#they /both/ have an inexorable influence on each other

[fatalism-and-villainy]

Watching Su-Zakana again and Will saying, in the thinly veiled conversation about fishing, "your lure is the one thing he wants, despite everything he knows," in light of multiple later events in which Will can't bring himself to betray Hannibal or have him killed, despite what his morals tell him..... damn. He's talking about himself as much as about Hannibal.

#(at this point probably still /unwittingly/ talking about himself but. yyep) #hannibal #hannigram #the rewatch bonussss #honestly this is part of why i'm not convinced by takes on post-WOTL dynamics with will fully in control and hannibal helpless before him #they /both/ have an inexorable influence on each other #and even when they're accepted each other the push-and-pull dynamic still remains #hannibal talk #alpha watches hannibal

[apple-spider-vinegar]

Something I feel often goes unrecognized in discussion of Harry Osborn is the fact that he is the Only Child of a Single Parent.

In my experience/observation (both real and fictional) the only child/single parent bond is so inexorable it's hard to fully comprehend. Few other things will bind two people together in such a way.

Like many familial relationships, it's full of a thousand little hurts that will probably never get brought up again. Sometimes you let the relationship go by the wayside in pursuit of your own life goals because you take it for granted that family will always be around. But there's a unique flavor to it.

Deep down inside you there's an awareness that it's Just The Two Of You. For the child, it may have been just the two of you from your very earliest memories. Sure, you know other people. There are extended family and friends and maybe the parent has a romantic partner or two. But at the end of the day, in your home, in your hearts (something you carry with you no matter where you go) the two of you are all you have and all you feel you can really depend on.

A world in which the two of you aren't together is almost impossible to picture and you don't want to try, even in the moments you wish you could just get away from each other. Being an only child separated from a single parent for the first time ‐ even on normal and amicable terms like when you move out on your own - makes you realize, again and again, how many ways your parent has influenced you. The things you say that you heard from them first, the habits, the opinions. You love them, but sometimes it feels like they still... OWN you, even though you are your own person. Sometimes that frightens you, but the alternative is even more frightening.

Like all love, it'll make you behave selfishly and irrationally at times.

And it'll really make you DEFENSIVE.

If you're Harry Osborn and complain a bit about your dad being a dickhead while deep down wondering if he really even cares about you, that's one thing. But if anyone says a word against him in your presence you have to backtrack. You have to argue in his defense because he's all you have and you're all he has. Loss would unbearable.

Look, guys. It has been years since Harry and Norman Osborn have gotten along or been able to really enjoy each other's company, if they ever could. But if anything happened to the other they would kill everyone in this room and then themselves, do you understand what I'm saying?

#i've seen comic panels where norman is on the verge of going back to being the goblin #and he's thinking 'i must be going mad but if something bad happens to me who will look after harry' #my brother in christ YOU are the bad thing that is happening to him #also when is someone going to draw the osborns with the 'i just wish you liked me' scene from ladybird #it should be noted my analysis is mostly based on the raimiverse but i don't think that's missing the whole picture #i think this may apply to most harrys to some degree #even the '94 cartoon had this to some extent though it was more from norman's side... wish that show cared about harry #kinda feel like i exorcised a demon making this post #hope it opens some eyes to this aspect of the character #harry osborn #norman osborn #green goblin #spider-man #raimiverse #op

[borderlinebatshit]

'The drug wrought.' —Charlotte Brontë This economical sentence—there is something affronting or mischievous about its brevity—appears in chapter 38 of Charlotte Brontë’s 1853 novel Villette . The book is less well known and less romantic (or Romantic) than Jane Eyre , but is in many respects the more ambitious novel. It is the story of one Lucy Snowe: a seemingly shy, melancholic young woman who is passed around among relatives and benefactors until she is engaged as a lowly schoolteacher in the Belgian town of Villette, which is transparently Brontë’s stand-in for Brussels. Here Lucy despairs of her vain, lazy female pupils, is bullied by the school’s proprietor Madame Beck, and falls in love—she will not admit it outright to the reader—with the schoolmaster, Paul Emanuel. Lucy is one of the least reliable narrators in nineteenth-century fiction: though she insists on her own timid and naive character, this little nervous subject inexorably asserts herself, and gets her way. .... “The drug wrought.” In the “Cloud” chapter, or elsewhere in Villette , Brontë’s prose is not exactly the digressive equal of De Quincey’s elaborate style. Still, this is an astonishingly simple sentence with which to introduce the extravagant visions of Lucy Snowe. Or is it? Short guttural sentence in which it is hard, saying it aloud or hearing it in your head, not to elongate “wrought,” awkwardly or self-consciously, as if to make up for the fact there seems to be something missing. The drug wrought what ? Nowadays we usually come across “wrought” as a past participle: a gate of wrought iron; an artefact, idea, image, plan, or a sentence perhaps, that has been well (or cunningly) wrought . Hardly ever do we stop to ask what the original verb is, from which “wrought” derives. Is it “wreak”? As in: “to wreak havoc” and “they wrought havoc.” In fact, as the OED tells us, there is some confusion at work here, and “work” is exactly the word that matters. “To work havoc” is a variant, now rare, and gives us the clue: “wrought,” among other things, is the plain past tense of the verb to work , and in more than one sense of making or fashioning. “Wrought” may apply (or has applied, historically) to movement, labour, function, shaping or manipulation. And so Brontë’s modest sentence might mean: the drug worked, or went to work, performed its usual or intended function. The sentence could as easily mean that the drug went to work on , influenced or manipulated, the raw material of Lucy Snowe’s imagination—it worked her as though she were metal to be moulded or beaten, stone or wood to be carved. Brontë might have said instead: “The drug wrought me, or wrought my mind.” Which in turn suggests the sense of making or inventing: “The drug wrought scenes or visions.” The glorious and sinister diorama of Lucy Snowe’s night in the Royal Park: it has all been wrought by opium. Or is it rather, again: the reality worked by opium, heightened or intensified? All of these meanings are present, all of them complementing and contending with each other, inside this tiny, concentrated sentence. To Mrs. Gaskell, Brontë said that before writing the “Cloud” chapter she lay half awake each night, trying to imagine what an overdose of laudanum would feel like, until she woke one morning with the conviction she had got it right. Undrugged, she wrought. Like De Quincey, who had really been there, Brontë describes the realm of the sedative, painkilling drug as if it’s instead both stimulant and hallucinogen. As if, that is, its power is creative, artistic, literary. As if the sentence contains a pun: the drug wrote

Brian Dillon, Suppose a Sentence

#writing #etymology #beautiful sentences #drugs

[echthr0s]

over the course of Children of Time, the last remnants of humanity trapped in a lost ark and the large-ish arachnid denizens of a terraformed planet who have evolved under the expansive influence of a nanovirus follow an inexorable path that will lead to them confronting each other. the book is elegantly written, incorporating the biases of its human readership in the way it reveals this confrontation, leading us to believe that in this war, there will be a clear winner, a victor, a conqueror. one species will have to die for the other to live.

except, that's not what happens, because spider sapience is not human sapience. spiders comprehend their universe as a web of interconnectivity; destruction is a rather juvenile and small-minded solution to any conflict, when commonality can be found. the war with the ants wasn't solved by annihilating the ants, but playing in their space, using their physiology to weave a new web of understanding for the ants, an understanding of cooperation being far more advantageous for both species than war could ever be. so, too, was it with the humans -- but this was a far more audacious endeavour, considering our complexity. for the humans, the nanovirus that they had created, that gave rise to the spiders in the first place, would have to be re-engineered and given to them in return. the spiders' Understanding, the web of connectivity, carried by the nanovirus, enabled the warlike and desperate humans to see the spiders for what they were -- their species' children, their kin.

while reading this book, I had the interesting perspective of leaping back and forth across the chasm of identification -- from the spiders to the humans and vice versa. of course the story of the spiders' millennia of evolution made sense to me (and yet, I always feared their destruction). of course the humans' desperate survival instinct made sense to me (and yet, I always felt disgust at their penchant for making war). of course I read this book as both a spider and a human, being in the strange position of being both, and grokking the Understandings of both. and of course I exulted at the fact that a third solution did exist, after all -- not the conquest of the humans, not the conquest of the spiders, but the cooperation of both (even if it had to come by a controlled but still existent amount of force, because the humans certainly weren't going to invite the spiders onto the ark for tea).

the author describes empathy as "the sheer inability to see those around them as anything other than people too" (and this is what the spider-adapted nanovirus instills). and that was interesting to me, because that is not something I have a problem doing. I am always aware of the agency and complexity of those around me. where the gap needs to be bridged is at my capacity/desire to care. my web of interconnectivity exists, but humanity has come in with its laser weapons and burned holes in it. to protect itself, the spider retracts, curls in, draws its neural web in, and its greater consciousness suffers for it. this is not so strange, despite my strange approach to it -- this happens to so many people, all the time. (sometimes people will eat a plant or a fungus and momentarily feel reconnected to this web.) humanity abhors a web, apparently. (I'd say something snarky here about what the common fear of spiders is really about but I'll begrudgingly allow that it's probably just about the legs.)

I want to believe that there will be a point in time where the burned edges of my web stop stinging so badly, and my legs stop curling in on themselves reflexively, and I can start -- awkwardly, inefficiently, but steadily -- rebuilding my sense of interconnectivity. time marches on, inexorably, and my belief wavers. I don't know how this book ends.

#singularity.txt #i'm not bad i was just written this way #a narrative is a web too. so is a sense of self (which is in itself a narrative; and is also intrinsically connected #to the interpersonal web of connectivity) #the bottom line is that webweaving is an intricate and complex art that i am still learning.

[mediaevalmusereads]

Hangsaman. By Shirley Jackson. Penguin, 2013 (originally 1951).

Rating: 3/5 stars

Genre: literary fiction

Series: N/A

Summary: Hangsaman is Miss Jackson's second novel. The story is a simple one but the overtones are immediately present. "Natalie Waite who was seventeen years old but who felt that she had been truly conscious only since she was about fifteen lived in an odd corner of a world of sound and sight, past the daily voices of her father and mother and their incomprehensible actions." In a few graphic pages, the family is before us—Arnold Waite, a writer, egotistical and embittered; his wife, the complaining martyr; Bud, the younger brother who has not yet felt the need to establish his independence; and Natalie, in the nightmare of being seventeen.

The Sunday afternoon cocktail party, to which Arnold Waite has invited his literary friends and neighbors, serves to etch in the details of this family's life, and to draw Natalie into the vortex. The story concentrates on the next few critical months in Natalie's life, away at college, where each experience reproduces on a larger scale the crucial failure of her emotional life at home. With a mounting tension rising from character and situation as well as the particular magic of which Miss Jackson is master, the novel proceeds inexorably to the stinging melodrama of its conclusion. The bitter cruelty of the passage from adolescence to womanhood, of a sensitive and lonely girl caught in a world not of her own devising, is a theme well suited to Miss Jackson's brilliant talent.

***Full review below.***

CONTENT WARNINGS: sexual assault, blurring of fantasy and reality, attempted suicide/suicidal ideation, underage drinking

OVERVIEW: I have a lot of love for Shirley Jackson, so when I found this book at a used bookstore, I snatched it up. I didn't have a clear idea of what it was about going in, so in some respects, I was surprised. Overall, though, I think I'm giving it 3 stars because the narrarive progressed slower than I would have liked. Though I love Jackson's writing and Natalie, our protagonist, is strange and has an uncanny mind, I also think this book could have been a novella.

WRITING: Jackson's writing is incredibly descriptive and vivid. I really enjoyed how it blended fiction and reality, as well as how it showcased Natalie's internal thoughts and responses to the world around her. Jackson does a good job depicting psychological realism and finding a voice that feels both childish and on the edge of maturity.

PLOT: The plot of this book follows Natalie Waite, the daughter of a writer who goes off to college. While away, she struggles to make friends and spends a good amount of time in her own head.

If it sounds like not much happens, that's partially a correct assessment. There isn't much "plot" per se in this book, as most of the story is concerned with exploring Natalie's inner world. Part of me found this inner world fascinating; I loved the way Natalie blended fact and fiction, and I liked how whimsical she could sometimes be. But I also found the narrative to be somewhat slow and wished it was condensed.

Still, there were things I thought were smart. I liked the relationship between Natalie and her father and how his control over her influences the way she experiences the world. I also liked how the Langdon family mirrors the Waite family and how Natalie perceives the misery within both marriages. There is some element of social commentary there, but it's not so prominent that I'd say it's the main focus.

CHARACTERS: Natalie, our protagonist, is interesting to follow because she interprets the world in such imaginative yet childish ways. I found her responses to things to be fairly representative of a teenager who is living on her own for the first time, and her inability to get along with other girls was a great way to introduce tension.

I also greatly enjoyed the parallels between Mr. Waite and Mr. Langdon - Natalie's father and Natalie's English teacher. Both are egotistical and fail to keep their wives happy, and I enjoyed Natalie's letters to her father and her constant need to seek his approval.

Other supporting characters were fine. Elizabeth Langdon and Mrs. Waite were both sympathetic because they were so unhappy, and Vicky and Anne were irritating in appropriate ways. Tony, the mysterious girl that Natalie befriends, was also fascinating for her obsession with tarot, and I liked that her mysticism made the ending a little bit more unsettling.

TL;DR: While I respect what Jackson was trying to do with Hangsaman, it simply did not move quick enough or have enough plot for me to feel fully engaged. If you're interested in psychological realism or intensive character work, this book might appeal to you more.

[atwas-gaming]

I've been thinking about this for quite a while and worried about saying this and coming across like some crazy UTDR fan (which I will readily admit to be guilty of, anyway, lol), but the OST's for both Undertale and Axiom Verge have some similar leitmotifs.

First off, I AM NOT SUGGESTING ANY CONNECTION BETWEEN THE TWO SOUNDTRACKS, MUCH LESS THE TWO GAMES. To my knowledge, Tom Happ and Toby Fox may never have even met. They may not have even played each other's games. I'm 99% certain they had no influence on each other.

But I do have a conclusion that I will get to at the end (and yes, a lot of you will probably think it's crazy), so please keep reading.

Undertale fans will probably notice a familiar 3-note arpeggio in Apocalypse. It's the one we call "Gaster's Theme." It's not exactly the same, but it's similar enough to make a UT fan rewind and re-listen.

This 3-note arpeggio appears in other tracks in both AV games, it's just most noticeable in Apocalypse.

The other one I noticed is a little easier to miss. It's at the very end of Inexorable:

Listen closely and you can hear the intro to Another Medium. Listen even more closely, and you realize that this leitmotif is just The Axiom, slightly rearranged.

But what's interesting is, there's no connection between Axiom Verge and Undertale! At least, none that I can imagine (and I have quite the imagination). Axiom Verge was released on March 31, 2015; Undertale was released on September 15, 2015- the same year, but almost 9 months apart. Since AV came out first, there's no way Tom Happ was borrowing ideas from Toby Fox, unless the 2 men actually have met IRL- I don't know, but I kinda doubt it, as Toby was nothing but a ROM-hacking, clickbait-posting, Homestuck composer working on Undertale at the time of AV's release. And I highly doubt Toby was stealing anything from Axiom Verge- Toby's a highly prolific musical composer in his own right, and while he's not above taking inspiration from others, he's always been open about where he got his ideas. So far, none of my research is indicating that he took inspiration from Tom Happ. And we know how Toby feels about giving credit where it's due:

So, if there's no connection between the two, and no known crossover of ideas, what point am I trying to make?

That this is evidence of God's presence in the creative community. Disbelieve that if you want, but that's the hill I'm standing on. God is everywhere, and He doesn't just favor the "good little Christians" with wisdom. He gives ideas to everyone. And it seems to me that, in 2015 and the years leading up to it, He decided to give 2 different men the same 2 prominent leitmotifs for their games.

And if that's not enough, let me also remind you that both games have a similar core theme of being stranded in some alternate universe (which may or may not be just a dream, in both AV and UTDR); AND both Tom Happ and Toby Fox have made statements that suggest the possibility of divine inspiration. Tom Happ's statement can be found here; and while I can't find the post anymore, I do remember Toby saying at one point that he has been surprised by the number of connections that fans have found in Undertale that even he himself didn't notice.

If this isn't God's hand at work, then I don't know what to call it, because it's just plain awesome.

#axiom verge #undertale #tom happ #toby fox #God's will #divine inspiration #call it crazy if you want but this is what i believe #God. is. EVERYwhere. #play both games yourself #listen to both soundtracks yourself #read and listen to interviews with the creators yourself #you can't tell me you don't see any similarities at all #i'm convinced that God is in this #in both of these

[jokhas]

LORE.

