#But this point is nonetheless very true - not just for his road to victory but also for the image he cultivated after he had won

[wonder-worker]

In the end, politics was an accretion of personal decisions, and that means that the personality of the protagonists cannot be left out of the discussion. It determined not only how they reacted to the situations in which they found themselves, but how others reacted to them. The growing support for Edward IV in 1461 must have owed something to the realisation that he would make an effective king - whereas his father never seems to have been regarded in that light.

--Rosemary Horrox, "Personalities and Politics", The Wars of the Roses (Problems in Focus), edited by A.J Pollard

...When the worst had happened, and civil war was a reality, the overwhelming imperative was to find some way of restoring order. At the level of high politics, what this entailed in practice was a rallying around the de facto king. The Wars of the Roses, far from weakening the monarchy, actually strengthened it, since the king was the only man able to surmount faction. In spite of (Henry VI’s) manifest failings, Richard, duke of York's criticism of the regime commanded little high-level support - and would have commanded even less but for the crown's alienation of the junior branch of the Nevilles, headed by York's brother-in-law the earl of Salisbury. York in fact never did attain the political viability to break the vicious circle of temporary ascendancy and political exclusion. It was his son, Edward, earl of March, who finally mustered enough support to take the throne. He was able to do so in part because the situation had been transformed by the country's descent into open war, which reduced the compulsion to uphold the king as the embodiment of stability. Once it was no longer a matter of averting war, but of stopping it, political opinion began to divide more evenly between Henry VI and his rival. However, the crucial change may well have been York's own death at the Battle of Wakefield late in 1460. In the ensuing months Edward of York was able to present himself as the man who could mend the shattered political community. That self-identification with unity proved immensely potent, and it was not a role which could plausibly have been filled by his father. In the eyes of contemporaries, York had been the begetter of faction: a man tainted by his willingness to go to extremes.

#oof💀 #I can't decide if this is more awkward or ironic #But it's nevertheless VERY interesting #Edward IV #Richard Duke of York #my post #wars of the roses #Edward still had to win Towton (ie: a military victory) to actually secure his kingship and bring over a lot of the nobility to his side #But this point is nonetheless very true - not just for his road to victory but also for the image he cultivated after he had won #It's very common to hear about how Edward IV was eventually viewed by many as a 'better' alternate to the throne than Henry VI #But what isn't acknowledged nearly as much is how by that logic he would've equally been viewed as a better alternate than his father #Ironically this entire point is made even clearer by the actions of York's own staunchest supporters ie the Nevilles #Certainly both Edward & Warwick learned their lesson from York's disastrous attempt at an acclamation in 1460 #Considering how comparatively well-planned and well-executed Edward's own acclamation was in comparison #This is another reason I dislike how the Yorkists are often viewed and spoken of as a collective. the broader dynastic label tends to #minimize the differences in certain situations like this one or Richard's usurpation

[bipercabeth]

“Something’s wrong, I can tell” for percabeth 💖🔪

(in which we ignore the fact that hoo exists)

Annabeth’s alarm clock blinks 5:00 PM on her bedside table, the bright red casting a glow over her dark dorm room. Her blinds are drawn back, but uselessly so. The sun hides behind rain clouds that drown the city in their gloom. And so the turn of spring is more limp than victory march, or maybe it just walks to a cadence Annabeth can’t hear. The moment her feet hit the floor this morning, it felt like she was stepping out of time. 

The darkness presses in heavily on Annabeth, like maybe it’s her fault the sun rose wrong today. The girl with a plan for everything can’t even rouse herself out of bed. Afternoon collapses into early evening, and the weight of the lost day pins Annabeth below her comforter. Alone in a twin bed, the way it way built to be. Even after nearly a decade of sleeping in a cabin with all her siblings, that’s all Annabeth has ever really been: alone, the way she was built to be. 

Sneakers scuff the carpeted hallway, stopping when they reach Annabeth’s door. A key scrapes the lock without a knock, which is how she knows it’s Percy on the other side. 

Light from the hallway follows him in, and both of them blink as their eyes adjust. Annabeth is blind for a moment, able only to focus on Percy’s silhouette. Even in the lowlight, she can see the way concern softens his brow and stiffens his hands. 

“Baby...” he says, a nickname that has become a common occurrence in their seven months of dating. This is the first time it has failed to warm Annabeth’s chest. “What’s wrong?” 

Annabeth tries—she really does—to sit up and wipe the tear tracks from her cheeks, but her nose is snotty and half her hair falls out of its scrunchie from being upright for the first time all day. Her voice cracks when she says, “M’fine.” 

Percy just crosses the room and turns on her desk lamp, giving the place a soft yellow glow. He looks like the sun sweeping away the shadows of a dim day. With gentle hands, he undoes Annabeth’s scrunchie and coaxes her curls into a bun that will hold in the wake of her wallowing. Annabeth leans her head back into his stomach to look at him upside down, at which point he holds her cheeks and breaks her with a gentle, “Something’s wrong, I can tell.” 

She just gapes at him uselessly, because isn’t the lack of words the very core of this pain? All the power of Athena’s wisdom, Daedalus’s laptop, and Annabeth’s own mind, and she cannot string together a sentence about Luke Castellan that rings true. 

He was a hero. Naive. 

He was a monster. Calloused. 

He loved me. 

Well, aside from that, which is the only thing she knows to be true. 

Percy senses the tectonic shift within Annabeth and holds her tight, laying her back on the mattress and tucking himself in behind her. His arms wrap around her like he can prevent the earthquake, but all that tension can only do one thing: snap. 

Luke loved her. It’s the one thing she knows. None of it makes sense if he never loved her. She has to make it make sense. 

Most days her brain buries the ache. Annabeth is a runner; she is good at lacing up her shoes and hitting the road, but her feet cannot carry her far enough. She is the house she’s running away from. Luke’s influence is a painful design that fuels self-hatred and frustration, but the bones were good. At its core, the house was built with love, the kind you want to share with family. Before her fearlessness and fire were her own, they were his. Luke was the first person to put a weapon in her hand, and Annabeth is nothing if not a warrior. He made her to be the exact thing she needed to be to survive him.

Seven months after his death, and sometimes a day goes by where Annabeth doesn’t think about it. Some days are too full of Percy’s sunshine smile for the sky to dream of dimming. Other days—ones she keeps to herself—the thought of Luke shines in the rose-tinted lens of nostalgia. And then there are days like today where she is rendered immobile by the mere memory of him.

Closure is a sick and twisted joke. Luke’s love for Annabeth saved his soul and the world, just the way she wanted. All the pain and suffering of the past four years was worth it. She was right to believe in him. So why does the burden still burn into her shoulders? 

Percy presses his lips to the back of Annabeth’s neck, drawing her back to the present. His arm rests underneath her neck and wraps around her shoulders while the other falls over and around her torso, linking their fingers over her heart. He’s grown considerably since the summer, a fact that bothers Annabeth until moments like this where the width of his shoulders eclipses her own. It almost fools her into thinking he can protect her from this. 

“Easy.” His voice is low, whispered into her neck. “You’re okay. Just breathe with me, alright? I’ve got you.” 

Each swell of Percy’s chest coaches Annabeth through her own. Inhale. Hold. Feel his hands squeeze each second. Exhale. Listen to him whisper affirmations like prayers into her skin. Repeat. 

It takes a while, but Annabeth’s heart slows.

Percy’s voice resonates again her back. “What happened?”

This, she thinks, is the hardest part. Annabeth doesn’t have an empathy link like Percy and Grover, nor does she have someone with shared experience to speak to. In her struggle with Luke, she is truly alone.

“It’s not fair,” she manages, breath hitching.

“What isn’t?”

“That he—“ A stray tear leaks onto her pillow. Percy’s lips linger on her shoulder, patient and steady and everything Luke couldn’t be. Annabeth sobs, a mortifying sound, and she’s glad Percy can’t see her face as she presses it into her cold pillowcase. The stain of fallen tears waits for her, inviting her back into old pain. “That he loved me. It’s not fair that he loved me.”

Though he tries to hide it, Percy’s body goes rigid. They have fought about this on Annabeth’s rose-tinted days or whenever someone brings up Luke’s legacy, be it as hero, pawn, or monster. Part of Percy will always be the twelve year old boy who was betrayed by Luke, and part of Annabeth will always be the seven year old girl who found a family with him.

“Love isn’t always enough,” Percy says, and she can hear the tension in his jaw. Bless him though, he tries for her. “It’s not your fault he couldn’t do a single damn thing about it.”

He pulls her into his chest and lays his head on her shoulder, keeping her from falling off the bed while her body shakes. She withers at the realization that she can’t offer him anything in return, not even a promise that she’ll take his words to heart.

Luke did something about it: he died. He became the hero Annabeth saw in him after years of struggling, and then he left her again.

But he kept his promise. 

Annabeth’s chest aches as it always does when she thinks about Luke, it just runs a bit deeper today. It was in his nature to cut to the bone. 

“I just don’t want to feel like this anymore.” She sounds every bit the small, bitter runaway. 

The cold of the pillow is replaced by Percy wiping away her tears and dabbing at her nose with the sleeve of his hoodie. “What can I do? Tell me how to help.” 

“Just stay with me.” She leans into his palm, kisses his wrist. “Hold me a little longer.” 

“As long as you need,” Percy promises, dropping kisses along the line of her neck, her jaw, her cheek. “But I need you to look at me.” 

They untangle their limbs for Annabeth to flop onto Percy’s chest. His arms wrap back around her, this time firm around her waist while his free hand slides to her neck, his thumb under her jaw to hold her gaze. His eyes blaze with the fierce love she is still learning to accept, the one that burns to protect. 

“I love you so much,” he says, his voice aching as though it almost hurts. “And if I could take this away, I would. You don’t deserve it. I know we don’t... That he...” Percy frowns, then tightens his grip on her. “I know I don’t get it. I know. But I’m still here, you know? I don’t want you to be alone. Ever.” 

The gears in Annabeth’s brain take a moment process, and her response comes out in a breathless, “I love you.” The phrase is warm, as it always is, like the sun shining through the rain on her window. Loving Percy turns the light on in every room she enters. The rest of her words fall short, though they’re honest. “I don’t know what to say.” 

Percy’s thumb swipes across her cheek. “Me neither. We’ll figure it out together, yeah?” 

She throws herself into the crook of his neck, knocking the air from his lungs. He just softens and holds the back of her head while tracing circles on her hoodie—steady, sweet, supporting. He holds her tight and kisses her temple with the same tenderness she presses into his collarbone: a small attempt at reciprocity, but a meaningful one nonetheless. They’re trying, which is all they can do. 

#hey babes here’s some luke themed h/c with a side of spooning #truly ​an annie seeking missile #my percabeth #drabbles #my fic #ayesha tag #annie tag #bc anything mentioning luke goes there #iris messages #autumnmuses

[belliesandburps]

Here's a weird ask: how does the cast off MHA and TW react to being in first place in Mario Kart only to get blasted with a blue shell?

I see @twistedtummies2 and I share some anons. :P

Twisted Wonderland

Ace: That dumbass would have the worst luck imaginable. He'd get nailed by the blue shell right when he's doing one of those loops, so he'd go crashing down and have to get scooped up by that passive aggressive cloud-flying dickhead whose name I never knew or cared to know. He'd lose a few places in the race, and before he can eve get started, someone would use the lightning to shrink everybody...aaaaand someone else would blast him off the cliff again because they had the Bullet Bill. By the time he can race again, he's in dead last and also a full lap behind. "...Wha...how...WHEN...?!?! O___o; " would be the only his only befuddled response.

Deuce: He'd snap and get mad at what a cheap shot that was, and how he was so close to victory. Then, he'd apologize, go back to playing and acting like he's not super annoyed that he got screwed so badly.

Cater: He's far too busy taking selfies of him and his pals playing video games to actually...PLAY video games.

Trey: He will be in shock for a moment, but when the person who blasted him smugs at him, he'll retaliate by refusing to bake them any pastries for a week. They won the battle. But Trey just won the war...aaaaand broke their spirit.

Che'Nya: Heeee's too busy driving backwards and smiling to himself to ever get blasted by the blue shell. He tilts his head with confusion at the cloud turtle for constantly telling him to go the other way and mutters, "But I like this way! :3 " and keep on playing incorrectly.

Riddle: That controller is going through the TV.

Leona: He'd say his famous catchphrase. "Tch, pain in my ass..." then he'd lazily toss the controller, get up and leave. I imagine Leona isn't actually THAT fond of video games despite being young. I think he only really likes strategic video games that make him feel smart. And anything that has complete random chance to negate skill like that goddamn blue shell just turns him off.

Ruggie: He'd whine and pout. "Awww, whaaaaaaat?! D8> No fair!!" Then he'd sulk for a while, grumble in annoyance, and keep playing, trying veeeeery hard to inch his way back to the top.

Jack: He'd show a flicker of anger, would pretend that it's just some stupid game, then turn away, grumbling about what a crappy, cheap trick that was and that no real wolf would ever need to use...in fact, I'm pretty sure Jack's the type who never uses items because he doesn't think he needs them.

Azul: He will forget all about winning and focus the entire duration of the game to ensuring whoever got him with the blue shell is dead last. He will not rest until he crushes their dreams...

Jade: He'd just nod passively, resume playing like it's no big deal, then he'd wait to hear the smug "Haaaaa!" from the culprit he's playing with, and make a note to exact revenge slowly and embarrassingly once the game is finished.

Floyd: He will immediately turn to whoever blasted him, have pinprick-sized pupils, aaaaaand the other player will immediately restart the race, and Floyd will beam happily at being able to play more and giggle about how his opponent is really bad this time.

Kalim: He's never been hit by the blue shell. He's too busy getting hit by green shells. And red shells. His OWN red shells...which...isn't supposed to be possible...but he found a way...

Jamil: He'd use his magic to immediately force whoever blasted him to keep driving off a cliff again and again and occasionally act as a roadblock for other racers. Why get mad when you can get "cheat-y?" :P

Vil: He'd just huff dismissively and say that this is why he doesn't stream video games like other online personalities. Too uncouth and mindless like that blue shell and whoever lobbed it.

Rook: He'd be too busy focusing on wiping out other players to actually race. He's the sort who would literally drive backwards just so he can kamikaze with all his green shells at any incoming player he decided is his prey.

Epel: He'll sneer angrily, catch himself, and say it's just a stupid game, and keep playing like it's no big deal...then occasionally glare daggers at whoever blasted him when they weren't looking, and contemplate stealing some of Vil's poisons for later use.

Idia: Idia's such a ""pro gamer"" that he knows the shortcuts in every single track. You can hit him with TWO blue shells, he'll still be ahead by half a lap and have time to spare. He'll just grin that rare cocky fang-filled grin and say, "Ohhhhh nooooo, blue shells, I hope I don't lose my entire lap lead... >:D " Then he'll giggle maniacally...aaaaaand immediately whimper at realizing he just giggled in public, then largely keep to himself for the rest of the race.

Ortho: He'll pout and angrily whine that blue shells are cheap...until he realizes how much better the items are when you're in last place...then stay in last place when he realizes how fun the golden mushrooms and lightning bolts are.

Malleus: ...He's never been first place in any video game he's ever played. He's not very good at any video games, but the fact that he's been invited to play at all already has him in a good mood. Also, whenever he plays in a castle level, he's too busy trying to admire the decor to actually race.

Lilia: He's never been hit by the blue shell because he's never allowed himself to be that far ahead. He intentionally eases up whenever he has a major lead so it's neck-n-neck between himself and second place. And once a blue shell has been launched, he'll slam the brakes so second place takes the lead...aaaaaand promptly takes the shell, so he can carry on freely to victory. :P

Sebek: He'll never play unless Malleus is playing, at which point, his only priority is supporting his young master, who is...not gonna be in first place. Instead, he'll stay by Malleus' side the whole time, and be horrified when he accidentally blasts Malleus off the road when he gets green shells and stays too close to his master.

Silver: He fell asleep two laps ago.

My Hero Academia

Midoriya: He'll grit his teeth and just try harder to claw his way back to victory. Can't keep a cinnamon bun down after all.

Bakugou: One angry shout later, and the entire room will explode...

Todoroki: He'll blink with surprise, look around in deadpanned confusion and simply ask, "...Did I win? : | "/

Kirishima: He'll whine and frown, muttering, "Awwwww, blue shell?! That's not manly at all... >:( " Then huff but nonetheless keep on playing through. Also, he'll be screwed if he ever gets the blue shell because he actively refuses to ever use it because he doesn't think it's fair.

Iida: Blue shell him once and he's effectively lost the game. He will immediately jump to his feet, stomp over to whoever blasted him, chops his hands in the air like a robot and proceed to go on a massive tirade about how true heroes should never rely on such unfair trickery...until someone points out that anything goes in Mario Kart, and if it you were a skilled enough player, you could overcome such an unfair disadvantage. At which point, Iida will freeze, hunch over and mull over to himself for a solid ten minutes about what an excellent tool the blue shell is to actively push players to be better, to overcome the odds. Then he'll immediately bow repeatedly and apologize for blowing up, praising the blue shell as the ultimate teaching moment in a video game...not realizing no one is even playing anymore...

