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comradekatara · 1 month

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Your atla analysis is the best so I wanted to ask your opinion on something I've found the fandom fairly divided on - what did you think of Azula's ending within the show proper? Unnecessarily cruel or a necessary tragedy? Would you say that her mental breakdown was too conveniently brought about in order to 'nerf' her for the final agni kai? Also, do you think it was 'right' for Zuko to have fought with his sister at all or would it have been better for him to seek a more humane way to end the cycle of violence?

okay so im saying this as someone who loves azula to death like she has always been one of my absolute favorite characters ever since i was a kid and i’ve always vastly preferred her to zuko and found her to be extremely compelling and eminently sympathetic. i am saying this now before the azula stans come for me. i believe in their beliefs. but i also think her downfall is perfectly executed, and putting aside all the bullshit with the comics and whatever else, it’s a really powerful conclusion to her arc. obviously that isn’t to say that she wouldn’t continue to grow and develop in a postcanon scenario (i have a whole recovery arc for her mapped out in my head, like i do believe in her Healing Journey) but from a narrative perspective, her telos is in fact very thematically satisfying.

no, she wasn’t nerfed so that they could beat her in a fight. the fact that she falls apart is what makes them feel that they can confidently take her on (although i do think in a fair fight katara could win anyway), but the whole point is that it’s not about winning or losing in combat. the whole point is that zuko and azula being pitted against each other in this gratuitous ritual of violence as the culmination of their arcs is fundamentally tragic. yes it’s a bad decision to fight her, and zuko should have chosen another path, but the whole point is that he’s flawed and can only subscribe to the logic he has spent his whole life internalizing through violence and abuse.

that’s why aang’s fight against ozai, while tragic in its own way, is also a triumph for the way in which his ideals prevail in the face of genocide, while zuko and azula’s fight is very patently tragic. there is no moment of victory or triumph. even as zuko sacrifices himself in a beautiful mirroring of “the crossroads of destiny” and as katara uses the element of her people combined with techniques across other cultures to use azula’s hubris and ideology of domination against her, it’s presented as moments of personal growth occurring within a very tragic yet inevitable situation. it was inevitable because azula had always been positioned as an extension of her father, and thus to disempower ozai also means disempowering azula, his favorite site of projection, his favorite weapon.

yeah, it does rub me the wrong way when zuko asks katara whether she’d like to help him “put azula in her place.” it’s not a kind way to talk about your abused younger sister. but it’s also important to understand that zuko doesn’t really recognize his sister’s pain, despite the fact that they obviously share a father, because he’s always assumed that she was untouchable as their perfect golden child and thus never a victim. and he’s wrong. zuko and katara expect a battle of triumph and glory, noble heroes fighting valiantly so that good may prevail over evil. but as they discover here, even more so than their previous discovery two episodes prior, a battle is not a legendary event filled with bombast and beauty until after it has been historicized. often a war is simply fought between pathetic, desperate people who see no other option but to fight.

aang’s ultimate refusal to fight despite having all the power in the world is what makes him so important as the protagonist. but katara and zuko both share a more simplistic view of morality and what it means to be good. and zuko assumes that by fighting azula, he can only be punching up, because she has always been positioned as his superior, and she (in her own words!) is a “monster.” and then azula loses, and his entire worldview shatters. joking about putting her in her place makes way for the realization that behind all her posturing and lying (to herself more than anyone) and performance and cognitive dissonance, azula has always been broken, perhaps even more than he is.

azula says “im sorry it has to end this way, brother,” to which zuko replies “no you’re not.” but i think azula is truly sorry, because in her ideal world, she wouldn’t be fighting zuko. she doesn’t actually want to kill him, as much as she claims to. she’s already reached the conclusion that zuko will only truly reach once their fight is over. she lacks a support system, and she needs one, desperately. if she could somehow get her family back, do everything differently, less afraid of the consequences, she would. she’s smirking, she sounds almost facetious, but really, she is sorry. as of this moment, she really doesn’t want it to end this way. but zuko cannot accept that, because in his mind, azula is evil. azula has no soul nor feeling. azula always lies.

her breakdown doesn’t come out of nowhere, either. it’s precipitated by everyone she has ever cared about betraying her. first zuko betrays her, then mai, then ty lee, and then ozai — the person she has staked her entire identity to and to whom she has pledged her undying loyalty and obedience, become nothing more than a vessel for his whims — discards her because she had the audacity to care about someone other than him. what i don’t think zuko realizes, and perhaps will never realize, is that azula betrayed ozai by bringing zuko back home. he was not supposed to be brought back with honor and with glory. azula specifically orchestrated the fight in the catacombs to motivate him to join her, and it’s not because she’s some cruel sadistic monster who wanted to separate a poor innocent soft uwu bean from his loving uncle, it’s because she genuinely believes that she’s doing what’s best for him. she believes that their uncle is a traitor and a bad influence, and she believes that bringing zuko home with his honor “restored” is an act of love. to her it is.

yes, she claims that she was actually just manipulating him so that she wouldn’t have to take the fall if the avatar was actually alive, but also, she’s clearly just covering her own ass. she didn’t know about the spirit water, and only started improvising when zuko started showing hesitation. but even if she was only using zuko, then that was an insane risk to take, because either way she was lying directly to ozai’s face. and zuko admits it to ozai while simultaneously committing treason, so of course ozai would blame azula, his perfect golden child who tried to violate his decree by bringing zuko back home a prisoner at best and dead at worst, and instead found a way to restore his princehood with glory.

we only see ozai dismissing and discarding azula in the finale, but it’s clearly a tension that’s been bubbling since the day of black sun. and we know this because we do see azula falling apart before the finale. in “the boiling rock” she is betrayed by her only friends. in “the southern raiders” we see that this has taken a toll on her, that she is already somewhat unhinged. she and zuko tie in a one on one fight for the first time. and she takes down her hair as she uses her hairpin to secure herself against the edge of a cliff. unlike zuko, who is helped by his friends and allies, who has a support system. it’s a very precarious position; she’s literally on a cliff’s edge, alone, her hair down signifying her unraveling mental state. azula having her hair down signals to us an audience that she is in a position of vulnerability. she is able to mask this terrifying moment wherein she nearly plummets to her death with a triumphant smirk, but it should be evident to us all that her security is fragile here.

and the thing is, even though she’s always masked it with a smirk and perfect poise, her security has always been fragile. azula has never been safe. azula’s breakdown is simply the culmination of her realization that no matter how hard she tries, she will never be ozai’s perfect weapon, because she is a human being. she is a child, no less. and there is no one in her entire life who loves her for nothing. zuko has iroh, who affirms to him that he could never be angry with zuko, that all he wants is simply what is best for zuko. but azula doesn’t have unconditional support in her life. she doesn’t even have support.

everyone she ever thought she could trust has betrayed her, and so she yells that trust is for fools. because she feels like a fool. of course fear is the only way; it’s what kept her in line all these years. azula is someone who is ruled by fear, and who is broken by the recognition that fear isn’t enough. her downfall is necessarily tragic because her worldview is wrong. the imperialist logic of terror as a tool for domination is her own undoing, just as ozai’s undoing is losing the weapon he has staked his national identity to. it’s a battle of ideals. aang v ozai: pacifism v imperialism. katara and zuko v azula: love and support v fear and isolation.