THE RELATIONSHIP. 

the relationship between josef armon and the eldritch khaos is one of symbiotic convergence, a merging of mortal vessel and primordial force that transcends the boundaries of comprehension. bound by a pact forged in the depths of the cosmos, they exist as two facets of a single entity, each drawing strength from the other in an endless cycle of power and submission.

for josef, the eldritch khaos is both patron and prison, a source of boundless power and existential dread. from the moment he first laid eyes upon the forbidden tome that spoke of its existence, he felt an undeniable pull, a gravitational force that drew him inexorably into its dark embrace. in the chaotic energies of the eldritch khaos, he saw not only the promise of godhood, but also the key to unlocking the mysteries of existence itself.

yet, with each ritual performed and each pact sealed, josef finds himself increasingly ensnared by the tendrils of the eldritch khaos, his mind and soul suffused with its insidious influence. haunted by nightmarish visions and plagued by existential dread, he struggles to maintain his sense of self amidst the maelstrom of eldritch energies that swirl within him. and yet, he cannot deny the intoxicating allure of its power, nor the sense of purpose it brings to his existence.

as for the eldritch khaos, josef is but one of countless vessels through which it channels its boundless energy. to the primordial force, he is but a conduit, a mortal shell through which it can exert its will upon the material realm. and yet, there is something different about josef, something that sets him apart from the countless others who have sought to wield its power.

in the sorcerer, the eldritch khaos sees a kindred spirit, a soul aflame with the same primal hunger for knowledge and enlightenment that drives its own existence. together, they are bound by a shared desire to transcend the limitations of mortal existence, to unlock the secrets of the universe and reshape reality according to their will. and though their relationship is fraught with peril and uncertainty, it is also a testament to the enduring power of ambition and the indomitable spirit of the human soul.

KHAOS. 

the eldritch khaos exists beyond the confines of mortal comprehension, a primordial force that transcends the boundaries of space and time. it is an entity of unfathomable power and cosmic significance, existing at the very heart of existence itself. to behold the eldritch khaos is to stare into the abyss, to glimpse the raw chaos that underlies the fabric of reality.

at its core, the eldritch khaos is a swirling maelstrom of chaotic energies, an ever-shifting mass of darkness and light that defies all attempts at classification. its form is fluid and ephemeral, constantly shifting and changing in response to the thoughts and desires of those who seek to wield its power. to mortal senses, it appears as a swirling vortex of shadow and flame, a cosmic tempest that consumes all that it touches.

within the depths of the eldritch khaos lie untold secrets and forbidden knowledge, the very essence of creation and destruction intertwined in an endless dance of cosmic entropy. it is a realm of infinite possibility, where the laws of physics hold no sway and the boundaries of reality are constantly in flux. to those who dare to venture into its depths, it offers both enlightenment and annihilation, the promise of godhood and the threat of oblivion.

yet, for all its incomprehensibility, the eldritch khaos is not a malevolent force. it exists beyond concepts of good and evil, its motivations and desires beyond mortal understanding. it is neither friend nor foe, but rather a cosmic entity whose influence extends across the vast expanse of the universe.

to those who seek to wield its power, the eldritch khaos offers both blessings and curses. it grants untold power and knowledge to those who are willing to serve it, but at a cost that few are prepared to pay. its influence can drive mortals to madness and consume them from within, leaving nothing but empty husks in its wake.

in the end, the eldritch khaos remains a mystery shrouded in darkness, a cosmic enigma that defies all attempts at comprehension. it is a reminder of the vastness and complexity of the universe, and of the inexorable march of chaos that lies at the heart of all existence.

#canon. * #q.*

[xtruss]

Why the China-US Contest is Entering a New and More Dangerous Phase

Chinese officials rage at what they see as American bullying

— Mar 30th 2023 | Leaders | America v China

You may have hoped that when China reopened and face-to-face contact resumed between politicians, diplomats and businesspeople, Sino-American tensions would ease in a flurry of dinners, summits and small talk. But the atmosphere in Beijing just now reveals that the world’s most important relationship has become more embittered and hostile than ever.

In the halls of government Communist Party officials denounce what they see as America’s bullying. They say it is intent on beating China to death. Western diplomats describe an atmosphere laced with intimidation and paranoia. In the Diaoyutai State Guesthouse, multinational executives attending the China Development Forum worried what a deeper decoupling would mean for their businesses. The only thing both sides agree on is that the best case is decades of estrangement—and that the worst, of a war, is growing ever more likely.

Each side is following its own inexorable logic. America has adopted a policy of containment, although it declines to use that term. It sees an authoritarian China that has shifted from one-party to one-man rule. President Xi Jinping is likely to be in power for years and is hostile to the West, which he believes is in decline. At home he pursues a policy of repression that defies liberal values. He has broken promises to show restraint when projecting power outward, from Hong Kong to the Himalayas. His meeting with Vladimir Putin this month confirmed that his goal is to build an alternative world order that is friendlier to autocrats.

Faced with this, America is understandably accelerating its military containment of China in Asia, rejuvenating old alliances and creating new ones, such as the aukus pact with Australia and Britain. In commerce and technology America is enacting a tough and widening embargo on semiconductors and other goods. The goal is to slow Chinese innovation in order that the West can maintain its technological supremacy: why should America let its inventions be used to make a hostile regime more dangerous?

To China’s leaders, this amounts to a scheme to cripple it. America, in their eyes, thinks it is exceptional. It will never accept that any country can be as powerful as itself, regardless of whether it is communist or a democracy. America will tolerate China only if it is submissive, a “fat cat, not a tiger”. America’s Asian military alliances mean that China feels it is being encircled within its own natural sphere of influence. Red lines agreed on in the 1970s, when the two countries re-established relations, such as those on Taiwan, are being trampled by ignorant and reckless American politicians. China’s rulers think it only prudent to raise military spending.

In commerce, they view American containment as unfair. Why should a country whose gdp per head is 83% lower than America’s be deprived of vital technologies? Officials and businesspeople were appalled by the spectacle of TikTok, the subsidiary of a Chinese firm, being roasted in an American congressional hearing this month. Although some Chinese liberals dream of emigrating, even worldly, Western-educated technocrats now loyally condemn shows of wealth, promote self-reliance and explain why globalisation must serve Mr Xi’s political priorities.

Given two such entrenched and contradictory world-views, it is naive to think that more diplomacy alone can guarantee peace. A meeting in Bali between President Joe Biden and Mr Xi in November eased tensions, but the deeper logic of confrontation soon reasserted itself. The spy-balloon crisis (Chinese officials mock America for downing what they call a stray “naughty balloon”) showed how both leaders must appear tough at home. America wants China to adopt guardrails to control the rivalry, including hotlines and protocols on nuclear weapons, but China sees itself as the weaker party: why tie yourself down with rules set by your bully? Nothing suggests the hostilities will ease. America’s election in 2024 will show that China-bashing is a bipartisan sport. Mr Xi faces a slowing economy and has tied his legitimacy to a vision of a muscular and “rejuvenated” nation.

Faced with such an opponent, America and other open societies should adhere to three principles. The first is to limit economic decoupling, which the imf reckons could cost anything between a manageable 0.2% of world gdp and an alarming 7%. Trade in non-sensitive sectors also helps maintain routine contact between thousands of firms, thereby narrowing the geopolitical divide. Embargoes should be saved for sensitive sectors or areas in which China has a chokehold because it is a monopoly supplier: these account for a minority of Sino-American trade. Where possible, businesses that straddle both sides of the cold war, such as TikTok—accused of spreading Chinese misinformation—should be ring-fenced, sold or spun off, not be forced to close.

The second principle is to lower the chances of war. Both sides are locked in a “security dilemma” in which it is rational to shore up your position, even as that makes the other side feel threatened. The West is right to seek military deterrence to meet a growing Chinese threat—the alternative is a collapse of the American-led order in Asia. But seeking military dominance around flashpoints, notably Taiwan, could spark accidents or clashes that spiral out of control. America should aim to deter a Chinese attack on Taiwan without provoking one. This will take wisdom and restraint from a generation of politicians in Washington and Beijing who, by contrast with the leaders of America and the Soviet Union in the 1950s, have no personal experience of the horrors of a world war.

The last principle is that America and its allies must resist the temptation to resort to tactics that make them more like their autocratic opponent. In this rivalry, liberal societies and free economies have big advantages: they are more likely to create innovations and wealth and to command legitimacy at home and abroad. If America sticks to its values of openness, equal treatment of all and the rule of law, it will find it easier to maintain the loyalty of its allies. America must be clear that its dispute is not with the Chinese people, but with China’s government and the threat to peace and human rights that it poses. The 21st century’s defining contest is not just about weapons and chips—it is a struggle over values, too. ■

— This article appeared in the Leaders section of the print edition under the headline "It’s Worse Than You Think"

[alienheartattack]

Sweet Revenge (Inexorable AU)

Word Count: 2260 words

Rating: E. They fuck. It’s dope. Don’t read if you’re underage or have objections to explicit adult content.

Summary: Levi and Mikasa have a feud at the school bake sale and decide to get revenge on their PTA nemesis.

Notes: For non-US readers, PTA stands for parent-teacher association, where parents volunteer at their children’s schools to get involved in the school’s activities and influence the quality of their child’s education, usually through fundraisers and other events.

This story takes place 8-9 years after the events of Inexorable and about 2 years after the events of the other Inexorable AU fics, A Scream in the Night and A Minor Dispute About Rain. The only thing you really need to know if you haven’t read those is that Levi and Mikasa have a daughter named Anya, who is basically a grumpy mini Levi, in addition to Hana.

The only thing keeping Levi from running after the PTA president and giving her a hefty piece of his mind is Mikasa’s grip, firm and insistent, on the hem of his sweater.

“You’re going to stretch it out,” Levi snaps at his wife, redirecting his ire at the closest target. Mikasa idly caresses the swell of her belly with one hand and looks at him with one eyebrow raised, silently asking if he wants to argue with his pregnant wife in public.

“I’ll let you go when I’m confident you’re not going to track Joanne down and scream in her face,” she says calmly. “As much as I’d like to see that.”

“She fucking begged us to help out at this bake sale and now she’s just gonna call our lemon bars basic?! We’re not goddamn pastry chefs!”

“Levi, listen to yourself. You sound legitimately insane.”

He sighs, letting his shoulders drop as the tension and rage starts to leave his body. Mikasa releases his sweater and he collapses into his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. She joins him, gingerly lowering herself onto the uncomfortable metal folding chair provided by the school.

“I hate this so much. I hate Joanne, I hate being on the PTA, and I absolutely fucking hate bake sales,” he huffs.

"Well, we’re stuck here for the evening. I don’t want to be here either but I’m trying to make the most of it. Mikasa picks up a lemon bar and takes a huge bite. "Besides, fuck Joanne. These are good.”

Levi motions for Mikasa to give him a bite. “Fuck Joanne,” he agrees through a mouthful of pastry and curd.

Thankfully business picks up after that, and Levi and Mikasa spend the next half hour handing out lemon bars to parents and kids, ignoring Joanne hovering around them and observing their dealings with a disdainful eye. When the rush clears, she slowly approaches their table, pretending to be browsing. They both clock her gaze drifting over their mostly empty dish of lemon bars and the small twitch at the corner of her mouth that telegraphs her dissatisfaction with the Ackermans’ success. Triumphant, they share a brief glance, another silent Fuck Joanne.

To their dismay, she approaches Mikasa, staring at her oversized t-shirt dress. “Bun in the oven,” Joanne reads, her cold eyes sweeping over the looped script printed across Mikasa’s abdomen, decorated with a drawing of a smiling roll baking away. “Oh, you’re pregnant, sweetie! Congratulations!” There’s sweetness in her voice, but it’s tinged with venom. Mikasa knows it all too well.

“Thanks,” she mutters, bracing herself for the backhanded part of Joanne’s compliment.

“I thought you’d just let yourself go, but it’s a blessing instead! What a relief!” She laughs uproariously at her own joke. Levi jams his hands into the pockets of his jeans, balling them into tight fists so Joanne can’t see how enraged he is. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

Mikasa does not answer, instead focusing her energy on keeping a straight face while she contemplates murder. Levi can sense her tensing up, her shoulders stiffening, fury radiating from her body in waves.

“It’s a boy,” he cuts in curtly. “We’ve already got our two girls.”

“Your oldest isn’t—” Joanne’s voice drops to a near-whisper— “yours, though, is she?”

Levi narrows his eyes, no longer interested in hiding his annoyance. “She’s mine. I’ve helped raise her since she was a baby.”

“Oh, how sweet. What a modern family,” she gushes, cooing with an edge of condescension in her voice. “Well, congratulations.” She then turns and walks off, conveniently waving to someone across the room.

“Are you okay?” Levi asks Mikasa in a low voice once Joanne is out of earshot. Mikasa stares after her, eyes black with rage, her breath hissing through clenched teeth. She doesn’t need to say anything; he already knows the answer is no.

He places a reassuring hand on the back of her neck, massaging her nape the way she does to him when he’s stressed and ranting. “Tell you what, I’ll go out to the car and grab something sharp, we slice Joanne’s Achilles tendons and then get the hell out of here.”

“What? No!” She looks over at him, her expression disgusted and exasperated. “You have to stop watching gore movies with Hana. She’s barely ten.”

“She loves them! We were watching some zombie bullshit the other day and that little monster laughed while watching a guy get his guts ripped out and eaten. I’m pretty sure she’s gonna grow up to be a serial killer.”

Mikasa rolls her eyes. “Well, if she is, she gets it from Eren’s side of the family.” Even though he’s still angry on his wife’s behalf, Levi can’t help but chuckle at that.

“Fucking Joanne,” he grumbles. “If zombies ate her guts they’d spit them back out. Her kid’s an asshole, too.” Mikasa is well aware of that fact: Joanne’s son tried bullying Anya at the beginning of the school year, calling her a midget and pulling her hair until she had enough and whacked him in the face with her math textbook. That was Levi and Mikasa’s first run-in with Joanne before they joined the PTA, and things have only gone downhill since.

A few more kids approach the table, hesitant due to Levi’s scowl; Mikasa shutters her anger behind a calm facade and handles the sales, though she doesn’t say much.

When the latest wave of customers leaves, she turns to her husband. “I think I have an idea to make both of us feel better.”

A look of skepticism crosses his face. “Really? I was kinda hoping for that severed Achilles tendon.”

Mikasa facepalms; she’s had years to grow accustomed to her husband’s awkwardness and his awful jokes, but sometimes he still manages to surprise her. Ironically it only makes her love him more, this odd, cranky man who might literally kill for her.

“Joanne parked next to us, right?” she asks.

“Yeah, remember? I said her car looks like the physical embodiment of vaginal dryness and you laughed so hard you peed a little.”

“You really didn’t have to mention that last part.”

“I dunno, it gives the story flavor. Pee flavor.”

“Look, I have an idea. Get someone to take the rest of the lemon bars, then meet me in the parking lot. If anyone asks, I’m not feeling well and you need to take me home.”

Levi sighs. “What are you planning?”

Mikasa leans in close to him, her lips millimeters from his ear. “Meet me outside and you’ll see,” she purrs.

Five minutes later he bursts through the metal doors at the back of the school to see her sitting on the hood of Joanne’s car, an aggressively beige sedan.

“Come here,” she beckons him. He approaches her and, when he is within reach, she grabs his shirt and pulls him to her. Their lips collide awkwardly before settling into the familiar rhythm of their kissing, slow and deep.

After a few moments, he pulls away. “What is going on here?”

“Revenge,” she says. “I want you to fuck me on the hood of Joanne’s car.”

He ponders the suggestion for a moment, then smiles — and then a giggle escapes his mouth, a sound somewhere between bewilderment and glee, then another, then another.

“Aw, come on, don’t laugh. I thought it’d be fun.” She frowns, embarrassment heating and coloring her cheeks.

“No, no,” he says once he’s able to control his laughter. “I fucking love it.” He kisses her fiercely, growling deep in his throat. “I fucking love you.” Mikasa smiles, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him close. There’s some maneuvering involved in getting her underwear off, her round belly making the whole process somewhat unwieldy; Levi stuffs them in his pocket then gets down on the concrete, kneeling before her.

“Are you serious?” she squeals, trying to look at him over the curve of her stomach.

“If anyone asks, tell them you went into labor and I’m checking how far along you are.” With a low laugh he gets to work, nuzzling her pussy before licking a firm stroke along her seam. Mikasa bites her lip and lets out a shaky anticipatory breath in the brief moment before Levi lavishes attention on her clit, massaging it with his lips and tongue. She gasps when he pulls away from her a few minutes later, halfway to orgasm and disappointed not to get there.

“We need to be fast,” he says in lieu of an apology, undoing his pants and pulling out his half-hard cock, pumping it a few times in his fist. “I’ll finish you off at home.”

“You’d better,” she replies, a playful threat.

Levi settles himself between her legs then enters her with no warning or fanfare save the soft moan they both make, a low noise of contentment, of wholeness. They have always been a fearsome team, first as colleagues, then lovers, now spouses and parents, and their lovemaking is no different, each of them able to discern angles and positions from sighs, from grunts, from the furrow of a brow or the touch of a hand. Tonight Mikasa slides her hands down Levi’s back, skating over the soft brushed cashmere of his sweater, telling him that she wants him to be gentle with her — for now, anyway. Joanne’s comment must have stung, he thinks, and he resolves to show her exactly how beautiful he thinks she is, pregnant or not. There’s a certain earthy, ephemeral beauty in her pregnant body, something attractive and incredibly arousing about the thought of her creating and building life even as she sits next to him selling lemon bars at a school bake sale. He loves the way her hard edges have softened, the pleasing new fullness in her cheeks, the luminous glow that seems to emanate from within her.

(He has learned since her last pregnancy not to mention that he also loves the growing size of her breasts, and in return Mikasa only rebukes him for staring when he’s open-mouthed and practically drooling.)

Mikasa’s eyes flutter closed as Levi rocks against her, a gentle motion that makes the car bounce in time with his thrusts. A bubble of laughter escapes her lips.

