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soup-for-breakfast-99 · 4 years

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Thomastair - Forgive Me

This is my first time posting fanfic on here, so feedback welcome. Check out my Wattpad for more @/Amelia-jai-herondale

I don’t know why the paragraphs look weird. Please ignore.

As summer faded, dusk had begun to set over London just as dinner was over, and with a curt goodnight to his mother Alastair retired to his room which was already cast in twilight. He lit a taper at his desk and sat down to his nightly ritual. Every night since Cordelia's engagement party Alastair would return to his room, take out a pen and paper and write in his neatest cursive Dear Mr Lightwood,

And then promptly crumple the paper up and throw it across the room. He did exactly this, and then just like always he took a second piece of paper and wrote Dear Lightwood, but ultimately decided that that sounded even worse. Sappy. He scolded himself. You sound weak. It was supposed to be an apology, not grovelling. No matter how badly he wanted to he wasn't going to grovel. His palms were starting to feel sweaty. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, then took a third sheet and simply wrote Thomas,

And then he blanked. Like always. What do you say to the man you're in love with to apologise for spreading horrific rumours about his family? My sincere apologies for attempting to ruin your life by insinuating that you are a bastard. Or perhaps, It is with great regret I look back on the moment I told everyone we know that your father is an adulterer. There really isn't a good way to say that. Alastair watched with a detached fascination as a drop of ink from the nib of his pen splashed down onto the page, obscuring Thomas' name almost completely. He once again forcefully crumpled the paper into a ball, his face contorting into a grimace as he did so. His hands gripped the parchment so tightly that his knuckles whitened, his arms trembling. Weak. Stupid and weak. With a spasm of movement, he threw the paper as though it were burning and jerkily stood up from the desk, stumbling backwards into the centre of the room. He heard a crash, but his vision was to blurred to see what caused it. The room was spinning. Alastair's breathing was fast and laboured. He pushed a shaking hand through his black hair, feeling sweat on his forehead. Ridiculous. Weak. Stupid. The floor seemed to sway under his slight frame, and Alastair sank to his knees on the floor. Disappointment. Said the voice in Alastair's head that sounded like his father. Weak. Stupid. Disappointment. He clutched at his chest as though us might burst, and noticed distantly that he was crying. Weak. Weak. Weak.

Alastair couldn't be sure how long it had been by the time he woke up. He was lain on the floor of his room, still in his shirt and trousers, his tie feeling to light around his neck. His waistcoat restricted him as he managed to sit up against the wall. Across the room he could see the crumpled remains of his letters littering the floor. The candle on his desk burned low. Just as Alastair prepared to drag himself up off the floor, there was a knock at his door. "

"Master Carstairs? Visitor here to see you. Young man. Handsome boy."

"Thank you, Risa. I'll be right down." Alastair replied groggily. He checked his pocket watch and frowned. A visitor? At this time? At first he thought of Charles, but Risa knew him by name. Perhaps it was Herondale here to discuss Cordelia. He hoped not. He didn't have the patience for James' whining and moping and smiling tonight. "I'll send him up!" He heard Risa shout from halfway down the stairs. "I'll come down!" He yelled, but he was fairly sure she didn't hear. Oh well. Whoever it was would simply have to ignore the state of his room. Alastair stood up from the floor and straightened himself in front of the mirror. He could hear the booming footsteps of a fairly large person on the stairs; someone who was clearly trying to be quiet due to the late hour but failing miserably. Not Herondale then. To big. To respectful. A few moments later there was a firm knock on the door, and Alastair crossed the room to open it. He almost passed out when the door swung open and his eyes met the steady gaze of Thomas Lightwood, huge and striking as always. His warm brown eyes were fixed on his own, and his skin looked a shadowy shade of gold In the dim light from the hall. Alastair could smell the taller man's cologne; sandalwood and something sweet, and he could feel the warmth radiating off of him. It was only then that Alastair noticed how close they were standing, and that he had been staring at Thomas in silence for the last fifteen seconds. He look a stumbling step back, and wordlessly welcomed Thomas into the room. Mustering all the strength he had, Alastair forced down the carefully constructed mask of indifference over his face and turned to close the door. "What," Alastair began with perhaps a little too much venom "are you doing here? And so late?"

