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aster-aspera · 3 years

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The bitter end

Written with @despite-everything-exe

Warnings: major character death

Relationships: platonic DRLAMP (anxceit? maybe)

"It's coming," Patton whispered, barely audible as he looked on in fear. Everything was slow- it had been for years now, but it was the slowest it had even been yet. He could sense it, could feel the sand running out of the hourglass, and the sand was almost gone.

They all knew it was coming. Hell, even Thomas himself had been expecting it, but that didn't make it any less sad. Patton lifted his head up, looking at Roman with already tearful eyes to take his hand tightly. "There can't be much time left- ten minutes perhaps," he whispered, audibly shaky and filled with fear. Now was not a time to hide his emotions.

Truthfully, it hadn't ever been, and Patton scorned his younger self. Not that he could help it now.

Roman squeezed back, trying and failing to hide his tears. He couldn't break now, he needed to be strong. He was a prince, brave even in the face of adversity, even facing the end of all he knew and loved. Even though he knew that the bravery was a lie.

"We should find the others then," he said, standing up to gently tug Patton along, heading to everyone's individual rooms. He could feel the familiar feeling of dread rise up in his stomach, curl around his lungs and slowly cut off his breathing. He knocked on Logan's door.

The second Logan came out, Patton wrapped him tightly in his arms, body shaking with silent sobs as a mixture of death and fear squeezed at his lungs. "It's happening," he whispered in his ear, urgency, sadness, and panic curdling together in his voice.

Logan, ever-eloquent as he was, was at a loss for words. "Oh," he whispered, voice falling apart already.

Everything was beginning to feel cold and grey, like the forgotten stone of a weathered grave, no loved ones left alive to lie flowers or mourn.

Roman could feel himself breaking, fear and regret and the overwhelming anticipation of losing his family crashing through him like a tidal wave. A door creaked open from across the hall and he turned to see Virgil, exhausted from his constant worrying, staring at them with a resigned and hopeless expression. "It's happening, isn't it?" He asked, voice already choked up and breaking.

Logan was the only able to nod in confirmation, as Roman looked away at the ground, not wanting to face the others, and Patton had his face buried in Logan's chest.

Virgil used his depleted energy to painstakingly summon the other two sides. There might still be unresolved arguments between them, and unforgiven fights, but the most unforgivable action of all would be to let them die alone.

"What's goi-" Remus started, stopping dead still as soon as he saw the forlorn and empty look in Virgil's eyes. "Oh," he mumbled, just like Logan. Virgil could feel the life seeping out of him- see him turning grey. Janus said nothing, only moving to grip Remus' hand as fear and early onset grief rose in his chest, grabbing his lungs with a desperation that knocked all of the air from his body.

"Let's head to the commons," Patton rasped. He didn't want to spend his dying moments in a dark hallway. Dark holes were where you were supposed to go after you died, not beforehand. You were supposed to die with those you loved.

Well now, they could all die together. The worst kind of party.

They all shuffled to the common room together, a miserable parade heading towards their own funeral. Janus looked around, at the people he had spent his whole life with, the people he considered family. He remembered birthdays and Christmases, movie nights and tight hugs. None of them even felt real now.

He felt his heart sink, his chest feeling like an empty chasm as he yearned for something unidentifiable. They had all known the end was coming, but being face to face with it was a whole different story.

They weren't brave, they weren't happy, and they weren't calm. Panic, sadness, and despair gripped every particle in the air, clinging to their skin as they waited for their death in the cold common room.

Janus noticed Virgil's hand balled up tight in his sleeve, his whole body shaking. He stepped closer to him, Remus following along and gently took Virgil's hand in his, prying open his tightly clenched fist. "Virgil..." He started, a hundred things he wanted to say clamouring for space in his head. Apologies, accusations, memories- there was so much left unsaid between them, and he had no time to fix it.

If only they'd been less stubborn.

Suddenly, Virgil flung his arms around Janus, clinging to him tightly like it was the last time he'd ever get to, only it wasn't a metaphor. "I love you," he sobbed, tears soaking through Janus' outfit and pouring from Virgil's eyes faster than rain in a storm. "I'm so sorry, thank you for everything, and I love you so, so much," he said, voice barely distinguishable beyond the wavering sobs.

He removed his face from Janus' chest to look at the others. "Join us?" he croaked, a fragile sound echoing in the silent grave of a room. At least this way they could all go out together, holding eachother until the bitter end.

Roman nearly fell into their arms, Janus curling an arm around him to keep him steady as Remus took one of his hands, trying to communicate so many things to his brother. He didn't know how to say any of it out loud, so he hoped Roman would understand. Logan nodded and pulled Patton into their little huddle, letting the others wrap their arms around the two of them.

It wasn't particularly comfortable, elbows and shoulders digging into each other at weird angles, everyone pressed just too close for comfort in the cold, dimly lit space. But Logan couldn't imagine a better feeling than all of them together, like this. He wished he had taken more time to enjoy it, to simply spend time with them instead of burying himself in his work.

Regrets seemed a little pointless now- he could feel it all slipping away. Every star in the sky, every fact Thomas had ever learned, the name of every friend. Every moment with the others he'd missed by being too cold and stubborn, fading away. Mistakes he could never amend.

Roman moved a little bit away from Janus to pull his brother into the tightest hug he could- no way was he getting away with merely holding his hand. "I love you. So much," he whispered. "I should've been a better brother, but-" Remus cut him off. "No. None of that. You were perfect."

Regrets, apologies, confessions, and farewells were exchanged in choked-up voices from tear-stained faces. They tied up all the ends they could think of, but of course they were nowhere near a perfect denouement.

Minutes elapsed, sand falling through the glass, fate pulling the time away with its cruel hands, and the reality of the end was imminent.

Thomas' eyes feel shut for the last time and the mindscape went dark, every light switching permanently off. There was barely two minutes left before their world crumbled to dust forever.

"This is it, isn't it?" Roman asked, fear stricken and far from resembling brave or noble. Patton nodded fearfully. "Goodbye, everyone," he choked, recieving a tighter hug from the group and tearful goodbyes in return.

The walls began to crumble, an avalanche that should have been raucous and loud, but everything fell silent.

No noise was made by gasping breaths or falling bricks, and everything began to null.

Their world falling apart around them, they held eachother together in the dark, right until there was nothing.

Right to the bitter end.

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onelastbreath-writes · 3 years

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I’ll Meet You There (Part 3)

Pairing: Marcus Moreno/ Wife!Reader (AFAB, no y/n)

Word Count: 2.6K

Warnings: Talks about loss of spouse, loss of child, medical conditions/inaccuracies, grief/mourning, manipulation/brainwashing (subtext/implied, but we’ll get into it later *winkwink*)

Tags: Hurt/No comfort (for now), ANGST, eventual happy ending, one really sad man for whom I just keep making things worse, #sorrynotsorry, and now I’m just making stuff up as I go along

Summary(lite): You are Marcus’s wife, and you’re definitely not dead. No one is having a great time right now, but like hell if there's a force on this earth that’ll keep you apart forever. This is not a goodbye, its just a see you later. And the interim is going to be everyone else’s problem, you’ll make sure of it.

A/N: Hello dears, welcome back to my twisted mind story,,, guess who showed up like 2 weeks late with a smoothie! So things about this new chapter: I am a criminal with italics and someone needs to stop me, hello switching scenes and perspectives because I just want to fast forward to the good stuff but y’all don’t live in my head and don’t know all the stuff that happens to get us there so here we are taking the slow lane, and I keep brainstorming new and horrible things for my characters because I am A Lot, All The Time, and will not be stopped. Also hey, Marcus the Simp is here for you, so much. I hope this is acceptable to be a reader fic still, because I am giving you some serious personality traits... ehh, it is what it is. Tell me if you spot any of my various references, there’s a lot of ‘em. Thanks to everyone who has liked/reblogged/commented, y’all are gorgeous and I’m so grateful for the love <3 Drop me a message/ask if you want a secret about one of the characters (specify which one), I need an outlet for my endless b.t.s. plotting >;) Please enjoy p3!

AO3|Masterlist

[Previous Part]

---

There were more casseroles in his fridge that Marcus knew what to do with, and more sympathy and “thinking of you” cards stacked in piles around the house than he could count. He appreciated everyone’s gestures, but he could recognize the difference between people who were kind in the interest of helping others, and those who were kind only to help themselves. It was quite obvious which type were flooding his mailbox.

Hell, most of the people sending him cards, his fans, didn’t even know his wife, never spoke to her, didn’t feel the empty Her-shaped-space in their very souls. They just wanted the clout, the prestige, of being ‘involved’ and sympathetic to a grieving superhero. It was exhausting, but no one seemed to empathize with him on that.

The Heroics upper management, and the director specifically after his press conference and the publicity the attack had brought the organization, had insisted on Marcus taking an undetermined amount of leave from the team so he could “process and mourn his loss in the comfort of his own home.” Like he didn’t look around and see every piece of himself and his wife over the years; the Home they built for their family, filled with all the hopes and dreams of two starry eyed lovers ready to take on the world together. Like her absence wasn’t slowly killing him.

And it wasn’t like she was gone gone.

Dead.

She wasn’t dead.

No way in Hell.

Whether it was because she worked with superpowered people, her experience as a medical professional, or if she was just more paranoid than most, his wife was a planner, and she was prepared for this. “In the event of my death...," like she just knew it would be necessary.