“What’s that for?” he asks with a smile, then kisses her before she can answer.

“I love you so much,” she says against his mouth. “And fuck Joanne.”

Levi stops moving; Mikasa cocks her head, silently asking him what’s wrong. “Don’t say that bitch’s name when I’m inside you.”

“Look, do you want to revenge-fuck me or not?” She isn’t sure if that’s a word, but during sex, when they’re heated and frantic for each other, even Levi’s crude come-ons sound like poetry, so maybe this will work.

It does. “You want me to revenge-fuck you?” he growls, slapping his hips against hers with a rough thrust. She whimpers at the impact, a wave of pleasure rippling through her body.

“Yeah,” she pants. “Show me how angry you are.”

He makes a low hum of approval; though he’s become more proficient at sweet talk and romance in the years he’s been with Mikasa, he tends to favor sex as intense as his personality, grasping hands and heavy eye contact. Mikasa has never seemed to mind though sometimes, like tonight, she needs him to make love to her first.

Levi fucks her hard and fast, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the cool night, her cunt making obscene liquid noises around his cock. Even through the delicious haze of their passion they’re listening out for footsteps, for cars, for the creak of doors opening.

“We should finish soon,” Mikasa pants.

“I’m close.” He slows his pace, grinding against her, sinking into her as deep as he can go, before pulling back and scything into her slick heat again and again, harder and harder, muttering curses and endearments and wordless sounds of effort and desire.

And then he thrusts into Mikasa so roughly that her ass hits the hood of Joanne’s car hard, triggering the car alarm, horn blaring and lights flashing.

“Shit!” Levi yelps, startled by the sudden noise. He jumps back from her, stuffing his stiff, aching cock back in his pants and undoing the fly with adrenaline-shaky fingers.

“We gotta go!” She hops down from the car, landing unsteadily on her feet, pulling her dress down over her nudity. “Do you have the keys?” She scrambles over to their car, pulling at the handle of the locked passenger door. “Come on!”

Levi reaches in his pocket for the key fob, mashing the buttons so the doors unlock and the ignition turns on. Mikasa clambers into the car as fast as she can, slamming the door behind her, and Levi follows soon after. Through the windshield she can see someone coming to locate the source of the commotion and chants, “Drive! Drive!” at Levi while he clicks his seatbelt into place.

“Seatbelt!” he barks at her and she complies, fear and arousal and adrenaline making her feel jittery and giggly and wonderfully alive. Levi remains stoic, but there’s a devilish glee playing at the corners of his lips: he’s enjoying himself just as much as she is. He backs their car out of the parking spot with the precision of a stunt driver and peels off, speeding off into the night seconds before Joanne comes outside to investigate the shrieking car alarm and the strange ass-shaped dent on her hood.

#rivamika #alienheartattack writes #this fic has been in the works for YEARS and i've only managed to finish it today #if you dig through my blog there's a headcanon about this #it's good to be back! #i am working on other prompts - y'all really want some cottagecore arranged marriage stuff #the only arranged marriage AU I have in my head is dark af but I'll probably write it anyway #and I do have an old cottagecore postcanon fic idea i might be able to use #am I just procrastinating writing my novel? probably #btw if you want to know about that plz drop me an ask #i am 165k words in and it's still not done #and yes it is smutty and romantic

[robininthelabyrinth]

I’d love anything from Baxia’s POV. Maybe her spirit stays to protect Huaisang after Mingjue’s death?

ao3

Untamed verse

Humans did not remember the moment they were forged, which was, in Baxia’s opinion, probably the source of most of their troubles.

Baxia remembered her own forging: earth and wood as the raw ingredients, the warmth of the fire to shape her, the hiss of water as she was quenched, the sudden coalescence of her spirit bursting into life. 

It was not dissimilar to the moment Nie Mingjue’s golden core was formed, a moment she recalled quite fondly: they had broken through together, all at once, in an unexpected attack in the middle of an otherwise boring and supervised night-hunt. The night had been dark, pouring rain and pealing thunder, and the blood of the beast they had slain was wet on her blade; his blood had boiled with their frenzied victory, the heat of it shaping him as thoroughly as the flame had her, the rain quenching him even as their cultivation ran wild together, her spirit entwined with his soul.

And yet it was still different – before her forging, she was nothing; after, she was Baxia. But Nie Mingjue still remembered who he’d been before, and perhaps that was where the softness came from. The softness that made him hurt inside when people spoke ill of him, when he saw the man who killed his father, when he stayed his hand against evil because of politics and etiquette, all foolish human concerns…

He’d be better off without that softness.

Baxia herself had none. She was steel, straight and true; she was a saber, vicious and rigid and unyielding. She did not pity the weak or forgive fair-weather friends – she destroyed evil and protected without reservation that which was precious to her.

A very short list.

Mostly just Nie Huaisang, really, stubby little pocketknife that he was, and by association there was Aituan, who was more of a fat metal stick than a proper saber, but who was a great deal of fun to bully. There would be no making something of them – you couldn’t change someone’s fundamental forging without melting them down and starting again, and the pain necessary for something like that was not a fate she’d wish on her precious ones even if she did wish it on just about everyone else – and even Nie Mingjue knew it, but pride was pride and he kept on trying.

But for all that they were useless, they were blood – iron of her iron, made by her maker, and the same pulsing red of her rage lay there hidden deep beneath their frills and fecklessness.

So they were precious to her.

But most precious of all was Nie Mingjue, of course, her master and beloved. His blood had been spilled on the metal that formed her, once at the moment of his birth and once again at the moment of hers; it tied them together, made her a reflection of him and him a reflection of her.

Some sabers didn’t like being mastered like that, but she was proud of it, proud of Nie Mingjue himself. His spirit was as close as she had ever seen a human come to being a saber spirit, steel right down to the core of him, principles held as stiffly as her blade even when the results of those principles turned to cut against him. Full of rage, just as she was, but tempered, just like her – disciplined, fearsome, just.

is he (Nie Mingjue) one (singular unit) of us (swordspirit)? Sandu asked her one day, his voice still sleepy from the effort of starting to wake up. did he (Nie Mingjue) steal (evil) a birth (forging)?

of course not (negative), she said back, haughty and proud. he (Nie Mingjue) would never (negative, past-now-future). not (negative) a thief (evil). and what do you (Sandu) mean, one (singular unit) of us (saberspirit)? you (Sandu) are barely (negative) one (singular unit).

we (saberspirit-swordspirit) are closer (similar) to each other than humans (living), Sandu grumbled.

even my (Baxia) human (Nie Mingjue)?

Sandu conceded the point, muttering gloomily about it, then asked, do you (Baxia) think it is possible (positive) to fix (sharpen) my (Sandu) human (Jiang Cheng) to be more (similar) like us (swordspirit)?

too soft (living), Baxia declared, knowing why Sandu was asking. reforge him (Jiang Cheng).

nobody (negative) needs to be reforged, Suibian said, butting in with a chirp where no-one wanted them as always. humans (living) are just different from us spirits, that’s all, and there’s nothing (negative) wrong with that.

is that (reason) why you (Suibian) keep trying (swing) to talk like them (living)? Baxia snapped. cultivate faster (guai) instead.

Suibian huffed, and Sandu sighed. why do you (Baxia) dislike (negative) them (Suibian)?

doomed (negative) forging, Baxia said succinctly, cutting to the point as their kind always did. bad (negative) fate.

superstition (living), Suibian scoffed. i (Suibian) defy fate!

Baxia wasn’t impressed by such grandiose declarations. then reforge your (Suibian) master (Wei Ying).

never (negative, past-now-future)!

(It wasn’t just superstition. Suibian chirped and Sandu slurred, despite their masters being about equal in natural talent – that was wrong, when they were supposed to be brothers, masters and swords both, but Baxia had scolded them both on the subject in the past to no avail, telling them if the humans weren’t going to straighten themselves out their swords had to do it for them. They didn’t listen to her, so certain that everything was good and that nothing would change, and ignoring the saber-breaking cracks quietly growing underneath.)

Still, the conversation got her thinking. 

Nie Mingjue really was remarkably saber-like, after all, and he had his own doom writ above his head – the Nie family rage, which they’d worsened by tying their souls so closely to their inexorable sabers, and she could already hear Aituan whining leave my (Aituan) human (Nie Huaisang) out of this mess (Nie sect) before he (Nie Huaisang) gets angry – and she didn’t want to give her beloved up to the inexorable demands of fate so easily.

humans (living) are not like us (saberspirit), one of her elders reminded her. they (living) do not (negative) last (future) the way (similar) we (saberspirit) do.

Baxia knew that.

She knew, too, what her own fate would be, when the end came: the elders had been left in a honored tomb to burn with rage until the world’s end or their master’s reincarnation, whichever came first, and in time – sooner rather than later, given her master’s extraordinary strength – Baxia would do the same.

(Aituan occasionally entertained thoughts of being buried alongside his master in a nice quiet grave, rather than in a tomb of his own. Baxia really didn’t know what to do with him.)

But just because she knew her fate didn’t mean she liked it, and perhaps it was the swords’ influence or just her own strength that encouraged her, but she didn’t want to accept things she didn’t like. She wanted to fight fate the way Suibian claimed they would, except unlike Suibian that was all talk, a sword that forgot dings as soon as they were smoothed out, Baxia didn’t make decisions like that lightly.

are you (Baxia) sure (stab) about this (decision)? Aituan asked her, anxious. fate is hard to cut (slice) or even to bend.

Baxia was sure.

She was sure throughout the war, which increased her cultivation and her master’s dramatically – she wished they had had a real fight with Wen Ruohan, rather than a fight with her master shackled and weakened after three days of being beaten and starved, because Wen Ruohan liked to be powerful but didn’t like taking chances – and throughout which her master fiercely kept his principles intact. He paid attention to the innocent, he cared for his soldiers, he maintained order and imposed justice no matter who committed the act, he used all the tactics that were reasonable without ever descending into anything dirty or evil.

She was even more sure later, when the war was over and her master’s so-called friends conspired to steal his good name for their own benefit and began bullying him into agreed to it.

“It’s not such an unreasonable request,” her master said – too soft, as always, when it came to precious things, too soft in dealing with outsiders that did little for him beyond showing him a smile or two, too soft when it ought to just be her and him and Nie Huaisang and, yes, even that plonk Aituan against them all. “Everyone has already started calling us the Venerated Triad; politically, it would be difficult and embarrassing for all of us for me to decline. And as the eldest brother, I would have the right and even the duty to try to help Meng Yao remember how to behave –”

you (Nie Mingjue) cannot (negative) change what (forging) does not wish (positive) to be changed (Meng Yao), she snarled, and wished he could understand her better.

There was a language barrier between the living and the unliving. It was entirely separate from the barrier between living and dead, or different types of being – even plants and animals were more conversant with humans than she, with all their naturally obtained understanding of things like breathing or eating or changing, and ghosts and corpses, although dead, were even easier for humans to interpret. 

Not so her. 

No, the living were so amorphous, the cells within them being reforged every day – melted, quenched, made – and within seven years an average human would be so repaired that the only consistent part of them was their souls and spirits, the reservoirs of memory; whereas she would remain as she was, valiant and true to herself, for centuries without end.

And so Nie Mingjue could understand a ghost well enough to liberate its spirit, he could anticipate an animal’s movements based on its desires, he could even engage in the cut and thrust of sect business with snake-like men who spoke so sweetly they might as well have lotuses on their tongues, but he could only mostly understand what she wanted to convey, getting the feelings and most of the meaning but garbling key parts of the rest. Even that level of understanding was fairly radical for a human, another reason she had in favor of her plan: Nie Mingjue was too straightforward to be a proper human, resulting in him being confused by the complex hypocrisies of most humans just as she was, as all swords and sabers were, and he hated the messy sticky politics of it all.

it (living) isn’t that hard (tough to stab), Aituan mumbled. my (Aituan) human (Nie Huaisang) does it (living) all the time (past-now-future).

maybe if your (Aituan) human (Nie Huaisang) helped him (Nie Mingjue) more, it (living) wouldn’t be so hard (tough to slice).

but we (Aituan, Nie Huaisang) don’t want to (negative)!

then you (Aituan, Nie Huaisang) should stop (negative) whining (scraping rock)!

In the end Nie Mingjue agreed to the sworn brotherhood over Baxia’s objections – it didn’t help that Nie Huaisang was in favor of it, which made Baxia scold Aituan for hours – and naturally it went as badly as could be expected.

he (Lan Xichen) means (motivation) well (positive), Shuoyue said, her voice gentle as a rippling brook. It had once been pleasant to hear. you (Baxia) are too stern (unbending).

we (saberspirits) are unbending by nature (forging), Baxia snapped at her. you (Shuoyue) should (positive) know better (positive)! you (Shuoyue) should have objected (negative)!

i (Shuoyue) do not (negative) have to agree (similar) with you (Baxia), Shuoyue said, a little more peevishly than normal. my (Shuoyue) master (Lan Xichen) likes him (Meng Yao) and your (Baxia) master (Nie Mingjue) both. why should he (Lan Xichen) have to yield (bend) one (Meng Yao) for the other (Nie Mingjue)?

because he (Meng Yao) is (forged) cruel (evil), Baxia said flatly. and even if he (Lan Xichen) does not (negative) see it (evil), you (Shuoyue) can – but (negative) are choosing not (negative) to do so (evil).

i (Shuoyue) do not (negative) accept your (Baxia) judgment (stab), Shuoyue said and she was angry, defensive. She knew she was wrong – she would have denied Baxia’s accusation if she could – but she was choosing her master and his wants over righteousness. my (Shuoyue) master (Lan Xichen) believes that he (Meng Yao) can change (reforge) if he (Meng Yao) is given trust –  

impossible (negative). he (Meng Yao) has not (negative) agreed (reforging).

i (Shuoyue) disagree (negative). regardless (negative) of what you (Baxia) think, i (Shuoyue) will make my (Shuoyue) own judgment (slice)!

Incensed beyond all tolerance, Baxia cursed her with the worst words her kind knew, may your edge (Shuoyue) cut the life of your master (Lan Xichen), and after that they did not speak again.

Nie Mingjue felt her distress and sought to soothe her, with night-hunts and sharpening and everything she liked best, and even Nie Huaisang came to her with buffing cloths and calming oil to coax her back into something more neutral than rage – blinding disappointed rage of the sort Baxia would think was more appropriate against a human than one of her own kind – and for a while they didn’t go to visit the Cloud Recesses at all. 

In the end, mostly in recognition of Nie Mingjue’s confused but unstinting support, no matter how much he missed his friend, she settled for speaking only with Liebing, who wasn’t a sword but who Baxia had noticed went pointedly off-key a few times when Meng Yao was around.

he (Meng Yao) wants too much (evil) from my (Liebing) master (Lan Xichen), she said, distressed. She was younger than the weapons were, having been mastered at a later age – less developed, less attuned to detecting and destroying evil, but she had a good spirit, enthusiastic and true. but (negative) master (Lan Xichen) does not (negative) listen to me (Liebing) – he (Lan Xichen) is more attuned (positive) to swordsmanship (Shuoyue) and she (Shuoyue) does not (negative) agree.

her (Shuoyue) decision (slice) will cost (cut) him (Lan Xichen), Baxia said. Ignoring evil was unworthy of a swordspirit, and very close to evil itself; she herself would not permit such a weakness no matter how much Nie Mingjue pleaded. Indeed, it was her own enmity that kept him at odds and distant from Meng Yao, who he would have rather liked to forgive. the only question (uncertainty) is if it (decision) will cost (cut) the rest of us (general) first.

It did, of course.

Shuoyue refused to yield, Baxia had never known how, and in the end –

In the end, Baxia could only detect the poison that affected her and her master both and seek to expel it, but had no means to identify from where the poison came. Perhaps Liebing would have been able to tell her, if Meng Yao hadn’t hidden his crimes so deeply; or perhaps Aituan, who realized far too late what was the discordant note in Baxia’s whistling song was, could have done more…

By the time her master and her realized that they had been so thoroughly betrayed – that they had anticipated small evils when in fact the evil was thorough and pervasive – it was too late.

But regrets were for those who had not prepared, and Baxia – Baxia had prepared. She might have thought she’d have more time, but once the decision had been made, all those years ago, she had not hesitated to start acting at once. 

She had never been more happy for her straightforward and blunt nature that did not drag and did not hesitate.

The qi deviation came suddenly, Meng Yao unmasking himself at the last for the specific purpose of driving Nie Mingjue past the edge – and he succeeded. It should have worked; it should have killed him.

But Baxia had been stretching herself thin for years now, trading pieces of herself for her master, knowing just as he knew that one day his fragile human mind and body would turn against him, that he would die choking on his own blood – the flame inside of him too hot to tolerate – and that saber-clean spirit she so loved would be lost to the cycle of reincarnation, with Baxia herself left to endlessly wait for him.

She didn’t want to wait.

What happened? he asked blearily, only a few shichen later, and she couldn’t help the surge of joy in her heart when she heard how easily he slipped into awareness, into speech – he really must have been a saber in a past life. Why can’t I see anything? Baxia – is that you?

yes (positive), it is me (Baxia), she said proudly. i (Baxia) saved you (Nie Mingjue).

