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masterthespianduchovny · 2 years

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I would fight a fucking army for Syd and maybe it’s because Carmy allowed the others to act like trash. Or that she put up with so much bullshit trying to implement his brigade. Or, despite being tiny, she doesn’t back down from anyone and inserts herself into disputes to de-escalate even if they’re teetering on violence.

Because it’s something so fascinating about one of the smallest people in the kitchen not backing down to tall, aggressive men. When Richie was in her face and episode 7 and she got this crazy look in her eyes like she was with the shits and would take him on.

Or how she just spoke her mind to Carmy as she was quitting and wasn’t afraid or stuttering and hedging her words. Just straight up told this man he was a piece of shit.

And how she got into those mobsters faces and made them introduce themselves and didn’t use violence to de-escalate.

She also talks in this unique way where she’s constantly trying to talk to people in a calm, approachable way, but it’s laced with this frankness like when she was telling Sweeps the floor was so dirty she could slip. Or telling Tina she didn’t have time to fuck around.

But she’s also vulnerable and is trying her best and does everything in her power to make sure things run smoothly.

And my response to her i so visceral because I relate so much to her. I’ve been that person at times. And it’s often a position black girls and woman are put into in work and life. We have to know how to navigate situations all while keeping or cool or standing up for ourselves because we only have ourselves.

So, yes, Syd can fuck up in my book and not apologize. She can say he daughter thinks he’s a fucking loser, and then stab him.

Syd has done more in the handful of months she’s worked than however long Richie has been employed at his “delicate fucking ecosystem.” Which is only delicate because of whatever was going on with Micheal and Richie sure as hell doesn’t know how to run a business.

Because even if Syd did something wrong, no she didn’t.

And, as much as I love Carmy, I don’t give a shit that she didn’t apologize for the kitchen kerfuffle.

#sydney adamu #the bear #the bear on hulu #the bear fx #we stan syd in this household #i literally argue with redditors about her #they can be mad all they want #they're just upset because they're richies in this situation and feel themselves being replaced #they're used to white mediocrity helping them throughout life #where as some capable skilled and talented replacing and overtaking them meaning women and people of color has them shitting themselves

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sealrock · 3 days

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gate - for the generator drabble prompt!

cw: discussions & depictions of blood, violent death

(ty for the ask @gatheredfates!)

Two tombstones sat before me, weathered by harsh rain and blistering heat. This is my last stop for the week. I need not look at the faded inscriptions, for I knew who lay underneath the baked earth of the High Seraph's acre. Another tombstone in a forgotten corner of the field belonged to someone I once knew, someone who had gotten too close to my sister. I already gave my respects to him; I told him that his son, my nephew, was growing into a beautiful young boy who took after him. It's such a shame Nestor never got to see him. Father murdered him. Nestor was never a family member, but Mother treated him like one of us. I convinced Father to allow him a proper burial here, for it was what Mother would've wanted. Briseis will thank me later when her time comes. In about a week, that is.

Since I was a little girl, the vision of five empty graves troubled my thoughts. My father stood in front of them, shovel in hand. I gingerly knelt in front of my mother's grave and let my parasol rest beside me now that noonday sun had passed, the clear blue skies now a rich and vivid mix of reds and oranges. I emptied my bag of supplies, no longer heavy enough to strain the muscles in my shoulder now that I offered services to every tombstone. No one in the family would dare travel here during the dryest part of the day since the trek to the graveyard was taxing enough on the body without running the risk of heatstroke. But the threat of dehydration never stopped me. It's my duty to tend to the graves of the dearly departed, all seven and ninety of them. I clean the graves, offer food and drink, and weekly prayers for each, even if I only know a handful. Most have been here since before I was born.

"Hello, Mother," my words came out in a hushed tone, as if not to disturb the eternal rest of long-gone strangers, "I brought more Galbana lilies for you, fresh from your favorite florist. This year has been good for the flowers, I believe. They're much redder than usual."

I pushed the thought of how much they reminded me of blood from my mind. I used to see visions of blood as a child, gushing waves of blood that flowed from the grand entrance of my home towards the gilded gate that separated us from the outside world. My loved ones walked through that gate, not knowing what fate would hold for them, no matter my attempts to stop them. It became an unconscious habit of mine to walk through the gate first as if to spare someone else I care about the pain of death. People have called me overly superstitious, but they'd fail to understand the reasoning. It's futile of me to try, but try I must.

My mother, a beauty beyond compare with the name Hecuba, was ready to storm through that gate after one final argument with my father before he shoved her down the staircase. Her long and thick black hair obscured the disturbing crookedness of her neck. I was only eight years old when that vision, a 'shimmer' as my mother called it, troubled my dreams a few days before the incident. My mother knew what was about to occur, for she also had the gift. She accepted her death with a sad smile as I sobbed the tale to her, gathering me up into her arms and squeezing me tight. If I focus hard enough, I can still smell her elegant perfume of citrus and spices, and suddenly I'm a little girl again, safe from the outside world as long as I stay close to her.

I brushed away the dust and dirt from her grave and uprooted stray weeds. It's the least I could do for her, for she could rest assured knowing that her only surviving daughter was tending to her final resting place. I placed the lilies on the surface of her grave and lit a few incense for my prayers. My elder sisters lay next to her—well, one sister did. The body of the eldest remains missing from the wreckage of her final voyage at sea. My father fell to his knees and unleashed a deep, mournful wail at the gate of the manor when the tragic news reached him. My sister's treasured medallion necklace, a nameday gift from our father when she was twelve, was all that remained of her. His tears were genuine then, and he was beside himself more than he was at his wife's funeral.