Uraraka: She'd go wide-eyed, turn to whoever blasted her, pout and shout, "You did that on purpose, you traitor...! >:{ " Then, she'd try and latch a ride onto the cloud turtle to see if her character has zero gravity powers as well. :P

Momo: She'd never get hit with the blue shell because she's learning how to drive, and is trying to be responsible behind the wheel...meaning she's driving veeeeery slow and avoiding all the collisions everyone else is facing. So even if she's dead last, she'll say, "Well, I may be last, but I'm also unscathed. So I do believe that makes me the REAL winner in this silly game."

Kaminari: "Awwwwww, wwwwwhaaaaaaaaaat....?! <8'{ " He'd just turn to whoever blasted him with this adorably pathetic look of absolute betrayal on his face.

Mina: She'll complain about what a cheap shot that was, then get over it in a second, grinning as she tries to get payback with red shells and banana peels.

Tsu: She'd stare blankly, ribbit, and resume playing, expression unchanged while she deadpan says, "...You suck. : | " while continuing onward.

Tokoyami: He'd mumble that this never would've happened if any of the players knew how to fly, then remark that whoever blasted him must have been pretty desperate if they couldn't best him otherwise.

Ayoma: Heeeee's far too busy admiring himself in the slightest reflection he can see on the screen to actually play the game...

Mirio: "Awwwwwww, looks like I lost, guys! :D " Would literally be his response and his expression...without realizing the game isn't even over yet.

Tamaki: He'd sigh a breath of relief, saying it's so much better not having to be first because now, that's a load of pressure off of his mind...then complain that he's hungry and ask if he can go home yet. :P

Mineta: ...He was too busy perving out over Daisy to actually play, and then Tsu wrapped him up in her tongue and flung him out a window.

#ask belliesandburps #twisted wonderland #my hero academia #bnha #tw #mario kart #blue shell #this really was an odd question #but actually pretty fun to think up answers for! #in the future i'll stick to fewer characters #this took a while 'XD

[katehuntington]

Title: Black Dog - part three Word count: ±2700 words Episode summary: When Sam gets an anonymous phone call with information about his father, Dean receives a text message with coordinates to different location. The brothers clash and split up, one following orders, the other   trusting his instincts. Meanwhile, in the wilderness of Cascade Range, Washington State, Zoë loses grip on a personal case and is forced to confront her demons. Without back up, this might very well turn out to be her final hunt. Part three summary: Two leads point into different directions. Which one are the Winchester brothers going to follow? Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and  medical procedures. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Swearing, smoking, weaponry. Descriptions of  torture and murder. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Descriptions of suicidal thoughts and tendencies, depression, panic attacks, hallucinations. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09​​​ & @deanwanddamons​​​​. Thanks, girls!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E03 “Black Dog” Masterlist

     Dean gives his Chevrolet Impala a final clean up and looks at the end result.      Ronny nods satisfied, too. “Good as new.”      They mechanics carefully beat out the small dent in the lid and restored the paint with a polisher. The lock of the trunk took some time to replace, but now it closes perfectly. 

     “Thanks, man,” Dean says gratefully, offering him some money for the work.      “Any time. Put that away. I owe you Winchesters more than that,” Ronny reminds him. “Sure you guys don’t want a beer?”      Dean hesitates, but then shakes his head. “I’d love to catch up, but we should get going. The world isn’t rid of all evil motherfuckers just yet.”      Ronny chuckles at that. “Fair enough. Good to see you again, though.”      “You too. Take care, Ron,” the oldest Winchester brother returns.

     The ex-hunter retreats back into his garage, and Dean glances at the trunk for the second time and smiles satisfied. He’s glad he got it fixed. The clunking sound every time they hit a pothole was driving him crazy, and with enough arsenal for a small military operation inside, he wasn’t really keen on leaving it unlocked either. 

     As he takes a look around the abandoned street, he realizes he’s missing the tall individual that usually occupies the passenger’s seat. Where the hell did Sam go? Instinctively, Dean scans the area, uneasiness evident in his stomach, a sensation which arises ever since he was a kid, whenever he loses sight of his little brother. Then he spots him a bit further down the road. He’s on the phone with someone, and for a second he wonders if it’s Zoë he’s having a conversation with.

     Waiting for his brother to return, he leans against his car, shoving his hands in his pockets. The sun feels nice and warm on his back as it burns away the coolness of the night. Now that he has nothing to do for a moment, his thoughts sneak off. He doesn’t like it one bit, but he can’t help but think of the huntress they crossed paths with a little under a week ago. He may pretend that he doesn’t give a shit, but he has to admit that she has been on his mind more than a couple of times. Not that he likes her, fuck no, but Sullivan left an impression that has him wondering. She has been through more in the twenty-five years that she has walked this earth than most endure in an entire lifetime. Maybe that is why he deep down cares; he can relate to her.

     Dean exhales, not dwelling too long on the reason behind the intrigue. Instead, he wonders if Sam’s presumption is actually true. The fierce Zoë Sullivan being in deep shit; he can barely picture it. She always seems in control, even when things don't go as planned. She caught him off guard. He, Dean Winchester, can you fuckin’ believe that? The older Winchester sibling rolls his harmed shoulder, testing its mobility. She shot me, for fuck’s sake. 

     Even though he has been in the field longer than she has, Zoë seems to expertly know her way around the world of monsters that is their reality. She’s a bright girl, skilled, fast, fearless. She has every aspect of a perfect hunter. But after those last words back in Paragould, he was left with the impression that the battle she was going towards, is one she didn’t expect to win. It truly felt like a final goodbye. A disturbing question pops up in his head; did he make a mistake not going after her? The two guys they saved from a werewolf in Waco probably don’t think so. 

     Dean stares ahead, pulling at his bottom lip with his teeth while contemplating his choices. Maybe they should go after her anyway, see if they can pick up her trail. North is indeed a big place, but then again, a hot chick on a Harley Davidson would stand out. It’s a long shot, but if they play this right, they may be able to find her. 

     The matter escapes his mind when he feels his phone vibrating, the buzzing device startling him slightly. Somewhat annoyed by his own reflex, the hunter takes his Motorola and notices the small icon of an envelope in the right upper corner; he has received a text message. It’s probably Erin, his hook up back in Waco, who had to wake up alone this morning. She must be wondering where the man she met in a bar three days prior has gone. But when Dean opens his inbox, his eyes widen in shock. 

     At the top of the list of incoming messages, it says ‘Dad’.

     Dean’s heart has picked up speed, now pounding twice as fast than it was seconds ago. Last time he checked, his father’s phone was inactive, and now there’s a message coming in from that number? Different scenarios flash through his mind, not sure if he should prepare for good or bad news. With shaky fingers, he opens the text.

     Job: 48°13’11.00”N 121°41’4045”W

     Dean exhales, still staring at his cell. He can’t fucking believe it. John disappeared from the face of the earth, nowhere to be found, and after all this time he sent a few numbers and letters. The older Winchester brother huffs out a laugh. It doesn’t matter, though. Relief frees Dean from the crippling worry that he has tried to stuff down for over a month now, but kept him up at night nonetheless. This text confirms what he’s been hoping for; Dad is alive.

     Thrilled, Dean turns around and glances down the street, noticing Sam, who hastens towards the car. He can’t wait to share the news, knowing they have both been so desperate for a breakthrough. 

     “We’ve gotta go,” they both say at the same time.      “Me first,” Dean demands, childish.      “What are you? Seven?” Sam huffs, raising an eyebrow to match with the sass. Despite his accusation, he counters in the same manner. “What I’ve just heard is bigger.”      “Bigger than this?” Dean brags while flashing a grin, victoriously handing his brother the Motorola.

     Curiosity wins and Sam takes it, attentively reading the message. His eyes narrow, but then his jaw falls open when he realizes who the sender is. John’s youngest son isn’t impressed, though. In fact, what shows on the display infuriates him. 

     “That’s it?” he scoffs, agitated, giving the phone back to his brother. “After a month of silence, that’s what he gives us?”      “Sam, don’t you realize what this means? He’s okay!” Dean brings to mind. “Don’t bitch about this.”      “Just because he’s able to send us a text message, doesn’t mean that he’s okay. We’re not even sure it’s him!” Sam returns bitterly.      “Oh, come on. This is so Dad. One word and coordinates, that’s straight up Marine Corps right there. It’s more convincing than his fuckin’ signature,” the older brother argues.

     “And what the hell are we supposed to do with this? Trust him blindly and do a job he can’t find the time for because he’s hunting whatever the thing is that killed Mom?” Sam assumes, his arms flying up before he lets them come down to his sides again.      “Exactly,” Dean states, matter of factly. “Don’t you see, Sam? This is what I’ve been telling you. He doesn’t want to be found, he wants us to hunt.”

     Dean opens the passenger side door and rummages in the dashboard locker. When he straightens his back, he pulls out a brown notebook; it’s John’s journal.      “This book. This is dad’s single most valuable possession. Everything he knows about every evil thing is in here. He could’ve taken it with him, but he didn’t. He’s passed it on to us.” Dean looks deep into his brother's eyes while he points at the leather bound book that is the representation of the Bible to the Winchesters. “Dad’s journal, the text... Dad is telling us he wants us to do what we were trained for.”

     “You know what I want? I want to find him,” Sam returns determined, handing back the phone.      “And how the fuck were you planning to achieve that, huh?” Dean returns.      “I don’t need a plan, I already know where he is,” the younger brother states.

     Puzzled, Dean stares at him, waiting for an explanation. There has been zero contact between their old man and Sam for years,  and now all of a sudden he has figured out where John is at?      “How?” he questions, suspicion rising.      “I just received a call. He’s in Tennessee. In Nashville to be precise,” his sibling states.      Dean frowns. “A call? From who?”

     The shrug of Sam’s shoulders is nonchalant. “I think she might be a hunter or something.”      “She? Does this mystery lady have a name?” Dean questions further, trying to get details while frustration bubbles in his chest, triggered by his brother’s short answers.      “She didn’t give it, but it doesn’t matter. We’re going to Tennessee,” Sam decides.

     Dean laughs out loud, dropping the journal on the passenger’s seat before he turns away. Then he returns to glare at Sam as if he just made a joke.      “You wanna go to fucking Nashville based on an anonymous call? Did the sun fry your brain or something? This could be a fucking trap, Sam!” Dean shouts, indignant.      But his sibling is determined. “I don’t care. If he’s there, I’m going.” 

     Dean steps closer and halts right in front of him. He has to look up to stare into the eyes of his taller brother, but that doesn’t make him any less intimidating. 

     “Dad has given us an order,” he growls, his words spoken in a low tone.      “I said: I. don’t. care,” Sam battles him.      “Well I do, you stubborn dumbass!” Dean counters with a raised voice. “What you are planning to do is fucking dangerous! Dad doesn’t want you on his tail, you’ll blow his cover!”

     “You’re calling me a dumbass?! Dad is after an incredibly powerful monster by himself, alone! He’s the dumbass for not accepting our help! We already lost Mom, I lost Jess, I’m not going to lose him too. I want answers, I want a piece of that son of a bitch that ruined our lives and I want it right fucking now! If Dad doesn’t want me there, that’s his problem!” Sam shouts angrily.

     “You’re going against him?” Dean isn’t impressed with the outbreak, and slightly shakes his head. “Oh right, I forgot. That’s what you always do; the exact opposite of what he asks!”  he continues cynically.      “He doesn’t ask. He orders,” his brother corrects. “And you follow those orders like a fucking lapdog.”      “It doesn’t matter how he tells us what to do, Sam! He’s our God damn father, so you better suck it up and fucking LISTEN!!!”

     Dean is sure one of Ronny’s neighbors is going to emerge from one of the houses, telling them to shut up and take this argument elsewhere, instead of fighting it out in the middle of the street. He doesn’t care, however. His little brother has forgotten his place, and he needs to set him straight.

     “I do whatever the hell he tells me to do because I trust him, because I respect him, which is something I’m gonna strongly advise you to do as well, because your attitude fucking stinks,” Dean lectures, his moss green eyes penetrating, fire burning in his irises. “Now get in the fucking car, because we’re going to drive to wherever those coordinates lead us to.”

     Puffing his chest while straightening his back to make himself seem even taller, Sam crosses his arms. His older sibling might think he has all the authority, but he’s not a little kid anymore who he can boss around. Those days are long gone. He thought his departure to Stanford taught Dean a lesson or two, but apparently he needs to remind his brother that he plays by his own rules, and no one else's.      “I’m not going with you,” he decides, standing his ground.

     For a moment, Dean just stares at him, giving him a second to reconsider that conclusion, but Sam doesn’t even blink. Their gazes battle, the air between them almost too thick to breathe, rivalry carving a deep canyon between the two.      “I’m gonna give you a choice,” Dean snarls. “You can come with me and solve that case, or you can go fuck yourself.”

     Sam gulps, but stands his ground. His facial expression doesn’t change as he steps back, away from his brother, and heads over to the back of the Impala without breaking eye contact, until he opens the trunk to grab his duffel. The glare Dean receives when he slams the lid closed says enough; he’s not coming along for the ride. 

     Stunned, Dean stares at him and huffs in disbelief. Un-fucking-believable. He has always known Sam was stubborn, but now he takes the cake. Disappointed, the older brother shakes his head. This is the second time Sam has chosen a different path and leaves him without even batting an eye, but it scares Dean just as much as when he left and went to college. He’s not alright with what he’s about to do, but he can’t give in. He has to listen to his father.      Frustratingly, he pulls open the door of the Impala. “Goodbye, Sam.”

     Trying to hide his unpleasant surprise, the man left in the road watches him. He didn’t expect this, Dean taking off without him, but then again, how could he not expect a soldier to follow orders from his general? It doesn’t change anything, though. He is dead set on investigating this lead and finding his father.

     The man who is about to put a distance between himself and the one person he swore to never part with again, glances in the rearview mirror. He wishes he hadn’t, because the coldness in Sam’s hazel eyes seems foreign, yet familiar. As Dean starts the engine, he realizes he is either having a major deja-vu, or is reliving one of the worst days of his life. Despite the painful pressure that’s building in his chest and the panic that floods his brain, he lowers his right foot on the gas pedal, and the car rolls away. He doesn’t drive off as fast as he normally would, because he’s fighting the urge to turn around. Pained, he glances in his mirror again.      “C’mon, Sam. Move,” he begs.

     But Sam doesn’t even lift a finger, and he remains in the exact same spot. Then he does move, but not in the way Dean hoped. His little brother turns his back on him and heads towards downtown Hillsboro, in the opposite direction.

With a deep sigh, Dean shakes his head, clamping his left hand around the wheel until his knuckles turn white.       “Stubborn bastard,” he sighs.

     His jaw clenches, as West Elm Street flows over in Route 22 and the landscape around him changes. Small homes and sheds make room for stretched out farmlands. But he doesn’t notice the scenery. His conscience is fighting his heart. He wants to hit the brakes and pull the car into a 180° so badly, but he has to listen to his father. Never in his life has Dean done anything else than that, disobedience not being a word one could find in his dictionary. Yet in this situation, both of the options are pitfalls. It doesn’t matter which way he goes, he will make a mistake either way. Because the one line that his father drilled in his mind over and over again keeps haunting him. 

     Take care of Sammy. 

     He grinds his teeth, but continues to drive further and further away, his upbringing leaving him no choice. The hunter has made his decision; he’s going to find the location of those coordinates and do the job his Dad has given him. He knows what he’s doing, he’s just hoping Sam does too, because if something happens to his little brother, Dean knows he will never be able to forgive himself.

Well, shit. The boys have gone separate ways. Who do you think will find what he’s looking for?

Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you  do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or  buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read part four here

#Supernatural: the Sullivan Series #Dean Winchester fanfiction #sam winchester fanfiction #Dean Winchester angst #Sam Winchester angst #dean fanfiction #sam fanfiction #Dark!Supernatural #Supernatural #SPN #Dean Winchester #Sam Winchester #Zoë Sullivan #Dean Winchester x OFC #sam winchester x ofc #Dean x OFC #Sam x OFC #Supernatural fanfiction #SPN fanfiction #supernatural series #SPN series #Dean Winchester series #Sam Winchester series #STSS #Black Dog #1x03 Black Dog #Kate Huntington

[pivitor]

Be the Steven You Want to See in the World

The following is the most recent installment of my email newsletter, “Do You Know What I Love the Most?” I’m really proud of this one, and wanted it out there for y’all to read. Think of it as a free sample. If you like it, please share and subscribe to the newsletter here.

The following contains spoilers for Steven Universe and Steven Universe Future.