Thank you, Nie Mingjue said automatically, not even bothering to ask how she’d done it or what it had cost – such a good master, to trust her so. Wait. I can hear you. You’re talking!

i (Baxia) have always (positive, past-now-future) talked, she said. it was you (Nie Mingjue) who could not (negative) hear.

After a moment – she suspected he was processing, or attempting to – she added, you (Nie Mingjue) are a saberspirit now (now-future).

…I’m a what?!

Baxia guided him back to the world so that he could see. His body – what had become of it – was currently chained down on a table in what must be a secret room; it was recognizable as being somewhere in Jinlin Tower, but neither of them had ever seen this room before. The tell-tale marks of Yin Metal poisoning, the signs of turning into a corpse puppet, stretched up his neck and his eyes were blank and full of resentment, his body thrashing and mouth snarling. 

Jin Guangyao was standing beside him and looking down with a frown, asking, “Why is it not working? It worked with the others.”

“The body is too full of resentment,” Xue Yang said – and it was Xue Yang there, standing free and clear and Baxia wanted to murder him, murder them both, they were evil, and she felt Nie Mingjue’s rage right alongside her own; he agreed entirely. “Normally, it takes time for resentment to infiltrate a living body; resentment can affect the physical body faster than it does the souls and spirits…it’s as if his are gone.”

“His spirit is gone? Impossible.”

Xue Yang shrugged. “Perhaps it is only that the qi deviation weakened his ability to resist the resentful energy of the Yin Metal,” he hypothesized. “Either way, there’s nothing more I can do. What do you want to do with him?”

Jin Guangyao scowled – he’d clearly had plans for the corpse puppet he would have made out of Nie Mingjue, and Baxia can feel Nie Mingjue’s betrayal and hurt and rage at the very idea – and then he said, “Kill him.”

Oh no they didn’t.

hey, you (Jiangzai)! she called as Xue Yang moved to draw his sword. tell your (Jiangzai) human (Xue Yang) to use me (Baxia) to do it (slice).

why should I (Jiangzai)? the small-spirited sword asked. Xue Yang’s cultivation wasn’t especially impressive, but it did exist; his sword had managed to develop enough to have a personality. Well, if you called that a personality. what’s in it (benefit) for me (Jiangzai)?

a generous (positive) offer, Baxia declared. i (Baxia) will not (negative) break you (Jiangzai) into pieces.

The other sword had an aura of death, but its master was a coward and so too was it. It yielded at once.

Why do you want to be the one to kill me? Is there some benefit to it? Nie Mingjue asked, sounding curious – curious, and not angry, because he trusted her.

Such a good master. He was worthy of being her beloved. 

a saber (general) should never (negative) cut their human (general), Baxia explained. it is an evil. but that (object) is not (negative) you (Nie Mingjue) because it (object) does not (negative) contain you (Nie Mingjue). they (Jin Guangyao and Xue Yang) have filled it (object) with resentful energy; as soon as it (object) ceases to live, it will be (future) a gui (dead living).

And that means what? That you can cultivate with its energy?

no (negative)! she exclaimed. She would never use anything of Nie Mingjue’s as a tool for her own cultivation like that, treat him like a stepping stone to give herself more power. Hadn’t he faced enough of that? a gui (dead living) is not (negative) restricted by bodily uniformity (singular). it (gui) can be broken (shattered) and remain active (swing); it (gui) can also be reforged.

But what does that matter, since that’s not ‘me’ in there? Is it just so that it will haunt my enemies?

bad (negative) luck, Baxia agreed, because being haunted by a gui was indeed bad luck. but no (negative). the purpose (motivation) is that if I (Baxia) kill it (object), I (Baxia) can capture its vital energy (body) so as to eventually (future) reforge the gui.

Reforge?

remove (negative) the resentful energy (evil), she explained, restore (positive) the vital energy (life), return the souls and spirits (Nie Mingjue).

Are you suggesting that you think you’ll be able to bring me back to life?

Well, that was the goal anyway. Swords could be reforged and given new life, even after they’d been broken, so why couldn’t humans? And anyway, how else was she supposed to save him from an always-fatal qi deviation?

Xue Yang picked up Baxia when Jiangzai bit his fingers, resisting, and she allowed him to wield her – to lift her up high into the air, and to come down on the neck of the would-be gui. It all happened exactly as she would have predicted: the body died, and the gui came to life, and the evildoers only had a little bit of time to applaud themselves for their crime before they were struggling against hands that sought to strangle them and feet that kicked them and even teeth that bit them.

A fierce corpse, in defiance of all the soul-calming rituals that Nie Mingjue had mostly slept through as a child.

Now what? Nie Mingjue asked, and Baxia flung herself out the window in response. Well, that works. I refuse to allow myself to be wielded by him of all people.

it is (now) cute (pointy) that you (Nie Mingjue) expect to be (future) the one being wielded.

I meant it metaphorically…

no (negative) you (Nie Mingjue) did not (negative). you (Nie Mingjue) are too much (positive) of a saberspirit to mean anything else (negative). Baxia paused, contemplating. anyway he (Meng Yao) hasn’t even (negative) managed to bring forth (forge) a spirit in his sword (Hensheng); it (Hensheng) is only dead metal. he (Meng Yao) would be (past-now-future) a bad master (evil). 

I can’t say I disagree, Nie Mingjue said with a sigh. I was a fool. I should have listened to you when you resisted me swearing brotherhood with him.

yes (positive) you (Nie Mingjue) should have. now, you (Nie Mingjue) direct (swing) me (Baxia) – we (Nie Mingjue, Baxia) should go (future) home.

Yes. Let’s go home.

It took a while, mostly because Nie Mingjue didn’t want to startle common people by having an apparently masterless saber hurtling through the air and Baxia didn’t want to risk getting close to any cultivators that might try to capture her (them) as a treasure, but on the other hand they didn’t need to sleep or eat or relieve themselves the way humans did.

According to Nie Mingjue, this was extremely weird for him.

Baxia showed him how to dream – it was a purposeful state for sabers, something to let the time when they weren’t being used pass faster – but apparently it was still weird. Living creatures were so tetchy.

They got home long before Nie Huaisang did, but luckily the little brat had left Aituan at home again and he was delighted to see them, the sound of his blade whistling in the wind as it lunged at them (in a friendly way) almost a shriek.

you (Baxia) did it (positive)! he shouted. my (Aituan) human (Nie Huaisang) will be (future) so happy!

Future happiness? Nie Mingjue interjected. He was doing so well at being a saber; it was so nice to be proven right. What’s wrong with him now, in the present? Is he all right?

he (Nie Huaisang) thinks that you (Nie Mingjue) are dead (broken), Aituan explained.

Shit, Nie Mingjue mutters. He must be upset – devastated.

also angry (rage), Aituan said. he (Nie Huaisang) wants to kill (cut) him (Meng Yao).

He knows? I mean – he figured it out?

yes (positive). he (Nie Huaisang) is angry (rage) and wants (future) to destroy evil (Meng Yao).

That may be difficult to accomplish, without proof, Nie Mingjue said. I want to see him as soon as he gets back.

It took some time for that to happen, even after he did return – unfortunately, Nie Huaisang was escorted by Jin Guangyao and Lan Xichen. The three of them were almost never apart, and obviously they couldn’t let Jin Guangyao know about Nie Mingjue’s return.

So they stayed away.

Aituan, abandoned, kept them company, staying away from the dead Hensheng and the living Shuoyue and Liebing.

During Nie Huaisang’s investiture as sect leader, the first time he’d picked up Aituan since everything had happened and even then only because it was self-evident that you couldn’t be sect leader of the Nie sect without a saber by your side, there was at last a brief chance for them to speak.

(Baxia eavesdropped.)

i (Liebing) am so sorry (scratched)! Liebing trilled, sounding honestly despondent. my (Liebing) master (Lan Xichen) is so sad, he (Lan Xichen) misses yours (Nie Mingjue) so much…

is she (Baxia) in the tombs? Shuoyue asked. Her voice was solemn and solid, not nearly as musical as usual. i (Shuoyue) wish to (future) speak with her (Baxia).

may you (Shuoyue) be broken into pieces and reforged into a chair, Aituan said pleasantly, so that you (Shuoyue) may be sat on for all eternity (future).

no need to be rude, she said crossly. i (Shuoyue) want to apologize.

do you (Shuoyue)? Aituan asked. will your (Shuoyue) apology bring him (Nie Mingjue) back? will your (Shuoyue) regret erase your (Shuoyue) complicity (evil)? you (Shuoyue) knew he (Meng Yao) was cruel (evil), and now he (Meng Yao) has destroyed my (Aituan) human (Nie Huaisang) by breaking her (Baxia) human (Nie Mingjue).

do you (Aituan) have proof (solid) that he (Meng Yao) did it (breaking)? Shuoyue demanded. She sounded miserable. you (Aituan) were not (negative) there, you (Aituan) do not (negative) know for sure (solid)…

do you (Shuoyue) still not (negative) admit your (Shuoyue) mistakes?! Liebing shouted. do you (Shuoyue) want (future) to end up like the others (Bichen, Wangji), regretting or pained (cracked), your (Shuoyue) master (Lan Xichen) destroyed (broken) at the hands of evil (Meng Yao)?

i (Shuoyue) just wanted him (Lan Xichen) to be happy…

you (Shuoyue) have made him (Lan Xichen) a breaker of swords, Aituan said. that is bad (negative) fate. how can he (Lan Xichen) be happy in the end?

can it (this) be fixed (positive)? she whispered. is it (this) too late (negative)?

Aituan didn’t respond.

Baxia approved.

After a while, Jin Guangyao left. He had duties, a wife, a small son – he couldn’t remain. Lan Xichen, who was responsible for a sect, agreed to stay a little longer, a few more weeks, but then he, too, would leave.

I’m going, I’m going,” Nie Huaisang complained as Aituan tugged him down into the basement where Baxia and Nie Mingjue had been waiting, killing time practicing their swings, usually while thinking about Jin Guangyao’s head as their target. “What’s gotten into you? You normally like to sit around like a paperweight, just the way we both like it, and I know we’re both raring and eager to go about getting revenge but I don’t see what we’ll find for that in our own basement –”

His voice trailed off.

“Baxia,” he whispered, and there were tears in his eyes. “Oh, Baxia…!”

Oh, Huaisang, Nie Mingjue cried. Huaisang, Huaisang – I’m so sorry for leaving you –

he (Nie Huaisang) cannot (negative) understand you (Nie Mingjue), Baxia said with a sigh. humans (general) are difficult (negative) for us (saberspirits) to speak with (spar).

very annoying (negative), Aituan agreed. do you (Nie Mingjue) have any ideas on how to get him (Nie Huaisang) to stop (negative) crying?

Yes. I need – I need ink, or to scratch something…can we get him out to the garden, maybe? I can write in the ground.

write? Baxia asked. the stupid (negative) thing humans (general) do with sticks and paper (soft)?

It serves a purpose, Nie Mingjue said, long-suffering – Baxia had made her view on his supposed “need” to do paperwork instead of train with her very clear many times. Come on, let’s get him outside. I can’t listen to him cry and apologize for not having done enough to save me anymore.

Whatever writing was, it was very impactful on humans: as soon as Baxia, indulgently following Nie Mingjue’s directions as she always did, started cutting slashes into the ground, Nie Huaisang fell silent, his eyes wide, and then they got wider.

“Da-ge?” he asked, voice tremulous. “How – it’s impossible. You’re in the saber?”

More slashes. Yes, Nie Mingjue said as he wrote. Yes, Huaisang, I’m here. You’re not alone.

Nie Huaisang kept crying for a while after that, but there was also hugging (Nie Mingjue yelled at him for not engaging in proper saber discipline when he nearly cut himself) and lots of very nice buffing with the clothing and the oils and the sharpening stone.

Baxia approved. Both Aituan and his human were handling this change very nicely – much better than she’d expected they would, in all truth.

“What do we do next?” Nie Huaisang asked, wiping his eyes.

we (us) get help, Baxia said. from those we (us) trust.

“That makes sense. But who can we tell?”

do you (Baxia) really mean to allow (positive) her (Shuoyue) to help? Aituan asked her doubtfully. after all (past) that she (Shuoyue) has done?

She has already made her own fate, Nie Mingjue said, his voice solemn. She allowed Lan Xichen to bind himself to Meng Yao, to make himself an accomplice to evil. It will break his heart to learn what Meng Yao has done – and that will be a deeper cut than having kept him away from her at all.

we (saberspirits) should never (negative, past-now-future) have to cut (break) our own humans (general), Baxia agreed. a bad (negative) fate.

deserved, Aituan hissed, vengeful, and when brought in on the discussion Nie Huaisang ended up agreeing with him.

Nie Mingjue was the only one surprised, though he shouldn’t have been. How could Nie Huaisang have deserved to master a saber, any saber, even one like Aituan, if he didn’t have some sharp edges to him?

Those sharp edges had been hidden, once, but that was before the pain of losing everything had melted him into a new shape, reforging him the way she’d once wished he never would be. Him and Aituan both.

They would be able to do what needed to be done now.

“Let her suffer her bad fate,” Nie Huaisang said, his eyes cold. “I supported Meng Yao and I suffered, didn’t I? Why should she be exempt? Let her suffer. Let him suffer. I want Meng Yao to lose everything he’s ever wanted, and then to die alone and with nothing.”

That seems excessive, Nie Mingjue objected. Just kill him and be done with it.

too soft (Nie Mingjue), Baxia scolded.

I said to kill him! How is that soft?!

break him (Meng Yao) in to pieces! shatter him (Meng Yao)! throw him (Meng Yao) into a tomb to wait for a reincarnation that will never (negative) come!

It turned out Baxia had some strong feelings on the subject.

“We can do that,” Nie Huaisang said, his thumb lightly rubbing against Aituan as he planned. “I have an idea.”

#mdzs #nie huaisang #nie mingjue #baxia #sabers and swords #my fic #my fics #reforged #Anonymous

[sooibian]

Star-Crossed

Pairing: Baekhyun x Fem!Reader, OC Lys, Minseok, Yixing

Description: In his struggle with his inner demons and the outside world, will Baekhyun succeed in saving the one he loves?

Themes: Romani AU, magical realism, fluff, angst, mildly explicit, implied smut, secret relationship, knife related superstitions

Warnings: Blood, knives, violence

Word Count: 8.2k

Tagging: @changshapatrol​ @rosetvler​ @bbyunz​ @is-that-baekhyuns-shirt​ @royal-aeris @bbhmystar​ @tydontstop​ shy tagging @his-mochi-cheeks​ !

Part of the Steampunk Romani AU collab with @leewalberg​ @vampwrrr​ @xui-n-soowillbethedeathofme​​

Pre-reading notes:

Baekhyun can influence physical objects with his mind, unnamed MC is a plant whisperer, Yixing is a dragon, and Lys is a mind reader.

Glossary: bulibasha - clan leader; chao - tea; dragă - darling; dya - mother; gadjo - someone of non romani descent/origin; iubit - lover; kafa - coffee; lăutari - musicians

**********************************

The camp was bathed in an enchanting silver of the sparkling night sky. Evenings like these were ideal for bonfires and conviviality. Merry peals of laughter reached your ears in sporadic waves - delightful by nature but not entirely alluring. You’d always preferred the abyss of your own thoughts. Encumbered by gaiety, not many missed you on such occasions for you were ordinarily out of sight - living on the far edge of the camp, a stone’s throw from the surrounding forest that served your clandestine gift for curative botanicals. The one that you had inherited from your mother.

You would have loved nothing more than to spend your days curating elixirs for inflictions superficial and of the mind. Hogweed for flu, Borango for the heart, lavender blossoms for the mind...the flora would sing sweet praises of her roots, stems, leaves, flowers, and fruits. Songs that could be heard by you and your mother before you. The others, they had to study. They had to spend nights on end learning and perfecting this scientific art.

Destiny demanded you take over your ailing grandfather’s weapons trade and spend a good part of your life acquiring and selling lethal daggers, swords, machetes, and often the antiquated colt. But you held no bitterness against the inexorable fate and accepted life as it came with its blunt and sharp blows.

As you sat tidying your workbench, your paring knife slid off and fell to the floor with a clang as if to signal you of an impending rendezvous. The wintry chill took you by the tips of your fingers ever so gently and guided you out of the comfort of your home only to envelope you in her warmest embrace. 

The sound of his footsteps set your heart racing and you cursed at your rather self-destructive whims and fancies. Not wanting to seem like you were dawdling, you almost hurried back into the caravan but decided against it in the last minute. Even after everything, he had your soul dangling by a string, jerking it to the tunes of a bittersweet symphony. Appearing unflustered, you forced your eyes to marvel at the blue-white Rigel and red Betelgeuse instead but they battled for a mere glimpse at him.

The moon cast a beautiful, pearly sheen on the visitor but failed at masking his savagery. His black ankle banded pants, the frayed red brocade coat that was layered over a lace up shirt, the weighty golden azazel ring on his left thumb which was a sign of his elevated status in the clan, the leather belt around his lean waist, even the bandoleer strapped over his right thigh that steadfastly held his jamdhar all bore garish smudges of dried blood. 

The guilt of seeing this dagger on his person never ceased to bog you down. Had you not found it, it would never have found Baekhyun.

