Promises
He should know better.
Wolfwood has seen Vash make promises, or hear about the ones he has made in the past. He has also seen the end of each one and how every single time the outcome is less than what was promised.
Vash likes to say embellished words, with a soft and determined voice that lures you into his hopes and dreams, it almost feels like a spell, as if he was calling for you to come closer and believe him. But Wolfwood knows better.
He believes in him, but Vash is much closer to being an idealistic dreamer than a realistic person like he is. He might not be aware of it, but his beautiful promises of a better future give people hope, a hope that is usually embraced with things like disappointment and abandonment.
He doesn’t think that Vash does it with the intent of looking for any of those things. Far from it, he might even do the impossible in order to accomplish said promises, but life is too short and humans are too mortal for his wishes, so in the end, most of Vash’s promises end up being empty or they come to haunt him as a reminder of his failed vows. He admires the man, for his perseverance and idealism, but he also hates the man, for his stubbornness and lies.
Wolfwood knows all of this perfectly to a tee. And yet, he has also found himself being drawn to his world. Because he also dreams of it.
A world in where his always present calls for love and peace exist, a world that is far more kind than what he might deserve, a world in where the kids can be happy and roam around without any worry in their heads, a world in where he can peacefully turn grey with age and his hands can shed the harsh callouses of his life. Who knows, maybe a world in where he and Vash can finally know the peace that was taken away from them, in where they can share the calmness that comes with the passage of time, indulging in every tick of the clock welcoming with open arms whatever comes their way without any fear.
It is a beautiful promise. But Wolfwood is a person that has to keep his feet on the ground, indulging in “what ifs” would only make things harder than what they had to be. He can’t have any ifs if he can’t make it through the now. And by the way he is carrying his present, he is doubtful he will even get to see a shed of that promised world that Vash tries to drag him into. So why mourn something he doesn’t even have, or will ever have for that matter.
He hates the way Vash seems to promise things so easily. His tongue silky and pliant, slipping divine words one after the other, promises way too big for what that barren world can actually fit.
But when Vash talks to him in that holy voice of his, when he hears him say “It’s okay, everything will be alright, I promise” so gently right on his ear, while he holds his face so tenderly making him focus on him and nothing else, he wants to believe him.
He has seen the end of his promises. He knows how impossible they are. But for once, he wants to believe it too. Believe in that loving world that will cradle them both until they fall asleep, listening to the soft sound of the wind laughing while the moons smile upon them.
So he allows himself to indulge in the warmth of his palms, leaning into the comfort of his existence, feeling the soft air of Vash’s breaths against his skin while their foreheads meet in a touch that feels like a hot brand that will melt him.
For an instant, he allows himself to be selfish and believe that maybe, that is how living in that world Vash so desperately fights for would be. Soft and warm, making him feel safe in the hollow of Vash’s hands where the world seems to fit so well. A world where the blue sky is a blanket that covers the love and care that is nestled in it like the one in Vash’s eyes. He wants to see that world.
For now, he will selfishly think that the world that fits in Vash’s hands is right there in where he is holding him, where his blue eyes are drowning in the light of the sunset dripping with love and care while looking at him, that the gentle touch of Vash’s thumb wiping his tears is the same as the kiss of that laughing wind in that distant future, where the smile of his eyes overcomes the smile of the moons.
He should know better. But he loves the thought of that world. And he hopes that Vash will get to see that world, because that gentle sight is more fitting for someone like him than the one of his violent world.
He promises to himself that he will do what it takes for that day to be possible. Even if the end of that promise will be empty for Nicholas, he knows it will be a full one for Vash. So it really isn’t that empty for him after all.
He hates his lies, and he hates how true they sound, but Vash’s embellished words are far sweeter than his bitter thoughts so they feel better on his insides, almost like a balm that cares for the wounds of his throbbing, painful reality.
He should know better.
But aren’t humans weak at the promise of love?
