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foxghost · 3 years

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Joyful Reunion, Chapter 57

Translator: foxghost @foxghost tumblr/ko-fi1 Beta: meet-me-in-oblivion @meet-me-in-oblivion tumblr Original by 非天夜翔 Fei Tian Ye Xiang Masterpost | Characters, Maps & Other Reference Index

Book 2, Chapter 14 (Part 2)

They return to the courtyard house.

“Did you think we’re going on a leisure trip?” Wu Du says to him, frowning.

“I want to stay with you.” Duan Ling says without missing a beat, “If it’s not at your side, I’m not going anywhere.”

One sentence and Duan Ling has left Wu Du speechless. Next thing he’s covering his forehead with a hand and waving the other as he heads inside without a word.

Duan Ling stares at Wu Du’s back with a curious look on his face. Wu Du doesn’t even know what to say to him anymore.

“Don’t you want to get ahead?” Wu Du sounds dumbfounded. “You have such a good opportunity being a study partner for the young master, and instead of treasuring that, you‘re choosing to run off to Tongguan at a time like this. Whatever are you trying to do?”

“I … This is one way a person can get ahead, you know.”

Wu Du keeps getting the feeling that Duan Ling is keeping something from him, and now sitting in the room he considers Duan Ling with a puzzled look as though there’s something unusual surging just beneath the surface, the shape of it barely discernible, as if there’s a layer of chiffon in the way.

“What on earth are you hiding from me?” Wu Du asks.

All this time, he’s had this feeling that something isn’t right, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. This is the closest he’s ever been to the truth.

In that precise moment, Duan Ling has a sudden impulse to say it, and very nearly blurts it out.

“I want to go find my dad.” In the end that’s the excuse Duan Ling uses.

Wu Du gets it then. The tight furrow between his brows relaxing a smidgen as he gives Duan Ling a nod.

“The last time I saw him was outside Tongguan. Even though I don’t think I can find him anymore … I still want to at least try looking.”

“Then when we’re out you have to listen to me. You cannot act on your own.”

Duan Ling nods, agreeing, and that seems to calm Wu Du. He tells Duan Ling, “Go pack for our trip.”

Duan Ling starts packing their rudimentary luggage while thinking to himself that he’s dodged another arrow again. As soon as he gets away from here, then it’s the literal meaning of the common saying: the sky is high and the emperor lives far away;2 no matter how much Lang Junxia may want to kill him he won’t be able to find him. As for what happens when he gets back, well, that’s something to worry about for later.

But Wu Du is staring at Duan Ling as he packs, not taking his eyes off of him. Suddenly, he says, “But no matter what you end up finding, you mustn’t try to kill yourself again, got it?”

Duan Ling turns around, smiling at Wu Du. “I won’t do that again. With you around, I’ll definitely stay alive.”

Under Duan Ling’s care, amidst the courtyard house’s garden, many splendid flowers are blooming brilliantly, a backdrop as colourful as a painting; the picture of a young man turning with a smile on his face has startled Wu Du out of the blue without rhyme or reason at all.

In the afternoon, more gifts arrive. This time it’s clothes for the trip made with first-rate fabric, as well as money they’ll need for spending on the road; there’s even a dagger for Duan Ling for self-defence.

When it’s night time, Wu Du and Duan Ling plan out their itinerary. This is the first time Duan Ling has ever formally embarked on a long journey, so he’s actually rather excited.

“Make sure you don’t talk too much while we’re out. If nothing goes wrong I’ll disguise myself as your servant. A young master doesn’t need to do everything himself.”

Duan Ling just nods, and in the end he asks, “What’s the Zhenshanhe?”

This is clearly a question he knows the answer to; as soon as he heard that the sword of the realm had gone missing, he knew that the sword had been gone since the day Shangjing fell. If they can recover the Zhenshanhe, does that mean they can direct the four assassins?

“A weapon that stabilises the empire. The crown prince is looking for it as well.”

“Is it in Bian Lingbai’s keeping?” Duan Ling asks.

“Not necessarily. But he was among the last of the reinforcements to arrive in Shangjing.”

Duan Ling suspects that it is more likely to have fallen into Mongol or Khitan hands, but since its whereabouts are unknown, they may as well see if they can find it while they’re there.

They discuss for a time in the evening, and as they’re about to go to bed, Mu Kuangda summons them to a meeting. When they get to the study it is a private meeting as before, and Mu Kuangda hands the two their mission.

“Chang Pin is in Jiangzhou, so it’s too late to ask him for a plan. I improvised something with what little time I have, and I’m not sure if it’s entirely advisable; he’s usually the one who’d come up with ideas for something like this. We’ll talk about it together, and if anything feels amiss, either of you can tell me.”

Then Mu Kuangda explains to Duan Ling and Wu Du that the general plan is nothing more than to first win Bian Lingbai’s trust by passing Duan Ling off as Zhao Kui’s nephew. He’ll express his wish to convene Zhao Kui’s former subordinates, to claim some territory and set himself up as a local lord so he can take revenge for his uncle. This way, Wu Du won’t have to put on a disguise, making it less likely to give the game away.

As for Duan Ling, his mission is to gain Bian Lingbai’s trust first, then probe for information, try to find some way to steal some correspondence between Bian Lingbai and Xiliang. On the one hand the letters can act as evidence that they can present to the emperor after they kill Bian Lingbai, and on the other hand, Mu Kuangda needs to know what Bian Lingbai is planning.

After all, there are many beneficial relationships between the Tangut tribe and the empire of Chen. Xiliang used to be an independent state, then it was annexed by Liao, and its allegiance has always wavered between Liao and Chen. If all goes as planned, Mu Kuangda intends to find some way to gain Xiliang’s support.

There are factions within Xiliang as well; ever since Helian Bo and his mother returned to their homeland, their government has been split into two factions, one advocating the Helian family leaving Liao control and gaining independence, while another believes it is best for them to bide their time.

All of this is giving Duan Ling a bit of a headache. He had recommended himself3 in order to survive, but now that he thinks about it, he’s going to have to install himself with a general he’s never met, and it’s one at the commander-in-chief level too — it won’t be easy to fool him. While he hasn’t been found out at the Mu estate, he’s never had to explain his origins in front of Mu Kuangda, and the identity he made up has been quite limited. In front of Bian Lingbai he’ll have to fabricate an entire set of lies. What he has done so far cannot hold a candle to what he must do on this trip.

“I just worry that I won’t be able to gain his trust and things will easily go wrong,” Duan Ling says.

“That doesn’t matter.” Mu Kuangda smiles, looking fully like a cunning old fox. “We have something in exchange that will give him no other option but to meet with you.”

Speaking, he hands over a tiny wooden box. Duan Ling opens it to find a rolled up silk tapestry, yellowed with age and drawn with mountains, rivers, and general terrain.

Duan Ling stares at it in amazement.

Mu Kuangda says, “This is a treasure map taken from Zhao Kui’s storage when his property was confiscated by the government.”

Duan Ling is staring with his mouth agape at the treasure map. It’s thin as a cicada’s wing, every last line distinct.

“Bian Lingbai has been hankering after it for a long time, but he’s been unable to find it through all his searching after Zhao Kui’s properties were confiscated; even His Majesty himself knows not of its whereabouts. I had foreseen the need for this plan a long time ago, and thus I have been hiding it. And I also have a letter forged in Zhao Kui’s handwriting ostensibly written prior to his death that you can take with you.”

Duan Ling looks over the treasure map carefully. “What’s buried here?”

“Gold, silver, treasure — enough money to rival the imperial treasury.” Mu Kuangda drinks his tea without any sign of nervousness. “Presumably Zhao Kui made contingency plans while he was planning his coup, and if the coup failed he would have unearthed the treasure and ran away, find some small place in Xiyu where he could keep a private army of a hundred thousand or so, and became the ruler of a small state. It would have made an acceptable living.”

Duan Ling has no more misgivings, and he puts the treasure map away. Mu Kuangda then warns him once more, “Of course, Bian Lingbai isn’t going to trust you. And with just yourself you’re not going to be able to get to the core of his secrets; he’s tremendously ambitious. However, with these terms on your side, it won’t be hard for you to infiltrate his army along with Wu Du.”

In an instant, Duan Ling comprehends his intentions; neither his identity nor the treasure map are significant at all. All he has to do is to buy time for Wu Du.

“I understand. I definitely won’t fail.”

Satisfied, Mu Kuangda nods. “Then, Wu Du, you’ll have to act as our gentleman thief.”

“I got it,” Wu Du replies.

“First, steal the classified information. If it’s possible, steal both his ledgers and letters. As for the value of each piece of information, you two must figure it out amongst yourselves what to take and what mustn’t be touched. Get rid of him before you leave. Only once we have evidence can we arrange negotiations with Xiliang. Bian Lingbai has always wanted to turn against the central government, and after Zhao Ku died no one could keep him in check. The longer we allow him to live the more things can go awry. We must resolve this as soon as possible.”

Wu Du gives him a nod, knowing that once he finishes this job Mu Kuangda definitely won’t treat him lightly, which precisely fulfils the way to “get ahead” that Duan Ling mentioned. But getting ahead isn’t going to be easy; this is the first assassination he has been tasked with since he came under Mu Kuangda’s patronage, and it is also a blood pledge — but he has already run out of other options.4

“What if he’s innocent?” Duan Ling asks suddenly .

A look of alarm flashes across Wu Du’s face.

Mu Kuangda though, has started smiling, staring right at Duan Ling.

Duan Ling knows full well that this is the one question he should never ask, but he asked it anyway.

“Very good.” Mu Kuangda nods slowly. “If he’s innocent, will you or will you not kill him?”

To his surprise, Mu Kuangda has kicked the ball right back into Duan Ling’s court, with a shrewd, calculating look in his eyes.

Duan Ling takes a deep breath, about to answer, but then Mu Kuangda is telling him, full of poise, “If he’s innocent, then you may do as you see fit.”

“Certainly,” Duan Ling feels a great weight coming off his chest.

Mu Kuangda does not move his eyes from Duan Ling, as though he wants to see right through into his heart.

“Come back as soon as possible,” Mu Kuangda adds, “The exams will happen right after the capital is relocated. You mustn’t neglect your studies.”

Duan Ling rises with Wu Du, and they take their leave.

On the way back, the more Duan Ling thinks about the meeting the more he appreciates Mu Kuangda’s meticulous planning, how he has taken every possibility into account. At the end of it he even emphasised several times that they must create the illusion that Bian Lingbai passed away from natural causes. For that is the only way the imperial court can assign a general to take over the army stationed beneath Tongguan, stopping the chance of further turmoil.

“Even if he is innocent we’ll still have to kill him,” Wu Du says quietly.

“I know. But you won’t, will you? I won’t either. There aren’t that many generals who’re capable of safeguarding the border. As long as he doesn’t turn against the empire, then he should not be killed indiscriminately.”

At the end of which he closes the gates of the courtyard house behind him, and once they’re back inside the house, he says to Wu Du in a barely audible whisper, “I only said that to give him pause. And if we don’t find anything, then you don’t have to make this blood pledge anymore. Killing good and loyal men is going to end up costing no one but you in the end.”

With a deep furrow between his brows, Wu Du turns his gaze onto Duan Ling, and it just so happens that Duan Ling was also watching him. There is a shared understanding in their gaze that cannot be put into words.

“Get some sleep.” Wu Du says, “We’ll have to be on our way in the morning. Don’t think about this anymore.”

Duan Ling goes to his floor bedding, but that’s when Wu Du says to him, “Come sleep on my bed. It’s been raining for days. The floor’s too damp.”

Duan Ling doesn’t bother being polite either, and just climbs up to the bed to sleep, while Wu Du sits in front of the desk, looking at the treasure map by the dim light of a lantern.

Half way through the night Duan Ling wakes up once and says to Wu Du, “Not going to sleep yet?”

Wu Du hums something in reply. He has the treasure map pinched between two fingers, and turning the silk tapestry backwards and forwards, he looks at it through the lamplight. It’s quite a while before he gets on the bed with all his clothes on, lying down next to Duan Ling, and gets under the same covers.

Duan Ling is all muddled in his sleep. Turning over, he throws a leg over Wu Du’s waist and clasps his arms around him, and subconsciously lean against him, putting his head on Wu Du’s arm, wrapping nearly his entire body around Wu Du.

Wu Du is at quite a loss; he can’t exactly push him away, and it’s even weirder if he holds onto him. Being embraced by a young man this way gives him a peculiar feeling, and he’s all at once frozen in place.