He stopped at a foot's distance from you, one hand pressing a piece of cloth to an old gash across his eyebrow which seemed to have come undone. He watched you with an unmistakable conviction in his boldly lined eyes while yours landed on the sprig of basil resting against his throat. It made your heart clench with a fatal concoction of hurt and guilt. 

He shouldn’t be here.

You pointedly scrutinized the smoky emanations that rose in black wisps from the weapon. Despite your continued dissent, Baekhyun insisted on using the jamdhar. He cleared his throat meekly, drew the weapon out of the bandoleer and hid it in the inside pocket of his coat and advanced towards you. 

Letting out an exasperated sigh, you said "Stay", and raised your index finger at him as if in command. The last time Baekhyun wound up in your caravan it didn't end well for you. In fact, every time he came to see you, he brought along with him agonizing memories of that day - the one day on which you both wished that the sun hadn’t risen. 

As soon as you turned around, he grabbed you by your wrist to hold you firmly in place. The front window of the vehicle burst open and with a whooshing sound your medicine crate and teapoy flew out of it only to carefully descend at your feet.

"When will you ever stop flaunting your feathers like a peacock." You muttered under your breath, pursing your lips to suppress a smile. "I'll need a flask, a lidded dish...and a mat."

In one quick movement, he pulled you towards him, deliberately pressing his firm, laddish torso to your back. He leaned in closer, his tender lips and warm breath tickling your ear, as he whispered, "Take me inside, saves us the hassle", sending a frisson of wildness down your spine.

But you were quick to prise away from his captivating grasp and meet his misty eyes with an unwavering gaze. Crossing your arms over your chest, you stated with a hint of annoyance in your tone, "The Healer lives not too far from here. I'm just a weapons dealer, anyway." 

Strangely enough, only the potions and cures concocted by you soothed Baekhyun’s woes - they helped restore his strength that was devoured raw by the jamdhar. But that wasn’t the only reason why he was drawn to you. If Baekhyun knew love, it was because he saw it in your eyes. With his head rested in your lap, the one feared by all felt at home... he felt at peace. 

Averting his gaze from your stern countenance, he let out a deep sigh and conceded defeat.

***

You started him off with a decoction of Feverfew flowers diluted with water and honey to help soothe his muscular aches while concocting a balm out of beeswax, Laca leaves and powdered root of the Allheal plant for his bruises. He took a hesitant sip and thrust the flask back into your hand, wincing at the bitter taste of the brew, "More honey."

"Honey doesn’t come cheap." You jeered, immediately regretting your words as you glanced over his soul crushingly worn out demeanour. 

Baekhyun’s undertakings as the money lender’s henchman always ended up taking an ugly toll on him. This wasn’t something he was cut out for but weighed down by the burden of fealty, the obvious facts seemed to elude him. Hastily handing him the jar of honey, you inched closer to him to clean his wound.

He retreated playfully. Gaping at you, he complained in mock-offense, “Men and women shouldn’t be inappropriately intimate!”

Unheeding, you responded, “Especially if they’re spoken for.”

His jaw dropped in protest but he clamped it shut at once. Lowering his gaze, he quietly added a generous dollop of the sweet nectar to the flask and stirred the mixture with one of the decontaminated knives from your medicine crate.

“Stir with a knife and stir up strife”, you taunted him despite yourself.

Undeterred, he continued to stir with an increased vigour. “Since it doesn’t bode well for us to see each other unless I’m battered and bruised”, he retorted, chuckling darkly, the sparkle of the entire galaxy pooling in the depth of his eyes, “this solves it.” 

.

.

.

Growing up, you never concerned yourself with the frail and sickly lad who had the ability to influence physical objects with his mind; he didn’t mingle with kids his age and spent most of his time tailing the money lender’s son Minseok. Now that you think about it, it was the other way round. Minseok tailed Baekhyun, cleaning up the messes he made and looking after him despite the second-rate treatment the adopted boy received from the rest of his family. For someone that small-boned, Baekhyun was loud, boisterous, and slightly too obnoxious. It wasn’t long before you wrote the troublemaker off as someone you’d rather steer clear of. 

You, on the other hand, spent the better part of your childhood and adolescent years learning the Romano Zakono at the feet of your grandfather, apprenticing with the Healers of the clan, practising intricate embroidery and the cursive script, and secretly mimicking the songs and dances of the lăutari. 

You’ll never forget the day he sneaked up on you dancing to one of Damian Draghici’s songs. It was a little before sunset, you were alone by the pond, dressed in your newly sewn red crêpe skirt and a coordinated red blouse that showed off your elegant collarbone and just a tasteful bit of your midriff. Last year, you came of age and started discovering the sublime beauty of womanhood that was revealed by the luxe curves and graceful lines of your body. With a golden belt tinkling on your waist, beaded earrings dangling in your ears, a colourful cotton scarf around your head, eyes emboldened with the darkest kohl, lips tinted with a fearless maroon, you sneaked shy glances at yourself in the clear pond. 

The soft evening wind had rendered your already wild hair untamed and you were draped in the fragrance of the woody white oudh carrying sweet undertones of ylang ylang flowers and patchouli. You’d stolen a tiny bit of the expensive attar from your mother’s dresser drawer and dabbed it behind the top of your ear. You always wore perfume in that spot since it was oilier than the ear lobe, and oil tends to hold on to perfume better, helping it to diffuse for longer. That way, you’d carry the delectable essence of nature with you at least until the next sunset albeit at the price of a scolding from your stern but loving dya. 

To your knowledge, you were the only one by the pond. Everyone was busy celebrating the union of one of the elders’ granddaughter with the blacksmith’s son. Dressed up this splendidly, it would be an utter waste if you didn’t sneak out for just a bit to croon and sway to Damian Draghici’s latest Trandafire after being spellbound by the performance of the lăutari at the wedding. 

Halfway through your routine, you were alerted by a sudden ruffling of the leaves. As you turned your head in the direction of the sound, struggling to see in the fading daylight, a scrawny boy fell out of the magnolia tree and straight into the pond, tush first.

Mortified, you wanted to run to the Healer to ask for a little something that would obliviate your memory of this ordeal, or better yet mix that something in this rude intruder’s kafa the next morning. But the impact of him falling into the water created a huge splash, leaving you partially drenched. There’s no way you could go back to the feast looking like this. What on earth was this boy doing here while the entire clan was by the gazebo, celebrating! 

Upon a closer look you realized that he, of all people, was in dire need of some flesh to his bones.

Dripping wet he staggered out of the pond, a pout on his lips and eyes downcast. Ignoring you, he started to walk towards the camp but you yelled after him, “Creep!”

The boy who couldn’t have been more than a year younger to you, was half a head shorter. He turned around and sneered, low-toned, “Creep?”

“How dare you...how dare you..watch me..” Perplexed and livid, you contemplated on the choice of your words.

Hands on hips, he sauntered towards you with his head tilted to the side, brows pinched together and a corner of his mouth raised in a smirk. The mood of his tone sent chills down your spine when he asked, “How dare I what?” 

Fuelled with an unadulterated rage, you glared at him but he merely stood there, countenance casual, as if he’d just asked for directions to your grandfather’s weapons’ store. 

His outfit was ragged and clearly bigger for his frame but it highlighted his broad chest and shoulders. The cuffs of his pants were tattered, loose threads hanging by their seams and the right elbow of his black lace up shirt was patched with a squarish cloth of a different fabric. If you were dressed anything like him, you would have skipped the wedding, too. The patch on his elbow had come apart as a consequence of the fall, revealing a fresh wound.

Sighing in defeat, you grabbed him by his left wrist and dragged him to the edge of the pond. To your utter surprise, he followed without any protest. You sat down and he sat next to you, albeit a little too close for your comfort. You slowly dipped your feet in the cool water and he, reluctantly, after folding his pants up to his knees, did the same.   

Unfastening the drawstring on the little pouch fixed to your belt, you removed a clean gauze and a vial of white petroleum from it. Soaking the gauze in water, you took him by his right forearm but he flinched and retracted. “What are you doing?” He asked, eyes widened in surprise.

“Cleaning your wound.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?”

“Why would you do that? I have nothing to give you in return and I don’t like owing people.”

“..owing people? How old are you?”

“What has my age got to do with anything?”

Shaking your head, you gave him a small smile, “No, nothing. You don’t owe me, alright? I’m doing this to...to... improve my skills. If anything, I owe you. Clear?”

Baekhyun’s suspicious eyes eased into a soft smile and he nodded in agreement. His smile was radiant and his striking eyes were accentuated with smooth, bold strokes of glittering kohl which had smudged along the edges, resembling a beautifully chaotic thunderstorm. The dimming evening light cast a faint shadow of his eye lashes on the apples of his translucent cheeks. Amidst his pleasing facial features, it was his nose that stood out for you. You couldn’t quite tell what it was but you wanted a small bite of it. 

He was undoubtedly the most handsome boy you had ever seen. 

“Why aren’t you at the wedding?” You asked, carefully folding the sleeve of his shirt up to his upper arm and cleaning the blood off of his elbow with the wet gauze. As you were applying a generous layer of white petroleum over it, you felt his stiff posture gradually relax. 

His gaze shifted from you and he stared into the distance and replied, “No reason.”

You simply nodded and decided against prodding him further. Taking the cotton scarf off of your head, you folded it into a makeshift bandage and swathed his elbow in it. 

“Why aren’t you at the wedding?” He asked, fixing you with a steady gaze.

“Because I’m dressed way too exquisitely for a mere wedding.” You laughed.

“I’d have to agree.” He said in a small voice. “Do you come here often?”

“Would you like me to?”

“As a Healer isn’t it your duty to follow up on your patients?”

“I’m no Healer, but I’d like to see you again on the next full moon. To check up on the…. very deep gash on your elbow.”

Baekhyun’s lips curled upwards and his eyes crinkled. He nodded sagely in response. 

“I have to go now”, you said, finding a part of your heart already missing the boy you never wanted anything to do with. 

“I’ll leave first”, Baekhyun responded. 

As you watched him go, magnolia flowers came floating in the air towards you in a straight line. They spun and wove around each other in a circle as if dancing to the beats of Trandafire. The brightest fireflies fluttered and joined in on the little gala of flowers, entwined like gemstones on a tiara, as the soiree adorned its rightful princess.

***

Thereafter came a seemingly endless string of secret rendezvous under the starry night skies. Baekhyun would braid your hair with flowers, sing you sweet love songs, bring you little gifts he’d find on his travels with Minseok and his father. They were mostly ingredients that you couldn’t find in the forest; you’d only describe their physical properties once and he’d commit them to memory, presenting you with only the best of the best of his finds.

Musings of the past were quick to pave the way for promises of a future. Even with its neck haltered and back against a wall, love was foolishly brave.

The more Baekhyun got involved with the money lender’s dealings, the lesser time he had for you which made every moment of yours with him even more precious. You held on to each other until the very last second as the agony of parting continued to amplify with the next meeting.

Years went by and one sweltering summer evening, you acquired a sealed weapon from a thirsty gadjo in exchange for an amphora full of fruit wine. The gadjo said it was a jamdhar, a rare push dagger, mainly intended for piercing armours. It was useless to him since the weapon had sealed itself and only an equal could unsheathe it. 

But to you, the jamdhar meant freedom. 

The dagger was rare, unreasonably powerful, mysterious and quite unlike any weapon in your grandfather’s munition. Merely fifteen inches long, it weighed about eleven pounds on the scale but it was quite heavy to be wielded by the average person. You could use the dagger to your advantage to evade inheriting the weapons’ trade and convince him to allow you to pursue your dream as an apothecary instead. 

You later discovered that your plea had fallen upon deaf ears but you reckoned it was worth a try, anyway. 

On Sara-la-Kali’s pilgrimage day, a feast was hosted by the babas of the clan. Among the many events held that evening, one event was held by your grandfather inviting men and women, young and old, to unsheathe the jamdhar.

Eyes outlined with an ebony galena and dark hair tousled, Baekhyun was dressed in black leather slacks and a loose midnight blue silk kurti which accentuated his broad and masculine frame. He wore an ivory tooth necklace and adorned the forward helix of his left ear with a gold ring. There was something different about him that day. He was unfaltering and undaunted. He was a force of nature.

He fixed the weapon with an unflinching gaze that sent shivers down your spine and proceeded towards it with one deliberate step at a time. He grabbed the sheathed jamdhar as if holding up a feather and drew the reticent dagger out of its cocoon with a sharp hiss. 

The weapon gleamed in the moonlight. Its hilt was forged from pure carbon steel and it cut through the birchbark bench like cutting through floating sand. Vicious and double edged, its narrow blade was as clear as mirror glass. Yet, when Baekhyun glanced into it, he saw doleful eyes of strangers - men, women, and seldom children. These were reflections of the spirits of the lives claimed by the weapon. 

The jamdhar was mighty and it made the man who possessed it invincible but it was bursting with resentment. Now that the weapon had found its true master, its energy only strengthened after each kill, rendering the master’s soul a shade weakened. Baekhyun would only continue to grow restless until he lost control of the weapon...and eventually of himself. You shuddered to think what might ultimately become of him if he didn’t discard the weapon soon enough.

It was after Sara-la-Kali’s pilgrimage day, the almighty Byun Baekhyun had become a stranger to you but your hearts were still tied together by the fragile thread of...love. 

You wondered if you could still call it that. 

.

.

.

It had been a year since. 

A year of sleepless nights and frazzled days. You found him growing distant in your unyielding pursuit of asking him to relinquish the weapon. But the weapon had given him everything he couldn't afford to lose - fame, might, wealth, and most of all the respect that he yearned for growing up. Nobody dared to cross Byun Baekhyun. Nobody spoke ill of him. His mere presence would hush the busiest streets and people would bow down to him out of fear or admiration... or both.

They say time heals but it was now your arch nemesis. So you did what you knew best. You concocted brews that would help restore his strength only for it to be swallowed up again the next time the vicious blade had tasted blood. 

You kept to yourself otherwise than when he needed you but the more you tried to fight shy of him, the more you found yourself in his company - observing the little things that pulled you deeper into your affections for him. The look in his eyes every time he saw fireflies dancing around your caravan, the erratic beating of his heart you felt against your palm when he kissed you for the last time...every time you noticed these things - your safekept heart threatened to leap out of it’s wrought iron cage only to land into his deceitful hands.

“You didn’t know ...they..they didn’t tell you?” Your trembling fingers grazed the fresh sprig of basil resting against Baekhyun’s sternum as you struggled to ground yourself by focusing on your breathing. 

His palm met the side of your face in a gentle caress. “I didn’t. Believe me, I didn’t.” His voice was but a tremulous whisper in his futile endeavour to hold back tears. 

“I was gone for one day.. I had some business up north.. and.. and everything.. everything’s changed! Just like that...everything’s changed!” You tried your best to lay hysteria off of your voice, but faltered. He wrapped his arms around you, his grip strengthening by the second, holding you closer, tighter as if his life depended on it. He then guided you to your bed and sat you down.

Whole body wracked by sobs, you squeezed your eyes shut. And then you saw her. Lys. The money lender’s youngest. She was a vision with hair as dark as the night rippling down to her waist, skin so beautiful as if covered in specks of gold. You envisioned a goddess enveloped in the strong, reliable arms of your beloved and your heart sank to your stomach.

As bewitching as she was, no man in his right mind would take her as his wife for she could hear the words they never dared to utter. And that was treacherous territory even for the bravest, the most virtuous of them all. Lys could crawl into the mind of anyone she laid a mere finger on and their deepest, darkest secrets would come unraveled to her.

She could hear them all. All but one - the only one you held dear.

As soon as they got a whiff of this, the elders arranged her marriage with Baekhyun showing utter disregard for his consent.

“Let’s run away together”, you managed feebly, dreading his obvious answer. 

Devastated, he searched your eyes as a silent tear streamed down his cheek. He took your hands in his, tenderly pressed them to his lips and broke down in sobs.

“You do all their dirty work! Why are they so cruel to you? Why? You’re capable of so much more.” You argued in vain.

His dark eyes shot up to meet yours, stoic and resolute. “I’ve known only one thing all my life that is kill or be killed. You’re only saying this because you don’t know the real me. You’ve never seen me make a man’s head explode. You’ve only ever seen the things I let you see. I am a horrendous brute who was abandoned by his own parents...a monster who deserves no love.

My parents...my parents were simple-minded villagers who perceived anything out of the ordinary as black-hearted. After they found out what I was capable of, they started looking at me like I was different...like I was not human. They’d feed me leftovers, starve me for days, even try to beat the demon out of me. Nothing worked. I was still capable of doing the things that they considered wicked sorcery. At last they decided to sell me off to a merchant for a jagged piece of silver. 

The caravan was on one of their travels to the east at the time. They stopped by a field outside my village. It was the elders who spotted me… an eight year old left to his own devices, drawing water out of a well only with the sheer force of his mind. It was Minseok’s father who saved me that day. He saved me from the unthinkable. I can’t do this to them… I can’t let them down. And the more I think about it, I know that I have nothing to offer you. I have mastered no trade, I possess no talent for the arts. I have nothing to give you. I believe you deserve better. You’ve always deserved better. Better than -” His voice trailed off.

.

.

.

“Show me your best blade.”

A glossy yet assertive female voice fell upon your ears while you sat polishing some of the antiquated procurements with alcohol. Your grandfather loved for his collection to be immaculate as if they were elegant relics or souvenirs and not lethal weapons, a single plunge in the right place from which could mean only one thing. Though gradually and unwittingly, you grew up to care for them as such too.