Truthfully, she had schemes and contingencies and all manner of reactionary plans prepared for if (and when) the worst happened; terrified to be blindsided or caught unaware, unable to help those she would have been able to, if only if she had the time to think. Unpreparedness costs lives in both of their careers, and she refused to leave anything up to chance if possible. And so, she’d plan, and he’d listen.

All throughout their relationship, from before they’d even gotten serious enough to discuss marriage, to when they heard their unborn child’s heartbeat for the first time, and just on random weekday afternoons when they would take Missy for walks around the neighbourhood to show her the beauty in their lives, his wife would paint her theories and ideas like artwork. She’d tell him a story, full of action and mystery, humour and theatrics, tragic romance and harrowing adventure; she could spin a tale like she had a silver tongue, but she never lost herself in her own narratives. In the end, they were messages, lessons, for him to remember when everything was going wrong.

“It’s all about momentum, babe. Bleeding off energy and taking a bad hit instead of a fatal hit. You can’t just full stop; you’d absorb all the kinetic energy, and the resulting trauma will turn all your squishy internals into, like, body soup, which is just super unpleasant. And of course, head is always number one priority. Bracing for impact works better at giving you fewer serious injuries, especially for your neck and head. Muscles should absorb as much of the energy as possible, instead of letting it fall to your ligaments, discs, and nerves to take the force. So, tense up and roll in the case of a low air evacuation.”

Low air evac... she was concerned he was going to have to jump from an aircraft without a parachute at some point in his life. Which was probably accurate he’d admit, but still, he wasn’t hoping to actually need that plan.

Thankfully, it wasn’t always fire and brimstone with her, and she had many strange and terrible schemes to keep the common, everyday superhero family on their toes. Always carry at least two lip balms... never tell someone you don’t have plans for the evening... don’t smile in your mugshot... no clowns. Ever.

She was so weird, a total nerd, and so completely the girl of his dreams.

He loved teasing her about her unending train of thought, the brain that never sleeps, how she’d go on tangents while on tangents but always circle back around; even nicknamed her (quite cheekily, and because it made them both laugh) Doctor Batman, which was usually saved for when she was being particularly dramatic and gloomy. Turn the supercomputer off for a second, Bats, come see what Missy’s doing!

He was her anchor, always ready to pull her back to earth when she started drifting off too far from them, but he never asked and never wanted her to change. He adored her, silly or serious, or when she woke him up in the middle of the night to make him promise that he’d never get their kid(s) a pet owl (because they’re “scary”, and “our kids would be too powerful, Marcus. Promise me!”), or that in the event of them inviting a third to their bed, it would “absolutely never, ever, ever be Miracle. No way!”

He thought it was quite entertaining most of the time, listening to her plan for zombies and old gods and what to do if everyone just started hating cheese one day, but if it was all so important to her: having him remember this or agree to that, he’d accede to her requests in a heartbeat. Most of it was cute, harmless stuff he didn’t think would even happen, but sometimes she would hit him with serious stuff. Entirely out of left field, she’d go for his heart, and ask him for things that would hurt him, destroy him inside, if he ever had to follow through with it.

“Marcus, if it’s a choice between my safety- my life, and Missy’s? I’m always going to choose her. Kids come first, okay?”

She wasn’t superpowered, didn’t have a shred of anything other than pure, normal human in her, but she was easily the strongest person he knew. Fearless and brave, kinder than this world deserved, she’d do anything for the people she cared about. And she’d promised him, maybe as a way to repay him for all the things he’d agreed to over the years, that she’d move heavens and the earth to return to their family. That nothing in this world, or beyond, could keep her away. “Eventually,” she’d stared into his eyes, glossy with tears from how forcefully she believed, “I will find my way back to you. I swear it, so keep a weather eye on the horizon.” See? A whole-ass nerd, and he couldn’t have loved her more.

So, she wasn’t dead. Pure and simple. She was somewhere, somehow, and he was going to find her again.

---

“Marcus, the grieving process is different for everyone, but it is always unpredictable and painful. You will have days where you will feel like you haven’t made any progress, or even lost the progress you’ve previously made, but please know that this is natural; it's something everyone experiences, and that it doesn’t mean you’ve failed in your objective. Healing takes time, and a major part of recovery is learning to forgive yourself when you slip up. No one expects you to be back to normal tomorrow, or next week, or next month. Healing from grief is not a race, so we will go at your own pace, and we will work together to accomplish your recovery goals. You aren’t alone in this journey, and you don’t need to handle everything by yourself.”

The grief specialist he was seeing was someone he would describe as an “old soul”. She exuded the patience and peace of someone who had watched empires rise and fall, seen the turning of the wheel of time and drifted along with the current. Her voice was deep, rich in emotion and empathy for those who needed guidance, calming and intriguing with a soft lilt on her vowels. Timeless and ancient all in one, and even if he wasn’t actually mourning the death of his wife, he did find himself deeply grieving being without her. They were two halves of a whole, and though his soul was at a loss without its partner here, he still had their greatest creation, their pride and joy, their baby girl to raise.

He would do whatever he had to do to be the best parent he could for Missy. And so, if meeting with a physiatrist every week was something that would help, then he would be here, every week. He'd learn to live with his grief, his sadness and loneliness, with just the memory of his Everything, and he’d help their kid with all hers too.

It’s what he promised to do, after all.

“If anything ever happens to me, you’ll just have to love her enough for the both of us.”

---

There was nothing they could recover of the people closest to centre of the explosion. No remains, no blood, nothing. Like they hadn’t been there at all.

Suspicious.

Upper Management had brought in a team of private investigators to handle the case, people who would keep the details quiet and the public appeased with what little information they’d choose to release.

Marcus was a superhero, and sure, his job was to hit things until they weren’t a problem anymore, but he couldn’t understand why all the highly trained professionals didn’t question the sheer amount of evidence that just wasn’t adding up.

He tried to bring up the inconsistencies once with the lead investigator, but they had just given the distraught, widowed husband, so lost in his own denial and grasping at straws, a sad smile and told him they would do everything they could to find the truth for him and the rest of the victims’ families.

Typical.

After being brushed off without a second thought, he decided to keep his ideas quiet, and since they’d proven their unwillingness to listen, he’d just have to solve the mass disappearance himself.

“Have you ever thought about how to commit the perfect murder, mi amor? I have. First: If there’s no body, they can’t prove the person is dead. No evidence of death? No murder. Simple. But of course, completely vanishing a full human would be a challenge. Short of having the superpowers necessary to, like, erase someone from reality in their entirety, there would be a lot of chances to leave evidence. Ordering suspicious chemicals leaves a trail, driving out to a pig farm in the middle of the night is shady as hell and all neighbors are professional narcs, and fires? Hah! Do you have any idea how hot the fire needs to be to cremate human remains, and how long they would need to grill for? Huh, maybe the perfect murder isn’t a murder at all...

Hey babe...

Always doubt a body, but always doubt no body, more.”

---

You tended to lose time when there was no one else in your room. It was hard to tell when your eyes were open because you started dreaming about the only things you could see since you first woke up: drop-ceiling tiles, white walls, and pale blue curtain dividers. And it was easier that way, in the end. Your heart didn’t hurt when you only dreamt of the room. You couldn’t mourn the things and people only your soul could remember if you thought of the room. Drifting in and out of consciousness was how you were coping.

---

You had been here, left in this room alone, for ages. You had agreed to help the man who had saved you from the explosion that killed your family, but apparently you couldn’t help him until you had recovered enough. You’d read your charts, grilled your nurses and doctors more and more the longer you were kept here. What were they all waiting for? There was nothing wrong with you except the mild post traumatic amnesia, and the whole not-remembering-much-(or anything, really)-about-your-personal-life-and-family-of-the-recent-few-years thing you had going on. It was nothing compared to when you first awoke and could remember nothing. It killed you to be without the memories of your husband and child, to know only of them instead of actually knowing them, but there was nothing you or the doctors here could do. The brain was a tricky thing, and you had to accept that your memory loss might be permanent.

That just meant that you had to put all that you could remember to good use. You could help people here, and work towards getting justice for your family. Years and years of school, practical experience and training, you had gained it all back; re-read textbooks and studies, wrote papers on your re-emerging knowledge and jogged your memory about long nights and early mornings, surgeries and follow ups... it was all still in your head. It had returned to you easily, like diving into a cool pool on a hot summer day. It was like coming home and taking off your shoes; it felt good, freeing, as-it-should-be.

But still they weren’t letting you leave. So: what were they waiting for?

“Ah, Doctor, it’s lovely to see you, as always. How are we feeling today?” Okay, so the guy who “saved” you (read: paid the people who actually saved your life) gave you the heebie-jeebies. He looked like a classic pompous asshole bigwig, like, oil tycoon or something. And he definitely had some sort of thing for you. Gross.

“I’m doing as well as can be expected, trapped in a room with nothing to do, you know, brain rotting, et cetera. Thanks for asking.” The sass was a choice, probably not a great choice, but your choice none-the-less. You really hadn’t had many opportunities to choose anything for yourself in a while.

Well...

You were bored, and that was going to be everyone else’s problem.

“Ah, well, good news then! You have been cleared from observation and you’ll be able to be discharged soon. Isn’t that just delightful!” Mister Craig (“Please, just Greg is fine”), was some sort of horrible group hallucination, you were convinced. No one was that cheery, that animated, unless they were on something, or you were on something. “I’ll have someone bring you your personal effects shortly, and then I can show you to your new apartment. The complex isn’t in the best neighbourhood unfortunately, but it's got some real charm, very vintage! You’ll love it!”