I do not monetise my hobby translations, but if you’d like to support my work generally or support my light novel habit, you can either buy me a coffee or commission me. This is also to note that if you see this message anywhere else than on tumblr, do come to my tumblr. It’s ad-free. ↩︎

The sky is high and the emperor is far away is a common saying, as in “far away from the central government, the local magistrates can embezzle as they like” basically. ↩︎

The idiom for recommending oneself for a job is “Mao Sui recommends himself”. It has a wikipedia entry if you’re interested in history. ↩︎

The words for a blood pledge is more like a “contract”, but it means an act that ensures your loyalty. It originates in Water Margin, where Lin Chong was asked to kill someone and bring back their head in order to join the gang on Mount Liang. I translate this generally to blood pledge, since it is a pledge in which you get blood on your hands. ↩︎

#相見歡 #fei tian ye xiang #joyful reunion #xiang jian huan #fox translates things

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kitcat992 · 5 years

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Endgame thoughts and emotions: A proper review

Yeah, I did the unthinkable today. I saw the movie for a second time. And in my defense, I did not want to. I laid in bed as my friend literally tried to pull me out of my blanket burrito and drag me to the movie theater. The issue is, he bought me a ticket and really wanted me to go with him for his first time showing. After much commotion, I dragged myself into a theater seat, pouted, and watched it for a second time.

I decided to try and find a silver lining in my misery: Now I can view the movie with a much clearer mindset, without the fog of fan excitement and the years worth of anticipation. Plus, it was a matinee showing, so I was sure the crowd would be a lot less rowdy and I would be able to really immerse myself in what was happening. And most of all, if I was going to bitch this much about the movie, I decided it was only fair I really give it a good watch.

So here I go: Thoughts and emotions the second time around.

Too long; didn’t read: It’s still shit.

Tony’s opening scene in the Benatar remains to be the best part of the film, along with his confrontation with the team, specifically Rogers. These moments are why the film started off so strong – we were receiving exactly what we waited for since Civil War. I repeat, we waited 3 years for Civil War to finally pay off. But it’s really pathetic that the only good parts of this film are the beginning, right before the 5 years later cue card.

Despite the amazing pay off from the fallout in Civil War and the incredible acting from RDJ during that confrontation scene, the pacing of the beginning STILL felt all sorts of weird. For starters, did Marvel just assume that every single movie-goer would watch Captain Marvel/Captain Marvel’s end credits scene?

Without that scene, without the whole “We found Fury’s beeper.” and “Where’s Fury?”, Captain Marvel’s entrance makes ZERO sense. And ya know what? Even after seeing the movie [Captain Marvel] it STILL makes zero sense. This is one of the many moments in the film that we’re left to assume. We’re left to assume that the team told Carol about Tony having flown to space to stop the doughnut ship, and we’re left to assume that she went and spent 3 weeks looking for him.

I was flooded with questions before the title card even rolled: When did they find Fury’s pager? And how did they find Fury’s pager? Were they just walking the streets and came across it, or did it have a GPS of sorts on it, or did it have an alert set to notify the compound in case of emergency? Did they tell Carol to go search for Tony or did Carol come across Tony on her own accord? How did they know Tony fought Thanos?? Tony even asks “Who told you that?” Well, who told him that? Did they receive the messages from his Iron Man helmet from when he was onboard the Benatar?

And let’s talk about Irondad&Spiderson moment that wrecked me – “I lost the kid.” Don’t get me wrong, this had me peeing my pants a little bit. But HOW did Steve know about “the kid”? His face says he knows, the way he reacted says he knows. Does he just know Spider-man is a kid, and he knew Spider-man went to space with Tony Stark, thus that’s the kid Tony refers to? Or did Steve also know about Peter before Civil War? Perhaps he was someone they both were planning to recruit, but Tony got to him first. How does he know about “the kid?”

That’s a lot of questions for the first, what, 10 minutes?

Immediately feeling the pacing so off balance in the movie this soon was incredibly troublesome. It only gets worse once they go off to kill Thanos. Because the moment Thor walks out of that hut, the movie takes a nose dive it never stood a chance to recover from.

5 years later.

Fuck that noise.

Okay, so the “5 years later” part didn’t bother me during my first watch. Because I so strongly (and naively) thought time-reversal was the end fate for this film. It was the only goddamn thing that made sense. But, to say the least, nothing following this cue card makes sense.

For starters, there’s just NO information given to the viewers about what happens from the fallout of The Decimation. So once again, we’re left to assume. Did the Avengers hold a press conference? Does the world now know about other universes and infinity stones and magic? Was Carol Danvers the one to explain that? Or Tony? Was the world angry with the Avengers for not stopping Thanos? Does the world even KNOW about Thanos? Does the world know what we the audience know or did the government sell them a lie? How about the Accords – did that dust away too, because we see Natasha handling business with the help of Nebula, Rocket, Rhodey and Carol.

But there’s not even a HINT of what civilians think or what they were told. We’re left to assume.

It turns out Steve’s little support-group-talk about “Some of us moving on” was actually a way for The Russo Brothers to completely erase his character development of the past handful of movies. Here we naively thought he was talking about moving on from the loss of Bucky and Sam and the other half of the universe…nope. All a ploy to remind the audience that despite the fact Steve Rogers said goodbye to Peggy Carter, buried her body, and began to live his own life in this new time and world, he still hadn’t moved on from the woman he loved for 21 months. Not only is this a giant slap in the face to Steve’s narrative, but he’s turned into a hypocrite by preaching “move on” without actually moving on himself. “Some of us move on…but not us.” is NOT a way to justify his actions at the end of this film.

I’ll say it now and here: I’m positively sick of Hollywood preaching that happy endings only come in the form of romantic relationships.

Natasha’s little spiel about family was sweet. I knew she was dead the moment she said it. My first viewing, I was okay with this. I actually felt a little touched, knowing that she got redemption from her red ledger by making the sacrifice for the family that she found. Upon my second viewing, I actually got pissed. Very pissed. Ya know why? Because Clint deserved to make that sacrifice. Nay, he needed to be the one to make it. But I’ll get there.

Paul Rudd’s acting for his reunion with Cassie was actually really touching. In fact, Scott Lang probably suffered the least amount of character-development-fuckery in this entire film. It probably helps that he was stuck in the quantum realm for 5 years instead of living with the others. I guest we’re just supposed to assume these characters changed over the course of 5 years, because they sure as hell aren’t acting like themselves.

*sigh* Tony…*bigger sigh* Morgan Stark. I know I’ve said it once before, if not multiple times already. I’m sorry for being a broken record. But Tony did not need to have a kid. She only served purpose to the narrative if time had been reversed. Perhaps Tony procreated with Pepper after Infinity War because he felt he needed to contribute to society and help get the universe back to how it was. Okay, I can flow with that. Even his insistence later on that they bring the dusted back but “keep everything from the past 5 years, at all cost” would play majestically into the ultimate sacrifice of losing his daughter for the other half of the universe to return. Watching these scenes [with his daughter] the first time around wasn’t as painful when I so naively thought time reversal would occur. My unbelievably intense opinion that Tony and Pepper did not need a kid keeps me from even remotely enjoying them now. Another thing Hollywood so wrongly assumes and pushes on audiences: If you’re a couple, you have to have a kid. Tony and Pepper were just fine without one and bringing a child into their story only prevented Tony from reversing time.

Also, the little girl who played Morgan was horribly directed. I know she was young, and I know kid actors aren’t great to begin with. But she mumbled all her lines and never looked anywhere but the ground. I will give credit to RDJ for playing the fantastic Irondad we all knew at heart he was, and I’ll treasure those moments with Peter in mind instead of Morgan.

But again, more questions arise from here. Steve, Natasha and Scott come to talk Tony into doing a time heist. The way Tony looks at them all…I can only assume he hasn’t spoken to them in years. But when? When did they all fall apart? Was it directly after he slammed his arc reactor/nano housing unit into Steve’s hand and passed out? Was it after the team told him, off camera, that Thanos was dead and the stones were gone? Have they kept in touch at all?

For the most part, Tony seems civil to them – “Table is set for 6, if you don’t talk shop you can stay for lunch.” and even pours them all drinks. But so much was left unsaid/off screen that I have no idea what’s gone on between these characters in the past 5 years. A cue card doesn’t tell me narrative. At this point in the film, I’ve already got a headache. I’m asking too many questions and getting so little answers.

I cannot even begin to express my utter disappointment in how they handled Professor Hulk. Even during my first viewing of this film, I had face palmed at this diner scene. Mark Ruffalo had a very well-thought out mini story in every Avengers film and even during Thor: Ragnarok. His struggle to control the Hulk, and Hulk’s distaste for Banner, all led up to Professor Hulk. How Banner described him is exactly how he was supposed to be – brains and brawns, the best of both worlds.

He was instead used for jokes. And lets be honest, he just looked weird. He acted weird, he looked weird, and every time he had a moment on screen I was just uncomfortable. So uncomfortable. I loved Ruffalo’s performance of Bruce Banner and all that just went away with this film. I don’t even like to think of Bruce Banner in this movie. Science Bros went away, his dynamic with the team went away, so much went away.

It felt like watching an alternate universe Avengers at this point, it really did.

Tony’s desire to get Peter back saved the universe: That is fact, that is canon. He was adamantly against time travel until he saw that photo and then BAM, he figures it out. I will take joy in this moment, despite wanting it to be something else. I really wanted this to be a grieving moment, I really wanted him to be at May’s place (who be are left to assume got dusted) or at a makeshift funeral/memorial or something. I’m happy to have gotten this scene, I really am. But I also feel empty from it. Perhaps that’s because so much is left unsaid that we’re left to assume the nature of Peter and Tony’s relationship since Homecoming.

So again, I get my hopes up for this time reversal that never pans out. Tony has a conversation with Pepper about how he figured out the time travel nonsense, but he could put a pin in it immediately and forget all about it. Pepper, softly and a little heart broken, said he wouldn’t be able to rest if he did. In my honest opinion, that was Pepper telling Tony “I don’t want to lose what we have…but so many others lost so much more. We can try this again. We can have a second chance.” That, to me, was Pepper accepting the possibility of time being reversed to 2018 and losing Morgan and their cabin and all they had done in the past 5 years. In that moment, she accepted that. She gave him her blessing.

This made sense to me, this made sense to the narrative. Because this would leave Tony with a heart breaking choice of choosing the universe over his daughter. But he would, because that would be his ultimate sacrifice. One last sacrifice, to quote his movie poster. He’d be absolutely heart broken but he would know that his loss was nothing compared to all those who were dusted, all those who lost their lives by the dusted (falling air crafts, ect) and all those who took their lives due to the grief. He’d make that decision. And we’d go back to 2018 where time would be restored to how it was. If the writers really wanted to keep the Morgan nonsense, they could have even give him a happy ending by Pepper announcing she’s pregnant in 2018, showing that he’ll still have Morgan and his happy life.

Ultimately, this is not what pans out. Things only get worse from here.

Tony returns to the team, who failed at managing time travel with Scott due to lacking a time-travel-GPS. I’m not even touching that scene, it’s just sorta pointless and there were pee jokes and…yeah. Tony invents this time gps and agrees to help them, so long as nothing changes from the past 5 years. He gifts Steve a new shield, admitting that resentment is corrosive.

So…I’m left to assume he and the team really did split ways after his return from space. I mean, it’s a sweet moment….but I’m also left to assume what the shield is made out of. Is it Vibranium? Does that mean Thanos’ sword can cut through Vibranium, as it goes on to cut through his shield during the final battle?

A throw away line here was vital and never received. Steve’s shield was widely known for being made from the strongest metal in the world, and if you’re going to recreate it, you need to establish if it’s made of the same material. A simple “You better not toss that around like a Frisbee all the damn time, it’s not made of the worlds strongest metal, ya know.” or “It cost me an arm and leg to get some of that glorious Vibranium from Wakanda. Be careful with that thing.” And all you’d have to do to make time for this one throw away line would be cut one of the many unnecessary childish jokes in the movie, or reduce the “Nah, take a picture with him, ‘cmon!” scene from like, a solid minute to 30 seconds.

Its small things like this sprinkled throughout the entire film that goes to shine a light on how awful the script really was.

They decide to get the team back together, which includes Rhodey, Rocket and Nebula. And Thor.

Pour one out for Thor. He ain’t dead, but his character development sure as hell is.

My anger with Marvel, the MCU, Kevin Feige and The Russo Brothers stands to be for so many reasons, but this one might just take the cake. Once all of my anger dissipates from bad writing, the destruction of character development, the immature jokes – this will be the one thing that remains. I will never forgive any of the parties involved for turning Thor’s clear-as-day PTSD into a fat joke. Thor became a depressed, traumatized alcoholic.That is NOT something to make light of, and yet at every corner there was a joke for him.