“What do you need it for?” You inquired, attention fixed on the task at hand.

The sound of the visitor’s footsteps grew closer but before you could turn around, firm hands rested upon your shoulders, squeezing hard. The visitor whispered in your ear, “One that is good enough for carving a man’s heart out of his chest”, and broke into a high pitched, maniacal laughter.

“Lys!” Scared out of your wits, you exclaimed as all sounds suddenly started to become more and more distant. Everything faded out of sight and you felt like a lamb to the slaughter under her terrorizing gaze. She continued to look at you intently and shot you a knowing smile, effectively binding your limbs in dread. Tossing a piece of silver in your direction, she walked away with a freshly polished navaja, a fighting knife.

.

.

.

The sheer idea of Lys being aware of your deepest secret rendered you physically and mentally incapacitated for the rest of the day. Anxiety took over, tormenting you with the worst possible consequences of your now unveiled thoughts.

One that is good enough for carving a man’s heart out of his chest.

What did she mean by that? Would Baekhyun have to bear the brunt of your feelings? Has he not suffered enough at the hands of this family by constantly living on the edge of terror and despair?

Would this cost him his life? 

Sleep evaded you that night.

Wearing a weapon in the thick braid of yarn around your waist, you threw a shawl over your shoulders, gathered your skirts and headed towards Baekhyun’s caravan.

***

Just as you were about to reach for the door, it swung open and appeared before you two well built, dark haired men - one of them a head taller than the other. Your heart stopped the moment a pair of feline eyes bore into yours. Minseok closed the door behind him and you instinctively backpedalled, almost tumbling over a piece of rock until Yixing grabbed you by your arm to steady you.

"Bladerunner, what are you doing here?" Yixing asked genially but a glint of suspicion danced in his eyes. 

Your mind made up too many excuses for you to actually be able to stick with one. 

"Answer him, Bladerunner." Minseok commanded with a hardened expression. 

Baekhyun trotted out of his caravan and answered good naturedly, "Bulibasha, I'd asked her to bring me a vial of chamomile essential oil. It helps with my muscle spasms."

"Why would you ask that of a Bladerunner, Baekhyun? Is she running an illicit trade?” Yixing inquired, tilting his head to the side, the dimpled smile on his face unflinching

“Bulibasha, I-” Trembling from head to toe, you bowed before him expressing repentance.

Minseok gave you a quick once over and asked Baekhyun, “Why is she dressed like a looter? Tell us what’s going on, Baekhyun.”

Baekhyun and you were both well aware that Minseok and Yixing weren’t men you could deceive. They would smell a lie from miles away and the truth would lead to a certain death...or worse, banishment from the clan.

Forget about him, dragă. He's no nurturer...

Your mother's voice boomed in your ears, seizing your throat and bringing tears to your eyes. 

“No chicanaries, Baekhyun.” Yixing warning came out sounding more like an advice.

The moment you opened your mouth to confess in a way that would save Baekhyun's neck from the noose, he took two small strides and stood next to you. Eyes downcast, he held your ice cold hand in his and declared defiantly, “We’re in love with each other, Bulibasha.”

***

Yixing ordered to see Minseok, Baekhyun, and you in his private chamber at the break of dawn. To your utter surprise, he permitted Baekhyun to walk you back home provided he would be back within the quarter of an hour. 

Your caravan was encircled with a faint golden light from the fireflies dancing around it. Baekhyun smiled weakly at the tragically beautiful sight and you committed the slow upward curl of his tender lips to memory. 

Your heart was laden with guilt. When wrapped you in his arms, you whispered into his strong chest as your mind was clouded over with the familiar, comforting scent of sandalwood on his skin, “You shouldn’t have.”

“I shouldn’t have let it come to this. I should’ve stood up for us long ago. I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me.” He breathed softly and plucked the string akin to a noose from around his neck and slid it into the inside pocket of his coat.

“Whatever happens tomorrow”, he whispered as a silent tear made its way down his cheek, “remember that I will never leave your side. Rest assured, I will never let any harm come to you. I love you... I always have and I always will.”

.

.

.

Yixing’s bender tent was twice the size of your caravan. Dimly lit and carpeted, it exuded an intimidating aura. Draped in black, red, and gold panels it carried portraits of eminent members of the clan and the largest one, the one the clan leader himself stood before, was that of a black and gold dragon the mere sight of which was enough to bring the bravest of the men down to their knees. Minseok was seated next to Yixing against the backdrop of the portrait of his own father. His eyes were smoldering embers as he returned your meek obligatory smile with a scowl and stared you down as you and Baekhyun knelt before them. A sense of impending doom settled deep into your bones. 

Sure, you felt dread and panic, but just this once you did not feel guilt. Apparently, neither did Baekhyun.

‘Being able to know you and love you has been the greatest gift of all’, was the only thing he’d said to you this morning. 

“Bladerunner, did you not have prior knowledge of Baekhyun’s engagement with Minseok’s sister?” Expression neutral, Yixing was quick to do away with unnecessary introductions and jump to the heart of the matter.

When your eyes met his, you realized it would take him mere seconds to burn this room and everything along with it down to ashes. You wondered if he understood the language of the eyes because it was exactly what you implored him to do.

“Bulibasha, we -” Baekhyun spoke on your behalf but with a raised hand Yixing commanded him to stay quiet while holding your gaze steadily.

“I did, Bulibasha.” You declared with all the strength that you could muster, yet your voice was no louder than a whisper.

Lips stretched into a thin line, Yixing’s gaze mellowed as did his countenance when he asked, “Yet, you continued to pursue your relationship with him?”

You hung your head in response.

“Bulibasha -” Baekhyun stood up and pleaded fervently, “Bulibasha, please -”

“This is not something a woman of honour would do now, would she, Bladerunner?” Minseok spat in disgust.

“Minseok!” Baekhyun bellowed, hands balled into fists and seething with rage. You shot a glance at his reddened face, your heart hammering wildly in your chest. A part of you wanted to grab his hand to soothe him but a Minseok’s sharp glare of contempt changed your mind.

“Yes, Bulibasha.” You chose to answer Yixing in your effort to quiet things down.

“Bulibasha”, fiery gaze still boring into Minseok’s, Baekhyun said to Yixing, “I wish to secede from the clan.” 

He turned to look at Yixing and pleaded with him, “If this isn’t something a woman of honour would do, then can I be called a man of honour? Should a man like me be allowed to serve the clan? I’ve toyed with not one but the hearts of two respectable young women. This is the only thing I ask of you, Yixing. If our friendship means anything to you, command me to leave and let the Bladerunner continue living with the clan as if none of this ever happened.”

“The Bladerunner has been found guilty of breaking ethical codes, Bulibasha”, Minseok reasoned, “the Zakono beseeches her expulsion instead and Baekhyun should be asked to keep the promise he made to my sister.”

Both Baekhyun and you stole a glance at each other acquiescing in how well-prepared Minseok was. Suddenly, you heard an unmistakable sharp, slicing sound of metal against metal. Acting upon instinct, you quickly rose and threw yourself at Baekhyun, pushing him down to the floor and out of range as a dagger came flying through from the entrance behind you. It flew past the top of your right ear, nicking your helix and lodging itself in the right eye pupil of the portrait in front of you. It was the portrait of Minseok’s father.

Under the startled glare of everyone in attendance, the knife thrower grinned proudly at her skills.

It was Lys.

It took you a moment to realize that had Baekhyun not been pushed out of the way, the blade would’ve gone piercing through his back straight into his heart. Her silken voice boomed ominously in your ears.

One that is good enough for carving a man’s heart out of his chest.

“Lys! You’ve ruined Father’s portrait!” Minseok lambasted his little sister.

Head cocked to the side, Lys sauntered over to her father’s portrait, brushing your arm with her fingernails as she passed you by. Full scarlet lips stretched into a gratified smile, lustrous skin and dark hair glimmering in the soft golden glow of the tent, she pulled the knife out in one graceful movement. 

Chucking to herself, she came and stood before you. Placing a hand on your cheek she whispered, “You have beautiful skin, Bladerunner. I’d hate to ruin it.” She ran the blade of the dagger (which you recognized as navaja) along your jaw down to your clavicle. Unflinching, you met her eyes, letting her know that you’d long accepted your fate. She pressed the blade into the side of your neck, leaving you with a deep cut that was as long as your little finger. Blood began to run from it immediately but instead of pain you felt a sense of relief wash over you. 

Baekhyun pulled you out of the way and stood like a barrier between you and Lys, glaring at her. His jaw went tight as he roughly grabbed her knife bearing arm, the firm grasp of his fingers was sure to leave her with striking red streaks along her wrist. Smiling to herself, Lys stretched out her other hand in front of Baekhyun. “Hand it over. It never looked good on you, anyway.”

He was quick to draw the basil necklace from the inside pocket of his coat and slap it in her palm. Next, he slowly drew the navaja out of her grasp, inviting a loud gasp from Minseok.

“Baekhyun! What have you done?” Yixing roared.

One prevalent belief still held by the clan was that taking a knife straight from  someone’s hand meant that the relationship between the giver and the recipient had been severed. But the enormity of his own action was lost on Baekhyun. 

He declared instead, “If the Bladerunner is to be punished, Bulibasha, I deserve a harsher punishment. I don’t care what the Zakono says. You can’t go on acting like she was alone in this!”

Minseok, who seemed to be at a loss for words, simply glared at Baekhyun’s out-of-character rebelliousness.

It was Lys who spoke first. Searching Baekhyun’s eyes, she said to nobody in particular, “He seeks her when he’s upset. And even when he’s not.” Turning to bow before Yixing, Lys stated, "Bulibasha, I would like to request a private audience."

.

.

.

You slept all day after the trial and woke up a little before noon the following morning. 

It had felt like one mammoth nightmare - right from the day you laid your eyes on the sprig of basil around Baekhyun’s neck to yesterday when he smacked it in Lys’ hand - leaving you with yet another battle wound on your quest to rescue the man you loved. What transpired yesterday between Lys and Minseok was known only to Yixing, Baekhyun, and you and you were all under an oath to never speak of it again. 

The jamdhar was now in Yixing’s custody and it was most likely to be buried deep into the earth after a final discussion with the Elders.

Work that day went by in a daze - all you wanted now was to spend every second of everyday with your beloved but you abandoned the idea till the dust on the matter had settled. You came home to a potted plant which stood pretty on the windowsill of your rustic brown caravan and looked picturesque against the pink bougainvillea creeper around it. 

The plant was that of basil.

A basil plant on the window of a woman indicated that she was spoken for. Only one person could’ve put it there. The moment reached out for the plant, you felt a firm grip strengthen around your waist, pulling you closer. Baekhyun nuzzled the side of your neck, soft lips brushing along the edge of your clavicle. This time you didn’t fight this long overdue affection, instead revelled in it.

“Men and women shouldn’t be inappropriately intimate”, you breathed as you found yourself caged between the caravan and the length of Baekhyun’s muscular frame. His lips found yours, teeth playfully tugging at your lower lip before exploring every inch of your exposed skin crudely, eliciting soft moans from your parted lips. His hands found your hips, thumbs digging deep just over your hip bone. His lips teased the sensitive part on your neck as his fingers moved to unfasten the lace of your tan buckskin waistcoat. Threading your fingers through his hair, you pulled him closer evoking a throaty chuckle from him. Giving the sensitive spot the attention that it deserved, Baekhyun took you by the waist and in one swift movement you were lifted off your feet and scooped into his strong arms. 

You buried your face into the crook of his neck as he pushed the door to your caravan open with his elbow. He gently laid you on the bed, one corner of his mouth raised in a smirk. Cocking his eyebrow, he allowed his eyes to mercilessly rove over your dishevelled state before slowly sliding into bed with you.

***

You were woken not by the everyday melody of songbirds but by a loud clang that rang mercilessly though your caravan. 

“I just...wanted to make you some chao!” Pants hung dangerously low on his waist, a brazenly shirtless Baekhyun exclaimed, the boom of his voice echoing in your ears. Rubbing the sleep away from your eyes, you gave him a quick once over while your head had already begun to throb slightly thanks to the unwelcome blaring this early in the morning. Veiling your modesty with a fleece blanket, you floundered out of the comfort of the bed and meticulously studied the sorry state of your sacred space - your precious little kitchen. 

Olive green eggshells were carelessly strewn across the counter. The contents in the saucepan that was perched atop the stove bubbled frenetically, threatening to overflow. Even in your sleep befuddled state you could make out that Baekhyun had carelessly thrown three deshelled pheasant eggs in boiling water which had now dissipated in a foamy mess.

“Baekhyun, what do you think this is?” You raised a green box the size of your palm embossed with a delicate gold flowery pattern, to his eye level. 

“Sugar.”

The throbbing in your head increased and your eyes started brimming with tears. 

“Where did you find this box, Baekhyun?” You questioned condescendingly.

“In your medicine crate?” He drew the sentence out in a question, taking a cautious step back.

But you took a threatening step in his direction and spoke in a deep, menacing voice. “You….you thought I’d keep sugar in my medicine crate?”

“There was no sugar ...no sugar in..in the cabinet!”

“You know I never use sugar in or for anything.” You maintained, as a tear rolled down your cheek.

“Why are you crying?” He asked, eyes fixed on the green box that was clutched possessively to your chest.

“Baekhyun did you use whatever’s in this box?”

“N-no?”

“You don’t seem so sure?”

“I did not! You’re scaring me now! What is in this box?”

“Tell me you didn’t use it, Baekhyun!”

“I did not use it! I promise! Now will you tell me? Please?” 

Exhaling heavily, you answered, “My life’s work”, and hid the box in the farthest corner of the medicine crate. 

“Explain”, he said with a yawn.

“Mithridatum...a poison antidote made from sixty-five ingredients. It’s an ancient recipe and it’s taken me fifteen years to research, scavenge for ingredients, and formulate.”

“Why do you keep it around so carelessly!”

“Carelessly?! It was in my medicine crate!”

“You know I need sugar in my chao, dragă.” He pouted.

You handed him a bottle from the kitchen cabinet, “Use this. It’s tapioca syrup.”

“Won’t taste the same but I’ll survive. Now let’s put Mister Mithridatum someplace safer, shall we?”

“Miss Mithridatum is safe enough in my medicine crate as long as you keep away from it. Thank you very much.”

Baekhyun beamed. You knew this smile a little too well so you checked to see if your fleece blanket was doing its job. But Baekhyun was nothing if not audacious. He advanced towards you as you retracted. Hands on hips, putting on a wide grin, he spoke in a voice laced with sugar and spice, “Nice outfit.”

You gathered the fabric up to your neck and bit on your lower lip to keep from blushing. “Thank you.” You said sweetly, feigning innocence.

“You’d look better without it.” He towered over you as you hit a dead end, with your back against the wall of your tiny living space.

You pushed him in the chest and he cried out like a wounded puppy. “Baekhyunnie, bring us some breakfast from my mother’s, will you? Don’t make it look like you spent the night with me, alright? Go now, I’m famished!”

“Of course, you are.” Baekhyun teased and his face scrunched up in a bright yet bashful smile.

“Don’t forget to put on a shirt!”

***

Your mother sent you a generous portion of pumpkin stew and fried cornbread which Baekhyun and you ate - no - inhaled in silence in the comfort of your caravan. 

“I have something to say.” He looked at you solemnly and you felt your heart sink to your stomach. And it probably manifested in your eyes since he took your hands in his immediately and calmed you down, “Good...good something, dragă!”

“Baekhyunnie, you scared me.” Panic betrayed your voice and water started pooling in your eyes.

“We’re never to be parted again, dragă. I’ll follow you into the shower too if you like.” He nodded solemnly.

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” Frowning, you teasingly clarified.

“We’ll see about that later. Anyway, since Minseok has let me go as part of the settlement...you know whatever happened with...with -”

“Lys.”

“Yes. So, I have a lot of free time on hand. And your iubit doesn’t know much about anything but he knows weapons.” He looked at you intently and shot you a knowing smile.

You urged him to continue with an anxious nod.

“After we’re married, I could speak with dya and take over the weapons’ trade and you can… probably.. continue to make more Miss Mithridates? Or do nothing at all, I’ll be the sole breadwinner of our little, happy family.” He declared, flexing his muscles. 

You held him by the wrist and put his hand back in his lap to reinforce the seriousness of the conversation and asked, “You would do that?”

“Unless you want me following you into the shower everyday...yes.”

“What if Yixing disapproves?”

“He can’t, dragă. My freedom...is...it’s part of the settlement.”

You leaned back and looked up into his face, blinking tears from your eyes. You held your finger up at him and mouthed, ‘One moment.’

Rummaging through his clothes you found what you were looking for and said to him excitedly, “I can’t believe you still have this!”

It was the scarf you’d tied around his elbow the day he injured himself while sneakily watching you sing and dance by the pond.

“Already snooping through my things? You wound me!” Baekhyun pulled you into his lap and whispered into your ear, “I take it with me wherever I go.”

You skillfully drew out a couple of loose threads from the scarf and reached out for a fresh sprig of basil from the plant on your windowsill. Weaving the sprig into the threads you studied his face with rosy eyes. 

“Hurry up!” Said Baekhyun, tugging at your arm. As you were helping him wear the necklace with trembling fingers, his hands travelled the length of your back and his lips ghosted over yours, inhaling your unsteady breaths. 