“I’ll look forward to seeing it then; sounds like it’ll be a real interesting place to stay. You can also explain what it is I’m going to be doing with your organization. Because you haven’t specified yet. And I expect a proper contract and wage agreement. Legally binding preferably, for your sake, of course, Mr. Craig.” Even if you weren’t the most physically intimidating person around, you knew how, and more so, when, to assert your dominance in a conversation. Especially with men like him. He was the type of guy who would pinch a nurse’s ass and then accuse them of not being able to take a joke.

“You wound me, Doctor, I am a man of integrity! I promised you an opportunity to make a difference! To get justice for the loved ones so cruelly torn from you! You have nothing to worry about!”

Sounds legit. Totally above board. Can’t wait.

---

Taglist (omg!! thanks love): @killtherandomness

Drop me a line if you want to be added <3

#we can be heroes #we can be heroes fanfiction #marcus moreno #marcus moreno x reader #Marcus Moreno x you #reader x marcus moreno #reader insert #Pedro Pascal #hurt/comfort #eventual happy ending #say hello to doctor batman lol. theres a whole thing i created just for that nickname to happen. ask me about it if you want XD #also you're a sassy BAMF. oops

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michaelbranch · 3 years

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A Brief Summary of Ideas: Lives of the Stoics

*These summaries are kept intentionally very brief, just hitting what I consider some of the important/interesting takeaways, most word-for-word or paraphrased. My goal is also to stick to ideas/principals that might guide others (or my future self) in deciding the value of a read (or re-reading). T = takeaway, Q = Question

Lives of the Stoics: The Art of Living from Zeno to Marcus Aurelius

Author(s): Ryan Holiday and Stephen Hanselman

The only reason to study philosophy is to become a better person.

Stoics were most concerned with how one lived. The choices you made, the causes you served, the principles you adhered to in the face of adversity.

4 virtues:

Courage: the knowledge of what is terrible and what isn’t and what is neither.

Justice: knowledge of apportioning each person and situation what is due.

Wisdom: knowledge of what things must be done and what must not be done and what is neither.

Temperance/self-control: knowledge of what things are worth choosing and what are worth avoiding and what is neither.

Philosophy is nothing else than to search out by reason what is right and proper and by deeds put it into practice.-Musonius Rufus

Books are a way to gain wisdom from those separated by time/space.

Man was given two ears and one mouth.-Zeno

Well-being is realized by small steps but is truly no small thing.-Zeno

Anything you do well is noble, no matter how humble.

T=freedom of the humble life vs. the slavery of extravagance.

Fate guides the man who’s willing, drags the unwilling.-Cleanthes

Virtue is the path to happiness and from virtue comes a better flow of life.

Preferred indifferents: It’s not morally better to have these things, but probably nicer to have.

You can lean towards virtue and still desire tools to employ in the building of an even more virtuous life.

It is not wrong to seek after the things useful in life; but to do so while depriving someone else is not just.-Chrysippus

To have but not want. To enjoy without needing.

Let no one think that ideas that change the world do so on their own. They must be shoved down peoples throats. Or at least defended and fought for.

Steel manning: Don’t “cheat” in arguments by assuming the worst about the ideas you’re arguing against. Engage with them seriously and earnestly.

Sympatheia: We all belong to one common community. Interconnectedness of all persons.

It is your duty to consider the interests of your fellow men and to serve society.

History is cyclical.

If you don’t choose whom to marry wisely, your wisdom-and your happiness-will surely be tested.

A good marriage is one where a couple strives to outdo each other in devotion.

Ethical behavior itself is a kind of craft. One that requires work and effort.

Learn. Apply. That is the stoic way.

To live an ethical life and choose appropriate actions we must find a way to balance:

—The roles and duties common to us all as human beings; The roles and duties unique to our individual calling; The roles and duties assigned to us by the chance of our social station; The roles and duties that arise from decisions and commitments we have made. -Panaetius

Philosophizing doesn’t exist in a silo, it is interconnected with other important things.

Doing the right thing can cost a person everything.

In an unpredictable world, the only thing we can really manage is ourselves- and the space between our ears is the only territory we can conquer in any kind of certain and enduring way.

The more you experience, the more you learn, the more humbled you are by the endless amounts of knowledge that remains in front of you.

Excellence in the areas that you control: your thoughts, your actions, your choices.

At the core of stoicism is the acceptance of what we cannot change.

The greatest empire is to be emperor of oneself.-Seneca

He who indulges empty fears earns himself real fears.-Seneca

It’s not things that upset us, it’s our judgement of things.-Epictetus

If someone succeeds in provoking you, realize that your mind is complicit in the provocation.-Epictetus

When jarred, unavoidably, by circumstance, revert at once to yourself, and don’t lose the rhythm more than you can help. You’ll have a better grasp of harmony if you keep on going back to it.-Marcus Aurelius

The good we do in life is easily forgotten, but the evil we do lives on and on.-Shakespeare

When we are angry, it’s almost always better to wait and do nothing.

We should ask of all self-preserving compromises: At what cost?

I’ll begin to speak only when I’m certain what I’ll say isn’t better left unsaid.-Cato

Soon enough we forget about the hard labor. The results of doing well, though, will not disappear as long as you live. Even though taking a shortcut or doing something bad may bring a few seconds of relief the pleasure will quickly disappear, but the wicked thing will stay with you forever.-Cato

In order to support more easily and cheerfully those hardships which we may expect to suffer in behalf of virtue and goodness it is useful to recall what hardships people will endure for unworthy ends.-Musonius Rufus

Suffer and endure TOWARDS virtue.

A stoic does the job that needs to be done. They don’t care about credit.

Sometimes mercy to the undeserving is a grave injustice to everyone else.

Stoics must always keep their head. You must be in charge-no excuses.

(On grief/death)…to despair, to tear ourselves apart in bereavement is not only an affront to the memory of the person we loved, but a betrayal of the living who still need us.

Cherish them while we have them, but accept that they belong to us only in trust, that they can depart at any moment. Because they can. And so can we.

This is our big mistake, to think we look forward to death. Whatever time has passed is owned by death.-Seneca

Stoics feel that engaging with society is a duty.

The duty of a man is to be useful to his fellow men. If possible, to be useful to many of them; failing this, to be useful to a few; failing this, to be useful to his neighbors, and, failing them, to himself for when he helps others, he advances the general interests of mankind. -Seneca

You owe it to yourself and the world to actively engage with the brief moment you have on this planet.

A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.-Jackie Robinson

It’s hard to get someone to see what their salary depends on them not seeing.

What is the proper limit to wealth? It is first to have what is necessary, and second, to have what is enough.-Seneca

Moral luck: how the time we were born and the situations we find ourselves in determine how heroic we’ll turn out to be.

One who by living is of use to many has not the right to choose to die unless by dying he may be of use to more.-Musonius Rufus

Find opportunities to do good. They are always there, even in the worst of circumstances.

Lameness is an impediment to the leg, but not to the will.-Epictetus

If a person gave away your body to some passerby, you’d be furious, yet we so easily hand our mind over to other people, letting them inside our heads or making us feel a certain way.-Epictetus

It’s impossible to begin to learn that which one things they already know.-Epictetus

Do the right thing. The rest doesn’t matter.-Marcus Aurelius

You must build up your life action by action, and be content if each one achieves its goal as far as possible-and no one can keep you from this. But there will be some external obstacle! Perhaps, but no obstacle to acting with justice, self-control, and wisdom. But what if some other area of my action is thwarted? Well, gladly accept the obstacle for what it is and shift your attention to what is given, and another action will immediately take its place, one that better fits the life you are building.-Marcus Aurelius

Be tolerant with others and strict with yourself.-Marcus Aurelius

Too many of us die before our time, living the kind of life hardly being different than death.

Is it possible to be free from error? Not by any means, but it is possible to be a person stretching to avoid error.-Epictetus

#book summary #books #musings

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tanadrin · 4 years

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The first part of our voyage west was to be by sea. The greater part of Altuum lies between the Windlands and Nebressa, and where the long arc of the former meets the continent, the high mountains and deep God-Forests of Dap Ngara and Dap Mbeki form a barrier that is all but impassable, except to the people of those countries, or those on whom they bestow certain favors. It is said the greatest of the God-Trees are as high as mountains, and beneath their boughs are spaces that are vast and dark, and filled with strange creatures unknown to the world at large. Otherwise, many would no doubt choose the overland route, for the route by sea is filled with danger. In the autumn, typhoons arise in the southeastern part of the sea, and rise north toward the equator; year-round there is the risk of pirates. And, of course, in the deeper parts of the ocean, sailors say there are terrible monsters that dwell under the waves and devour ships from time to time; and this is why most vessels prefer to go along the coast. But I do not consider such tales entirely reliable.

When the Sea Kuthra came to the Windlands, they founded many towns along the coast. The greatest of these, which became the entrepot for the middle part of the peninsula, was the port of Kaklune. We tarried there for four months until we found a ship traveling to Presh, whose captain seemed capable, and whose pilot knew the route well. Have you heard the tales of Ctarra, the hero of the Gelar Isles? They say there are a thousand tales of him, though I never heard above two dozen. I believe few of them, but if you had told me that the crew of this ship had once sailed under that mighty mariner, I might have believed you. They knew their craft well, and their ship, though weathered, was in fine condition.