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We only see each other at funerals
(On Jason, Thalia, Nico, Bianca, and their parallels/connections)
The Titan's Curse (Rick Riordan), @/anxiousmaya_, Right Now (Gracie Abrams), The Battle of the Labyrinth (Rick Riordan), Joan of Arc (Mary Gordon), The Lost Hero (Rick Riordan), Episodes Toward and Elegy for Halley's Comet (Lindsey Drager), Jason Grace (Riordan Wiki), The Gods Show Up (Michael Kinnucan), The House of Hades (Rick Riordan), What the Living Do (Marie Howe), The House of Hades (Rick Riordan), Planet of Love (Richard Siken), The Blood of Olympus (Rick Riordan), Tangerine (Nolune), The Blood of Olympus (Rick Riordan), The Blood of Olympus (Rick Riordan), I Bet On Losing Dogs (Mitski), The Burning Maze (Rick Riordan), @/abhorarchive (Twitter), The Burning Maze (Rick Riordan), Seventeen (MARINA), The Burning Maze (Rick Riordan), @/rollercoasterwords, The Tyrant's Tomb (Rick Riordan), @/the-overanalyst, Where Things Come Back (John Corey Whaley), Grit (Silas Denver Martin), Softcore (The Neighbourhood), The Tower of Nero (Rick Riordan), Frost (Mitski), @/moonbends, I'm Your Man (Mitski), Sun Bleached Flies (Ethel Cain), The Tower of Nero (Rick Riordan), Three (Sleeping At Last), My Art
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Poll for current, former, or future Stormlight fanartists!
It seems that many fanartists (and even artists who make canon Stormlight art) go through a period where they've assumed that the characters are basically Fantasy White, and then there's a period of relearning what the characters look like from WoBs or other sources, and maybe even having to learn how to draw epicanthic folds and different skin tones. Judging by the stormlight tag, it's a big learning curve for a lot of people, and I'm curious what that curve is like for artists!
Since tumblr polls are anonymous, please be honest what it's been like for you as a current, former, or future Stormlight fanartist:
If none of these apply, hit reblog, then stick another copy in your drafts to see the results next week!
Please note this isn't the place to complain about whitewashed fanart (though Ash knows we also need that, just elsewhere, not here). This is specifically about the experiences of artists, and at the same time raising awareness of the features of these canonical fantasy ethnicities.
If you're an artist and you'd like to share about your own learning curve in the replies, notes, or privately via DM, go ahead!
And if this doesn't end up with at least 50% in the yeses then I'm throwing it out for self-selection bias😂😂😂
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Random aside, but I’ve been thinking about Carmen Berzatto as a “realistic fiction” version of some of the same themes handled in Peeta Mellark through the vehicle of Sci Fi metaphor.
I always read the hijacking--and how its violence and overtaking of his identity comes after Peeta expressly says all he wants, believing he will die in the Games, is to not become their creature, to not be changed from who he wants to be--as a great metaphor for patterns of abuse and how it gets inside you and can be so hard to uproot and for the way patriarchies beat boys into violent shapes, into being useful tools, and away from the things they love and truly want.
It works for me because it overtakes him but only for a time - in the end, he has the grace and support to embrace the care, love, art, and food that he wants his life to be, even though the hurt leaves marks. I connect that with the idea of how there can be times when, no matter how hard you want to “not be shitty,” it can be easy to lose yourself - but you can find a way back, you can have a good life on your own terms with scars.
I see it as two different approaches to talking about similar things - different genres nonetheless sharing in common the necessity of the moment of losing yourself and then having that come back, through your struggle but not alone, not all by your own power, also through the people around you loving you, for the love you put out into the world coming back to you when you most need it.