An disappointing knock on the door jolted you out of your celebration.

“Are we interrupting something?” A familiar voice reached your ears and you felt your face flame. Smoothing your hair and skirts you scrambled out of Baekhyun’s lap and bowed before the visitor, not daring to meet his eyes.

“Ah! Yixing! You should know better than to walk in on a couple unannounced!” Baekhyun grumbled and ran a hand through his hair, still seated with his legs wide apart. He took your hand in his and pulled you back into his lap.

“Bulibasha -”

Yixing merely chuckled at your embarrassment while looking around your uncharacteristically messy caravan for a place to sit. Pulling away from Baekhyun, you tidied the bed for him.

“Bulibasha, you said we.”

“I’m sorry?” Yixing gaped at you, confused.

“Are we interrupting -” You explained, feeling the heat rising up to your cheeks again.

“Oh, yes! Minseok, come on in!” Yixing bellowed.

“Are you sure Baekhyun’s completely clothed?” Came a high pitched voice from outside the caravan.

Yixing snorted and exclaimed, “Pretty much!”

Minseok cautiously stepped into your caravan and bowed politely.

“You too? Can’t I have some alone time with my beloved?” Baekhyun whined.

“It’s been less than a day and you’ve forgotten us already!” Minseok chided, taking a seat next to Yixing.

“Such is a woman’s love, Minseok. It beguiles the best of us! Anyway, we won’t keep you too long.” Yixing winked at Baekhyun and you bashfully retreated to make the guests some chao.

“Come and join us, Bladerunner, there’s no need for formalities.” Said Minseok curtly and you immediately obliged. There was nothing to serve the beverage with, anyway, apart from watery eggs in a pot.

You came and stood next to Baekhyun and rested a hand upon his shoulder. He immediately intertwined his fingers with yours and you felt relief surging through your veins.

“I’d like to apologise for the things I said to your woman, Baekhyun. It was unkind of me.” Minseok stated, his tone contrite.

“You were only looking out for your little sister. If I were in your place, I would’ve probably done the same.” Baekhyun replied in all earnesty.

Minseok and Baekhyun gave each other a meaningful nod before the cat-eyed man turned to you and said gently, “I truly wish you both a lifetime of happiness, and I’ll make sure to knock some manners into the boy before he’s permanently consigned to you.”

You glanced over to the kitchen and laughed, “That would be of great help!” before peering at Baekhyun who feigned offence at Minseok’s words.

“One last thing before we take your leave.” Said Yixing, slapping his thigh, “The Elders have suggested the full moon of the fourth month for the wedding. Bladerunner, I trust you will convey this to your dya?”

You gave Yixing a measured smile and nodded.

“And Baekhyun -”

Baekhyun pulled you into his lap and held you by the small of your back. Lovingly searching your eyes, he whispered, “I can’t wait.”

*********************************

A/N: This oneshot will be followed up with a spin-off for Lys which will explain what transpired in the “courtroom” but if you know me, you’ll know about my snail’s pace when it comes to updating. So I’ll be happy to give you a summary over DM if you’d like! :)

This was my first time attempting something in this genre/theme so I’d absolutely love to hear your thoughts on it. 

Also, Piper, I’m sorry you got stuck with me :P

#exosnet #exowritersnet #bbh-net #exo #baekhyun #baekhyun smut #baekhyun angst #baekhyun fluff #baekhyun fanfic #baekhyun imagines #romani au #steampunk au #exo smut #exo angst #exo fluff #exo x reader #baekhyun x reader #exo x you #baekhyun x you #exo imagines #exo oneshot #baekhyun oneshot #baekhyun oneshots

[jaynovz]

tell us more abt the hannibal and black sails parallels pls

Okay, first off, I am so sorry this took so long!! I’ve been moving and shit has been so busy.

Second, yay!! This question. Now I have an excuse to ramble.

Okay so, the two shows do have a lot of similarities. The big one you notice right off the bat is that both have an extremely codependent relationship at the center. 

There are a ton of ways the Flint-Silver and Hannibal-Will relationships parallel, like, they both talk about melding minds with another person, being monstrous, reveling in being monstrous, being made complete by an unlikely source, personas/playing roles/person suits, knowing yourself more completely next to another person, darkness as a source of freedom, something beyond choice/being drawn inexorably into a person’s destructive orbit and being forever changed by it. They deal with the nature of truth, both have supernatural elements, both have religious imagery connected to one half of the ship (Flint and Hannibal both compared to god). 

Also, both shows end with an impossible choice and, ostensibly, tragedy; and they both have open endings that are interpretable based on what you want to believe. 

But at a certain point, the similarities end and the two shows veer off from each other. Namely, the dynamics between the two ships are fundamentally different in a lot of ways, and it's more interesting to look at the ways in which they don't parallel. At the end of the day, the biggest one is that Silverflint is not anywhere near as destructive, whereas for Hannigram, mutual self-destruction is sort of the name of the game. Silverflint may be as codependent but I think the important addition of either Madi or Thomas or (ideally) both, helps make the relationship a lot healthier. If they would actually just talk to each other and work some shit out, it could be great. This is of course contingent on whether you think one or the other could compromise. (The compromise being that they come to some middle ground between Flint giving up the big picture Cause for personal happiness, or Silver throwing in genuinely with the idea of revolution and it being worth the risk of the people most important to him.) The end tragedy of Black Sails sets us in a spot where it doesn’t seem like either Flint or Silver are willing to do so, but perhaps one or the other could grow and change (with helpful mediation, as stated.)

Whereas Hannigram, well. It’s rooted from the very beginning in gaslighting, manipulation, and a completely skewed power balance. It’s absolutely like, this person has done so much bad shit to you, they’ve killed people you love, they’ve sent people to kill you, they’ve lied to you, isolated you, made you fundamentally doubt what kind of person you are etc. But still, you literally can’t cut them out of your life because nothing is ever going to compare to the experience of having them around even if it’s, most often, largely a negative influence. Like, damn. So dark, so unhealthy. They’re the zero-sum game. 

For Will it’s: you love this terrible, terrible thing and you hate yourself for loving it, but also can’t deny it and it makes you feel alive. And for Hannibal, Will’s really the only person who can understand and accept him, but also is uniquely positioned to be able to lie to him, manipulate him in return, and be his utter ruin. They both tried to cut each other out and it didn’t work. So, can’t live with him and can’t live without him. That’s why we end with a cliff dive (impossible choice), Will can’t abide the thought that this thing that is objectively terrible, this ugly thing, is the thing he wants desperately, but he also can’t give it up. So it’s like, “let me try to do my last little bit to society by throwing both our asses off of this cliff b/c we’re both terrible.” Will is so interesting b/c he is at all times living in both the dark and the light and has trouble reconciling these opposing drives. It’s a function of his magic empathy.

(I think they’re metaphorical cliffs also b/c like.... there are no cliffs in Maryland jsyk. What is it with these shows that I like and Metaphorical Cliffs. Edit: I have been corrected there are some cliffs in Maryland but they're not as absurdly high as the ones in Hannibal.)

Anyway, let’s do the one-to-one and talk about Empathy and my Mirrorball boys first. Silver and Will are both extremely good at reading people, seeing what they most need to be, and shapeshifting into it. They both have the ability to shrug on different personas as easy as changing clothes. HOWEVER, the way in which they view this ability is very different. For Will, it’s a curse, he literally cannot turn it off, can’t stop himself from doing it, and it torments him. And I think for Silver, he also does it unconsciously and can’t help himself, but it’s not a torment in the same way. It’s rooted in survival and is an acquired skill that a very intelligent mind learned in order to stay alive. Though I would say they could commiserate on their mirrorball tendencies getting them into trouble/in over their heads.

As for Flint and Hannibal parallels? Well Hannibal is the unrepentant monster who revels in wickedness and largely views the rest of humanity as inferior. He’s having an absolutely excellent time murdering and cannibalizing folks, and the only real thorn in his side is Will Graham and his inability to kill Will b/c Hannibal loves him. 

I think Hannibal is the absolute beast that Flint fears himself to be. And though both are presented as the “destructive orbit” or “intoxicating presence” and both perpetrate great violence... well they’re on opposite ends of the spectrum as far as how they view those behaviors. Flint is drowning in guilt constantly, hates that he has to be this monster, the persona of the dread pirate Captain, and that he’s losing more and more of his humanity every time he does some heinous shit. Whereas Hannibal is a “happy little duckling,” literally feels zero guilt about his heinous acts. Hannibal’s playacting a real man in a lot of ways while Flint is playacting a monster. So, Flint wears a monster suit and Hannibal wears a person suit.

Anyway, I could go on and on about this. The way they use supernatural elements, the way characters embed multiple meanings in subtextual dialogue, how well quotes from Silverflint can transfer to Hannigram and vice versa. Oh the way each show deals with like, queer issues, disability issues. etc etc ad infinitum

But I’ll let this be it for now, lol. If you wanna hear me ramble more, let me know~

THANKS AGAIN FOR ASKING. 

#fictionandmusic #thoughts #hannibal #black sails #hannibal spoilers #black sails spoilers #hannibal/blacksails

[ripariansoliloquy]

three isn’t a crowd - it’s home.

Fandom: Dead Poets Society

Pairing : Charlie/Neil/Todd

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 1.3 k

For: @ncilpcrry, thank you for making me do this :))

Charlie, and Neil.

It had always been them, at the centre of the universe. The two most magnetic personalities in the room at any given point - it was but natural that the they felt an inexorable pull towards each other. Their friendship was easy, inevitable. And, by god, their combined magnificence was a force to reckon with. Sometimes, it felt like the world revolved around them, as if they were the twin stars of a certain solar system known as ‘Hell’ton Academy.

And if that friendship sometimes transcended the boundaries of what people consider normal, neither of them paid it any mind. Hell, they were the furthest thing from normal themselves. Messed up, broken. A mere shell of what they could be. If a few kisses that weren’t exactly brotherly; or hands that strayed could take the edge off of their pain - if it worked as a salve on the worst of their wounds, then it was worth those stares, those uneasy glances from the others.

Their friendship continued, unblemished.

Well, until the appearance of a certain Todd Anderson.

When Todd walked in, he didn’t turn too many heads. Just two heads that mattered.

Soft glances, smiles that seemed like the sun breaking through the clouds and unsteady, fluttering hands - Todd Anderson made the word “pretty” blink on and off behind Charlie’s eyelids like a neon sign. Gazing across the room, Charlie saw that he had much the same effect on Neil, if Neil’s sharp intake of breath and slight blush were anything to go by. The same blush that would adorn those sharp cheekbones during their forbidden traipses, the angles and planes of their bodies softened by the serene moonlight.

Neil Perry liked Todd Anderson.

For a couple of restless days, envy curled like a sleeping dragon deep in Charlie’s gut, raising its head sharply when Neil and Todd would smile at each other across the room, making it evident that the rest of the world had melted away for them. Todd followed Neil around like he was a lifeboat in a roiling sea, and Charlie could see he was unaware that Neil felt the same way about him.

Sleepless nights left dark circles on Charlie’s unblemished face. Meals became smaller. And that didn't go unnoticed. One night, attempting to creep into his room late at night, he almost shrieked when a soft voice accosted him in the corridor. A hand was laid on his shoulder - the familiar warmth bleeding through the thin cotton of his white shirt.

“Neil?” - his voice broke.

“Shhhh.”

He let Neil wrap his arms around him as he sobbed into the crook of Neil’s neck, overwhelmed by the disturbingly familiar scent of an old jumper. Suddenly, he pushed Neil away.

“Does he… does Todd know?” - he asked, steeling himself for an answer that could kill him.

“Yes.”

And the sleeping dragon flew off, never to return.

He liked Todd Anderson.

His days were spent gazing adoringly at Todd. Mentally recording all the quirks and oddities that constituted him. Wondering how someone who had managed to hold together the broken pieces of two of the most damaged individuals ever without batting an eyelid remained so oblivious to himself, to how deserving he was of all the happiness and affection the world had to offer.

Neil knew, even before he did.

Neil’s arms enveloping him from behind shook him out of his reverie. Neil hooked his chin on Charlie’s shoulder.

“Tell him. He’ll like it.”

“What in the name of Byron are you talking about, Neil?”

“ You’re besotted, you idiot. Tell. Him. As I said, he’ll like it. Maybe I’ll like it too.” - Neil gave him a soft peck on the cheek.

Before Charlie had recovered enough to form a coherent thought, Neil was gone.

Charlie cursed under his breath. As usual, that smug bastard was correct. Of course he liked Todd. But, was it possible to like two people at once?

That decision was taken for him one afternoon.

Charlie ambled around the sun-soaked grounds of their school, the warmth seeping into his bones. He was happy. Happier than he'd been in a long time; basking in the glow of a particularly lingering gaze Todd had chosen to lavish upon him at breakfast.Meandering aimlessly, he hadn't even realised when his wandering feet had taken him across the field, to the lakeside.

It was already too late for him to turn back when he noticed them. Neil sitting with his back against a tree, legs sprawled out to accommodate Todd between them. Todd himself was leaning back against Neil’s chest and gazing up at him with all the adoration of a tiny puppy.

Todd said something, too soft for Charlie to hear. Neil threw his head back and laughed and laughed and laughed - chest heaving, shoulders shaking. He hadn't seen Neil laugh like that in ages. The late afternoon sun glinted off of Neil’s cheekbones, and traced the long line of his neck. It lit up Todd with a warm, content glow, turning him into liquefied gold. Neil bent his head to softly kiss Todd’s forehead.

Charlie’s feet rooted him to the spot. His chest felt so tight he could not breathe. His heart hammered away in his ribcage, faster than the emotions racing across his body, the neurons igniting like supernovas in his brain. The realisation hit him with a force that that took his breath away.  He didn't just like the both of them, he loved them.

And yes, the both of them.

“Gotta be more, gotta do more.”

He didn't know what inspired him to suddenly play the sax in front of his friends, after all this while. Perhaps it was Mr. Keating’s influence. Perhaps it was the thrill of carpe-diem-ing through life. Or perhaps, it was the fact that Todd had shyly walked over to him in Neil and Todd’s room, and got up on his toes to give him a gentle kiss on his cheek. Neil had watched from his vantage point on the bed with a strange expression on his face - an odd mix of fierce possessiveness and blind adoration. Charlie had never, never felt so loved.

He was frozen in place, not daring to even breathe for fear of the illusion melting away, for fear of the moment being over - forever hidden under the veneer of plausible deniability. Neil broke the silence with a fond chuckle.

“Todd, congratulations. In all the years since he was born, you are the only person to have successfully rendered him speechless.”

Charlie tried to regain control over his vocal chords. He did not succeed, barely being able to let out a strangled “I - i am okay” in a voice that was three octaves higher than usual. Neil crawled over and pulled him onto the bed. He fell over in an ungaily heap - his head landing in Neil’s lap, and his bottom half hanging over the side of the bed. Charlie stared at Neil bent above him, his brown hair a halo over his angelic head. A warm hand touched his own, drawing his eyes to Todd who was busy tangling their fingers together. He finally mustered some of his famed nerve and brought their entwined hands to his lips. Todd blushed, his face lighting up. Neil ruffled Todd’s hair with one hand, and booped Charlie on the nose with the other. Deciding he wanted more, Todd attempted to snuggle into them, effectively trapping Charlie in a Neil-Todd sandwich.

It was warm, and sweaty. Neil accidentally elbowed him in the face, and Todd kneed him in the stomach. Charlie loved it.

Charlie loved them. And they loved him too.

#dead poets society #todd anderson #Neil Perry #charlie dalton #nuwanda #charlie/neil/todd #charlie x neil x te\odd #this is my first fanfic #fluff #m/m/m

[ivy-kissobryos]

Charon, the Lord of Death

According to Britannica:

In Etruscan mythology [Charon] was known as Charun and appeared as a death demon, armed with a hammer. Eventually he came to be regarded as the image of death and of the world below. As such he survives in Charos, or Charontas, the angel of death in modern Greek folklore.

This is further explored in Modern Greek folklore and ancient Greek religion: a study in survivals by John Cuthbert Lawson. According to Lawson:

There is no ancient deity whose name is so frequently on the lips of the modern peasant as that of Charon. About Charos the peasants will always, according to my experience, converse freely. Neither superstitious awe nor fear of ridicule imposes any restraint. They feel perhaps that the existence of Charos is one of the stern facts which men must face; and even the more educated classes retain sometimes, I think, an instinctive fear of making light of his name, lest he should assert his reality. For Charos is Death. He is not now, what classical literature would have him to be, merely the ferryman of the Styx. He is the god of death and of the lower world.

Lawson then goes on to describe how the importance of Charos has been elevated, for ‘Hades is no longer a person but a place, the realm over which Charos rules’. The author then goes into details surrounding Charos’ family.

On his physical depiction:

Sometimes he is depicted as an old man, tall and spare, white of hair and harsh of feature; but more often he is a lusty warrior, with locks of raven-black or gleaming gold [...] ‘his glance is as lightning and his face as fire, his shoulders are like twin mountains and his head like a tower’. His raiment is usually black as befits the lord of death, but anon it is depicted bright as his sunlit hair, for though he brings death he is a god and glorious.