zuko is unfair to azula, it’s true. he tries to fight her even as he can clearly recognize that “she’s slipping.” instead of trying to help his little sister, he uses that weakness to his advantage, tries to exploit her pain so that he can finally, for the first time ever, beat her in a fight. it’s cruel, but it’s also how siblings act. especially considering the conditions under which they were raised, and how zuko has always viewed her. and in zuko’s defense, she has tried to kill him multiple times lately, both in “the boiling rock” and in “the southern raiders.” zuko is someone who gets fixated on a goal and blocks out everything else, including recognition of his surroundings or empathy for others. so of course when he’s promised to put azula in her place he’s going to exploit her weaknesses to do so. after all, isn’t exploiting his weaknesses exactly what azula does best? so he allows himself to stoop to her level, and in fact only redeems himself through his sacrifice for katara. but it is when azula is chained to the grate and zuko and katara, leaning on each other, look down and observe the sheer extent on her pain, that zuko realizes that “putting azula in her place” isn’t actually a victory. it feels really, really bad, actually.

they’re in a similar position as they were when they faced yon rha. and now it is zuko’s turn to understand that he is not a storybook hero triumphing over evil, but rather a human being, facing another human being, in a conflict that is larger than themselves. to “put someone in their place” is to imply a logic of domination, of inherent superiority, that someone has stepped out of line and must be reordered neatly into the hierarchy. but aang disputes the notion, ozai’s notion, that humanity can be classified along these lines, that there exists an ontological superiority among some and not others. so operation: putting azula in her place was always going to be flawed, even if she was performing competency the way she always does, because they’re nonetheless subscribing to her logic.

of course they should be helping azula, of course they should be reaching out to abuse victims through support instead of more violence. but first they must recognize her victimhood. first they must come to understand that they didn’t get lucky, and they didn’t dominate her because they are more “powerful,” that they weren’t “putting her in her place.” they must understand that they are not heroes fighting villains in a glorious trial by combat. that the logic of the agni kai is flawed. that they are all victims. that they are all just scared, hurt children who are still grieving their mothers.

#update: ok i readmored it 👍🏼#azula #analysis #zuko #katara #ozai #azula&zuko #azula&ozai #asks #malatilata #ugh azula is such a beautiful character….. i love her sm #her arc is so beautifully perfectly tragic #just thinking abt the mirror scene gets me sooo . distraught #this was supposed to be like 2 paragraphs lol #as is always the way . with me..

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headcanonsandmore · 1 year

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Doctor Who is about the human condition, it's about silly outfits, it's about the power ordinary people can wield, it's about ridiculous haircuts, it's about the abiding love for humanity, it's about one alien weirdo and their jealous girlfriend of a time machine, it's about helping the most vulnerable, it's about christmas-cracker-level puns, it's about protecting the innocent, it's about a butch Australian lesbian flirting with her alien scientist roommate, it's about how good will always triumph over evil, it's about two platonic besties passing their shared brain cell back and forth, it's about kindness and the intrinsic power of hope, it's about a sapphic alien making heart-eyes whenever her bestie talks about reversing the polarity-

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primofate · 3 months

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Scara who has been taken cared of by Nahida, meets girl who he falls in love with. You know the whole "I don't need anyone" turning into "Yeah maybe I deserve this" but slowly.

"It'll be fun!" is what Nahida always told Hat Guy, whenever Holi came around.

It's that festival where people threw coloured powder at each other, if you were unfortunate enough, you might get coloured water thrown on you instead.

Scaramouche hated it.

Every year, he disappeared on the colourful day.

"Oh, there you are, I thought I might find you here," Scaramouche holds back a sigh at your voice coming from behind him. Somehow you had the knack of knowing where he was hiding.

The Aranara hovering around him scattered.

In some ways Scaramouche had found a sort of peace in Sumeru.

Something that he once didn't have.

In the few years that he had stayed here, under Nahida's care, his thoughts about "eternity"--thoughts that things should remain the same, should remain constant, that people should remain as they are--had shifted and turned into an understanding that change...is most definitely inevitable. Especially when knowledge was so abundant everywhere.

"What is it now?" He drawled, head lazily lolling sideways to look at you, all smiles and looking as if you had found a secret hiding amongst the trees and vines.

"Just thought you might need some company," but you don't approach him, and only peer at his face with the same smile.

He doesn't make any move to wave you away or wave you over and just huffs, prying his eyes away from your form. "I had some until you scared the little critters away,"

You guessed he was pertaining to the Aranara. "My apologies then," you humored him and finally sat next to him, the bark of the tree a little rough on your back. "You really hate Holi, huh?"

"I hate the colours,"

"So you don't particularly hate the tradition?"

"I don't have any reason to hate the tradition," Scaramouche is suddenly conscious of your shoulder bumping into his. His eyes briefly darts towards where they meet, and almost immediately darts away to look at the tree leaves swaying in the breeze.

Wordlessly, you lean over to reach the patch of grass in front of the two of you. There are some stray leaves and sticks right around the place that you gather in the middle. Your fingers snap, and quite quickly the flames of pyro lick the small pile alive.

Scaramouche raises an eyebrow in bafflement at what you were doing, but realizes what the purpose was when you sprinkle some sort of magical powder onto the tiny bonfire.

There's a quick burst of strong flame, then it simmers down. The orange turns into a medley of blue, red, pink, green, and many other colours that take turns appearing in the fire. For a second he was mesmerized at the sudden vibrancy of it, but he scoffs and closes his eyes, leaning backwards on the tree when the novelty of it wore off.

"Holi celebrates the triumph of good over evil," you explain, even though you were certain he knew of this already. Your eyes reflect the different coloured flames, dancing around beautifully.

He's silent.

Good and evil.

What really are they? Was he more evil than good? Or was it the other way around? Did it matter?

Scaramouche never pretended to be a saint. Never pretended that he was without sin. He never claimed that he was a good person. Never, and he never thought that he would be a "good" person. None of that was him. None of the word "good" was an inch of him.

"You're most likely celebrating it with the wrong person then," he peeks an eye open to watch you, but also fully opens his eyes to finally watch the flames with you. It's nothing remarkable really. Just a fire that wasn't orange.

"Because you're evil more than good?" You ask and voice his own thoughts aloud, but you follow with a laugh. "Get over yourself, Scaramouche. It's not just about you," The flames start to dwindle in size, the pile of leaves and sticks were scant to begin with. "It's about celebrating the good things in life,"

The good things in life?

He started to think.

Life itself was already so complicated to him.

Adding "good things" was almost something he didn't want to bother with.

What exactly were the "good things" in life?

He was surprised--even shocked--to come to the conclusion that he was able to think about a few things.

Being of use to someone. Being in a place where peace of mind was available. Having quiet nights as opposed to restless nightmares. Having someone go out of their way to look for him and--

The flames disappeared. He blinked back to reality and turned his head to look at you, who was clapping in small delight at the end of the little fire show you made.