Because it’s a dramady and draws on the traditions of comedy--the uplifting side of life, vs the tragic side--and we already start with the tragic loss of one Berzatto son who didn’t find his way through the underworld, I think Carmy is going to come out of the cold, dark place (walk-in fridge or underworld? Both?) in s3. The alternative would be a very.... odd story, I think. Because if they have him keep going down down down and never rising, then the whole thing collapses. The Bear is lost, the people who have become a community scatter. It just doesn’t fit the tone and themes for me. We *start* at a place of everyone being scattered and damaged by Mikey’s loss - it would be nihilistic and repetitive and dramatically uninteresting to do the same thing with the younger brother. And the writing has never displayed that kind of vibe.
But I also think s3 will begin with him continuing his descent before hitting rock bottom and rising. It’ll get worse before it gets better. The descent is fraught with hope, though - because when the person comes back from that they’ve dealt with the things that haunt them. Their wounds have become healed up scars? And they own the person they want to be now, rather than being torn between the influence of others and their own heart’s yearning for better.
Regardless of what setting and genre you’re using, it’s a powerful arc, the descent and the rise and I’m looking forward to it because I believe they’ll pull it off well - they’ve done so beautifully with other characters struggling and rising, why not the lead?
BTW, I will curl up in shipper feels forever if part of his rise from the “underworld” involves Sydney symbolically giving him back to himself--giving him back things he wants to be vs things he’s being drawn into by the pressures on him--like how Katniss gaves things Peeta shared with her back to him:
At a few minutes before four, Peeta turns to me again. "Your favorite color ... it's green?"
"That's right." Then I think of something to add. "And yours is orange."
"Orange?" He seems unconvinced.
"Not bright orange. But soft. Like the sunset," I say. "At least, that's what you told me once."
"Oh." He closes his eyes briefly, maybe trying to conjure up that sunset, then nods his head. "Thank you."
But more words tumble out. "You're a painter. You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces."
Then I dive into my tent before I do something stupid like cry.
Who you are, in the end, is who you want to be and the best of yourself you share with others comes back to you. It’s doesn’t just disappear.
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I know I say this every time I read my own work, but Speak for the Dead really is the best chapter in ILM.
“Well, you know for the first time in a long time this actually feels like fall?”
Jane Romero was smiling at him, sitting propped up against a tree in what had sort of become her usual ‘therapy’ corner in the past almost two weeks. And she was right, it did feel like fall. The air wasn’t as sharply cold as normal, and honestly ‘sharply’ cold was a nice break in and of itself when it happened—usually the weather here was somehow just cold—cold with no adjectives attached. But today it was nicer. It was the kind of waiting fall cold that came when it wasn’t biting outside yet, and it was almost pleasant. A promise of a change in the seasons. Tapp wondered why.
The trees hadn’t started to change color with it, or fall in piles, and as far as he’d gathered there weren’t seasons in here. Everything looked the same. Tall, thick woods, undergrowth and moss and rocks and fallen logs, a slight breeze on and off. Dark sky overhead, full moon, at this point long since throwing off everyone’s idea of what day and night were supposed to mean. All the usual. Except, somehow, the kind of cold in the weather. Who knew, maybe nothing had changed. Maybe they had just started to feel better.
LIKE. Those opening lines mean nothing but environmental flavor when you read them. But they’re a lead in for the thesis of the entire chapter.
“Well, you know for the first time in a long time this actually feels like fall?” - A promise of a change in the seasons. - Who knew, maybe nothing had changed. Maybe they had just started to feel better.
Like that’s it. Speak for the Dead is about a lot of things, but at its heart it’s about healing. It’s about forgiveness and healing, that exists between the living and the dead. It’s about how you can only speak for them, by speaking for them. Not how you want to punish yourself or live for them, but by how you know they would forgive you, or would ask you to live. Very little other than exchanges of information happen, but so much happens at the same time. All of it significant. It’s hope. It’s about how Tapp (and Meg) have spent every day here fighting in their own way to cope with the agony and failure of their lives, and the loss of people they couldn’t save, and have only dug their wounds deeper. About love. About nothing stoping the lambs from screaming except accepting that they want to let you go.
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