His one serious moment – when Professor Hulk mentioned Thanos’ name and he was so clearly triggered into a state of emotional distress – was laughed off by Rocket telling him they had beer on the ship. So not only was his depression laughed at with the fat jokes, but his alcoholism was turned into jokes as well. As someone who grew up with an abusive alcoholic father, I cannot condone this type of humor, especially for young children. There are some things you just do not make fun of.

I wrongly trusted Marvel to be able to handle mental health issues with grace and dignity, as seen in Iron Man 3. They did more than drop the ball on this. They played skee ball with it.

Oh, and Hawkeye is now Ronin (was his name actually said, though? I guess we’re left to assume again) and he’s been murdering a shitton of people. Natasha finds him, says a sad line about “not being able to give hope sooner” and recruits him. So that’s cool, I guess. Problem is no one cared about his family to begin with and they still sorta don’t. But, yeah…everyone bring the murderer onboard. Cool. It’s sorta telling the audience (which includes kids) that its okay to murder as long as you actively kill bad guys, but yeah, whatever.

Now, things have been bad up to this point. Very bad. But it just gets so much uglier from here. The team discuss Time Travel and try to tell the audience how it REALLY works in their universe – by dismissing the notion of “you mess with the past, you mess with your future” theory all movies tend to have. This is essentially the butterfly effect and its really the only way to go about time travel.

But they couldn’t do that, because then we couldn’t have the time travel shenanigans that follow. And honestly, I’ve seen a LOT of things with time travel, and their explanation still doesn’t make sense. “You can’t change the past, only your present, which then becomes your past.” Whatever, Russo Brothers. You’re just trying to pass off a shitty time travel plot without actually caring about it.

Clint does a trial run of time travel, it works, and then they go about figuring out where the stones were so they can travel back to get them. None of this was entertaining. Rocket calling Scott a puppy fell flat, for starters. Thor having an obviously distressful triggered moment recalling his mother and Jane was painful to watch and equally painfully to hear the audience howl in laughter from it. It was nice to see a 15 second shot of Tony, Natasha and Bruce laying against each other, surrounded by books as they try to figure things out but these type of brief, fleeting moments were why I was so found-family-trope baited in the first place. 4 movies too late, MCU.

Also, Nebula tells them clear as day that Vomir is a place of death and Thanos went and came back without his sister, to which Scott jokes “Not it.” So SERIOUSLY, Nat and Clint knew something was up before they even went. Dick move to whoever sent them there.

Time travel shenanigans from here. They split into teams and go to their past locations where everyone fucks up everything in every timeline, but there are no consequences because the narrative established “you can’t change the past”

Listen, I do not even WANT to try and understand this. I don’t. It’s why I don’t mess with TheFlashTV anymore. Professor Hulk goes to get the time stone but The Ancient One won’t give it to him and they have this long drawn out discussion about how if the team doesn’t return the stones, her new timeline/reality is doomed. So Bruce’s astral form promises to bring them back and he tells her Strange gave it up willing and she gives it to him and…*sigh* Again, the Russo Brothers using cheap lines to try and explain their shitty use of time travel. This scene exists solely for Steve Rogers. It gives him his reason to travel to the past at the end and return all the stones to their rightful place (and, as it will later be discussed, say Fuck You to everyone in the year 2023.) That’s all this scene is here for.

Loki got away with the space stone/tessract, Thor gets to talk with his mother while Rocket grabs the reality stone, Nebula somehow connected with past Nebula’s harddrive and Thanos got to see her memories and Clint and Natasha did a little remake of the Thanos and Garmora sacrifice from Infinity War. To make matters even WORSE, because Loki got away with the space stone, Steve and Tony have to travel to 1970, to the SHIELD bunker seen in The Winter Soldier and where the space stone/tessract is being kept, as well as grab some additional Pym Particles on the way since they didn’t have enough for the additional jump.

This entire scene is garbage. Tony runs into a young Howard Stark. And I guess because Tony’s a dad now, he goes on to forgive his own dad for abusing him. As a child of abuse, fuck that noise. Howard is made out to be a man with good intentions and Tony even hugs him before he travels back.

It’s like the Russo Brothers wanted to write Tony having everything he ever wanted (a family, a kid, closure with his father) before they killed him off. This scene served nothing to the movie, nothing to Tony’s narrative and really sent a harsh message to victims of parental abuse. The mix messages with Howard along the way of the MCU films are so flawed I cannot even begin to describe them here.

Oh, and Steve runs into Peggy’s office where he stares at her from afar. This is the Russo Brothers once again shoving down the agenda that Steve Rogers needs to be with Peggy Carter if he’s to be happy. Despite having said his goodbye and having buried her body, he’s still hung up on the woman he knew for 21 months over 16someyears ago since coming out of the ice. So we get that.

Rhodey and Nebula grab the power stone. Rhodey spends like, 1 minute talking about the temple being boobytrapped only for them to walk into it fine. Not sure what that dialogue was there for. Nebula burns her hand off getting the power stone, they go to travel back but 2014 Thanos links with 2023 Nebula’s mind harddrive and accesses her memories and discovers the future and…yeah, I’m just not even in the mood to explain this. Nebula was kept around as a plot device. It’s a real shame to see her character reduced to that. Also, jumping way ahead here — someone seriously needs to explain to me how she still exists after killing her past self. I need that explanation like whoa.

Thor’s conversation with his mother about “being who he’s meant to be, not who he’s supposed to be” would have been more touching if the fat jokes weren’t tossed in every other line. He legit had a panic attack, even SAYS “I think I’m having a panic attack.” and how do the writers go about this serious mental health issue? By having Rocket slap him.

I was sitting near a middle-aged man who howled SO loudly with laughter at this, it reminded me of how people laughed at the 3 stooges. Way to go with that one, Marvel.

I think that about sums up the time travel shenanigans. While it was fun to watch the 2012 Battle of New York from a different perspective, everything just got so royally fucked up that my headache was turning into a migraine at this point in the film. But again, it doesn’t matter. Time travel in this movie is explained as “You can’t mess things up. You can’t change the past.”

But wait. The best is yet to come. Our first death of the movie. It’s bad enough that Natasha died instead of Clint, but to have her death be such a blatant rip off of the Thanos and Garmora scene in Infinity War is a real slap in the face. All the way down to the usage of the same score music. Why? That only made the scene less emotional and moreso, took away from the impact of the Thanos and Garmora scene in Infinity War. The entire time, I felt like I was watching a fanfic with that scene. Among many others.

Clint deserved/needed to die instead. I get that they “battled it out” to be the one to jump, and he wanted to be the one to die – I get it. But that’s just…sorta not good enough. Because the writers wrote all that in when it didn’t need to happen. For starters, the entire fight over who jumped was drawn out and quiet frankly, hilarious. Sure, it showed a bit of their personalities and what friendship they had, but it ended up laughable. Maybe that’s because everything leading up to this felt like such a joke as well that I couldn’t take any of it seriously.

Regardless, while I’m not nearly as angry at Natasha’s death as I am Tony’s, I still strongly believe Clint should have been the one. Otherwise, the message I walked away with is: It’s okay to go on a murdering spree when you’re feeling hurt and bummed out, as long as you say sorry for it and try to take the spot of sacrificing your life.

I would say that Marvel didn’t want to kill off a “family man” with Clint, as he had his family and kids, but Tony had that at this point as well. I feel they killed Natasha off because they didn’t know what else to do with her, as so clearly evident in her other films. She had no direction with these movies, no real character arc to go off of, and even with her solo movie in the works (an obvious prequel) she was sort of an empty slate waiting for her story to be told. Marvel never used her properly, never really took advantage of her, and at one point even gave her a relationship that did NOT need to be [Brutasha] because they were so clueless as to what to do with the only female Avenger. (Which means she HAS to have a love interest, right? RIGHT? God, Hollywood sucks with females)

They return to 2023 with all their stones and without Natasha. There’s a 1 minute grieving scene where Professor Hulk throws a bench in the lake and Steve blinks a tear and that’s…it. I mean, christ, don’t dedicate another second longer to the poor woman, we couldn’t have that. Gotta make room for all those fat jokes. /s

They put the stones into Tony’s nano gauntlet and fight over who should put the gauntlet on – Professor Hulk wins. He says some shit that’s pulled straight out of his ass about gamma and how much gamma is surrounding the glove and that only he can handle it because Hulk is gamma. “It’s like I was made for this.”

Okay, whatever. Seriously, all this is so out of nowhere that I can’t muster the strength to care. A universe that always relied on collective narrative and plots weaved throughout movies is just pulling shit straight out of their asses at this point and I’m supposed to eat it. Please just snap your fingers and reverse time to 2018, Professor Hulk. That’s all I’m waiting for.

Tony once again says DO NOT lose the past 5 years and I guess the stones work off of what you’re thinking (ie: why they won’t let Thor do it, he’s too much of a mental mess) so Bruce…thinks about the dusted and snaps and…yeah. The dusted are back. A bit anticlimactic.

This also raises SO many questions about so many other things…what about those that got dusted in crashing airplanes? Are they just falling from the sky now? People who were in boats that are no longer there, or in trains, or cars? What if they were dusted where a wall is now built? Are they morphed into the wall? Not to mention, bringing the dusted back in the year 2023, 5 years from when they were dusted…the legal problems that will occur. What if you had an apartment and someone is living there now? Where’s your stuff? What if your spouse married another person? Not to mention, what if your loved ones who survived The Decimation committed suicide in grief?

What about all that life insurance that was dished out?

None of this is explained. I doubt any of it ever will be. As the audience, I am once again left to assume.

So anyway, cue final battle scene. Thanks to time travel fuckery, 2014 Thanos is in 2023 and he bombs the shit out of the compound and it’s all CGI action from this point forward.

I mean, the fight was pretty cool. It was just…it was a lot of CGI, and to be honest, it was dark. Like, hard to see kind of dark. I get the tone and atmosphere they were going for, but one of the reasons I loved the Wakanda battle scene in Infinity War so much is because it was during the daylight. Even the battle of Titan was bright. Again, I get the tone they were going for, but I had a lot of trouble seeing what was going on, and it was a lot at once.

The OG 3 fight Thanos alone at first, which was cool. They all get their asses handed to them and Steve’s the one left to try and finish him off, solo, when Doctor Strange opens portals around the universe and brings all the dusted and army’s to the fight. I’d like to say I felt the same excitement watching this the second time around as I did the first, but I just…didn’t. Knowing the ending of this movie robbed a lot of initial joyful moments and if you ask me, a movie shouldn’t do that.

Also, yes, the fanservice moments exist. Steve lifts Mjolnir and says Avengers Assemble. I’m sorry, that’s not enough for me to forgive the mess of this movie.

A few pairs have their reunion scattered along the battlefield. I absolutely adored Peter and Tony’s, though I remained vastly uncomfortable that Peter was suddenly 5 years in the future and even addresses it as much. “And then Doctor Strange said you gotta hurry, it’s been 5 years!” Like…again, if this was reversed, that’s fine. But friggin hell. At this moment he doesn’t even remember turning to dust and how much pain he was in. Simply “Remember when I got all dusty? I must have passed out.” They hug though, so at the end of this shitshow at least the Irondad&Spiderson fanbase got their hug.

Rocket and Groot exchange a look and say nothing.

Fucking Steve and Bucky don’t even talk or see each other in battle. Probably because the Russo Brothers reallllyyy wanted to push that Steve/Peggy agenda and not remind anyone of Stucky. I look back on my complaints about the Irondad&Spiderson in this movie and take my grateful’s that we got the hug, because the poor Stucky fanbase got friggin robbed.

So again, big giant CGI battle fest. At one point they’re playing Hot Potato with the gauntlet trying to keep it away from Thanos and get it to Scotts van. I will admit, seeing Peter get like, 11 moms all at once was badass. Though it broke my heart to see him curled up in a tight ball holding the gauntlet like that…boy gunna have some real PTSD that Far From Home will likely brush off with more jokes disregarding and disrespecting the seriousness behind mental health and trauma.

I legit forgot about Captain Marvel until the moment she showed up.

I repeat: I legit forgot about Captain Marvel until the moment she showed up.

I know this moment had a LOT of characters to balance, but christ. If the writers can’t handle multiple characters with grace, they shouldn’t be handling multiple characters to begin with. Most were in this battle scene for the sake of showing their face. I mean, did Mantis even fight? So much was going on I couldn’t see past the center focus.

And I know a LOT of people complained that they didn’t want Captain Marvel to be the one that saves the day, but honestly, she would have been the better fit.