"Good evening to you too Carstairs. What a fine night it is. Are you well?" Thomas said with an even expression. Thomas, who always wore his heart on his sleeve, was for once unreadable. "Am I well? What kind of question is that? Why are you here, Lightwood?" If writing a letter to Thomas has been hard enough to send him crying to sleep each night for two weeks, standing here looking at him now, was like a dagger in Alastair's side, tearing violently through him. "Clave business. I'm here to inform you that the demon activity in this area is twice the average for London. As the eldest active shadowhunter this area, it is your responsibility to investigate and report back to the head of the London institute promptly. Will Herondale will be waiting to hear from you in the next fortnight." Thomas spoke evenly, no anger detectable in his voice. Alastair tilted his head slightly, attempting to look taller next to his giant companion. "You came here now, at 2am, to tell me I have to complete a report in two weeks?" Thomas swallowed hard, and Alastair watched his Adam's apple Bob under his pale skin. He noticed then the sheen of sweat on Lightwood's muscled neck, and wondered how he could he hot with the window wide open. "Um- well... I just thought you would want to know as soon as possible." Thomas stuttered. He ran his hand through his mousey brown hair, and Alastair caught a glimpse of his tattoo through the thin fabric of his shirt sleeve. He remembered Paris, touching the soft skin of Thomas bare arm, and shivered.

“And why are you the one telling me this?" Alastair asked.

"I- I uh... I volunteered. Said I'd tell you."

"Why?"

The two men stared at each other.

"I- I wanted to see you. To talk to you." Thomas' voice was almost a whisper, and his eyes were fixed on the floor.

"Why? You hate me." Alastair said matter of factly. Thomas' head shot up at record speed and his eyes met Alastair's intensely, suddenly a shade darker. "I don't hate you. I- I could never... I could never hate you Alastair." It was Alastair's turn to stare at the floor, suddenly feeling unworthy of Thomas' heavy gaze. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes. "I hate what you did. It was vile. You hurt the people I love. You hurt Matthew in ways you could never imagine. You hurt my aunt Charlotte and uncle Henry. You hurt my father and mother, who have already been through so much. You-" Thomas sucked in a deep breath, as though only in his hesitation did he remember to breathe. His words were like a tidal wave and now that they were coming they wouldn't stop. "You hurt me in the worst way, because I trusted you. I believed that you were better then you acted. I believed in you and you hurt me. You let me down. And I hate that. But I will never hate you, Alastair. Hating you... hating you would hurt me more than anything you could ever say to me."

Alastair's bones felt weak, and his whole body was shaking. He mustered the strength to look up, and his tearful eyes met Thomas'. He was crying too, and that was enough to tear down Alastair's defences completely. "Forgive me, Thomas. Please. I would give anything, anything in this world. I would give my life to show you how sorry I am for the pain I have caused you and your family. I have done cruel and terrible things in my fear and shame, and for that I deserve no kindness. I am not worthy of your forgiveness Thomas. Your kindness is too beautiful and too wonderful to be wasted on me, but I beg of you anyway, for you are my last hope at respite from my own self destruction. I beg of you Thomas Lightwood, forgive me." He was crying freely now, his cheeks striped with tears. His voice was raw and hoarse.

There was a moment, a frame frozen in time, where the two men simply looked at each other, both holding the others heart in their hands. No one moved. No one spoke. There was only silence.

All of a sudden, Thomas took a confident step forward and placed his hands firmly on Alastair's shoulders, and slid his left to rest in the crook of Alastair's neck. "You are not infernal, Alastair Carstairs. You are still an angel. You have not yet fallen." He pushes Alastair's chin up so that his dark eyes were visible past the curtain of lashes. "I forgive you. Of course I forgive you. Condemnation would mean you never learn. You have such a kind heart, Querido. You deserve a chance to learn to show it."

Alastair continued to cry, a fresh wave of tears. Tears of relief. "And if you'll let me, Alastair, i would like to get to know that heart. Perhaps you were so cruel because no one had shown you kindness as they should. No one has taught you that you are so incredibly deserving of kindness. Of love. No one had shown you that you are valuable. Allow me. Allow me to show you. I beg that of you, Alastair." Thomas was breathless and rambling and it still sounded like poetry to Alastair. His head spun. Thomas' hands were still on his shoulders, a steady weight keeping him grounded. "I- I do not deserve that. Thank you, sincerely, your forgiveness means more than you can know. But any more than that is not what I have earned." Their bodies were inches apart, Alastair could smell his cologne again, and finally placed it as sandalwood and rose.