I don’t need you to respect me, I respect me

I don’t need you to love me, I love me

But I want you to know you could know me

If you change your mind

A little over one year ago, the above song capped off the final episode of Steven Universe, a series on Cartoon Network that began as an adorable little cartoon about a boy’s magical powers and eventually grew into a complex, emotionally rich saga about war, trauma, and identity — but one that remained accessible to viewers of all ages.

In the world of Steven Universe, its titular character stood alone. Steven’s father was a human, while his mother was a superpowered alien, both a rebel warrior and royalty in hiding; he was also, kinda, sorta, maybe the reincarnation of his mother? There was literally no other being in the universe quite like Steven, leaving the poor boy not only confused about just exactly who he was, but misunderstood by pretty much everyone he met, especially his alien “family” the Diamonds, the tyrannical rulers of the Gem Dynasty. The Diamonds refused to see Steven as anything other than his mother, eventually leading to them ripping his gemstone from his body in an attempt to revive his mother, something that could have potentially killed Steven.

Instead, though, it just revealed what viewers always knew — Steven was simply Steven, and nothing more. That revelation shattered the Diamonds’ worldview and their stranglehold on the galaxy. Steven saved the universe, but his most important victory was finally learning to love and respect himself, just as he was. Someday maybe the Diamonds would come to understand him, to see everything he has to offer simply by being himself, but if they never did, that’s okay. Steven already has the love and respect he needs without them.

It’s a sentiment that rang true for many of Steven Universe’s fans. Steven as a character, and his unique place in the universe, had always connected with many different varieties of viewers. Bi or muti-racial fans saw themselves in the way Steven was never fully at home in either Gem or human society, and queer viewers could appreciate the way that so many of Steven’s most prominent and praised qualities were ones that are traditionally viewed as feminine (as well as all the show’s more explicit pro-LGBTQ+ messages). All of them could likely find some solace in the ideas expressed in “Change Your Mind.”

I know I have. My relationship with my family is…okay. For now. I love my family dearly, we get along most of the time, and quite often even have a lot of fun just being in each other’s company, but I know there are parts of me that they’ll never be able to accept or understand. I’ve had to build a lot of walls between myself and them just to reach this tenuous equilibrium, and quite frankly, it hurts that they’ll never actually fully know who I am as a human being. When it seems overwhelming, I often think of Steven’s song. I can’t make them accept me. All I can do is love and respect myself, and be here if they ever change their minds.

If that was the end of Steven Universe’s world it would have been a fine legacy, but thankfully, the series continued on in the form of Steven Universe: The Movie and Steven Universe Future. The movie skipped ahead two years from the end of Steven Universe and, with a new villain, teased the “further adventures of Steven Universe,” but the limited series Future ended up being more of an epilogue to the original. Sure, there were a few enemies to fight, but they were largely loose threads Steven Universe left dangling. The real antagonist of Steven Universe Future ended up being Steven himself — or, more specifically, his trauma, insecurities, and sense of self.

In the original series’ extended theme song, each member of the main cast gets a chance to proclaim why they fight, and Steven’s is “I will fight to be everything that everybody wants me to be when I’m grown.” That’s always felt fairly ominous to me; that’s a Steven who doesn’t have a sense of self, of who he wants to be, who’s been devoured by his supposed duties and put aside his own emotions and concerns to make sure that everybody else is okay. Maybe that was sustainable in a time of war, but in the peaceful status quo of Future, these qualities come home to roost. Without people to help, without a world to save, who even is Steven Universe? What does he want his life to be? Steven doesn’t even begin to know how to look for answers, and is even less equipped to ask for help. He flounders more and more until he eventually breaks down.

Again, that’s something that myself and many other viewers can closely relate to. Like Steven, I was a “gifted” and sensitive child who was expected to excel, and hated to hurt people’s feelings so much that I chose to ignore my own feelings instead in order to please others. I was essentially a preacher’s son, expected to be a role model; to be anything else would be unthinkable and unacceptable. And as I got older and started to realize how different I was from everybody else, I had to protect myself by being somebody I wasn’t. I started to see myself as the problem, and tried to solve everybody else’s problems so that nobody would notice my own.

Both Steven and I tried to hide our mistakes so that our friends and family would never think poorly of us, would never know what we’d done wrong, so that we could always live up to the image of us people had in their minds. Living like that, though, means that you never learn from your mistakes, that you never get help and never grow, because you’re more concerned about hiding your mistakes than understanding why they happened and how to change them. Thankfully, Steven came to that realization much earlier in life than I did, but instead of reaching out for help, he just internalizes the mistake, blaming himself and condemning himself as a monster.

And when you think you’re a monster, you become a monster.

For most people, that’s a metaphor. In middle school, when I realized my wit gave me power, my pain caused me to lash out and briefly become a bit of a bully myself (after the second or third time I got beat up I grew out of it). Steven’s magical powers often cause things to be a bit more literal for him, though. While most gems can shapeshift on command, Stephen’s appearance has always been closely linked to his emotions; in one early episode, when Steven starts to “feel old” his body literally starts growing older and older until he almost dies of old age. Thus, when Steven starts to think of himself as a monster, he literally grows into a pink, horned, centipede-esque monster the size of a mountain.

Steven’s friends want to help — rightfully, they’re terrified for him, not of him — but their responses are also a little self-centered, albeit unintentionally so; they almost get into a contest, a game of “who hurt Steven more?” as they all blame themselves. It takes Steven’s best friend (and love), Connie, to get them to stop wallowing in self-pity and put Steven first. That shouldn’t be a surprise — while the rest of the cast has always protected Steven physically, they’ve also depended on him emotionally. From the very beginning of their relationship, though, Connie has been Steven’s greatest confidant. She forced Steven to open up to her when he stupidly tried to push her out of his life, and she’s been the only person who has consistently put Steven ahead of herself — sometimes to a fault — as Steven’s done for everyone else. And with her help, everybody Steven loves realizes that the way to save him isn’t by fighting him, but just by being there for him.

They embrace the monster-Steven in a massive group hug. They share with him all the ways Steven’s helped them, and help him realize that those same experiences allow them to relate to what Steven’s going through as well. Steven expected fear, shock, condemnation, and instead got understanding, love, and compassion, and shrinks back to himself, openly weeping in the arms of his friends and family. It’s his first step towards recovery.

It’s hard to understate how important this kind of support can be. I can think of multiple points in my life where just having people willing to be there for me moved me to tears. Knowing that there are people who will support you in matters great or tiny if only you actually bother to ask, to make yourself known to them, is powerful. Steven’s friends understood him more than he ever thought possible, and the same has proved true for me. Many times I’ve shared my past expecting to be judged or looked down on and instead only found understanding and compassion, and I’m not exaggerating when I say that kind of support has changed my life. And it changed Steven’s too.

Last weekend’s final episode of Steven Universe Future — the epilogue to the epilogue — still had a lesson or two left to impart. After a few months of therapy and help from those he loves, Steven decides to leave his home and strike out on his own so he can discover who he truly wants to be. There’s some sob-worthy goodbyes, but the major theme of the episode is that change is healthy and inevitable, and that people who love you will always be in your life no matter where you are.

It’s not necessarily a very original lesson, but it’s a vital one nonetheless. As I make (coronavirus-delayed) plans to move ahead into a new era of my own life, I can’t help but to find comfort in watching Steven do the same. Vitally, this final episode also provides a road-map to living in a post Steven Universe world. I’m losing one of my favorite shows, but I’ll always be able to revisit it, and the lessons I’ve learned will always be a part of me.

Perhaps the most important message of all, though, comes when Steven says goodbye to Peridot, a character who started out an enemy, but — through much effort from Steven — eventually became one of his closest friends and allies. As a sobbing Peridot laments that she’ll never find “another Steven” like this one, Steven tells her, “be the Steven you want to see in the world.”

If we carry any one lesson away from Steven Universe, I think it should be that one. Be the “Steven” who believes in love, in compassion and redemption, in helping those who need it, but also be the Steven who is honest about their limitations and shortcomings and allows others to help them and be there for them when they need it. In times like this, we all need that more than ever.

#pivitor #Steven Universe #steven universe future #SU spoilers #Steven universe spoilers #steven universe future spoilers

[glatisants]

Albion: The Legend of Arthur (Part V and VI of XIII)

Part V: The Wolves of Faramir

For the record the Saxons are literally so funny in this. For some reason they yell all the time in loud booming voices, and they’re very fond of chanting in unison.

***

We start where we left off, with our boy Medraut of Dumnonia! He goes to see Faramir, who is boasting with his men about his successes over the years.

When Faramir calls him a foreigner, Medraut points out that the Saxons were the invaders, and thus the true foreigners. Faramir tells everyone about how back when he was a young warrior, the Saxons were invited to the island, to provide aid for Vortigern in his fight against the Picts; Vortigern promised to reward them with land, peace and prosperity, but he reneged on his promises.

Medraut argues that Ambrosius is a mutual enemy, but Faramir says all foreigners are enemies to them. Medraut says his father was the rightful ruler before Ambrosius took his title, and that he wants to see justice done. Faramir responds that Medraut is well known to be a traitor and a coward who has consistently broke his oaths and betrayed his allies. He says that while the Britons may think of him as a monster, he is a good king, a ring-giver, and then he tells the story of how he earned his name with his first victory as a boy: when the smoke of battle cleared, he stood there black with blood and ash from head to toe.

Medraut tells him about how Ambrosius and Arthur have united the people of Britain, but Faramir believes that the alliance will not last for long, and mentions how Wulfdag is drawing their attention away as they speak.

Arthur, Owain, Griff and Rhodri are riding along to the Saxon fort, keeping concealed off the road, and stop to camp for the night. Before bed, they discuss some rumors of Wulfdag being a giant and legends of the Saxons being “turnskins”—men who can turn into wolves.

Rhodri takes first watch. When everyone’s asleep, he creeps over to kill Arthur in his sleep, but Griff awakes and sees him with his knife out. Rhodri tries to attack him, but Griff fights back and kills him. Arthur and Owain awake and think he killed Rhodri in cold blood; Arthur is about to kill Griff, when Owain connects the dots back to Cynon and proves Griff isn’t at fault. Arthur is furious that his cousin betrayed him, but Owain calms him down. Owain then tells Griff he must keep everything that happened that night a secret, for it could be dangerous knowledge in the wrong hands. They leave Rhodri’s corpse out to be eaten by wild animals.

The gang reaches a point where they can no longer travel under cover and must go on the main road. They arrive at the fort, but find it deserted and in poor shape. Upon entering, they find that everyone stationed there has been slaughtered. They leave their horses behind and continue on foot, and find the Saxons camped on the beach; Arthur agrees with Owain’s assessment of their odd behavior, and agrees that it must be a trap. They plan to wait until dark, then strike Wulfdag directly. Meanwhile, Wulfdag grows impatient, but his witch warns him that his enemies may already be in his midst.

As the gang is starting their strike, they find themselves in a deep mist, and hear wolves howling in the distance. They see something that appears to be neither wolf, nor man, and as the pack descends the trio flees back to the fort. Arthur kills one before they close the gate, and they see that it’s a man wearing a wolf pelt, but Arthur’s uncertain he was a man when he killed him. The pack surrounds the fort, and Wulfdag demands to see Arthur and challenges him to single combat. Arthur accepts, but he has a plan; Owain dons Arthur’s armor and pretends to be him, while Arthur takes the wolf pelt and poses as one of Wulfdag’s men so he can get close enough to strike.

Griff and Owain topple the gatehouse and bury all of Wulfdag’s men, and Owain-as-Arthur goes out to fight the Saxon. Wulfdag tells him all about Faramir’s plan: he’s gathering Saxons, Angles and Jutes to his side, and coming for Albion. Arthur runs Wulfdag through with his sword as he’s talking.

Searching the camp, they find the witch. She offers to give them knowledge of their futures, and Owain is interested in talking to her more, but Arthur kills her, convinced that she was just manipulating them. The three get ready to leave, making haste to return to tell Ambrosius about Faramir.

Medraut’s been roughed up a bit by Faramir’s men, but he’s nonetheless good-humored and charismatic. He is hated and hunted, but still determined to rule; luckily for him, he caught Faramir at an opportune time, and Faramir decides that even if he is just Vortigern 2.0, they could still be useful to each other.

***

Part VI: The Storm Gathers

We start with Myrddin praying that Arthur is, indeed, the symbol of hope that he’s looking for.

The trio comes home, and they deliver Wulfdag’s head to Ambrosius, who is pleased. But they tell him about the butchery at the fort, and about Faramir’s plans, and Ambrosius is troubled, so they prepare to go meet Gwenhwyvar in her city in order to be closer to the impending conflict. Owain goes to tell the men the news, while Arthur goes and tells Cynon that Rhodri was eaten by squirrels, and hints that he knows what the two of them were planning.

Meanwhile, Medraut is not terribly impressed by Faramir’s united forces, but the latter claims they will unite them together.

There’s a nice reunion between Griff and Cled. They fill each other in about the impending Saxon conflict, and about news from the North. There have been rumors from Gododdin about pestilence sweeping the land. People think it’s the work of an enchantress; there’s a sickness in the water, the moon has risen red over the mountains, and animals have gone mad. And Cled’s been talking to Myrddin, who really wants to speak to Arthur.

Cled goes to see Myrddin, and brings him to meet Griff, who gets Owain. Myrddin tries to make his case to meet Arthur, but Owain doesn’t believe his prophecies, asks him to go away, and requests that Cled and Griff keep a lookout for him.

Cynon needs a new attack dog, so he goes to the prison to speak to Rhun, a disgraced former commander who has committed crimes such as theft and murder. With some effort, he enlists Rhun to be his bodyguard, among other things. Arthur is not terribly impressed by Rhun’s release.

Ambrosius and his people head out to Gwenhwyvar’s realm, the City of the Legion (Myrddin is stealthily following the troops, careful to not be spotted by Owain). She welcomes the incoming throng, and wants to verify Ambrosius’ intelligence before she puts her men’s lives on the line. Once she has ascertained the truth of their intentions, she graciously escorts them to her city.

Faramir presents Medraut to his allies, and forces him to kill a Briton prisoner to prove that he will not hesitate to kill his countrymen. Medraut is not happy about the whole thing, but puts aside his emotions for the sake of his ambitions. The chieftains are satisfied, though, and they send summons to their men, meaning Medraut has an army at last.

Meanwhile, everyone’s having a good time at Gwenhwyvar’s. Her men are great fighters, but she is nonetheless reluctant to put their lives on the line. Ambrosius and Arthur try to reassure her, but she has concerns—she inquires after Lewdwn in the North and his conflicts with the Picts. She’s interested in the stories about this enchantress, but thinks she could just be an invented personifcation of the pestilence the people are suffering. Owain asks for more details, and Gwen explains that people say the enchantress has awoken the Black Army (an army of phantoms, allegedly cursed men of Northern legends) with a spell of necromancy, and this has emboldened the Picts.

A scout from Cantware arrives with intel about the Saxons’ whereabouts. Ambrosius wants to head south and make a stand to drive them out of Britain. Gwen isn’t happy about the constant warfare; she’s lost her father and other family to battles over the past few years, and while some would say that she gained a kingdom as a result, she would say that she’s kept Ambrosius in power by sacrificing her own blood. She eventually concedes that her men and herself are exhausted of their strength, but Ambrosius shall have whatever strength remains. Her one condition is that she rides out with them.

#albion the legend of arthur #long post #arthurian legends #audio series #recap

[livvyplaysfinalfantasy]

Short of that one scene from 4.2, the first three minutes of this video were the hardest for me to get through in all of Stormblood. Not only because it involves Asahi heaping physical abuse and misogynistic slurs on a dying Yotsuyu, but because we finally receive confirmation for Asahi’s motives throughout the arc as he breaks down: he's been inspired by his love for Zenos - and the word "love" is used in the text.

Asahi: It should have been mine. Asahi: The power he bestowed upon her... I should have been the one to govern Doma! I would have repaid his faith! Asahi: No one alive loves him more than I!

Watching this scene definitely left me feeling a very certain way as a lesbian woman - especially considering that this is the first explicit in-game admission of same-sex love from a major NPC. Yes, there's Haurchefant; yes, there's that one unnamed couple from Wanderer's Palace HM; but Asahi's declaration of love for Zenos brings same-sex affection into XIV's main scenario in a very blatant way that we haven't seen before, and in a very unsavory context. I should stress that I've met plenty of LGBTQ+ people who love Asahi's character. And it cannot be said that XIV's creators - all the way up to Yoshi-P himself - do not care about LGBTQ+ issues, because they've shown that they do. Still, I was white-knuckling my PS4 controller by this point, in no small part because of how that declaration of love was immediately followed by misogynistic abuse.

But then, at such long last, Yotsuyu gets her moment at 3:02. She impales Asahi with Tsukuyomi's two swords and voices a line that still shakes me:

Yotsuyu: These people... our people... they ignore the corruption which festers beneath the surface. Cast aside that which is dirty and broken. Speak not of things which would disrupt their dreary little lives.