Tony making the final snap was done for shock factor. I stand by it. The narrative called for Steve Rogers to lay down his life in a blaze of glory, and because people predicted that – which is NOT a bad thing! It just means you’re telling your story well! – they took a hard left. Steve Rogers was a man out of his time, and his narrative told us time and time again he struggled with his life without a war. He needed the fight, that was his purpose. And his purpose should have ended with that final snap.

Instead, because movies want to be edgy and unpredictable, they ruined the narrative of Tony Stark and the final snap kills him. It’s horrific to watch. His last audible words are “I am Iron Man” and his last mumbled words are “Hey, babe” to Pepper. He gurgles blood out of his mouth, his brain is melting from the sheer power of the stones, Peter legit just sobs over him and he dies after Pepper feeds him some poetic, flowery shit about “You can rest now.”

This would be an immensely touching moment if it weren’t telling the audience that death is rest and the only way Tony could rest is if he died. First and foremost, I’m sorry, I do not consider death to be rest. Death is the end of existence. And Tony Stark had plenty of opportunities to rest without death. But the Russo Brothers decided 5 years of happiness was enough for him (when honestly, was it truly happiness? We all know he was harboring guilt from the Decimation and still mourning Peter) so they gave him those 5 years and then killed him off.

Between Thor, Natasha, and Tony, the MCU has taken society’s fight against the stigma on mental health back like, 25 years. Their answer to those who have mental trauma is to make fat jokes or kill them because that’s the only way they’ll be at peace. I guess this means Spidey is next, because there’s no way a 17 year old teenager is walking way from that without some serious PTSD.

Just by watching it I have PTSD.

I’m just not even touching this one in full extent. I’m sure other people will say it better than me and already have. All I will say is this: The past 11 years of film and subsequently the collective narrative told over the course of 22 films created a purpose for each of these two characters — Tony Stark struggled to move on from the fight, to truly let go of being Iron Man and retire. Steve Rogers struggled with his place in the world, moving on from Peggy Carter and finding purpose in fighting the battles that needed won.

Tony Stark deserved an ending of retirement, or even semi-retirement, perhaps taking on an advisory role at Shield. It would show the audience that sometimes you shouldn’t fight what feels natural within yourself, and Tony had a natural urge to be involved in this superhero life. He still could be, from afar, like a new Nick Fury.

And Steve Rogers, a man out of his time, deserved to win that battle in the blaze of glory, laying down his life for the other half of the universe. I really can’t believe I’m saying this, but I feel cheated for not seeing his death.

The Russo Brothers got this wrong. And shame one everyone who supported them along the way. These character’s had arcs established for many films prior to this and with a “5 Years Later” cue card all that just goes out the window.

Tony’s funeral exists solely for the purpose of doing a slow pan shot of a ton of faces standing around somberly. As an Irondad&Spiderson fan, it hurt to see Peter directly behind Pepper, Rhodey, Steve and Happy. May looked to be the same age/not aged up so I have to assume she got dusted as well. And since I’m being honest here: I know a lot of people fawn over Harley and Tony, but him being there made little to no sense to me. Plus, 95% of the audience didn’t even know who he was.

But again, this scene exists solely so we can show a bunch of big name faces at once, the big “group shot” that’s been spoken about so much during the hype of this movie. Even General Ross is there, the little fucker.

And to be even more of a bitter little sarcastic ass — the sailing away of his first arc reactor was sweet, truly, it was. But I look at that lake surrounding their cabin and think…it’s just gunna float around out there, making it’s laps around the cabin. I’d hate to be Pepper, waking up one morning and seeing it near the front porch. Unless they go and collect it once everyone leaves…I dunno, fuck, I just don’t even like thinking about this part of the film. It all played out like so much fanfiction I’ve read waiting for this movie. This just wasn’t supposed to be the movies ending, I really can’t say that enough.

Clint and Wanda have a moment that, I suppose, is there to tell us they’re grieving over Nat and Vision. It all felt like cheap throw away lines. Natasha deserved so much more than that, and hell, so did Vision. And hell, so did half of Asgard, and Loki, and all the people who died because of The Decimation.

But it’s okay. Steve’s going to return the stones back to their proper timelines, as promised to The Ancient One, and with that opportunity of time travel he’s going to give the middle finger to the remaining team members he has by staying back in time and “living some of that life Tony told him to get.” How, you ask? By using his other hand to give his other middle finger to the life Peggy Carter established long after him, with a husband and children and a career at SHIELD, so he can marry her.

😑

Imma be honest, when I first watched this movie, it was the cheeseburger line that really broke me. Up til that very moment, I held strong. I ignored all the shitty jokes, the shitty unraveling of character development, the shitty use of time travel, the shitty death of Tony Stark – I ignored it all. For some reason, the cringey-as-fuck “Your father liked cheeseburgers. I’ll get you all the cheeseburgers you want.” line just broke me. It read so much like badly written fanfiction that to sound like the obnoxious white girl I am, I couldn’t even anymore.

But once this scene hit, I was done. This was my “Nah, fuck this movie.” moment. This was my “I absolutely do not accept this” moment. This was when I walked out of the theaters, not waiting for an end credit scene that didn’t even exists anyway, or the credits of all the actors who’ve been in the MCU since 2008. I walked out the moment that dance ended, furious. And honestly, sticking around for that montage the second time around was rough. The anger hadn’t gone away yet.

So, to sum up? Avengers: Endgame played out like a fans poorly written, rushed, badly scripted fanfiction. But that fan had only watched Infinity War and read a couple of fanfictions afterward to get the gist on how to even write in the first place.

I’ve defended the MCU up until this moment. I know a lot of people jumped ship after Civil War; clearly the Russo Brothers were doing something wrong then. But they absolutely destroyed the universe with this movie to the likes that I’ve personally never seen before. What should have been a proper send off for characters (death or no death) ended up being a laughable joke of bad script writing, poor treatment to characters who had been around for a decade, and an idiotic usage of time travel.

Doctor Strange saw 14 million futures. In my head, Endgame was merely one of their lost battles. In my head, I have disowned this movie from the franchise. And while I will always be a Marvel fan, I’m likely done with the MCU moving forward in this odd universe of 2023. It’s just sad that I have to say goodbye with such a bitter taste in my mouth.

Thankfully, that’s what fannon and fandom is for.

#endgame critique #fuck endgame #fuck the russo brothers #anti mcu #mcu #marvel #fando #avengers #avengers 4 #avengers endgame #irondad #spiderson #endgame spoilers

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djinmer4 · 6 years

Text

The Blacksmith

Inspired by the Unity 5 Demo video:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pXWAsayTFTo

Magol crested the valley entrance then stopped in surprise. When he’d been told of Canas Odhellim, he’d expected a small town, like Bree or Esgaroth. What he saw instead was a thriving city, no Minas Tirith, but at least the size of Dale or Edoras. No ghost hamlet this, instead it was clearly the center of commerce and government for the region. He didn’t know if this would make his quest easier or harder.

As he walked down to the river he began to notice some distinctions. The southern bank of the river and the western mouth that emptied into the Belegaer were alive with activity. As he got closer he saw the bustle of commerce and the industry of construction. New buildings went up, ships came in and out of the docks, people scurried about in their daily business. In contrast, the northeastern part of the city was still and silent. Piles of stone rubble revealed where tall towers had been knocked down and the remaining walls had black scorch marks. Decaying boats and fields of feathered arrow shafts portrayed a silent tale of destruction and devastation.

Rather than sneak through the ruins, he entered through the south gate into the living part of the city. “Name?” asked the smiling clerk. A part of Magol wondered at the sight of a high elf, demonstrated by his height, his leaf-shaped ears, and glowing eyes. The other half cringed to think such a distinguished individual serving as a lowly clerk.

“Magol of the House of Caranthan.”

“From what nation?” The grizzled man wondered how backward these people were that they didn’t recognize the House of Caranthan.

“Ithilien in Gondor.”

“And the purpose for entering our busy city?”

“I’m here to seek a sword.”

“You’ll be wanting a weapon smith then. That’ll be Steel Street in the Mirdain district. Be warned, the inns in that district are a bit pricey-”

“Not that kind of sword.” At this the Elf stopped scribbling away at his ledger and looked up. The smile fell from his face to be replaced by a serious frown.

“When you say that, do you mean one made by a specific race? The Steel Street has smiths of all the free races, Man, Elf or Dwarf. Or do you mean one with the power of magic? Because that would be the same location. The wrights work together with the smiths.”

“I meant a sword made by the Blacksmith.” Magol put as much emphasis as he could in the last word.

“I see.” Not only the clerk but all the guards were paying attention as well. “You’re one of those types. You know, he only takes very few commissions. And the price is high, probably more than you can afford.”

“The House of Caranthan is the second wealthiest House of Gondor-”

“I’m not talking about money!” snapped the Elf, bright eyes flashing.

“We’re very influential as well.” The dark haired elf closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. He looked the same way Magol’s elder brother did when having a headache, then dismissed the thought. As if Elves were prone to such human ills!

“That’s not-” the Elf sighed and started again. “There are only two ways to earn a gift from the Blacksmith. The first is to serve in Canas Odhellim for ten years-”

“Ten years!” shouted the Gondorian. He had expected one or two, maybe even five. But ten?

“Ten years,” spoke the Elf, patiently keeping his voice low. “It can be any role. You may join the Guard. You may serve as a civil servant, in law or medicine or education. You can take up a trade. Indeed, many who have come here seeking the same as you have become smiths in their own right, and discovered greater fulfillment in creating their own weapon rather than having another fashion one for them.”

This explained how so many traveled to this city on the edge of nowhere, yet came back empty-handed. Or never returned at all. Anything could happen in ten years. The supplicant could decide it wasn’t worth it, and get a lesser sword from one of the smiths of the Mirdain. He could make a life here and decide to never leave. He could die.

“Ten years is not so long. A Dwarf must work for twenty years, and Eldar for a century.”

“Only an Elf would say that ten years is a short time.” snorted Magol. “Do you have a sword forged by the Blacksmith?”

The Elf shook his head. Magol sneered at him. Coward.

“What’s the second way?”

Now the Elf looked as grim as Death. Maybe he really was a high Elf, alive from the dawn of the sun and all the horrors of the First Age. “Trial by Fire.”

They’d let him keep his sword and armor. The sword would be necessary for the forging said the clerk. The armor, on the other hand, would not help, but he kept it anyway. He climbed past broken pillars, shattered stone, and burnt-out houses. When he reached the pit forge, he stop to rest, taking off his helmet to enjoy the cool air while each exhale created a glowing cloud in the failing sunlight.

His elder brother would say he was a fool to come so far for something so meaningless. The rest of his family would be less cruel about it, but would still not understand his path. If he felt he had to get a gift from the Blacksmith, he should work the ten years to get it, not gamble on surviving whatever test the monster gave. Easy for them to say! They had wealth, power, honored positions and loving families! What did he have? After a lackluster career in the military and a trail of failed businesses that his brother had rescued him from, he had nothing! Not even the honor of a degree to his name, or the love of a slattern, or even a promotion to sergeant. He was just another grunt in the army. This was his last shot.

He couldn’t wait ten years. Maybe if Magol had been a younger man, or if the Gondorians still had the lifespan of their Numenorean ancestors . . . but in ten years he would be a feeble old man, incapable of wielding a weapon in battle. At least if he won his prize now, he could return and gain glory fighting against the Corsairs of Umbar. He was sure with a powerful weapon he would finally succeed at something in life.

Loud steps caught his attention. A shadowed figure made his way over from the far side of the pit forge, and Magol realized that this must be the Blacksmith. He was tall, taller than even the high Elf who had greeted him at the gate of Canas Odhellim. He had strange, dark red hair, the color of old blood. Most of his skin was as pale as a corpse, except for his right arm which was as black as soot. Bright rings covered his right shoulder, made of gold and steel. Creepiest of all were his eyes, which were completely black. There was no distinction between pupil, iris and scelera, instead all he saw was a lightless void. The Blacksmith came up to him, then spread his arms, as if to give a welcoming embrace.

Magol stood up and then put on his helmet. Then he took his sword and drove it into the gut of the monster. The monster (Man? Elf? Something else?) grabbed with it’s left hand and pushed him back a little, drawing the blade slightly farther out. Then it’s black right hand came up and shattered Magol’s sword to pieces.

The shrapnel floated in the air for a minute or two. Then the Blacksmith reached behind him, grabbed one of those spinning splinters, and drove it into Magol’s neck. It was painful, but he’d been in enough battles to know it wasn’t fatal. The other pulled out the shard, and while Magol clutched at the wound, the Blacksmith removed the Gondorian helmet. For a moment, pale blue eyes met pitiless black. Then the floating pieces of his blade moved, adhering to his face until he was wearing a mask of steel. The Blacksmith stepped even closer. He held Magol’s face still with his left hand while the right one came up and pressed something (a ring?) into Magol’s forehead.