We hoped at first for an uneventful journey. For two weeks we sailed northward along the coast, stopping briefly at Yamakul and Harone, where the crew unloaded timber from the south, and took on cloth and dyes to carry westward. The captain explained to me that the wood was good only to fill the hold for a short distance, and would be of no special value in Nebressa, where better timber is had from the Oethar hills anyway. But the cloth of the northern Windlands is of good quality, and could be traded for supplies anywhere between Harone and Presh; and sold for a handsome profit in Velannu or Nebressa. The ship seemed lighter and swifter after that (though perhaps that was simply my imagination), and the weather was fair when we departed Harone.

We went around the outer isles of the Ngaran Bay, and so caught no glimpse, even from a distance, of the God-Trees; I was certainly saddened by this. After that, we were beyond the Windlands for good. The country between the Windlands and southeastern Oethiam has little in it. To the north, on the great Conn plain, there are large towns, but the lack of good harbors on the coast and a history of vicious warfare, the captain told me, means that there are few places worth a stop, at least for the sake of commerce. For the next few weeks, she said, we should expect only to go ashore to take on water or to collect provisions. Was this not the land of the Tiger-People, in the tales of Ctarra? I asked; and the captain laughed. Yes, she said; once it was, perhaps, but they are long gone.

Alas, one danger that has not changed since those days is the risk of pirates. Our ship was fast, her crew experienced, and none of them shrank from danger; but the ruin of that region, owing to the wickedness of its princes, had made many of the people desperate, and we were but a few days past Tibray Head when we spotted pale sails behind us. At this sight, the captain fell silent and seemed to be deep in thought, but the pilot told us there was little to fear: that the pirates often watched ships from a distance, but rarely attacked unless they had very great numbers, or thought their target unusually ill-prepared. For two days, I glanced occasionally aft, and did my best to share the pilot's nonchalance. On the third, midmorning, we spotted sails ahead of us, as well, and more joined our companions to the rear. Now the pilot himself fell silent, and the crew began to work swiftly, steering us out toward the open sea where there would be more room to maneuver. There was little talk among them, and that made me really afraid.

I will pass briefly over the next part of the tale, because you know the outcome. Despite the crew's efforts, it was clear after a few hours we would soon be overtaken. The captain took us back toward the coast, hoping to lose our pursuers among the islands there; but this plan failed. The pirates grappled the ship, and there was a terrible battle. A good part of the crew was killed, and the ship was badly damaged by cannon-shot. I was wounded, but only lightly. But the pirates suffered enough that they decided in the end our cargo was not worth the price they would pay, and withdrew. In the aftermath the captain put us to work at once clearing the bodies; we needed to find safe harbor, if we could, before they returned.

That was my first experience of real violence, and though it was not my last, it remains in some ways the worst. These were not soldiers; they were but sailors, united under a common bond of friendship and many trials weathered together, and the pain of the wounds on the bodies of those who survived was not half the pain of the grief they endured at the loss of their friends.

By a stroke of great fortune, there was a small town just up the coast, nestled in a narrow inlet. The captain went ashore, and after some quick negotiations with the headman of the town, we were assured of safety so long as we remained. A small gift of cloth, spices, and southern metalwork expanded the hospitality of the inhabitants considerably. They offered aid in repairing the ship, and gave over an empty house for our use.

But our misfortunes only increased from there. In the morning, we woke to find the captain feverish and disoriented; a local fever, perhaps inflamed by grief. It was only after several days that she began to recover slowly, but by this point it was apparent that it could be many weeks before the ship was ready to sail again, and even then it would have to return to the Windlands first, to hire the additional crew necessary to make the trip to Presh. In this time, my sister and I had been in close consultation with the town's leaders, who were of the opinion that for the time being the overland route, which would at least take us as far as one of the small ports on the inland sea, was safer by far. A new king of the Conn had driven the bandits on the roads away, so while the number of pirates was greater than ever, and the season of typhoons was not far off, we could be reasonably assured of our safety, especially if we traveled in a caravan. Some of the townsfolk were going north to market soon; from there, no doubt, we should find a larger group headed west, for the people of the eastern plane often made the trip in late summer.

So we went north. It was five days' travel to the market-town--whose name, alas, I could never pronounce--and nine more days of waiting there. An ill-tempered merchant took us on reluctantly, because, he said, the gods would be sour with him if he let two such utter fools as us come to harm on the road. But he made us purchase some of his horses, and I do not think the price was very good.

And so in this way, after another three weeks of travel, we came to the country called Vadue. Now, the small states and the free cities of this region had for the most part been unremarkable to us. Despite the tales of the Windlands, none of the people here dressed in tiger-skins, or had four eyes, or had their feet on backwards; they were for the most part ordinary folk such as might have been found in the lowlands of our own country, though they ate more root vegetables, and grew more grain. But the people of Vadue are very different from all the people around them.

Vadue is located on a small plateau that rises from the surrounding lowland quite steeply on three sides; the steepest is the eastern side, which was, alas, the road we had to take. It is ringed with high, wooded hills, and the interior is a little lower; and there a swift river rises, flowing westward through a narrow gorge. Once, it must have been a very populous country. There are great ruins of stone to be found nearly on every hilltop and in every valley, but now it is much reduced. Its people live in only a handful of small cities, surrounded by terraced farms that stretch down the slopes of the hills. They shun the large inner valley, for reasons they refuse to discuss with outsiders. And in Vadue, children are kings.

So the saying goes. I did not appreciate its meaning, and thought it perhaps metaphorical, or a legend like that of the four-eyed northmen, when I first heard it. The Vadueans have a reputation for honorable hospitality, so when we came into that country we immediately sought out a village to rest in for the evening. The first one we came to was a small collection of houses, built in the middle of a larger ruin of stone, with many of the materials obviously taken from the surrounding pile. The village square appeared to be the former hall of some great palace, which was now open to the sky. We were met there by three village elders, who form the customary greeting party for travelers, and taken to a place of rest. I looked around us as we walked through the village, and noted nothing unusual about the families therein. Except the ruins, nothing worth remarking upon presented itself to me.

We ate the evening meal with our hosts about half an hour before sunset. As I spoke nothing of the language, I relied on those of the party who could interpret for us to ask questions about the country and its history. Vadue was old, they said; the ruins in which they built their houses had been built by the Vadueans themselves, long ago. In those days, they were a more numerous and wealthier people; and though their number and their fortune had declined since then, their written history was continuous since that time, and the rites of their ancestors preserved. I thought that this was a remarkable claim, as it was difficult to see how such an ingenous people as the ruin-builders could give way to such unremarkable descendants. But our translators were tired from the day's journey, so I enquired no further.

It took us two more days to reach the largest town in eastern Vadue, which is Oqelans. If the account of Vaduean history was accurate, Oquelans must have once been a very great city indeed. Overgrown streets stretched high up into the hills around it, and the broken ruins of towers crowned some of the hilltops. Now the town was confined to a valley between two hills, that at the bottom dropped into a deep ravine, through which a swift, narrow river raced. The town was at the top of the ravine, on either side; narrow stone bridges, as old as the ruins but in better condition, criss-crossed it in many places. Oqelans was accustomed to a greater number of travelers, and so their greeting-party was institutional: three delegates stand in the square, and greet travelers both in the tongue of Vadue and the tongues of the nearby lowlands.

Now, the caravan was to stay in Oqelans longer, and I was footsore and extremely glad of the opportunity for a few days' rest. My curiosity about the country had also been piqued, so instead of staying in the merchant-house, we took lodgings in a smaller guesthouse which overlooked the ravine, and which was on the main street of a quieter neighborhood. The proprietor of the guesthouse and her husband spoke the lowland tongues passingly well, and I had picked up a little of them since joining the caraven; and together with some other linguistic odds and ends we managed to converse. Yes, the husband said, it was true that the present-day Vadueans were the sons and daughters of the ancient ruin-builders. Astonish you, it may, he said; but the techniques of our ancestors are not entirely unknown to us. We could perhaps rebuild the ruins, if we wished.

I asked why they did not. Why should we? said the proprietor. We have no need of enormous cities; we are not so numerous as we once were. But they were grand in their day, I said. Yes, they were, the proprietor agreed; but cloth needs weaving and fields need sowing. This is a Vaduean expression, for the ordinary work of life which must be done by all. We spoke also of religion; the Vadueans' beliefs are not very systematic, though they are not especially superstitious. Most of their rites are concerned with paying respect to their ancestors, and honoring their dead heroes. And what, I said eventually, of your governors? Have you kings or princes here in Vadue? No, they said; there are the local assemblies, and the town elders, and the magistrates before which criminals, oathbreakers, and faithless merchants are sometimes brought. But we have no kings, and no hereditary princes. I have heard in Vadue that children are kings, I said. They laughed at this. They called over their son, a boy of about seven or eight, and asked him if he was a king. No, he replied; today I am a bear. And he went off growling in what was indeed a rather bearlike fashion.

It is not unusual when collecting stories of other lands to find that they disagree with one another, or with the world. Unless the collector is very well-traveled indeed, and can verify by personal experience each account they hear from another land, even the most careful one will occasionally find sour lies in the basket of sweet truths. Some lies are so improbably we can discard them at once, like fruit rotted all the way through, while some appear true but are false; the rot is hidden, so to speak. And the careful historian will note that there are occasionally stories which are on their face preposterous, but which turn out to be entirely accurate: a bruised skin, hiding good flesh within. And there are many such truths, for the world is wide and inevitably full of stranger things than even the wisest can imagine.

I took a walk in the city the next day; and I returned to the guesthouse before noon, and sat on the steps watching the people pass to and fro down the street. I would like to say I was an assiduous chronicler, observing the subjects of his chronicle carefully. In fact, I was merely tired, and impatient for lunch. But I noticed a curious thing, as I sat. There were not many children in Vadue. In the lowlands, I had heard an expression: the one poor in wealth may be rich in sons and daughters. At home, in the Windlands, we had a similar saying: count not the prince fortunate, nor the rich man happy, unless he have many sons. Why was Vadue, not poor in any other measure, poor in this one?