That line ties back to the scene in which Doma Castle fell, the one in which Yotsuyu told her own story of abuse to push back against notions that Doma was without flaw before its occupation. Across languages, that line has been read as an indictment of a Japanese-coded society by Japanese writers for a Japanese audience. But - and I'm well aware that I'm saying this as a white American - any broader significance to this statement is undermined by the fact that the corruption and silence which Yotsuyu speaks of are entirely brushed off in the story from here on out. Ysayle's death, shoehorned and unnecessary as it was, at least inspired change within Ishgard and Dravania in future patches; Yotsuyu's death comes and goes without so much as a single acknowledgement of how Doma might change so that women like Yotsuyu will never be abused again.

(And again, maybe this wouldn't be such a sticking point if 4.1's entire story hadn't revolved around bringing change to Ala Mhigo's past and present societal problems.)

In another stroke of justice for Yotsuyu, however, she's able to give voice to the root of the murderous desire that defined her villainhood from the beginning: she sees Asahi and his willingness to look the other way from her abuse, to profit at her expense, as emblematic of Doman culture. And so, just as he was "the first [Yotsuyu] swore to kill," he's now her last victim - and as she draws her swords through his impaled body, her need for revenge is finally sated. That, if nothing else, is a pretty great way for her to go out.

There's the option at 5:42 to choose what to say to Yotsuyu in her final moments; ultimately, though, her last words are a smiling reflection on Gosetsu and the last kindness she did for him.

Before Asahi dies, you receive an Echo vision from him: confirmation that Zenos yae Galvus does not appear to be dead. You see that he personally assigned the mission to an enamored Asahi, with the goal of discrediting the Populares and their goal of bringing "reform" to the Empire. Why he would do such a thing remains unclear for now, aside from vague implications that the Empire is experiencing some sort of internal unrest; what's most crucial is that this scene presents the idea that Zenos is not as dead as the Scions think him to be. Sure enough, with his own dying words, Asahi promises that Zenos will come for the Warrior of Light. (Innuendo? Definitely not.)

After the party returns and Gosetsu weeps over Yotsuyu's body while lamenting the whims of the kami, though, not all is lost: Maxima, Asahi's second-in-command, arrives to conclude the negotiations in the late ambassador's stead. In the true spirit of the bro that he is, he voices his skepticism for Asahi's orders. He confirms, however, that Zenos is alive - and though he questions the party's description of events at the Royal Menagerie, he nonetheless concludes immediately that something strange is afoot and promises to begin an investigation at once.

Twelve bless Maxima. For real.

And Twelve bless my son, Alphinaud Leveilleur, who asks Maxima if he would be able to go with him back to the Garlean capital - the better to hunt what is shaping up to be an Ascian impersonating Zenos. You, Hien and Alisaie all protest, of course, but Alphinaud insists... and so he departs along with your new Garlean ally with little more than a backward glance. It's a sign of how far Alphinaud has come, and how much danger now awaits him on the road ahead.

From here, it's a matter of wrapping up what remains of the Doma arc. The Doman conscripts are safely returned to the enclave, including the Confederate pirate Ihanashi's father. Most significant, however, is Gosetsu's determination to set out from Doma after Yotsuyu's death. He's cut his hair and intends to wander as a pilgrim in order to bring solace to the suffering dead. Hien bids him a bittersweet but loving farewell - and he muses thereafter on how far Doma has come.

Hien then reflects on his suspicions that Gosetsu's fondness for Yotsuyu was prompted by his love for his wife and daughter, both of whom died during the Garlean invasion. But when Yugiri voices that she can't "discern any meaning in Yotsuyu's fate" - big same, Yugiri - Hien dismisses her questioning with "The will of the kami is not for us to know," and ponders instead the time "Tsuyu" lived among them. This doesn't address any of the things Yotsuyu died for, nor does it offer a promise of any kind of change for Doma's future. But it's a bit more compassion than most of the characters have shown Yotsuyu throughout this entire arc, which is in and of itself a tiny victory.

#LPFFXIV:S

[cryptoriawebb]

Inspired by this piece of art I did.

“Mephisto!” He hears his name before he sees her; a flurry of auburn and molten butterflies hurtling towards him. Alarm bubbles in his throat, bursting into a startled grunt before he can call out. Then he’s got a face full of crumbling crystal and pain rockets through his nose and forehead and suddenly something’s raining down from above—

The pieces come together with a disorienting click. Mephisto bolts upright, hissing as the world around him swerves. Eyes squeeze shut, grappling at the ground for stability. The action jogs his memory and his vibrant-green gaze snaps open again. Praxina.

“Praxina!” He cries, scrambling to his knees. Stomach lurches, knocking his heart into his throat. No. No no no where is she? Then he sees it: that same, flustered flurry of reddish-brownish, identical hair color to his own. Fanning amidst chunks of glowing rubble, beyond the ledge that has become their battleground.  “Praxina!”

Praxina turns her head, blue eyes wide and dazed. Fly, he begs, and tries to say it aloud, but that battlefield tilts and he clutches his head and suddenly kneeling feels impossibly difficult to maintain. Nonetheless, his eyes remain on his sister; just as wide and glittering with fear. Come on, fly, get out of there. It’s just crystal, after all. Glowing crystal, but nothing his twin couldn’t escape. How long had they’d been chasing the cursed princesses? And how many of those times had they narrowly gotten away? These crystal casualties should be a—

He swears he hears her gasp. Hears her say his name a final time. Her eyes, however, scream louder than words ever could:  ‘Mephisto, I’m sorry, forgive me, I don’t want to leave you.’

Those eyes are the last thing he sees before the world explodes in violent purple light. He’s thrown to the ground for a second time, landing hard on his front. Copper erupts in the back of his throat, but it’s hardly a second thought. Praxina. Praxina, no!

“No!”  Agony lances up and down his body, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t care about anything but the very real possibility his sister might be—

Dizziness strikes again, tag-teaming the rattling throb inside his chest. Just as suddenly as he manages to stand, footing disappears, and then he’s falling, falling the same way Praxina had, hurtling helplessly towards the ground, below. His sister’s name passes through his mind before the world blacks out.

When he comes to, everything hurts. A grueling, all-encompassing pain that sits on his body like one of their monsters gone astray.

Their monsters. Their.

“Praxina…” Mephisto moans, sagging into the earth. Head dips and presses against a bed of grass, dusted in fine crystal but otherwise unblemished by chaos. At any other given day, he’d make some ridiculous comment about the princesses finding it surprising, even hopeful…but this wasn’t any given day, and he had no one to joke with.

Not anymore.

Tears fuzz his vision, and then they’re falling, disappearing into the mossy green. The princesses. Those damned, righteous idiots always won in the end! And for what? To add another stupid little gem to Ephedia’s crown? He and his sister were living, breathing Ephedians! Did they ever stop to think about that? No, he thinks, slamming a fist into the ground. The action immediately triggers nauseating pain. He stops, choking. No they didn’t.

He isn’t sure how long he lays there. How long it takes for his body to numb and dull to hollow resignation. For the tears to dry and stick to his cheeks; visible one moment, disappeared and gone the next, its only trace a raw and very real aching heart. Just like Praxina. He doubts very much anyone on this cursed world would remember her death, if they’d even notice it at all.

Right hand forms another fist, joined this time by its partner. Though sore and strained, they hold together. “It can’t end like this…” Princess Iris and her candy-colored crew could not get away without punishment. Can’t they? Countered a miserable voice—his own, dredged with exhaustion. You were barely victorious as a team. What will you do alone?

It’s a question he doesn’t want to answer. Praxina would know. Praxina always knew what to do when he failed to conjure a solution. Praxina isn’t here.  No, no she wasn’t, and that was the entire point. Mephisto was on his own. No direction, no temporary allies to rely on…nothing but beaten bones and a gnawing, rattled yearning for vengeance.

Vengeance can be yours, child.

What?

Mephisto looks up, a sharp twinge seizing his neck. He ignores it, a colder, more prominent feeling condensing in his stomach.

“Banes…?”

The beast stands before him, dark fire rolling across its back. The same flame coils around its tail, crackling and swinging methodically, behind. Beady white eyes bore into Mephisto’s weary greens, almost challenging, daring him to ask: ‘did I speak? Can a creature as I do such a thing?’

Ultimately, Mephisto decides it doesn’t matter. Not right now. If Banes is here, that means one of two things. Either Gramorr requires backup (although why he’d need Mephisto’s help with the crown poisoned is a question in itself), or—

…or the war was over.

As though reading his mind, Banes pushes something forward with its massive paw. Mephisto’s breath catches. For a split second, the sound around him drains and fizzles out.

“Gramorr’s mask…”  He murmurs. So it is true. The old Sorcerer had met his match and left nothing but a fragment behind. A fragment and Banes, he thinks, looking to the creature again. That soulless stare hasn’t wavered. ‘Take it,’ they seem to say, encourage, accompanied by a low and rumbling growl.  ‘Take it and show them what you can do.’

He wonders what his sister might think of all this. What she’d do if she could see him, now. Would she urge him on, as Banes did? Chastise his hesitation? Steal it for herself?

The wounded teen pushes himself to his knees. One arm stiffens, holding him upright. The other reaches for the mask. Dark energy crackles and stings his fingertips. He winces, but doesn’t pull away. Praxina saved my life. Maybe she’d have done the same, right now. Mephisto sits back on his heels. He turns the fragment over and puts it on.

They’re celebrating, as he knew they would be. Dazzling enthusiasm oozes like a harmonic pulse around the castle walls: all vibrant, all made up of those same, sickening blues and oranges and pinks.

He hates that color most of all.

With a snarl, Mephisto’s visible eye glares hard at Ephedia’s grand empire. His sister hated the color, too. So bright and cheery and full of nonsensical promises like joy and love and better tomorrows. Does it look like I’m doing better, Iris? Is this what they mean by happily ever after? Dark energy spirals up his ankles, writhing and twisting like snakes.

“Guess we’ll find out.” He mutters darkly, then disappears in a puff of black and green smoke.

Oh, if Praxina could hear the way they gasp his name, she’d finally be proud of him. He stands in the center of the throne room, so different from the shadowy cavern Gramorr had called home. Vibrant. Colorful. Glittering like sunlight through the towering, stained glass windows on either side.

Sickening, all of it.

Mephisto steps forward, hair grown longer swaying in front of his face. His outfit, too, has been altered under this new power: inky black solidified in armor, only color his glowing serpent emblem. They follow him, too, the snakes, looming shadows hovering behind his heels—seamless, colorless, save for their striking green eyes.

“Mephisto…?” Ventures a quivering voice. Head snaps towards the source, but he’s already identified the fool. Pretty-perfect Iris stands in the center of a crowd, hand clutched to her chest and crystal blues nearly bulging from her head. Good, he thinks with a sneer. Be terrified. See how it feels.

“Surprised to see me?” He laughs, a cold, hollow laugh that bounces around the room.  “Don’t be. I know you only care about yourself.”  

“Myself?” Iris echoes, as if she can’t believe he’d dare tarnish her with accusation. On cue, bodyguards blue and orange flank her sides.

“Don’t you say such things about Iris!” Orange—sorry—Auriana cries. Mephisto’s jaw tightens. Black humor jitters and threatens to give. Remember Praxina. He does. If nothing and no one else, he always will.

“Why not.” Mephisto spits, almost hisses. “It’s true, isn’t it?” Gaze darts back to Iris. He raises an arm. His reptilian entourage rear their heads. “You, all of you, so bent on ridding Gramorr from this world; where were you when my sister needed help!”

Blue stiffens now, baring teeth. Before she can speak, the aggressive purple one pipes up. “Are you serious? You’re the ones always terrorizing us!”

“Carissa, don’t.” Warns Iris with an outstretched arm. She reels it back in a moment later.

“I’m really sorry about what happened to Praxina.” Iris says, and it’s with such a sad earnestness he almost believes her. Almost. But he’s been through this before, been down this road and seen the closed door on the other side. There’s no place for truce among them. Not now, not ever.

“Sure you are.” He barks, and now it’s his turn to raise an arm. “You’re so sorry, you threw me a pity-party. Oh wait! No you didn’t.” The serpents dissolve as he speaks; they reappear around the royal family, mouths open and fangs bared. A silent cry of panic circles the crowd.

“Mephisto, stop this!” Auriana again. “You can’t blame us for your sister’s death.” He ignores her, crossing closer.

“I can, and I’m going to.” He growls; as before, it sounds like a hiss. “You’re going to pay for what you did. All of you.” He adds, just in case it weren’t clear. Auriana steps back. Talia stiffens. Then something happens he doesn’t expect. The king places a hand on his daughter’s delicate shoulder. With his other, he draws his sword.

“Stand down, evil one.” He declares; it’s just cliché enough to evoke an inkling of a smirk.

“You really underestimate me.” Mephisto flicks his wrist, summoning a dark cloud around the blade until it’s not a blade, anymore. The king gasps, dropping a newly-formed smoke-colored snake. Mephisto bends his wrist again, and the creature dissolves.

“If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.” He explains, bathing in the undivided, utterly terrified attention at his command. That inkling slides further across his face, coaxing and curling his upper lip. “I want you to suffer. And I know just where to start.”

He looks to Iris again, then casts a deliberate glance towards the sky. Three, two, one…

“What…what are you implying?”

Of all incompetent aggravations. “Earth!” Snaps Mephisto, expression souring again. “I’m going to attack Earth.”

If they notice this slip-up they make no indication, too distracted, it appears, by his startling announcement. Of course they are. He’d just sworn revenge against their precious, mortal loved ones. Given them a taste of helplessness. Promised a lifetime of irreparable, haunting grief.

“You can’t do this.” says Talia, fists balled at her sides. Mephisto’s visible eye narrows.

“Just watch me.”

The spindly, snaky forms disperse from the group, merging with the floor until they find their place around him, again. “Heed my warning, princesses. From this point on, the blood is on your hands.”

The final word trails off with that same, feral hissing. With one last, long look, he steps back among his shadowy friends. They follow his lead soon after, compiling together until all that remains is one massive, seamless serpent. Toxic light skitters across its form like lightning; the creature lingers, as Mephisto had done, then barrels forward and through the back wall.

As it does, the ghost of a snarl not its own echoes behind.

He untangles himself some ways away, panting and puffing but grinning like a loon. Or however the earth phrase went. Earth. Mephisto touches his mask. A planet unprotected, ready and waiting for his murderous hand. Our murderous hand. He throws a glance at Banes, seated between two jagged boulders. The old beast flicks its tail.

Praxina really would be proud of him.

#lolirock #mephisto #praxina #iris #banes #lolirock fanfiction #lolirock au #talia #auriana #carissa #mephisto and praxina #this is the only time I'm writing fanfiction on this blog #this is purely for cathardic purposes #mephisto is my favorite and I wanted to see him continue into season 3 #inscryptions

[gadgetsrevv]

Liverpool should thrash Newcastle, right? Not so fast. Your Premier League weekend preview

With international break over, The Exploding Heads predict Liverpool vs. Newcastle and ruin some cake in the process.

Craig Burley and Steve Nicol have different opinions on the significance of Aymeric Laporte’s injury to the Premier League title race.

Shaka Hislop examines whether or not Raheem Sterling has what it takes to become an elite star following his top form for club and country.

Club football is back! Nick Miller gets you ready for all the Premier League action with a new-look weekend preview.

THE WEEKEND’S BIG QUESTIONS

Will Newcastle pull another performance out of the bag against Liverpool?

Newcastle United have a case for being the strangest team in the Premier League. They’re a pretty uninspiring bunch, for the most part, but have nonetheless pulled off two of the most impressive results of 2019, being the last team to beat Manchester City and, of course, claiming an unlikely victory against Tottenham a few weeks ago .

Both of those wins were thanks to solid, stubborn and maybe even boring defensive displays that nevertheless worked, frustrating their superior opponents and nicking the crucial goal. So will they be able to pull off something similar against Liverpool this weekend? You wouldn’t think so facing Sadio Mane, Roberto Firmino and Mohamed Salah (assuming they pass to each other) but then again, you wouldn’t have expected them to do it in the other two games either.

Liverpool could be faced with a tough old task on Saturday but should prevail.

Liverpool are dominant at home under Jurgen Klopp but surprisingly, Newcastle have thrived against the Premier League’s top teams in 2019-20.

Can Tottenham get themselves out of their funk?

Instinctively looking at the fixture list, you might assume Spurs vs. Crystal Palace at home is just the game to help them get over whatever funk they appear to be in. But then you remember that remarkably, only Liverpool and City have gathered more points than Roy Hodgson’s side since the start of February. Not quite so straightforward, then.

“Now, for sure, it was so important to be refocused,” Mauricio Pochettino said on Thursday, revealing that he had an hour-long meeting with his squad after they returned from the international break. “It was very good to talk today for nearly one hour and refocus again on our objective.”