"...I suppose I could celebrate that," he mumbled, almost too hard for you to hear.

"Of course you can!" You piped up, now standing and dusting your clothes in preparation to leave. You weren't actually going to bother him for the whole day, just this small celebration was enough for you. "Surely there must be at least one good thing to happen to you here in Sumeru," you shrug and point at the way you came. "I'll be off then. Careful on your way back, red is really hard to wash off,"

He watches as you casually turn to start heading back. "I'll come," he moves up, purposely not meeting your eyes, picking imaginary fluff off of his shoulder. He then crosses his arms over his chest, melding his expression into a grin. "I need a shield anyway,"

You roll your eyes, and walk ahead of him.

He watches your back, for a moment.

Watches, as he starts to accept that you are one of those good things, despite how annoying and persistent you are in trying to get him to celebrate those dumb traditions.

Excuse any mistakes, written in quite a hurry.

#scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #genshin impact #genshin scaramouche #wanderer

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thanagrian · 2 years

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favorite movie?? 👀

ask the mun anything --- accepting

honestly this is a really difficult question to answer because my taste in movies has a broad range. i like a variety of different genres. if i have to pick one single film it would be secondhand lions (2003). i saw it for the first time when i was a kid and idk. something about it just really struck a chord in me. i still love rewatching it from time to time and i still think it's just as funny and as touching as it was the first time i saw it. the speech about what every boy should know about being a man always gets me.

#'good always triumphs over evil. and i want you to remember this. that love. true love. never dies.' like end my life #failrobin

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to-be-frank-i-dont-care · 7 months

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Ok but during Playing With the Big Boys at the very end when the music is crescendoing, and you see the magician's snakes crawling after Moses' snake to kill it and there's no way it will survive. and the magicians are taunting Moses and laughing in his face and trying to overwhelm him with their evil magic and making fun of him and his Lord. and they're moving around him and throwing magic everywhere and telling him that they are the ones in power, not he, that his simple snake is nothing because they can do anything he can do, and they will always triumph over him with their gods. and then the scene shifts and the shadow of Moses' snake is thrown on the wall in the firelight, and it snatches and devours both of the magicians' snakes while the music swells to a finale. the magicians were only just boasting that they are more powerful than Moses and his God, and now their snakes are dead. devoured. their words no longer mean anything. they follow endless gods, and yet those gods could do nothing in the face of Moses' God, and and and

good food right there

#the prince of egypt #prince of egypt #also the symbolism of how #the Lord's snake swallowed the magicians' snakes #and it's as if the Lord swallowed the false gods also #and I just #I love this movie man #listening to the playlist while I do school and I had to write about this moment #It always gives me so many chills #if I could organize my thoughts abt this movie in full I would #but #I don't think I could #lizzy rambles #also when I say Moses’ God #He is also mine #it just would’ve been odd to throw that in lol

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firstfullmoon · 1 year

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“To understand the point in life we must first understand what it is to be human. It seems to me that the common agent that binds us all together is loss, and so the point in life must be measured in relation to that loss. Our individual losses can be small or large. They can be accumulations of losses barely registered on a singular level, or full-scale cataclysms. Loss is absorbed into our bodies from the moment we are cast from the womb until we end our days, subsumed by it to become the essence of loss itself. We ultimately become the grief of the world, having collected countless losses through our lifetime. These losses are many-faceted and chronic, both monstrous and trivial. They are losses of dignity, losses of agency, losses of trust, losses of spirit, losses of direction or faith, and, of course, losses of the ones we love. They are daily, convulsive disappointments or great historical injuries that cast their shadows across the human predicament, reminding us of the stunning potential of our own loss of humanity. We are capable of the greatest atrocities and the deepest sufferings, all culminating in a vast, collective grief. This is our shared condition.

Yet happiness and joy continue to burst through this mutual condition. Life, it seems, is full of an insistent, systemic and irrepressible beauty. But these moments of happiness are not experienced alone, rather they are almost entirely relational and are dependent on a connection to the Other – be it people, or nature, or art, or God. This is where meaning establishes itself, within the connectedness, nested in our shared suffering.

I believe we are meaning-seeking creatures, and these feelings of meaning, relational and connective, are almost always located within kindness. Kindness is the force that draws us together, and this, is what I think I am trying to say – that despite our collective state of loss, and our potential for evil, there exists a great network of goodness, knitted together by countless everyday human kindnesses.

These often small, seemingly inconsequential acts of kindness, that Soviet writer Vasily Grossman calls ‘petty, thoughtless kindness’, or ‘unwitnessed kindness’ bind together to create a subterranean and vanquishing Good that counterbalances the forces of evil and prevents suffering from overwhelming the world. We reach out and find each other in the common darkness. By doing so we triumph over our collective and personal loss. Through kindness we slant, shockingly and miraculously, toward meaning. We discover, in that smallest gesture of goodwill laid at the feet of our mutual and monumental loss, ‘the point’.”

— Nick Cave, from The Red Hand Files #204

#w #letters #nick cave #without tenderness we are in hell #it astonishes me sometimes how every person i get to know lives with some profound personal sorrow

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gale-gentlepenguin · 20 days

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Do you know why heroes always defeat villains?

Why Good triumphs over evil despite how evil schemes and cheats?

Because It is so easy to do evil. It’s easy to be mean, to be selfish, to be greedy, to be violent. To shout, to hate, to be self absorbed. So naturally only the weakest would succumb to it.

But it is immensely difficult to do good. To be loving, to be kind, to be selfless, to be empathetic. To be patient. So naturally it takes a lot of strength to do good despite all the evil around.

People will cheer for a villain if they think they make a good point, but will hiss and boo at a hero just for making a mistake.

Villains choose the path of least resistance.

Heroes Always choose the right path. The right path is always hard. There are steps easier than others. But to be good is to struggle with the dark nature of the world.

To be a Light in a dark world. That is why the hero is called a beacon.

Of course the hero is hated, there are those that are envious. They wish They could have been stronger, they wish they could bring the change.

It’s not a surprise that many people hate heroes. Because when light shines on you, it shows us what we truly are… and many will not like what they see

But regardless, Darkness will try its best to turn off the light. Evil will try to snuff it out.

But even the smallest lights shine in the darkness. For where Light touches, Darkness cannot dwell.

#light #darkness #hero #villain #good #evil

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amethysttribble · 7 months

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If You Hold a Silmaril-

Things might get a little weird.

On the night which Thingol first held the Silmaril, he dreamed of Finwe.

He saw his friend standing beneath Laurelin and Telperion, laughing in wonder. 'Elwe!' he called, 'Elwe, isn't it beautiful?'

Thingol didn't get the chance to reply, because the seasons of Valinor which he had never seen passed them by swiftly, and the light of the Trees which had so touched him changed and Finwe changed, too. His features softened, his stature lessened, the gleam in his eyes grew brighter.

In a soft voice, he asked, "Isn't it beautiful?" Laurelin and Telperion winter-dead behind him and a Silmaril cupped in his palms, presenting.

