#ive destroyed more villages than i can count
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Helmet Over Heels
part iii: harder to hide than i thought
din djarin x reader // read it on AO3
word count: 4.2k
summary: When your path literally collides with a beskar-covered Mandalorian one night, neither of you expect how that meeting will irreversibly change the trajectory of your lives.
You’re pulled into his powerful orbit, agreeing to take care of his son in exchange for adventure and freedom– when he’s not off hunting bounties and inadvertently saving villages in need, that is. It’s the perfect plan. Or it would be, if only your quiet crush on the man would stop growing into something more with every hour you spend together. There’s no way he’d ever feel the same, right?
And Din? Well, he’s been trying (and failing) to convince himself that he’s not completely helmet over heels for you since day one. But a Mandalorian can only repress his emotions for so long…
(This fic takes place sometime after Season 2. Din’s back on his bounty-hunting business with a Razor Crest that was never destroyed and an adorable green sidekick who won’t stop chewing on its wires.)
tags: strangers to friends to lovers, slow-ish burn, nicknames, touch-starved din djarin and fem!reader, canon-compliant through season 2 and then Jesus takes the wheel :P
author's notes:
the first part of this chapter is very much inspired by Space Song by Beach House. imagining the pretty lights of hyperspace instead of the slope fields i’m working on in calculus has kept me sane, so hopefully you beautiful readers have as much fun with that as i did!
read it all here: part i, part ii, part iii, part iv coming soon!
You slowly stirred to consciousness, face scrunching up at the heat of the sun on your face. Memories flowed back to you in disjointed flashes, slowly piecing together the setting of your current prone, relaxed state.
You’d spent the night mesmerized by the bright lights of hyperspace that lit up the darkness beyond the ship’s windows, fighting the sleep that threatened to lower your eyelids. You tried your best to remain quiet and allow Mando to pilot you through the galaxy in peace, but you couldn’t help the gasp that slipped out when the white beams momentarily faded into pastel shades of lilac and chartreuse. His helmet snapped sharply towards you at the sudden noise, tensed shoulders only relaxing once he saw the awed expression on your face.
“You haven’t seen this before?” He sounded surprised, and for a moment you felt embarrassment twist in your stomach at your lack of travel experience. He sighed, baritone turning low and thoughtful. “Come here.” He gestured for you to lean closer to him, directing your attention to a small cluster of dots on the navigation holoscreen.
“We’re passing through the Cresser Nebula. The original star died too recently for the dust to fully disperse,” he explained. “The extra material makes the hyperspace tunnel thinner for a moment– those colors are the new stars forming outside of it in the leftover gas.” He spoke with an unexpected patience, and you wondered whether he’d learned it from attempting to teach Grogu. In your experience, trying to keep the green baby’s focus for longer than a minute was a constant challenge.
You’d hung onto his careful speech, memorizing every detail as he continued his quiet tour of the cosmos. It was the first time you’d ever truly heard about the intricacies of space; your overwhelming focus on surviving Nath’s harsh environment generally took up any extra time you could’ve used to learn about the rest of the galaxy. You didn’t intend to let a single lesson of his go to waste, not when you were finally free to hear them.
You snuck a glance at the reflection of his silver helmet in the arched window, admiring how the lights shimmered across the beskar. You wondered what he was looking at beneath the metal mask: the pretty blur of hyperspace, his blinking console, or maybe the tiny lever where Grogu’s ball rested? There was just so much to watch, from the endlessly flickering radar screen to the breathtaking display of deep space beyond the glass paneling. You didn’t think you’d ever get sick of the view; you’d stay on his ship for the rest of your life if it meant you could enjoy the peace of hyperspace every night. Despite your pondering, his visor gave nothing away, and you forced yourself to pull your eyes away before he caught you staring.
The quiet rhythm of his steady, modulated breaths beside you only added to the calmness that settled into your fatigued bones. Eventually, your exhausted brain must have shuttled you away to dreamland somewhere in the trance of hyperspace. Maybe you had been more tired than you thought, because you certainly didn’t remember bringing a blanket this comfortable back to your seat. You were wrapped in something thick and warm, a soothing contrast to the cool leather beneath your thighs.
A tiny sigh found its way out of your mouth as you pressed your face into the soft fabric, shielding yourself from the daylight before you were forced to face reality once again. Stars, but it was lovely. The faint smell of woodsmoke and vetiver and something mechanical—blaster grease, maybe—enveloped you as you melted into the cloth, overwhelmingly reminded of days spent playing in your family’s workshop back on Odala. You’d forgotten so much of what life was back then, simple and joyful, but this tiny luxury of sensation brought back some of those precious memories.
A quiet inhalation echoed from above you and your eyes snapped open. You jolted up from the cool leather of the passenger seat to see Mando paused mid-step before you, helmet tilted towards where you had snuggled into the blanket. You looked down to see that the blanket was not a blanket at all; it was, in fact, his own deep grey cloak that you were clutching like it was your child. Your face flamed and you quickly relaxed your grip, awkwardly smoothing out the areas where your hands had wrinkled the charcoal fabric.
Had he given you the cloak? You didn’t think you had a habit of sleepwalking, and there was no way he’d have been unaware of you somehow snatching it in the night. Grogu was still wherever he’d been dropped off, so his shenanigans couldn’t have been involved. That left the most logical option– that Mando had been the one to settle the soft fabric against you in the darkness of the cockpit.
You felt your cheeks flush again, this time from acknowledgement of the unexpectedly thoughtful action. You knew that following the temptation of that warm feeling led to nothing but danger. You couldn’t risk messing up the best thing that’d happened to you since you escaped your ruined homeworld, but… it’d been so long since anyone tried to take care of you, even with a gesture that small. Your traitorous heart beat a little faster at the thought.
“I— have you been awake long?” You spoke sheepishly, hoping to distract him from the messy tangles in your hair and the redness left on your cheek from being pressed into the seat all night. You were sure you looked ridiculous, though the Mandalorian appeared perfectly polished as usual. The mud and soot from the previous day’s activities had been scrubbed from his armor, replaced with a subtle shine.
“No.” He dragged his glance away, moving past you to flip a series of switches above the pilot’s seat. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, feeling the Crest settle onto the ground with a muffled thunk. You opened your eyes to find that the sunlit clouds of the atmosphere had disappeared, in its place an arid desert with a bright metropolis of a city on the horizon. The planet’s name was Nevarro; according to the navscreen, it was located in the Outer Rim. You had landed near its titular city, an old trading stop and the location of the Bounty Guild’s main headquarters.
“The kid’s been staying with some old friends here. Sent them a comm that I’d be coming today,” Mando said as he straightened from his position crouched over the controls.
You nodded, tugging your shirt down from where it had risen up over your abdomen when you slept. A frown creased your forehead as you stared at the worn piece of fabric. You hadn’t had the chance to retrieve the rest of your minimal wardrobe before leaving Nath– the swarm of angry citizens around your rental pod had made sure of that. If you were to survive the wide range of galactic temperatures while traveling with Mando, you’d definitely need a few more outfits. You made a mental note to persuade him to make a market detour before leaving the city.
Mando opened the cockpit doors with a pressurized hiss, and you scrambled down the ladder after him. Your eyes wandered over the tidy hull of the ship, surprised at how neatly-kept it was now that you were seeing it in full light. It was bigger than you expected, too. There was enough space for a cramped but functional ‘fresher, tucked beside what appeared to be a bedroom. You caught a glimpse of a miniature hammock suspended across a corner of the small room. That must be where Grogu slept, if the little red sheet hanging off the edge was anything to go by. Beneath it, you noticed a set of dark, slightly-wrinkled blankets stretched across a lowered bed frame.
Your eyes widened slightly as you realized that Mando must have slept there sometime after you passed out. It was oddly intimate, seeing proof that even the armored bounty hunter had human needs. At least, you assumed he was human, from his shape and voice. You’d spent longer than you’d willingly admit imagining what he might look under the layered beskar, eventually coming to the conclusion that a pair of green ears would definitely not fit under the helmet. The father and son didn’t appear to share any physical characteristics, and you wondered what their story was. Hopefully, you’d find out some of that information while taking care of Grogu.
Your attention focused back on the rest of the hull, eyes tracing the supplies stacked neatly by the net-lined walls with evident curiosity. Mando gestured to a dark set of doors by the ship’s entrance. “That’s the carbonite freezer. I’d suggest you stay away from those buttons, unless you want to travel like a bounty,” he warned.
You eyed the area with trepidation and nodded. He seemed satisfied with your response, pressing another set of buttons until the boarding ramp lowered. “Behind the cockpit is the galley– it’s not much, but you’re welcome to use it.”
You nodded again, relieved that you wouldn’t have to subsist on flavorless ration packets while traveling. Maybe you’d even have the time to experiment with a few new dishes– a luxury not afforded to you during your hectic hours at the cantina. “What are Grogu’s favorite foods?”
“Anything that hops,” the Mandalorian grumbled, tone quickly filling with exasperation. “He’s not picky when he’s on the ship, but take him outside for a minute and the kid’ll have eaten all the frogs in a damn parsec.”
Your mouth quirked up as you imagined the little green child stuffing his face with whatever unfortunate amphibian dared to go near him. Like father, like son, you supposed. Those hunting skills had to be passed on somehow.
“And you?”
Mando paused his descent onto the ramp, clearly caught off guard by your question.
“What meals do you prefer?” You clarified, mind wandering to all of the dinners you’d saved for him back at the cantina. You could never quite determine which he liked best, since the bowls were always scraped clean no matter what you put in them. You weren’t sure whether that said more about your ability as a chef or the lack of actual food aboard the Crest. “I’m more of a fresh fruit and vegetables person myself, we never got much of those back on Nath,” you admitted.
He coughed, modulated voice rough with surprise. “I— whatever you make is fine.” You remained silent, fixing him with an expectant look. Men.
He hesitated for a moment, then spoke, “I liked the spicy orange stew.” At your blank look, he continued. “With the little… bread pockets?”
Your eyebrows raised at that, and you hummed thoughtfully as you remembered the dish he was talking about. “Oh– the napethsh curry!”
That had definitely been one of your finer culinary moments. Your boss had brought in packets of rich, aromatic spice powder that morning for the day’s special– a rare, delicious find. You’d carefully shaken them into a savoury pot of sandgrain with the last of the sweet tubers, alternating between stirring the dish and flipping fried bread puffs on the pan next to it. Your eyes had fluttered shut in pure appreciation when you’d finally tasted your handiwork, and if Mando’s reaction had been at all similar— well, you couldn’t blame him for wanting more.
“Spicy food, huh. I can work with that.” You beamed up at him, visions of fragrant curries dancing in your head as you followed him into the sandy landscape. You’d bet a fair amount of credits that a market on a desert planet like Nevarro would have no lack of spice vendors. If your haggling skills were up to par, Mando might get his wish granted faster than expected.
***
The Crest had landed within a reasonable distance of Nevarro, but when you finally reached the metropolis you felt as if you’d been walking for miles. It would take some time for you to get used to the feeling of intense heat on your skin instead of the bone-chilling Nathian winds.
All your discomfort, however, was quickly forgotten as you entered the city. Terracotta buildings lined the narrow, twisting streets; each structure featured no less than four oval windows and was topped with a dome that curved to a sharply pointed apex. Vibrantly dyed clothes fluttered in the desert wind, carefully draped across thin lines of rope that criss-crossed over the alleyways. You watched as a group of laughing children weaved between the booths of haggling vendors in their pursuit of a hovering disc. It was noisy and cramped and reminded you so much of home that your breath caught in your chest.
You didn’t notice that you’d stopped walking until Mando called your name, breaking the spell the warm environment had put on you. Your gaze snapped up to see the beskar-clad man paused several paces in front of you. Kriff. Had you really been that lost in thought?
“Sorry, I– got distracted,” you offered sheepishly, almost tripping over a loose cobblestone in an effort to catch up. “Where are we headed?”
“There’s a school here, where the old Guild headquarters used to be.” Your armored companion adjusted something on his helmet, scanning the area before he motioned for you to follow him down a less-crowded street. “Don’t know whether the kid likes the lessons or stealing his classmates’ lunches more,” he grumbled under his breath. You gave a small chuckle at that, remembering Grogu’s endless attempts at sneaking a treat from the bar whenever your back was turned.
You stayed close to Mando as he led the way through Nevarro’s crooked streets, gawking at the liveliness that seemed to infect the entire town. People smiled at each other as they passed, shouting multilingual greetings from across the busy pathways. It was so very different from Nath, where the most interaction you’d get in a week outside of your work was a couple of suspicious glares from the old women selling fish on the street corners. You’d felt so isolated there, but here your mood was buoyed by the warm spirit that lit up each face you passed with a genuine expression.
Mando stopped near the doorway of a round, sandy building on the edge of the town square. Despite the darkness of the clover-shaped entrance, you could still see the faint outlines of desks and hear the sound of excited children talking over each other. A tall man draped with a regal–looking cloak leaned against the school’s wall next to an imposing, muscular woman. His face brightened as Mando approached– something rather unusual, considering that most people were terrified that he’d been sent to capture them.
“Karga,” the beskar-clad man in front of you acknowledged with a dip of his helmet.
“Ah, that’s Magistrate Karga to you, Mando!” The dark-skinned man boomed jovially, stepping forward. “Things have changed since your last visit,” he continued. “Nevarro isn’t just a dusty pit stop anymore.” He spread his arm wide, gesturing to the bustling town square, and you privately agreed with his assessment.
Mando gave a short nod, then shifted the conversation to more important matters. “Where’s the kid?”
“He should be finishing school any moment now–” Karga was interrupted by your excited gasp.
“Hi, bug!”
You stepped out from the tall Mandalorian’s shadow, beaming down at the little brown bundle speed-waddling towards you. You crouched down to his height and opened your arms, laughing at his excited babbling. “Yeah, I missed you too.” You were completely sincere, despite the teasing tone of your voice. The kid’s antics brought a lightness to your life that you didn’t know you needed until he came along.
“Mando, you didn’t tell me you brought a friend!” Karga exclaimed, eyebrows raised high on his forehead. “And such a lovely one at that,” he continued, bending with a dramatic flourish of a bow. “Now you don’t have to call me Magistrate, just Greef will do,” he winked.
You were pretty sure Mando was rolling his eyes underneath his helmet, if his crossed arms were anything to go by, and you refrained from doing the same. You knew men like Karga back on Nath– charming and flirtatious, but only to the extent that it benefited their ambitions. You were more flattered by the thought that he’d deemed you important enough to impress than by his actual words.
Still, you gave him a good-natured smile and introduced yourself as you bent down to pick up Grogu. “Your city is beautiful, I’ve never seen anything like it,” you complimented the Magistrate, holding in a laugh at the way his chest puffed up.
“So how’d someone like you wind up with him?” The muscular woman beside him asked with blunt honesty, cocking her head towards the Mandalorian. She crossed her leather-bound arms, clearly interested in your response.
“Oh, I’m Grogu’s–” you paused, looking over at Mando as you tried to think of the right descriptor. You hadn’t exactly discussed job titles in the twelve hours you’d been employed by him, and you didn’t want to accidentally offend him by implying the wrong level of familiarity. And it wasn’t like you could just tell them you’d knocked his shiny butt into a snowbank, beginning a beautiful friendship of riding rainbow Mythosaurs into the sunset and exploding the occasional Tradoshan and/or cantina along the way. Although… the idea was rather tempting, if only to see how Mando would react.
“Caretaker,” the armored man finished for you, and you sent him a grateful look. The muscular woman next to him smirked, appraising you before extending her hand.
“Cara Dune. Ex-Rebel-shocktrooper, current Marshal of Nevarro,” she introduced herself with a wink. You instantly liked her, despite the intimidating aura she exuded. Her frankness appealed to you— it was a welcome reprieve from the icy insincerity Nath’s citizens wrapped their hearts in, tighter than their winter cloaks.
Karga rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Well now, Mando, we have some business to discuss. Marshal Dune will show your friend to the market, if you wouldn’t mind coming with me,” he spoke, gesturing to the tall, sloped capitol at the forefront of the plaza.
Mando remained where he stood, helmet tilting towards you. “Get her to the medcenter first. Have them take care of her face before anything else.” He instructed the Marshal. You winced as the unsightly gash across your cheekbone twinged, a reminder of why you were here in the first place.
“Hmm. What’s in it for me?” She cocked an eyebrow at the armored man. “I’m a busy woman these days, I can’t always be making detours…”
“Dune,” he warned, tone supremely unimpressed.
The dark-haired woman’s smug grin widened. “Yes, sir,” she spoke, raising her arm in a mockery of a salute. “Didn’t realize it was that serious.” She nudged your arm, giving you a knowing once-over as she walked past the beskar-plated man. “Alright, then. Medcenter it is.”
You turned to leave with her, but the cool press of beskar on your forearm paused you in your tracks. You angled your head up to meet Mando’s gaze– or at least, where you assumed his eyes were beneath the beskar– with a questioning look. He tilted his head toward the bustling streets and pressed a handful of credits into your palm.
“Get whatever you need. We won’t be stopping at another market for a few weeks,” he instructed, and you nodded gratefully as you tucked them into a secure pocket of your tunic.
Suddenly, Grogu cooed, grabbing for the remaining credits glistening at the top of the pouch that hung from Mando’s belt. His unexpected movement caused you to stumble forward, just barely catching yourself as he slipped out of your arms. You frantically tried to regain your clutch on the child before he could scamper away, but Mando had already beaten you to it, holding him firmly in place on the cobblestone road.
To your surprise, the armored man crouched down and fixed his son with a rather intimidating head tilt. “Hey. Don’t do that again,” he warned the green toddler, who blinked up at him with guileless eyes. “You’re going to behave for her,” he reminded Grogu sternly. “Or no coloring book.”
That did the trick. Grogu immediately turned to you, lower lip trembling and arms outstretched in repentance. You raised an eyebrow, but allowed him to climb back up into your embrace. Your mouth quirked to the side as you looked back up at Mando.
“You still have the coloring book?” You asked, eyes crinkled with surprise.
The Mandalorian scoffed. “It’s a miracle Karga was able to wrestle it from him before school.”
Your lips curved into a delighted smile, pleased that you’d judged the kid’s artistic interest correctly. You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Well, I’m excited to see what he’s made,” you grinned up at the beskar-covered man. Your gaze lingered on him for a moment, watching the desert sun flicker across his helmet as Grogu nestled into your arms.
“Hey! You coming or what?” Both of your heads snapped to where Cara was standing at the end of the road, hands on her hips and a curious look on her face. You stammered out a sheepish apology and raced over, but when the Marshal’s attention was diverted, you couldn’t resist looking back at the silhouette of the armored man. You gave him a tiny wave, holding in a giggle at the way Grogu mimicked your action.
The Mandalorian raised his gloved hand, subtly returning the gesture. You spun back to the street with a hidden smile.
***
As promised, Cara led you to the medcenter, where you waited for a nurse droid to patch your face up with a bacta kit. The building was unlike any you’d ever been in; light shone through stained–glass skylights onto the woven cushions where prospective patients rested, the scent of cinnamon and sanitizing solutions mixing to form an odd but not entirely unpleasant aroma in the air.
“So, what’s the deal with you and Mando?”
“What?” Your confused expression made her lean back on her cushion with a lighthearted scoff.
“Oh, come on. He doesn’t let just anybody stay around his kid. I had to fight off a damn Imperial invasion to get him to trust me,” she muttered, eyeing you. You blinked in surprise, then remembered that she’d been a Shocktrooper before Nevarro. Of course Mando would need someone with those terrifying skills in his line of work.
“So what’d you have to do? Rescue another alien child? Blow up a prison?”
“Something like that,” you muttered, letting Grogu toy with your fingers. The cantina wasn’t a prison, but explosives were definitely involved. You figured you were dancing on the right side of the truth.
Cara shook her head in mock exasperation. “Mandalorians. Always gotta be something with them.” She grinned, all teeth. “Good thing I like demolition.”
You shot her a wry grin, opening your mouth to ask her how she’d wound up on Nevarro. Unfortunately, the droid chose that moment to spray you straight in the eyes with aerosolized sanitizer. You yelped in pain, scrambling to direct its robotic arm to the right location before you wound up needing bacta for more than one spot on your face.
Once you’d finally gotten the droid under control and your treatment grudgingly paid for, you headed out to the market with directions from Cara– all previous questions forgotten in the stinging wake of the sanitizer. You’d parted with a promise to return with stories about your travels with Mando and the kid. Mostly, she wanted to know if there was any exciting conflict in the center of the galaxy that she could jump into. You had a feeling she wouldn’t stay as Nevarro’s Marshal for too long; you recognized the thirst for adventure that gleamed in her eyes all too well.
Your time in the market was far too short, even though you’d spent the better part of a day there. You’d happily wandered through the streets, wonder etched into the lines of your face at the sheer variety of wares hawked at every turn. You’d trained yourself to be frugal, determined to buy only the essentials and save the rest for your future travels, but here even the barest necessities were crafted with care.
Sweet, earthy jasmine soap that surrounded you with a peaceful aroma; impossibly soft textiles that shimmered enticingly in the sun; bittersweet fruit that melted into a soothing wave of liquid in your mouth. Nevarro was a land of plenty indeed, you mused as you pored over a vendor’s towering collection of cheese.
You returned to the school as the sun sunk beneath the horizon, a drowsy green child on one arm and a basket of supplies on the other. You said your goodbyes to Karga and left, Mando’s bounty belt now four pucks heavier. The two of you ambled back to the ship in peaceful silence, Grogu asleep in your arms and the soft glow of the night lanterns glimmering on curved beskar.
