news ok.’ 'I hope so. I’m glad you like Prowl, I think he’ll do well.’ A bit more love was pushed at me and I returned it before dampening our bond to allow him privacy to speak with Prowl… Prowl POV: I tensed on an inward stretch as Jazz’s fingers traced soft lines over my doors. He always gave me the best wake up calls. “Ya awake Prowler? Need to talk…” He sounded up set and that chased away the last of my recharge. “What’s wrong Jazz?” I caught his helm turning it side to side, looking for any clue as to his sudden unease. “Ah love ya Prowl. Ah love ya so much… But ahm gonna have to go for a while.” I swallowed hard, trying to understand just what was going on. “You mean on a mission? I don’t recall Optimus giving any orders.” His optics finally met mine, after flicking around the floor for a while. “Ah mean like Flames… She just talked to meh. Said Soundwave is arranging to become our sparker. If we pull this off, we could very well end the war…” My spark felt really tight and cold. “Please don’t look at meh like that… Ya know how much ah love ya. That’s why ah gotta do this. If this works ya won’t have to fight anymore!” He grabbed my hands holding them to his chest as he looked at me. I couldn’t stand the thought of him leaving, but I knew that if anyone could pull something like this off, it was him and my sister. Still. “What if it doesn’t? Who is he planning to have carry you?” He smiled a little, though one may be hard pressed to call it such. Maybe a grimace, would be a better term. “Megatron is going through a heat cycle. Sounders wants to knock him up. If it goes bad… How adverse would ya be to carrying twins?” My jaw dropped and he freed a hand to rub the back of his helm while giving me a sheepish grin. Finally my denta clicked together. “You best be bothering Megatron to the full extent first.” A nervous laugh escaped and he nodded. “Ah will! Promise! Just a back up plan for worst case. Ah really hate dropping this on ya so suddenly Prowler… Ah didn’t get much warning either though. Ah have a good feeling about this. Ah think we can change everything!” I really hoped he was right. I couldn’t stand to lose him altogether… Jazz POV: Well, this was it. I really hoped this worked because Prowl was going to have my aft if it didn’t. The battle was raging around us and it wouldn’t be too hard to get myself offlined. Megatron flew over helm and I growled, firing off a few shots at my perspective carrier. One hit and he swooped down, snatching me up. I could have avoided it but it was best to get it over with. 'Better know what yer talking about Flames!’ She poked me. 'I sure hope so. Come over here so you can’t feel it.’ She tugged me over into her side as I peppered Megatron with shots. “Ya wanna piece of meh!?” He snarled grabbing my legs and ripping until my body gave way. I was so glad Flames was keeping meh over there. All ah could feel was calm reassurance, flooding our bond. 'Over yet?’ 'Almost. Fragger ripped meh in half and tossed meh off a building. Don’t worry. Am sure he’ll make a wonderful mommy. Can’t wait to see what happens when one of us gets a tank ache and purges on him.’ She cracked up laughing as I landed with a huff. Thankfully things were fadding fast, I hadn’t fueled this morning so there wasn’t much in my tank to burn through after me and Prowl faced our way to near deactivation. Ratchet had not been pleased. 'Alright. Am out, am gonna go see Prowl. Then am coming for ya!’ She giggled madly before letting me free to go talk to our soon to be, newest member to the family. Prowl POV: Arms curled around me suddenly, pulling me back just in time to miss a blast. “Primus Jazz! I know your trying to get killed but I don’t want to be the one to do it!” He gave me a sad smile and kissed me. “Already done lover. Just wanted to say, see ya later one more time before going since it’ll be a few vorns then.” I sighed, wrapping my arms around him. It wouldn’t be easy to have him gone, but if he made this work. It would be worth it. “How did you offline?” He shrugged. “Meh would be carrier ripped meh in half, Flames kept meh on her side of the bond though, so I never felt anything but her love and assurance. Ah know it will be hard seeing meh like that. Just remember that ah never hurt, ahm excited to see how things go. Have to get going babe. Remember, ahm just fine, and ah’ll be back as soon as ah can. Probably won’t remember ya right away though, sorry about that.” I sighed, claiming one last kiss before letting him go. It would be hard without him, but I’d manage. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to carry if Megatron couldn’t fill the role… Chilisha POV: I smirked as Jazz jumped onto the ledge beside me. “Ya got the all spark! How did ya get the allspark!?” His jaw was nearly on the ground as he looked at it. “Please. Those thick helmed mechs are too busy fighting to realize their prize is already lost. This is going with a friend of mine until everything is settled.” I blinked at her though a human stepped up, taking it. “Um. Why are ya giving the allspark to a human?” “Azerack is not human. He’s from another dimension, and he’s taking the allspark there to keep it from both these guys until we see if we can get things settled. Till then. I believe we have a few hours we can be keeping each other busy until Wave gives us the go ahead. I want his predacon coding, freaking awesome!” Then I dove from the ledge, shifting forms into a dragon with Jazz following shortly after. He wouldn’t let me get far without him…. My back hit the ground, a chuckle sounding in my audio as my vision cut off. “Ya like that? Snagged it from meh frame before going. Couldn’t leave all meh goodies behind when ah knew ah’d be playing with ya.” My frame went lax suddenly, and I couldn’t move at all. “Gonna miss having mechapire coding. Makes meh so hot to see ya squirm under meh! Ya love it too… Look at ya, already so wet, lubricant is leaking down yer legs.” Something hot and wet ran over my thigh making me squeal. “Please! Jazz!” Another chuckle was my only answer as he shoved away my valve panel and dove into me. A hot glossa eating at me from the inside out until all I could do was lay there panting….. My frame felt like jello when I finally came online once more. “What?!” 'Finally. Melody is wasting time, Megatron is ready to break and you are not paying attention. Get yourself here before your chance is lost.’ I groaned, making Jazz look at me before finally standing on my admittedly shaky legs. “That was Soundwave. He’s going to fuck Megatron now so we need to be ready to make the jump. Come on.” He huffed. “Hope this works. Ah don’t wanna be inside old bucket helm for nothing.” I laughed lightly, giving him a light tug after me.