There was always a gnawing sensation that Pochettino was using the uncertainty of the transfer window as a smokescreen to deflect attention from deeper problems at Tottenham, but we’ll soon find out whether that’s true or not. If they lose to Palace, he can no longer use the excuse that his players are distracted by events elsewhere.

Will Sanchez Flores make a difference vs. Arsenal?

The dismissal of Javi Gracia by Watford wasn’t that surprising: what was more of a shock was the reappointment of Quique Sanchez Flores. Yet there is some logic to it: Flores’ strength in his previous spell in charge was keeping their defence tight and the Hornets haven’t kept a clean sheet since February.

It’s unreasonable to expect too much this weekend: he’s been back for only a week and many of his squad will have been on international duty. But if he wants an immediate test of his ability to fix things at the back, it will come in the shape of Arsenal with a potential front three of Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang, Alexandre Lacazette and Nicolas Pepe. Those three could well be rubbing their hands in glee.

THE GAME YOU’RE NOT PLANNING TO WATCH … BUT SHOULD

If you’ve got room on your DVR or in your busy schedule for one match this weekend away from the title race, we’ve got you covered.

Sheffield United vs. Southampton

You could make a decent argument that this weekend’s tussle at Bramall Lane sees the two most interesting managers in the Premier League face each other.

Chris Wilder and Ralph Hassenhuttl have had massive impacts on their respective clubs: Wilder has taken Sheffield United from perpetual League One frustration to the Premier League, while Southampton resemble a viable top-flight team after the husk of nothingness they’d become with Mark Hughes in charge. The two men have different styles, but this could make for a fascinating clash. We reckon the hosts will edge it.

A TEAM THAT NEEDS A BIT OF LUCK

Luck is everything in sports. Get acquainted with ESPN’s Luck Index as we pick out the team most desperate for good fortune amid a difficult run. Here are the big takeaways from the 2019 edition as explained by Gab Marcotti.

Manchester United: Perhaps we’ve been fooled a little by Ole Gunnar Solskjaer’s assertion that Manchester United are doing all the right things and it will all click soon, but they have arguably been slightly unlucky not to have more than five points to show for their efforts. They are underperforming their xG rate, and only four teams have taken more shots so far.

Do they need luck or just to improve their finishing? Definitely the latter, but a dash of the former would help out, too.

FANTASY FOCUS

Kieran Darcy has some tips for the weekend action. Read his full preview and set your team line-up!

Must-have: Sergio Aguero (Tier 1 forward): Aguero has scored in each of Man City’s first four games and has a league-leading six goals in total. He faces a Norwich side that has already conceded 10, the most in the league.

Worth considering: Mohamed Salah (Tier 1 midfielder): Raheem Sterling and Kevin De Bruyne are also available in his tier and are averaging more points per game — Sterling has five goals, and De Bruyne leads the league in assists (5) and chances created (16) — but Salah’s track record makes him the better play at home against Newcastle.

Avoid at all costs: Teemu Pukki (Tier 2 forward): Pukki scored five goals in his first three games and has the highest points per game average in his tier, but he’s coming off a scoreless outing against West Ham and now faces Man City.

ONE THING THAT WILL DEFINITELY HAPPEN

Goals, goals, goals at Carrow Road: If you’re hungry for goals this season, Norwich are the team to watch. Their four fixtures have seen 16 go in, second-most in the Premier League so far, and happily enough the only team above them are in town on Saturday as Manchester City come to town. Hopefully we haven’t jinxed this into a 0-0, but expect to see them fly in at Carrow Road this weekend.

MAN TO WATCH

Christian Eriksen: Pochettino insisted this week that Eriksen has always been happy at Tottenham, despite spending most of the summer trying to get out of the club and in all likelihood spending the season running down his contract so he can leave for free next summer. However, with the injury to Giovani Lo Celso meaning the creator most likely to displace him is no longer a factor, the onus will be back on the Dane and the Dane alone to provide Tottenham’s creative spark against Crystal Palace.

Christian Eriksen had hoped to be playing in La Liga rather than the Premier League this season.

STATS OF THE WEEKEND

Information provided by ESPN Stats & Information Group

– Liverpool could set a club record for winning streaks if they beat Newcastle this weekend. Their 12-game run is tied with a similar effort from April to October in 1990. Meanwhile, their ongoing 42-game unbeaten run (32 wins, 10 draws) is second only to Chelsea’s 86-game streak (2004-08) in the Premier League era.

– Manchester United are 1-4-4 in their past nine Premier League games. If they lose or draw vs. Leicester this weekend, it would give the storied club their fewest points in a 10-game league span (seven or eight) of the past 12 seasons. Yet a good sign might be their form vs. the Foxes: United have a 17-game home unbeaten run (13 wins, four draws) in all competitions dating back to Jan. 21, 1998.

– Don’t bet against Palace. They’re averaging 2.08 points per away game in the league dating back to Dec. 22, 2018. Only Man City (2.54) and Liverpool (2.18) have more over the same span. Equally, Harry Kane has averaged 0.25 goals per game against Palace over the past five seasons. It’s his second-worst return against any club over that span: he averages 0.17 goals per game against Newcastle, who beat Spurs 1-0 back in August.

– Will CONCACAF’s big rivals thrive at Molineux on Saturday? Raul Jimenez (Wolves) and Christian Pulisic (U.S.) could become just the second Mexico-U.S. tandem to score in a single match in the Premier League since El Tri international Guillermo Franco and American great Clint Dempsey did it in Fulham’s 3-2 win over West Ham on May 2, 2010.

– Everton love playing on Sundays: they’re unbeaten in the league in 2019 with five wins and two draws when playing on the second day of the weekend.

OUR BOLD/RECKLESS PREDICTIONS

Liverpool 4-1 Newcastle: Another easy home win for Jurgen Klopp Manchester United 2-2 Leicester: More trouble for the hosts Brighton 2-1 Burnley: Big home win for relegation battlers Sheffield United 1-0 Southampton: Wilder prevails in must-see skirmish Tottenham 2-1 Crystal Palace: Pochettino and co back on track Wolves 2-3 Chelsea: Defining victory for Frank Lampard? Norwich 1-5 Manchester City: Look away, Canary fans Bournemouth 1-2 Everton: Liverpool’s second team keeps winning Watford 0-2 Arsenal: The Gunners are different this year Aston Villa 2-1 West Ham: Jack Grealish to make the difference?

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#Premier League #Blog #English Premier League #Liverpool #newcastle united Liverpool should thrash Ne

[punishandenslavesuckers]

She has no throne. Girls without thrones should not have knights, but hers won’t go. Princess Zelda – the girl who killed Calamity – would love to fade into legend, but Link’s bought a house, he’s fighting off monsters, and he’s selling giant horses to strangely familiar Gerudo men. She'll never have any peace now. (ao3)  

(chapter one) (chapter two)

“You weren’t kidding,” Draga says, under his breath, through the corner of his mouth, to Zelda alone.

She doesn’t react, just kind of smiles. Link is already off his horse and jogging toward the town square where no less than six people are already waiting to greet him. There’s a large mustachioed man who slaps him on the back. Behind him: a Gerudo woman who puts a hand on Link’s shoulder, for just a moment, and nods. There’s a bright green Rito who catches Link’s arm and tries to drag him toward a storefront, enthusing about something. He is confounded, however, by a Goron who busts through the crowd and literally picks Link up in a bearhug. Screams of protest go up immediately from the assembled villagers, who pry a gasping Link from the embrace.

“He helped build the town?” Draga mutters.

“Hmm, my understanding,” says Zelda slowly, “is that he helped fund it and find likely residents.”

“Is that a Zora?” Draga says, squinting.

“I said Link grew up with them, did I not? He calmed all four Divine Beasts – he has friends in every corner of this kingdom.”

Draga shakes his head. “Seeing it is different.”

Zelda dismounts and goes about tying the lead at a horse-post by the bridge. Tarrey Town is improbably located on a high butte in the middle of a lake in the Akkala Region, accessible only across a long, natural stone arch bridging the main road to the lovely circle of homes and businesses overlooking the sunken ring of the lake. Draga ties his stallion – Arbiter, no longer nameless after the last month – at his own post across the street. They make their way toward the crowd where Link is digging things out of his pack, frowning at the names on the packages, then passing them out. He perks up at their approach, dropping his bag into the Rito-man’s arms with a ‘just one sec’ gesture.

“This is only because you brought seedcake,” the Rito says, hefting the bag.

Link gives him an exaggerated thumbs-up which earns him a groan and the Rito promptly puts the bag down, steps lightly on it, claws closing in the straps, then rather unnecessarily takes off straight up, eliciting more screams of offense from his fellow villagers now buffeted by the backdraft. The mustached man and the Gerudo woman (who appear to be a couple) are the first to approach, ignoring the commotion and waiting for Link to enthusiastically introduce them. He’s a bit flushed from the Goron crushing, but determinedly chipper nonetheless.

“Hudson and Rhondson,” he says, gesturing to the man and woman in turn. “This is Zelda and Draga.”

“Charmed,” Hudson says and nothing else, though he does sound and look genuinely charmed.

Rhondson sighs, speaking in a warm alto. “Hudson is the city engineer and mayor. He welcomes you formally to Tarrey Town. He’s also my husband, so if I give the impression I’m going to toss him in the lake, know that it’s from a place of boundless love and respect.” She says all this with the driest and flattest possible tone humanly possible.

Draga clears his throat to cover up a laugh.

Rhondson notices and the corner of her mouth twitches up. “Vasaaq, veti’neri. Amara’Rhondson, Que con’vaq no?”

Draga nods in a way that’s somewhat formal. “Vasaaq, veniri.” He seems a little wary, but Rhondson’s eyes are warm, listening intently. “Mer’Draga. Shalay vatii.” And then in Hylian he says, “It’s good to cross your path, sister.”

She nods back, genuinely smiling now. “And yours.” She looks sharply at Link. “Though it may be to your misfortune to cross paths with this one; he’s completely insane and not in good proper way, just insane. I watched him hang-glide from the cliffs here to the beachhead across the lake because someone,” here she glares over at a well-to-do looking man in a pink and gold robe, “convinced him the Guardians down there were a threat to be wiped out. He did it for twenty rupees.”

“Hey,” Link starts to protest. “It wasn’t –”

“That sounds like him,” Zelda says.

“I believe you,” Draga agrees.

Link rolls his eyes, then notices that the Zora from before is standing just outside the ring of people, waiting.

Zelda catches Link’s eye and nods so he can slip out of the group to speak with him – a bent tribesman, red scales dulled with age, fins drooped by the centuries. Zelda laughs at something Rhondson says, but manages to watch them sidelong, catch the old Zora very gently taking Link’s arm in hand. He’s saying something. Link lowers his head, but the elder Zora keeps speaking until Link’s shoulders tense. And then Zelda knows. Without hearing a word, she knows the Zora knows everything, absolutely everything, and is thanking him for the full and terrible totality of it – for Calamity, for Mipha, for her standing here, for the whole awful history.

Link looks away and so does Zelda.

“This town is quite diverse,” Zelda says, brightly as she can. “It reminds me of Castle Town. I mean the stories they used to tell – how so many merchants and traders from all corners of the realm would come there together. A city of a hundred languages.”

Here Hudson strokes his mustache. “Well…” he says, then doesn’t go on.

“Yes, dear?” Rhondson presses. “Finish your thought?”

“Reckon Bolson and Co got a plan about that.”

“Oh?”

“There’s people you know, who want to rebuild it. Talk outta Lanayru that Calamity is gone.” He shrugs. “Might be I chat with Link about it. He’s crazy. He won’t be scared to scout build sights in Guardian turf.”

Draga looks sidelong at her.

“You won’t have to hire us,” Zelda says, “Link and I came from that way recently and I can tell you firsthand about the state of Hyrule Castle.” Zelda notes that a small quiet begins to fall. She pretends not to notice. “I can tell you with certainty that the castle is clear and all Ganon’s corrupted technologies lie dead in the country, truly.” There is a rapt silence, every person the village now listening. “If you and your people want to remake Castle Town, then Hylia’s blessings would be surely upon you. The Calamity is gone.”

Murmurs run through the crowd then, excited but wary. One hundred years of hope held tight. An old woman hobbles forward, her husband beside her. She peers up at Zelda.

“My name is Monari. Did you say your name is Zelda?”

“Yes.”

“Like the lost Princess?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a priestess of Hylia?”

“Something like that, yes. There are no temples left.”

“Was it Link?” Monari asks. Her voice quickens and creaks a little with excitement. “People said… they said that he set off for Hyrule Castle, like so many others before. So was it him?”

Zelda glances at Link. He is listening with an anxious kind of body language. He hesitates, then makes a single back and forth gesture with one hand, shaking his head gently. He mouths, “C’mon…” and this time she can’t get around it.

Zelda sighs. “It was Link and I. Together.”

Monari’s face crinkles with warmth. She reaches out two hands, palsied with age and soft when she takes Zelda’s fingers into hers. Her dark eyes are bright, wonderfully clear for her age.

She says, “I never thought I would see the day. But here it is. Well done, my girl.” She smiles as the gathered people begin to laugh suddenly, begin to hug, begin to celebrate with a volume and abandon that Zelda hadn’t readied herself for. And she’s not ready, again, for the tears when Monari says repeats, gripping her fingers proudly, “Well done, Zelda.

“They still aren’t aware you’re the same princess and knight of legend.”

Draga says this quietly, two fingers against his temple, thumb against his jaw, elbow braced again his knee. He’s sitting cross legged on the cobblestones facing her and his eyes in the firelight catch like the ocean in summer.  

It’s three in the morning and most of the town’s settled down from the impromptu celebration which involved three bonfires, a pot luck buffet, singing, dancing in the square, far too much drinking, and at one point Fyson the Rito did a serious of impressive aerial stunts with a fruit pie that ended with the fruit pie hitting Greyson the Goron at terminal velocity. After that, it was mostly chaos and riotous drinking until none but a few drunken stragglers remain.

It was, in all, a good night.

There is a statue of Hylia in the center of town – carved stone, a shrine like in many settlements. The feet are covered now in flowers wreathes, fruit, and gifts. Zelda is sitting at the foot of the alter, nursing a cup of wine and Link’s asleep with his head on her shoulder. He’s heavy enough that it’s starting to be uncomfortable, but she can’t bring herself to possibly disturb him so she sits with a wreath on her head, hands smelling like lavender and incense, her fingers orange with crushed petals and prayer oils. A dozen-dozen hymnals given in joy through the night. It’s intoxicating as the honey wine and lessens the sting of personal hypocrisy just enough.

“They didn’t ask,” Zelda says, reaching up to gently run her fingers across Link’s temple, moving his hair behind his ear.

Draga shakes his head. “You are strange. Does accepting thanks under your true name so bother you?”

“My true name will bring strife to this country.”

“Maybe.”

“It will. I prefer to tell people the danger is gone as we travel. Leave people the… simplicity of victory.”

She lifts the wine cup, a little unsteadily. Her words are coming sticky from her tongue. She has to count them out as she speaks. Draga’s completely sober of course, despite having had a bottle or two to himself. Link’s asleep mostly because, as usual, he ate too much so he’s sleeping it off in a digestive coma. He smells like smoke and whatever it was Rhondson kept burning in the fire – some mineral to make the air heady and sweet. Zelda needlessly tucks Link’s hair behind his ear again; there’s a green feather in his hair – a token from Fyson. Zelda feels warm everywhere. Her face, her hands, her insides.

“I’m drunk,” she announces, a little proudly.

“Yes,” Draga says, amused. He picks up another wine bottle near his knee and offers it.

She waves him away. “Oh no. I’ve had more than enough… ceremonial wine. Thank you.” She finishes off her glass, then sets it down. “Do you think, you can… help me carry Link to bed without waking him?”

“I think he might punch me if he wakes up carried by unknown persons.”

“You’re probably right.”

She starts to touch his shoulder.

“But don’t…” Draga holds up a hand. “Don’t wake him yet. It’s fine for a moment longer.”

She sits quietly, hands in her lap instead.

“Zelda, do you and Link ever plan to face what you’ve accomplished in its entirety?”

“Why? Why not let it be legend? Let the ancient heroes rest all together?”

“Well, the Zora for one,” Draga says dryly. “I spoke with Kapson a little. He’s five-hundred and some years of age and he remembers Link as a child. He remembers you as you were the Commander of the Champions, your visitation to Zora’s Domain, your training with Mipha. All of Zora’s Domain knows you two as the very same heroes of old.” He lets that hang for a moment. “The Zora trade routes are opening again, so rumors are spreading.”

“Even if some people believe, no one will demand anything of us if we demand nothing of them.”

Draga nods. “I’m glad to hear that. You’ve earned some peace.”

Zelda laughs a little. “Well, I can’t just sit around collecting… what are these…? Ornamental bouquets and the like. I have a duty to help my people so it’s unlikely I will be taking luxurious… luxurious… um… holidays. Yes.” She swats her knee in victory, pointing. “That. I won’t be doing that.”