Unbeknownst to the bounty hunter, a tiny jar of dried nari peppers rested in your back pocket. It’d taken you ages to choose from the tables of spicy seasonings, but you finally decided on this one despite its exorbitant price. You planned to surprise him with it on some sort of special occasion– maybe a birthday, or a holiday. It had been too long since you’d had cause to celebrate anything, really, and you were determined to seize any little chance you could. Hm. Did either of your new roommates even have birthdays? You’d have to wrest that information out of Mando eventually. But for now, you were content to just walk next to him in the moonlight, city hubbub fading away into the quiet whisper of the sand.
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read on: part iv coming soon!
#baby yoda#friends to lovers#clan of two#din djarin#din djarin fanfiction#din djarin angst#din djarin fic#best friends to lovers#fem reader#the mandalorian fanfic#the mandalorian#the mandalorian x reader#the mandalorian/reader#the mandalorian/you#the mandalorian x you#din djarin x you#din djarin x reader#din djarin fluff#slow burn
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me, appearing in a minecraft village only to destroy all their crops, raid their chests, and take their beds:
the iron golem watching me that legally cant stop me:
#ive destroyed more villages than i can count#and everytime iron golem be like O_O#mineblr#minecraft#iron golem#villagers#minecraft villagers#pers
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📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂 (or as many as you want to answer)
I count 32 folder emojis so you get 32 headcanons. A moment of silence for everyones dashboards, bc im too lazy to add a read-more line.
When Gwen became queen, she decided that they could get a different servant to wake them up so as to let merlin sleep in. George is an early bird, so he is happy to wake them up most mornings (except in special circumstances like birthdays or whatever, then merlin will surprise them with breakfast in bed)
Lancelot was young when bandits killed his family/village, and spent most of childhood and formative years on the streets as an orphan
Gwaine is pan
Sometimes, merlin will use his animation magic to bring balinors dragon statue to life. He'll sit there in his room, watching it eagerly fly in circles overhead. He named it Flappy
As an extension of the previous point, Merlin is really bad at naming things. The name "aithusa" only came to him bc of dragonlord magic. For example, upon catching/killing a rat in arthurs chambers, he named it "Ratravaine"
Gwen, on the other hand, spends a whole day nervously agonizing over what to name something. Elyan caught a caterpillar and asked Gwen what it should be called, but this only drew her into a week-long crisis. By the time she decided on the name "Wilbur", Elyan had already released it back into the wild
Ygraine and Nimueh definitely had a gay thing back in their teenage years, and ygraine was definitely bi, and nimueh definitely used to tease uther about how she hecked his wife before he did
Arthur is a dog person
Percival is afraid of deep water and also doesnt know how to swim. But after elyans lake funeral, percival became determined to learn - perhaps it was merely a coincidence, or perhaps out of some morbid desire to one day wade out into the lake and feel closer to his fallen friend
Arthurs love language is gift giving. Gwaine, leon, and lancelot are acts of service. Merlin and Gwen are words of affirmation. Percival is quality time. Elyan is physical touch
Post season 3, Morgana grew to hate flowers because they reminded her too much or Gwen, but could never bring herself to crush/destroy them
Arthur has a lactose intolerance, but since no one knew what that was back then, no one thought to tell him to stop eating dairy
Pre-canon, Gwaine and Tristan/Isolde worked together on some smuggling gigs
Gwen, Merlin, and Arthur meet up with Tristan to visit Isolde's grave and pay their respects once a year
Tristan turned down Arthurs offer of knighthood, but does come to help out whenever they need it. He makes no secret that merlin is his favorite
Post-canon, Merlin is THE pokemon card collector. Like. He keeps binders full of them. Doesnt trade or compete in card games/tournaments, though. He just likes to look at them
Percival is an artist. As a kid he didnt have any art supplies, but he used to carve amazing sketches into the dirt using sticks. Knowing this, Lancelot bought him a box of paints using his first Knight WageTM
On his deathbed, Percival asked Merlin to fetch his paint box. The paints had long since run out, but he kept the box as a comfort, and as a reminder of all the friends he had lost. He holds it to his chest as he lets out his final breath. Merlin buries him with the box in hand
George is left-handed
During council meetings, Gwen and Merlin will make faces at each other when no one is looking
Merlin actually hates the color gold, for reasons you can probably imagine
Merlin starts season 1 at the age of 17, is 27 by season 5, and 1500+ by the end of the series
Post-canon, Merlin has begun studying robotics in the hopes of one day creating an ai sophisticated enough to be his companion. After all, a well-maintained machine wont die as quickly or easily as a human would
Gwen's favorite color is purple/lilac
Leon suffers from insomnia and also has major PTSD
You know the "Siblings Song" by Brian David Gilbert? That but with Leon, Elyan, and Gwen (leon being the oldest brother, obviously)
Merlin will pack-bond with anything. He once painted a face onto Arthurs chair, named it Mr. Seat, and forbade arthur from sitting on it. Gwen played along, and under her orders Mr. Seat was placed in the vaults
Gwen is poly, but knows that arthur isnt as comfortable with open relationships so she doesnt pursue anything polyamorous out of a respect for his boundaries
Everyone thinks mordred is innocent bc he's the Baby Of The Family, but he actually curses worse than a sailor. And his curses are creative too. He did spend some time working with slavers, after all
Theres this one noble who used to bully servants, even bullied gwen and Merlin. So when gwen became queen, thereby outranking the noble, she was all "ooooh ive been waiting a long time for this" and gave up half of the noble's land to the nearby villages. Merlin wouldve preferred she punch that bastard in the nose, but she insists this way is much more effective (it is)
Between the stone dog, the dragon in the flames spell, and the horse in the smoke spell, Merlins favorite type of magic is animation magic. He likes bringing things to life, bc for just a moment those magical constructs make him feel the tiniest bit less alone
Merlin has very faint freckles that only pop out when he spends long periods of time in the sun. Incidentally, these freckles also glow gold when he uses magic
Thanks for the ask! <3
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I realised that I never wrote down my thoughts on SMTV. These kinds of things always help me to make up my mind! There are spoilers here, though, so be careful.
I’m going to divide this kind-of-review-but-not-really into three parts: gameplay, soundtrack and story.
1. Gameplay
I have played quite a few SMT titles before (SMT IV; SMT SJR, DeSu Overclocked and P3P), but I don’t think I liked any of them gameplay-wise as much as I did SMTV.
The exploration was definitely the best in the series: Da’at is divided into four main sections (technically more if you count the dungeons and the Egyptian side-quest, but I’m not sure if I would count them) and each of them is full of secrets and items. Did you know that those little guys that give you glory are failed Nahobinos? I also wouldn’t if I didn’t find the one that told you! Exploration in this game is not only encouraged to find new items like in any other SMT game, but also to learn more about the lore ane enhance your character thanks to the glory system, which I found really neat. However, the beautiful scenary of Da’at comes with certain issues.
The framerate sometimes struggles. Not always and I wouldn’t say that it is a game-breaking problem, but it is definitely noticeable that the Switch is doing its best to run the game. This can also be seen in the pop-in that occurs a few times in the first area and definitely more than a few in the snow area; as I said, I don’t think this is that big of a deal and it personally didn’t bother me too much, but it caught my eye just how prominent it became by the end.
The battle system is incredibly polished and I really liked how challenging it was while still remaining somewhat user (player?)-friendly: the addition of an item to see an enemy’s weakness without the series’ usual try-and-error was a great idea and I loved grimoires (they helped some of my favourites like Idhun and Loki keep up in the lategame). Nevertheless, I did find the final fights (specifically the “Destroy the throne” final boss) kind of easy. I guess I’ll do a hard mode run in the future to see if that problem is solved. Still, I prefer an easy finale to SJR’s final bosses (I still have nightmares about Mem Aleph and Shekinah) and the boring sidequest fest that was IV’s neutral ending.
2. Soundtrack
Nothing to say here other than excellent, really. No track comes to mind that I didn’t like to some degree.
3. Story
This... I think they tried.
The story began incredibly promising. We are introduced to the world and the characters in a really interesting way and then, suddenly, we are thrown into Da’at. I remember seeing the protagonist curl into a ball when they realised that they weren’t home just to get up and continue their journey, and thinking that this was gonna be awesome. However, while letting you explore as you like was great, the story’s pacing definitely suffered in the first area, which carried on all throughout the game.
We spent the first... 5/6 hours? without practically seeing another human except for some short cutscenes. Afterwards, the story seems to improve with Sahori’s introduction and the attack on Tokyo just to do something similar (still, I want to clarify that the second area was much better paced); the third area is the worst of them all (Yuzuru disappears to do who knows what, Tao and Sahori are dead, and Miyazu is relegated to the Fairy Village) and the fourth area is better, but I would have definitely preferred to have more dialogue.
I already talked in a different post about why I felt some of the endings (mostly the “Destroy the Throne” one) were unfairly treated, so I won’t go into that again.
If I had to say one thing where SMT V shines story-wise, though, it’s the game’s sidequests: from sidequests were you can choose to help one of two sides to others where certain characters are developed a lot (I really enjoyed the Fairy Village ones and the entire Khonsu/Miyazu plot-line). Dialogues are really well-written too, specially the ones to recruit demons.
4. Conclusion
Is this game my favourite SMT game? Gameplay-wise, definitely. Story-wise... Eh, not really. Maybe a definitive edition will come in a few years with an improved plot (a part of me hopes so, but a different part of me thinks it would be kind of scummy... So yeah, Atlus is almost 100% sure to do it), but the main story is really weak as it is.
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There’s Something Strange About How It All Began by Alexis Pera
A draft piece for a book not yet written. Enjoy.
I.
eight when I first caught fire. It was a cold day in my village, as it usually was, near the shores of the lake where my family’s home was built. It was a small dwelling in my home region of Plivium. It rained a lot in Plivium, unlike the rest of Alienis, and no one knew why, or no one really cared. It was home, no one questions that. But, when it wasn’t pouring, most Plivumians preferred to be outside. We kind of had to be, or else the work would never be done, the harvest never brought up, and the damages never fixed. So as my parents worked, I was free to roam and explore.
Yet, out of all the land my parents had, all the forests and rivers and ponds, I loved my father’s garden, beautiful in every sense of the word. He had grown flowers of every color and nurtured trees so full of fruit we could never harvest them all. It was my favorite place in the entire world. I would run through the paths, looking up the entire time as I watched the trees rush by and the leaves brush my legs as I went. Who knows how many times I fell, or tripped, or just ran full on into things. My father would always scold me about being more careful, but he would have a smile on his face because he was more than amused by how happy I was despite having just run into a tree or tripped over some vines. My mother would be more upset, she didn’t like seeing me hurt, even if I wasn’t upset about it, and I always had bruises and scratches but a smile on my face. Of course, that all stopped the day I Specialized.
Most children didn’t Specialize until they were older, when they were turning into grown men and women, but I didn’t. I was still a child, still scared of the stories my parents told me about Specializing, still carefree and unable to prepare for what would happen.
Because gaining your Specialty and becoming one with nature was something that usually didn’t come in a nice package with a pretty bow. It was painful and unpredictable, and with my family’s bloodline, my Specialty was to be even more so.
The wind was strong that day, or so I thought at least, and it kept growing more and more until the chill in my spine wouldn’t go away. Then my small kid brain finally realized that none of the trees or plants were swaying from its force, and that my clothes and hair were still in place. I was then wondering why I was so cold and why it felt like someone was waving cold air on my neck. I didn't have much time to think about it.
A searing pain had bloomed in my temples, my vision and balance immediately going awry. It was paralyzing, and as I hit the dirt, a terribly cold tingling took over my hands and arms.
My mother found me first, and she was the one who first saw the visible effects of what was happening. My fingers, hands, and lower arms had turned completely black, right up to my elbows. And though it seemed as if I stuck my hands into a smoldering fire pit, my skin was entirely numb to feeling. The headache had faded and vision only slightly better at that point, so I was left sitting on the ground staring at my arms as if they didn’t belong to me. In that moment, it didn’t feel like they did.
Then the second wave hit.
While my vision cleared enough for me to see and the overall pain had deadened to a dull throbbing, my arms sparked and white flames enveloped them. I couldn’t feel it, I couldn’t stop it, I could barely see it, but I screamed and yelled and cried. My mother didn’t know what to do, neither did my father when he finally found us. They couldn’t come near, and my mother learned that the hard way. She hated seeing me in pain, so her motherly instinct to hold me, to comfort me, backfired when she tried. She now has a large burn scar down her right arm, a daily reminder of how dangerous I was.
Because to the horror of myself, my mother, and my father, I had managed to inherit one of the rarest and most dangerous Specialties known to our world, called Aerdior. The unfortunate ability to conjure heat from one’s skin. My version of it, of course, came with the bonus of flames.
I don’t remember the rest of that day. I just know that my parents had to reach out to one of our neighbors, who could manipulate water, to put me out. And that that day was when everything became different.
II.
I can’t count how many times in a day I used to catch fire. At first, it was really often, every hour or so, and that’s how I was forced to learn how to will it away. And eventually I could. And after a month, it would go down to every two hours. And after another month, three to four hours.
By the time I was nine, I could go at least two days without catching, on a good week.
I also can’t count how many times I’ve hurt someone or something around me. It would come so suddenly, I never had enough time to get away from whatever I was touching. My father had a couple burns on his shoulders and arms, my mother on her fingers and hands. I banned myself from my father’s garden after I destroyed almost half of my father’s rare Cossia flowers, and later from even going outside when I injured a creature that had come too close. I spent most of my time in my room, where anything that wasn’t or couldn’t be fireproofed had been removed. I cried when my mother wanted to take my books, but my father, who taught me to love and cherish reading, spent almost two weeks trying to figure out a way for me to keep them. He finally found the perfect mixture of plants and special roots to create paper that couldn’t burn. And he then spent the next several months copying all of my favorite books onto the special paper so I could read them. I only have one of those copies now.
I was terrified and paranoid of my Specialty, and of what I could do. No matter where I was or who I was with, I had to watch what I touched and how I handled things. Before long, I was labeling everything as burnable or unburnable, what I can’t touch and what I can, who I couldn’t take the chance on and who I could. It was an unbearable existence for a nine year old child.
And then we moved.
I say moved like it was optional, like we made the choice, but truly, we weren’t just changing scenery, we were running.
I don’t remember much of it. One day we were happy; my mother, my father, me, and the little baby in my mother’s belly that we were all so excited for. Then the next, I was being dragged through the forest by my parents who kept insisting everything was alright. Right up until it wasn’t.
My father died that day, protecting us. My mother will only tell me that without him saving us, we wouldn’t have escaped, we wouldn’t have made it to earth, the Connected World.
It’s been nine years, and she still refuses to tell me more.
But now, I only catch randomly, with no pattern. A rushing feeling will run down my spine, and then my fingers will start turning black. If I don’t separate myself from my surroundings and put all my willpower into making it go away, I will eventually catch, though it’s much slower on earth.
My mother would always tell me that it was all a blessing in disguise, that coming to earth was good because I was less likely to hurt others. I used to believe that, and maybe a small part of me still does, but now I know that it doesn’t make a difference. Who am I to have a better life when my father never got to live the rest of his?
III.
My little sister was born the day we came to earth. Because of the way we came, in the chaos and madness, my mother went into labor not even an hour after arriving. We had come through the Pathway into an old church, which had seemed to be abandoned with no one left to take care of it. I was the only one there to help my mother as she gave birth.
It was a horribly long, terribly painful, and rather traumatizing experience that I would never like to experience again. But once it was over, we had another problem to handle. Because my little sister didn’t come out crying.
My mother had pretty much passed out once the baby was out, so I was left to try to understand what was happening. It was, fortunately, not long before I realized that my sister wasn’t dead. She was still moving and her heart still beating, with her face scrunched up as if she wanted to cry but just couldn’t get it out. She was mute, a birth defect common to Plivumians.
I had shifted my mother into a lying position and covered her with an old curtain I found, then proceeded to wrap my new born sister in the torn up cloth from my shirt. I held her as she slept, and didn’t sleep myself, and that night I named her. I never asked my mother after if she liked the name I picked, or of she was upset that I did, but I was fully convinced that my father would have loved it.
I named her after my father’s two favorite flowers, the ones which he had spent years growing to be perfect for their blooming season, and the ones I adored more than any of the others. Her name was Pella Cossia, my little sister. And the only thing I thoroughly remember from that day, was the promise I made to her, that I would never let her get hurt, that I would protect her no matter the costs.
I still keep that promise, and I don’t ever plan on breaking it.
IV.
We found the dwelling, or town, as the earthans called it, that the church belonged to, and met many people who were confused about who we were and what had happened to us. One person called himself an officer, and he helped us find clothes and food. We also met a lady who gave my mother a job at a restaurant, which at the time was a very strange concept, as we didn’t have restaurants or food suppliers back in Plivium. But we adapted quickly, and it was only a year of taking help and staying in hotels before my mother could finally afford a home.
It was a small, unkept, dirty place, but we were decent enough at cleaning and home-keeping to get it livable again.
By the time we found out about school, I was twelve and completely unqualified. But due to the laws of the land, and the strict suggestions of anyone we knew, my mother thought it wise to send me to school. The idea of school seemed promising, an organization built to help children learn and grow in the world, but the actual reality of it was a lot more disappointing. The education part was pretty much an afterthought, as the talking, sports, and teasing took the forefront. I came to be a wallflower, even more so because of the... heat problem. People liked to point out that I wore sweaters and gloves all the time, even when it was warm; little did they know that I couldn’t feel warmth at all, or cold for that matter. The sweaters and gloves were more for a safety precaution(made of a special heat resistant material that took years to find and use), and a comforting mechanism.
I caught up quickly; in my studies, that is. I was pretty much enthralled with anything I didn’t already know, as we didn’t have education anything close to Earthan education back home, where we learned to read, write, count, and that was it. In Plivium, reading more than what basic training required was like being a genius, which both my father and myself easily overstepped. But on earth, being an avid reader was somewhat normal, and even the small amount of people who actually enjoyed learning maths and science and literature were many more than at home. I also had more than enough time on my hands, as I still stayed cooped up in my bedroom with things least fire-prone. I had more books than clothes, and more library passes than shoes, which I was more than okay with. I enjoyed it, even if school itself was much less than fun and little more than torture.
Though as high school came, with my Specialty growing stronger and more worrisome, my mother thought it time to pull me out. At that time, I wasn’t attached to school, as long as I got to keep the books and the library trips. My mother obliged, but, unfortunately, she was still listening to coworkers and neighbors. Because apparently, by the time your fifteen, your supposed to have a job. Which, of course, my mother and I thought strange and ridiculous, because the whole employment thing was an entirely different situation at home. But we adapted anyway, and I managed to get a job at a small bookstore in town, but only because it was run by an older lady who majorly needed help.
I still work there today, and Mrs. Gorgio is like the grandma I never had, feeding me when I forget myself and praying when she knows my mother has a job interview. She instantly fell in love with Pella, and asks about her every day I come in. Pella doesn’t like books as much, preferring music and other loud ways of expressing herself, but she likes Mrs. Gorgio and the fact that the older lady wasn’t shocked to find she can’t speak. Pella comes in once a week, and is continually teaching Mrs. Goegio sign language so that it’s easier for them to communicate. I sometimes watch them interact, sitting in the big cushion chairs in the back of the shop, laughing and smiling and gesturing. It’s rather funny to see Mrs. Gorgio get the movements wrong, in which Pella will simply smile and correct her with gentle fingers.
When we walk home together, Pella will sign to me the whole way, explaining what they were working on and how Mrs. Gorgio has the best taste in music and why the old lady always wears that rusty necklace around her neck. Though I trip on the bumpy sidewalks and my own feet watching her hands fly, I don’t ever shove it off. I know how much it means to her, and that she looks forward to that one day of the week when I take her.
It also distracted me, helped me pretend that our lives were normal. And that we weren’t foreigners in disguise, tricking everyone into believing we belonged, when we really truly didn’t.
#random writing#writing#story writing#fantasy#otherworldly#fantasy writing#powers#super abilities#heat#fire power#creative writing#draft#first draft#alienis draft
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Origins: Mey-Gon
Hey all, we’re finally ready to start sharing our OCs! This is the first chapter of OC Mey-Gon Niek’s backstory, created and written by Megan. We hope you enjoy and follow along as we introduce the rest squad and their wild adventures!
Word count: 1421
Chapter 4/9
Summary: How does a famous, wealthy party girl end up joining forces with a controversial paramilitary group like the Resistance?
Previous Chapter | Next Chapter
xxx
28 ABY, Corvis Minor IV
Even though her staff had arrived ahead of her to clean things up a bit before her personal tour, Mey-Gon was still appalled by the state of the village. Buildings were charred and crumbled, debris strewn everywhere, and weary citizens were sitting alongside the main road in filthy clothes and bloody bandages. It wasn’t the first time she’d witnessed a scene like this, and judging by the long list of applications for aid, it wouldn’t be the last time either.
It had taken a little while to get her charity, the Galactic Initiative for Dedicated Entertainers, up and running; but it had paid off perfectly. According to her manager, her brand was stronger than ever. After her carefully publicized appearance at the first disaster site, the donations had come rolling in, other celebrities had jumped on board, and all old connections to Leia, daughter of Darth Vader, were overlooked. After nearly a year, Mey-Gon had made stops at suffering communities all over the Mid and Outer Rims to get her image taken for the holos before heading back to Haidoral Prime and letting her team do the actual relief work. She had seen towns wiped out by everything from natural disasters to animal attacks to pirate raids; but the most common cause of devastation anymore was the ex-Imperial group called the First Order. According to the briefing packet she had viewed on the hyperspace jump over, this new case on Corvis Minor IV was just another example in the trend. It had been a mining town that found themselves suddenly being robbed and nearly destroyed by the First Order’s forces.