#jazz #prowl #megatron #transformers #the bitch named karma

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neuxue · 7 years

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Wheel of Time liveblogging: The Gathering Storm ch 11

Literally and metaphorically, everything is on fire. Also newsflash: I’m still not over Rhuidean.

Chapter 11: The Death of Adrin

Who’s Adrin?

The Maidens seem to think Rand needs to be beaten again, and Aviendha is carrying rocks. So everything’s off to a good start.

Aviendha doesn’t understand why clouds are a bad thing. Someone introduce this girl to the whole world of pathetic fallacy. She also doesn’t understand why wetlanders complain so much. Someone introduce this girl to London.

There had to be some hidden honour in it. Perhaps the wetlanders exposed their weaknesses to their companions as a means of offering friendship and trust. If your friends knew of your weaknesses, it would give them an advantage should you dance the spears with them. Or, perhaps, the complaining was a wetlander way of showing humility, much as the gai’shain showed honour by being subservient.

She had asked Elayne about her theories and had received only a fond laugh in return. Was it some aspect of wetlander society that she was forbidden to discuss with outsiders, then?

Ha. It seems a bit silly, sure, but it’s not all that unrealistic. Some elements of culture and behaviour are relatively easy to explain or understand. Some, though, can be entirely unnoticed by those within that culture, and appear completely and inexplicably bizzare to those outside, and it’s all but impossible to adequately explain. So you can actually end up with something like this – an ‘outsider’ like Aviendha coming up with very defined, neat theories…and the people she’s theorising about looking at her like ‘what are you even talking about’. Because to them, it’s not even a part of their ‘culture’ the way something like, I don’t know, how to celebrate certain holidays would be. It’s not something they’d think about, or consider as a defining attribute, much less as something that serves a particular purpose. So when an ‘outsider’ does try to posit an explanation – or even ask a question – it can seem ridiculous. And yet when you are the outsider, it’s anything but. Culture is fun like that.

I live in a place where complaining is absolutely an element of ordinary conversation. We’re known for it and it’s weird once you’re aware of it. And then we start complaining about the manner in which other cultures complain, because as it turns out there are specific formulas for how a complaint should look. Except no one can actually explain what those are, and would look at you very strangely if you were to ask, because what do you mean we complain in a specific way? Huh?

I also lived in a weird multicultural bubble for a few years and oh man some of the conversations about ‘why do you do X’ and the responding bewildered looks. Not to mention the awkward dances that happened every time two people tried to greet each other.

So anyway, I’ve always rather enjoyed watching Aviendha’s attempts to figure out wetlanders. It’s also a good way to implicitly reflect back on or convey information about the Aiel, and to add some variety to the other characters’ thoughts about how strange and incomprehensible the Aiel are.