Draga tilts his head. “Why not?”

“It wouldn’t be right, Draga. It wouldn’t be… appropriate.”

“After one-hundred years of battle,” he says slowly, “a sabbatical is not appropriate?”

Zelda frowns at him. “Yes, Draga. It would not be right for me to just do nothing.”

He’s eyeing her. “Hmm, you should probably lie down.”

Zelda waves a hand. “I’m fine. Don’t fret about me.” She tries to brush her hair out of her face, gets orange flower dye on her nose. “Oh, this silly… goodness, I’m quite tipsy aren’t I? How embarrassing. I’m glad Link isn’t awake to see it.” She checks to make sure Link actually is not awake to see it. “Yes. Glad he’s not awake. Some priestess of Hylia I am, getting drunk and giggly after a few thanksgiving rituals. Back in my day, proper priestesses could out drink the average soldier. True fact. Maids of mirth and spring, they were called. Sisterhood of the Field. Girls of the Green.” She hiccups. “Oh goodness.”

Draga chuckles. “They sound like the war-maids of the Highlands, though, war-maids handled far more than liquor in their celebrations.” He leans back, arms braced behind him as he recollects. “I remember… seeing a battle troop when I was a child. I thought they were the Eight Heroines.”

Zelda peers curiously. “Not the Seven?”

Draga shakes his head. “No. I grew up in the Highlands before I was sent into the deep desert. The Eighth Heroine is honored in the Gerudo Highlands, so I knew her. All my family honored the lost sister in those days.”

“And now?”

Draga shrugs. “I honor her.”

“Does your family not believe anymore?”

Draga looks at her, almost surprised. “None of them are left, Zelda.”

“Oh. Oh, I’m…” She fumbles. “I’m sorry, Draga. I didn’t…”

“No, that’s my fault. I thought I told you…”

“No. I didn’t know.”

“Ah, I told Link and neglected to tell you.” He waves a hand, rolling over so he’s lying on his back, stretched out on the stones beneath the night sky. He’s so big his boots are disturbing a few of the doused lanterns lining the opposite walkway, his head cushioned by a carpet of flowers around the shrine. “It was a long time ago,” he says. “You shouldn’t feel badly mentioning it. We are all three of us the last in our lines.” He’s looking at her now, at Link too. “People like us – we should stick together while we can.”

Zelda feels her pulse rabbit, warmth flooding her face. “Yes, I… that would be good. I know Link would appreciate it.”

“And you?”

“Of course.”

He continues to look at her, then abruptly swaps to his native language. “Have you told Link how you feel – that there’s some suggestion of pre-determination in the three of us meeting?”

“I wouldn’t go as far as that,” she rejoins, carefully.

“I might,” he says. His tone is not… serious but not light. “I dream sometimes, not in prophecy, but when there are forces at work in the world near me. I am aware of them. I am aware of you two in that way – like candles at the edge of a table and I am never unaware of it.” He looks at Link, who’s still asleep against her shoulder. “I still find it strange you haven’t shared this with him. It’s not as though he’s unaware of it in an unrefined manner. He knows instinctively what we know intellectually about the rules of arcana. He senses connection.”

Zelda’s heart jumps again, but not in the nice way it did before.

Draga keeps speaking, without production or judgement. “I’m simply saying, things might be clearer more quickly if you just told him as much.”

“I will,” she murmurs. She loops an arm up behind Link’s back, laying a hand against his shoulder in such a way that she can pull him a little closer. She feels him turn his head a little against her neck, his breath against her collarbone. She sighs. “I just… I would like him to be free of such a thing for a little while longer.”

“Free of what?” he says in Hylian now.

“Pre-determination. Destiny. Just… meddling.”

Draga arches a brow. “Meddling?”

“Yes, meddling. The goddess or her acolytes.”

Draga rolls onto his side, propping his chin on his fist. “It’s not necessarily the gods. When was the last time either of you crossed paths with anyone inclined to magic?”

“Not… recently.”

“Then be at ease. Power attracts power; tell him that. Read nothing divine into it.” He shrugs. “I don’t.”  

“Draga, your magic…” She shakes her head a little. “You don’t have to tell me why this is, but when I look at your power through the lens of my own ability…I don’t know its shape. I feel it working. I see it sometimes, but it’s… at such a depth within you. I see its effects, like wind in the trees, a course of water turned aside, some small or great change made with… such terrible exactness. It seems so strange…”

“No, it’s just not Hylian,” he says simply. “The Gift runs in my bloodline, much like yours. It’s taken years of focus to find absolute control. And in having such, I have reached the limits of my strength.” His tone takes on a slightly bitter edge. “If I were to expand my power, I would need to call on greater forces than myself and I am not willing to do it.” He looks at her. “I’m stupid that way.”

She doesn’t mean to laugh. It just happens.  

He gives her a half smile. “You and Link should come with me when I return to Gerudo Town. It would be honored if you were there as witness.” He shrugs. “And if Link is a friend of Riju and the Gerudo then… honestly, it may help my case before her council.”

“I see,” Zelda cajoles. “Using us for our connections. I see how it is.”

He snorts. “I mean, what else are you good for?”

“How dare you. Cooking! We are good for that.”

“Link is good at cooking. Not you.”

“Fighting!”

“Eh, I can fight well enough without you two and your… dramatics.”

“Lively conversation.”

“Link is mostly mute and when he’s not, he enjoys puns.”

“We’re both… very attractive,” she sputters, not exactly sure why she went for that one. It just seemed… there.

Draga eyes her. He really looks at her. He’s just kind of lounging there, like a mountain lion might do were it a solid, seven-and-a-half-foot person in boots and good traveling gear. She is, of course, red-faced and swaying, trying to glare back while her arm goes numb because Link’s been leaning on it. Draga kind of… looks her up and down with just his eyes. Then he casts the same lazy inspection over Link – still dead asleep, arms folded across his stomach, one leg drawn up, his face pressed against her bare shoulder where her sleeve slid down. She’s not sure why she hadn’t noticed until Draga looked directly at it – the spot where Link’s jaw is resting against her shoulder, skin to skin. She’s not sure why that, of all things, would be worthy of hyper-focus and yet…

Draga gives a dismissive shrug. “Eh.”

Zelda uses such force to hurl a flower wreath at him, she wakes Link in an alarmed flail.

Draga just laughs.

They find trouble in the Eldin Foothills.

“Link! Wait! There are too many –!”

Too late. Link and Epona are racing full speed down the hill, charging with speed and power that seems impossible for the stocky mare. Zelda curses as her own steed, Maru, canters backwards from the scent of blood and Moblins. Arbiter, however, is unshaken. The massive stallion charges down the hill after Link, Draga urging the beast to a terrifying speed that gains ground even on Epona’s seasoned pace. There’s a storm on the edge of the horizon, cresting the Eldin mountain range. A flash of lightning over Death Mountain illuminates in bone white the sight that set Link off:

The ruined merchant caravan in flames. Corpses stacked on the roadside. Rage make her knight blind to the army in front of him – bristling with halberds, twenty, no, thirty Bokoblin deep. Five mounted archers. Two Moblins rising up from their feeding – jaws dark with blood and vague, predatory intelligence. Link doesn’t see that though, Zelda knows. He’s seeing the next hundred moves in killing them all.

Draga’s not blind though and he doesn’t seem to have one-hundred moves in mind.

He drags Arbiter into Epona’s wake, lifts one fist over his head. Zelda feels the world flex. He clenches it.

The ground explodes under two of the mounted archers. They scream, flung fifty feet up, the horses shrieking and bucking even as they fall into the company and crush five more. Link fires off an explosive round into the heart of the raider cluster and blows three to screaming hunks of meat. Then he swings right with Epona and Draga swings left with Arbiter, flanking around the edge of the group and by then the Gerudo has the hooked claymore in hand. He’s rising in his saddle, the blade rising up with him. He runs down the remaining mounted archers in seconds. He doesn’t duck their arrows. The bolts glance off him like they’ve struck steel and before they realize their mistake – the power protecting him – Draga cleaves them both in half. One swing.

Then he bears down on the rest of the mob.

Link, in the same time, puts three arrows in three skulls before Epona tramples through two Bokoblin. She whips around into a tight galloping half-circle, confusing the white-backed Moblin at the center of the group. Towering tall as a house, the beast thrashes its jackal head and roars. Link’s already round its back, then the front – arrow nocked to the string, he puts two bolts in its throat. When it bucks back, blood spraying from the wound, he puts two self-igniting rounds in its ribs then kicks Epona into a figure-eight as the beast burns from the inside out.

He loops around the second, larger Moblin at the head of the group.

This one, wielding a sword and a shield the size of a door, sees him coming.

Link isn’t bothered. He fires off two shots, the shafts ricocheting off the shield, keeps Epona at full gallop, her hooves cutting up the turf with the speed of the maneuver. She dives down suddenly and in the same moment, Link steps one foot from the stirrup and onto the cantle. Epona then rears in the same instant Link’s other foot finds the swell and the force launches him up, over the top of Moblin’s shield. Link puts one shaft through the beast’s right eye and drops. He hits the ground rolling and comes up with the blade in hand, shield hooked to his arm as the Moblin rears, roaring but not dead.  

Three foot-soldiers charge him.

Link twists as a pike strikes for his ribs but catches the edge of the shield. Too close. Link spins, once, against the length of the weapon and his blade finds the lancer’s throat. He steps again, pivots, hacks down a wounded blue-hide, then slams his sword through a white-hide Bokoblin’s gut. He ignores the death-flails, talons catching the side of his head. He just rears back and slams the edge of his shield into the monster’s snout, crushing its face and smashing it into the mud. He’s breathing hard now, turns his attention back to the Moblin as it goes rabid, foaming at the mouth, maddened by the bolt in its brain.

Link starts forward at a run.

But Draga – having finished off the rest of the mob in the interim – gallops in behind the giant and brings his sword down on its neck as he passes. Link skids to a stop as the head rolls to his feet. Draga circles with Arbiter, blood running the length of the blade, the only sign he’s been in battle at all.

“You alright?”

Link ignores the question. He sheathes the sword, slinging his shield over his shoulder as he races through the wreckage.

“Link,” Draga calls, “Link!”

Zelda knows exactly where he’s going.

She’s already there in fact – pulling bodies off the top of the heap, checking each one as she does for some sign of life. She’s not sure when her arms became strong enough for the task of dragging a dead man from a funeral pyre, when she got the strength to carry a girl her own age (not her age, the age she once was) and lay her body down in the grass. When she looks up, Link’s too close. He catches her around the waist and pulls her away, hooks an arm around her chest and drags her. He has to throw her in the grass up the hill to hold her back, grab her arms when she pushes him.

“They’re gone!” he shouts. He’s bleeding from a wound she can’t see in his hairline. “Zelda! Stop!”

She hits him. “You stop!” She slaps him. Like any of it was his fault. “No!”

He’s pinning her, arms around her, mostly with his weight. He’s not a very big person, so she’s not sure how he can weight this much. She kicks until she can’t, until she’s raw from shouting, and his blood is soaked through her shirt. Then just lies there, staring at the thunderhead rolling over Hyrule Field knowing that it will takes hours to ride back to a settlement, days for word to reach the next of kin, and after one-hundred years, time is rushing away from her.

“Damn,” she whispers.

Link pulls back just enough so he’s looking her in the face.

Draga is climbing the hill behind them, but stops to wait. Watching.

“I’m okay.” She reaches up and with two fingers pushes his hair back so she can see where the blood’s running from, careful to avoid the glow of heat across his cheekbone. “That’ll scar,” she says, “unless I heal it. Help me up.”

Link takes her hands and pulls her to her feet.

  Three days later, they have a nightmare.

This time, Zelda jerks awake, lathed cold with sweat and shaking. The moon is silver in the sky above. She lies there, breathing too fast and biting back the scream that sits in her like a nesting animal. She smells chemicals – sulfuric and mercury in her throat. Not real. Not real. She swallows and rolls over to find Link still sleeping, but fitful. He’s tossing his head a little, hair stuck to his sweat-sticky skin, lips parted with fast shallow breathing that occasionally breaks on a low, anxious moan.

She rolls out of her sleeping cot.

“Link.”

She starts to touch his shoulder.

“Don’t.”

She stops.

Draga is sitting up, looking at her from across their small camp. “Don’t touch him.”

She blinks and sits back on her heels as the other man gets up and moves quickly to Link’s side, kneeling so he can lean over him. He quickly yanks something unseen from Link’s hand opposite her. She realizes, far too slowly, that it was the hilt of the sacred sword. He was holding it in his sleep. Draga assigns no drama to this, just puts it aside, grips Link by the biceps and give him a solid shake. Link wrenches once, violently, in the other man’s grasp but Draga is braced for it and just leans back slightly.

“Link?” he says calmly.

Link, laying, panting in the grass but awake now, just nods. Draga lets go, stands up, and moves away from him.

Zelda shifts forward then. “You okay?”

 For a moment, Link just lies there, staring up at her. A weird emotion crosses into his eyes. He starts signing, slowly, “Did you see Draga?”

He takes care to spell Draga’s name instead of pointing physically at the man, who is crouched nearby, tossing new logs on the fire and pretending not to listen to their one-sided conversation.

Zelda tilts her head, then shakes it slowly. “In the dream…? No? What do you mean?”

He shakes his head ‘never mind’ then stands up.

‘Going on a walk,’ he signs. He takes the divine blade, slinging it over his shoulder and, when he notices the looks she and Draga are giving him, he clears his throat and says, “I’m fine.”

“He’s not fine,” Draga says once Link is out of earshot.

“I know,” Zelda says. “But I’m not sure what to do about it.”

Draga grunts and moves to stand up, stretching slightly. “That’s because you’re both green.”

Zelda draws up, offended, but… relieved at his tone: conversational. Unconcerned. “You are at the end of your Pilgrimage. You’re… no more than twenty-three. I am over one-hundred years old; you can’t call me ‘green’.”

“You can’t order a drink at a bar.”

Zelda mutters under her breath, then says, “So what’s your adult opinion on our situation?”

Draga shrugs. It’s like a mountain being indifferent.  “Does he drink?”

“Excuse me?”

“He didn’t drink at Tarrey Town. I get the feeling Link would be a talkative drunk.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she snaps, flopping back into her cot and glaring at the canopy. “I don’t very well imagine Link would appreciate you… you scheming about getting him drunk.” Her words don’t have any teeth and they both know it. She sighs. “I actually have never seen him drunk. For all I know, he would be talkative.” A beat. “Well, I guess there was that one time with the frog…” She regrets saying that immediately when Draga’s eyebrows go up. “Not that I’m condoning your terrible methods! Only pointing out that for all our familiarity there is still… a lot I don’t know about him and he about me.”

“So, I take it you two aren’t sleeping together?”

Zelda jack-knifes into a sitting position. “Excuse me?!”

“No.” Draga scratches his chin. “I thought not.”

“That is an extremely personal question.”

“Is it?” He wrinkles his nose. “I guess we’re more pragmatic about that kind of thing in Gerudo culture and since you’ve both confessed to being hundred-year-old figures of legend… questions about your personal life seem fair game to me.”

“We’re friends! I’ve said that before!”

“Right, but friends can still sleep together.”

Zelda feels her face getting red. “We don’t.”

Draga chuckles. “So you don’t think Link is attractive?”

“Oh please, every man woman and Zora in the kingdom fawns over him. Leave me out of it.” A beat. “Why are we even talking about this? We were talking about… about battle recovery. I’m sure this was brought on by the fight is all.”

Draga tilts head. “Back on mission, little sister. You’re very one-track minded, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I just might mind it,” she grits.

“I’m talking about whether you sleep together, because I was curious if you two have interests outside of this endless gauntlet of service and battle you’ve dedicated yourselves to.” Draga’s tone is not teasing now. “I am asking, if you’ve really removed yourselves from fighting long enough to heal.” Draga points into the tree line. “Link sleeps like a soldier, has nightmares like a one. You can’t seem to sleep at all. You both carry your wounds well, but you don’t have to.”

“I am not wounded,” Zelda whispers.

“You don’t fight for one-hundred years and walk away unwounded, Zelda.”

“I am fine! Link… Link is the one who –” Died. “The one who had to fight. If anyone needs help it would be him, not me.”

“I wager if I asked him about you, he would say the exact same thing.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Of course I don’t,” Draga says calmly. “How could anyone? You two are displaced in time and goddess-chosen. I’ve known you just long enough to learn the latter and had I another hundred years, I don’t know if I could ever advise you how to carry such experience.” He sighs, some of the tension leaving his stance and he drops one hand to his hip. “But… were you both simply… warriors in my command: I would tell you to lay down your arms and rest –”

“I can’t!”

Zelda kicks off her blankets and comes to her feet.