"Your pain is not earned either. Let me take it from you. Let me help you." Thomas was begging now.

"Why?" Alastair gasped between tears. "Becau- because I-..." he let out a dramatic sigh, and with some force, Thomas pulled Alastair against him and bent his head so that their lips were inches apart. They paused for a moment, breathing the same air, and then Alastair's arms went around Thomas, and they crashed together desperately. Alastair pressed himself as close as possible, his body curving against him as though he would otherwise die. Thomas clutched tightly to Alastair's waistcoat, almost tearing the fabric as he held the boy firm but gently against him. Their lips slip together in the messy kiss of young and unexperienced passion, the occasional clash of teeth causing Thomas to smile uncontrollably, until he was taken off guard by the feeling of Alastair's tongue against his lips. He gasped, and then groaned, "Alastair..."

“Thomas...”

#thomas lightwood #alastair carstairs #the shadowhunter chronicles #shadowhunters #the last hours #the infernal devices #chain of gold #chain of iron #thomastair #lightstairs #fanfic #shadowhunters fanfiction #gay #angst #angst with a happy ending #fluff #angst and fluff

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artificialqueens · 5 years

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In Retrograde : Chapter Two (branjie) - ephemerals

Author’s Note: Thank you for all the support on the first chapter!! I’m glad you are enjoying reading because I have enjoyed writing this. You can find me at @missvanjies.

Synopsis: After spending months uninspired, Vanessa, a local reporter, becomes infatuated with writing a story surrounding the downfall of a police officer discharged after killing an innocent man.

When Brooke Lynn returns to her hometown after her life begins to fall apart, she doesn’t expect to find solace in the charismatic brunette who seems just a little too invested in uncovering all the secrets of her past.

In the days that followed the night at the bar, Vanessa’s mind had become plagued with inspiration. She had pitched her idea to Michelle, the editor. A think piece, the details will come later. All she knew was that the star of the show would be Brooke Lynn Hytes and her fall from grace. Surprising, Michelle enjoyed her ambition. Probably excited to read something with some substance. She just needs to see a draft on the table by the end of the week.

However, it becomes clear to Vanessa that she’s overlooked a lot of details and maybe she was a little too ambitious. Her grand plans are thwarted by crippling writers block, and when it hits the night before the deadline, she’s got absolutely nothing on her page. She needs to do some research, and quick. So, Vanessa reverts to the most effective method of gathering research; Facebook stalking.

Brooke Lynn Hytes. Seventy-four mutual friends. Vanessa enlarges her profile picture. She’s smiling, looking down from the camera towards her cocktail. It’s obviously taken by someone else on vacation, probably somewhere Mediterranean. Her blonde hair is back pulled in a tight bun, skin bronzed and absolutely glowing. If Vanessa didn’t know she was doing research on a criminal, she would have assumed this woman was an Instagram influencer or something along those lines.

Vanessa aimlessly clicks through several public photos, all of them seeming meticulously chosen. There was not a single bad photo among the bunch. In every single photo that loaded, Brooke looked the exact same. Tall, blonde surrounded by other beautiful women, handsome men. And that’s when she notices something. Not a single one of these photos were uploaded by Brooke, nor were they uploaded recently. Vanessa keeps scrolling through the pictures, all dated two, three years in the past.

And there’s this man. He’s in almost every single photo. Just slightly taller than her, dark hair, designer suits. Gorgeous and absolutely terrifying. Intrigued, Vanessa opens his tag. Luke Connelly. Luckily for her, his profile was completely public. Investment banker. Toronto. Got engaged to Brooke Lynn Hytes in August, 2015. Broke up with Brooke Lynn Hytes March, 2018. Well, this is just an assumption. There’s a surplus of brand new photos featuring a much younger, much smaller blonde girl. Her names Ariel and she’s a makeup artist. Vanessa also assumes Luke has known her longer than March.