After we had eaten lunch, I asked the proprietor about this. She did not understand the question at first. I used the wrong word, and took me to be asking why few families had children. But she knew many families, they said; all had at least child. I searched for different words; why, I asked, was the quantity of children I saw in the street so low? Is it? she replied. It is, I said. The farmers just to the east have five or more children as a rule. She frowned; were they so cursed, that their children died so young? No, I said; I do not know how many of their children die. I mean, the number who live. At this, she seemed disbelieving.

The confusion between us was not slight, but after much back and forth, I gathered this: that the people of Vadue generally have between one and three children. Two is most common. Four is uncommon. Five or more is exceedingly rare. Children die more rarely in infancy, and the Vadueans attribute this to the religious rites they have around the collection of water and the quality of their medicines, of which I cannot speak directly because I had no occasion to observe them. And the Vadueans do not refrain from having more children because children are hated; they are loved no less in Vadue than elsewhere. But by special preparations, and avoiding the inseminating act when lying together, most husbands and wives prefer to limit the number of offspring. And this, I thought, perhaps explained the mystery of the great ruins. The Vadueans, I concluded, had impoverished themselves: for if they had on average only two children, or a little more, only a small amount of accident or disease, or simply failure to have children of their own, would mean that the size of each generation was a little less than the size of the former. And very gradually--perhaps so gradually they did not notice--the population of the country must have declined, until it inhabited great cities it could no longer afford to maintain. Woe to the people of Vadue! I said to myself. A sorry tale, although one with blessedly little bloodshed.

The night before we were to depart, the proprietor's grown son and daughter came to visit their parents. As was the custom, every two weeks they dined with them; and they brought their children with them. So I had occasion to observe three generations together, and what I saw caused me to question the tale as I had understood it earlier.

The grandchildren were doted upon by all, even their parents. And like many families, they told me, they lived together in a common house with other parents of young children; together they shared the labor of raising them. And that labor was considerable indeed. For though they were only of modest means, these children were educated in letters and sums, and apparently also in the history and poetry of the country; and in song and had even scraps of astronomy and knew a few words of foreign tongues, though they had never left Oqelans. And this was not considered an unusual thing. So I enquired further after the practices of childrearing in Vadue; and they said that every child, even those of the meanest peasant, was afforded some kind of education. And they explained the methods of education in that country, which were gentle and patient; and when I asked how children were punished when they disobeyed, I was astonished to find they were never punished at all.

I asked again, with different words, thinking I had misunderstood; but my interlocutors were stern and clear. No child in Vadue was ever hit or whipped. Even the stupidest, meanest, most recalcitrant child could expect to be met with patience in tutors, parents, and strangers alike. Even to raise one's voice to a child was considered a failure, worthy of a small amount of disapproval from one's neighbors. Disobedient children were simply re-instructed in the behavior they ought to show. And if a child did poorly at their lessons, it was the tutor that was considered to have erred!

I was so surprised at this, that I was asked about my own childhood, and I found myself reflecting on things I had not concerned myself with for many years. I thought on how my parents, whom I loved, and even now consider kind and wise, had beaten us when we misbehaved. I thought on learning my letters in the rectory school, and the blows of the switch on the wrists or ankles intended to sharpen my attention when I made a mistake. I thought of the children in the village I saw, who worked alongside their parents, whose labors were as great, given their capacities, as those of the grown men and women around them. My hosts were greatly saddened by these accounts, though I consider my childhood and that of my friends to have been happy. And then I understood what it was meant, when travelers said of Vadue, that in that place children are kings. If you are accustomed to raising children with the stick as well as with love, this seems like a land where parents cringe and simper before their children, where the righteous order is inverted.

For you see, Vadue is a land I believe to be unusually peaceful. Its mountainous character shields it from invasion; and it has little in the way of wealth that cannot be got more easily from surrounding countries. For all that, it is relatively prosperous: after all, it need produce little, to feed a population that does not grow. And because of their peace, and because of their prosperity, the Vadueans have little need for, and a great loathing of, violence and killing. They whip no slanderers, and brand no thieves, just as they slap no children, nor condemn even the most unrepentant murderer to die. And because of the care and labor undertaken on their behalf, and the sanctity of their person, travelers who have seen only this most obvious feature of their country--the few children, who run free, and have an education that would befit a noble in any other land--the only state which most visitors can name, which approaches that of a Vaduean child, is the state of royalty. And this I at last understand is what the sages mean when they say we shall all be kings in Paradise: not that we shall command and have license to be capricious, but that we shall be free from the caprice and cruelty of others.

I believe that once, Vadue was not like this. That long ago, the people that lived in that country were like their neighbors. By some stroke of fortune, their civilization rose to a very great height, and they were prosperous for a long time; and for love of their children, as all parents have, they doted on them more and more; and consequently, they had fewer, so they could give more to the children that they did have. The offices of state withered away, and they abolished them. That which they prized changed. They prized the family more, and the day-to-day life more; and they spent less time consumed in the fear of vengeful gods, or with carrying out the policies of the tyrants they no longer had. And without need of an ever-growing population to sustain, and without fear of an invasion that might destroy their customs and habits, they permitted the monuments and towers of their ancestors to gently decay. For these were ultimately in the service of vanity: vain princes and vain legacies, vain glories that flattered the nation, but fed not a single starving soul, nor sheltered a single head from the rain.

So they no longer build great monuments. They have their arts and their sciences, but these are pursued either for the joy in themselves, or for the joy they bring one another, rather than to serve as instruments of greater powers. When they have surpluses, some of it is stored, and some distributed according to need, and some sold; and the exact manner of division and distribution differs from town to town, depending on custom and circumstance. So though they have their poor citizens (and their rich), they have no beggars, and no one ever starves. And though they inflict no punishments on the bodies of their criminals (and they assured me that they have criminals, and laws, and courts, like any other country), you may still travel the length and breadth of the land without a bandit slitting your throat for the clothes on your back. For, they believe, it is only when you treat a man as a beast that he becomes one. That bloodshed cannot answer bloodshed, if it is one's aim to forestall it further. They raise their children in the manner that they do, for their most ancient priests long ago said that authority cannot teach alone, and pain is the least useful lesson of all, but patience is the road to wisdom, and love its crown. Despite their laxness, their country is peaceful and their children well-behaved. I cannot say how all these marvels are accomplished, for we did not remain in Vadue long, but nothing I saw in my time there gives me any reason to doubt them.

From beyond its borders, Vadue looks like a poor nation dwelling in its own corpse. But this is perhaps true only if you think that a nation is it princes, that its greatness and its wealth is measured only by the greatness and the wealth of its mightiest inhabitants, rather than its lowliest. If you are of the opposite opinion, Vadue is something of a rarity in this world: a truly happy place.

But of all my tales, I have found, this is the one most widely disbelieved. Yet I have seen it; though I would perhaps doubt it otherwise. In Vadue, children--and men, and women, the lowliest and the highest alike--are kings.

–Tâw Ras, yab Arah; Journals of the Long Pilgrimage, 2663 oE.

#final e's are always pronounced in my conlangs #'harone' and 'vadue' would both be spelled the same in IPA #in case you were wondering #too lazy to search and replace an acute e atm #tanadrin's fiction

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fiercyy · 6 years

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Can stand on its own, but is kind of a continuation.

Stop Time, I Want To Get Off

Sasuke returns home and strikes up a friends-with-benefits arrangement with Sakura.

(i)

Part deux

Funny how it never occurred to him that home would move on without him.

He left when he was thirteen and was somehow able to accept it back then. When he saw Naruto, Sakura and Kakashi again two years later, he wasn’t surprised. He’d anticipated those changes; yearned for them, even. In Orochimaru’s clutches, during the brief moments between bone-aching exhaustion and fitful sleep, he would think of them and wonder. He’d speculate on what they had become in his absence.

Nothing could have prepared him for the reality, but he was prepared for a change.

Sasuke left again at seventeen. He was gone for two years.

When he left, Konoha was a husk. Smoldering embers on a familiar horizon.

Now it is the beginnings of a metropolis. The traditional, classic façades have mostly been torn down, but some are preserved with modern innards. The streets are paved differently, more even. The walls are higher and stronger.

The people are different too, less afraid. The tragedy of war is far enough in the past to be processed. Heroes walk among the old cobblestones and the new blacktops with their heads held high and nods for their neighbors, whose names they know.

Kakashi is much the same as he has always been. He’s better at his job now, comfortable with his responsibility. Grief was a cloak he wore well for his whole life. Sasuke’s former teacher looks healthier with the Hokage’s robes draped on his shoulders.

Naruto is married and isn’t that its own special brand of insane? He’s quieter, a little more thoughtful. Still his same sunny self, but tempered with the security and surety of attaining the love and admiration he’s always wanted.

Sakura… Well, isn’t it always Sakura who changes the most? She’s just as sweet, just as funny. The letters they exchanged while he was away made him more aware than ever of the life teeming beneath the surface of her smiles. She confided her frustrations, silly jokes that her friends had groaned at, the goings on of their friends. But she hardly talked about the big things. If she had leftover pizza for breakfast, he would hear about it-

But he didn’t learn about taking over for Tsunade or the pediatric mental health clinic or her ails and ills from her.