"Yes," Thingol agreed with a smile.

---

Beren never held the Silmaril for long; at least, not outside the wolf's stomach. He took the stone in hand once, twice, thrice, always just trying to convey it to its next location, it's new owner. He was fine with this.

He would never forget how his own hand had look in Carcharoth's stomach- first perfectly preserved, and then naught but dust once disturbed. Felagund had once recounted the Sons of Feanor's oath to him, and the line about 'mortal hands' had stuck out.

Beren did not trust the thing. He did not trust the lullaby that had teased his ears since he first pried the burning thing from the crown of darkness. Never could he hear the words clearly, but when he tried to provide reason to that sweet, haunting melody, he ascribed that Oath of Feanor. He was pretty sure he was wrong, though.

He was especially sure he was wrong about the lullaby when he draped the Nauglamir over his fingers and pondered what to do with it.

___

Earendil sang with the Silmaril. Old songs and new songs, Quenya songs and Sindarin songs; Elvish songs, Mannish songs, and songs from before either of their times. There was little else to do while sailing on the rim of the world.

They'd become friends, the two of them.

___

Melkor held three Silmarils, for a time. Even at his poorest, he possessed two. That voice and light was hewn into his very being. So much so that his eyes and ears- which were constructions, falsehoods, empty veneers- tricked him.

He grew used to the shadows haunting every corner of his eyes. The whispers which came from every direction.

For him, there was no singing, no memories.

There were taunts, jeers, and laughter, because he and dear Feanaro were cut from the same cloth, and there was nothing spirits like them hated more than being mocked. Melkor knew this well, had used this well, and so he did not react. Did not provide the satisfaction to Feanaro.

Because he had been the one to bring Feanaro low, he was the one who won.

So even when his feet were cut from under him, and that little fey thing that only he could see looked down at him, smirk split over his unreal face, triumph in those eyes, Melkor didn't care.

He didn't care, he didn't care, he didn't CARE-

Feanor laughed and all of Morgoth's screams couldn't drown it out.

---

The first time Luthien held the Silmaril was when her husband, brow knit in worry, handed her the Nauglamir.

"Interesting," she said.

"I think there is some fairy within it," Beren said, quoting the legends of his youth. "When your father and the Dwarves of Nogrod were moved to madness, I thought it a demon, but after holding it myself for a time... Perhaps not. Perhaps it has ensorcelled me as well."

"So not evil?" she asked, though already well-sure of her assumptions. No, not evil, just-

"Not good either," Beren grumbled, crossing his arms. "But, no. That's why I now think it to be a fairy."

"I agree," Luthien said, bringing the pretty thing up meet her eyes. She had never understood the allure while hearing tales or while retrieving this creation, but holding him, feeling him, she felt she might understand.

He was very warm, and very bright, and the scope of him was so very wide and colorful and varied. And this was just one Silmaril? Luthien was starting to understand how love for such a father could turn a son to such evil. This could also inspire greatness.

"Not evil, not good, just very strong in who he is. Quite the fairy, indeed. I think, if minded correctly, a great blessing."

___

Silmaril in hand, Maedhros heard only one thing: a call of recognition, wreathed in infinite sorrow and regret.

My son!

He wanted to hear no more.

___

Carcharoth burned. He cried. He wanted this to end.

There was something within that hated him. Furious and heated. It tasted like the sky at first, like the slight sting of stars except worse, and then it grew worse still.

At once, the fire within was both hot and cold, tasting of his master's Ainur fury and the slaps of the Orcs which fed him as a pup. Both his spirit and his flesh burned. It hurt so badly.

He wanted it to stop, why wouldn't it stop, wouldn't master return and make it stop?

What was this crystallized flame he'd swallowed, where had it come from, why would anyone make such a thing? Carcharoth could not understand, would never understand, especially when it cried, Foul imitation.

His bane rejoiced when the puny wolfhound appeared again, and Carcharoth's last joy was killing that holy lapdog. Then the pain flared even brighter, all heat and fury and hatred, and he faltered. He, the Red Maw. He howled in pain around the Man in his mouth, and his Elven prey struck.

He was almost grateful to the Elves.

___

Varda, completely taken with her own designs and creations, happily humming to herself, actually didn't notice anything of note.

___

Dior grew up on stories of the Silmaril.

Hearing of wicked Feanorions and the massive wolf and the Great Enemy's palace. The eagles and horseback duels and the hand. On rare occasions, his grandfather had showed the treasure to him, but it wasn't often and never for very long.

So, suffice to say, when he and his father recovered the Nauglamir bound Silmaril, he was awe-struck.

For the last year of her life, his mother wore that necklace, and he often told her that she was beautiful, and looked healthier in that light, and she seemed to keep laughing at private jokes. She'd wink at him. Luthien was very lively in that last year, especially for an old Woman, but it did not stop her from lying in bed with Beren as he died, and slipping away in the same heartbeat.

The Silmaril lay forgotten in a drawer when they went.

Dior retrieved it as he packed up their house, their life, and prepared to make for Doriath. This was the first time he'd ever held it, because his father was wary of the thing, his grandfather possessive of the thing, and his mother a funny kind of person. As he trailed his fingers over the warm, glowing gem, he did not think it deserved all the fuss.

His mother once said there was a fairy within that gave advice that was not strictly good or bad, just mad, mad, mad. And grand. As Dior entered beautiful, wild, Elvish Doriath, he felt he could use a little madness and grandness both.

He put it on.

And there was the lullaby his father spoke of, and there was the tricksy warmth his mother traded japes with, and there was the strength of will that always kept his revered grandfather's countenance so tall and straight. Dior smiled, and asked Nimloth how he looked, breathing a little bit easier. Feeling a little more confident.

Dior felt like a real Elf-king when he wore the Silmaril.

___

Mablung held the Silmaril for the briefest of moments, and still felt the world shift.

Or maybe the world did not shift. Maybe he shifted. Moved slightly to the left on the plane of Arda. Drawn slightly closer to his spirit, the world's; spirit of an Ainu.

Because after that brief moment of possession, the colors of the world were brighter. The sounds sharper. The smells richer. The tastes deeper. Was this how it was in Valinor, he wondered.

Or was this something unique. Was it the appeal of the Silmarils? Why they were so coveted?

He still did not understand why they were worth the death and blood and suffering of so many. So the world was greater and vaster and there was now a taste in his mouth that urged him to seek that world and understand it and bend it.

No, he would not do that. He was loyal to his king and home. And he would fight for the Silmaril if heeded, but it was with great reluctance. The Silmaril had touched him and he did not like it.

Mablung supposed some would feel blessed, but he just felt tainted. Violated. Who would want such a thing?

___

Hanar was a craftsman of Nogrod, a disciple of Gamil Zirak. Not as renowned as Telchar was he, but still respected, still well-known, still good enough to receive the invitation to King Thingol's court. He was given a special job.