She still can’t figure out what the Wise Ones want from her, though.

She was growing frustrated – not with the Wise Ones, but with herself.

Except, Aviendha, maybe you need to grow frustrated with the Wise Ones, and trust in yourself. I think that’s very probably the point.

The Wise Ones were angry at Aviendha for not “learning quickly enough.” And yet they didn’t teach her. They just asked those questions. Questions about what she thought of their situation, questions about Rand al’Thro or about the way Rhuarc had handled meeting with the Car’a’carn.

Aviendha couldn’t help feeling that the questions were tests. Was she answering incorrectly? IF so, why didn’t they instruct her on the proper responses.

Because she isn’t answering incorrectly. It seems like they’re basically treating her as a Wise One – asking her questions a Wise One would be expected to answer or deal with – and she’s not seeing it, and that’s the problem. She can answer their questions and understand these situations, but she doesn’t…see herself as a Wise One? So she thinks she is being punished for some fault, when really she’s being punished because she’s allowing herself to be punished. They’re trying to get her to…see herself as a Wise One, I think. Is that the deal here? That seems to be the deal here.

Aviendha wished for her spears back so that she could stab something.

Fair.

“Adrin?” one door guard asked his companion. “Light, you don’t look well. Truly.”

Uh oh.

The man reached up suddenly, scratching at the skin of his temples.

Beetles?

His eyes rolled up in his head and his fingers tore gashes in his flesh. Only, instead of blood, the wounds spat out a black charcoal-like substance.

That might even be worse than beetles. Though I suppose from the perspective of the one dying, it probably makes very little difference. But if we’re trying to measure entropy here (shut up, I’m a scientist), this is definitely worse, because there isn’t even a form this time. No order, just chaos and black fire.

Or black boiling tar. That works too. Um…yikes?

Aviendha shrugged off her shock, immediately weaving Air in a simple pattern to pull the unaffected guard to safety.

I kind of love how Aviendha is so good in a crisis when it involves someone else, but when it involves her she opens a gateway into a snowstorm on another continent.

“We…we’re being attacked!” the man whispered. “Channelers!”

This is like the ‘bloody ashes’ thing: seeing ‘channelers’ used this way is disproportionately jarring. It’s a small thing really, just a slight shift in phrasing, but it stands out and throws me out of the story more than some other – arguably larger – changes have.

I certainly wouldn’t say it’s an unforgivable error – after all, I tend to use ‘channelers’ fairly frequently because it’s a convenient noun, and there’s no particular reason the characters wouldn’t – and I don’t actually have a problem with it. At least, not in the sense that it’s something I would criticise, were I to focus on examining the differences between the authors. But I also can’t help noticing it, and so it becomes an interesting look at how such very small changes in diction or phrasing can stand out so dramatically. Maybe it’s because they’re easier to quantify?

I do wonder, though, why certain little things like this weren’t flagged in the line- or copy-editing stages. Again, not because it’s actually a big deal, but because it would help smooth out the overall ‘feel’ of the transition. As is, this kind of minor-but-noticeable change could essentially prime readers to be more wary of and less sympathetic towards other changes.

And now the house is on fire.

Magic fire.

Aviendha tries to smother it, because of course her first instinct would not be to dump precious water all over it.

In the distance, she heard people – perhaps the guard among them – calling for buckets.

Buckets? Of course! In the Three-fold Land, water was far too valuable to use in fighting fires. Dirt or sand was used. But here, they would use water. Aviendha took several steps backward, searching out the curling river that ran beside the manor.

She deserves a lot of credit for this. Not everyone can take in, consider, and implement new information in the middle of a crisis. She’s just seen a man turn into a pile of black tar, and now she’s facing a fire and people inside are screaming, and she has the presence of mind not just to start dealing with the problem but to take in a suggestion as indirect as a distant call for buckets. They’re not even talking to her. And it’s not something she’s familiar with at all, this idea of using large amounts of water to fight fire. Many people would struggle even if they were directly told ‘use the river’, just because of the way panic usually works. It tends to narrow a person’s focus and ability to perceive – or rather, to analyse and interpret – information external to that narrowed focus, as well as causing people to either freeze or else fall back on familiar or instinctive patterns. So in the face of a burning building – and also, you know, creeptastic signs of the end of the world – the ability to hear a distant shout for buckets, make the connection from that to ‘oh, okay, people here would pour water on a fire rather than dirt and sand’, and then go ‘ah, yes, there’s a river nearby, I could use that’ and then to immediately start doing it is to be commended.