The day he returns, he doesn’t go to Hokage tower right away. For reasons that are clear only to him, his feet carry him to Sakura’s apartment. He finds the door locked, but remembers the key. She had given it to him shortly after he was freed from prison. She promised that it was his to use whenever he needed; that her home was his.

Inside, everything is covered in a thin film of dust. Everything is the same, except for some new pictures on the walls and different knickknacks on the shelves.

His heart beats faster and breath comes short.

It feels wrong to stand in her living room, with the curtains drawn- with the dwelling empty of its occupants. Where can she be?

He licks his suddenly dry lips and gulps for air. It never occurred to him that he would not find her here.

Later he’ll learn that she has taken a sabbatical from ANBU (when had she joined?!) to take a diplomatic mission to Suna, where she is beloved by the Sand Siblings and the people alike. He’ll learn that she is doing very well, negotiating deals, trades and treaties as if she were the Hokage herself. He’ll learn that she’s due home any day now.

He’ll know in his heart that there’s no way she could have known he’d be back today. He’ll feel guilty for being upset that she wasn’t here waiting for him, that she wasn’t where she was supposed to be.

But for now, he panics. He thinks the worst. It’s the way of his world.

. .

He paces.

Sakura is a few days late. Kakashi assures him this is a common occurrence. Sasuke blames Kakashi wholeheartedly for the legacy habit.

Sakura is a few days late. Sasuke has so many things he needs to say to her and she is late.

So, he paces.

“They told me I’d find you here, but I didn’t want to get my hope up.”

Sasuke startles and looks up. For the first time in two years he lays his own eyes on Sakura. She’s standing in the middle of her entryway, still in her mission clothes. He hair is pulled up in a ponytail at the crown of her head, bangs pushed to the side to reveal her seal. She drops her bag at her feet and rests her right fist on her cocked hip. “Say it,” she tells him. “You know you want to.”

“Welcome back.” And he almost wants to smile.

But then, she’s grinning wide and holding out her arms, “Come here, bring it in.” he complies and can no longer find it within himself to hold back the smile, not while he’s holding her and her arms are thrown around his shoulders.

It’s a friendly hug, very platonic. Unbidden, all the feelings he’s spent his solitude processing simmer to the surface. Just as he reaches his boiling point and opens his mouth to say what he’s been psyching himself up to say-

She pulls away.

. .

Staying with Sakura means living in her space. He’s become accustomed to her clutter, her scent and her singing at the top of her lungs when she forgets he’s there. It means he overhears more than he’d have preferred.

She forgets he’s home a lot, he supposes he should be pleased that she’s so comfortable but…

She’s clattering around in the kitchen, Ino is on speakerphone so she can keep her hands free. The shrill woman prods her about an old fling in Suna, and whether or Sakura she saw her while she was there.

“I mean, we bumped into each other once or twice, but it was very civil. I was very clear when we started.”

“Trying not to break any hearts?” Ino teases.

“I don’t have time to acquire any. I barely have time to see you, or Naruto, or anything or anyone outside the hospital. I don’t need to waste my time. Right now, I just want-“

“You’re thirsty.”

“Shut up.”

“You need someone to quench your lusty lusty urges!”

“INO!”

“You wanna hit it ‘n quit it.”

“Control yourself.”

“I’m just saying-“

“Goodbye Ino.” The bleep of her hanging up is soon succeeded by a more frustrated banging of pots and aggressive grumblings. “I am not hard up. I’m not. I’m not!”

. .

This doesn’t apply to him. This has no impact on his life. He does not care.

Oh hey, except he does.

Because he’s spent two years missing her, wanting her. He always thought he’d come back, acclimate awhile and they’d pick up where they left off: on the cusp of something more. She had always been so patient, steady in her love and regard.

She still loves him, he knows she does. But he wonders if he waited too long, if the passion she felt for him had cooled and tempered into mere friendship.

. .

This is not friendship.

This is something else.

Her hands are hot on his abs. One slides up his sternum and pushes him down onto the bed, while the other drags blunt nails lower, into the trail of dark hair leading down down down. Her eyes sparkle with mischief, her smile is wet from his kiss.

He’s frozen on the bed, unwilling and unable to interrupt her plans.

She leans down, aiming for his neck, but he just wants to kiss her again. He rears up and captures her lips, lone right hand grasping at the back of her neck, pulling her up and forward. She tastes like a laugh and feels unattainable, even as her whole body is bare to his eyes.

With another tug, she falls from her knees, to her stomach. They are chest to chest, pressed up against each other in an embrace so tangled that he feels victory in her inextricable place in his embrace.

When they’re like this, he can almost believe it’s real. More than it is. He can pretend that she’ll sleep here tonight, that in the morning he can kiss her awake. He can fabricate a shared life for them and treat it as a someday instead of a probably never.

“Thanks, I really needed that.”

Out of breath and laying beside her, staring at the ceiling, Sasuke wants to scream. STOP THANKING ME, YOU ANNOYING-

But then Sakura turns her head ever so slightly to look at him and he’s caught up in her again. How had he never noticed how beautiful she is?

Then she’s sitting up and not even a little bit shy in her nakedness. Sakura scoots off the bed to look around for her clothes and laughs when she spots her shorts on the ceiling fan. She jumps up on the bed and strains to reach it. Her fingers barely grasp one leg and as she yanks it down, he does the same to her. She falls into his lap and beams through messy bangs. Sasuke tilts his head up, like he’s greeting the morning sun. She kisses his cheeks and nose. He closes his eyes and lets himself pretend.

“Okay, I’ve gotta go,” Sakura sighs and pulls on her shirt. She tries to get up, but he holds fast. She beats a gentle fist against his chest and giggles. “Seriously, I’m tired. I’ve got an early shift.”

“Stay here,” he offers.

An unreadable expression stoles over Sakura’s face before it’s quickly replaced by a patronizing look. “No thanks. Maybe I’ll see you next week?”

“You’re in Suna next week.”

“Oh,” she frowns thoughtfully, “Maybe the week after that then. Bye!”

Maybe he’s waiting, maybe he’s not. Is it still waiting if what he’s waiting for may never come?

#sasusaku #sasusaku fanfic #sasuke uchiha #sakura haruno #naruto fanfiction #my fic #stop time I want to get off #the other trash anime

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ghostmartyr · 7 years

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Attack on Titan Episode 30

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I have this acquaintance who seems to believe that I’ve been unfairly circumspect regarding my opinion of this (and other) episodes. I am aghast (aghast, I tell you) at this ruthless judgment of how I best enjoy my cartoons.

To defang such a callous accusation, this seemed like the way to go.

(Featuring xtreme whining, manga spoilers like whoa, more whining, and maybe a few spots of joy. Who can say. I haven’t started yet, and I’ve never done a liveblog before. It’s a surprise for everyone.)

So, Attack on Titan Episode 30, “Historia.” Let us begin!

I appreciate that it starts with the opening instead of pretending that the content outside of this week means anything.

Tag your spoilers though. Sheesh. That’s going to continue to bug me every time I watch an episode from this era.

Yes, we could have given these characters with a surprising amount of lines this season something new and exciting to do in the opening considering that we’re going to exclude them from all the group shots (they aren’t traitorous enough for traitoring, but boy howdy are they too shady to pal up with their innocent buddies), or, or... we could just go ahead and borrow animation from six episodes in and throw it through some filters.

Complete with dramatic stills. Still. The other one can have dramatic motion. She’s going to be a main character soon, after all.

It still makes me happy that the opening spends time remembering that these two matter outside of everything else that’s going on. Their dramatic anvil of emotional trauma has meaning enough to be dropped in the first minute and thirty seconds of every episode kind enough to skip flashbacks. Most good and excellent.

I like this opening on its own, too. The first one has the epic music that goes with anything, the second has the epic music and really tired anime tropes, but this one manages to grasp that the epic music belongs with suitable animation. I don’t know how it would compare head-to-head, but this one feels like a more complete work.

But enough with the opening.

Bring me the feels that I have graciously waited four years for.

Yes, good, excellent.

...

You mock me.

I don’t understand. Is there something wrong with suddenly shifting your story’s entire focus to two girls who have yet to contribute anything relevant to the plot in a season where there are only twelve episodes and the fanbase has not been reared on monthly frustration?

Why would you want to give the filler moments to characters that people already know something about and care for? How very dare.

(I have watched this before, in case that was unclear, and I don’t remember my exact reaction to this episode opening with filler, but I do remember moments of pain as the snowy boot failed to lead to the scene I wanted it to.

You cut the flashbacks to taunt me with filler, WIT.)

However much it floats about the wrong people, the snow is really beautiful. I don’t live anywhere I get to experience snow, but I like the feeling of muted emptiness it brings an atmosphere. Things are allowed to be still and quiet.

As a bunch of young recruits are trying not to freeze to death, but it’s okay. We already know everyone we care about makes it through.

Hark, the first reference to this episode’s true purpose!

(Why couldn’t Crunchyroll show me kindness and use the K version of her name? It isn’t like it’s going to matter soon.)

I am against this filler on general principle of not getting exactly what I want at all times, but Mikasa showing awareness of what Krista gets up to is always going to blindside me with feels. Mikasa doesn’t know it, but they’ve both watched their mother die thanks to the world’s malevolence, and they both latch on to the person who comes to shape their new place in life.

Neither Eren or Ymir is especially delicate about it, but when they speak their hearts, Mikasa and Kristoria hear them like they’ve heard nothing else.

Of course, that’s all based on later things, but whenever Mikasa has a scene with Kristoria, there’s this extra weight of subtextual understanding that just sings to me.