Though his heart pounded with envy at seeing all his people had wrought occupied and hoarded by Elves, especially the Nauglamir- which bore that foul name for his people though they made that beautiful thing- he was a reasonable person. An honorable dwarflord. He accepted the terms of the deal and got to work. He accepted the Silmaril.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

This was delicate work, his hammer remained stored away, but his pounding heart filled the void. He evaluated the shape of the Silmaril, turned it over in his hands and contemplated how to hold such beautifully wrought facets without defacing it.

Hanar felt that the gem in his hands understood his task. His care in fulfilling it. As he unwound the Nauglamir and nestled the Silmaril within, it offered advice, as if from one craftsman to another.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Into the silver and steel, the twinkling gems and the burning Silmaril, he poured himself. He slaved over this project for many weeks, scarcely sleeping, eating. The Silmaril rejoiced with him, crying, So long its been since I helped make something! So much I have missed it! Thank you, thank you!

Together, they worked.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

When complete, Hanar held their new creation and wept. Such a masterpiece he created in the merging of two previous masterpieces. It surpassed the work of Telchar. Why, it might even have surpassed his master.

And his masterpiece, it had helped him bring itself to fruition. It thanked him for giving it life. They were friends now.

How could anyone ask Hanar to give this up to unappreciative hands? How?

No smith of any artistry could.

___

When Finwe first beheld the Silmarils, cupping each reverently in his hands one-by-one, he knew what he had been gifted immediately.

He kissed his beloved son and smiled sadly as he said, "Are you still so scared of your mother's fate?"

Feanaro denied it, but Finwe knew the truth.

___

If Mairon could grind the Silmarils down into dust, he would.

His beloved master returned home with them in hand, burning in hand, burning down to the soul so that the wound could not be wiped away. They were beautiful and powerful. At the time, the prospect excited Mairon. His master tasked him with forging a crown for his prizes, and he'd grinned in excitement.

What creations, what strange creations, smithed by an Elf? Mairon could not wait to break them down and build them back better and recieve praise for his genius.

Except... Except.

Except, that proved... difficult. Difficult, at first, it was just +difficult. Why couldn't he cut into them? Alter them with temperature? Remove that pesky burning? Why could Mairon not peer inside and break down the molecular structure and understand?

He didn't understand. What was he working with? He couldn't understand!

His master issued a warning when he took too long to make the crown, and Mairon was forced to retreat.

It wasn't a defeat. It wasn't impossible for him to alter, to better the Silmarils, it wasn't. He would recreate them.

Then master would see that he was the better smith than this Elf. Maybe the first try didn't work. Maybe the second didn't either. And the third, fourth, fifth-

Mairon screamed and raged and razed his smithy to the ground, taking a dozen servants with it.

He tried again. Not light, but darkness. Something more fitting for his master's reign! And then he'd give up on the Silmarils. He only had two now, why did he even still care?

He would keep trying and trying and trying and trying-

Mairon would dissect Curufinwe Tyelperinquar as many times as it took, physically, mentally, alive or dead, as many times as it took to understand.

___

Elwing really knew nothing of the Silmaril but what she learned herself.

There was no one to tell her what the Silmaril had whispered to them, shown them. Many hands it had gone through, and not one was around to impart any wisdom. She wasn't frightened of this gift, though.

On her twentieth birthday, her people draped the Nauglamir, Silmaril front and center- around her neck and named her queen. Elwing took on the Silmaril and was struck with familiarity.

It sung her a song that she recognized. It was the one that soothed her as she was spirited away from Menegroth, silver and diamond necklace weighing down her little body, family dead. A song that told her not to cry, to not be scared. Oh, how the Silmaril hated the sound of crying children.

She started to wear the Nauglamir often, more the sign of her queenship than any crown. It gave her people hope. It made her feel stronger. More... connected to something.

That night and many thereafter, she dreamed of shores she'd never been to, and started to recognize traits of Idril's as belonging to people she'd never met, and learned which songs Finwe would use to sing his children to sleep. Strange treasure, curious relic. It had life and memories of its own, and it communicated feelings.

The Silmaril was fond of her. Sometimes, in snatches, it told her of what it'd seen of her own family. That made Elwing happy. Their connection made her own soul brighter.

She told Earendil of all this and only him. At least, only her husband until-

Elwing sneered in the face of Maedhros, and said, "Why do you even want it? He would hate you as you are."

___

"You are not my father," Maglor said, holding the Silmaril before his face, collapsed upon the shore, defeated. His hand was still burning, though his flesh was long since ruined. At once, he wanted nothing more than to hold on and let go.

"You are a shadow. A remnant. An echo. But a piece of him, capable of communicating memories and the basest of feelings and impulses, but no higher thought. My father, distilled. But not him.

"Which is a shame, I- I never believed Curufin's theory about my father's spirit only being recoverable with the Silmarils, but I'm disappointed now that it is not him speaking to me. I have so much to say, but I find myself mourning only one lost opportunity thing: it would have been nice to debate poetry movements with him again.

"You're not my father. You're a will-o-wisp, a taunt. A false light, guiding us to our doom. Our fault. Our stupidity. Our end."

He ambled to his feet.

"Yet, I feel your love for me, and I'm glad. I feel your horror, and I'm ashamed. To sadness, I respond with anger, and to regret- Do you feel regret? Are you capable, strange little reflection? Am I seeing what I want to see or disregarding what I cannot stand? I don't know. I don't know. I wish I didn't know. To have died in pursuit and not know would be preferable."

Fury gripped Maglor's heart and hot tears came to his eyes. He pulled his arm back.

"You are not worth what has been done in your name!"

He screamed, and the Silmaril was gone. All was silent. Then, Maglor started to weep. He had not realized until this moment how much he had forgotten about who his father was, beyond the last words he said.

How much the world had forgotten about Feanor, beyond the scope of a Silmaril.

___

If you hold a Silmaril, you're going to get to know Feanor. When you get to know him, you're soul will brush up against his. When you possess his soul and he stains yours, you might just start to understand him.

#thingol #beren #earendil #melkor #luthien #maedhros #carcharoth #varda #dior #mablung #sauron #finwe #elwing #maglor #tolkien #the silmarillion #tribble post #fanfic

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kat · 1 month

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people getting upset that dune might not have a happy ending or that paul maybe isn't a Good Guy and a Hero to be emulated is funny because it does not and he is not but tbh the humor is always eclipsed by frustration and disappointment whenever i see these kinds of takes.

like. what happened? was the fumbled game of thrones ending so shit that we'll only enjoy stories where the clearly defined good triumphs over the clearly defined evil? are we reading too many fix-it fics where castiel and dean get to live happily ever after? have we just grown too accustomed to being spoon-fed simple, formulaic stories?

a well crafted tragic narrative is so much more satisfying than a forced happy ending. you can wish a character's story ended with them surviving, embracing a loved one, smiling, sun shining, having learned the error of their ways. but they didn't. they couldn't. that's why it's a tragedy.

your takeaway from a piece of media isn't always going to be pleasant.

a story doesn't need to end happily. and sometimes, a happy ending would ruin a narrative. please i am begging you. it's going to be okay. but not for paul. not for anyone in dune tbh. but for us, it's going to be okay.

#paul atreides most canceled man on arrakis #dune #tragedy enjoyers rise up #this is not a post about babylon 5 but #are we not all watching 1993 television series babylon 5?