One of the publicists that always toured the sites with her stopped suddenly and handed her a G.I.D.E.-branded canteen of water from his prop bag, “Here, this one.”
Mey-Gon followed his pointing finger to where a woman was sitting on the side of the road with her back against the wall of a blown out building. The woman didn’t even notice the approach of the well-dressed stranger until Mey-Gon had knelt down in front of her and was holding out the canteen; and even then, she didn’t move.
“Hey,” Mey-Gon said softly with an encouraging smile, “You’re safe now.”
She was shocked by the deeply haunted look in the eyes that now rose to meet hers, “They took everything.”
“The First Order?” Mey-Gon guessed.
“Their faceless devils. Their stormtroopers ,” she said the word as if it had tried to strangle her on its way out.
Mey-Gon placed a comforting hand on the woman’s arm. She had seen holos of the new First Order stormtroopers and it had given her chills. Even though she had viewed actual Imperial stormtrooper armor in a museum before and even acted in countless scenes with stunt people in stormtrooper costumes, there was nothing like seeing a true soldier of evil in action. She couldn’t even imagine what it would feel like to be personally terrorized by them.
“But you are safe now,” she said again.
She could hear the hum of the camera drone circling them for a good holo shot, so she tried once more to hand the woman the canteen. This time she took it and cautiously tilted it up for a drink.
Mey-Gon smiled encouragingly, then stood up to continue her walk through the town. She glanced at the publicist’s bag of props and noticed a couple stuffed banthas in case they came across any children, but so far she hadn’t seen any. It was possible there just hadn’t been any in a working town like this, but she had a sick feeling that the real explanation matched one of the more sinister rumors he had heard about First Order attacks.
Her next stop was obvious when she approached the tallest structure in town and saw the man waiting in front of it. He was sitting in a hover chair and his legs were cocooned in a bacta wrap that bore her organization’s logo.
“The mayor,” her publicist whispered.
This man was more lucid than the woman in the street had been, and he held out a hand to Mey-Gon as she approached, “Miss Niek, thank you so much for coming. After what we’ve been through, to see your team show up with all the medicine and construction…” He trailed off sadly.
“The G.I.D.E. is at your service now, sir,” she assured him, “We’ll bring in whatever it takes to rebuild your town and get the people back on their feet again.”
He only managed a hint of a hopeful expression before it cracked and his eyes filled with wavering moisture, “How can we recover from this? We lost so much: the ore, the equipment, the younglings…”
So it was true. Mey-Gon tilted her head back and lifted her eyes to keep her own tears from spilling over. As she blinked away the emotion, she found herself focusing on a shattered window above them and squinted in confusion. Inside the window were the tattered remains of a First Order flag, still pinned at the corners from where it had been displayed.
“What is that?” she whispered.
The mayor didn’t even have to look up to know what she was talking about, and he hung his head in shame, “When they showed up out of nowhere and took over operations, there was nothing we could do-”
“I thought it was a sudden attack,” she frowned.
He shook his head, eyes glazing over, “They occupied the town for weeks, transporting away all our ore and giving speeches about a galaxy ruled by order and justice. We thought that maybe if we cooperated, showed that we supported their vision...maybe they would spare us as an ally.” He clenched his jaw, “But in the end, they still took everything we had and razed the whole town.”
“I don’t understand,” Mey-Gon furrowed her brow in frustration, “If this was going on for weeks, why didn’t you call for help from the New Republic Defense Fleet?”
“We did,” he said immediately, then his lip twisted up into a sarcastic smile, “They denied our request, said the First Order was a minor local issue.”
For a moment, she was appalled, but then she realized that this response wasn’t a surprise at all. She didn’t follow politics very closely, but the one thing she did know was that the First Order was a bigger threat than the New Republic was willing to admit. She had seen evidence of that with her own eyes. She also knew this was the very reason that Leia had gone rogue to form her own military group.
Leaning in closer to the mayor, she lowered her voice, “Why didn’t you contact the Resistance?”
He recoiled in shock, yet managed to keep his voice to a harsh whisper as well, “The Resistance? But they’re extremists!”
Mey-Gon pressed her lips together to prevent her from arguing further and stood up straight again, transforming her expression back to the sympathetic one that looked good in the holos, “Well, whether your people choose to rebuild or relocate, the G.I.D.E. is here to help. My staff will be by to discuss everything with you soon.”
The rest of her visit did very little to assuage her heartbreak and frustration, and she found herself still bothered as she sunk into the soft nerf leather seat at the helm of her personal light corvette. The glow of hyperspace shifted and danced as it warped itself around her wide transparisteel viewport, and she couldn’t help but think about all the worlds and souls which that light represented.
Were there really so many beings willing to just roll over and embrace their own subjugation by tyrants? But that was already proven. History had shown how pliable the galaxy had become whenever power changed hands, which it had multiple times over the course of just the past century alone. If the First Order ever did grow bold enough to rise up and overthrow the New Republic, most of the galaxy would probably just accept it. There were so few beings like Leia, who were willing to fight back. Mey-Gon realized sadly that she was no fighter either; but she would continue to resist the First Order in her own way, even if that just meant cleaning up after them, one devastated town at a time.
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Hamish Update Pt. IV
Genre: Literary fiction // Word count: 90,385 // Status: Drafted
And this is it, folks! This is the end of this draft of Hamish!
Writing this work is always a ride, but I really think it is one of the best things I’ve written, quality-wise. Hamish is sort of a magnum opis of angst and my faux Dark Academia style. It’s also set a sort of “style setter” for the rest of my works, because I adore the introspection.
The last portion was a little rough to get through, just because it is where all the buildup is starting to pay off.
Chapter X
Epitaph: “It’s unfortunate that I fear a man, / but maybe I should / The power of life and death / are in his hands.”-Justin Banks
Another chapter, another plot-relevant confrontation with our favorite village asshole: Leon. Lady Gaga may live for the applause, but Leon lives for the drama. Look at this dude.
There’s a lot of introspection in this chapter, which at this point is to be expected. Along with the Zesty dialogue about, again, plot-relevant things, we have a lot of Horacio reflecting on his past, on his present, and on his future, asking himself how he manages to get into the situations that he does. Oh and he’s still a useless gay which, like, same.
Excerpts:
I feel I should mention that NBC’s Hannibal, alongside being an awesome show with some great rep, thrilling plotlines, and some of the best cinematography I have ever seen in a series (literally the most aesthetically-pleasing show), is a huge inspiration for Hamish, aesthetically and character-wise.
Where psychopaths lacked empathy, I had an abundance, overflowing and overfilling my senses until I was nothing more than other people, patched together by their best qualities and the light I saw in them. Little more than a person clothed in the feelings of others, pushing my own away for more of theirs. My sense of self was based upon that of other people.
Horacio reflects upon a sad reality: part 3,249.
Wounds inflicted by those you love run deeper than those inflicted by those you don’t.
Religion is a huge theme in Hamish. I didn’t necessarily plan for it, but it really did fit the style. Horacio’s a scholar, and like all scholars in literary fiction, he’s awfully preoccupied with Greek gods. As my friend Gremlin would say, “it’s about the imagery, sis” (a line he actually delivered me when we were analyzing a Hozier song like what).
People do terrible things in the names of their gods.
These moments are decently brief, but they are important to Horacio’s character and his worldview.
Chapter XI
Epitaph: “in your dream, you are jealous of tragedies / and the truth is, we all want our own tragedy / because life is pale without it. / we want the teeth, the screaming, the survival / that comes with it.”-Salma Deera, “why you wanted a tragedy”, Letters from Medea
This is it! The final chapter. There’s a lot that happens here: arguments, fencing, shiny silver trays...
It’s quite a chapter. Not the strongest chapter, but the one that made me feel the most emotion while writing. I teared up a couple times, and not just because I was listening to “Stay Alive - Reprise” (though that was part of it). This chapter takes a lot out of me to write, but there’s also something so satisfying about writing that payoff. We’ve been building to this exact moment for the entire book. This payoff though. Hot dang.
Excerpts:
Fencing is beautiful. It’s a sport I could compare more to dancing or stage fighting than other sports. It’s just so freaking elegant. I’ve never seen anything like the videos of fencing I’ve watched for this chapter. I was entranced the entire time.
It was like a long-distance waltz. Instead of arms around waists or resting on shoulders and slow, graceful circles, there were quick movements of feet, gliding backwards and forwards as if avoidance were choreography.
While this isn’t the most important line in the work, I feel like this next one is something a lot of people who see the best in others ask themselves. Horacio has a bad habit of guessing at people’s pasts, almost as though he’s trying to justify their present actions. It’s something I do when I’m not paying attention, trying to excuse someone’s actions with the thought of they’ve had it rough.
Or was I making up backstory for someone who didn’t deserve it?
Horacio’s always known that the worst monsters are not fictional creatures, but the people around him, and he’s always willing to call people out for that. That’s one thing I can really admire about Horacio: he’s aware that, in the end, everyone is a human, and that it’s the cruelty of humans that is the real horror.
Aren’t all monsters, at their core, just people? Aren’t all terrible people just people, at the end of the day? We’re all humans, working towards our own goals, doing what is best for us, and that is what will be our downfall.
Horacio has a lot more to say in the chapter, but... spoilers.
The Jams
Especially in the last chapter, I wanted to be as sad as physically possible. Thus, I had a beautiful array of musical songs, and a little bit of Absolute Angst Bops That Never Fail to Make Me Cry.
So Big/So Small - Rachel Bay Jones, Dear Evan Hansen cast
Words Fail - Ben Platt, Dear Evan Hansen cast
Burn - Phillipa Soo, Hamilton cast
Stay Alive - Reprise - Phillipa Soo, Hamilton cast
Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story - Hamilton cast
Michael in the Bathroom - George Salazar, Be More Chill cast
Destroy Me - grandson
The Other Side of Paradise - Glass Animals
Golden - Fall Out Boy
I really can’t believe I’m done with Hamish. Whenever I finish it, I’ve noticed, I don’t feel as though I’ve done much of anything, because the writing process is so... smooth. None of my other works have this sort of smoothness to it. I guess it’s because it’s a Shakespeare rewrite, and I already have something to work with? I’m not 100% sure of the reason why, but whatever it may be, I’m really proud of this particular rewrite. Thank you to everyone who’s been supporting me throughout this rewrite! The support has been amazing!
Tag list: @aelenko
#wip: hamish#writing update#amwriting#writers on tumblr#writeblr#and that's all folks!#my next project: hhhhhhhhhh
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spy - n. u.
pairing naruto uzumaki x yamanaka!reader
request
word count 4,895
when it happens after Pain destroyed the Village
warnings THE ANGSTIEST SHIT I’VE WRITTEN IN MY LIFE
a/n this is actually one of the first stories i’ve ever thought about. i wrote it months ago but just now i decided to give it a chance and post it and yeah, i gor a little carried away while writing it.
btw i’m witnessing the biggest writer’s block i’ve been through and that’s why i haven’t posted anything lately. hopefully it’ll be gone soon enough and i’ll be back to write as easily as i used to.
masterlist on my profile bio
Naruto Uzumaki.
The first time you heard his name was in one of your missions. You were spying some old guy who was owing bad people money, and you had heard Naruto's story by accident. The guy who defeated the leader of the Akatsuki all by himself, even someone as the legendary Sannin Jiraiya couldn't. During the time, you have heard a lot of girls sigh in desire for the boy, as also heard a lot of man being inspired by him - to become even stronger than people said he was.
So, when you finished your mission, it was no surprise for you someone decided to hire you to dig some dirty on Naruto. You have never accepted a mission on Konoha before, keeping your boundaries up since you know your uncle and his family still lived there, and you would never do anything to hurt your blood. But the offer was too good to decline.
Last time you have seen your uncle and cousin, you were six. Your mother was a foreign and her pregnancy had so many complications. The day you were born, she made a promise, she would take you back to her country, to become a ninja there. Your father, the brother of the Yamanaka clan leader, was madly in love with her and never said a single no at her direction. When the time came, not only he didn't fight against your mother taking you away, as he decided to leave the village himself. Uncle Inoichi helped him, knowing it was the only thing he could do to help his brother achieve happiness, but in the process, your father ended up being labeled as a rogue ninja.
The Bamboo Village was a nice place to live, and your parents were always happy there, even though you missed your old life and family deeply. You had a cousin, who also had the same age as you, so you two had grown up together and she was basically a sister to you. Leaving her behind was the hardest thing you wish you had encountered in your life, but it wasn't.
Your mother died a year after you moved country. Her disease was unknown, the doctors said they couldn't do anything but to ease her pain until the time comes. That was what you and your father did. Took care of her, stood by her side, until she was gone. To these days, you still missed her deeply. As honoring your mother wishes, you and your father didn't go back to Konoha after her death. Instead, your father taught you everything he could about the family jutsus, and it made your heart melt every time he told you how good you could become. Maybe better than him. Or even Uncle Inoichi.
He passed away five years after that, on a battle against the Land of Lightning. Even though you wanted to stay in Bamboo Village, you knew you wouldn't survive there. So that when you started to use your jutsus in espionage. You went city from city, village from village, country from country, learning from the best. The requests came right after. In your line of work, you kept your name hidden. You didn't want to drag the Yamanaka name to the mud, or even give something to your enemy to use as an advantage against you, wishing you could always keep your reminiscent family safe.
So, when your feet took you back to Konoha's, you couldn't help but feel sick. Regret and worry filled your whole body, since you counted with your family accepting you with open arms, but you knew it was a shot in the dark. Since Pain's attack which destroyed the entire village, you didn't exactly know where the Yamanaka clan was staying, so you followed your plan and walked around the village, asking if someone knew where Ino Yamanaka was.
It didn't take long, actually. Apparently, she was a recognized and respected kunoichi and you couldn't stop feeling a little jealous. What would they think about me if I have stayed? The thought flooding your head as you walked towards the place a girl told you Ino would be.
She was sitting on a pile of wood, with seven ninjas surrounding her. They were laughing and talking about how stupid what someone named Rock Lee have done to an old lady. When your eyes laid on her, you felt your heart skipping a beat. She looked exactly like before, the only thing which was different was her hair, it was so long.
A guy with the Byakugan was the first to notice you, which didn't actually surprise you at all. You have heard about what those eyes could do. Looking around them, you could see there was also a girl who could use it. This group look like they would be a pain in your ass if you didn't pay close attention at them.
"Can we help you?" A pink haired girl asked, and your eyes widened for a second. That was Sakura? No way.
As your eyes passed through their faces, you started to recognize some of them. Shikamaru was standing next to Ino, with Choji by his side. You also recognized Kiba, who you remember having an innocent crush on, because of Akamaru, which was huge now. Your heart was literally shrinking inside you by that view, already pondering the pros and cons about ignoring the mission you had been given. But you could not give up now, there was too much involved.
"Staring is creepy, have your family never taught you that?" Ino questioned, her eyes narrowed at you.
You shook your head, smiling. "You would know, Ino-nee-chan, still a bitch, I see?"
Ino's eyes popped up as she gasped, taking her hands to cover her mouth. Everyone else were just shocked by the way you talked to her, but you were sure she recognized you. Once she got up from the wood she was sitting and ran in your direction, giving you one hell of a tight hug, you felt your body relax for the first time in a long time.
"Nee-chan!" she said between the tears, it took every strength in your body not to do the same. It was still a mission, the hardest one you have been to, but still a mission. "I thought I would never see you again!"
"Wait, is that y/n-chan?" Kiba asked out loud. "Holy shit, you got hot!"
Ino and you laughed as Sakura punched the poor guy, sending him meters away from where he originally was standing. So, Sakura had a monstrous strength, just like you heard Tsunade-sama having.
"Daddy will be so happy when he sees you! Where is y/f/n-ojisan? I've missed him so bad too!" she exclaimed.
You swallowed hard, knowing too well there was no way to dodge this moment. "Mhm," you shifted your weight from one leg to the other. "My dad died when I was 12, during a battle."
"Oh," she said, the air getting heavier around you. "And why you haven't contacted us after that, y/n-nee-chan?" she asked, her tone clearly hurt. "We could have helped you."
Another question you predicted. "I tried to honor my mother's wish for as long as I could but..." you trailed off, breathing deeply to keep going. "I just wanted to be with my family again."
She hugged you again, crying her eyes out. Shikamaru came closer and pushed the girl from you.
"Ino, what a drag, let her breathe for a second," Shikamaru eyed you, from head to toe. You remember him being very - very - smart when you were kids. His eyes stopped on your lips, and you noticed his cheek blushing. Pressing your lips together to repress a smile, you couldn't push away the memory of you accidentally kissing him while playing one of Ino's idiot games. It was your first kiss, and probably his too. "Eh, welcome back, y/n-chan," he scratched the back of his head.
"Thank you, Shikamaru-kun," you grinned back at him as you were wrapped in someone's arms.
"Y/N-CHAN, YOU WERE DEEPLY MISSED!" Choji screamed as he hugged you, a little stronger than you wish, the air escaping from your lungs.
"Choji, I can't breat-" you said, but it seemed more like a whisper. Happily, he understood and let you go, being embarrassed.
"Sorry, I jus-" you caught him off guard wrapping your arms around his neck, bringing him closer. He smiled, hugging you back, but this time, not as strong as before.
"Ino-Shika-Cho," you said, looking at the three of them once Choji put you on the ground. "I certainly missed this formation."
"So, who is this girl?" A blond guy said from behind them. His blue eyes were locked on yours and you could see a little bit of distrust there.
"This is y/n, Naruto, Ino's cousin," Sakura answered, walking towards you to embrace you. "Getting on Ino's nerves were never the same after you left."
"Well, we did know how to do it, right?" you smiled at her, but your eyes were still locked on Naruto's. There was your target, right in front of you. You kept talking and catching up with your old friends, as well getting to know the others you didn't. The boy with the Byakugan was called Neji, and the girl Hinata. Apparently, they were cousins. There was also Rock Lee, Tenten and Shino - who you slightly remember running away from when you were little because of his insects.
Ino grabbed your hand, saying you two had to go. The first part of your plan was going good so far, but you couldn't stop feeling like shit the whole time. You knew you had to shake those feelings away, or you wouldn't be able to see your uncle Inoichi. He surely wouldn't trust you at first, and would search for something suspicious as talking. Your father always said he was by far the best Yamanaka shinobi that ever existed.
Well, you were about to prove him wrong.
As expected, Inoichi didn't recognized you. Once Ino said who you were, his eyes almost popped out from his face in shook, it was a good thing for you, strong emotions were used to prejudice the jutsu. He asked you a million questions, and you were honest in all of them, because you were sure he would enter in your head soon or later. Even that he seemed happy to see you, you could see he was holding himself back to ask you to see inside your head, and not because of you, but because of Ino.
So, once she was asleep on her bedroom, you went to find him on the kitchen. You knew he would be expecting the right moment to tell you, and what moment was better than late at night?
"Go ahead," you told him.
He pressed his palm gently against your head as he began to scour your mind. You made sure the first images he was going to see was you playing with Ino as children, you leaving the village with your parents. He also saw your mom dying, how miserable your dad was but his strength and love for you keeping him on track, your trainings - but not all of them -, the days he mentioned and talked about Inoichi and Ino, the times he wanted to give up everything to come back to them but he couldn't because he wanted to honor your mother memories.
Inoichi's jutsu on your head were getting more and more weak, you could literally feel it. Even though he was a master to find others people secret, he could still be manipulated to see what you wanted him to see. You knew all it would take was one more scene and he would be done with it.
So, you showed the day your dad put on his fighting clothes, saying he would be back soon enough and went to the war. You showed him the endless hours expecting for him to come home, as you stood there alone in the dark. The times you heard a noise outside and thought it was him but it was wind or some rotten bamboo which fell on the roof, and then, the time you decided to look for him, going straight to the war field. You showed him as you found your father's body in the middle of the others endless bodies there. How you cried over him, tried what you knew about medic ninjutsu - which it was so little. You literally showed Inoichi how your heart broke that day and he couldn't take it, breaking the jutsu so he could wipe away his own tears.
You remembered something you father told you long time ago.
"Inoichi is the best in searching for information in someone's head," he said during one practice. "But growing up with a brother like that, I had to find out some tricks so I could keep some things as secret from him. I didn't want my brother to know everything about my life."
And just like that you knew, Inoichi could be the best at searching for information, but your father was the best at hiding it. Your life goal was to become even better than your father, and you completely manage to do it.
After that day, Inoichi never tried to get inside your head again, you knew it was too painful for him. So, he took you under his wing, taking care of you just like he used to when you were little. Every day was getting harder to separate your feelings from the mission, as you trained with them, eat with them and everything else. Inoichi even wanted you to become a Konoha's ninja, and he was going to ask the Hokage - who apparently was in a coma - if it was possible.
"So, I heard you are making a huge success in the Village," Ino said one day, after practice. "Naruto and Kiba are fighting to see who is going to ask you out. Today I even caught Shikamaru staring at you a little too long, which by the way, it's kind of shocking. I have seen him showing interest in one girl in my life, and if I am correct, which I am, she really likes him. So, you should stay away from him a bit."
You laughed at her. "Naruto, huh?" you asked, happy because your mission would be easier than you thought. Going out with him would help you to extract information from him without being suspicious.
"So, he is a favorite. I will make sure to tell him that," Ino said, confusing your happiness like you actually wanted to go out with Naruto because you liked him. "He is so popular with girls now, it's kind of weird. Actually, the fact he wants to go out with you is weird too, because he used to like Sakura a lot."