“I was a commander! We failed so the fault is mine. I failed my entire kingdom and the least I can to is just…” She stares into her empty palms and drops them as fists. “The least I can do is help them now.” She’s mortified. Her entire face is hot. She jams the heels of her hands against her eyes, like she can shove the tears away, drag them across her temples like war paint. She throws her arms down. “Don’t you dare tell me to stop! I can’t do that. I don’t get to lay down anything because I’m Zelda Bosphoramus and that is my… my duty!”

Draga’s expression is neutral, listening. She can’t glean anything from it. 

“I appreciate what you’re saying and… I’m sorry yelled.” Zelda gets her breathing under control, pushes her hair behind her ears. “I just can’t agree with you there. I do agree… that Link deserves time to stop, but I just don’t know how to tell him that and make him understand that I can do this alone for a while. That’s the real problem. Alright? I just keep… dragging him into this and he shouldn’t have to.”

Draga’s not looking at her. He’s looking past her.

Dread takes root in her tongue.

It takes her a full two seconds to get the courage, then she looks over her shoulder where (of course) Link is standing at the edge of the camp, one hand against the trunk of an oak tree, just… looking at her. And she can’t read the look on his face – one of those blank canvas stares meant to be projected into, the kind he developed over years of pressure and politics, onto which any person could imagine their best version of him and keep the faith. It makes her want to hit him when she sees it. Then that makes her hate herself, because she’s the reason he’s looking at her like that.

“Link?” she says. She turns to face him. “I wasn’t calling you a problem. That’s not what I –”

He makes an abortive hand-gesture so she stops talking. When he’s sure he has her attention he raises his hands and she knows what he’s going to say before he begins the gentle palm-tilted sweep: ‘Not your fault –”

Zelda covers her face so she can’t see. No. That’s not fair. She forces herself to lower her hands. “I was in command. The fault will always be with me, Link. The Champions, Hyrule’s army, you – all those deaths… it’s all my responsibility. It’s fine. I’ve always known –”

Link shakes his head.

“Yes, it is.”

He just shakes his head again.

“Stop saying that!” She wipes the tears running tracks down her face. “How can you say that?”

Link moves forward to put a hand on her shoulder, tries says something, but his voice doesn’t come through. He breathes out angrily. Then with his hands, he signs, ‘Because I say it to myself.’ He dips his head a little, mirroring her a little, making certain she’s looking at him, that she sees him. ‘It is not your fault.”

Zelda becomes aware of her nails digging into her palms only when Link takes her fists in his palms. He just keeps looking at her, until her fingers unwind and, eventually, fold into his. He holds her hands tightly, until her bones ache, until the calm fixed-point blue of his stare draws down the rage behind her teeth. She’s breathing hard. Simultaneously, she can’t breathe. Something visibly buckles in Link’s calm. He drops her hands, grabs her head between his hands and – He’s never done that before. Touched her that suddenly, without forewarning, in a quiet moment. She can’t remember the last time Link ever – he drops his forehead against hers.

“Stop,” he says. His breath against her face warms the bridge of her nose. “Stop thinking.”

She bursts out laughing

Or crying.

Both.

She’s not sure. She doesn’t care. She’s too tired. Zelda just sobs and drops her forehead against his shoulder, lets Link loop his arms around her and just… hold her there for a moment. He lays his cheek against the top of her head and his shirt smells like cotton and grass and the pressure on her ribs and shoulders will never be enough. The quick, brotherly kiss in her hair will never be enough. If she put her lips on his, put her mouth on every inch of skin, her hands on every part of him, it would never be enough to explain this phantom pain – like she was supposed to be him. Like they were supposed to be something else, together. There’s not a word for that.

So…

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”

She can feel, even though she cannot see, that Draga left some time ago. She knows, but can’t explain how she knows, that he won’t come back until the morning. When he comes back after dawn, he’ll find them sleeping like dead things under a pile of blankets, Zelda’s head against Link’s chest where the constant steady rhythm reassures her the world did not end. It’s the longest she’s had slept in months.

.

.

.

go to chapter 4...

#legend of zelda #loz #botw #breath of the wild #legend of zelda breath of the wild #link #zelda #ganondorf #lozfic #platonic until its not #post game fic #contains hugs for everyone who needs them #rae writes #raewrites

[lady-silver-hair]

Patriots of a Dead Country

In tradition, samurai ranked as a well respected class in Japan. Whether soldiers or rogues, their power was to be feared. However, in 1873, Japan’s government, the Meiji oligarchy, outlawed the right to openly weapons in public. This law extended the ancient rule from the peasant class, to the samurai class, who were already in a dis-favorable opinion of the young institution. Civil unrest at this decision was handled swiftly and brutally by the government. The samurai class was set for extinction, the traditions held for centuries to be abandoned in favor of the western crusades, mundane rule taking place, killing another country where magic in the public sphere was open and celebrated.

May 16th, 1879

Few of the others remained. He had called them here tonight, knowing this would be the last.

“We can’t be expected to hide! Firine is dead. Nothing can stand to this, nonetheless us, in our weakened state! Why are you so against accepting that times have changed, Kijino?! Huh?!”

His right eye opened, piercing the silence in the room. While it was true that his occupation was no longer a standard form of employment in Japan, he’d kept himself, and his peers afloat for six years since the decree. His stare still meant something -- power. It was a power that he was sure not a single one of those bastards at the top had. What he had was the power to silence a room with such a small action, something that would go unnoticed if he were anyone else. When he spoke, people listened. Where he went, his allies followed. He was a leader, natural born. He could see the anxiety building, so he spoke.

“Firine, was not his father... however, I won’t discredit him for failing. Unlike you worthless brutes, Firine had the courage to try and protect what he cared about. If you care about the law, then I won’t cast any shame upon you. I’ll smile to see your sword pointed at me. If you raise your blade to keep alive our way of life, I will stay at your side as a brother would. However, if you, no, if anyone in this room has any doubts about your aspirations, then leave, and return to your families. My brothers!”

He slammed his palm down onto the desk, spilling sake into the lap of the merchant’s son at the other end of the table.

“Can any of you tell me, what it means to surrender?”

The room was silent. Those who believed that they knew the answer looked away, scared to counter the boss’s argument. Seeing no one wanting to speak, he continued.

“It is nearly certain that all of us in this room will be dead by the time that the sun rises tomorrow. Not all of you were given a choice before, but I’ll give you it now... Any of you who wish to lead a mundane life, any of you who believe that the peasant class is the safer option, and anyone that just hates the look of my face... you can all walk right out that door. No one will stop you. However, those who want to retain their honor... we will fight until we die. If not a single one of them is taken down, I will have my ideal death -- one which solidifies my honor as a life’s work.”

A few had fled during the speech, and an awkward moment afterwards was broken by one man leaving, with the rest following suit. A room of cowards. He wasn’t far removed from the life of a school boy himself, however, he found no peers among him in the adult world. It seemed that he was generations removed from his place. He sighed and nodded to the other soul left in the room.

“You should head home as well, miss. While I would love nothing more than to welcome others into the alliance, I haven’t forgotten my original purpose: protecting the women and children of this village.”

The girl shook her head, appearing headstrong.

“I know that women aren’t traditionally allowed to fight, however, I don’t want to see my father’s memory die. What happens to this country if the last of the magic dies? Do we become like the western pigs?”

He smiled. In his head, he was chuckling, and it may have shown externally, on his shoulders. He rose from his seat and made his way to her seat at the end near the door. She looked to be around 15. How she got in here, he would never know... scratch that, he could understand this level of incompetence to be his men. He placed his hand on her shoulder, his body still facing his path towards the exit.

“I appreciate it. But It is not within my code to allow you to fight. Besides, if you die tonight, who will pass on the story of your father’s legacy? Come now, I’ll bring you home. It is very much past dark.”

She nodded and stood with him. Her head hung down, and she refused to meet his eyes.

“I understand.”

The two walked together into the night.

What balls it’d taken to stand up to the man himself. Perhaps he was giving himself a bit of a bloated ego in this way. Kijino was still so stubborn. It was for this reason that the higher-ups had given the order to kill him tonight. He kicked a pebble as he walked. He wasn’t exactly being quiet, but he could defend himself at this hour, especially with so many allies close by at all times. The town was filled with special forces tonight. Firine wasn’t a problem for them. Kijino, though... he was a bit of a bastard. Oh well. More fun, he mused.

The girl stopped him, suddenly.

“Thank you... this is my home...”

He took in the place. The family that had lived here had been dead for a year and a half now. The military had burned the house, and this barn that had remained standing was not well structured, being half burned itself.

“You’re an orphan?”

She nodded sadly.

“My parents and brothers died with the house.”

He took in the situation for a moment. What an admirable woman. He smiled genuinely, and took a trinket and key on a necklace out of his pocket, holding it out to her.

“Here. I won’t be needing this much longer than you will. My house is on the end of the road, same one that the shed we met in tonight is on.”

She accepted the gift, and looked up to him.

“Is there nothing I can do to help? I understand that you don’t want to put me in harm’s way with you, so anything else... anything at all?”

He shook his head and fell silent for a moment.

“The legacy of this village dies with me, tonight... actually... I’ve thought of something. Come.”

He placed his arm around her and led her into the abandoned barn.

He cleaned his blade as he reviewed what he knew with his men.

“Soto Kijino. He’s 26 years old, has a wife, and two kids. Both of them have been tested, neither one has his bloodline. Both mundane as can be. We kill him, there’s the last of the Kijino clan, and the last of the samurai families.”

The brute looked up from his sword.

“But, what about the ones he was meeting with tonight?”

“Nothing more than citizens, now. They won’t be a problem, trust in me.”

“Yes captain.”

The men continued. Tonight, they would strike down the last of the samurai, and the last of the ancient bloodlines. The Meiji would have completed their reform by sunrise tomorrow. Tonight, however... they were all ready for a fight... all eight of them.

May 17, 1879

The sun rose on the land, and the peasants rose. A red dew trailed through to the center of town, where Kijino watched the city from above. He was more at peace today, than any day before. He rested still on the pike, upon which he sat.

The Lieutenant barked orders. The other seven officers were dawdling, tipsy from the victory. His voice was angry, but his smile was genuine. He couldn’t let them get the impression, even for a moment, that he’d turned soft. He’d promised sake for a job well done, and last night had gone very smoothly. He was quite proud of his company.

The girl awoke and stood. She was taken immediately by nausea. Her hips were sore, but she after the nausea passed, she managed to leave the barn. She made her way to the house that had been described to her last night. A woman stood in front, watching the children run around, blissfully unaware of the spectacle in the center of town. He’d been clever in choosing this house. The woman’s eyes met the girl’s, and then the necklace, and back to the girl’s eyes. She smiled, and nodded with understanding.

#background #meiji period #not ai #shortstory

[ashotofpeace-blog]

“Never in the course of human events has so much been named after a man who spent so little time in a place”. Jim Baker That man is Sir Stamford Raffles, the founder of Singapore. His influence on the Malay Peninsula is not confined to Singapore, however. At the turn of the 19th century, France had taken control of the Netherlands, forcing the Dutch King to seek asylum in Britain. Fearful that France was about to go on a maniacal rampage in search for world domination, Britain struck a deal with the exiled monarch of Holland to temporarily occupy all of their colonial territories in order to stave of any provocations from the increasingly dangerous French. Britain and the East India Company had promised to return all the colonies to the Dutch once the war was over. For the formerly Dutch-occupied city of Malacca, the East India Company, in their typical pedantic and ruthless style, planned to honour this agreement but first wanted to burn it to the ground and force all of its inhabitants - at gunpoint if necessary - to emigrate to Penang, rendering it worthless to the Dutch. Luckily for the Dutch, but more importantly the residents of Malacca, Raffles vehemently argued against this plan. Raffles was an East India Company officer stationed in Penang, but had visited Malacca in 1808. Throughout the imperialist epoch, the British establishment peddled a false narrative of the positive moral impact of British colonialism on the native people in order to justify the true reason behind their foreign policy: to increase the Crown’s capital and power. ‘We are here to civilise you. Please ignore our ships full of your tea and gold.’ Raffles argument for not annihilating Malacca abstractly embodied this sophisticated doctrine of soft-power used by the British. Raffles put forward the case that forcing the citizens of Malacca to up sticks or die was immoral - such a policy would make the British no better than the ‘savages’ they were attempting to civilise. However, the fundamental reason why he argued against torching the city was his belief that returning the Dutch their territories was against the interest of British hegemony. Raffles wanted to keep Malacca as part of a larger strategy to expel the Dutch from the archipelago altogether. Arguing against both the Crown and the East India Company at that time took a level of bravery and self-righteousness that not many men possess. He eloquently convinced the establishment to leave Malacca in one piece. Had he not done so, Malacca might have forever been a city confined to history.   Perhaps spurred on by this victory, Raffles went from arguing against the Establishment to downright mutiny in order to create Singapore. After the Napoleonic War ended the British returned the Dutch their settlements in the south of the Malacca Strait, despite Raffles’ objection. In his mind, such an act was a precursor to complete Dutch domination in the region. Consequently, he set out to establish a new colony south of Penang in order to prevent his prophecy. It is important to note that the British establishment did not want to return the Dutch their territories for the sake of fairness, but rather thought that a strong Netherlands would act as a counterbalance to any future French aggression in Europe. Both Raffles and the Crown were pursuing expansions to British power, they just disagreed on how to do so. Raffles got permission to search for a naval base in the Strait, but was under strict orders to in no way provoke the Dutch or encroach on their authority. What he did next was an act of a true maverick that would shape the history of the region. Prior to his arrival, Singapore was sparsely inhabited and was loosely ruled over by the Kingdom of Johor, which was in the Dutch’s sphere of influence. When Sultan Mahmud of Johor died in 1812, it was his second eldest who succeeded him, as his oldest was not residing in Johor at the time. Regardless, the Dutch and British Crown recognised the authority of the new Sultan. Raffles, in conjunction with other local powers, found the firstborn of Sultan Mahmud and agreed to recognise him as the true Sultan of Johor if he granted Singapore to the British. At no point did Raffles seek ratification of this plan from his superiors, and many were fuming when they found out as they feared he had risked ruining Anglo-Dutch relations. However, before any decision on Raffles’ action could be agreed upon, Singapore’s free trade philosophy began to make stupid amounts of money for the East India Company, quickly convincing the Establishment to keep the new colony and not return it to Dutch quasi-controlled Johor. Although instrumental in its founding, Raffles was only there for 10 months. Much of Singapore's success should be attributed to the man charged with putting Raffles’ vision of a free trade haven into action - Lord Farquhar. Farquhar’s name is nonexistence in Singapore, but nearly every building or road has either ‘Stamford’ or ‘Raffles’ in its title. Prior to arriving here, I had already decided I hated this city-state as I had to bin my vaping kit and supplies before arriving. To be caught with it would lead to a S$5,000 fine and 6 months in prison, or both. Purportedly this ban is for health reasons, although cigarettes are freely sold everywhere. The Singapore justice system is not to be fucked with - there is little grey area or leniency for rule breaking. Perhaps this rigid strictness is an attempt to atone for their vice-filled past, when anarchy and organised crime ruled the city. Prior to being under the British government's rule, the colony was overseen by the East India Company, who did not really care for the social society of Singapore as long as it was making money. The East India Company had only bothered to put twelve policemen in the territory, all of which were Bengali, none of whom could speak the language of the population which consisted solely of Malay and Chinese immigrants. Alas, it is hard to stay bemused at a city of this wonderment for very long. Singapore is the third largest financial centre in the world. Unlike London and New York, it doesn't have a rural population to support. Combined with their fascist approach to litter and mess, the end result is a city like no other I have ever seen. Despite its reputation as a city for the wealthy, there is a surprising amount to do for free. Each evening, Gardens by the Bay - an eco-park near the city centre - put on a free lights show, where artificial tree-like structures glow in unison to music. Each light show has a theme and when we attended it was ‘A Journey Through Asia’. I'm not sure how the history of the world's most diverse continent can be explained through lights, but it was nonetheless an enjoyable experience. A short ride on the MRT (their underground) is Chinatown and Little India. In every city, the Chinese get their own town whereas the Indians have to make do with the diminutive title of ‘Little’. Although obviously not free, getting food in either of these places is cheap - a hearty meal can be purchased for a pound. However, it is back downtown where the best attraction of all is found. The Sky Bar at Marina Bay Sands Hotel. Marina Sands is a marvel of modern architecture. Three towers elegantly shoot into the skyline, all connected at the top by a Sky Park. If you are a guest of the hotel, you can use the infinity pool in this park. If you are not, you can visit the Sky Park for around $20. But, if you go to Tower 1, you can go all the way up to the top for free and drink at the Sky Bar. Here you get the same view of Singapore and only have to pay for the drinks you order. You'd be forgiven for thinking the bar is a members only club due to their professional level of service, but no - they let scum like you in too, even if you are donning flip flops and a Liverpool shirt. Drinks are reasonably priced to pay for the awe-inducing view you are treated to. What seems like an infinite amount of cargo ships are dotted throughout the bay. Directly below is the Gardens by the Bay park, which was once so captivating but now seems like an irrelevant attraction when compared to view from the Sky Bar. Many people in the bar were conducting business meetings and why wouldn't you choose to do business here; just being here makes you feel important. I know it made me feel like I'm a man of great standing even though my only current inherent value to mankind is this blog which no one is reading. Looking down onto the horizon from this gorgeous, innovative, and luxurious piece of architecture, the impact of Raffles' vision and Faruqah’s action is astonishing. Had Raffles followed his brief not to disturb the Dutch, none of this would be here. Or perhaps it would, but the Sky Park would instead be called ‘Hemel Tuin’ or whatever Sky Garden is in Dutch.