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comradekatara · 9 days

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might be bit of a stupid question, and you may have even discussed it before. if so, sorry for asking again.

but: do you think aang forgives ozai, or does he just show mercy? aang seems to have a clear stance on the importance of forgiveness, however, the final moments of his battle with ozai are visually paralleled with katara's attack on her mother's killer - and katara is clear on the fact the she has not (and will not) forgive him. she just shows him mercy, i suppose.

do you think this sentiment is paralleled in these two scenes? do you think aang manages to actually forgive ozai, or is he just showing mercy in order to protect the values of his culture?

to be perfectly honest, the thought of whether or not aang’s decision to spare ozai is one of forgiveness never actually crossed my mind. you’re right that the issue of mercy is tied to forgiveness in “the southern raiders,” but i always read that issue of forgiveness as far less straightforward than a question of whether or not katara will forgive yon rha, and more so whether katara can forgive herself (and by extension zuko). as aang says, “revenge is a two headed rat viper,” and the reason he’s advocating that katara find room for forgiveness within herself is not because he gives a shit whether the man who murdered her mother will die or not (he doesn’t care if others kill as long as he doesn’t have blood on his hands, as evidenced by his relationship to sokka and toph), but whether katara will be able to live with herself after the fact. and he knows her, so he knows that she won’t.

by sparing yon rha, katara forgives herself for her own guilt in having to carry the burden of knowing her mother sacrificed herself to save her, lets herself rest and simply be a human person instead of dedicating herself to the pursuit of vengeance, to revenge kya’s foul and most unnatural murder. because of course katara has that instinct, and of course katara feels her mother’s death more personally than sokka does, and of course she feels a responsibility to right the wrongs that she (however inadvertently) caused in whatever way she possibly can.

she finally has the skillset and the intel that allows her to carry out her revenge, but in that final moment before she strikes the final blow, she hesitates and drops her weapon, her artform that she has dedicated herself to honing in a way no one alive has ever needed to (with the exception of hama, and even then). it’s a uniquely powerful moment in a show filled with powerful moments (many of them involving katara) because she is choosing herself over yon rha, over zuko, over the memory of her mother.

she lets the illusion that she is the hero of an adventure tale wherein good triumphs over evil fade away and she embraces her own humanity though acknowledging the humanity of her enemies. yon rha isn’t a uniquely evil cackling villain (unlike someone like zhao or ozai), he’s a person, an awful person, but nonetheless a human being. a soldier who acted as the arm of a vast and complex, terrifying machine. and by looking into his face once more, the face that haunted her nightmares, katara is able to see herself reflected in the face of the other, and finally fully realizes a tapestry of the world that can not be so neatly woven.

that is what it means to forgive. when she forgives zuko, it is not because zuko has done anything to earn her forgiveness: unlike with “the boiling rock,” where he genuinely risks his life to selflessly help sokka at his lowest point, he is the instigator of katara’s entire journey, and even though he is attempting to do her a favor because he understands her intrinsic desire for revenge born of guilt and rage and shame, it is not a selfless act (that comes later). but through forgiving herself, allowing herself to relax her rigid worldview of right and wrong, good and evil, she recognizes that even if zuko did do genuinely reprehensible, awful things, it isn’t in her best interest to hold onto that anger, and by allowing herself to feel less personal responsibility and shame over her misplaced trust in zuko leading to aang’s death, she is able to forgive zuko, but only because she had already forgiven herself.

when aang shows ozai mercy, however, the issue of forgiveness isn’t even really the right term for it. he’s not forgiving ozai nor himself, here, but rather powerfully asserting that mercy is not a weakness, but a deliberate choice, and one that is born of incredible strength of character, at that. he’s forgiving his people for “not fighting back,” he’s forgiving his culture for adhering to these pacifist values, and yes, he’s forgiving himself for not being the avatar that everyone expects him to be. he’s prioritizing his people and his humanity and his grief over what the entire human world wanted from him.

and crucially, before the lion turtle showed him his truest path, aang was going to kill ozai. he was resigned to this being his destiny. unlike katara, who fully planned on killing yon rha and only decided to spare him once she saw his face, aang didn’t want to kill ozai from the very beginning, and had to be forced into killing him, rather than being talked down. sokka tells katara not to kill yon rha as gently as he possibly can (and nonetheless immediately gets shut down for it), but then he almost bullies aang for not wanting to kill. sokka considers killing a tool that should be exercised with logical intent, katara considers killing an act that makes a statement, and aang considers killing a taboo that should never be violated. of course, aang’s stance on killing is a very culturally-specific one, which yangchen also adheres to as best she can, but also understands its limits when in the position of avatar. but aang cannot afford to simply be the avatar, because he must bear the burden of his entire people’s legacy.

so at no point does forgiveness for ozai come into play, because aang has no reason to consider forgiving ozai. his decision to take down the firelord is a tactical one, rather than born purely out of a desire for revenge. but he does mirror katara’s decision to spare yon rha in sparing ozai’s life simply because, in both cases, they prioritize themselves and the preservation of their own humanity over submitting to the logic of the men who have destroyed their lives.

#the-avatars-fury #asks #i love them so much wtf….#analysis #aang #katara #aang&katara #katara&zuko #yon rha #ozai #idk who else to tag #sokka #i guess

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iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia · 1 month

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full hc request: mc and m6 celebrating holi ?

(i am friendless this holi and i will cry over it)

-🫧 anon

The Arcana HCs: Celebrating Holi

~ most of this is based off of childhood experience celebrating in South Asia, thank you for resurrecting all the fun memories anon! ~

Julian

He loves the concept of it

A community event, full of color and celebration? Heck yeah! This extrovert is pumped and ready to spread the joy!

This extrovert is also a doctor

And this doctor is already gearing up for the aftermath - for all the people who caught cold running around in wet clothes, the injuries from hopping around on wet cobblestones and twisting ankles ...

... the overenthusiastic celebrants falling into the canals and bumping their heads, the kids who always end up licking the color powder and find out the hard way what they're allergic to ...

And of course, the mild panic he experiences for the next week seeing faded stains on his patient's skin and faces and briefly mistaking them for bruising

Seriously, why do bruises turn every color of the rainbow??