You were grateful you had someone as chatty as Ino as your cousin. She herself had given you tons of infos, in Naruto and the rest of their friends. She was also making everything easier for you, but every time you thought about leaving after finishing your mission, your heart broke into two. She would never forgive you after finding out what you were about to do.
The hang out with Ino's friends were a good part of your day, because it was the only part of the day you let yourself to be the teenager you were supposed to be.
This time, you all went to eat barbecue. During the whole night, you guys laughed and told stories about life, trainings and missions. Stories were by far your favorite things to hear, and those guys have tons of them. But your favorite one by far was when Naruto defeated Nagato - the real Pain. Even you, after a short time, could see how big Naruto's heart was.
At the end of the evening, everyone said goodbye. When Ino said she had to do something with Choji, things got a little suspicious.
"But Naruto will walk you until my house, right, Naruto?" Ino asked him, directly.
"But your house is really far..." He trailed off as Sakura elbowed him, realization hitting him right away.
"I suppose I could go wit-" Kiba got interrupted by a screaming Naruto.
"No way, dattebayo! I will do it, I need to lose all the calories I got from this barbecue anyway. Y/n-chan, do you mind?" His smile was genuine, and you couldn't help but to smile back.
"Not at all, Naruto. I would really appreciate it," you answered in return, making his smile even bigger - if it was possible.
It didn’t take much until you realized Naruto was someone easy to be around. He always tried to mask his insecurities with cocky jokes and wide smiles, and you found to be strangely found of him. Walking side by side, it was almost shocking that the person next to you managed to defeat someone so strong as Pain. You crossed paths with Akatsuki once in a while on your missions, and you knew better than anyone how lucky you were for being alive.
“Y/n-chan, would you like to hang out sometime?” Naruto blurted out, his cheeks tinted with a light pink.
“Isn’t that what we are doing?” You smiled at him, poking his side with your elbow.
“Yes, but I mean, like a date.” He scratched the back of his neck, his eyes focused on the road ahead.
“I would love to.” You shrugged, but inside, your heart was flipping around. The worst part was when you realized it wasn’t because your mission was finally working, but because you wanted to go out with him.
“How about tomorrow?” He questioned, as soon as you arrived at the Yamanaka’s house.
“That would be perfect. Until then.”
Things followed. The first date, the connection between you two was undeniable, but you still tried to keep your mind on the prize. You analyzed every single word that came out of his mouth, but your heart couldn’t stop but beat faster every time he would smile or say something sweet about you.
You accepted his invitation for a second date, a third, a fourth, until Naruto became a constant on your routine. There were days where you would see him more than you would see your own cousin Ino, and you lived with the girl.
For many times, you wanted badly to let it go of this mission and just live. A normal relationship with someone you were crazy about, a nice family who loved you and supported you, loyal friends, out of the chart teachers… It was everything so tempting, but something buried inside your head didn’t make you give up completely for it, so every night, you wrote down on a parchment the new discovers from Naruto and everyone around him.
The last drop of resistance on your body melted the day he asked you to be his girlfriend.
You choked on the ramen you were about to swallow, staring in disbelief at the blond guy sitting across the table, his cheeks tinted by a nice shade of red.
“I know I surprised you, but it would be nice if you said something.” Naruto pointed out, scratching the back of his head, nervously.
A movie played on your head, those ones that you would figure that they passed when you were about to die. Everything you could remember since you left Konoha marked you in a way you would never recover, that for sure, but did that mean you could never find happiness? For the first time, you felt what it was like. For the first time, sorrow and hurt wasn’t the feelings that you went to the whole day through, fighting them to the back of your mind.
Naruto was there, offering everything you have ever wanted, and you had the guts to say yes.
So, you did.
His face lightened as someone had just told him he had won a whole year of free ramen. His happiness was by far the favorite thing you had witnessed in your life, along with the kiss that followed after it. For once, you forgot about your former jobs, your former past and mostly, your former pain.
During months, everything was just fine. Both of you had to deal with some difficulties on your way, but nothing that would damage your relationship. You ended up finding out about Sasuke and how badly Naruto wanted to recover him back, how deep Naruto and Sakura relationship was, strong as a brotherhood. Ino also loved to have you around, and even though you didn’t have a team, InoShikaCho didn’t hesitate to take you under their wings.
One day before the big war, you and Naruto were packing the stuff you would need to take to reunite the Alliance force. He was going through your draws, as you were going through your closet, as you heard his breathing getting faster.
“y/n, what is this?”
You turned to face your boyfriend with your old parchments on his hands. By the looks of it, he had read a couple of them, and the confusion on his face broke your heart as you didn’t know what to say.
Every single day you told yourself you should get rid of those things, but you never remembered. The guy who hired you never went after you because he didn’t even pay you, at first, so he didn’t lose anything by you not doing it.
“Naruto, I can explain.”
“So do it, because from where I’m standing, it seems like a parchment with a lot of private information of mine.” Naruto threw the paper and it ended up in front of your feet.
“You have to understand, Naruto. There were a few things I have done to survive that I am not proud of.” You took a step forward, but Naruto raised his hand as signing for you to stop.
“What you were going to do with those, y/n?” He demanded, his eyes turning red for a second before coming back to the usual blue.
“I was hired to spy on you, that was the motive that made me come back to Konoha.” The tears started to pool on the corner of your eyes. “But that was before. I didn’t give them anything about you. I couldn’t, I love you too much to do it.”
“You came to Konoha decided to betray your own family?” His tone mirrored the despise on his eyes.
“I would never do anything to hurt them.”
“But me, it was okay?”
“You don’t understand, Naruto. Spying was everything I knew before I came to Konoha. I was hurt and alone, needing money to survive. I wanted to honor my mother wishes but I couldn’t.”
“Do you really think I don’t understand the concept of being alone?” He hissed, turning his gaze away from your face. “I’ve been alone for the most part of my life, y/n. I grew up with people running away from me out of fear and you came here to tell me that I simply don’t understand? What is there to understand now?”
“That I’m crazy about you. You changed me, made me see things in a point of view I didn’t even know it was possible. You were gentle, kind and I believe you can change the whole world just by being in it, Naruto. I am sorry that I didn’t come here with the best intentions, but I am a totally different person from before.”
“I think we should take a break.”
“A break? We are going to a war tomorrow!”
“It’ll be better for both of us if we are focused on the battle ahead. We’ll talk when we are back.”
“Except that you can’t be sure that both of us are coming back alive.”
That hit him, hard. You noticed how shallow his breath became, how he had to swallow hard before opening his mouth again. “Come back alive.” He said, for last, before leaving you on the empty room.
The next few days, you had barely seen Naruto. He didn’t tell anyone about your former plans, which just made harder to explain people why you two weren’t together anymore. You ended up being designed to the same battalion as your cousin and her team. Even though you knew it was a war to protect Naruto and the bijuu inside him, every second of your day was filled with worried by him, and the constant lack of news was even worse than the nonstop fighting.
After finishing the coast, your whole group were designed to assist Naruto on his battle. Of course, you were the one running as faster as you can, so you could reach him faster. No words were needed in this case, all you want were to lay your eyes on him to make sure he was alive.
The moment your heart skipped a beat was exactly when he entered on your sight. The blond guy that you loved with all your body cells was standing there, he seemed hurt and tired, but not even as near to give up. That being the trait which you loved the most on him.
The whole battle was a long one and the adrenaline never stopped running through people’s vein, yours mostly. When Naruto decided to divide his nine tail chakra with everyone, was the first time he realized you were there. He hesitated before touching your hand, and you pressed your lips into a thin line when he jerked back to keep a whine that threatened to escape from your lips inside.
Before moving to the next person, he shot you a sad grin. “I’m glad you alive.”
As fast as he came, he disappeared on the crowd. You didn’t even have the chance to check if it was a shadow clone, just his dust from the run near you now. Despite it, it seemed you couldn’t look away. Following Naruto and paying attention to his surroundings was basically your task. So, the moment you saw one of the ten tailed monsters going straight at his direction, you didn’t think twice before jumping in between them, avoiding Naruto to get a hit on his back.
But you got the hit right below your chest, taking away all the air from your lungs.
Naruto just was fast enough to end the creature as you fell against the cold ground. You fell the warm blood spreading through all your clothes, your conscience slightly fading away.
As soon as Naruto reached you, the tears were already pooling in the corner of his eyes. “No, no, no. Stay with me, y/n. I told you not to die, damn it.” He looked around, looking for someone. “SAKURA, HELP ME.” He screamed, his voice cracking at the end.
“Naruto, it’s okay. You’re okay. That’s what matters.” You managed to say and honestly, you wanted to speak even more, but the pain running through your body was unbearable, every breath feeling like someone was stabbing you.
“SAKURA! WHERE IS SHE?” Naruto yelled at someone near, you couldn’t see who it was. “Do you know anything about medic ninjutsu? Can you help me?”
Someone bent near to your body, sobbing. “You stupid! What did you do?”
A weak smile crossed your lips, in relief. “You should be used by now, cousin. I’ll always protect those I love.”
A green chakra was leaking from her hands, pressed on your wound. But it wouldn’t work. You could feel your organs shutting down, one at time.
“Ino, talk to me.” Naruto hissed.
“I can’t, the damage, I can’t.” The blond said, crying.
“It’s okay. Both pay attention at me. Ino, thank you for everything.” You managed to say, but she cut you off.
“I just lost my father, please. Please. I can’t lose you too!” She leaned in over your body, and you had to cough a little. A warm feeling appeared running down your cheek and you weren’t sure if it was blood or tears.
“Ino.” You said a little bit stronger. “Take care of yourself, and the boys too. They need you. I love you, sister.”
“I love you!” She yelled, before Shikamaru pulled her back from your body.
A small part of you still wanted to laugh, they were still on a battlefield on a fucking war and here they were, acting like they had all the time in the world.
“Naruto.” You used the last strength on your body to look at him. “Hi baby.”
He was crying silently; his hand was holding yours so strongly and you didn’t even feel it. “Please.”
“I am sorry for not staying alive. Don’t you ever forget how much I loved you. Thank you for teaching me what love really meant.” You swallowed hard. “Take care of Ino for me, and please, stay alive.”
“I will. I love you too. I love you so much.” He hugged your body and you noticed the pain was smaller, as almost not existent. You smiled to the sky and closed your eyes, just waiting. Far from there, the sound of a someone crying harder reached your ears, and then, everything went black.
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Blackheart, Chapter 31: A Final Respite
It had been quite some time. Deep in the heart of the Citadel, things had changed considerably.
A while ago, the survivors had evacuated to the countryside. Before they did so, Basilrin was sent to bring word of the situation to the surrounding lands, in hopes of summoning the forces needed to push to the Blackheart.
The portal was said to be in the very center of the city. To get there, all they needed to do was take the main road. Only problem was the demons. Their corrupted thralls swarmed the main streets en-masse. It was why they had spent their time creeping down alleyways and side streets.
Soon...soon, the time for skulking would come to an end. Soon, the army would begin their assault.
Alexander ran the blade of his sword over a whetstone, looking it over carefully. He had forgone wearing his armor, seeing as it had been a few days since Basilrin’s return.
It was quite the wonder, seeing not only his return, but the arrival of the Lady Protector herself, Gira. The Black Dragon, as she was called, arguably the most important figure in all of Geralthin. She had been there for the entirety of its history, after all.
She and Basilrin had assured them that the army was indeed on its way. Already a few of those towns and villages nearby had arrived, a few guards and citizens armed with the bare essentials now joining them in the Citadel.
It was a good start, but they had to await the mass of royal forces before they could dare start their push.
Gira was another one. Now they had three dragons. That was three beasts of legend to rain destruction on their foes. Alexander could only imagine how marvelous that kind of support would be for the army.
All in all, things were looking quite hopeful. With a force like this assembled, pushing through the city really seemed more than a mere pipe dream.
All they had to do was cause a gap, if only for a moment, in the demons’ defenses. Then Alexander could slip through, enter the Blackheart, and destroy whatever artifact was anchoring the portal to their world.
“Hey.”
The knight turned to see Wurie walking up to him. The wolfman took a seat on the ground beside the knight, flashing him a nervous smile.
“Hey captain. What’s the matter?”
Wurie looked off into the distance as Alexander continued sharpening his blade. “I just...can hardly believe it, you know? That we’re so close.”
“It won’t be long now,” the knight answered.
“It’s been quite the journey.”
Alexander smiled. “Yeah. I think we’ve all learned things from this.”
“Really? I feel like you’ve been the one teaching ME here, sir knight!”
The man shook his head and sighed. “You should know better than that, Wurie.”
The wolfman frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Captain, when I first came here...I must admit that I didn’t feel the same way about you and the others then I do now.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Well...I was raised surrounded by other humans. Not once had I even laid eyes upon another species, aside from Stilich, the doctor.”
“Stilich?”
“One of the shellbacks,” Alexander admitted, “Father hired him to take care of us...but that was the extent of my knowledge. He was one of a kind as far as I was concerned. When I joined the army, I was deployed at the northern border. There, was my first experience with the wolves...with your people, Wurie.”
The captain grimaced. “Not, uh...not a good impression,” he whispered, his voice reflecting pain.
“That’s an understatement. I thought your people were animals, barbarians, monsters...I had a similar view for many of the peoples of Geralthin. In truth, the edict didn’t rattle me as much as it probably should have...it meeting Sigvin to change my mind about a “universal evil”. Even then I thought he was the exception, but now...I see I was quite mistaken.”
“Sigvin?” Wurie’s brows furrowed. “Alexander, you said...Sigvin?”
“Yeah. We commissioned him as pathfinder, during one of our expeditions into tribal territory. We chatted at the camp. Told me all sorts of stories about him and his people. Really helped me understand the wolfmen more than I did.”
Wurie’s eyes were a near sliver now.
“What? What’s with that funny look?”
“Alexander...was...was Sigvin a bard?”
The knight was caught off guard by that one. “He...mentioned he wanted to become one...how on earth did you know that? Wurie, have you met him?”
The captain gave Alexander a serious look. “...follow me.”
He paused only to put his whetstone away and sheathe his sword before he hurried after Wurie. The implications behind this left only one possibility…
Turning past another group of tents, Wurie called out to a figure facing a firepit. “Sigvin!”
The person turned around, sitting on a small wooden stump. In a rather puffy, fanciful striped and dyed suit, was a familiar face. Sure, the clothes, quilled hat, and lute was a far cry to the rags he was wearing all those years ago, but Alexander recognized him all the same.
“Sigvin...you’ve got a friend here.”
The unarmored knight stepped forward, eyes widening. It wasn’t just a shared name. It was him. It was really him.
“Sigvin…?”
The wolfman bard frowned. “Err, I’m sorry. You might be…?”
“It’s me, remember?! It’s Alexander! From the war up north? The Pureclaws!”
The bard’s face scrunched up as he tried to recall those memories. In a moment, his eyes shot open. “A-Alexander?!”
“Yeah! It’s me!”
The wolfman jumped up excitedly and put his lute down. “Hoo boy...Alexander! How have you been, friend?!”
The knight laughed as Sigvin grabbed and shook his hand wildly. “Ah, you know! Pretty busy. How the hell did you end up all the way down here?!”
“I TOLD you I was gonna move to Geralthin! I even went to college! All was going according to plan when, uh...this all happened.”
“Right...you were kicked off with the rest of the exiled.”
“Mmhm. I must say, I saw you here before, but I never imagined the man under the armor would be you!”
Alexander shrugged. “Well, here I am regardless! God I can’t believe we’ve been so close all this time!”
“I’ve been...unable to be of much help,” Sigvin admitted with a sheepish smile. “I, uh...I’ve been hiding back here. Thinking, mostly.”
“Well, why didn’t you leave with the other citizens?”
“Because he wants to help!” Wurie said with a grin, “Isn’t that right, Sigvin?”
“Yessir!”
The knight tapped his foot, looking worried. “Ah, but...what are you planning on doing, than? Not joining the front line, I’d hope!”
“Oh goodness no. I’ve never been a warrior, you know that! I AM a bard, though. My music does more than you might expect. I hope to rally and inspire the real warriors when we attack!”
“You really have become what you’ve always wanted, huh?”
“That’s right!” Sigvin said with a grin, “My dreams are...well, they WERE coming true...but hopefully! Hopefully, after all this, I can finally get back on track!”
Wurie nodded. “You will. We’ll see to that, won’t we, Alexander!”
“Yes...we will. I must say Wurie, it’s good to see you looking up like this. You, uh...weren’t in high spirits, the last few times we spoke.”
“What can you do?” the captain asked with a shrug. “I’ve been seeing and hearing some awful things. It takes its toll, but...it’s almost over. We’re so close. If there’s a time to believe, it’s right now.”
Alexander smiled. Despite everything, even the most mournful seemed full of hope now.
“Hope is a powerful thing to have. We’ll see this through Wurie, I swear.”
The trio sat around the firepit, Alexander looking back at Sigvin. “So...got any songs planned for all of this?”
The bard smiled. “Ah, well I’ve got a few popular tunes, but generally I let the music take me where it goes.” His smile quickly turned into a frown. “I do have...one song in the works though. An...ode to your friend, Alexander. The red dragon. Hopefully, my song will travel across the land once this is over, and all will sing of his sacrifice. I figured such an individual deserves nothing less.”
Alexander’s face scrunched up. “Ah. I see...I’m sure he’d be proud.”
Sigvin nodded sadly. “Yeah. I think he would.”
…
“Hey…”
The holy man didn’t look up as he continued reflecting over the words of the scripture. “Yes?”
“I, uh...I’m going to go with them, you know!”
Andric frowned. The paladin opened his eyes and turned his gaze to Senci, visage firm.
“I would strongly advise against that.”
The kobold looked hurt by that. “Oh, come on, master! They’re counting on me to help them!”
“And I’m counting on you to make it through this in one piece.”
“I’ll make it through just fine! I can do it, you know I can! I was trained by the best, after all.”
“Senci…”
“I’ve make it this far, haven’t I?!”
Andric turned around, shifting from kneeling into a sitting position. The pair were inside a tent, taking stock of their inventory and preparing for the final battle.
“I just don’t want anything to happen. I heard about your little stint in the medical tent, you know.”
“But master-”
“What if that happens again?”
“Master Andric…”
“You nearly died, Senci! I cannot abide by this! If I were to let you leave my sight, you could-”
Something snapped inside of Senci, if only for a moment. For the first time since he could remember, he snapped at his mentor.
“I’m not a damned child anymore!”
Andric’s brows raised at the kobold’s shrill yell. He couldn’t remember the man ever being stricken silent like this, but these were exceptional circumstances.
The young warrior felt immense shame and regret almost immediately. He could feel the heat well up in his face and fear creep over him as he looked at his stunned father figure.
“I...I’m sorry…”
The paladin grimaced as he looked the other warrior over. The small lizard shifted uncomfortably, head lowered and eyes full of guilt. Like he was about to be lectured.
Andric sighed. “It’s...fine. I understand. I know this is important to you. I just...I came all this way to make sure you were alright, you know? If something happened, I…”
The man’s lips pursed. “...I don’t know what I’d do. Over a decade, Senci. For twelve years, I’ve been making sure you were okay. For twelve years, schooling and training you...”
“I...I know,” Senci said quietly, “B-but, master...you...you have to let me try! I’m a grown up now!”
Andric shot the kobold a guilty grin and scratched his beard. “Well, actually, you’re still a year away from being an adult at the moment…”
“T-that’s close enough!” Senci insisted. “Listen...I...I’m thankful for everything, really, I am. I’m so lucky I have you to train me...but eventually, you have to put that training to the test! Master...you must let me loose on our enemies! You’ve prepared me for this moment, and I must follow through now! I can’t be useless in this battle, I can’t let everyone down! I HAVE to help!”
Andric frowned and closed his eyes, reflecting on the kobold’s words. Eventually, he opened his eyes and moved forward, wrapping his arms around the young warrior.
“Senci...I know. I know I can’t stop you from doing this...and I understand how much this means to you. You can go.”
Smiling with wide eyes, Senci returned the hug, Andric patting him on the shoulder.
“I won’t let you down. I promise.”
“The only way you could do that, Senci, is if you didn’t come back...so make sure you do, alright?”
Senci grinned wide. “Yes sir!”
…
Razorwing pulled back on his bow, getting a feel for the tension. He sat on the ground beside the tent he had been staying in, his supplies laid out around him.
After this brief test of his bowstring, it seemed like all was in order. He had brought a few extra with him just in case it snapped, but there didn’t seem to be many issues. He’d been using this one for about a year, but he was very fussy about maintenance, so everything still worked as intended.
“Is that the great hero Razorwing, playing around with an unloaded bow?”
The bird turned his head towards the source. Of course, there was no mistaking that voice, despite the additional cheer it seemed to be carrying today.
“You work with crossbows. You know full well the need to test and maintain.”
The human sat down beside him. Despite the mask, his eyes made his amusement clear.
“Obviously. I’m messing with you, dope.”
The koutu shot him a cocky grin. “You sure? You know, if you don’t know about weapon upkeep, I could teach you.”
“Yeah yeah, alright, ya dumb bird.” A light punch to the shoulder made the hero chuckle.
Paul took out one of his own crossbows and looked it over. It was a fair bit smaller than the ones the armies used, seeing as this was made with the ability to hold and fire with one hand. Still, it had enough force behind it, and the bolts were large enough to still be deadly. The downside was that without the heft of the larger models, punching through armor proved...problematic.
Not that this was generally a problem for Paul. As a bounty hunter, he generally worked to end combat before it began. He’d become a good enough shot and a quiet enough sneak to hit targets in their weak spots, while they were unexpecting.