Aviendha wove a massive column of Air and Water, pulling a spout of crystalline liquid from the river and drawing it toward her. The column of water undulated in the air like the creature on Rand’s banner, a glassy serpentine dragon that slammed against the flames.

Of course, it helps that she is powerful enough to literally grab a river and throw it at the house.

Then there was a sudden explosion as another column of water burst from the river and slammed into the fire. […] The other column was being directed by weaves she could not see, but she did notice a figure standing in a window up on the second floor, hand forward, face concentrating intensely. Naeff, one of Rand’s Asha’man.

Cooperation! Unspoken cooperation, even. He saw what she was doing, and immediately joined in, and together they’ve put out the fire. An apt metaphor, all things considered.

Rand comes out of the now-damp mansion and goes full-on ‘old man yells at cloud’.

No, really.

He stared at the sky, shaking his fist. “I am the one you want! You will have yoru war soon enough! […] I will stop you” Rand roared, causing calls of fright from both servants and soldiers. “Do you hear me? I am coming for you! Don’t waste your power! You will need it against me!”

It keeps hurting those near him, and he is left…well, okay, I was going to say ‘unscathed’ but I think we can all agree that is patently false. Still… how many have to pay with me? Others always had to, even when he tried to pay alone. Or The whole world paid a price for his existence. He would die for it, but the whole world paid. Those thoughts have been with him for so long now, and it only gets worse. It’s a large part of why he’s so determined to turn himself to steel – not just so that he can do what needs to be done, but so that he can watch as others pay what he sees as the price of his existence.

And yet, the Dragon is one with the land and the land is one with the Dragon, and I have to wonder if these kinds of happenings are in some way worsened by the presence of a increasingly dark ta’veren.That would be beautifully and horribly ironic.

“Yes,” Aviendha said in response to the man’s question, “it happens often. More often around the Car’a’carn than other places, at least.”

Yeah. So. Feedback loop of tragic irony it is, then.

The Domani soldier is suddenly not so sure about his life choices.

And yet, through her bond with Rand, she felt no urgency. In fact…it seemed that he had gone back to rest! That man’s moods were becoming as erratic as Elayne’s during her pregnancy.

I’m not sure ‘erratic’ is quite the word I would use, though it’s not completely wrong. But this reminds me of when he killed the Asha’man in Far Madding and told Min about it and she was shocked and worried about how little she could feel through the bond. He has tried so hard to suppress his ability to feel. Added to that, this is his reality. He can’t let himself panic about things like this happening, because his entire focus is on Tarmon Gai’don. That’s all that matters.

Wow, Merise, condescending much?

“Your skill with weaves, it is impressive. If we had you in the White Tower, you’d have been an Aes Sedai by now. Your weaving, it has some roughness to it, but you’d learn to fix that quickly enough if taught by sisters.”

Listen, Merise, she just saved you all from a burning building; I might respectfully suggest shutting the fuck up.

It would seem Melaine shares my thoughts.

“To think, how we once regarded them!”

Oh, how things have changed. This is one I’m looking forward to seeing when I finally get to reread, because it’s a complete shift over the course of several books, but we don’t know the Aiel as well when it begins. Thinking back to how Moiraine was received, and how the Wise Ones were first characterised, and then to Dumai’s Wells and the resulting chaos, and then to everything after, there is a marked change. And it’s one that lies close to the centre of Aiel identity, in the sense that their earliest self-knowledge is as a group of people sworn to serve the Aes Sedai. That’s one of the few things that carried through while almost everyting else changed, even if it was muted and the reason for it was unknown to all but the Wise Ones and the clan chiefs. Now, that tie is broken as well, and it all felt so…natural as it was happening. Which is kind of the point.

“You have such great talent, child.”

Aviendha swelled with the praise; from Wise Ones, it was rare, but always sincere.

“But you refuse to learn,” Melaine continued. “There isn’t much time! Here, I have another question for you. What do you think of Rand al’Thor’s plan to kidnap these Domani merchant chiefs?”

There��s definitely a strong implication here of ‘we have nothing more to teach you’. The next step is one Aviendha must take on her own, and they’re pushing her to do it, but she still sees herself as an apprentice, as beneath them rather than their equal. So we get this pattern of compliment, question, praise, punishment. Telling her she’s ready, asking her questions that should allow her to prove to herself that she’s ready, and then punishing her for not realising it.