After spending the better part of an hour scouring through the network of profiles, Vanessa concludes that she isn’t going to reach the deadline. That’s always when she decides that maybe she needs a drink.

…

Brooke’s been bored shitless for days. She’s really trying to stick to the promise she made with Nina. To behave herself, stay out of trouble. It’s been easier that she thought to do so. In the week she had been home, she had left the house only once and the entire time strangers gawked at her like they had seen a ghost. She spent her hours dwindling down her parents collection of mature wines and watching whatever Netflix recommended to her. It was just enough to distract her from thinking about her life, but not enough to entertain her.

As the supplies began to run dry, Brooke had begun to look for some new ways to keep her occupied without leaving the house. Late one afternoon, she found herself curiously rummaging through her father’s collection of vinyl records. Most of them she remembered fondly, her father playing them softly through the house whenever he was home. Brooke chose one at random, examining the cover for a moment before turning to the track list. Born In The USA. Gently, she removes the cover and places it on the turntable. As the needle hits the vinyl, the first notes of a familiar song begin playing.

Brooke takes a seat on her father’s armchair, resting her chin in her hand. This was the album she used to dance around the house to as a kid with her dad. He’d swing her around in circles until her mother would stop them in frustration. Her father was the first one to suggest that Brooke should take dance lessons, and with extreme perseverance, her mother finally agreed. Sometimes, Brooke wished that she followed that path instead. There was always this voice in her head that told her to be realistic, get a real job, get married, have a normal life. It was so much easier to surrender. So she moved to Toronto, trained with the police and got engaged to the first man who showed interest in her. And now this fantasy world she had built for herself was crumbling.

That was the worst part of it all. This wasn’t even what Brooke wanted. All of this was a masquerade. Brooke had lured all these people into this lie. That’s what she felt the most guilty about. Nina, Luke, her parents. People who are going to be hurt in the fallout. Tears begin welling up in her eyes. Her chest is heavy and it isn’t long before Brooke is choking back sobs. She falls back into the armchair, weeping to the soft hum of her father’s music.

…

Brooke awakens, weary-eyed and hazy, instantly drawn to the sounds of movement in the room. She rubs the sleep from her eyes, slowly opening them towards her father tidying up in the corner of the room. The album had come to a halt, needle caught spinning in the deadwax.

“Springsteen huh?” He holds up the cover to Brooke, grinning. Brooke sits herself up, limbs still tired.

“I just picked whatever.”

“You know,” her father slides the album between hundreds of others on the shelf, “We used to dance to this when you were little. Your mother hated it.”

“Yeah,” Brooke’s reply is soft, “I remember.”

Outside, the world has become dark. The sun had set and the stars were high above. Her father goes back to what he was previously doing, solemn with nostalgia. Of all the people she has hurt over the years, her father had taken it the hardest. In his eyes, Brooke would always be his little girl. And yet he knows everything Brooke has done.

“Your mother-,” there’s a beat, he turns towards his daughter, “and I, we think it’s best if you see someone again. I know you won’t like the idea-“

“I’m fine, Dad,” she hoists herself up, begins to walk towards him, “I don’t need a stranger to pry inside my mind.”

There was always this uncertainty around how Brooke would react. Every since she was young, Brooke had always lashed out in unexpected ways. It was her way of controlling things, taking everything out on herself. Entirely impossible to predict. By now, her father knew to approach things with caution or else prepare for the worst. If Brooke was heading on the path of self-destruction, nothing could stop her.

“Brooke,” he rests the palms of his hands on her shoulders, “You keep drinking the day away. I hear you awake at all hours of the night. I don’t think you have eaten a single meal since you’ve been home. What if you relapse? What if it’s worse? We’re just worried.”

“I’m not going to waste my time pouring my heart out to someone, just to tell me how much of a bad person I am. I already know that I’m a terrible person.”

“Just,” he presses a kiss on her forehead in between his words, “Think about it for me. Promise me?”

“Okay, I will.”

Looming over her, Brooke has all these promises she’s destined to break. Going to therapy, bringing her problems to light, sounded like the worst scenario. For now, Brooke carries this weight with her. There’s a million things demanding her attention that she will continue to keep repressed for as long as she possibly can. She needs something to stop the noise, even if it’s just for a minute. She just needs something.