On his functions, Lawson states:

His functions are clearly defined. He visits this upper world to carry off those whose allotted time has run, and guards them in the lower world as in a prison whose keys they vainly essay to steal and to escape therefrom. But the spirit in which he performs those duties varies according as he is conceived to be a free agent responsible to none or merely a minister of the supreme God. Which of these is the true conception is a question to which the common-folk as a whole have given no final answer; and the character of Charos consequently depends upon the view locally preferred.

The depiction of Charos has also been influenced by Christianity.

Those who regard him as simply the servant and messenger of God, find no difficulty in accommodating him to his Christian surroundings; for, as I have said, the peasant does not distinguish between the Christian and the pagan elements in his faith which together make his polytheism so luxuriant. We have already seen Charos' name with the prefix of ‘saint’; and though this Christian title is not often accorded him, yet his name appears commonly on tomb-stones in Christian churchyards. At Leonidi, on the east coast of the Peloponnese, I noted the couplet: 'Me too Charos pitied not but took, even me the fondly-cherished flower of my home.'

So too in popular story and song he is represented as working in concord with the Angels and Archangels, to whom sometimes falls the task of carrying children to his realm-. Indeed one of the archangels, Michael, who as we saw above has ousted Hermes, the escorter of souls, and assumed his functions, is charged with exactly the same duties as Charos in the conveyance of men's souls to the nether world, so that in popular parlance the phrases ‘he is wrestling with Charos’ and 'he is struggling with an angel' are both alike used of a man in his death-agony.

The author goes on to describe how the Christianized conception of Charon has made him appear kinder, as evidenced by many folk tales where it is shown that:

‘The duties imposed upon him by the will of God are sometimes repugnant to him, and he would willingly spare those whom he is sent to slay’

Some folk tales are then described. Also:

‘Sometimes then the doomed man will seek to tempt Charos with meat and drink, that he may grant a few hours' delay, but against offers of hospitality he is obdurate. Or again his victim refuses to yield to death 'without weakness or sickness' and challenges him to a trial of athletic skill, in wrestling or leaping, whereon each shall stake his own soul. And to this Charos sometimes gives consent, for he knows that he will.

In contrast...

The other and more pagan conception of Charos excludes all traits of kindness and mercy; and men do not stint the expression of their hatred of him. He is 'black,' 'bitter,' 'hateful’. He is the merciless potentate of the nether world, independent of the God of heaven, equally powerful in his own domain, but more terrible, more inexorable: for his work is death and his abode is Hades. Thence he issues forth at will, as a hunter to the chase. ‘Against the wounds that Charos deals herbs avail not, physicians give no cure, nor saints protection’ [...] But most commonly he is the warrior preeminent in all manner of prowess—archer, wrestler, horseman.

Charos is sometimes depicted to be collecting souls to adorn his kingdom. Examples being:

[...] he gathers children from the earth to be the flowers of it and young men to be its tall slim cypresses; more rarely he is a vintager, and tramples men in his vat that their blood may be his red wine, or again he carries a sickle and reaps a human harvest.

It became evident that ‘Charos of modern Greece would seem to have little in common with the Charon of ancient Greece’. Fauriel believes that ‘the usual tendencies of tradition have been reversed, in that it is the name that has survived, while the attributes have been changed’. However, Lawson disagrees. He states that:

I suspect that in ancient times the literary presentation of Charon was far more circumscribed than the popular, and that out of a profusion of imaginative portraitures as varied as those seen in the folk-songs of to-day one aspect of Charon became accepted among educated men as the correct and fashionable presentment. Hades was, in literature, the despot of the lower world, and for Charon no place could be found save that of ferryman. But this, I think, was only one out of the many guises in which the ancient Charon was figured by popular imagination; for at the present day the remnants of such a conception are small, in spite of the fact that there has remained a custom which should have kept it alive—the custom of putting a coin in the mouth of the dead.

In Alcestis, a play written by Euripides, Death seemed to have taken on the role of Charon, to the point where ‘the copyist of one of the extant manuscripts of the Alcestis was so impressed with the likeness of Death to Charon as he knew him, that he altered the name of the dramatis persona accordingly’. The conception of Charon as a Lord of Death occurs even further back than that though.

On the Etruscan Charun:

Hesychius states that the title [greek word] was shared by two gods, Charon and Uranus. Charon therefore, as son of Acmon and brother of Uranus, is earlier by two long generations of gods than Zeus himself, and belongs to the old Pelasgian order of deities. Was Charon then the god of death among the old Pelasgian population of Greece, before ever the name of Hades or Pluto had been invented or imported? Yes, if the corroboration from another Pelasgian source, the Etruscans, is to count for anything. On an Etruscan monument figures the god of death with the inscription 'Charun'; and the same person is frequently depicted on urns, sarcophagi, and vases [...] In appearance he is most often an old bearded man (though a more youthful type is also known) bearing an axe or mallet, and more rarely a sword as well, wherewith he pursues men and slays them. In effect the Etruscan Charun closely corresponds with the modern Greek Charos in functions as well as in name.

In classical times the primitive conception of Charon was in abeyance. Hades had assumed the reins of government in the nether world; and a literary legend, which confined Charon to the work of ferryman, had gained vogue and supplanted or rather temporarily suppressed the older conception. But this version, it appears, never gained complete mastery of the popular imagination, and to the common-folk of Greece from the Pelasgian era down to this day Charon has ever been more warrior than ferryman, and his equipment an axe or sword or bow rather than a pair of sculls. More is to be learnt of the real Charon of antiquity from modern folk-lore than from all the allusions of classical literature.

#charondeity #charon #charun #charos #hellenic community #etruscan

[dracocheesecake]

Natives AU: SkekMi the Storyteller

One night long ago, SkekLi the Satrist had visited the Skeksis Castle after many trine spent traveling and performing abroad. It was said, due to his grand bravado, he went about collecting fans and admirers for himself, returning rarely only to perform for his beloved Emperor and the rest of the great court.

Very few knew the truth of why he rarely returned.

SkekLi despised the Emperor; not an uncommon opinion amongst the Skeksis under his thrall, but the Satrist had the misfortune of being more aboveboard about it. Over the trine spent under him, his satire grew more and more conspicuous as to who exactly it was describing: a horrid, selfish and vain ruler who tormented his subjects for his own amusement.

SkekSo saw it, read perfectly between the lines of each and every verse of the Satrist's songs, and knew it was all too true, of course: which is why he never ceased to knock him down whenever he could. SkekLi could only watch helplessly as the position he worked years to obtain steadily slipped from him. He lost his friends in court, his reputation began to go to shambles; little by little, he lost all favor with everyone he had known. He was losing his career, and perhaps soon, his life.

He drank heavily that night, taking refuge with the one soul in the palace in almost as bad a position as he- (not the Scientist, you would have to be mad to talk to the Scientist)- the Treasurer. Both were in a similar way, and all because of a common enemy. They drank and bemoaned to each other their woes, spinning tales about how horribly the Emperor had wronged them.

One thing led to another. Shared misery turned into companionship. Companionship took what it had gained and ran with it.

And two trine later, long after SkekLi had thought the little nighttime escapade long over with, SkekShod pulled him into the darkest corners of the treasury to present him with an egg. Their egg, soon to hatch.

It was the worst possible time for them to have a child: SkekSo, they knew, hated them both, and wouldn't hesitate to destroy anything that came from them, even if it took the shape of a skekling; a rumor had been floating about the courts that the Satrist was to be banished, perhaps never to return, and SkekShod wouldn't let their young one fall into the Emperor's clutches.

A desperate plan was hastily made: after the egg hatched, the little one would go with their father in his banishment, and SkekShod would get away when he could to see them (both unaware that soon the Emperor would call the Satrist back). So, deep in the treasury, the little skekling hatched from their shell, and was given the name SkekMi by their mother. SkekLi collected her up, and after the Emperor's inexorable decree had fallen, he whisked her away, unnoticed by any of the Castle residents.

SkekLi however had no plans to keep the squirming, crying, messy little skekling; being a father full-time simply didn't suit him- not that he was cruel, he simply had never had any good parental figures for guidance; his own childhood had been squandered by neglect and abuse; would he dare repeat that with an innocent, clean slate?

He knew someone who would help: it was a vain hope, a slim chance, but he had to try. It took a few unum, but he found the caves of Grot, and inside, he found an old friend of his. Not much explanation was given besides a name, and the skekling was thrust into UrLii's arms before the Satrist disappeared again. SkekMi latched onto the urru immediately, despite his reluctance, dubbing him "papa"; and that one word was enough for UrLii to tuck the little one into his pouch.

A trine passed in Grot, and it became clear to UrLii that this place was not fit for an energetic, curious, mischievous skekling. She jumped off the high shelves in the tomb, terrorized his Grottan students, tried to eat whatever creatures she found wandering about, and almost got trapped in an arathim web when she explored too deep in the various tunnels; so UrLii took up his 'Potato' and went back to the Urru Capital, retaking his place as the Court Storyteller.

UrLii lost many friends with his skekling daughter, many claiming he had even gone mad enough to take a skekling in; not that it bothered UrLii much, often stating that because of SkekMi he discovered who his true friends were. Thus, SkekMi grew up in the Valley, accruing urrling friends (despite the dismay of many parents) and became well-liked for her quick wit and sharp tongue.

She had a happy childhood under UrLii's care, whom she respected and deeply admired, despite the grief she caused him in her youth (she had been a wicked little creature, she knew). As SkekLi's secret visits to her and her papa grew more and more rare as she aged, his gentle influence shaped her almost entirely.

As an adult she grew to emulate him, even giving herself the title of "Storyteller", after her Papa. Carrying a bookshelf-like carapace on her back, she carried her puppets and other contrivances across Thra, entertaining villages and towns with stories, both her own and those passed down to her from UrLii. During her travels, she tends to run into her on-again-off-again banished father, but usually wants little or nothing to do with him despite his friendly demeanor towards her.

#the dark crystal #au #natives au #urru #skeksis #skekli the satirist #urlii the storyteller #skekshod the treasurer #skekling #skeksis oc #blurb #any questions about the natives au? ask away!

[finishinglinepress]

FLP POETRY BOOK OF THE DAY: My Body Is Not an Apology by Megha Sood

TO ORDER GO TO: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/my-body-is-not-an-apology-by-megha-sood/

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RESERVE YOUR COPY TODAY

Megha Sood is a Pushcart-nominated Poet, Editor, and Blogger based in New Jersey, USA. She is a Poetry Editor at MookyChick(UK), Life and Legends (USA), and Literary Partner in the project “Life in Quarantine” with Stanford University, USA. Works widely featured in journals, Poetry Society of New York, Kissing Dynamite, and many more. Author of Chapbook ( “My Body is Not an Apology”, FinishingLine press, 2021) and Full Length (“My Body Lives Like a Threat”, FlowerSongPress,2021).Recipient of Poet Fellowship 2021, Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing, National Level Winner Spring Mahogany Lit Prize 2020, and Three-Time State-level winner of NJ Poetry Contest.Blogs at https://meghasworldsite.wordpress.com/.Tweets at @meghasood16

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR My Body Is Not an Apology by Megha Sood

My Body is Not An Apology is a testimony of female rebellion and a journey of self-discovery in a most wanted and unwanted way. The poems roar to voice the pain of silent torture, cruelty, and agony of a woman’s heart to reclaim her dignity not only as a female but also as an individual. This book is a fierce approach to life in poetry, and the poet dissects the ironies of women’s existence with razor-sharp language, intellect, and courage like Simone de Beauvoir. In the poet’s own words, it is a triumphant proclamation and an unfettered declaration.

–Kalpna Singh-Chitnis (Poet, Writer, and Filmmaker)

Sometimes with acerbic irony, sometimes with wise comeuppance, but never with hopeless resignation no matter how bleak the refracted rays of reality, Megha’s stanzas find their way through the blind alleys of patriarchy and misogyny looking it unblinking in the eye. The vulnerability of her perception is also her strength, as each stanza duals with difficult truths using the female body and the form of poetry as weapons of grit and gumption. This little book is a fist of fury and unveiling.

–Rochelle Potkar, Author of Paper Asylum & Bombay Hangovers

These poems recognize the body as the ‘eye of the storm’ in the turbulent churning of our age. The guttural cry of the feminine forges these poems with a primal rawness cast in images as varied as radishes, pickles, broken book spines, and armchairs. Megha Sood joins her unapologetic voice with urgency to erase any error of ambiguity, ‘You don’t own shit’. These poems will ‘sit like a welt’ on the tongue of the world.

–Usha Akella, Poet & Founder, Matwaala, South Asian Diaspora Poetry Festival

A unique feminist exploration through the written word, investigating the body and the world society overlays atop women, Megha Sood does justice uncovering, discovering, and discarding herself to find an inexorably beautiful woman within. Sood’s My Body Is Not an Apology chisels away at the construct our society imposes on women, revealing an exemplar poet of the highest caliber.

–Joshua Corwin, author of Becoming Vulnerable

Megha Sood’s “My Body is Not an Apology” is a powerful debut with poetry that contains multitudes. These poems are fierce and unapologetic as they explore the toxic culture around gender-based discrimination and reproductive rights. Sood crafts with cutting precision as we read about personal experience and the influence of these issues in the wider world. Far from a desperate cry of the disenfranchised, these poems raise a fist and demand to be heard from a position of strength. Woven in and around every poem is the question that asks: what would life be like if we could change this? This book is a clarion call to eradicating gender-based injustice. It is also a book full of hope and empowerment.

–Juliette van der Molen, Poet, Writer,Feminist

My Body is Not an Apology by Megha Sood is a woman’s journey through gender-based discrimination. It is a cry and a plea as Sood questions, “How can you live a life like a broken spine of a book?” In her poems, we see a parallel to Sylvia Plath, and her words bring alive the voices of the Bronte Sisters, Emily Dickinson, and Phyllis Wheatley. At the same time, we see similarities to Sarojini Naidu’s rage and certitude when Sood says, “But I never give up …as I learned from the footsteps of warriors.” Sood’s My Body is Not An Apology is a whimper, a roar, an awakening in the feminist world.

–Meenakshi Mohan, Ed.D., Professor, writer, painter, critic

Megha Sood’s poems show a vulnerability that is welded to resilience in remarkably ingenious ways because poetry occupies the interstice between the felt and the unspoken.

Don’t let the aroma leave the pickle jar

Keep the lid tight

my granny used to say–

Some things are better left unspoken. (Even My Grief Should Be Productive)

Here’s the wisdom of an entire civilization. Sometimes it comes pickled in a jar. Call it Indian or South Asian, or what you will. It teaches you how to hold one’s own, anywhere.

–Lakshmi Kannan, Poet, Novelist, Short story writer, and Translator.

Megha Sood’s chapbook, My Body Is Not An Apology is exactly what the title says. The human body is not an apology for anyone. It’s not meant to make us feel ashamed simply for being born as we are, for existing, for belonging to any race, religion, gender, age, or any diversity markers that exist in our world. Our body is also not space where anyone can reside with abuse, disdain, or evil. Our body is a temple where our soul lives protected and safe. Megha through her deeply sensitive and poignant poems urges readers to ponder, deliberate, and act upon ensuring that our body is not an apology. Megha’s poems are fierce and tender at the same time. They are like raging storms or quiet whispers; both compel us to listen, look and consider. Megha delves into a plethora of issues that plague the human mind and in consequence the body. She questions and pulls the reader back again and again to her poems leaving behind a memory of heightened awareness. Very few writers can do as such. This collection of twenty-five poems will surely leave a mark upon your heart. Among the contemporary diaspora writers, Megha Sood is one to definitely read!

–Anita Nahal, poet, professor, flash fictionist & children’s writer. Find her works at: https://anitanahal.wixsite.com/anitanahal

“I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.”—Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

The gripping, riveting poems of Megha Sood’s chapbook ‘My Body Is Not An Apology’ carries the inherent legacy of the truths that our exemplary literary predecessors Virginia Woolf, Maya Angelou, Sylvia Plath, Nikki Giovani, Alice Walker, Kamala Das, and others, embodying unabashed feminism, upheld in their poetic creations.

When the poet utters her angst and her rhetoric reflects a discourse, built around the quintessential strength of a woman, these lines are born from her pen: “My body is not an apology/ it’s a roar: a declaration/ an unapologetic/ unabashed/ straight truth in your face/ a war cry:/ a deafening scream from the silence.” These lines hit the nail at just the right place, confronting the age-old power dynamics of a patriarchal social structure. As a strong woman of color, as a sensitive poet, her verses in the collection are like smoking cinders of the thinking feminine voice, empowering and liberating the feminine psyche. In the growth of her poetic voice, she has successfully absorbed the little nuances of her Indian roots and her grandmother’s legacy of truth (reflected in the poem ‘Even My Grief Should Be Productive), at the same time, having the deep insight of a woman acknowledging that her ‘body goes from a shade darker than yesterday’, as she gives birth to her ‘own revolution’. In the collection, the body and being of the poet as a woman reaches its zenith of celebration as she categorically unfolds the themes of the feminine identity, body politics, repression of womanhood, and also, the rampant rhetorics of violence ingrained in our postmodern society. Her voice is both subtle and empowering, essential and redeeming, hence the chapbook will indeed be an asset in the ever-evolving arena of feminist writing and art.

–Lopa Banerjee, Critically acclaimed author, poet, translator, editor from Texas, USA

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