“I think the Car’a’carn should have spoken in terms of offering protection – forced protection – for the merchants. The chiefs would have responded better to being told they were protecting rather than kidnapping.”

“They would be doing the very same thing, no matter what you call it.”

“But what you call a thing is important,” Aviendha said. “It is not dishonest if both definitions are true.”

Never underestimate the power of semantics.

Also, this is a point on which Wise Ones and Aes Sedai would agree, though no doubt both would vehemently deny the similarity.

“Regardless, [Rand] needs to be reminded. Again and again. Rhuarc is a wise and patient man, but not all clan chiefs are so. I know that some of the others wonder if their decision to follow Rand al’Thor was an error.”

“True,” Melaine said. “But look at what happened to the Shaido.”

“I did not say they were right, Wise One. […] They are wrong to question the Car’a’carn, but they are speaking to one another. Rand al’Thor needs to realise that they will not accept offence after offence from him without end.”

Yeah. I have wondered where this was going to go.

The relationship between Rand and the Aiel is fascinating because in some ways it’s one of the most simple; he fulfilled their prophecies, and they declared themselves to him, and they will follow him to the ends of the earth, knowing he will destroy them. They’ve been arguably his most loyal followers and allies, dependable and competent and sure, asking nothing.

Except. They haven’t asked nothing. They just haven’t asked for anything in a standard ‘goods for services rendered’ kind of way. He didn’t buy their loyalty, he earned it through prophecy and effort and identity. But with that loyalty comes an understanding of reciprocity. They know that he will take you back, and he will destroy you, and instead of protection or riches or land, they want his acknowledgment and understanding. They want him to know them as his blood; they want him to understand what their loyalty to him means, and to understand the sacrifice they are making.

He understood, at the time, the importance of what he was doing. Not in its entirety and not in detail, certainly, but he knew ‘he needed people he could trust, people who followed from something besides fear of him, or greed for power’. He knew that would take something more than conquest, knew there was something different, something important, about this kind of loyalty. And as that progressed, he came to know them – not as well as they may have liked, perhaps – and thought about how he didn’t want to break them.

Even later, after returning from Dumai’s Wells and facing the doubt of the clan chiefs, he knew the importance of maintaining this relationship, and understood some of the nuance of it: “Does it matter, so long as they obey?” “It matters,” Rand said. When the Maidens beat him, he understood why, even if it was difficult for him to actually accede to their demands. He did, for a time, and has acknowledged his obligation to them, as the only son of a Maiden any of them has known. And he has walked that line of balance and reciprocity.

There has been a balance between loyalty and respect and duty and use, and it’s been a more complex dynamic than it appears on the surface, but it has never seemed truly in doubt.

But sometime between “the fifth, I give you” and “you are what I say you are,” Rand let that tenuous balance slip.

So much is fraying, and so much is held on the verge of falling apart, but this is something Rand cannot afford to lose. He cannot take the Aiel for granted, because as Aviendha says, they will not accept offence after offence. There is a breaking point somewhere, and he is dangerously close to finding it. But it has been too easy for him to slide into taking them for granted, precisely because they ‘followed him from something besides fear of him, or greed for power’. Others, he has to manipulate or command or threaten or coerce, as well as keep a close eye on. But the Aiel… they are there, and competent, and dependable. And fated to be his and to be destroyed. So, while he’s been hardening himself and withdrawing from feeling lest it break him, and trying to care about nothing except Tarmon Gai’don, it has been too easy to let his side of the obligation drop. Because his payment to them is made almost entirely of sentiment and understanding and empathy: things of which he is now barely capable.

I love how this is done, and how it’s timed, and how it plays into watching Rand spiral towards what seems to be a true low point on the horizon.

Did Rand al’Thor know how hard the Wise Ones worked behind his back to maintain Aiel loyalty? Probably not. He saw them all as one homogenous group, sworn to him, to be used. That was one of Rand’s great weaknesses. He could not see that Aiel, like other people, did not like being used as tools.

Yes, though I’m not sure it’s that he can’t see it so much as he won’t let himself. In part it’s to protect himself: he can’t be hurt by destroying something if he doesn’t care about it. And he did start to care about the Aiel, and the individual clan chiefs, and various others, but he didn’t want to let himself because he has known from almost the beginning that it is fated to end in sorrow. It’s also iin part because he is using everyone and everything, including himself, and he has reached a point where he can’t…pull back from that single focus enough to show compassion.