Pain! Pain! It felt like his face was on fire, then the fire spread throughout all of his body. Magol tried to scream but couldn’t make a sound. He couldn’t pull away. All he could do was endure the pain as the world went black.

Macalaure skipped up the path until he reached the pit forge, just in time to see his brother drop another mask into it’s lightless depths. “Nelyo?”

The Blacksmith looked up then smiled. Had the Gondorian still been alive he would have been amazed at the difference the smile made. From remote, lifeless statue to a real, breathing person. “Kano!” He opened his arms for an embrace. When the younger didn’t move closer, the elder brother simply walked around and scooped him up. “Kano, it’s so nice that you came to visit me.”

“Nelyo, where’s the body?”

“Don’t I get a ‘Nice to see you too, Nelyo’. ‘How have you been hanno?’ ‘Sorry I sent another bother up here Maedhros.’“

“I just saw you last week and was going to see you tonight anyway Nelyo. I know you’re fine because I can check with osanwe, hanno.” The shorter Elf squirmed until the red-head let him down. “Although, I really am sorry for sending that Man here. I hoped . . . “

“No Man has survived my test for centuries, Kano.” The elder stepped aside and let the younger brother see where the Gondorian had fallen. “The only ones who receive anything I have forged have been those who have served you faithfully.” He watched the other dart away, then say a short prayer over the dead. “What did he want anyway?”

“A sword.”

“He would have been better served getting one from you.”

“Maybe.” There was a minute of silence. “He asked if my sword had been forged by you.”

“Curvo would be highly insulted to compare my amateur dabbling to his work. I don’t know why people bother to come up here. If they want artifacts of power; you’re better at magic than I am.”

“They want more than magic.” The Singer stood up and walked over to his elder brother. They both looked down into the forge and the uncountable number of masks at the bottom. While they watched, something heaved from below the masks.

“Not much longer now,” whispered the erstwhile Lord of Himring. He placed his black, metal arm around raven-haired Elf’s shoulders. Russandol tilted his head back and brought the other’s head up too so that they could see the Evening Star fade into sight. “Soon this work will be complete. Then we will have all three of them hanno.”

Maglor said nothing, but brought his hands up to catch at the metal cradled his chin. What dimmed his grey eyes and put such a forlorn expression on the serene face? Was it longing for the last Silmaril? Or the desire to run away?

#silmarillion #blacksmith #maglor #maedhros #silmaril #maedhros learned many things in angband #maedhros is desperate to fill the oath #the two silmarilli are sitting in the bottom of the forge #this makes for a bad combination #maedhros is totally trapping the souls of the dead in the masks #and making an abomination so they can reach the last silmaril #maglor is so done with everything #maglor's sane #it doesn't do him any good #oc #third age #after the fall of arnor #before smaug invades dale

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insomniac-arrest · 7 years

Text

Dear Tuesdays

pairing: Blue Zircon x Yellow Zircon (Courtship?)

words: 7k

summary: Blue Zircon x Yellow Zircon law school human AU set in 1973. Slightly NSFW in some parts

Ao3

Warning: slightly NSFW but nothing explicit, briefly deals with homophobia, race, and sexism in the 1970s

Reference:

Blue Zircon- Zarah Khan

Yellow Zircon- Zadya Gold

Dear Journal,

The councilor said that journaling could help with stress. I said that I figure I’m about as stressed everyone else, she says most her patients don’t look like me this early in the semester. I think I should be offended.

On the other hand, I have begun tearing out my hair. I’ve increased grinding my teeth. I have a twitch in my left eye and that’s the one I can barely see out of anyway.

It’s only the second month.

Go to Harvard Law they said, graduate Summa Cum laude, get hired at your mom’s law firm. Easy? Of course it’s easy, it’s perfectly easy.

I wish my hair would stop falling out.

10/15/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I was once more sent down to the counselor for concerning noises coming from my dorm room. The noises would be far less concerning if people learned to mind their own businesses, surely they have to have classes on that somewhere on this godforsaken campus.

A useful class, something that isn’t torts.

I was sent here and she told me to try journaling again, so trying again I am- and investing in new neighbors hopefully soon. Or classes that aren’t on torts.

They won’t even teach us heresy until year two, so here I am, watching my eyes fall out of my skull over civil legal liability (let no man on earth, specifically Professor Woods, see I wrote this. I’m stressed out enough as it is).

And of course, she is also in that class.

I am going to buy thicker pillows. Or get my neighbors earphones.

10/18/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

If you are wondering, you non-sentient piece of barely passable paper (my proper notebook paper is taking down the ink, blood, and tears of my notes for Professor Woods lecture), the counselor said that I should write to something I hate. She gave several reasons of compassion, forgiveness, and sending a postcard to my vacationing emotional state or some other questionable transcendentalist bohemian sentiment.

I told her I would write to the day of Tuesday, ever since my brain has had a critical capacity I discerned Tuesday is objectively the worst day. Sure, people en masse hate Monday, but that’s because it’s a red herring for the abysmal time period that is Tuesdays.

You have some reserve of energy from the weekend for Monday’s, some feeling of being resigned to Wednesday and the hope of the weekend from Thursday, Friday. Tuesday is the energy sapping in between scourge of this mere existence.

And she would know that if she listened to my entire case instead of dismissing the first lines and making our classmates side with her ‘Monday’ arguments. I wasn’t done! She didn’t deserve that round, or the next.

I’m never participating in ‘Drinking Court’ ever again, that’s my ‘Smiley Goal’ or however the counselor put it.

No more, drinking, no more teeth grinding.

10/19/1973

Dear Tuesday,

I had to go to the dentist.

10/22/1973

Dear Not Tuesday,

I have another name I would like to put as the recipient to my stress letters, but she is currently the Unnamable Problem. Her name just leaves a bad taste in my mouth every time.

There are exactly eleven (used to be thirteen) women in my law school graduating class, much more than last year but not enough for me to ever feel comfortable in any room. She is, of course, one of the few other female students in any of my classes.

Which would be fine, good really. If she wasn’t the worst.

She’s good, I’ll grant her that- but almost too good. Smug grin, smug laugh, wants to only work for corporations who will pay her six figures like the men.

Admirable, attractive even, but that does not detract from her incessant ‘teasing,’ and insatiable need to win. She challenges and laughs and points and grins with that feline look that I would give a good right hook to if I was still in Kentucky. But we are no longer in Kentucky.

I should simply stop accepting her challenges.

Or stop going to class. There are many dilemmas.

10/25/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I cut my hair short. I’m already tearing it out from the stress as is and I am that much closer to looking like a professional, that’s what she must want right? Hopefully. Maybe.

Mother sent me a blue handkerchief with the firm insignia on it. Diamond Corp, where the best and brightest work for the best and brightest and the family will hang our name in the ledgers of its services.

I’m going to have to grow my hair out if mom is going to visit in December, Lord, maybe stop biting my nails too (The Unnamable said the hair was attractive but I have serious doubts she’s ever meant anything she’s ever said. I also don’t like that look she gave me afterwards- mocking).

10/26/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I accepted another Drinking Court, future lawyers shouldn’t drink this much, but the man next to me said ladies shouldn’t drink like this either. I downed that entire whiskey in one go.

Note to self: do not down entire whiskeys.

Our topic today was on which was the least savory condiment. I defender Worchester sauce and she prosecuted.

Honestly, what is there to defend on Worchester sauce.

She was faster, made more eye contact and started louder. But my points were better! More thought out.

Damn her, damn her, one day I’m going to beat her at these fake games- or the real games.

That is of course, after I down more aspirin and I drink the largest cup of coffee I can find (perhaps a bowl?)

I have a theory she’s trying to ruin me.

Even if she complimented my hair again by the third round of drinks.

10/27/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

There are negative ‘Smiley Points’ today. In fact, frowny points are had all around.

I have to wear a night guard now for the teeth grinding and that rash is back. And she made me an offer- what choice did I have?

I was sitting in Professor Woods class, my 9am with the least amount of frills and most amount of reading- which is saying a lot.

I was re-skimming the section on Civil Liability for prisons, nursing a second headache in a week (not from a hangover this time thank you). When she came in.

She always sits in the front. I sit behind that, not too close but close enough to show the professor I am not cowed and trying to hide. That will be important one day.

She didn’t sit in front of me. She sits by me.

The unnamable, Zayda Gold (I might as well say it) approached. She slid over like she invented sitting, invented sliding, and invented grinning at me like I was the first person on her ‘swallow whole list,’ right after ‘the entire world.’ Ugh.

“Zarah Khan.” I don’t like the way she says my name. I mean, granted, most everyone in this school just turns it into ‘Sarah’ and forgets the Z. They say it’s easier, there’s a lot of things they would like to make easier about me.

I try to turn slowly, lawyers are never eager. They are collected, patient.

I nod at her, she leans forward, “You are the smartest person in this entire class,” my thoughts freeze in place for a moment, an ice cold punch, “And they aren’t even teaching us hearsay yet.” “I know.” I say mechanically.

“That is not going to help me be the best prosecutor in the the next 50 states and the District of Columbia.”

“Um.”

“I plan to make six figures.” “I know,” I wrinkled my nose.

“I need someone to practice against that isn’t a complete fool and where we aren’t at a bar.” One of the boys behind us scoffs, covering it up with a cough.

I frowned, “It’s the middle of the semester,” she raised an eyebrow, I took a deep breath. “I’m a little busy.” “I can make it worth your time.” “Oh?” I hate to admit it, she had my attention.

“You’re struggling in this class.” I scowl, “I’m doing just fine.” I sniff and scratch my arm, “you just said I’m the smartest one in this class.” She rolled her eyes, I could kick her, “You don’t know how to relax. They’ll eat you alive as a defender if you don’t practice now.” I look down at my lap, “I’m working for my mom after this. I’m not going to be a defender.” I wish I hadn’t mumbled.

“Oh please,” she says airily, waving her hand in the air. “I’ll help you with torts if you hurry up and help me practice for being an attorney.” I scowl at her further.

“Don’t try to force your hyper-aggressive BS on her Gold,” we both turn around as the boy behind us spoke, Aaron something. “If you think you’ll actually be hired for court cases...Well, just don’t make her into another little hopeless cocky would-be-attorney.” Zayda looked like a viper coiling to strike and for once in my life I was less nervous and instead waiting for the entire force of thunder to brought down on this boys head. I’m a little giddy too.

She simply turns away. She doesn’t spare him another look and I’ve never wanted to have something like that before, whatever it was she did. I watched him as he shook his head, “Especially for Khan.” He said my name in a much worse way than Zayda ever could. There were some things in this world they would never to let me forget.

I set my mouth into a hard line and turn back to Zayda, “I’d love to help you prepare for trials.” She makes the look of someone who planned to win and the professor walks in before O’Connor makes comments on things he feels obligated to comment on.

Journal, I’m not sure if any of this is a good idea- I don’t plan to be ruined by such girls that plan to ruin me. But something like this, it is a little tempting.

10/30/1973

Dear Tuesdays, I HATE HER.

11/1/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I. hate. her.

11/1/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

People are the worst. And by that I mean mostly Zayda Gold, I’m moving to the middle of the desert. Maybe my counselor will say I’ll reach Nirvana through the great outdoors and baking myself alive (she is always talking about Nirvana and ‘the magical east,’ double ugh).

Nevertheless, Zayda. Girls like Zayda are the worst kind of...mocking? Mocking.

I helped her with her dumb ‘fake’ cases where she goes through archives of trials and has us re-argue them. Until two in the morning.

Truly, I am a charitable person.

I told her, I told her, we had a test in one of my intro classes the day after and I should study for that (I always try to study four or five days in advance). But I had been busy- with a treason case for some Russian spy in the 60s. Like I’ll ever will defend a case like that.

She had us run through it anyway, openings, pretend-cross examinations, closings. It was exhausting, why is she like this.

Perhaps that would be all, nothing wrong, nothing amiss. Just practice.

And perhaps it was my own fault.

I insisted she fulfill her end of the bargain: help me with torts and whatever magic flashcards she had that let her ace more tests than not.

She just shook her head with a little humph. I told her to help or we would never practice the next case and whatever it was we were preparing for.

She took out a bottle of rum ‘two shots’ she said ‘and then we’ll play a game.’

I was not happy, she said being stress while memorizing anything was the only way to do it- nerves were going to ruin me if I didn’t practice getting a handle on them. Like I didn’t already know that.

I take the shots, she took out her damn flashcards, she said stress now made oral exam stress later manageable, ‘practicing like you play’- Zayda Gold.