“Hard to believe it’s almost over huh?” the human mused.
“Yes...quite remarkable. We’ve come quite a far way, we have.” Razorwing put his bow down and grabbed his quiver, beginning to examine his arrows.
“It’s been rough. The close scrapes, the demons...listening to you blabber on about nonsense,” Paul said with a laugh.
“Oh? You got pretty mad when I stopped ‘blabbering’ though, didn’t you?”
The bounty hunter looked away as the koutu grinned like mad. “Well...you know how it is...the silence in this hellhole is maddening. Any voice is a relief...no matter how dumb what they’re saying is.”
The archer raised a brow. “Oh ho! I see! So what you’re saying is I’m just a voice to you, huh? Just a distraction? Just something any other person could have been?”
“T-that’s not what I meant!”
The hero put a winged arm around the human’s shoulders. Shooting him a grin, he leaned in. “Don’t worry! I’m just...what was it you said? ‘Messing with you, dope’?”
Paul groaned, which drew another laugh from Razorwing.
“Seriously, though. You and I, friend...we’ll go far, don’t you think?”
“What do you mean by that?” with the birdman’s wing still wrapped around him, he looked over questioningly.
“You remember how well we worked in the streets. How long we spent without the luxury of a team, or any support. Just the two of us, against the demons. The scouting we did for each other...we make a perfect duo, don’t you think?”
Paul looked away, sighing. “We, uh...you’re right, but...I don’t know.”
“Aw, come on, pal! No one can beat a team like us!”
“I know,” Paul admitted, “We make an excellent team. Still...I don’t know if I’ll...be doing this in the future.”
Razorwing frowned. “Huh? What’s...what’s that mean?”
“Look. You’re a famous hero. You fight monsters, and lead parades, and have songs sung of you...and I’m a shadow. No one besides you knows my identity. I stalk the shadows. I slit the throats of thieves and killers. I hide from the fame that comes with the work I do. I’ve built a reputation as an ender of lives...despite no one knowing who I am.”
The hero gave him a funny look. “You’re saying we’re incompatible?”
“Well, that’s one part of it-”
He was cut short by Razorwing squeezing him, tightening his arm’s grip around the man.
“Come on, Crux! We’ve been through enough to know that’s nonsense!”
Paul’s eyes narrowed. “Argh. You wanna let me breathe, bird?”
“Very well.” Razorwing let go of him, the pair sitting beside one another once more.
“Hah. Well, besides that...I have an identity to keep concealed. We were able to do that AND work together because, well...we’re in a fog-covered city cut off from the outside world. If we started working together once this is over...I fear your renown, and the attention you draw would...make my secret impossible to keep.”
It seemed to finally dawn on the hero, now. His gaze softened, turning into a saddened, wincing visage.
“Ah. I...I see. You...we can’t...be friends anymore.”
There was a lengthy, uncomfortable pause. Both of them had their heads down, unable to look the other in the eye.
Paul’s voice caught Razorwing off guard.
“You know...you’re the only friend I’ve ever had.”
The archer blinked, eye widening. “Paul…?”
“I, uh...I made an effort to keep my distance from everyone...just so something like this wouldn’t happen.”
The human looked over at Razorwing. The koutu’s head hung low, looking defeated.
“I...there must be something we can do…”
Paul crossed his arms, his weapons checking long forgotten. “Is there...some place you go to all the time? I don’t know if I could leave a paper trail to keep in touch, but if we happened to be around the same places…”
Razorwing smirked. “I’m all over the place. The parades and plays and, well, you know.”
“Of course.”
“Well, my estate’s always open to you. Hey, maybe you could come over sometime and meet Eignach!”
“Eignach…?”
The koutu looked surprised. “Oh, I didn’t tell you? We’re...together.” There was a short pause before Razorwing continued hurriedly. “Err, that’s uh, why I wanted to tell you, by the way, that I’m spoken for. I didn’t mean to...hit on you. I-I don’t drink, so, uhh...I wasn’t thinking clearly. My apologies.”
“Don’t worry about it...lightweight.” Paul was grinning. The way the fabric around his mouth was stretching gave it away.
“Well EXCUSE me for practicing a bit of clean living!” the hero laughed and shook his head. “Well, at any rate, we’ve been together for...not too long. We were just friends at first. Poor fellow was expelled from the kingdom during the exile. He grew up in Geralthin. He may be one of my people in body, but culturally, he was a human. Our homeland was alien and frightening to him. I took him in, seeing as he lost his home and...the rest is history.”
“A bird frightened of his own flock…” Paul pulled out his dagger and inspected it for any nicks and scratches.
“I suppose! He’s adapted well, though. You know he was a fan of mine? He was absolutely starstruck when we met. Even fainted and everything!”
“Everyone has a hero to look up to, I guess. You happened to be his.”
“That’s right.”
Razorwing turned to look at the human, still running his hand along his dagger.
“Hey, Paul?”
“Yeah?”
There was a brief moment of hesitation. “Whatever happens out there...we’re a team, alright? I’ve got your back.”
Paul lowered his dagger, turning to look at the archer. His eyes ran over the other man, taking him in.
“And I’ve got yours.” He held a gloved hand out to the koutu, who took it without hesitation. The pair shook.
“Domnall...it’s been a pleasure. Let’s cast these beasts back to the deepest pits of hell.”
Razorwing radiated confidence as he sat up straight. “Hah! The armies of hell themselves will learn to fear our names!”
Paul nodded, a smirk etched in his mask. “That’s what I like to hear. Let’s you and I give em’ something to call hell...bird.”
…
“Looks like everything’s ready.”
“Just about.”
The man and woman were sitting inside a small tent, just the two of them and their supplies. The man was sitting idle, while the woman was chewing on a piece of jerky. He looked at her with a near unreadable expression.
“Hungry?” she asked in between bites. He shook his head.
“Not a fan of jerky?”
He shook his head again. “I don’t care what I eat, Leianna. I’m just not hungry right now.”
The cleric shrugged, still chewing. “Suit yourself.” Taking another bite, she looked off to the side in thought. “Man, all they’ve got left around here is cheese and jerky.”
“Not much else can last months without spoiling,” Lexius noted.
“Hey, I’m not complaining. Food’s food, and cheese and jerky are damn fine.”
Lexius sighed. The priest looked sullen and out of it. Leianna noticed this, and gave him a questioning look.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m just...I wish I could have...been of more use.”
“How so?”
The man held his hands out. “I...I was poor support on the field. I’m an awful combatant. I spent half my time here bedridden. I failed to come prepared. I...I even...Leianna, if I had been with you when we split into two groups...perhaps Basilrin’s brother and Tourthun would be-”
“Hey. Monk boy.” Leianna gave him a firm glare, as if chastising him. “Listen to me, you fool. You came here of your own volition. You waltzed into a hellhole full of the darkest beings the world can offer with scrappy armor, a chipped iron blade and a tiny wooden shield. You never trained for combat. You healed a goddamned DRAGON, Lexius.”
He was about to respond, but Leianna put a hand on his shoulder and smiled. “You kicked ass out here. No one expected some guy from a church to make it this far, but here you are.”
The priest lowered his head and laughed. Leianna raised a brow. “Err...Lexius?”
“Heh...yeah, I guess you’re right. No use in feeling sorry for myself. I did what I could. That’s...all you can really do.”
“Hey, that’s the spirit!” Leianna grinned and patted him on the shoulder. “Look, I’ve got plenty of things I wish I’d done differently too, but there’s no turning back the clock. You live with what you do, and you do the best you can.”
Lexius looked up at the cleric hopefully. “Sister Leianna...could you join me in prayer?”
The woman shrugged. “I don’t see why not.” She shoved the rest of the jerky in her mouth, chewing loudly as she rushed to finish her meal.
Lexius took out his cross, from under his armor. The small, wooden symbol appeared hand-carved by him, if its quality was any indication.
Leianna wiped her mouth and took out her own, pulling it from a pouch. The handheld crosses were more good luck charms than anything, not blessed or magical in any way. It was a simple reminder of God, carried on each church member’s person to serve as a constant source of hope and faith.
Lexius bowed his head, cross clutched underneath his hand and held onto by both hands. Leianna followed the gesture.
“Through God and the intercession of Saint Martin, we stand firm against the work of the enemy,” Lexius said, his voice low and clear.
“We thought we may have died and been sent to the underworld for our transgressions, for we are surrounded by grinning faces of demons,” Leianna continued. The pair continued to alternate between each line.
“Even in death, even in the underworld, despite our true odds, we will never waver. Such is the burden of the faithful.”
Lexius’ eyes were squeezed tight as he brought the prayer to a close. “Guide us now, for we do the bidding of the Lord, our God. Allow us to fulfill our duty, no matter the cost. No matter the cost…”
“Amen.”
Despite having reached the end, Lexius did not rise as Leianna had.
“No matter the cost…”
The cleric looked at the priest with a notable degree of concern. “Lexius…?”
“No matter the cost…”
…
“This catastrophe was man-made! I’ve seen it for myself!”
Charles stood among a group of humans, the first few militiamen who had answered the call. Several of them, in their light uniforms of cloth and wielding simple weapons, leered at him in disdain.
Though Alexander and the others had been through enough with the magician to trust him, but as he had always been told, the common folk saw him as little more than a monstrous chimera.
“What the hell do you know?!” one of the levies shouted, eliciting cries of agreement throughout the crowd.
“I recovered documents from the college! One of the wizards said himself that he did it!”
“Oh yeah?! Where’s your proof?”
Charles frowned. “I gave them to my friend, the professor. He left with the rest of the citizens in the evacuation.”
“How awfully convenient,” one of the men mused. A few voice called out in agreement once more.
“Whatever!” the dragonoid cried, throwing his hands up, “I don’t care if you believe me or not! The truth will come out on its own!”
“Yeah right. I bet YOU did it!”
“M-me?!” Charles reeled back, “Why would I do that?!”
“It’s in your blood!” Cheers erupted through the crowd at those words, the magician clutching at his shoulders defensively.
“T-that’s not true. I make my own path...my origins do not determine my future…”
“Yeah, right! Say, if you’re one of them...I wonder if you’ve got any secrets you’re hiding…?”
A few men stepped forward, their stances clearly hostile. Their eyes glinted with malicious intent, and their grin were anything but friendly.
“W-what’s this?!” Charles shouted, shaken. He backed up, nervous about where this was going.
“Why are you wearing that?” one of the men asked, reaching out for his wizard hat. Though he grabbed it, Charles threw his arm away, clutching onto the hat possessively.
“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch my things! They aren’t yours!”
The man smirked. “Are you hiding something under there, beast?”
Their approach quickened, even as the dragonoid began backpedaling.
“L-leave me alone! Stop it!”
“Show us what you’re hiding!” Several shouts rang out through the Citadel. Some from the mob of soldiers, some from citizens around the camp that saw what was happening.
Charles, focused on the approaching men, failed to notice a rock behind him. His foot slipped as he tripped over it, falling to the ground on his back. He sat up, and just as it looked like the mob was about to descend on him…
“That’s ENOUGH!”
Blinking, the fallen dragonoid looked over to the source of the bellowing voice. Sure enough, the knight was stomping over, though not in his armor. Still, he had his sword on his hip, and looked suitably authoritative enough anyway. Behind him, a few others followed, most notably Wurie.
“Causing trouble, are we?”
The knight’s demeanor seemed to shake the mob of levies out of it, many quickly backing away from Charles.
“W-we were just-”
“Harassing the people you were sent to help? Yeah, I noticed. What’s next? Gonna mug a few of the wolves? Attack the birds?”
“No,” a single voice answered meekly. The knight scowled at the group.
“Which one of you imbeciles is in command here?” He demanded. A lone soldier answered.
“Captain Howard, sir. He’s outside.”
Alexander stepped forward and grabbed the man by the neck, pulling him close. The others gasped, but didn’t interfere.
“Tell your captain to get his men under control,” he growled, voice dripping with venomous hostility, “NOW.”
“Y-yessir,” he squeaked, stumbling backwards as Alexander released him.
“Crawl on out of here, all of you. You’re not welcome.”
As the group turned to leave back through the sewers, the knight called out one last time.
“If I catch you attacking any more citizens, you’ll be hanging from his majesty’s gallows for treason!”
As the group fled, Alexander turned to Charles, still sitting on the ground. He quickly extended a hand. “You all right?”
“I-I think so.” the magician grabbed the man’s hand, letting himself be pulled to his feet with a grunt.
“Ah...thank you, Alexander.”
“Don’t worry about it. The nerve…!”
Charles smiled as he dusted himself off. “I’m thankful to have friends in such affluent stations…”
The knight grimaced. “I don’t like throwing my weight around, but in these situations I hardly have a choice.”
“What in the world was that?” Wurie asked, “They were like...common rabble! Like the thugs whose fights I had to break up back in the day!”
“That’s what happens with the army,” Alexander noted. He frowned as he looked over to the exit, hands on his hips.
“These aren’t elite soldiers of the king. These aren’t contractors or professionals. These are levies, militia and common folk. They don’t have the discipline a lifer has. Force them to stay on duty without an enemy to fight, and eventually they’ll starting picking their own fights.”
Wurie tilted his head. “Sounds like you’ve dealt with this before.”
“Comes with the territory. Command enough armies and you know the best and worst of it inside and out.”
“Still...unacceptable,” muttered Wurie. He looked deeply wounded by the proceedings.
“Captain? You okay?”
The wolfman shook his head. “It’s...nothing. Just remembering the exile.”
“Similar treatment?”
“Very.”
Alexander crossed his arms. “Things are going to change around here. I don’t know how, but they will.”
Wurie smiled despite himself. “I...appreciate the optimism. I would say I don’t believe it but...I already said that about you saving our people. I fear I’d be eating my words yet again if I said such a thing!”
The knight shrugged, a small smile at the corner of his lips. “Guess we’ll just have to see, huh? So how about…”
A shadow taking up the entire middle of the camp cause him to trail off. While the twilight wasn’t much, it was noticeable now that it was gone.
He barely had a moment to look up before a green dragon dropped down the hole and into the Citadel. Basilrin.
“They are here! The king’s men are here!”
There was a lengthy silence as the crowd looked at one another. A few citizens walked over at the dragon’s call, including the others that had been journeying together with Alexander all this time.
Looking back, the knight gave them a nod. At last, the end was here. Alexander closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“It’s time.”
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People of the Edwardian phase of the Hundred Years War as dril tweets
Philippe VI de France: Time and time Again. People on here Fuck me over and ruin my life. simply for starting the Dialouge.
Edward III of England: thinking of wrapping my entire body in barbed wire and becoming Sovereign.
Jehan II de France: a teen approached me at the food court and said “I see you wore your clown costume today” and i spent the next 9 hours processing the insult.
Jehanne de Bourgogne: CHILD: Papa.. tell me once more about WIFE’s DUTY. PAPA: it is WIFE’s DUTY to protect her husband from villains, always.
Jitka Lucemburská: Damn. the MomTown forums just started requiring 4 point Mom Verificaiton to be able to post there for some reason..anyone got a work around?
Philippa de Hainaut: my opinion on politics: my opinion on politics is that politidcs is extremely good, but sometimes it is bad.
Ludwig IV, Holy Roman Emperor: bigmouth fake priest telling me to “drink a shitload of holy water and kill yourself” as penance? this has happened at three churches now.
Pope Benedict XII: it is with a heavy heart that i must announce that the celebs are at it again.
Jehan III, duc de Bretagne: i just left an enormous pile of vomit behind golds gym for all of you abominable pig clowns to pick at #blackfridaydeals
Robert III d’Artois: (in really quiet, barely audible voice) hope your dick falls of bitch.
Hugues Quiéret: currently employed as Water Guru at the beach. it’s sort of like being a lifeguard except i have no inclination to touch the drowning people.
Geoffroy d’Harcourt: OH im so Fucking sorry “Your Majesty”, i didnt realize that dick rings were banished in this dystopian piss earth. Ur probably a 9gag poster.
Jacob van Artevelde: (in highly rational and cool voice) i have the higher follower count than them. i wiont let them undermine me.
Pope Clement VI: may the wind carry my tweets and soothte the sick, the wounded, the downtrodden of both man & beast, across the savage shit earth of trolls,
Jehanne de Valois, comtesse de Hainaut: startling how im the only person on this site with an actual human soul. you would think the other guys on here have one, but no.
Eudes IV, duc de Bourgogne: myth: making me mad is cool FACT: making me mad is a crap move& people who do it are all sociopathivc criminals with fucked up rotten brains.
Jehan de Montfort: turning my headlights off when driving at night,.. so that my Rivals cannot see me.
Jehanne de Flandre: i just want to find the optimal bra for sniper operations, but everoyne here is so rude, and pieces of shit.
Johann der Blinde of Bohemia: Q: If your post was proven by a counsil of wise men to be racist, or bullshit, would you bar it from the record? A: I do not delete my posts.
Charles II, comte d’Alençon: ((SPILLING BLOOD ALL OVER KEYBOARD) THIS IS WHAT U WANT. THIS IS WHAT U FUCKING BASTARDS WANT RIGHT (1 WEEK LATER) WHY ARE THE KEYS STICKING
Jehanne de Clisson: as far as im concerned the best revenge is ordering wolf piss online & pouring it into soneones car. “living well” is too hard.
Arnaud de Cervole: i will raze every forest and devour each city in blood tribute for the crime of 9/11!! please nbring back blue collar TV
Frank Hennequin: the jduge orders me to take off my anonymous v mask & im wearing the joker makeup underneath it. everyone in the courtroom groans at my shit.
William Montagu, 1st Earl of Salisbury: im at the point in my life where i cant relate to any popular fictional characters unless they use massive amounts of hair gel and steriods.
Antonio Doria: my name is Destyn. i build crossbows and sell weed to all your dads and im 15.
Gautier VI de Brienne: MYTH: my posts are for the Pauper REALITY: my posts are for the Prince.
Étienne Marcel: looked at a newspaper today. looks like we’re getting taxed out the wazoo, with this president. anyone else see this shit? tax out the wazoo.
Guillaume Cale: “FEAR IS USED 2 ENSLAVE THE MASSES,” I SAID AS I RIPPED THE FUCKIN DECORATIVE CARDBOARD SKELETON OFF OF THE COMMUNITY CENTERS BULLETIN BOARD
Edward Montagu, 1st Baron Montagu: girls always love to telling people not to“ Mansplain” but they do not care of, “Man's Pain”
Louis Iᵉʳ, comte de Flandre: 1) i do not owe you mother fuckers a damn thing 2) i will not hear any more questions or comments unless they pertain to MetroPCS, or Pepsi.
Philippe III de Navarre: the crusaders fire ballistas into my throbbing diaper- unlesashing a torrent of mustard yellow shit and poisoning the entire village.
Gaston II, comte de Foix: i am going to plunge a sword into our bed and officially end outr 40 yr marriage if you do not stop yelling while i am recording my stream’s.
Henry de Grosmont, 1st Duke of Lancaster: please help my cousin “Bruno_THought_Leader” who just had his account suspended for threatening to “Fuck” brexit.
Robert Le Coq, Bishop of Laon: i have absolutely zero interest in friendship, i have absolutely zero interest in jokes, i am simply here to collect data and earn respect.
Jehan Iᵉʳ, comte d’Armagnac: the joke is on you fuck face. i actually love getting screamed at and publicly shamed for my dumb-assed bull shit . I love apologizing.
Bardi and Peruzzi families: boy oh boy do i love purchasing large amounnts of Fool’s Gold. wait a minute... fools gold fucking sucks. this stuff is no good..!! Fuck !!!
Jehanne II de Navarre: i regret being tasked the emotional burden of maintaining the final bastion of morality and NIce manners in this endless ocean of human SHIT.
William de Bohun, 1st Earl of Northampton: if you have less than 1000 followers i can guarantee you that me and the boys share your posts in vip chat rooms and call you a "Muthafucka”.
William de la Pole: thinking about getting the dow jones back on track, simply by making a few phonecalls. but certain people have been a bitch to me, so i wont.
Thomas de Beauchamp, 11th Earl of Warwick: shutting computer down until the shitty moods & attitudes can fuck off., if you need me ill be on my other computer, sititng 60° to my right.
Thomas Holland, 1st Earl of Kent: ive heard from a reliable source that people arre putting their lips on to my girl friends avatars and going “muah muah muah.” cut it out.
Raoul II de Brienne, comte d’Eu: hate it when my boss knocks out the front leg of my desk with a baseball bat and funko pop lego shit flies every where.
Karel IV, Holy Roman Emperor: “RESULT You are the Serpant. YOu dislike loud places and people are constantly putting drama in your life. But you’re strong.” This is true.
Charles de Blois-Châtillon: torturing my damn dick with corn cob holders in Penance for the foul tone i took with the subway corporation today.
Jehanne de Penthièvre: i help every body, im not racist, i keep myself nice, and when i ask for a single re-tweet in return i am told to fuck off, fuck myself, etc.
Jacques Iᵉʳ de Bourbon, comte de La Marche: “ah boo hoo hoo i want to post Foul comments to content leaders” Fat Chance, Dimwit. I will annihilate you under bulwark of the Law and God.
John Chandos: DOCTOR: you cant keep doing this to yourself. being The Last True Good Boy online will destroy you. you must stop posting with honor ME: No,
Jehan d’Artos, comte d’Eu: , who had gone missing for 17 years and was presumed dead after failing to return from his ultimate dumpster diving life quest
William Douglas, 1st Earl of Douglas: i get emails. i get emails saying the trolls have won, and that i should bow to them, since i have lost the battle. to this i say FAT-CHANCE.
David II of Scotland: “jail isnt real,” i assure myself as i close my eyes and ram the hallmark gift shop with my shitty bronco.