It helps that it’s mostly one-sided. Everyone in the 104th knows Mikasa, because how could you not, but Kristoria, outside of being rescued repeatedly and bargaining for certain people’s lives, doesn’t show any special acknowledgment of Mikasa.

Meanwhile, Mikasa notices Krista. She’s not the blonde or tiny one, she’s the one who sticks with Ymir--or, in this case, stays behind with Daz.

In this section of the story, Mikasa really has no idea how alike she and Kristoria are, but I like that even before she knows, she notices. ...Or maybe more accurately, some part of the writing staff notices the similarities, so allows them to be continually linked.

...I really like Historia and Mikasa’s nonexistent irrefutable bond.

Why is the OVA that has more of it not stateside when we were given the crack one.

BUT HEY GUESS WHAT THAT’S NOT WHAT THIS EPISODE’S ABOUT!

Look, look, it’s what the episode didn’t start with.

...

Oh help.

Excuse me, I think my heart grew three sizes and I need to lie down thanks to unforeseen feels because oh wow, this is somehow the perfect and I don’t know how to deal.

How.

Just how.

I don’t care if it’s a translation flair or not. There’s something--heck, just help.

Not “no.” “Never.”

Kristoria is a melodramatic stubborn moppet and what even.

You’re dragging a dying body through the snow. Be less perfect.

Ymir, of course, continues to talk, going through all the reasons why a dead body is going to be involved in their night--because some titans get their energy from sunlight, and some get it from pointing out as many inconvenient truths as they can in the space of a single conversation--and Kristoria, of course, continues to be perfect.

I swear, my favorite part of half of the training scenes between these two is that Ymir spends most of her time rightfully criticizing every single thing Kristoria does, and after the initial confusion, Kristoria just refuses to listen.

She puts up a good fight, and can talk with shining eyes about Sasha choosing to be herself regardless of her word choices, and play the heroic role of still believing that there’s a way out while she’s basically in the middle of a suicide attempt, but she is so, so wrong.

This kid is so wrapped up in whatever role her head thinks she’s playing that she listens to her common sense maybe about half as much as any rational person would. Then she uses whatever’s left to try and defend herself to Ymir, because Ymir has the nerve to suggest that she’s thinking about as little as she actually is.

And good grief I just love this scene.

Because yeah, she’s about ten seconds away from being bashed over the head with how unproductive this all is, but look at that face.

The anime version is going with a lot less dead eyes here, and I should and will maybe find time to complain about that, but what it’s turned so horribly glorious is Kristoria’s overall tone when she starts telling Ymir to get lost. It’s downright mocking.

Also fake.

So, so so so fake.

Yet somehow, one of the genuine things Kristoria does as Krista. She doesn’t try to convince Ymir to save herself with a warm smile and proper actions; she plays Ymir’s own game and taunts her into wanting to leave Kristoria and Daz behind.

Kristoria’s basically given up at this point. She’s marching in the middle of a blizzard tugging a pre-corpse behind her, and I don’t think she considers her own life to be in better shape than Daz’s. They’re both dead. Game over man, game over.

Ymir’s outside of that picture, though. Ymir’s heart is still beating, and she obviously doesn’t want to stay, so why should she stick around and watch all of this misery?

This is the early version of how Historia always negotiates. Whenever there’s something she wants, she picks her arguments based on what the other person will find convincing, not necessarily her own logic for making a case.

So with Ymir, she chooses to be obnoxiously cocky about her chances.

(help.)

The manga has this byplay so much quieter, and you can see so much more of Historia from the next arc coming through, but Kristoria makes affected arrogance look damn good and why why why.

WELL NOW THAT’S RUINED, ISN’T IT.

Tough break, Kristoria. You’re going to have to earn being cool from now on.

The anime does such a good job of this moment.

What always gets me in the manga, and what carries over here, is the look of pure horror on Kristoria’s face when Ymir puts words to her thinking. When it’s said out loud, it sounds horrible. She isn’t trying to save someone’s life. She’s given up on Daz.

I don’t think the jab about giving up on herself hits that hard. Kristoria’s a suicidal mess.

But Daz, he who spends this entire scene basically being treated like a sack of potatoes by both of the people responsible for his eventual survival, is a life Kristoria cares about. I think a lot gets lost when that isn’t taken under consideration.

She doesn’t mind killing herself. But what hits is that her resignation regarding her own life has crept out and threatened someone else.

Kristoria’s been responsible for death before. It terrifies her.

Before Ymir draws it out, I honestly don’t think Kristoria has any idea what she’s doing here. Her own life has never mattered to her. Daz’s fate is pretty much inevitable. She’ll stay with him until the end, and put in the token effort, but they’re both screwed, and deep in her heart, all of the talk of third options and hope is a lie. The only thing she can do is keep Ymir from being taken by the hopelessness as well.

But giving up the way she has means that she’s hurt Daz’s chances of survival beyond what they already were. She never asks for help. She just accepts death and carries on walking straight into its embrace.

And when Ymir says it, like this is all on purpose, Kristoria immediately denies it.

She does not want Daz to die. She thought herself a witness, at worst. Not his executioner.

Like I said earlier, Kristoria just does not think about this. Her fatalist tendencies take the wheel and drive her off a cliff that wasn’t even on the route.

So when she’s made to think about what she’s doing, and when she sees, for the first time, where it’s landed her, she’s horrified. She’s a screwed up mess, but she isn’t intending to get anyone else killed.

There’s no denying that that’s where she’s sitting, though.

This is so well done. It’s... this is one of my favorite scenes in the series. Most ones involving these two are, but these moments make such strong use of silence. There’s nearly a full page of beat panels after Ymir starts this conversation, and the tension and the swirling snow stand out even better in a medium dependent on motion.

The world stops when Ymir calls Kristoria on her actions. They’re probably all going to die, and in what Kristoria is thinking will be her last moments, the deepest part of her soul is on full display, and she can’t come up with a single way to defend herself.

She’s out of hope, doesn’t have a sense of self-worth to begin with, and Ymir is confronting her with every sordid detail of the life she wants to forget.

...That part’s me skipping ahead, but look, that’s the mood. Just this lost little girl in the snow wondering how the hell she’s fallen so low.

...While Ymir continues to make it worse.

Because why not. Blizzards are a great time to chat.

(Daz ends up dependent on the two people with the some of the strongest saving-people instincts in the series, and he still nearly dies because they only know how to have honest conversations if death is nearby. That is his purpose in this scene. He is the conversation starter.)

"Hey, you’re about to kill a guy, but btw, I am totes not a thief.”

Who are you trying to impress. I mean, Kristoria, obviously, at all hours of the day, but even at this point she knows you too well to buy that you’re too morally pure to steal things when you’re starving.

Also, there’s that blizzard thing. How are you still trying to act cool.

Oh Ymir...

That ability to instantly empathize and decide a course of action based on those feelings is a little scary, really. Because she knows the story, this girl she’s never met sends a hook through her heart, and suddenly she’s in the military.

Her gift of perception is what makes her so fun when she’s around other characters, but combined with her smarts and impulsiveness... she’s good at finding just enough rope to hang herself with.

...Yeah, meanwhile there’s you.

...

Fine, let’s be real, it’s both of you.

These two are so innocent that it physically pains me.

There is some humor in Ymir resorting to blatant lies to cover up having *~feelings~* in a conversation largely about being true to yourself (Ymir and Historia are both human disasters whose emotional maturity lingers somewhere around toddler level), especially when it’s in response to the person lying about her entire identity posing an honest question, but mainly, oh no.

Like.

No.

Ymir and Kristoria are having this dramatic conversation in the middle of a blizzard while some guy dies at their feet. They are working the tension like it’s going out of style, and they aren’t going to stop anytime soon.

They’re reaching Batman levels of extra angst.

...Holy crap, Historia’s Batman.

No no no, listen, see, she’s got the blue blood, and she’s got the piles of influence, she has the tortured dark loneliness, she watches her parents die in front of her (admittedly, one has help), AND SHE ADOPTS SCORES OF ORPHANS. HISTORIA REISS IS THE ONE TRUE BATMAN FIGHT ME.

But then Kristoria swoops in, mid-suicide attempt, and goes all angelic shiny eyes, because oh my gosh, friend??!!

She is the epitome of a kicked puppy, and it is adorable.

Unbelievably tragic, but. That is a puppy expression. Over friendship.

While Ymir tries to pretend she’s too cool to want any of that.

When she’s just as bad.

She’s not the one dragging someone’s body through the snow out of a warped sense of self-hatred and heroism only to go all doki doki over the possibility of someone wanting her as a friend, oh no.

She just joins the military because she hears a story about some girl and she can relate.

I know the episode isn’t there yet, and since we’ve been graciously spared a flashback start, it might be hard to remember. But for the sake of perspective:

Ymir is standing on top of a collapsing tower surrounded by titans entirely because she’s so desperate for human connection that she ran off looking for some girl whose first name she didn’t even know because she thought they had something in common.

THIS IS THE PERSON WHO HAS THE NERVE TO PLAY TSUNDERE ABOUT WANTING FRIENDS.

TO REVIEW.

THIS IS WHAT COMES OUT OF HER MOUTH

LITERALLY ONE MINUTE AFTER SHE SAYS THIS

“HI I’M YMIR AND I WEAR METAPHORICAL REINCARNATION BETTER THAN YOU, SEE HOW PRETTY MY BLACK AND BLUE DRESS IS NEXT TO YOUR SILLY WHITE AND GOLD ONE.”