I roll my eyes and accept whatever it is.

She tells me if I get a flashcard wrong I’ll have to take off some article of clothing. I balk, maybe my face was a little hotter than it should be, I tell her that’s juvenile.

She just does That Smirk and asks me what my problem was- “we’re both girls here.”

I don’t know how to answer that, maybe I was a little rocked because my mind goes blank. She was a good lawyer.

“Fine,” I gritted my teeth, it’s not like I’m bad at flashcards.

We start, her flashcards for one are very detailed, and for two, I’m a little tired. I get the first fifteen right, rapid fire. But I stumble on a question about false imprisonment- of course I did.

I take off a sock.

But I had lost my momentum, incorporeal chattels- I don’t answer with enough detail. Another sock. Law of Obligations- my brain is very tired. I take off my jacket.

I’m sweating now, I get the next ten right out of desperation.

Then of course, neighbor principle, a tort of negligence. My face goes pale, I can feel my mind racing, reaching. This wasn’t that hard.

“Um,” I pressed my finger tips together and then jam my glass farther up on my face, “omission… omission rules of evidence.” She raises an eyebrow, “and?”

My mouth opens and closes like a fish, I flounder. “That’s it?” She shakes her head and reads the full definition, I sink down lower into my chair. She turns back to me, “Go on.” I almost refuse, I had pride, standards, a reputation. A lawyer is nothing without a reputation. But she is nothing without a backbone either.

Zayda was looking at me expectantly, smoothly. I grit my teeth, everything about her was a challenge.

I start to unbutton my shirt, I could have gone for my pants but someone was going to learn if nothing else I had backbone.

I unbutton it slowly, one by one, forcing my heart to slow down and forcing my eyes to meet hers. She wasn’t the only one here that was a force onto herself.

My shirt falls away and I sit calmly in my brazier, I hadn’t put on an undershirt in weeks- there wasn’t enough time between classes, food, and not sleeping.

She looks coolly down at me and I wonder if it’s judgement or disinterest. Though I wouldn’t call it disinterest.

I spent a good deal of time always looking for jackets with large shoulder pads so people couldn’t tell I was just a slim gangly girl who was too tall for her age. Nevertheless, I had a feeling Zayda wasn’t accessing me like that.

She holds up another flashcard.

Something else hung in the air like an electric buzz that would sizzle eggs on the sidewalk.

I answer the next one wrong too, a simple mistake this time. But she doesn’t let it pass.

I don’t hesitate when I take off my pants, I’m not going to show any weakness here. Besides, it was just beige long underwear underneath anyway, for the cold night. And I wasn’t going to get any more of the questions wrong I promised myself, she watches me closely now as she flips the cards.

The next half-hour is a blur, I get the next handful right, there was nothing else to do but get them right. My nerves were a dull drone in the back of my mind and I ignore them.

She had something liquid and venomous in her green eyes, shining.

Journal, I can’t believe myself, I honestly can’t believe myself.

I draw a blank on the very last card, honestly I couldn’t tell you what the the subject was on since the panic set in.

“Go on,” she flapped it in the air, “It’s the last one.” My eyes go wide, a dryness in my mouth. I give a rapid-fire series of answers, her eyes narrow.

“None of those are right.” I clench my jaw, I knew that. “Forfeit.” I put my hands in the air, “I’ll study that one later.” Too bad I forget what it was.

Zayda had been leaning on my raised bed, accessing me. She gradually stalks across the room as if she is the slowest tidal wave in the world.

She was looking down at me, she was looking down at my long underwear and brazier, my heart does something unhealthy in my chest.

She leans over me, “What are we without rules?” The words honestly haunt me.

I shake my head, “I already gave in.” “We are a society of rules.” She was toying with me.

I wrinkled my nose. I wouldn’t be toyed with.

I snort, “Whatever.” I reach behind me and undo the clasp on the back, I meet her eye as one of the last pieces of my clothing falls away. I am laid bare.

I blow air out my nose, this was normal, it was just rivals, female rivals.

The air sizzled, she was just teasing me.

She looks down and I look up, I slowly raise myself to my feet, she is still looking down and we are in something that I can never tell my mom. Something I really shouldn’t be telling you.

Her hands dance at her side, I am standing now, we are around the same height. Almost six feet and perhaps finally not too tall for girls.

I watch her, I am the steady one for once.

“What is it Gold?” I finally ask in a low tone.

She takes a sharp inhale of breath, I half-lid my eyes as if in amusement (I do foolish things sometimes journal).

She glances down at my exposed skin and her hands reach forward.

Her hands ghost over my back, lightly touching the curve of my waist. She looks up slowly and her acid green eyes are helpless.

I don’t do anything, I won’t give her the pleasure of anything.

She is a shaking twig at the moment and I can feel her breath on my cheek, it is a little fast. We aren’t anything.

She arches forward as if by accident and our lips meet like phantoms. It’s not like a real kiss, real kisses are not accidents and this touch is as light and unreal as a dream. But our lips still meet.

She stumbles backward immediately and pants. She quickly straightens her shirt.

“You got six wrong.” She croaks and stumbles further backward, “and you’re still sweating when talking. Juries smell ineptitude in a courtroom.”

I blink a couple times, I start to hate her a little bit again, “six out of a hundred and twenty.” She shakes her head and turns away. She jams her flashcards in her bag and hefts over her shoulder.

I clear my throat and she turns around, her eyes cover me like glue again, “get them all right next time.” She covers her mouth, I seethe, “And be a little more decent.” She sniffs, her cheeks are flushed, “it’s lewd.”

“What?”

“Naked? Sweating? Honestly.”

My nostrils flare and I see red, “You’re the one that...this is.” I ball up my fists and stand up straight, she is still flushed. I didn’t care I was almost naked, “I have another rule for you.” I say with steel in my tone, she pauses at the door, “I’m never going to lose to you again.”

She blinks, something unreadable on her face. She leaves.

I shouldn’t feel this way. Hatred, real hatred, I’ll write it in my head until maybe I believe it.

11/3/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I passed the torts exam and my Intro to Procedure oral midterm. My name is boosted into the top three student rankings posted in the hall (a ‘motivational board’). So that’s at least three ‘Smiley Points’ I can tell my counselor about...woo.

I’m not sure if I’ve felt any sort of emotion in a week, but I’m sure I can just focus on the number one spot and be out of here. In a year and half. Out of here.

Please let it pass quickly, I’m having the worst dreams ever, and they aren’t even nightmares.

I’m going to focus on my classwork.

11/10/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

It’s parents weekend, I don’t know why they have it so late in the year but I really haven’t grown my hair out long enough for this.

Maybe if I hadn’t been so engrossed in essays, notes, and pouring my blood out for Professor Woods I would have prepared a little more mentally. My parents are sweet, but… a lot.

My mom knocked on my door five times at 8pm that day, and then she knocked some more until I answered.

She hugged me so hard I could burst and slicked my bangs back to get a better look at my face.

“It’s so short.” She says with a discerning look in her eye, “And you are so thin! Have you been eating enough? Or just coffee!” She wags her finger, “my bumblebee, have you been taking care of yourself?” I shrug loosely and she pulls me out the door, “I’m feeding you right now! Breakfast. Your father is still out getting you flowers, oh don’t let him know I told you. But I made sure he didn’t get the ones you are allergic to this time.”

I was smiling despite myself, rolling with her singing voice that held the air like a microphone. My mom could always talk.

I nod along and she tells me about the firm and annoying clients that bothered her boss and nonstop paperwork. ‘There were always things to do! Work to be done.’ That’s my mom’s favorite phrase, ‘There is work to be done!’ That’s what I used to chirp when I wore her heels in pre-school and pretended to debate the world, to be her.

I’m relaxing into my mom's presence, and her hugs and nice hazelnut coffee smell, but she pauses when we make our way down the stairwell.

Paul Michaelson passes us with a slight nod, he was a quiet boy who was seventh on the ranking list and had fair hair that slid over his eyes.

My mom nodded back and gave me a mischievous grin as we make it to the bottom, “He’s cute.” She says with a little hop in her step, “Is he in any of your classes?” I groan and look away, “I’m busy mom, I told you, I’m focusing.” My mom shakes her head, “This is the perfect time for romance bumblebee!” She tutts, “Me and your father met in school.” She always reminded me of that.

My mom had been able to slip into law school during the war when all the men were gone, my father did basic training but got a bum knee during the grueling exercises. He was really more of scholar. He ended up in her tiny law school class, and then her mom told the detailed Epic Romance of their lives as they courted.

I don’t think I’m going to have one of those, I’m not sure I’m built for it.

She rushed me down the stairs and into the nearest restaurant, afraid for my health and how much time I spent in the library. She told me I loved sunshine as I kid, the color yellow, and wouldn’t have me grow sickly.

She continues to point out ‘cute’ boys on the way.

“Is he in your class?” She asks as we pass the quad, “He’s very handsome, consider the grandkids!” I groan again.

“No, he looks like a 2A.” I assure her. “How about him?” “No.” “Tell me that one is, he has such a nice face!”

I pause and stare at Aaron O’Connor, I wince, “He’s in my torts class.” “Lovely!”

“I....I guess.” I don’t have the heart to tell her O’Connor was probably the one scrawling ‘Beware: Genghis Khan in here’ on my door- even after I explained to him my family was from Turkey and no where near Mongolia. I stopped trying after the third attempt.

My mom wants to go talk to him but luckily my father comes with the bouquet of flowers ‘for my first semester!’ and I can escape to a breakfast bistro. They are daisy’s.

It’s not a bad meal, it’s actually really good, I get a little misty eyed when my parents let me get the pancakes, the eggs and the fruit. A college budget it not always friendly.

Plus, I don’t know journal, they keep smiling and telling me how good I am doing, that they’re proud. The feeling of home is a little hard.

They want me to be happy, very happy. My father tells me my sister says I can wear her wedding dress after this year, she’s done with it. He winks and tells me she thinks it’s going to be a good year for me.

I sink a little lower in my seat, a year or so to meet a nice boy in a suit that can provide for me, before a wedding they are happy to plan. And they want me to be happy.

So I get a little misty-eyed.

“Mom, dad,” I take a deep breath and both of them pause, I edge my eggs around my plate, they look at me, I swallow.

“What is it honey?” My dad moves my orange juice closer to me.

I look at my lap, press something down, and then look back up, “Do you think I could make it as a defense attorney?” My mom and dad share a look, a calculating one.

My mom finally reaches over and squeezes my hand, “If that’s what you want bumblebee, of course. But...The Diamond firm is very good you know. The pay can make a family veeeery comfortable and the paperwork isn’t all bad.” My father is glancing at me, he rubs his mustache, he tried to smile, “Attorney’s can be very stressed. And it can be...unforgiving.” I shake my head, I know I’m worrying them. I know it would be the hardest thing I’ve ever done to make it as an attorney.

I lift my chin and smile, projecting a kind of confidence I always wanted, “I was just thinking outloud. It could just be...an option.”

“You can be whatever you want!” They are grinning, I am still their law school daughter and still going to marry that nice man and be comfortable.

“Now,” my father rubs his hands together, “Are there any boys I need to have a talking to?” He winks and holds up his hands, I look down again.

“No dad.”

My mom looks between the two of us, “Tell us about school.”

It’s not a bad visit. I tell them about the workload and pretty campus and the offer to join the debate team (I don’t), a few rivals I’ve made. And try to make up a boy for them, competitive, confident, yellow floppy hair and a stubborn nose.

I’ll let them be happy.

11/13/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I have a cold. I’m not pleased with said cold and have spent the last three days sniffling, I haven’t been able to answer so much as one question in class and I think my ranking might slip.

Zayda is still insisting we practice as if nothing has ever happened between us and I wish nothing had ever happened between us. Should I avoid seeing her? Is that defeat?

Who knows. I don’t. I haven’t been able to smell anything for 72 hours.

People with clear sinuses should give thanks to some sinus god, this is awful.

I’m going to go take a hot shower.

11/16/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I’m feeling a little better. I drank enough tea to potentially sustain a British army and lay in the sun for a couple hours yesterday- maybe my mom was right about the outdoors thing.

I even got a brief drink with two other female law students, I sip of some tonic and let them play ‘Drinking Court’ without me this time.

Zayda was looking at me the whole time but one of the boys said she was a bit of a germ-phobe, she doesn’t approach. Good.

I sniffle and watch her beat the 1A at lightning round cross-examination of whether mosquitoes should be eliminated or not.

There was a protest against what’s going on in Vietnam outside campus yesterday.

I really need to double down on my studies.