Charles de La Cerda: i think that turning myself Gay in the summer of 2013 would really impress my overseas investors.
William de Montagu, 2nd Earl of Salisbury: my watch beeps whwich means its time to stand in front of my ex-wife’s house and play “Hit THe Road Jack” while dacning and licking her mail.
Edward the Black Prince: IF THE ZOO BANS ME FOR HOLLERING AT THE ANIMALS I WILL FACE GOD AND WALK BACKWARDS INTO HELL
Jehan III de Grailly: its fucked up how there are like 1000 christmas songs but only 1 song aboutr the boys being back in town.
Louis II, comte de Flandre: U Have Forced Me To Take Extreme Measures To Protect My Business And My Lifestyle.
Blanche de Navarre: the wise man bowed his head solemnly and spoke “theres actually zero difference between good & bad things. you imbecile. you fucking moron”
Charles II de Navarre: Sovereign Citizens Getting Owned Compilation
Philippe de Navarre: shooting off automatic rifles making horrible diarrhea shit noises as the recoil makes my tiny dick flop around. hell yeah. thats cool to me.
Charles, Dauphin de Viennois: surprise, dad. while you were witnessing the pennsylvania state lottery i tried on all your work gloves and they looked very handsome on me.
#hundred years' war#medieval#dril#english history#french history#european history#history#i should be making a rubric but this is way more fun
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Merry Christmas!!!
Hey guys!!!! I am sooo bloody busy! (mexicans goes crazy when you have to cook for many people...)
I am done with the translation of the introduction, but I will post it here because the coloring I did was a surprise I wanted to give you with this translation. I didn’t have time to finish it and give it to someone who can check it, even if there are just few pages...
I decided to take the risk and post it as I did it, because this time I didn’t use a bloody translator to do it (no internet conection at home.
Here it is, as terrible as me, and with this coloring I made with all my love.
ROM IV
Prologue
The Winter Visitor
…and in the name of our God we will put up our flags.
Psalms, 20-5
—We request permission to enter into combat, excellence.
The first snow storm of the winter had turned the snowy road into a mud puddle. The mist. that was floating from the river that cross the plain was covering the terrain in a cold embrace.
It was six in the morning and the sun hadn't rise yet, which was normal in that time of the year. Typically, the darkness and the silence should have dominated the scene, but that day was different. The peace of the dawn disappeared with the clatter of the hoofs of the horses that were ridden by six figures and many lights were pursuing them. Turning to those lights that shine between the lush trees, an old man called out again:
—If we continue like this will be a matter of time to be captured. We will entertain them here so your excellence can scape.
— Silence, Ahmed!
Even with the fur of her horse all wet in sweat, the Countess of Babylon hit it again with the whip, while she asked her loyal servant to shut up. In the frozen air of the dawn, her screams turned into a pale steam.
—I will not left behind any of you. Instead of loose the time saying foolish things, you should run faster!
— I... I am so... sorry, exellence... It's my fault, we were discovered because of me.
The shaking voice was from Selim, that was riding beside his mistress. The youngest of the servants of the Countess of Babylon was holding the reins with a worried face.
— If only they hadn't saw me...
— Now it doesn't matter, stop blaming yourself — the Countess sighed trying to calm down the young terran
There had been three days since they escaped from Timisoara through those savage lands. At first they had traveled without being recognized, being careful they don't look suspicious when they got provisions in the Terran villages. But an inconvenient scream of the young Terran provoked that the barbarians discovered them. When they found a patrol, Selim. thought that the tobacco that the soldiers were smoking was a fire.
Anyway, the Countess of Babylon did not have the intention to scold the inexperienced guy. At the end, the fact that they were in that situation was her fault. If she hadn't been implicated without knowing in the complot organized by her uncle, the Duke of Tigris, she hadn't had to abandon her country taking her servants along, and they hadn't been persecuted by those barbarians of foreign lands.
Everything was because of her new condition as a rebel.
— We are lost, your excellence, the sun will rise soon! — Ahmed shrieked as he saw the outline on the mountains beyond the river.
The snow filled clouds had made them to take a long time to realize the bluish color that had begun to take over the sky. The original plan had been to hide in the thick woods and wait there for the sunset. The next day, they would continue their way to Albion through those barbarian lands. That was what they had planned, but everything had changed at once. As the situation was, even if they managed to escape the barbarians, they would not have time to find refuge in the city before sunrise.
— Stop everyone! ordered the countess, raising her arm.
In the distance were the domes and pinnacles of the strange city, surrounded by the course of the river.
It seemed like a lively city, but she knew her body would not last long enough. After making a decision, the Countess turned to her vassals.
— I want to thank you for following me until here. The house of the Counts of Babylon will always be grateful to you for the fidelity and dedication you have shown
— But ... what are you doing, Your Grace? — Ahmed cried urgently.
How could her mistress allow herself to talk so calmly in such a desperate moment? With the face of wanting to grab her from the lapels and run away, she continued in an urgent tone:
— We must hurry or they will overtake us!
— Indeed. Anyway, reaching us is only a matter of time ... That's why I've decided that I'll stay behind.
The faces of the vassals looks like if they were electrified. They were so astonished that they even forgot to answer, while the countess of Babylon spoke to them with serenity, but in a tone that could not allow a negative.
— I'll stay here. Thus, while I gain some time, you can flee. Then you can go back to the Empire and look for a new lord, or stay abroad ... From now on you are free.
— Have you lost your reason, Your Grace? — Ahmed cried when he recovered from the surprise. The old servant, who had accompanied his mistress since childhood in the house of the Duke of Tigris, shed tears of pain.
—No matter how many nobles there are in the Empire, we have no other mistress than you! Be it on the outside or in the Badlands, we will never abandon you! Please allow us to follow you.
— No way!
The whip banged hard.
With her eyes glittering, the imperial noble looked upon her vassals.
— Even if it was against my will, to have betrayed Augusta is my responsibility. If I also drag my vassals with me into disgrace, the name of my family will be dishonored for all eternity ... I have thought long and hard to make this decision. The next one who answers me I will slap him!
— But, mylady ...
Under the glare of amethyst of their mistress, the vassals bowed their heads.
If they had stretched out the arm, they could already have touched the halo of light of the lamps that pursued them. The gigantic silhouettes covered with iron plates would have them within reach of their automatic weapons in a few minutes.
Under normal circumstances, the fighting power of an imperial aristocrat would have been sufficient to disperse a patrol of armored cars like that. However, they were in hostile territory, and their final destination, Albion, was still more than a thousand miles away. To leave her mistress in such a situation was for the vassals as ripping off half of the body, and more considering that it would be for them alone to be safe.
—Then we'll take our own lives right here — Ahmed muttered, his head drawn, drawing his sword and wrapping it around his neck. — if our lady asks us to leave her behind. It is not for a loyal vassal to live more than his master. Even less to abandon his master in enemy territory, when every option is unloyality, there’s no other way than death!
— Dobitoc! What kind of nonesense are you saying! — shout the Countess with a nervous stare when she look at the first drops of blood running on the blade — you only have a short life and you want to waste it like this?
— Excuse my daring to said this but, isn’t your excelency the one who is going to waste her life? —answered Ahmed, without quiting the blade off his neck—. In this Badlands there’s not a wall of lapislazuli that can protect a methuselah. Staying here, alone is equal to suicide, you are smart to understand it!
The old man was screaming while his tears run through his cheeks, He wasn’t the only one who was sobbing. Selim, who was beside her and the rest of the vassels, all of them have the face full of tears. Looking at the Countess who was silent, ashamed, Ahmed tried hard to convince her.
— We are weak, but we have enough strenght to protect you from those barbarians… I beg you, let us stay with you until the end!
— You fools…
For an Aristocrat of the Empire, crying in front of Terrans was a big shame. The Countess rised her face to look to the sky, that was taking the color of the dove’s wings and said firmly
—The truth is, you don’t have remedy, well then, if you insist, I don’t have anything else to said. Do as you pleased.
— Tha… Thank you!
The five of them lower their heads at the same time. Looking at the wet but smiling faces of her vassals, the Countess of Babylon sigh to herself with a hint of hapiness.
Until when they will continue following a master so irresponsible as her? Any other noble would be happy to have so loyal vassals. They could have turned into vassals of the State or serving another aristocrat family. They could do whatever they wanted, instead of following her to a defeat and abandon the land where they had always lived in. They could…
“I have to protect them at any price”
“The noblest blood is the first to run” The Countess of Babylon took with decision two large silvery gloves that were hid on the saddle. She put them and extend them to the elbow and make the horse turn to face the armored vehicles that were chasing them.
— Well, the priority is to disperse the enemy, follow me! — she shout while whiping the horse.
As if it was possesed by the warrior spirit of its rider, it run like a bullet to the armored vehicle. When the machinegun on the vehicle of the right turn to shoot her, the methuselah wasn’t on the saddle anymore.
The Countess appeared like a mirage on the turret marked with the emblem of the double cross and aim in middle force one of her arms dressed in silver to the armor of the vehicle.
With a dull noise, the turret began to burn, the protection didn’t show any visible damage, but the engine of the of the iron monster was all destroyed and with a squeak of the brakes, the vehicle fall into a gutter and stopped.
—Now, Ahmed! Take advantage and cross their lines! — shout the countess when she was aiming to the next vehicle.
After she check that her vassals listened her orders, she tense her body again to enter into haste mode. The precious gems on the silver gloves began to shine with a blue light and the air surrounded her tremble like a flame under the effect of the vibration of the artefacts.
Meanwhile, their enemies hadn’t been with the arms crossed. The vehicle of the center managed to aim to the methuselah with the machinegun and fired.
The gust of bullets go through the bluish wind stright to where the Countess was.
But there wasn’t any agonic scream or the noise of ripped flesh. With a metallic noise, the bullets were deflected. It was like if an invisible wall appeared in front of their objective, the methuselah rush upon the origin of the attack. She put her hands under the vehicle and it and turn it around with a savage yell. The armored vehicle roll through the floor and it was now useless.
—Now the last one…
Looking at how their comrades dissapear at that rate, the vehicle of the left had a moment of confusion and it move erratically through the moody terrain. When they notice the confusion of their enemies, the countess smile. She didn’t lnow what was going to happen further, but it seems they can be out of this. Anyway… how weak were those enemies. She didn’t expect that the army of the Vatican…
Viendo cómo sus compañeros desaparecían a esa velocidad, el vehículo de la izquierda tuvo un momento de desconcierto en el que se movió de manera errática por el lodazal. Al percatarse de la confusión de sus adversarios, la condesa esbozó una sonrisa. No sabía qué les esperaba más adelante, pero de momento parecía que podrían salir de aquélla. De todos modos, vaya enemigos más debiluchos. No esperaba que el ejército del Vaticano…
—Your excelency!
The tense voice was of one of her vassals.
Up to the hill, there were more enemies!
—Damn! ¡Ahmed, you give up, I will…!
The voice of the Countess cut suddenly, she didn’t even know what was going on.
An horrible pain run all through her body, like if she was in the middle of a fire and a bright white light blind her. When she turn around, tambaleándose, her skin was full of burn wounds.
Was it the sun?
She can’t even scream.
A golden light illuminated the hills that were on the left. Even if the winter sun was weak, that golden disk was the lethal enemy of the methuselah. The bacilum, activated with the ultraviolet rays began to devour the body of her host. The aristocrat fall to the floor, suffering as if she was burning alive.
—No, your excelency!
Selim rush to her mistress and tried to rescue her. The methuselah was shaking and her mouth was forthing.
—Excelency, excelency!, hold on!
—Exceleny, are you ok?!
If they have keep on riding, maybe some of them could make it in the middle of the confussion. Whatever, the five vassals turn around their horses. As if they weren’t saw by the soldiers that were decending from the vehicle, they all go to see their mistress.
—Excelency, please, answer!
— Wh… why didn’t you scaped…? — the countess moaned violently, spitting blood, while she was looking all the worried faces of her vassals and the soldiers that were getting closer with their weapons ready — You must escape, there’s no need to…
—Excelency, please don’t ask us to…
The blood was filling the mouth of the methuselah turn her words into an incomprenhensable mumble. Anyways, her vassals seem to understand her perfectly.
— You are everything for us. — said Ahmed— If we have to left you behind, it’s the same for us to live or to die. Even the first choice is the worst… if we couldn’t survive all together, at least we will die together.
Kneeling, the five vassals were in circle around their mistress, trying to protect her from the sun with their shadows. At their back, the chief of the soldiers that surrounded them make a sign with his arm.
— Aim!—said to the soldiers and the machinegun of the armored vehicle, shout with tense voice. — The enemy is a vampire, we cannot fail, it was…!
—Wait, lieutenant Dobó!
The voice that interrupted the officer came from the vehicle
The man, equiped with auriculars, that looks like being a radio operator, shout from the top of vehicle
— There’s a call from the headquarters for you lieutenant!
—A call?
Once he recovered from the impression, the officer nod. He run to the vehicle and took the auriculars.
— It’s Dobó —said with an annoying formality—. Affirmative. One of the objectives is in fact a vampire. We had captured it and we are going to kill… What!?, no, but… fine, understood. We will do as you instructed.
The lieuteneant was nodding with an angry expression like if he was taking a nasty medicine. When the red light announcing the end of the connection turns on, he give back the auriculars to the radio operator and turn to face his second officer that was looking at him, waiting for orders.
— Hit the prisioners until they shut their mouths — said firmly —. And prepare the Holy Water, we are going to act according to the protocol.
I hope you like it, and it don’t have so many mistakes, if so please tell me.
Merry Xmas! <3
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The following reflection is courtesy of Don Schwager © 2020. Don's website is located at Dailyscripture.net
Meditation: Why does the Lord Jesus say we must 'hate' our families and even ourselves (Luke 14:26)? In Biblical times the expression 'to hate' often meant to 'prefer less'. Jesus used strong language to make clear that nothing should take precedence or first place over God. God our heavenly Father created us in his image and likeness to be his beloved sons and daughters. He has put us first in his love and concern for our well-being and happiness. Our love for him is a response to his exceeding love and kindness towards us. True love is costly because it holds nothing back from the beloved - it is ready to give all and sacrifice all for the beloved. God the Father gave us his only begotten Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, who freely offered up his life for us on the cross as the atoning sacrifice for our sins. His sacrificial death brought us pardon and healing, new life in the Spirit and peace with God.
The cost of following Jesus as his disciples
Jesus willingly embraced the cross, not only out of obedience to his Father's will, but out of a merciful love for each one of us in order to set us free from slavery to sin, Satan, and everything that would keep us from his love, truth, and goodness. Jesus knew that the cross was the Father's way for him to achieve victory over sin and death - and glory for our sake as well. He counted the cost and said 'yes' to his Father's will. If we want to share in his glory and victory, then we, too, must 'count the cost' and say 'yes" to his call to "take up our cross and follow him" as our Lord and Savior.
What is the 'way of the cross' for you and me? It means that when my will crosses with God's will, then his will must be done. The way of the cross involves sacrifice, the sacrifice of laying down my life each and every day for Jesus' sake. What makes such sacrifice possible and "sweet" for us is the love of God poured out for us in the blood of Christ who cleanses us and makes us a new creation in him. Paul the Apostle tells us that "God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us" (Romans 5:5). We can never outmatch God in his merciful love and kindness towards us. He always gives us more than we can expect or imagine. Do you allow the Holy Spirit to fill your heart and transform your life with the overflowing love and mercy of God?
The wise plan ahead to avert failure and shame
What do the twin parables of the tower builder and a ruler on a war campaign have in common (Luke 14:28-32)? Both the tower builder and the ruler risked serious loss if they did not carefully plan ahead to to make sure they could finish what they had begun. In a shame and honor culture people want at all costs to avoid being mocked by their community for failing to complete a task which they had begun in earnest. This double set of parables echoes the instruction given in the Old Testament Book of Proverbs: "By wisdom a house is built" and "by wise guidance you can wage a war" to ensure victory (Proverbs 24:3-6).
In Jesus' time every landowner who could afford it built a wall around his orchard or vineyard as a protection from intruders who might steal or destroy his produce. A tower was usually built in a corner of the wall and a guard posted especially during harvest time when thieves would likely try to make off with the goods. Starting a building-project, like a watchtower, and leaving it unfinished because of poor planning or insufficient funds would invite the scorn of the whole village. Likewise a king who decided to wage a war against an opponent who was much stronger, would be considered foolish if he did not come up with a plan that had a decent chance of success. Counting the cost and investing wisely are necessary conditions for securing a good return on the investment.
The great exchange
If you prize something of great value and want to possess it, it's natural to ask what it will cost you before you make a commitment to invest in it. Jesus was utterly honest and spared no words to tell his disciples that it would cost them dearly to be his disciples - it would cost them their whole lives and all they possessed in exchange for the new life and treasure of God's kingdom. The Lord Jesus leaves no room for compromise or concession. We either give our lives over to him entirely or we keep them for ourselves. Paul the Apostle reminds us, "We are not our own. We were bought with a price" ( 1 Corinthians 6:19b,20). We were once slaves to sin and a kingdom of darkness and oppression, but we have now been purchased with the precious blood of Jesus Christ who has ransomed us from a life of darkness and destruction so we could enter his kingdom of light and truth. Christ has set us free to choose whom we will serve in this present life as well as in the age to come - God's kingdom of light, truth, and goodness or Satan's kingdom of darkness, lies, and deception. There are no neutral parties - we are either for God's kingdom or against it.
Who do you love first - above all else?
The love of God compels us to choose who or what will be first in our lives. To place any relationship or any possession above God is a form of idolatry - worshiping the creature in place of the Creator and Ruler over all he has made. Jesus challenges his disciples to examine who and what they love first and foremost. We can be ruled and mastered by many different things - money, drugs, success, power or fame. Only one Master, the Lord Jesus Christ, can truly set us free from the power of sin, greed, and destruction. The choice is ours - who will we serve and follow - the path and destiny the Lord Jesus offers us or the path we choose in opposition to God's will and purpose for our lives. It boils down to choosing between life and death, truth and falsehood, goodness and evil. If we choose for the Lord Jesus and put our trust in him, he will show us the path that leads to true joy and happiness with our Father in heaven.
"Lord Jesus, your are my Treasure, my Life, and my All. There is nothing in this life that can outweigh the joy of knowing, loving, and serving you all the days of my life. Take my life and all that I have and make it yours for your glory now and forever."
The following reflection is from One Bread, One Body courtesy of Presentation Ministries © 2020.
CALCULATORS
“If a king is about to march on another king to do battle with him, will he not sit down first and consider whether, with ten thousand men, he can withstand an enemy coming against him with twenty thousand?” —Luke 14:31
We are building a new life in Christ (Lk 14:28) and fighting a battle against the evil one. Before we go any further, we must “sit down and calculate the outlay,” to see if we have enough strength to do the job (Lk 14:28).
Many people plan for the future financially, but few prepare spiritually. Many lives collapse because of failure to accept the grace necessary to persevere. Many marriages fall apart because the couple did not strengthen their relationship in preparation for future challenges. Parents often regret not having spent more time with their children because later they see their relationship with the children is not deep enough to weather the storms of adolescence. Even many Christians will not have the spiritual strength needed to survive the mass apostasy (2 Thes 2:3; Mt 24:10-12). They will fall away before Jesus’ final coming because they were not prepared (see Mt 25:1-13).
Let’s live today as if it were our last day. We must go deep and grow strong in our personal relationship with Jesus. May Jesus become so real to us that nothing will ever shake our faith. We must be prepared for anything by doing everything to deepen our relationship with Him.
Prayer: Father, may I face the realities of my weakness, life’s overwhelming demands, and Your saving grace.
Promise: “Work with anxious concern to achieve your salvation.” —Phil 2:12
Praise: St. Charles was the nephew of Pope Pius IV. He was instrumental in the Counter-Reformation of the Sixteenth Century. He is the patron saint of catechists, catechumens and seminarians.
Reference:
Rescript: "In accord with the Code of Canon Law, I hereby grant the Nihil Obstat for One Bread, One Body covering the period from October 1, 2020 through November 30, 2020. Most Reverend Joseph R. Binzer, Auxiliary Bishop, Vicar General, Archdiocese of Cincinnati, Cincinnati, Ohio February 25, 2020"
The Nihil Obstat ("Permission to Publish") is a declaration that a book or pamphlet is considered to be free of doctrinal or moral error. It is not implied that those who have granted the Nihil Obstat agree with the contents, opinions, or statements
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Criticism
Goethe’s Conception of Marriage as Artificial Constraint and Political Expedient
Throughout Elective Affinities Goethe uses his aristocratic protagonists’ self-absorbed monologues to vicariously impugn marriage as a wholly unnatural imposition whereby law seeks to impose “settled everlastingness” on human sexual caprices of “such mutability”. By subtly alluding to the possibility of alternative nuptial arrangements and finite terms of matrimony such as the Count’s “five year contract”, Goethe seeks to expose and examine the contradictions between the legal permanence of marriage and the emotional impermanence of interpersonal attraction and sexual desire.
The Count’s monologue, a defense of the newly codified Napoleonic privilege of divorce and a tacit denigration of marriage in both the civil and clerical sense, is a carefully constructed commentary on the transience of desire (as juxtaposed starkly with the relative interminability of marriage) and a meta-commentary on the novel’s narrative unconventionality and the controversy and even “danger” of its subject[i]. In this passage Goethe also criticizes another literary medium, namely stage drama[ii], for its unreality and the way this unreality has “beguiled” media-saturated aristocrats into “notions which do not accord with the way of the world”. This critique echoes denouncements of pervasive media portrayals of sex and desire in our own era.