But all that aside, he's excited to celebrate with you and will even bend down so you can smear some color on his face and eyepatch

Asra

Oh, they are thriving

This is easily one of his favorite events of the year. This gets more planning and preparation time than ... most things, really

They insist on making (or at least, modifying) all of their own colors and stock up on everything from powder to paste to dyes they can mix with water and spray at passersby with a water gun

Some of them he enchants to be holographic. Others, to hover menacingly in the air and then engulf whoever walks close enough

It's one of the few times when all the kids in the neighborhood flock to them because they know that nobody will kit them out for a proper water fight like they will. It's on

His hair is going to have colors lingering in it for over a month

The magic use does get just a little bit out of control, sometimes - they've been politely asked to stay away from the town square, since the statues still occasionally puke neon rainbows

Will put a spell on you that morning so nothing can stain you

Nadia

Does she enjoy and look forward to this festival? Yes. Is she stressed beyond words? Also yes. She needs a break

The sheer logistics of organizing a national holiday aside, Holi is messy. The streets are full of people, traffic is impossible for the day, injuries are spiking from partying too hard, and the cleanup

Don't get her started on the cleanup

Vesuvia has plenty of white marble statues and fountains that end up coated in the rainbow every year (though it's gotten easier since a certain magician was banned from the town square)

Not to mention the series of legal cases afterwards when some merchant passing through sells a load of poor quality colors

That won't stop her from enjoying it with you. She'll set up the garden and spend an afternoon chasing you around with her palms covered in color, darting out to leave smudges on your cheeks

If she moves a little more slowly to ensure that she gets covered in your colors as well, then. That's for only her and the shrubs to know

Muriel

A festival so exciting and intense that crowds of people flood the streets and smear colors all over each other with abandon?

Yeah, you can count him out

The concept of celebrating color and the triumph of good over evil is delightful, but you both know that if he joins he'll suffer at best and have a full-blown panic attack at worst. Better not

He'll celebrate with you in his own way

You'll find a forest clearing, pull out all the environmentally friendly colors you've stocked up on, and goad him with rainbow fingerprints into a playful game of tag among the trees

His artistic side will make itself known, waiting for you to tire yourself out before he sits next to you and traces swirls and runes all over your arms and face with featherlight touches

Of course, this only works if you're distracted with something while he does, or else your eyes on him will make him freeze up and blush. (the shaky little smudges those cause are the best)

Portia

She adores Holi and she is Prepared

She knows all the tips and tricks to get through the day with as little misfortune as possible. Old, cheap clothes that you don't mind getting stained. Oil on your skin and hair before you go out

And of course, a mom bag stuffed to the brim, half with celebration essentials and half with mischief implements

You look tired and a little overstimulated. Here, wipe your face and hands with this damp towel and drink some water. She packed snacks - do you want a cookie or a sandwich?

You look like you could use an advantage. Here, take this dye filled water balloon and throw it at the nearest street sign - the partygoers underneath will have it in their hair for weeks

Her favorite celebration spots are right in the middle of wherever the kids are having their massive water fight. Nobody can amp up mediate one of those like she can

Will shamelessly cover your clothes in her handprints

Lucio

He loves it for the first fifteen minutes or so

A town-wide celebration that fills the streets? Heck yeah, he is all in and having the time of his life! He has permission to splash color all over random strangers? Awesome! He's going all out -

... until he starts to receive the same treatment, which means his hair is getting messy and his clothes are going to stain and there's dye all over his face and absolutely ruining his eyeliner

Yeah, he's done, and he's going to start sulking if he doesn't get a hot bath nice and soon

Mercedes and Melchior, on the other hand, are having the times of their lives. It's chaos dialed to the max and they love the chance to weave between people's legs and splash colors everywhere

Of course, they also have gorgeous long silky white fur, which gets absolutely saturated with pigments and dyes as they run wild

Bathing them afterwards is a legendary nightmare and the pastel hues linger on their backs for quite a while

#ask arcana brainrot #the arcana #the arcana headcanons #the arcana hc #the arcana game #asra the arcana #julian the arcana #nadia the arcana #muriel the arcana #portia the arcana #lucio the arcana #asra alnazar #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #muriel of the kokhuri #portia devorak #lucio morgasson

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sweet-s0rr0w · 8 months

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Microfic: I Must Be Lonely

A late birthday microfic, written for the wonderful @getawayfox (look, it balances out @wolfpants' gift which was a couple of weeks early, alright? That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.) Happy happy birthday to fandom's loveliest quadruple threat (writer, artist, reccer, beta/cheerreader). I hope you had a brilliant day! <3

T, 1.8k, no warnings. @drarrymicrofic prompt Simple. Thanks to @tackytigerfic for Irish picking and usual brilliance. This one is also for everyone else who hates night shifts!

Another night shift at the Ministry security desk. If boredom doesn’t get you, the vampires probably will, Draco thinks, sourly. That’s at least half exaggeration, though: Sanguini and his colleagues are always impeccably behaved, hurrying between meetings with barely a glint of incisor on show. But the boredom: now that part’s no joke. Nothing much happens in the Ministry after hours – by midnight, even the most dedicated workaholics have reluctantly ducked into the Floo, leaving Draco to his books, or his fantasy Quidditch, or (briefly and unsuccessfully) his crochet. Sometimes he gets lucky – a disaster necessitating the presence of the on-call Mishaps and Maladies team at the Ministry, perhaps, or an international visitor who’s messed up the time difference – but for the most part it’s lonely work.

Every night, Draco watches as two of the house elves work their slow, methodical way across the Atrium floor from either end, mopping and polishing and casting anti-slip charms until they meet just in front of his desk, some time around five o’clock. Things always get better after that, with the sun rising in the charmed windows and the slow downhill slide until six-thirty, that blessed hour when Draco mumbles his greetings to the day staff, pulling the hood of his robes up to cover his tired eyes, and slopes off towards the Floos.

Midnight until five, then, that’s the difficult time. That’s the hungry but nauseous time, the clammy but shivery time, the grumpy, gloomy, desperately weary time. Helpfully, it’s often the time the morons from the DMLE show up, high on adrenaline and testosterone and god knows what department-approved stimulants, and often, inexplicably, looking to chat utter rubbish.

“Hey! Everyone, look, it’s Malfoy!” bellows Finnigan, his voice rattling through Draco’s skull after three hours of total silence. He marches up to Draco’s desk, at the head of a group of what might appear, at first glance, to be drunken teenagers, but which Draco knows is actually made up of fairly senior Aurors. “How’re things, Malfoy? Ministry treating you well, I hope?”

Draco straightens his robes, shoving his folded up copy of the Prophet out of sight.

“It’s been a good day, Malfoy,” Finnigan continues, clearly not interested in waiting for Draco’s response. “A bloody good day, you know?” His grin is wide and toothy as he thumps his clenched fist against his chest and flings his head back. “Another victory in the fight for truth and justice, and all that’s―”

“Alright, Seamus,” says a voice from the back of the crowd. “Leave him alone, yeah?”

“Hey! Harry! Here’s the hero of the hour! C’mere.” Finnigan tucks a firm arm around Potter’s neck, pulling him forwards, until he’s shoved up against the front of the reception desk, smiling apologetically. “See,” says Finnigan, and his pupils are barely visible when he leans closer, “another bunch of Muggle-hating scumbags behind bars, and it’s all thanks to Hazza here. Good triumphs over evil again, and the world—”

“—hang on Seamus, isn’t that stuff classified?” cuts in Longbottom – who, as far as Draco can tell, is still every bit as much fun as he’d been at school.

“Oh, give over, Neville,” Finnigan spits, mercifully turning away from Draco, “I didn’t say who it was, did I? Classified would be if I’d said oi, Malfoy, d’you know they’re running a Muggle fighting ring out the back of the Reaper’s Arms—?” There’s a collective groan. “What?”

“You’re such a twat, Seamus,” says a short-haired witch next to Neville, folding her arms.