I knew she wasn't dead, for I receive visions of her to this day. Even all these years later, my father refused to believe me. After a harsh slap to my cheek from his heavy hand one night, I was told to never speak of Andromache again. Andromache was dead, that much was certain since we had the memorial service, even if her grave held an empty coffin.

Andromache... My dear sister. That was the name she chose for herself. The inscription over her empty grave holds an identity she discarded, the identity our father spoke of with swelling pride and affection. The firstborn of our family, the spitting image of Priam, Andromache had our father wrapped around her finger the minute she came screaming into the world. Deiphobus and Idomeneus were too young to remember her, but Briseis and I idolized her as children—she could do no wrong in our eyes. As much as we adored our sister, Andromache ran away soon after our mother died. Her death had the worst impact on Andromache, and I caught glimpses as to why as I sat through my piano lessons the day leading up to the accident: fleeting images told me that Andromache witnessed everything. Father had forced Andromache to make it seem like our mother took her own life by leaving her to hang from the balustrade. Poor Deiphobus, just five summers old, found her body an hour later; his scream rings clear in my head to this day.

For two years, Andromache couldn't take the guilt of her actions, and her vow of silence ate away at her insides. She assumed we would hate her for participating in the act, for not saying anything about how our mother died. I didn't blame her; I told her what I knew and that Andromache had nothing to fear. But she left anyway. In the dead of night, she slipped through that rusty iron gate with nothing but a saddlebag of meager provisions and kissed my heated forehead goodbye. Andromache wouldn't look at the stream of tears that stained my distraught face as I frantically begged her to stay, my trembling hands pulling at her tunic with all my might. I told her she would die in deep water; she just smiled at me—the same way our mother did. She whispered this to me before vanishing into the inky blackness of the night, her hand gently pressing against my ribs, my racing heart pulsing against her palm:

"I will always be here with you, little sister."

Barely a fortnight later, we learned of a boat to Limsa Lominsa capsizing after a treacherous storm, a boat my sister was last seen boarding. My father would rest his tortured brow against the gate after each search party ended with empty hands. I never thought she had survived. The fact my vision turned out to be wrong gave me hope that Andromache would return someday. I wish to see her again. I desperately wish to see her push open that gate and pretend nothing happened. I want my big sister back.

"Forgive me, Andi, for I did not bring anything for you this time. Please accept my prayers of safety and good travels in exchange."

I conducted the same routine with the empty grave: I brushed away the dirt and pulled the weeds. I poured the drink and prepared the food. It's methodical and mechanical work. I forgot when I stopped crying. It must've been once I married my good husband and welcomed my beautiful son into the world. I no longer have time to cry. All I can do is sigh over how the two most important people in my life missed out on two wonderful moments I couldn't share with anyone else. Most people in my family believed me spoiled, that I clung to my mother's apron strings too tightly or hid behind my sister's towering form the older I grew. I can't help that I miss them. My brother Deiphobus, my equally clingy younger brother who thinks himself wise, chides and chastises me like I'm still a child. Idomeneus has no recollection of the people we talk about—they're ghosts without a face to him.

Once I cleaned the graves, I began my last prayers, my hands squeezing the meat of my thighs beneath my dark-colored dress. The desert birds and insects seemingly fell silent around me in respect. A cool summer breeze fluttered through the low-hanging branches of a great willow tree, the scent of mourning incense tickling my nose. I prayed to the High Seraph that my loved ones were at peace; I failed them because my warnings were unheeded. A task like this would've fallen to the eldest child—that would be Briseis now. I'm not as close to Briseis these days, as much as it saddens me to say. We drifted apart through the years as I became a second mother to our brothers while she pursued other interests. Briseis wasn't ready for the strain of responsibility. And so she fought back against our father's rules at every turn. That's how she ended up with Evander. That was one of the many nails in her coffin.

I've become more of a surrogate mother to Evander and his brother Patroclus than an aunt these last few moons. It's in my nature to care for others—it keeps me from rattling my mouth about my 'hallucinations,' I suppose. Despite how far we've drifted, I still care for her. She's the only sister I have left. There's a patch of dirt next to Andromache's fake grave, and soon, it will be home to two more coffins. The images disturbed me: my sister and brother-in-law assailed by an unknown intruder. Black blood poured from their gashes and wounds, their faces twisted in terror. The trembling form of a shell-shocked Patroclus nudging them to wake up rattled me the most. He would be witness to the bloodletting.

I cannot do anything to stop it. They will come through the gate within the week and argue about something to Father. Father would punish them with death. I cannot warn Briseis, for I know what she'll do. Briseis will smile at me, half sad and half patronizing, and hug me gently. She's oblivious to what would happen to her. Her children will be orphaned and made to fight each other like dogs. The murders will never be solved, for I do not know who killed them.

I sighed as I got to my feet, my dress covered with sand and clay. It's dusk now, I've tarried long enough. My husband will grow worried if I arrive home after dark. I must prepare myself to look after more graves of the ones I love soon. I have no other choice.

#inbox #gatheredfates #writings.#aaaAAH this took forever a thousand apologies #ngl this word stumped me for a while so i let it sit until i came up with whatever this is #the word pops up a lot here but in a symbolic sense i guess #but anyway. a first-person drabble ft. cassandra and the tatlonghari family #the family deals with death in a rather detached way. give or take #this is set before paris arrives to the household. so a few months before hector's 'death'#i had to go back and look at my notes about the family tree :lulz:#bear in mind this hasn't been proofread because i wrote this very early this morning orz #there shouldn't be any glaring issues here

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