This passage, narrated like the rest of the novel from an extradiegetic third person omniscient perspective, is Goethe’s most overt and concise distillation of one of the entire novel’s main arguments: that marriage is a fantasy and a politically expedient fabrication that the elites of agrarian societies (such as 1809 Weimar and the hinterland thereof) impose upon peasantries to ossify class hierarchies and ensure demographic stability and future agricultural productivity via the frequent procreation consequent to conjugal relations. These same elites then impose their fabrication on themselves to soothe their own existential angst with a pretense of indissoluble union[iii].
This notion of marriage as a fabrication imposed upon the lower classes for their own betterment is also alluded to in the Captain’s remark to Eduard that anything done in the common interest must be done “by the unrestricted exercise of sovereign power, or not at all” after their highly allegorical discussion of the shortsightedness of the lower classes[iv] and their mutual annoyance at the way each peasant has constrained the flowing stream they all share with a different ramshackle barrier.
Perhaps even more clearly than the symbolism of the inconveniently flood-proofed stream that flows through the village, Goethe’s use of the chemical principle of elective affinity as a symbol of the unpredictable nature of human relationships[v] evinces his own philosophy of love and sexual desire as natural phenomena irreconcilable with religious or societal pressures. As readers we can forgive Goethe
for his sins of ham-fisted analogy and heavy-handed symbolism if only because his stylistic indiscretions constitute, in a Napoleonic era context, virtually unprecedented literary innovations. Despite the entirely overbearing nature of his chemistry analogies, they reveal quite clearly that Goethe views the collective totality of human relationships as a macrocosmic analogue to the spontaneous dance of molecules that his characters describe to each other with such arrogant naiveté, each with his or her own flawed interpretation of the chemical reaction’s symbolism. The symbolic explanation of the principle of elective affinities (pp.34-35) and the Count’s subtly blasphemous suggestion of the finitude of love and attraction (pp.67-68) are the twin kernels around which the novel is tightly wound.
[i] “[Charlotte] was well aware that there is nothing more dangerous than a conversation which takes liberties and treats as usual, commonplace, or even praiseworthy a situation which is reprehensible or half-reprehensible; and surely it must be deemed dangerous whenever the marriage bond is belittled in that way” (Goethe 68).
[ii] “In comedy marriage is depicted as the final goal of desires whose fulfillment is postponed and hindered for the duration of several acts, and the instant it is achieved the curtain falls and that moment of satisfaction reverberates in us. In the real world things are different. The play continues behind the curtain, and if the curtain rises again we do not like to watch or listen any further” (Goethe 67).
[iii] “… and really all [marriage] has to offer is a crass sort of security which perhaps one of the parties at least is pleased enough to have. But it is all a formality, and they seem to have come together only so that both thenceforth may go their separate ways” (Goethe 71).
[iv] “That is why consultation is so difficult, especially with the lower classes who in day-to-day matters are perfectly sensible but who seldom see further ahead than tomorrow. And if it happens in any communal undertaking one party stands to lose and another to gain, then seeking to proceed by agreement will be futile” (Goethe 44).
[v] “… how they seek one another out, how they attract and seize, destroy, devour, and consume one another and at once emerge from the closest possible union in a renewed and novel and unexpected form… our own senses seem scarcely adequate to the task of observing them properly” (Goethe 34).
Symbolic Representations of the Japanese Modernist-Traditionalist Dichotomy in Some Prefer Nettles
In his highly symbolic novel, Some Prefer Nettles, Tanizaki Junichiro shrewdly represents the early twentieth-century cultural chasm between Japan’s feudal past and its Western future. With a sophisticated system of overlapping metaphors that, like his prose, is intentionally rendered somewhat ambiguously, Tanizaki allegorizes Japan’s modernization through the device of Kaname and Misako’s halting, agonizing relationship transition from a highly traditional marriage to a modern version of “free love” and finally to a rather indecisive and apathetic break with their past (a separation that may or may not be final).
The allegory is quite complete: Kaname and Misako’s “[narrowing] of associations” (Tanizaki 13) and self-imposed social isolation (in order to give themselves space to resolve the newly arisen conflicts in their marriage between traditional and modern notions and plot out an ideal transition) is analogous to Japan’s pre-Kanagawa (pre-1854) isolationism in the face of increasing Western imperialist encroachment. Their son Hiroshi is a metaphorical character representative of the governing elite’s agrarian “charges”, a dependant rural class neglected in the societal transition and left confused and traumatized. Kaname’s conflicted lusts, his simultaneous idealizations of the robust “hybrid” Louise and the demure “homogenous” O-hisa, are symbolic of the ideological seductiveness of both of the paths that seemed to lay before Japanese intellectuals in the early twentieth century: a rapid absorption and assimilation of Western ideas or a retreat into the feudal past.
Yet, just as Tanizaki uses his prose to obfuscate, to “keep a thin sheet of paper between the fact or the object and the words that give expression to it” (Tanizaki via Seidensticker, xv), he also intentionally deconstructs his metaphors in order to demonstrate the inevitable convolution of the sociological tropes of “Eastern” and “Western”. O-hisa, seemingly a paragon of feudalist traditionalism, resists tradition in myriad petty ways throughout the novel, especially through the vehicle of fashion. Louise, the opposite pole of Kaname’s “woman worship” (Tanizaki 61), is not really “Turkish” as she purports, but of entirely Asian extraction (considering Siberia to be at least as geographically “Asian” as Korea). The ending of the novel, too, is merely a scaffold, just as open-ended as Japan’s future was in 1929, allowing for the possibility of either a return to the stagnant comforts of tradition or of a relentless allegorical continuation of the project of modernization that would eventually become irreversible.
Kaname’s infantilized psychology is a perfect metaphor for the cultural regressiveness he symbolizes. Like a child, he retreats into his own imagination and dehumanizes his interpersonal relationships to palliate himself with a certain emotional distance. Over the course of the novel, he increasingly objectifies women, valuing them only for the symbolism of whatever constraining archetype he imposes on them. It is this refusal to engage with the unpleasant contradictions of modernity that characterized the isolationist strain in early 20th-century Japanese society. It is perhaps Kaname’s intellectual tendency toward a romanticized exaggeration of his own personal experiences that underlies his fascination with Western cinema.
The symbolic comparisons between Osaka and Tokyo in the novel are an important illustration of the divide between Japan’s past and future, and also of the disparate pace at which different areas of Japan experienced Westernization. Kaname’s initial contempt for the Osakan temperament, “a sort of brashness, impudence, forwardness, a complete lack of tact when it came to pushing one’s personal ends” (Tanizaki 34) is important not only in the context of his ideological evolution (or, arguably, devolution) over the course of the novel but also as a symbol of the pretension and snobbery that were inevitable by-products of the rapid importation of inscrutable foreign ideas, and as a symbol of the phenomenon of Tokyo’s attitude of superiority toward more rural areas of Japan (and toward the sort of “bumpkin cities” which they considered Osaka to be one). This distinction between “the capital” and “the second city” is also important in terms of the metaphorical contrasts Tanizaki emphasizes between Osakan puppetry and Awaji puppetry, set up as a contrast in levels of awareness (even though Awaji is virtually adjacent to Osaka, in the novel Awaji puppetry is portrayed as reflecting Tokyo sensibilities). The artifice of puppet theater is an important metaphor for the artifice of Kaname and Misako’s marriage. They are both puppets of the societal norms that subconsciously “pull their strings”.
It is Tanazaki’s intricately layered symbolism (and his even more intricately rendered refutations of his own allegorical assertions, i.e. the subtle deconstruction of each archetype that is portrayed, which create an impression of stagnation and of the ennui that results from perennial indecision) that makes Some Prefer Nettles such an apt and thorough allegory for Japan’s identity crisis in the first decades of the twentieth century. Like the nation itself, Tanazaki’s characters struggle with crippling indecision, their aspirations divided between an irrecoverable past and an uncertain future.
An Excerpt From the Diary of Yamada Taro, an Elderly Peasant from Susugaya
31 July 1912
That pompous blockhead Mutsuhito died yesterday, or so we have been told. I fear I will soon follow him out of this world. Admittedly I cannot help but feel the epochal resonance of his passing; acknowledge the magnitude of an age ending, but I cannot say I admired the bastard and the dismemberment of Japanese tradition that he presided over. His reign saw much “progress”, sure, but what progress has been made in my village? My wretchedly glorious mura of Susugaya, in the prostrated prefecture of Kanagawa, the namesake of that infernal treaty which initiated the decades-long rape of our culture, has been utterly neglected by the plutocratic arbiters of “progress”. Excuse the small stains on this page. I am foaming at the mouth. As I was saying, the biggest change we have felt here in Susugaya in the past half century has been a change in mood, from a sense of common egalitarian striving to a sense of being exploited. Where are our schools? Where are the department stores? Those are luxuries denied to us agrarian drones. The only Western innovation that has touched our mura are the telegraph wires that tell us when to jump and how high, when to starve and when to die. We Susugayans are hungrier than farmers should be. We are bored, and I myself am an autodidactic exception to the general trend of illiteracy and ignorance, a state my comrades have languished in through no fault of their own.
But soon all of this injustice will be remedied. I am convinced that Japan is every day moving closer toward a righteous communism that will empower the agrarian masses and honor their essential role in this economy. This morning I strolled down to my son’s house for the weekly meeting of our Farmer-Labor party’s local branch. My bare feet relished the wholesomeness of the rich socialist soil of our mura. The rays of the rising sun warmed me. Ah the glorious sunlight, the only commodity that can never be monopolized by any bourgeois Tokyo swine! The Farmer-Labor party is not quite radical enough for me, but my son is a wise man and he feels it is the most practical road to socialism given our current circumstances. Besides, any party that truly accommodated my political leanings would probably be forcibly disbanded within hours of its establishment. Unfortunately, they will not yet let us on the ballot, but that is because they have not yet tasted the sweet sting of revolution! I know, I know, I am just a crazy old man.
Speaking of incapacity, I have heard rumors our new emperor is about fifty-one cards short of a full deck. My goodness, I wonder how my foolish provincial idioms would translate into English. For some reason the grammarians of the west are fascinated with “l” sounds. These consonants are utterly inscrutable to me. But I digress. After sixty years of stultifying manual labor I have degenerated into a tangential blowhard! In my old age my thoughts wander across my mind, as would nestless birds across a fading twilight sky.
When I think about the nefarious reforms that have perverted this once-dignified nation since my birth in 1843, I cannot help but weep profusely. Again, pardon the stains. When I was a boy there was a sense of order, of hierarchy. This hierarchy was benevolent, not oppressive. Shogun, daimyo, samurai, peasant, ah the sheer nobility of that chain of obedience! Its elegance far surpassed this modern oligarchy of money-grubbing industrialist whores! Even at age eleven I knew the Kanagawa treaty spelled death for our traditions. And then the litany of tragedies: the seizure of our noble daimyo’s lands in 1868, the crushing of the faint hope of the Ezo Republic in 1869. And then the unjust wars against the Chinese and Russians. I detest the warmongering pomposity of all this imperialism when we can’t even take care of our rural populace here at home! Just thinking about what has been lost makes me want to disembowel myself in protest on the steps of the kyujo. Though I was born a peasant I can die like a samurai!
Anyway, it is almost time for my nap. My only hope is that my self-indulgent diary can serve as an instructive document of this wretched period, to serve and guide the socialist youth as they confront the daunting task of transcending all of this awful “progress”.
For doomed posterity,
Yamada Taro
Crossing Out of Literary Criticism: Harold Bloom’s Agon with Aesthetic Relativism
Harold Bloom’s idiosyncratic critical career reached an inflection point with Agon: Towards a Theory of Revisionism. In this seminal work he transitioned from working at “the outer limits of literary criticism” (Bloom vii) to an attempt to “develop a personal Gnosis” (Bloom 4) that would consume him for the rest of his career. The Gnostic phase Bloom entered with this work saw him produce works that can only obliquely be referred to as “literary criticism”, and in the preface he admits he is “someone crossing out of literary criticism”. Nonetheless he would come to significantly influence critical discourse for the next three decades, in the process becoming quite misunderstood and quite maligned by his contemporaries.
In Agon, Bloom proposes a theoretical paradigm of eternal civil war between authors and their spiritual precursors, whose influence they seek in vain to fully escape. A thorough reading of his entire oeuvre shows that he does not exempt himself from this struggle, this lineage of spirits “contesting for supremacy…with anteriority” (Bloom viii), because in later works, specifically Genius and The Western Canon, he describes his career both implicitly and explicitly as an agon with Samuel Johnson.
Bloom’s theory of revisionism, first proposed in 1973 in The Anxiety of Influence, is that all poetry is a result of the intentional misunderstanding of the poetry that preceded it. But because Bloom assigns agency to the author and not the text, he is at odds with his Yale colleague Paul de Man despite the seeming similarities between their respective theories.
Despite Bloom’s staunch advocacy of the concept of a “canon”, this concept should not be misconstrued as a literary “tradition”, because that term belies Bloom’s theory of eternal hostility between authors and his assertion that “the poet writes to usurp” (Bloom 17). The distinction between a “tradition” and a “canon” is an important one, because canons are central to Bloom’s argument, and he dwells specifically, even obsessively, on his carefully curated “American canon” which includes Ralph Waldo Emerson, Walt Whitman, Hart Crane, Wallace Stevens and John Ashbery. In his discussion of Emerson he even elevates this canon to the status of a religion, a religion of “self-reliance as opposed to God reliance” (Bloom 145). Bloom’s concept of the American canon is congruent with his Gnostic preoccupations, because he is interested in Gnosticism for what he calls its revisionism, its refutation of religious orthodoxy.
Agon is extraordinarily significant, but less for the specific theory of revisionism it proposes than because it grappled with aesthetic concerns at a time of mass relativization, instead of condescending to modes of criticism that inhabited an entirely different contextual universe, that is to say a political and sociological universe rather than an admittedly idiosyncratic aesthetic one. Like Bloom’s entire career, the book is more significant when examined macroscopically. The specific arguments concerning revisionism could be exchanged for some other, equally esoteric attempt at the construction of a Gnostic heresiarchy without compromising the significance of Bloom’s steadfast commitment to his paradigm of meritocratic aestheticism, of the aesthetic superiority of specific canonical works over the vast majority of human literary production which would be obliterated by time according to Bloom’s conception of literary immortality.
The Core of the Eddy: Beckett’s Minimalism as Agonistic Response to Joycean Maximalism
"I realized that Joyce had gone as far as one could in the direction of knowing more, [being] in control of one’s material. He was always adding to it; you only have to look at his proofs to see that. I realized that my own way was in impoverishment, in lack of knowledge and in taking away, in subtracting rather than in adding." -Samuel Beckett
"The only fertile research is excavatory, immersive, a contraction of the spirit, a descent. The artist is active, but negatively, shrinking from the nullity of extra-circumferential phenomena, drawn into the core of the eddy." -Samuel Beckett, Proust
In his formative years Samuel Beckett was a protege and fervent disciple of James Joyce. He helped Joyce conduct research for Finnegans Wake and even typed portions of the manuscript due to Joyce’s progressing blindness. In his early novels including Murphy and Watt Beckett emulated Joyce’s maximalist style. Though these early novels are critically acclaimed today, Beckett did not achieve contemporary critical or commercial success until after an epiphany at the midpoint of his career. During a visit to his ailing mother in Dublin in 1945, he realized that his adoration of Joyce had constrained his voice, and he resolved from then on to “[reject] the Joycean principle that knowing more was a way of creatively understanding the world and controlling it … In future, his work would focus on poverty, failure, exile and loss – as he put it, on man as a ‘non-knower’ and as a ‘non-can-er” (Knowlson 319-320). The influence of Joyce’s maximalism on Beckett’s minimalism is best examined from three angles: biography (especially biographical accounts of the friendship between the two authors), close readings of Beckett’s most minimalist works (including Malone meurt, L’innommable, and What Where), and Harold Bloom’s theories on the agonistic struggle inherent in canonical succession.
In Agon, Bloom’s seminal work, he outlines a theory of influence and succession between the monolithic authors he has deemed canonical, a theory that is very relevant to the examination of Joyce’s influence upon Beckett. Bloom argues the concept of a Gnostic “agon” or struggle by authors-as-usurpers to escape the influence of their predecessors.
Bloom’s idiosyncratic critical career reached an inflection point with Agon. In this work he transitioned from working at “the outer limits of literary criticism” (Bloom vii) to an attempt to “develop a personal Gnosis” (Bloom 4) that would consume him for the rest of his career. The Gnostic phase Bloom entered with this work saw him produce works that can only obliquely be referred to as “literary criticism”, and in the preface he admits he is “someone crossing out of literary criticism”. Nonetheless he would come to significantly influence critical discourse for the next three decades, in the process becoming quite misunderstood and quite maligned by his contemporaries.
In Agon, Bloom proposes a theoretical paradigm of eternal civil war between authors and their spiritual precursors, whose influence they seek in vain to fully escape. Bloom’s theory of revisionism, first proposed in 1973 in The Anxiety of Influence, is that all literature is a result of the intentional misunderstanding of the work that preceded it. But because Bloom assigns agency to the author and not the text, he is at odds with his Yale colleague Paul de Man despite the seeming similarities between their respective theories. Despite Bloom’s staunch advocacy of the concept of a “canon”, this concept should not be misconstrued as a literary “tradition”, because that term belies Bloom’s theory of eternal hostility between authors and his assertion that “the poet writes to usurp” (Bloom 17).
The friendship between Joyce and Beckett is the most prominent example of such agonistic influence in the entire Western canon. Never before or since have such eminent authors influenced each other’s works in such profound ways. The most trite analogy for their canonical relationship, that of father and son, is nonetheless the most apt, and also the one that conforms best to Bloom’s rather paternalistic paradigm of aesthetic succession. For Bloom, succession is usurpation, and like every son Beckett outgrew the filial reverence expressed in More Pricks Than Kicks and Murphy and staged an adolescent rebellion against Joyce with Watt, but he did not reach maturity until the “trilogy” of Molloy, Malone Dies, and The Unnamable.
Joyce first summoned his young disciple to his regal literary “court” in 1927. From beginning to end it was a master-servant, father-son relationship. Joyce expressed his approval and fondness for the young Beckett, his junior by a quarter century, by assigning him endless tasks and favors. This was not out of character for Joyce, and according to his associates this taskmaster role was the eccentric author’s primary mode of socialization. According to his wife Nora, Joyce “would soon have had God running errands for him, if he had come down to earth” (Knowlson 105). These errands, which included reading to Joyce, taking dictation, escorting him to parties and walking arm in arm with him along the Seine (necessitated more by Joyce’s progressing blindness than by any homosocial affinity) soon developed into a deep friendship based on shared, knowing silences. According to Richard Ellmann in his biography of Joyce, “Beckett was addicted to silences, and so was Joyce; they engaged in conversations which consisted often of silences directed towards each other, both suffused with sadness, Beckett mostly for the world, Joyce mostly for himself” (Ellmann 700).
Joyce commissioned Beckett’s first paid publication, Dante… Bruno… Vico… Joyce, for an essay collection, Our Exagmination Round His Factification for Incamination of Work in Progress, that was devoted solely to defending the aesthetic merits of the yet-unpublished novel Finnegans Wake. Dante… in which Beckett holds up Giambattista Vico as Joyce’s spiritual precursor, is itself a loose theory of canonical succession that prefigures Bloom half a century before Agon. The essay is notable in that Beckett’s critical defense of Finnegans Wake is written in the same manic, multilingual prose as the novel itself, the work of a literary disciple of the most fervent kind.
In his novel Murphy, a full eight years later, Beckett had still not escaped Joyce’s influence, nor had he yet even attempted to. For Bloom, Murphy is “Beckett at his most Joycean” (Bloom 460). The book is “as Joycean as any novel… and certainly has little in common with the mature Beckett” (Bloom 460). This idolatry did not go unnoticed. Joyce is said to have memorized entire passages of his disciple’s novel.
Beckett’s next literary endeavor was Proust. In this critical monograph, which Beckett wrote at the age of twenty-four while studying at the Ecole Normale Superior in Paris, he examines Proust from a Schopenhauerian standpoint, more in order to construct his own aesthetic manifesto than to realize significant insights about Proust’s oeuvre. The language is highly technical. Beckett later dismissed it as an adolescent work of “cheap flashy philosophical jargon”, but it nonetheless provides important insights about his psychology and its relation to his work.
One of the most important catalysts for Beckett’s evolution as a writer and for his stylistic schism with Joyce was his harrowing wartime experience in the French resistance from 1940-1944, motifs from which (including interrogation, seclusion, boredom, and a Kafkaesque sense of pervasive yet non-specific oppression) appear in all his post-war works, especially Waiting for Godot and What Where. During this formative four-year period, Joyce died in neutral Switzerland, marking the end of an era for Beckett personally and for modern literature in general. Yet, as he fled from the Gestapo on foot across the breadth of France, Beckett was more concerned with saving his own life than mourning his late friend’s. When he finally found safe haven in Roussillon, he began Watt, and began to sever his canonical association with Joyce once and for all.
In 1946, after the war, Beckett once again took up residence in Paris, this time permanently. Thus began a phase of self-imposed creative exile he referred to as “the siege in the room” (Bair 346), a period of half a decade when he did little but eat, sleep, and work endlessly on his “trilogy” and Waiting for Godot. By the time these works were published, both his biological mother, May Beckett, and his literary “father”, James Joyce, were dead. Though it seems somehow cheaply Freudian, it must be more than coincidental that Beckett found his original voice only after these two looming parental figures were gone. The influence of Beckett’s overbearing mother is easy to trace, because the strain of Oedipal misogyny in Beckett’s characters is so pronounced. From Malone’s fatalistic pronouncement that his “feet are clear already, of the great cunt of existence” (Beckett 276) to Pozzo’s harsh synopsis of the human condition, that “they give birth astride of a grave”, women and their reproductive tracts are indicted as the origin of all human suffering, and are resented as such.