11/19/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I feel almost better, I woke up with barely an ache in my throat! Just in time to ace my oral exam in intro to Criminal Law. Things are looking up.

11/21/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

Things are weird. Life is weird. I think I’m feeling sick again. Why is life like this? Why did I even invite her into my room?

Protect me from the dumb things I do oh beings that protect law students. Or at least give me a guide to pretty girls that say cryptic truly bizarre things in the middle of the day.

I am going to bed.

11/22/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

??? I am still confused. Very confused. Zadya came by my room yesterday, she made it out like it was the most normal thing in the world.

She wanted to do that Russian spy trial again and record ourselves on tape, which sounds embarrassing.

I told her I was sick. She flinched and looked at me carefully. I shrug and tell her we could do it later, anything outside of schoolwork could really wait right now.

She came up beside my bed anyway.

“You are too stressed. What have I been telling you?”

I roll my eyes, “I’m not more stressed than anyone else.”

She narrowed her eyes, “Yeah. But the rest of us have coping skills for it and are not sick right now.” I set my jaw, “I don’t know what you want from me.”

She lifted her chin and said the next part very matter-a-factly, dryly, slowly, “Do you masturbate?”

Every muscle in my body tenses and I squawk, “What?!”

“You heard me.” I sit up completely straight and don’t meet her eye, my gut churns, “That is a ridiculous question.” And I certainly didn’t want her to be the one asking it.

“See? Bad coping mechanisms. You’ll die if you keep that up.” I snort and push my bangs back, “Not masturbate?” She grins, “No.” She prowls, “but I guess that confirms it.” I don’t answer and frown deeply, she draws nearer, “I’ve never seen you release a day in your life.” I make a face, “Release?”

“It’s good for you.” I make a face and she holds herself very still.

I look away and she just hopped down to the floor. I sniffle and she turns away, looking over her shoulder enigmatically.

“Call if you ever need some help with that stress. I probably don’t need anymore court practice right now anyway.” She had something coy on her lip this time. I am slack jawed and frozen.

I am still slack jawed and frozen. Help with stress? After...Do you think….

She has to be messing with me, right? RIGHT?

11/24/1973

Finals are coming like an avalanche I have no equipment to evade or stop. I’ve buried myself in books and there is no escape.

I’ve chewed a hole in my nightguard and haven’t returned half my phone calls, Professor Woods gave me an 83% on a test. An 83. I don’t know what his game is.

And if I’m being honest, I’ve become more aware of Zadya than I have of anyone else in my life. She hasn’t talked to me since.

11/27/1973

Dear Tuesdays or whatever,

I have two weeks until finals, I need to get it together. I better not lose anymore clumps of hair, I’m too young to have a bald spot.

12/1/1973

Dear FINALS,

I’ve been drinking three-day-old coffee for hours now and don’t why I don’t become an elementary school teacher or sheep herder. There are no sheep at an Ivy League law school. I’m not sure if the professors are going harder on me than everyone else, or if I’m doing that for them.

I want to sleep. I saw Zadya smoking last night, Cara, one of the other eleven female law students said she only did that near big tests. Maybe even the queen gets stressed.

12/5/1973

Dear Lord,

I think I need to go to the doctors for a developing ulcer.

11/??/1973

Dear FUCK,

Four more days, four more days and it’s 2 in the morning with another stack of torts literature to go through. They call these classes weed out classes but fuck if I’m not going to be that weed (weeds grow in places they aren’t supposed to like insidious fools).

I am considering doing something I may regret. I’m seriously considering something I might regret. It’s 2am, I know someone else that may be awake.

I’ll leave you here to watch my books.

11/11/1973

Dear….

Well. Well? Well! Well.

I have, ahem, done something.

11/12/1973

I have very bad decision making skills.

11/12/1973

It snowed! It’s very pretty.

Nothing quite like this in Kentucky, though one of my professors is already suggesting I do something about that accent.

11/12/1973

The snow was nice for a moment. I have made another questionable choice.

11/12/1973

Dear Goddammit,

I did it AGAIN. Someone needs to get me a leash, but Zadya would probably just like the look of it.

I need to erase that last sentence. And myself.

11/13/1973

Dear WHY DO I KEEP DOING THIS,

I keep doing this.

At least she fed me breakfast again this time.

Or is that bad too? Ugh.

11/14/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

Finals begin tomorrow, I should be more nervous.

But I am genuinely thinking about other things. My stomach is in knots all the time, I think I’m getting a fever, she sits by me in torts. She puts her hand on my thigh in torts.

Not that we haven’t done more things than that.

Someone save me. I didn’t imagine this is how she would ruin me.

11/16/1973

Dear Exhaustion,

I did my first two finals today. I am too tired to say much, they went well, I hope.

11/17/1973

Dear Sleep,

One more day. Two more to go.

11/18/1973

Dear ALMOST,

Break is so soon! I am so close!

I did one last final this morning, the second is in the afternoon. She’s coming over in between tests, I should stop it. But I’ve never done better on tests before.

11/19/1973

Dear Confusion,

I did the last final. I barely remember it.

I can only remember the moments before. Should I be this red? I was just a simple exercise between...friends? Rivals? Something.

My heart, damn my heart. I can’t stop thinking about it, she laid me down on the bed this time, no hoisting me onto her lap and reaching down my pants, fast and dirty with a few dry expletives. Not that I’ve minded that way.

No pinning me against the wall and heavy petting until I whine and she says she won’t stop until she hears me. It was a long night.

But it wasn’t today. In the middle of the day before both of our last final in Professor Woods class.

I can see the bags under her eyes and smell coffee like stain over her whole being and ginger in her hair. But maybe she always smelled like ginger.

I take the opportunity to get her shirt over her head, she rarely let me get her clothes off. She is pliant in my hands as I wrestle her pants to her ankles, delicately taking my time with her under garments.

She arches into me, I kiss her neck, maybe the kiss is too light, too tender. She moaned.

I took her carefully in my hand and rolled her over in bed, she runs her hand down my sides and we kiss. It’s not like before.

I can’t call it fast and dirty anymore. No, the desperation lingers, as it always had, the secret in our chests. And she touches me.

We make love this time and the hour passes with the scent of ginger in my mouth and sweat covering my body.

“You are beautiful,” she whispers and I know she’s saying something like a truth this time. I kiss the end of her nose and we roll into each other like coaxing symphonies out of pelvis’s and skin.

It’s only after we are both spent and the ticking clock tells us it is almost four that we lie wrapped in one another.

Her face is pressed into my chest and we are breathing heavily. I look at the wall opposite of us for a long time.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled into my skin and traces the muscles on my back lightly.

I chuckle gently, “I promise, you did good.”

She shakes her head into my skin, kissing it lightly, “For all the nasty things O’Connor writes on your door.” I purse my lips and feel the sunlight play across my skin like a caress, “You get a tough skin.” “I should kick his ass,” Zayda runs her hands down my side and kisses my shoulder, “you’re too good for him to even share the same air.” I roll my eyes, “Boys write those kind of things near you too.” I say slowly, delicately; ‘Jewish American Princess’ was the nicest of them. “We’ll get through.” She kisses me again, my collarbone and chest, as if she wanted to memorize the curves and swallow me whole- like I predicted. She kisses and kisses again.

I feel a shiver go up my spine and screw my eyes shut, something mournful bubbling up deep within me. I take a deep shuddering breath. She looks up at me with a question in her eyes, I swallow.

“Are you alright?” She weaves her hand in my hair.

“Zadya,” I say quietly, a shameful wetness breaking in my eyes as I look at her, “Is this… practice to you? For...others. For,” I gulp. “For after this.” She shakes her head, “I’m not looking for their ‘after.’” I take a rattling breath, almost a sob. I curl into her and she holds me closer, she messages my scalp and tucks my head under her chin.

“I’ve known what I am for a long time,” my eyes go wide, her hand grips me, “I’m sorry if...I dented any of your plans. It can just be practice for you.” I feel the sob rising in me again, I wipe at my eyes. “No.” I say it outloud like a curse, “No! I don’t...those aren’t my plans either.” A rule book written for somebody else, a love letter from society on the promised dream. I wish I could return to sender.

She kisses my eyelids and the timer goes off.

I go to my last final.

What have I done.

11/19/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I have three days to pack and go home for winter break. Three days before this spell might be broken and I am asked about ‘after’ again.

I took Zadya to the movies tonight, I told her it was the least I could do (see? Backbone). She seemed just as smug and victorious as ever, figures.

We hold hands in the dark and laugh at the silly faces we make at a movie that is not particularly good.

She takes me to ‘the best ice cream shop this side of the Appalachians.’ I accept, for now.

It’s good, almost a little too good. Someone stares at us when she gets ice cream on her nose and I kiss it, but they look away muttering on girl friendships and hippies.

Maybe we could be ‘friends forever’ if no one looked too closely and I could hold her hand and they wouldn’t ask questions. I keep my hand by my side for now.

We walk and she asked where was I going after this.

I shrug, “anywhere I want.” She grinned from ear to ear at that, I lick the end of my orange creamsicle. “You?”

“You know,” she looked off into the distance, “Someone who will pay me enough to never have to worry about anything again.” Her shoulders squared, “Buy my parents a house.” I nodded, we weren’t all here under our lawyer-parents bankroll. I wished I could hold her hand.

I chomp on the ice cream, “Anything in mind?” She gave me a devilish look, “If Yellow Corp will hire me I’ll take them for all their worth.” I shake my head, “Lawyers already have bad name as it is you know.” She slips her arm over my shoulder on the empty street, pulling me close, “Don’t worry babe. I’ll make the CEO’s richer and you’ll put them all in jail.”

I raised my eyebrows and a laugh a little, “You know, I said I would never lose to you again.”

Her eyes go soft, “I don’t doubt it.” We go back to my dorm and kiss until our lips are bruised and blue and I try with all my might to tell myself a different story.

11/20/1973

Dear Journal,

Wow, I actually thought I lost you. I must have dropped you under the bed when I was going home for winter break freshman year.

It’s move out day and my freshman counselor would be happy to know I managed stress enough to graduate summa cum laude. Soooo, smiley points.

Gee, it’s been a long two years. Better though, it got better.

I can’t believe I wrote all this down, especially the last couple entries, I should burn this- a lawyer is nothing without her reputation. I might want to remember this all one day though.

Zadya’s been avoiding me for the last couple days, but she isn’t very good at goodbyes or sentiment. I’ll see her no doubt before my parents arrive to help finish packing.

I wish we were both going to the same city, I wish she wasn’t quite so stubborn.

But I’m stubborn too, I’ve already promised myself I’m getting that public defender job in DC. Just let them watch.

But I want to see her first.

I wouldn’t even be going out for these jobs without her, God, that crazy confidence and cocky smile, I can’t believe I gave in.

I’m going to have a lot to beat in the future, there is work to be done. First we have to say goodbye, even if it’s the hardest damn kiss of my life.

I’ll see her again, even it’s in the courtroom.

And maybe… some time forever from now, we’ll work this out and the law will recognize us back. Not that either of us would put our pride aside to propose.

But there’s always potential.

5/12/1975

Dear Journal,

She did it on a goddamn Tuesday. Of course, on one knee with a symphony playing because she is that kind of ridiculous. She chose a Tuesday and that is the day I’ll have to celebrate from now on every June.

Curse this woman, curse this woman for the rest of my life I guess.

6/27/2015

#steven universe #zircons #zirconshipping #steven universe fanfiction #bellow zircon #courtship #the formatting on this was really wonky for some reason so I'm sorry if it looks weird

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rudderless-in-an-ocean-of-stars · 7 years

Text

in your eyes (i find my salvation), chapter four

Find it on Ao3 here:

http://archiveofourown.org/works/11225808/chapters/25083762

iv. we’ll drown together in this sea of sorrows (no one ever taught us how to swim)

Lucy Lane does what she does to protect people.

It’s what she has always done, what she has been raised to do, the one thing she learns from her father that she doesn’t wish she could scrub from her brain.

This We’ll Defend.

It’s the army motto, and by the time she’s old enough to talk, she’s heard it enough to have committed it to memory.

(So what if no one defends her from the toe of her father’s boot or the back of his hand? She’ll learn to defend herself- and everyone else- when she’s older.)

She grows up in the shadow of her sister- pretty, perfect Lois.

(Lois will never know the way it feels to be hit by a parent, to pick herself off of the ground tasting blood in her mouth from the weight of their father’s fist.)

Model student, model daughter, model everything.

Lois’ mother, their father’s first wife, died in childbirth.

Lucy’s mother took off before she was even a month old, dropping her daughter off on the doorstep of the man she’d spent a single night with nine months ago and fleeing back to her native Dominican Republic.