“Oh, I’m a twat, am I?”

“Yeah. You are.”

Then someone else starts up, voices crowding over each other in an unbearable racket. Draco rests back in his chair, closing his eyes, his tired mind picturing the little yapping Crups that Mother’s friend Verity used to bring over; the ones Mother pretended to coo over even while they left puddles of piss on the Persian carpet.

A shadow falls across his desk: it’s Potter, leaning forwards, blocking out the harsh glare of Lumos off the wall tiles. When Draco blinks and looks up, he finds that Potter’s shivering a little, his hair damp and stuck to his forehead. “Sorry about that lot,” he says, softly. “You know how they can get.”

“It’s fine,” Draco says, tightly. “Nice work on the, er, Muggle fighting stuff. Sounds pretty impressive.”

“Oh, cheers,” says Potter, with a shrug. “Just doing my job, you know how it is.”

Draco looks down at his desk: the bonsai yew that reminds him of home, his stupid cheap silver-plated letter-opener-cum-emergency-vampire-repellent, the battered copy of Birdsong he’s been slogging through for two months straight. “Not really,” he replies, shrugging.

“Ah, you’re not missing much. Five minutes of excitement, tops; I’d take a good Seeker’s game over that any day. But, you know—” he glances back over his shoulder, “—truth, and freedom, and all that rousing stuff from the superhero films Seamus watches. How’s your shift going, anyway?”

“Not bad,” Draco says, sitting up taller, sliding the Prophet back into view. “By the way, who’ve you got down for third Chaser? I’m stuck between Lyons and Campos.”

“You should go with Beni, definitely. Ollie’s been raving about his form all summer.” Potter leans over even further into Draco’s space, pushing his glasses back up his nose as he squints down at the page. “You got Chang down for Keeper?”

“McFarlane.”

“McFarlane?” Potter laughs, incredulously. “Seriously? Bloody Magpies fans. Completely deluded, the lot of you.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Well, Potter, I guess we’ll see.”

There’s a scuffle in the background, followed by cheers. “Coming, Harry?” Finnigan calls, wiping blood from his lip. “Hey, Malfoy, we’re heading out after this. It’s House night at XPulso; they’ve got three for ones on Rusty Nails, and we’re going to get Harry here laid.”

Harry stiffens, his eyes widening. “Er—”

“Yeah, I’ve got your back, mate. Maybe we can sort Neville out too, if anyone’ll have him.”

“I’m married, you knob!”

“You should really come along, Malfoy. It’ll be a laugh.”

Potter, still with his back to Finnigan, makes a faint choking sound.

“Sadly, Finnigan,” says Draco, trying to avoid Potter’s eyes, “I’m afraid I’m stuck at this desk for the foreseeable. But you lot have a great time. It sounds… memorable.”

Finnigan just shrugs. “Ah, your loss. C’mon then, boys.”

“Boys?”

“It’s just an expression, Davis, what d’you—”

They’re off, finally, all backslaps and hooting laughter, and no-one’s looking at Draco anymore, which is a small mercy. Potter reaches down to steal a crisp from the unopened packet at the back of the desk. “Anyway,” he says, mouth full, breath salt-and-vinegar scented, “’s been good to see you, Dra – Malfoy.”

“Yeah,” says Draco, glumly, and he hates himself for envying them all. “You too.”

***

Draco tries not to think about Potter, he really does. It’s hard, though, not to wonder what he’s doing – who he’s dancing with, where he’s sleeping – when all you’ve got for the night’s entertainment is Miffy and Jinks, a dodgy alarm on Level Five, and yesterday’s Prophet. He dithers for a while over his Fantasy Quidditch choices, trying to pretend he doesn’t care what Potter thinks, then Diffindos the completed page carefully out of the newspaper and tucks it into his pocket. Both house elves make it across the floor without incident. Through the window behind his desk, Draco watches the sun begin to rise over Salisbury Plain, as slowly, grudgingly, night gives way to day.

“You off?”

It’s his replacement; showered and shaven and far too bright. Draco nods grimly at him.

“Anything to report?”

“Nothing.” He gets to his feet, rolling his shoulders and renewing the Protego on his tree, grateful, as always, for the speed and convenience of the Floo. Five minutes from desk to bed, via blackout charms and a good Silencio; that’s the way to do it.

Something’s off today, though – Draco can tell, as soon as he lands, drained and unsteady, on his hearth. The heating’s already on, for one – he can’t see his breath in the air, which is a welcome change – and hang on… is that the smell of bacon? His nausea evaporates, instantly, as he follows his nose, half in a dream, only to find—

“Morning.”

Potter’s standing by the hob, grinning, and the flat’s a little more smoky than usual, but there’s eggs frying, and sausages on the grill, and just then the toast pops up and, well, Draco could just about kiss him right now.

So he does.

“Oh my god,” he says, when Potter pulls away, popping a crispy bit of bacon into Draco’s mouth instead.

“Good?”

“Oh my god,” Draco says again, salt flooding his mouth. “But what – what are you doing here?”

“Well, I was up all night too. You’re sleeping today, I’m sleeping today – I thought, well, this way at least we get to sleep together properly for once. And I know how hungry you get after night shifts. Here.”

Dizzy with tiredness, or the cooking fumes, or possibly something else entirely, Draco takes the ketchup over to the table, then slumps down hard into a chair. Potter brings over the plates, pulls his own chair in close.

They eat in comfortable silence, and it’s only once Draco’s blissfully full of sausages and buttered toast and beautifully seasoned egg, that he finally works up the courage to speak. “So Seamus’ efforts failed, I take it?” he says, lightly.

Potter snorts. “Shut up,” he mumbles, through a mouthful of beans. “Seamus passed out after the second round of shots. The rest of my night was spent escorting him back to his cousin's house on the Knight Bus. Why,” he says, grinning, “were you actually worried?

“Of course not,” Draco replies, too quickly, then sips his orange juice to try and disguise the lie.

“That’s good. Because I want to tell them, Draco.”

Draco freezes, glass in hand.

“No, I mean it,” Potter says, dropping his knife to take hold of Draco’s forearm. The Mark aches like a bruise, but beneath Potter’s fingers, the pain’s almost sweet. “Look, you know what those shifts are like; you know how they make you feel. The raid, and then getting everything wrapped up, and then seeing you at that bloody desk – the last thing I wanted was other people’s hands on me, Draco. All I could think about was how sick I am of acting the part, of pretending I’m interested, when what I’m really interested in is…” He gestures at the room, at their plates, then, finally, at Draco. “This. You.”

“I—” Draco begins, and if his voice is a bit wobbly, well, he can blame that on the tiredness, can’t he? Beside him, Potter's resumed blithely eating his bacon, eyes heavy-lidded, as though nothing he’s said was at all out of the ordinary. Draco swallows. “They’ll say you’ve lost your mind,” he says, pressing his socked foot against the knob of Potter’s ankle.

Potter nudges him back. “Well, maybe I have. Working nights will do that, after all.”

#drarry #ss writes #happy birthday el!#god i am shit with deadlines #forgive me please

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