That Joyce’s work is canonical cannot be disputed, but for some, Beckett’s claim to secular immortality is somewhat more tenuous. This reticence to canonize Beckett can perhaps be attributed to his outsider status as a “latecomer” to modernism, more because of the year of his birth than because of any lack of stylistic affinity with his modernist forebears. But undoubtedly, Beckett is a transitional figure. Joyce’s Ulysses is the pinnacle of modernism, while Beckett’s Waiting for Godot is a step beyond: the bridge to post-modernism. Bloom argues that Beckett is the end of the canon, the coda to two thousand years of written Western culture after which lurks an abyss of multiculturalism. In The Western Canon he laments, “Endgame may be the endgame of the Western Canon’s last major phase, while we uneasily find ourselves waiting for Godot, who will turn out to be the demiurge of a new Theocratic Age…” (Bloom 464).
Works Cited
Bair, Deirdre. Samuel Beckett: A Biography. New York: Touchstone, 1978. Print.
Beckett, Samuel. Proust. London: Chatto and Windus, 1931. Print.
Beckett, Samuel. Three Novels. New York: Grove Press, 1947, 1951, 1953. Print.
Beckett, Samuel. The Unnamable. Paris: Les Editions de Minuit, 1953. Print.
Beckett, Samuel. “What Where.” Collected Shorter Plays of Samuel Beckett. London:
Faber and Faber, 1984. p. 312. Print
Bloom, Harold. Agon: Towards a Theory of Revisionism. New York: Oxford University
Press, 1982. Print.
Bloom, Harold. Genius: A Mosaic of One Hundred Exemplary Creative Minds. New
York: Warner Books, 2002. Print
Bloom, Harold. The Western Canon: The Books and School of the Ages. New York:
Riverhead Books, 1994. Print.
Ellmann, Richard. James Joyce. New York: Oxford University Press, 1959.
Fehsenfeld, Martha D., Overbeck, Lois M., Gunn, Dan., and George Craig, eds. The
Letters of Samuel Beckett, Volume 1, 1929-1940. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Print
Gluck, Barbara. Beckett and Joyce: Friendship and Fiction. Cranbury: Associated
University Presses, 1979.
Knowlson, James. Damned to Fame: The Life of Samuel Beckett. New York: Grove
Press, 1997. Print.
Annotated Bibliography for "The Core of the Eddy: Beckett's Minimalism as Agonistic Response to Joycean Maximalism"
Bloom, Harold. The Western Canon: The Books and School of the Ages. New York:
Riverhead Books, 1994. Print.
In this late-career work Bloom is confident and/or arrogant enough to decide exactly which works are canonical, and includes a painstaking list of worthy titles dating all the way back to Ancient Greece, even including contemporary works. He gives himself wiggle room with the conceit that the list is not a firm proclamation but rather a “prophecy” of which works will later come to be considered canonical. This is a highly pessimistic work. Bloom repeatedly emphasizes the looming death of literature and the utter ineptitude of modern academics and lay readers to sustain a literary culture because of their waning literacy and distraction by other media. He laments the proliferation of critical modes that are centered not on merit or aestheticism but rather on the cultural “resentments” of formerly marginalized or disenfranchised groups. This book is important for my research on Beckett because of its lengthy asides about him, devoting a whole chapter to the interconnectedness of Joyce, Beckett and Proust that is somewhat tangential to the main thrust of the book but helpful nonetheless. In this chapter Bloom argues that Beckett is the end of the canon, the coda to two thousand years of written Western culture after which lurks an abyss of multiculturalism. There is also an important section on Joyce’s agon with Shakespeare which in turn helps contextualize Beckett’s agon with Joyce.
Bloom, Harold. Genius: A Mosaic of One Hundred Exemplary Creative Minds. New
York: Warner Books, 2002. Print
This book is the least scholarly of the three Bloom works I’ve included and exemplifies what I would call Bloom’s “commercial phase” in which he wrote as a literary popularizer for a less academic audience. Yet it is important to my research because it characterizes Beckett as a “latecomer” to modernism, if only because of the year of his birth, and explains the effect of this belatedness on his attempts to escape the influence of his precursors, a group which this book helps expand beyond the most obvious: Joyce, to include Kafka, Proust and Jean Racine. It also helps round out the theory of agonistic succession by delving further into that theory’s Kabbalistic undertones, grouping Beckett in the same “lustre”: Binah, with Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, Kafka, and Proust. Binah is for Bloom the lustre of “exacerbated spirituality”, and Beckett belongs here because of his “post-Protestant sense of how it is we keep going on, after going on [even to the conclusion of a mortal span] seems as unlikely as is immortality”.
Beckett, Samuel. Proust. London: Chatto and Windus, 1931. Print.
In this critical monograph, which Beckett wrote at the age of twenty-four while studying at the Ecole Normale Superior in Paris, he examines Proust from a Schopenhauerian standpoint, more in order to construct his own aesthetic manifesto than to realize significant insights about Proust’s oeuvre. The language is highly technical. Beckett later dismissed it as an adolescent work of “cheap flashy philosophical jargon”, but it nonetheless provides important insights about his psychology and its relation to his work. One of his most important proclamations in this work is “we cannot know and we cannot be known”.
Beckett, Samuel. The Unnamable. Paris: Les Editions de Minuit, 1953. Print.
This is Beckett’s most minimalist prose work. There is no plot, setting, or external action, only the internal action of a protagonist who never physically moves and is ostensibly on the threshold of oblivion. This is the prose counterpart to the dramatic works Endgame and Waiting for Godot in the sense that all three works are essentially terminuses of style, extreme end points that cannot be surpassed in their existential deficits. The works are the closest literature has come to the realization of the idea of “nothing as something”. The work closes with one of Beckett’s most essential aphorisms, “You must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on”, which encapsulates the durability, even invincibility, of his pessimism and despair.
Beckett, Samuel. “What Where.” Collected Shorter Plays of Samuel Beckett. London:
Faber and Faber, 1984. p. 312. Print
What Where is Beckett’s final play, which he wrote at the age of seventy-seven. It is important because it is terminal in its stark minimalism and because it is the most epitomic distillation of all Beckett’s post-war preoccupations, including interrogation and the Kafkaesque prosecution of innocents for vague and unproven crimes, preoccupations ingrained in him by his wartime experiences and which he had not shirked even by the 1980s.
Fehsenfeld, Martha D., Overbeck, Lois M., Gunn, Dan., and George Craig, eds. The
Letters of Samuel Beckett, Volume 1, 1929-1940. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Print
This is an important respository of all Beckett’s correspondence from his early twenties to his mid-thirties, including virtually all of his correspondence with Joyce before Joyce’s death in 1941. These letters shed light on Beckett’s social life and his literary associations, and by their vivacity and sheer quantity show that he was not as pessimistic or isolated as his works may imply.
Beating a Proto-Feminist Horse: Crime as Vehicle of Female Empowerment in Moll Flanders
Moll Flanders’ admirable rebellion against a patriarchal society is characterized mainly by her decision to shirk the oppressive dogmas of morality, both theological and secular, that are intended to constrain her and all women (and also the male proletariat). By dispensing with Christian lies at an early age, she is already laying the philosophical foundation for a lucrative career in prostitution which, rather than objectifying or degrading her, empowers and enriches her, allowing her to claim one of the most essential psychological prerequisites of masculinity and personal agency for herself: cynical and unvarnished materialism. Through her quest for ever-richer disposable spouses and her psychological re-appraisal of her body as an endlessly salable commodity, Moll rises up from poverty and by the end of her life even becomes wealthy enough to afford the luxury of repentance (a nostrum for the terrifying uncertainty of human mortality that in its church-prescribed form is only truly practicable for the idle rich).
Moll’s kleptomania is proof of her materialism, but also proof that she savors the transgression of moral boundaries and cisgender norms of conduct at least as much as she craves the acquisition of wealth. She savors her usurpation of the stereotypically male “privilege” of theft, a privilege she not only appropriates but also elevates to an art form. Like men, Moll is deceitful, promiscuous and endlessly manipulative. Like men, she feels free to abandon children lest they become morbid anchors that drain her of her vitality. Her life is the story of a huge moral equalization, wherein undaunted by her gender she claims the amorality and self-interest that are her birthrights as a human being, rights so often reserved by men for themselves. Despite Moll’s seizure of male privileges, she does not in acquiring these fundamental rights “become a man”. As someone simultaneously more masculine and more feminine than her female contemporaries, she carves out a unique societal niche that is undeniably modern.
An Interpretation of Foucault’s Approach to Authorship
Notwithstanding the “absent author” concept, which is another discussion entirely, Foucault’s contention is that, unable to ever fully appropriate the irrecoverable immensity of a writer’s consciousness for themselves, readers extract a pertinent but microscopic sampling of the writer’s traits and use these fragments to “create” authors for the texts they read in order to palliate their existential angst as they search for meaning in a meaningless world. An author is thus an artificial construct that serves as a repository for legal blame (an essential need in a litigious modern society) and fulfills a basic, arguably subconscious need in every reader to attribute discursive statements that are not entirely objective (statements with unlimited interpretations) to certain “sources”, whether those sources are people, alter egos, or figments. Though I am writing this reflection alone, if twelve people read it it will have twelve “authors” in the Foucauldian sense.
In a parallel to Nietzsche’s “death of god”, Foucault proclaims the modern death of the once-valorized “author”, killed by his own writing. Foucault illustrates the impossibility of determining just “who” an author is, that a personality becomes unfathomable when it is construed through the protean lens of the “author” concept, by also asserting the impossibility of determining “what” an author’s work is. Why cannot the endless minutiae of an author’s thoughts, their doodles and laundry bills, be a part of their body of work?
Foucault’s explanation of the centrality of authorship to a reader’s relationship with a text helps explain the extreme reactions readers have when the sanctity of their authorial figments is violated, as is the case when a “memoir” is exposed to be a novel. This “delegitimization” of the formerly non-fictional work somehow changes the work irrevocably although not a single character of the text was altered, because the readers’ own concepts of the author have been, as Foucault would say, killed. Foucault’s concluding quote from Beckett, “What matter who’s speaking”, re-illustrates his main point, that although in the absence of an author, questions about the text and its subjects would have primacy, those questions would be just as meaningless, and be met with the same indifference, as are the questions currently asked about authorship, because authorship is merely a contextualizing filter imposed upon an infinity. Thus Foucault seeks to convolute the concept of authorship until there can no longer be a concept of authorship or, indeed, a concept of anything else.Though Foucault does not state it explicitly, he is elucidating a nihilistic perspective. We “fear the proliferation of meaning” because meaning is an illusory and “unnecessary stain upon silence and nothingness”.
Paul De Man’s Feigned Anti-Semitism as Metaphor for the Essential Disingenuousness of Non-Aesthetic Critical Modes
I do not believe that Paul de Man was truly an anti-semite. As an intellectual, this ironically makes him slightly less credible even than an anti-semite of genuine conviction, because it shows that he is an intellectual mercenary whose entire body of work is a series of empty tracts written for no reason other than to serve as primal proofs of his existence. Though he explored the boundaries between signs and their meanings, and the essential nothingness of literature, his attempts to prove this nothingness are themselves necessarily exemplars of that same nothingness. Had his arguments been successful and had he been credible as a thinker (which he is not, because if he didn’t mean what he wrote in Le Soir and other wartime collaborationist periodicals, then what does he mean?), he would only have succeeded in proving the essential nothingness of his arguments that literature is a vast chronicle of nothingness, and thus simultaneously disproved that same assertion. Nonetheless one can superimpose a pretense of meaning upon selected excerpts of his criticism in order to engage with them on a case-by-case basis.
In “Criticism and Crisis”, De Man is essentially saying that English departments’ frenzied assimilation of social sciences that are in the context of literary criticism wholly spurious is a futile attempt to ascribe “meaning” to texts that have no inherent meaning. This superimposition of meaning (borrowed from other disciplines) upon meaninglessness is an attempt to mask the meaninglessness of life itself, a void which most critics, consciously or not, try to fill simply by refusing to acknowledge its emptiness.
To briefly revisit De Man’s inability to tell the truth (even to himself) or to “believe in” anything (an inability which underlies most of his important crypto-nihilist polemics against the concept of “meaning” in literature), it is important to note his intellectual collaboration with Nazis during the occupation of Belgium and his not-insignificant contribution to the intellectual justification of the Final Solution, especially his attempts to construct a theory of the “inferiority” of Jewish literature and its purported contamination of the European literary tradition. Again, I am not accusing the late De Man of actually believing any of his articulately inhumane tracts, only asserting that he would say anything, if not to advantage himself then merely for the sake of saying it, of proving by his circumlocutionary eloquence that he was momentarily extant. This non-normative appraisal of his essential emptiness as an intellectual and human being is further corroborated by his abandonment of his family in Argentina and his dismissal from Bard College for “petty thievery and chicanery”.
Personally I both agree and disagree with De Man. I agree that academic literary criticism has drifted too far from aesthetic concerns and assimilated too many social sciences, and I agree that literature cannot be truly said to “mean” in the sense of signs and signification but I disagree that it does not “mean” at a deeper level. It is because life is meaningless that humans have created literature as a palliative artifact of meaning.
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Whalley Abbey
by Elizabeth Ashworth
The Cistercian monks of Whalley originally had an abbey at Stanlaw in Cheshire, founded by John FitzEustace, constable of Chester on the eve of his departure for the Holy Land in 1178. It was built on a sandstone outcrop at the confluence of the rivers Mersey and Gowy, and was surrounded by low-lying marshland. In 1279, a great storm flooded much of the abbey and representation was made to the Pope for permission to leave and build a new monastery on another site.
Whalley Abbey
When John FitzEustace's son, Roger, had inherited the Honour of Clitheroe from his grandmother and taken the de Lacy name, he had granted the valuable rectory of Rochdale to Stanlaw Abbey. Roger's son, John de Lacy, who became the Earl of Lincoln, also granted various lands in Lancashire to the abbey, including the rectory of Blackburn. So it wasn't surprising that the monks looked to Henry de Lacy (the great, great grandson of the original founder) when seeking a new home. Neither Rochdale nor Blackburn was deemed suitable, but when the site at Whalley, on the banks of the River Calder, was offered the monks agreed to migrate to there.
Henry de Lacy agreed to give the land at Whalley on certain conditions: the remains of his ancestors and others buried at Stanlaw would be reburied at Whalley, and the name of the abbey would continue to be Locus Benedictus (the blessed place). On 23rd July 1289, Pope Nicholas IV granted a licence for the translation of the abbey and the appropriation of the church at Whalley on the resignation or death of its aged rector, Peter de Cestria (Peter of Chester), who had held the benefice for 54 years. But he was so long-lived that the monks had to wait until January 1295 before the move to Whalley could begin, leaving behind a cell of four monks at Stanlaw.
On the 4th April 1296, St Ambrose Day, a small group of monks took possession of the land. The monks lived in Peter de Cestria's manor house whilst building work began. It progressed slowly owing to financial difficulties, changes of abbot, problems with the weather and a lack of wood for buildings and fires, and it was not until June 1308 that Henry de Lacy laid the foundation stone for the new abbey church. Even then, the monks were not entirely happy at Whalley and after the death of Henry de Lacy in 1311, they asked Thomas of Lancaster for an alternative site, but in the end nothing came of it and under the leadership of Abbot Robert de Toppecliffe serious building work began in 1330.
Peter de Cestria's chapel.
Around this time the monks moved out of Peter de Cestria's house into temporary accommodation, probably a collection of wooden huts in the midst of a busy building site. But their religious life would not have been neglected. Prayers would have offered and mass said every day in Peter de Cestria's small chapel, which pre-dates the other abbey buildings.
The chancel of the church must have been complete by 1345 when the burial of John of Cuerdale, a benefactor of the abbey, is recorded. This calls into question the re-interment of Henry de Lacy's ancestors. He may not have lived to see the remains of his ancestors brought from Stanlaw and there is, in fact, no record of this happening, but I doubt the monks did not carry out the full terms of their licence. Henry de Lacy's daughter, Alice did not die until 1348 and would have been eager to see her father's wishes for her own ancestors fulfilled. And in the ruins of what would have been the chancel of the church there is a broken gravestone that clearly shows the de Lacy lion. I believe that this is the site of the burial of Roger de Lacy, John de Lacy, Edmund de Lacy and maybe their wives and other family members.
This gravestone shows the
engraving of the de Lacy lion.
In 1348, the Black Death came to England and this seems to have interrupted the work on the church as permission was given to build a crenelated wall around the outer precincts of the abbey, probably to guard against the plague being brought in by casual visitors. When the sickness passed work began again on the central tower of the church, which was built in a plainer style than the chancel. It held a bell and a lantern and would have been three times the height of the present gatehouse. Work must have been well advanced by 1356, when Brother Ralph of Pontefract was killed by a falling stone.
Whalley Parish Church
After Henry de Lacy's death, his lands had passed to his son-in-law Thomas of Lancaster and after Thomas's execution for his rebellion against Edward II, to his younger brother Henry. In December 1360, Henry Duke of Lancaster gave land at Ramsgreave and Standen for the maintenance of a recluse or anchoress to live in a hermitage in the churchyard at Whalley. However, it seems that many of the recluses were somewhat reluctant and in 1437, a widow, Isolde Heaton, ran away from the hermitage. You can read more about it in my blogpost here: Reluctant Recluses
By 1425, the Chapter House was brought into use when William of Whalley was the abbot and an account of the dedication of the Dormitory records: Lord William, the Abbot, and the whole Convent standing in processional order sang the hymn 'Te Deum Laudamus'. Then the Abbot, clothed in a cope and carrying his pastoral staff, sprinkled all the beds with holy water…
The north east gatehouse.
The last building that completed the abbey was the North East Gatehouse and this remains today with its original great oak doors and the heavy bolt with which they can be secured. In all it took until 1444, which was 136 years after Henry de Lacy laid the foundation stone, for the abbey to be completed and even after that new buildings were added.
Life at Whalley Abbey settled into a routine of prayer, care for the sick and poor, and sheep farming. Abbot followed abbot until John Paslew entered the Novices' Cell at Whalley on St Matthew's Day 1487. His father is listed as a gentleman from Wiswell, although the family were originally from Yorkshire and had connections with East Riddlesden Hall. He became the abbot and built what seems to have been a spectacular Lady Chapel to attract both pilgrims and income, although no trace of it remains. It was during the time that John Paslew was abbot that Henry VIII decided to close down the monasteries and use their wealth for his own purposes. It was not a popular decision and throughout the north of England there was rebellion, culminating in the Pilgrimage of Grace.
Although Abbot Paslew seems to have taken no active part in the uprisings, other than giving sanctuary to a monk from nearby Sawley Abbey after it was closed, he was arrested and taken to Lancaster for trial on five counts of treason. For an inexplicable reason he pleaded guilty and at the age of 70 was hanged as a traitor. Local legend says that he was hanged outside the abbey, but as there are no records it is impossible to verify whether he was killed at Lancaster or Whalley.
After the dissolution, the site was stripped of its valuables: lead from the roof, books, plate and embroideries were taken away on carts by Thomas Cromwell's men, although some of the vestments were saved by the Towneley family of Burnley.
The remains of the abbey were bought by Ralph Assheton who made his home in the abbot's lodgings. The ruins of the abbey and its church remained until Mary Tudor came to the throne and brought back the Catholic faith. The families who were now living on former abbey lands became concerned that Mary would reinstate the monasteries and so Assheton, like many others, set about destroying what was left so that it was beyond use and would not be reclaimed for the church.
The church windows were 1
probably taken from Whalley Abbey.
Windows from the abbey were taken away to be used in other places. They can be seen in the chapel of Samlesbury Hall, for example, where the Southworth family remained Catholic, and it seems that the church of St Leonard at Old Langho, one of only a handful of Catholic churches built during Mary's reign, was constructed using stones and timbers from the abbey.
St Leonard's Old Langho
The Assheton family continued to live at Whalley Abbey until they ran out of male heirs. The house was sold to John Taylor, who in turn bequeathed it to Colonel John Hargreaves, but after the upheavals of the First World War, the role of country houses was declining and many owners found their upkeep too expensive. Colonel Hargreaves put the house up for sale in 1923 and its function was brought full circle when it was purchased by the Diocese of Manchester for use as a training college and conference centre. When the diocese was split up and the Diocese of Blackburn created the abbey came into its care and remains so.
In the 1930s, when Canon J R Lumb became the Warden of Whalley Abbey, he suggested that work could be created for the large numbers of unemployed men in the area by beginning an excavation of the gardens to see what traces of the abbey remained there. By 1936, the foundations of the church had been uncovered and on 14th June that year, the site was rededicated as a place of worship, with an altar placed on the site of the original one in the chancel of the church. Today the abbey is used as a conference centre. The grounds are open to the public for a small fee and if you are ever in the area, it is well worth a visit.
An Editor's Choice from the EHFA Archives. Originally published on 21 October 2014.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Elizabeth Ashworth lives in Lancashire close to Whalley Abbey and has traced her ancestors in the village back to the 1600s. She has a particular interest in the history of the de Lacy family and they feature in several of her historical novels: The de Lacy Inheritance, Favoured Beyond Fortune, and The Circle of Fortune.
www.elizabethashworth.com
Hat Tip To: English Historical Fiction Authors
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