It’s a mess.

The clans were far less tightly knit than he believed. Blood feuds had been put aside for him. Couldn’t he understand how incredible that was?

I really, really love this. Because she’s absolutely right – it is incredible. But also…he is not Aiel, in truth, and as such cannot truly understand. He knows what he’s done, but it isn’t quite the same. There was a moment, when he brought water to the Waste – not at Alcair Dal, or by accident in Rhuidean, but when he made Rhuidean’s fountains run, just before leaving the Three-fold Land. In that moment, there was the sense of a true understanding, even if he didn’t consciously acknowledge it as such.

He saw their history through the eyes of Aiel, in Rhuidean, and while it certainly had an impact on him, it was not the same impact it would have had on one born and raised Aiel. He knows he is the son of a Maiden, and knows his obligation to them, but it is a struggle for him to accept it. He knows he has ended blood feuds and brought the clans together for the first time in memory, but he doesn’t feel it the same way they do. He changes the Aiel, and has felt sorrow at the knowledge of what the prophecies say he will do to them, but the changes he as wrought are not centred on him, and on the core of his self and identity, the way they are for the Aiel. It’s like…loking at something directly and seeing it at an angle, or through a filter.

So no, he can’t exactly understand how incredible it is. The problem, though, is that he has stopped appreciating it. Stopped acknowledging it.

Melaine stared blindly at the broken building. “A remnant of a remnant,” she said, as if to herself. “And if he leaves us burned and broken, like those boards? What will become of the Aiel then? Do we limp back to the Three-fold Land and continue as we did before? Many will not want to leave. These lands offer too much.”

Aviendha blinked at the weight of those words. She had rarely given thought to what would happen after the Car’a’carn was finished with them. […] But a Wise One could not just think of the now or the tomorrow. She had to think of the years ahead and the times that would be brought upon the winds.

A remnant of a remnant. He had broken the Aiel as a people. What would become of them.

This is lovely.

I know I say this a lot, but the way the entire story of the Aiel is done, through past and present and now hinting at future, is beautiful. A nation in exile since the Breaking of the World, fine threads of immutable identity against a history of constant change and breaking and resilience and loss. A story that continues, as the Aiel are once more without a true home and without a concrete foundation, finding a new purpose and yet trying to hold to who they are.

He broke them by uniting them. By fulfilling their prophecy and reminding them of who they once were. That alone is such a wonderfully bittersweet way to bring a story full-circle. Yet it doesn’t end there at all. It’s like the idea of cyclical time and a Wheel of Ages, but in microcosm, repetition and variation shown through the history of a nation.

Where do they go from there? What will become of the Aiel? But there are no beginnings or endings, and this is a question that has been asked before throughout their past and present. Where do they go, what do they become, who are they?

And they keep coming back to those questions even as they move forward, as they always have, changing and seeking a place. A place of safety, a place of belonging, a place of purpose – the nature of the place changes, but the sense of seeking remains.

So they become characterised by exile and change, and beneath that a single note of determined identity – “I am Aiel!”

Part of what I love about it, I think, is how it’s just off-centre in terms of the main focus of the story. It’s ongoing – and has been since at least the Breaking of the World – but most who are not Aiel do not even see it. It’s an epic story in the true sense of the word, and it’s so central to the lives of so many, but this story is not their story. Not theirs exclusively, though they play a crucial and integral role. So that adds to the bittersweet and almost...ironic...nature of their story: a story of identity, largely unseen.

I also like how Aviendha is now privy to this much more direct conversation, and these deeper questions and worries. She is one of the Wise Ones now – or will be, soon – and these are now her issues to think about, rather than something to be discussed only by the Grown Ups. Not only that, but Aviendha’s unique place as liaison between cultures, and the way her own character growth and struggle with identity parallels that of her people, puts her in an excellent position to be the character to consider this.

One day, I will stop butchering sentence structure.

Another thought occurred to her as she pushed that one away – a treacherous one. A thought of Rand al’Thor, resting in his room. She could go to him… No! Not until she had her honour back. She would not go to him as a beggar. She would go to him as a woman of honour.

Which is entirely understandable, and even admirable. But also frustrating. You could…oh I don’t know…talk to him? “Hey, Rand, you know I love you and I want us to spend time together but there’s also some shit I need to figure out first.” And then they could talk candidly about the things they’re struggling with and help each other and eat chocolate cake with sparkly rainbow icing and sing happy songs. Right.

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