It was hard enough taking second place to her older sister in their father’s heart, but harder still to grow up as the sole mixed-race child in a white neighborhood.

She doesn’t know much about her mother, aside from the fact that she was of Lebanese-Dominican descent and the source of most of Lucy’s looks.

Oh, sure, Lois had gotten her fair share of teasing for having a half-sister who looked nothing like her, but Lucy was the one who actually had to face the reality that most of her peers thought her less simply by virtue of her heritage.

She fights tooth and nail to make a name for herself that isn’t Lane.

Lucy skips a grade, joins activities like debate club and Model U.N., signs up for track & field in the winter and lacrosse in the spring, and fills the rest of her time volunteering around the community.

People begin to call her an overachiever.

(So what if the real reason she has so many extracurriculars is so that she can avoid going home? What happens behind closed doors is nothing they’ll ever know.)

She snaps at anyone who dares to call her ‘little Lane’ and hones her claws until people get the message that she isn’t someone to be trifled with.

By the time Lucy enters high school, she’s already a prime candidate for the National Honors Society.

Four years later, she graduates valedictorian, breezing through her AP classes and ending her senior year with a 4.8 GPA.

When they call her to the stage, it’s no longer under the shadow of her older sister’s accomplishments.

(So what if she has to spend three hours covering up the bruises that her father’s latest drunken rampage has left her with? Lucy’s always had a knack for makeup anyway.)

She ends up graduating from West Point with a Bachelor’s Degree in Science in a single year as opposed to four, thanks to those A.P. courses and summer programs she took. At nineteen years of age, she just might be the youngest person to leave West Point for reasons other than expulsion.

From there, she’s commissioned as a second lieutenant in the Army with five years of service ahead of her. She works hard, gets her J.D and LL.M degrees through accelerated online courses as she rises through the ranks, because even if she doesn’t believe in her father, she believes in the one good thing he managed to teach her.

This We’ll Defend.

Lucy passes the bar exam with flying colors and becomes one of the youngest JAG Officers the Army’s ever seen at the age of twenty-two, three years into her five-year contract with the military.

She’s stationed stateside at this point, the legal attaché of her father’s staff, living on the army base just outside Metropolis.

This is no coincidence- Sam Lane’s personal vendetta against a certain Kryptonian means that as long as she’s part of her father’s team, she’ll likely spend all of her active duty waiting for Superman to step out of line.

This is how she meets James Olsen.

(She’s twenty-four and full of fire and he’s the first person who doesn’t mind the fact that she’s made of steel and flames.)

Like every other good thing in her life, it ends with the aid of her always well-meaning sister, and she requests a transfer out of her father’s unit so she can spend the next four years buried in the depths of the military, hoping that James everyone will stop looking and finally write her off as lost.

She’d only signed a five-year contract for active duty, but military service means a minimum of eight years, and gladly agrees to spend the three years she could be in the inactive reserves (I.R.R.) in the field where she belongs. The Army lets her, partly because she’s Sam Lane’s daughter, but mostly because she’s one of the best damn officers they’ve ever seen.

Lucy spends those years in places that are hot and dusty and full of I.E.D.s and by the time she returns to the states and moves to National City, she’s earned the rank of ‘major’ and enough scars to last her a lifetime.

Now she’s twenty-eight, one year out of service and a member of the group they’ve affectionately nicknamed the ‘SuperSquad’, utilizing her law degrees as the head of Legal Affairs at CatCo, and there’s nowhere else she thinks she’ll ever want to be.

She’s still as fucked up and broken as ever, but she has found herself a home in this city, in these people, and she’ll be damned if she ever gives it up.

There are times when she looks in the mirror and can barely stand the fact that she’s missing so many pieces of herself, but she’d lost most of those pieces long ago, before James and before the Army, so it’s a burden whose weight she’s used to carrying.

No one else in her newfound family is exactly whole either, so she knows they’ll never mind.

Lucy Lane does what she does to protect people.

Especially the people she loves.

So when she goes to Lena Luthor’s office and tells her to keep her distance, she reminds herself that it’s all to keep Kara safe as she tries not to cry at the sight of the other woman’s face when it crumples at her words.

(She’s sure that her own face might have once mirrored Lena’s, during the early days of her youth, when the concept of abuse was still new to her and she hadn’t yet learned how to hide her emotions away.

It proves to be an exercise in futility, in the end.

No matter how deep she managed to bury her emotions from the world, she never could quite manage to do it well enough so that she would be as unfeeling as she made herself seem.)

Afterwards, she does her best to drink herself into oblivion because she still hurt someone, and even if it was to protect another person, the pain she’s caused is still another tally mark in her ledger.

It’s for this very same reason that on military holidays, or whenever she gets congratulated for her time in the Army, she goes out and downs a shot for every life she ever took overseas.

May will always be a very rough month for her.

Surprisingly, she’s only ever gotten blackout drunk on one spectacular occasion- her first Memorial Day in National City.

To this day, Lucy doesn’t think she’s ever seen James as angry as he had been, then.

She’d managed to keep a lid on her drinking for the first few months after her discharge, or, at the very least, make sure James wasn’t aware of the full extent of her nighttime habits, but Memorial Day had fucked that up on an epic scale.

Now, she finds him waiting up for her more often that she doesn’t.

Which is why he’s currently having a one-sided staring contest with her as she guzzles down a glass of water for the headache she knows she’ll have tomorrow if she doesn’t hydrate.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she says, but they both know it’s a lie and the words leave a bitter taste in her mouth that all the water in her glass can’t wash away.

Just like blood, she thinks, and something beneath her ribs gives a painful little twinge at the thought.

“Lucy, please.” He’s pleading now, and she’s just so, so tired-

“I feel like my father,” she confesses lowly, lets the words slide out in a whisper nearly as broken as she is, leaning heavily on the edge of the marble countertop that stands between them. “I don’t want to be like my father-”

Her throat closes up around the words she longs to say and she shatters right then and there, ten at night and in the kitchen of apartment they share, the home they’ve tried to build for themselves.

She shatters-

Please don’t let me be him.

-but, as always-

Never, Lucy, never. You are nothing like him.

-he’s there to put her back together again.

(And that, that is why Lucy Lane will never stop loving James Olsen.

He is the first person to see her for what is, not who she pretends to be, the first to not shy away from the fact that she’s far from perfect, and that ‘normal’ is something she’ll never be.)

For the first decade of his life, Winslow Schott Jr. is proud to bear his father’s name.

Until his father kills six people with a bomb disguised as a teddy bear, and he finds himself being sent to live with his distant relatives just after Christmas, the holiday he will quickly grow to hate because of the massacre he will never be allowed to forget.

He drops the ‘Jr.’ then, shortens ‘Winslow’ to ‘Winn’ and tries to pretend like he’s never been called anything else.

His eleventh birthday passes, and he lets the date slide by without reminding anyone because he has court to attend next week and he doesn’t have the stomach to celebrate anything, let alone the day he was born to a man who would become a killer.

He discovers the wonders of alcohol in high school, when one of his friends throws him an unwanted party for turning sixteen. He spends every birthday after that somewhere dimly lit and vaguely warm, where he tries his best to replace all the blood in his veins with alcohol so that he wouldn’t have to be related to the man who murdered with such terrible, terrible ease.

The years pass, and Winn is careful to keep himself in check- he’s never been quick to anger, but then again, neither had his father, and the man had gone on to massacre six people with a bomb hidden inside a teddy bear, of all things.

Even feeling the vaguest hint of irritation is enough to fill his veins with a paralyzing fear that this is it, that he is going to snap and go down the same dark path as his father.

So he does his best to stay calm, stay sane, no matter what.

Bullies tear his homework out of his hands, and he doesn’t allow himself to do anything but walk away.

A teacher accuses him of cheating when his test scores for the district’s latest computerized assessment outstrip every other student in the state, and he denies these claims in front of the principal with nothing but neutrality in his veins.

A decade slips by, and he graduates from M.I.T. at the top of his class, gets a job at CatCo Worldwide Media, and the world seems like it has decided to let Winn out from under the shadow of his namesake’s crimes. For the first time since he woke up to the sound of sirens outside of his house, Winn finds himself hopeful that he’ll be able to live a life untainted by the gruesome memory of the deaths of half a dozen people.

Then he wakes up one morning and turns on the news just in time to learn that his father has broken out of prison and gone on another killing spree.

He just barely manages to get to work on time after nearly having to fight his way through the dozens of reporters waiting outside his apartment building.

Cat summons him into her office, takes one long look at him, and slides a crystal bowl of candy across her desk. He sits down, coming close enough to see that the bowl is filled with Skittles, not M&Ms- his favorite, not hers- and that’s all it takes for him to finally let go of the tears he’s been holding back since he switched on the television.

CatCo covers the story without a single mention of the Toyman’s son.

She calls him into her office again, just before he heads home, and tells him that he doesn’t have to worry about anyone bothering him from then on.

Rumors spread like wildfire among the employees of the media circuit that confirm his suspicions about the fate of the reporters she’d curtly informed him wouldn’t be seen again.

He doesn’t know how she does it- and he knows well enough not to ask- but every single reporter who had stood out on the steps of his building and harassed him to near tears is jobless and black-listed by every serious media outlet by the end of that week.

It doesn’t stop him from scrubbing his skin raw in the shower for a week afterwards at the memory of their probing questions and taunts, the worst of which being an offhanded comment about the ‘family resemblance’, but it helps.

Winn confesses all of this- every single repressed emotion, unspoken thought, everything- to the one person who understands exactly what it feels like to lose someone so close to their hearts.

It’s not James- everyone he’d ever loved is still living.

Nor is it Maggie- her parents had kicked her out simply for being gay, there was no love lost between them.

It’s not Kara and Lucy either.

Kara and Lucy have both lost parents, just not the way that he had. Lucy had never known her mother, and she’d never loved her father. Kara hadn’t had the chance to know her parents at all, let alone love them. She loved what they could have been, what they could have had, but she was robbed of the opportunity to love them for who they were.

But Alex- Alex had loved her father, just like Winn once loved his.

She knows how it feels to have that love torn away.

So Winn confesses everything to Alex, who holds other people’s secrets just as well as her own.

Later that year, and every year after that, Father’s Day will roll around and Alex Danvers will show up on his doorstep with a bottle of butter liquor in hand and a sardonic smile plastered across her features.

They cry and they rage and so what if Alex nearly puts her fist through his living room wall one year; they are coping and this is how.

Sometime after the booze has run out and they’ve run out of tears to shed, they’ll curl up together in Winn’s bed, an embrace fostered out of their shared agony and a desire for the simple comfort of human contact. He’ll have his head tucked under her chin, face pressed against her neck as he struggles to control his hitched breathing. Alex will wrap an arm around his shoulders and allow him to curl his arms around her waist and squeeze as hard as he can until he falls asleep.

The first time they do this, the first time they gather to wallow in this misery they have in common, it takes Alex the better part of an hour and nearly half a bottle of tequila before she can choke out a tearful confession of her own about just how alone her father’s death had made her feel, still makes her feel.

Winn’s father isn’t dead but he might as well be, so he reaches out with a boldness he’d almost forgotten having and pulls her across the couch to let her stifle her sobs in the cotton of his favorite Firefly shirt.

He meets Kara first, falls head-over-heels for the beautiful girl with the beautiful soul. It never goes anywhere, though, and his infatuation fades with time as their friendship solidifies into something bright and strong.

But he grows to love Alex just as deeply, if not more so.

Kara is a light, a shining beacon of strength and hope and heart, but Alex is safe port in a dark sea, and sometimes what he needs is a harbor in the darkness, a chance to greet the shadows he’s spent most of his life in and Alex understands this in ways that no one else can.

Kara has fallen into the shadows, but it has never stained her soul the way it taints theirs, and for that, Winn and Alex are glad. Kara’s light is the very definition of strength, and it’s something they all pray she’ll never lose.

She is the sun, and they, the night that makes the fills the spaces in between. This is the balance that pulls them all together and keeps them from falling apart.

He would do anything for them, and they for him, so when Alex calls him in the morning and tells him he has Cat Grant’s blessing to work from Kara’s apartment, he goes.

A/N:

Most of this chapter was erased before I could post it, and the rest is still being salvaged from the remains of my notes.

I’m really sorry. :(

But I didn’t want to make you guys wait until I had everything back, so I decided to split the chapter in half (it was a loooong chapter anyways) and this is it.

I hope you enjoyed, regardless.

Please feel free to let me know what you think of this fic- like it? Love it? Hate it? Drop me a comment down below.

#SuperCorp #SuperCorp fanfiction #Lena Luthor #Kara Danvers #Supergirl #SuperGAY #CW #Ao3

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