This is a very mature conversation between two people who have been through too much and come out incredibly damaged.

It’s also two teenagers yelling at each other in the middle of a blizzard.

For instance, this is a tragic statement about Kristoria’s emotional trauma.

It also sounds vaguely like Ymir is encouraging murder.

It might not sound funny now, but give it time. Around the arc that ends with Historia killing her father, this becomes utterly hilarious.

And this... this will always hit hard.

Kristoria’s my favorite character, and that’s been the case since I first saw her. This is the arc that gives substance to that fondness, and this moment in particular is one of the most brutally cool parts of Kristoria.

She isn’t just trying to kill herself. She joins the military. She conducts herself admirably. She’s a good enough soldier to earn a spot in the top ten, even if that should more correctly be the top eleven.

Yeah, she doesn’t care about herself. Her care for others is also debatable.

But she isn’t just stumbling her way towards the quickest end. She keeps her head up and finds a way to die that looks appropriate from every angle, and marches toward it. If she had died here, even though that’s exactly her plan, and staying alive isn’t something she’s trying too hard at, she would have died on her feet, still stubbornly clinging to the heroic ideal she wants to decorate herself with.

Krista might be a fake hero, but Kristoria goes the extra mile even when she’s completely out of heart to give.

That unholy stubbornness is headed the exact wrong direction here, but it is such a cool character trait.

Ymir and Kristoria’s relationship is really just this long debate over which one of them is better at winning arguments.

I also appreciate that Ymir’s winning argument, in this case, involves throwing people off cliffs.

Sure, she’s right.

But even without titan powers I can totally see her suggesting throwing someone off a cliff as a valid way to keep them alive if it meant finding a way to prove Kristoria wrong in this scene.

She starts out wanting Kristoria to leave Daz behind. Then it turns into a philosophical showdown, and suddenly, nope, there is a way for all of us to live, guess what Krista, YOU ARE WRONG ABOUT EVERYTHING FOREVER.

(Love yourself.)

...Whatever the anime does wrong, now and in the future, I don’t think I will ever be able to deny the extreme gratitude I feel towards whoever lovingly detailed Ymir picking up a kicking Kristoria and throwing her down a hill and into a tree.

Best love interests ever.

You three still aren’t supposed to be here, but I begrudgingly appreciate that even when Eren finds Krista creepy, he’s the kind of righteous dude who will do whatever he can for his crew, and of course Mikasa and Armin won’t ever let him do it alone.

Fine, I like the filler this episode.

“Hello, we are also here, and have absolutely no ulterior motive to making sure that Krista is still breathing. Look at how helpful and great we are.”

“We’re just good people who love our friends and need more screentime.”

For a good time, count how many times Krista is mentioned by name compared to Daz and Ymir.

You know, I feel like the full context of what happens here deserves more words.

Ymir literally jumps off a cliff to win an argument with her girlfriend, leaving said girlfriend smacked against a tree and under a pile of snow in the middle of a blizzard, all with the full expectation that Kristoria is going to be just dandy.

AND SHE’S RIGHT.

Kristoria gets a front row seat to two people she sort of wants alive diving off a cliff, and then gets to wander through the wilderness in the dead of night, blizzard raging, entirely by herself.

Just like Ymir knew she would.

...

Just because it’s a terrible plan doesn’t mean I can’t find her faith heartwarming, shut up.

I feel like this screencap accurately captures the Ymir experience in its entirety.

...I always forget how tiny Historia is.

She is incredibly tiny.

I don’t have a comment.

I just feel something in my chest.

I think it is pain.

The whimpering noises coming from somewhere support this theory.

This level of physical affection is not in the manga version help it doesn’t even make sense for their personal bubbles to be ignored like this where they’re at right now it’s just done to make a smooth transition cut so how dare you make me feel things.

Stop.

Look, see, we have a perfectly good thing here where even the idea of living under her real name makes Kristoria gasp fearfully, and that is a slice of tension that I should be able to dig my teeth into and enjoy,

BUT INSTEAD WE’RE HERE, DOING THIS!

My heart is on the floor yet somehow still doing things to me and I have complaints.

Oh good, this is better.

...Does Ymir just. enjoy jumping off high places?

This is also some epic music to get the party started.

LET THE BODIES HIT THE FLOOR

Speaking critically for a moment, as much as I dig the music once we’re back from the Information for Public Disclosure, I’m really disappointed in the blocking for Ymir’s initial attack on the titans.

It lasts about ten seconds, so wow get over it, but they go with more long shots than swift cuts for those ten seconds. Considering her fighting style, it feels like the wrong call. It’s impressive to watch how swiftly she’s moving from titan to titan, but some of the brutal strength of the violence is missing. Chomp, nom, move on. There are a few good shots mixed in, but the flow of the scene feels like it could have been way more intense if they’d kept close to Ymir.

Loving that music, though.

Pictured: Kristoria nearly falling from her death because she hasn’t moved a single inch since trying to reach out and stop Ymir from jumping off yet another high surface.

So. Cause of death?

Could not stop staring at Ymir.

Okay.

...I’ve been good. Very good, arguably. If Studio WIT wants to take a few liberties with micro expressions, that’s their call, and they even made one really unfair thing out of it, so I shouldn’t complain too loudly.

...

Yeah, fuck it.

SHE DOES NOT SMILE IN THIS PANEL OF THE MANGA. VERY MUCH THE OPPOSITE, AND THAT WAS WITH SIGNIFICANT LESS DAMAGE TO HER LEG.

YOU ALSO FAILED TO DEPICT CONNIE’S PANICKED STILL OF REACHING OUT WITH BOTH ARMS TO TRY AND CATCH HER. IT IS PRECIOUS AND ADORABLE AND YOU ARE DEAD TO ME.

Bertolt’s “wtf” expression is a gem, though.

This is Kristoria’s most vivid recollection of three years of friendship with Ymir.

Bless these two.

Only two people on island with knowledge of history past a hundred years ago shocked when the person named Ymir has a link to Titans.

Bertolt really does have magnificent background expressions.

I. feel personally victimized by this episode.

What always gets me about this section of Utgard is how disturbed Kristoria starts out by... all of this. It’s all scary stuff, everyone up safe on the tower is talking about how suspicious everything is, and Kristoria’s a bit of an anxious mess to begin with when it comes to life.

You can see so easily how someone who’s never had a reason to trust anybody could have trouble trusting the motives of a secret like this, and the environment is just waiting to tighten its hold on all of her insecurities.

But Ymir is still Ymir.

Even before the pieces fully snap together, and Kristoria starts breaking out of her anxious shell, she can’t watch Ymir in danger and not worry. She can’t turn off caring for her friend.

And then we just. just.

Oh help they added a montage.

This should not be allowed at all what even why are you doing this.

Butting heads and marriage proposals. And awkward drinking experiences.

That’s what Kristoria holds dear to her heart when she thinks of Ymir.

I’m fine. Fine fine fine. Fine.

Help me I love this episode.

I do not have words. They are not found. This world was not meant to waste moments talking about scenes like this when they’re there to be enjoyed. There is no greater high than Kristoria shouting off encouragement about property destruction and generally showing her deep, abiding love for Ymir by calling her an irredeemable jackass while she nobly tries to save them all at her expense.

Then WIT goes ahead and brings me back to earth when it decides to cut my favorite smile altogether. While I’m grateful for the return of my ability to make words instead of distressed noises, why. You gave the filler its dear sweet time to do whatever it felt like, and now we’re left without an animated form of the bestest smile ever.

Minus bazillion points.

Oh wait.

Waaait.

You. can’t just.

Ow?

Ahaha oh, but this is entirely the anime’s fault and ow. That... that slow hesitance of her feet before they just start going. Ymir’s being torn to shreds, and there are titans everywhere, but running to her side is such a basic instinct for Kristoria that she just... goes.

The manga captures that sense too, but the boots. That tiny little delay before she bolts.

How are you allowed.

Oh yeah, and here we have Ymir’s eyes opening. Entirely because Kristoria’s calling out to her. That’s good. That’s okay. Yeah.

If I didn’t have things to complain about like WIT turning Kristoria’s kindly request that a titan wait on eating her into the anime version of thought bubbles (WHICH SHE SHOULD NOT HAVE YET), I don’t know what I’d do.

Mikasa’s auditions for the role of Kristoria’s personal white knight just make me really happy.

Smiling Erens would, except.

Well.

Sorry about your life, kid.

....Yours too, but, uh.

Um.

...oh wow.

This can’t be how they’re supposed to spend their budget. but. This is so amazingly beautiful. The lighting is so, so soft, and Historia’s voice when she tells Ymir’s her name is one of the most gentle utterances you will ever hear on this show.

You have this episode full of teenagers yelling and being scared and making poor decisions, and so much pain, and so much violence and passion. Then the morning sun rises, and all that’s left is this tender moment between two people who love each other.

And Ymir, battered and bloody, smiling at the sound of Historia’s name.

More care than I’d dared to hope for goes into the final scene, and... yeah, wow. Thanks for existing.

So.

That’s it.

Episode over.

On the whole, I like the manga version better thanks to a few tiny details that don’t matter to anyone but me, but this is... extraordinary, and I am so glad that they were willing to take their time and let it flourish into everything it’s meant to be. Damn.

I can’t see myself doing one of these again, but it definitely had its moments (this episode hurts me), and I hope some enjoyment can be had from the transcript. Thanks for following along.

#Shingeki no Kyojin #yumikuri #Historia Reiss #Ymir #Season 2 #screencaps #tl;dr

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