[tonyajnolanma]

Five Key Moments to Liverpool’s First Premier League Title

 Jurgen Klopp has cemented his name into the Liverpool history books delivering the Reds their first ever Premier League trophy after a long 30-year drought. The now 19-time champions tore through the season in tremendous fashion, putting team after team to the sword en-route to a 99-point haul.

These are the five key moments which aided Liverpool in winning the Premier League trophy.

Norwich Stun City

Liverpool’s maiden title win in three decades is entirely their doing, but there were fillips along the way that were out of their hands. Candidly, Manchester City’s autumnal defeats – in addition to Liverpool’s unstoppable winning streak – killed the title race before it could even unfold.

The Citizens, as Reds fans will doubtless remember, won their final 14 games of the 2018/19 campaign. Yet, the psychological pressure affecting them, which came from knowing that Liverpool were a relentless force of nature, came to a head as early as the second match week.

In week two, City could only draw 2-2 against Tottenham after a late goal from Gabriel Jesus was ruled out by VAR. However, the title race lurched further in Liverpool’s favour after City’s shock 3-2 defeat at Carrow Road on 14 September, with Teemu Pukki netting the winner.

  City’s 2-0 home defeat to Wolves in October was also a major flashpoint in the so-called ‘title race’ of 2019/20.

Reds Negotiate Stamford Bridge Test

Just a week after City’s major slip at Norwich, Liverpool would face their toughest test of the season on paper. They travelled as favourites nonetheless, entering the round with the joint-best defence in the league (0.8 goals conceded per match on average) and boasting 14 straight league wins dating back to March.

Liverpool had also been winning at half-time & full-time in all of their league matches to that point, but a record of just two wins from their last seven league clashes with Chelsea tempered the optimism. In the end, Liverpool ran out 2-1 winners in a combative encounter, making a major statement in bringing down one of their peers in the expected top six.

 Challengers Beat Champions

By the eve of their November clash with Man City, Liverpool were level with City at the top of the spread betting odds title outrights market. Even so, the doubters still had some considerable ammunition against the Reds.

Liverpool had conceded the opener within ten minutes in two of their previous three league games on home turf. Defensive composure was again in short supply, with both teams scoring in eight straight competitive matches. All eight of those games had also produced goals in both halves, giving the City game a further air of unpredictability.

Realistically, the title race was as good as over by the final whistle, as Liverpool destroyed City 3-1 with a glorious cavalry charge, going nine points clear on a day the nation remembered the fallen of the Great War. It was a result seen as universally decisive, making the remainder of the season a mere question as to how many records Liverpool could break.

  No Travel Sickness For World Champions

With Man City out of the picture by Christmas, the task of ruining the Reds title hopes surprisingly fell to Leicester City. They hosted Liverpool on Boxing Day, in the hope of preventing the Reds from going 13 points clear with a game in hand. Given that Liverpool had won the FIFA Club World cup in Qatar just days previously, Leicester undoubtedly fancied their chances of felling the fatigued champions-elect.

Very quickly, it was apparent that Liverpool were in no mood for excuses, and an evenly-fought first half saw the Reds go in 1-0 up at the break. There was still the expectation that Leicester would come back, and that Liverpool simply had to wane at some point. In true Klopp fashion, the exact opposite happened, with a three-goal salvo beyond the 70th minute – through a James Milner penalty, which was followed by goals from Roberto Firmino (scorer of a brace that day) and Trent Alexander-Arnold.

 A 96.2% Win-Rate by Late February

The sight of a team winning 26 of its first 27 Premier League matches and losing none is unprecedented. On current evidence, only Liverpool themselves can beat the record they set in February, and the 26th league win of 2019/20 was an unexpectedly nail-biting one.

It came via a 3-2 scoreline over West Ham at a packed Anfield under Monday night lights. After the match, Liverpool’s supremacy was there for all to see, with the victory over West Ham putting them on an 18-match winning streak in the league.

Liverpool would have set a new PL-era record for consecutive wins, had they vanquished Watford in the very next game. By the same point, they had also netted the opening goal in 16 straight league fixtures, whilst scoring an impressive 12 goals within the first 30 minutes across those 16 games.

Furthermore, they had won with a clean sheet in ten of their preceding 12 league matches, conceding a league-low 0.63 goals per match, and leading at half-time in 70.37% of their league games.

The post Five Key Moments to Liverpool’s First Premier League Title appeared first on 7up Sports.

source https://7upsports.com/football/2020/08/11/five-key-moments-to-liverpools-first-premier-league-title/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=five-key-moments-to-liverpools-first-premier-league-title from 7upsports https://7upsports.blogspot.com/2020/08/five-key-moments-to-liverpools-first.html

[7upsports]

Five Key Moments to Liverpool’s First Premier League Title

  Jurgen Klopp has cemented his name into the Liverpool history books delivering the Reds their first ever Premier League trophy after a long 30-year drought. The now 19-time champions tore through the season in tremendous fashion, putting team after team to the sword en-route to a 99-point haul.

These are the five key moments which aided Liverpool in winning the Premier League trophy.

Norwich Stun City

Liverpool’s maiden title win in three decades is entirely their doing, but there were fillips along the way that were out of their hands. Candidly, Manchester City’s autumnal defeats – in addition to Liverpool’s unstoppable winning streak – killed the title race before it could even unfold.

The Citizens, as Reds fans will doubtless remember, won their final 14 games of the 2018/19 campaign. Yet, the psychological pressure affecting them, which came from knowing that Liverpool were a relentless force of nature, came to a head as early as the second match week.

In week two, City could only draw 2-2 against Tottenham after a late goal from Gabriel Jesus was ruled out by VAR. However, the title race lurched further in Liverpool’s favour after City’s shock 3-2 defeat at Carrow Road on 14 September, with Teemu Pukki netting the winner.

    City’s 2-0 home defeat to Wolves in October was also a major flashpoint in the so-called ‘title race’ of 2019/20.

Reds Negotiate Stamford Bridge Test

Just a week after City’s major slip at Norwich, Liverpool would face their toughest test of the season on paper. They travelled as favourites nonetheless, entering the round with the joint-best defence in the league (0.8 goals conceded per match on average) and boasting 14 straight league wins dating back to March.

Liverpool had also been winning at half-time & full-time in all of their league matches to that point, but a record of just two wins from their last seven league clashes with Chelsea tempered the optimism. In the end, Liverpool ran out 2-1 winners in a combative encounter, making a major statement in bringing down one of their peers in the expected top six.

  Challengers Beat Champions

By the eve of their November clash with Man City, Liverpool were level with City at the top of the spread betting odds title outrights market. Even so, the doubters still had some considerable ammunition against the Reds.

Liverpool had conceded the opener within ten minutes in two of their previous three league games on home turf. Defensive composure was again in short supply, with both teams scoring in eight straight competitive matches. All eight of those games had also produced goals in both halves, giving the City game a further air of unpredictability.

Realistically, the title race was as good as over by the final whistle, as Liverpool destroyed City 3-1 with a glorious cavalry charge, going nine points clear on a day the nation remembered the fallen of the Great War. It was a result seen as universally decisive, making the remainder of the season a mere question as to how many records Liverpool could break.

    No Travel Sickness For World Champions

With Man City out of the picture by Christmas, the task of ruining the Reds title hopes surprisingly fell to Leicester City. They hosted Liverpool on Boxing Day, in the hope of preventing the Reds from going 13 points clear with a game in hand. Given that Liverpool had won the FIFA Club World cup in Qatar just days previously, Leicester undoubtedly fancied their chances of felling the fatigued champions-elect.

Very quickly, it was apparent that Liverpool were in no mood for excuses, and an evenly-fought first half saw the Reds go in 1-0 up at the break. There was still the expectation that Leicester would come back, and that Liverpool simply had to wane at some point. In true Klopp fashion, the exact opposite happened, with a three-goal salvo beyond the 70th minute – through a James Milner penalty, which was followed by goals from Roberto Firmino (scorer of a brace that day) and Trent Alexander-Arnold.

  A 96.2% Win-Rate by Late February

The sight of a team winning 26 of its first 27 Premier League matches and losing none is unprecedented. On current evidence, only Liverpool themselves can beat the record they set in February, and the 26th league win of 2019/20 was an unexpectedly nail-biting one.

It came via a 3-2 scoreline over West Ham at a packed Anfield under Monday night lights. After the match, Liverpool’s supremacy was there for all to see, with the victory over West Ham putting them on an 18-match winning streak in the league.

Liverpool would have set a new PL-era record for consecutive wins, had they vanquished Watford in the very next game. By the same point, they had also netted the opening goal in 16 straight league fixtures, whilst scoring an impressive 12 goals within the first 30 minutes across those 16 games.

Furthermore, they had won with a clean sheet in ten of their preceding 12 league matches, conceding a league-low 0.63 goals per match, and leading at half-time in 70.37% of their league games.

The post Five Key Moments to Liverpool’s First Premier League Title appeared first on 7up Sports.

from 7up Sports https://7upsports.com/football/2020/08/11/five-key-moments-to-liverpools-first-premier-league-title/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=five-key-moments-to-liverpools-first-premier-league-title

[nolimitsongrace]

August 1: Do You Feel Like You’ve Hit a Brick Wall?

Do You Feel Like You’ve Hit a Brick Wall?August 1, 2020

…we were pressed out of measure, above strength, insomuch that we despaired even of life: But we had the sentence of death in ourselves, that we should not trust in ourselves, but in God, which raiseth the dead. — 2 Corinthians 1:8,9

Are you currently facing hard times in your life? Today I want to encourage you from the Word of God and show you how to tackle these difficult circumstances and emerge victorious. The devil will try to convince you that you’re a failure, that your life is over, and that nothing good lies ahead for you; however, this simply isn’t true. These emotions are temporary and fleeting, and the enemy is trying to use them to hold you back and keep you from experiencing the fulfilled life that God wants you to enjoy.

Although we don’t like to admit it, we all occasionally have times in our lives when we hit a brick wall, so to speak. We don’t know what to say, what to do, where to turn, or even how to pray. Sometimes it seems as if we’ve hit a dead end and everything is finished, over, and done with. If you’ve ever been in a place like that, you know what a hard place this can be! These feelings usually arise when we think that we’ve failed, that people have misunderstood us, or that we’ve been unfairly judged. However, even when we’ve made serious mistakes, these setbacks are rarely as irreparable as they seem.

*[If you started reading this from your email, begin reading here.]

I understand that these emotions feel very real in the moment. When others tell you that your situation is not as bad as you think or that you need to remember to be grateful for all the good in your life, it may even make you angry. Their comments may be right, but because you’re the one in the midst of the trial, you still feel hopeless. Somehow you’ve found yourself caught in a storm and you don’t know how to put one foot in front of the other to make your way out of it. You may feel like nothing you do pleases anyone, so you question why you should even try.

In truth, it doesn’t matter if the emotions you are experiencing stem from real personal failure or from circumstances outside of your control. It’s still your responsibility to get up, brush yourself off, and start moving forward again in your walk with God! Think about it — your entire faith is based on resurrection. The resurrection power of God is inside you, and it can lift you up above all the jumbled emotions and turmoil — into a better place than you’ve ever known in your life!

There have been many moments in my own life when I felt overwhelmed by circumstances and challenges. Usually those are the times when the devil seized the opportunity to whisper, There is no way out. You have no way to crawl out from where you are. You’re trapped with no escape. However, his words of discouragement and despair have never proven to be true! Although it may have taken longer than I anticipated to reach my goal and required me to grow to new levels of faith, there was always a way to do whatever Jesus had asked me to do, and I ultimately found victory in every challenge.

If we stick with our assigned tasks and keep moving forward — even if it’s one step at a time — we will always win! And after we’ve pressed beyond our struggles into victory, we’ll always be thankful we didn’t give up!

When I am facing challenges in my life, I always derive immense strength from Paul’s words in Second Corinthians 1:8 and 9, where he wrote, “…we were pressed out of measure, above strength, insomuch that we despaired even of life: But we had the sentence of death in ourselves, that we should not trust in ourselves, but in God, which raiseth the dead.” Paul wrote these verses when he felt trapped by crushing ordeals in his ministry, and his words tell me that he didn’t know if he would survive. How thankful I am that God didn’t hide the apostle’s difficult moments from us!

Paul’s words in Second Corinthians 1:8 and 9 teach us what to do when we feel like we simply cannot make it any further in our own strength or that we’re no match for the challenges we’re facing. We simply must surrender to the resurrection power of God! That’s what the apostle Paul did when he found himself face to face with life-threatening situations. When Paul wrote, “…we had the sentence of death in ourselves,” he was at one of those dead end places that I’m talking about today. In fact, the situation he faced was so acute that he compared it to a sentence of death. That’s dramatic language!

The word “sentence” is the Greek word krino — a word that usually referred to a jury who had just handed down their final sentence in a court of law. You could say that it denoted a verdict or a final sentence pronounced as the result of a court trial. After all the evidence had been presented and the judge had examined all the facts, a final verdict was issued by the court.

By using this word “sentence” or krino, Paul told us that so many problems were stacked against him and his companions that, by all appearances, it seemed like there was no way for them to escape or even to survive. It looked as if they’d hit a dead end, as if everything was finished, over, and done with! Paul went on to say that it looked so insurmountable that, as far as he was concerned, it seemed there was only one possible outcome — death!

But in spite of how bad things appeared, Paul didn’t die, nor did he fail at fulfilling the job God had given him to do. It may have looked like it was the end of the road for Paul, but it was really the beginning of a new supernatural flow of divine power into his life. That’s why he went on to say that through it all, he learned not to trust in himself, but in God who raises the dead.

Paul had been under intense pressure, but right in the midst of this horrible situation, God’s resurrection power was released inside Paul and he was rescued! Paul said it was so dramatic that it was almost as if he and his companions had been raised from the dead.

When you don’t know what else to do but turn to God, that’s usually when His resurrection power can begin to operate in you in the greatest way. You see, in God there’s no such thing as a hopeless situation. That dead end place you may be facing right now can become a place of new beginnings!

Let me tell you, people all around you are struggling right now. The devil is telling them that they won’t make it. But they will make it if they choose to turn their focused gaze to Jesus, and you will too! Your victory may not come as you thought, but God is with you, and He will get you through whatever it is you’re facing if you’ll surrender to the Holy Spirit’s resurrection power inside you.

This is not the end for you! God has a marvelous plan for your life, and the devil simply doesn’t have the power to hijack what He has planned. Remember — if the devil has tried to tell you that you’re a failure, that life is over, and that nothing good lies ahead of you in the future, it’s not true! What you’re feeling will pass, and better days are ahead. Just determine to lay hold of the resurrection power of Christ in you, and let it lift you up above the storm into a brighter and better place!

MY PRAYER FOR TODAY

Father, I thank You for Your marvelous plan for my life. I praise You because the devil is powerless to hijack it. I turn my attention from my failures and fix my gaze upon Jesus, who is the Author and Finisher of my faith! My victory might not be coming to me exactly as I expected — nonetheless, my victory is on the way. I surrender to the power of the Holy Spirit and allow Him to flow through me to bring me to a place of victory!

I pray this in Jesus’ name!

MY CONFESSION FOR TODAY

I confess that when I don’t know what to do, I turn to God for direction and help, and He releases His wisdom in me. There is no such thing as a hopeless situation. When I feel that I am facing a dead end, God’s power turns it into a place of a new beginning. What I am facing is not the end for me — it is, in fact, the starting point for a glorious new beginning. When the devil tries to tell me that nothing good lies ahead for me, I remind him of the future that is awaiting HIM! I confess that the resurrection power of Jesus Christ has already lifted me far above his attacks and that a brighter and better future awaits me!

I declare this by faith in Jesus’ name!

QUESTIONS FOR YOU TO CONSIDER

Have you ever felt that you came to a dead end place in your life, only to find it was the beginning of an entirely new chapter, which turned out better than anything you had ever previously known?

How do you respond when the devil tries to attack your mind with thoughts of failure and defeat? Do you submit to his insinuations and fall into despair, or do you rise up in the power of the Spirit to take those thoughts captive?

How would you advise someone whose mind was under assault with thoughts of failure and defeat? How would you instruct them to take authority over those thoughts?