…

When Brooke first enters the doors of the bar, it was as if she never left. In the two years since she had been home, the place had not changed in the slightest way. The jukebox booms over all the other noise in the room. Eerily empty, the sparse customers all focused on the hockey game playing silently on the TV. Brooke saunters up to the bar, leaning over towards the bartender.

“A whiskey on the rocks please,” She asks politely, the bartender raising his eyebrow at the request. Brooke slides the money towards him.

“That’s not the kind of drink a pretty girl like you should be orderin’,” An older man calls from across the bar. The gathering of people around him snicker at the comment. Brooke rolls her eyes and knocks back her drink in a single gulp. She doesn’t flinch as it burns her throat.

“I’ll take another one please,” She smirks, the men on the other side of the room stop instantly. She could out-drink each and every one of them. Brooke perches herself on a stool, downing her second drink at a much slower pace. That’s something she didn’t miss about being single, the attention she would receive from men. Having a ring on her finger was enough protection. Men respected other men. They respected the concept of her husband more than they cared about the woman before her. Now she was exposed and vulnerable. A pretty unclaimed woman. The thought of it all made Brooke feel ill.

Hey, little girl, is your daddy home?  Did he go away and leave you all alone?  I got a bad desire.

Oh, oh, oh  I’m on fire.

The melody of a familiar song begins playing in the background among the blur of chatter and clamouring of glass. Brooke empties her glass and orders a replacement. She looks back behind her briefly, caught off guard by a piercing glare in her direction. A woman sitting alone in a booth with caramel hair and dark eyes. Hauntingly beautiful. The eye contact causes Brooke to recoil, turning her head back to face the bar immediately. Brooke’s almost certain she’s still staring, burning her way through her skull. A part of her wants to turn back, take a good once over of this woman.

Tell me now, baby, is he good to you?  And can he do to you the things that I do?  Oh no, I can take you higher.

Oh, oh, oh  I’m on fire.

A cacophony of drunken men erupt in song. It’s rowdy and loud, arms being thrown around shoulders in camaraderie. An average night in a small town bar. It distracts Brooke for long enough to forget about the mysterious woman behind her. Enamoured by the chaos. They sing and slosh their drinks around, whiskey and rum flooding the floor.

Sometimes it’s like someone took a knife, baby, edgy and dull , And cut a six-inch valley through the middle of my skull . At night, I wake up with the sheets soakin’ wet , And a freight train runnin’ through the middle of my head.

Tapping her foot against the stool, Brooke can’t help to hum along. She envisions her father joyfully spinning her around their living room, lifting her up high towards the ceiling. They slide around on the floorboards in their socks, jump around on the sofa while her mother is away. Her eyes are closed but Brooke is beaming, immersed in the song.

 Only you can cool my desire.

Oh, oh, oh  I’m on fire.

And as the song draws to a close, Brooke is brought slowly back to reality. She’s alone and slightly tipsy in public. The outro rings through her ears. The spontaneous karaoke is replaced by conversation. The room is back how it once was. Brooke curiously glances behind her.

The booth was completely empty. The woman was no longer there.

…

After a while, she slips out the front for a cigarette. The night air caresses her exposed skin. She’s dressed quite casually, ripped jeans and a baggy shirt that slouched down her shoulder. Brooke didn’t have the commitment to dress like she used to. It cost money and her precious time to look that way. She covers her cigarette to light it, inhaling sharply, exhaling the smoke into the night.

It was a bad habit, but not her worst by any means. While the thought didn’t necessarily thrill her parents or Nina, they gathered it was much better she smoked then binged on drugs or hurt herself again. Brooke liked the routine of it all. It was a meditative experience, taking time out of her day just for herself. Nina had argued that it was making time to slowly kill yourself, but the argument was lost on Brooke. She was always going to do what she wanted, regardless of what anyone had to say. On a good day, they were enough to keep her calm. On a bad day, well, they just came in handy.

Today, Brooke wasn’t entirely sure where she was at. The hours passed painfully slow. Maybe it was just the alcohol clouding her brain, but everything had felt almost like a dream. Dampening her brain with masses of alcohol had just saturated that feeling. Brooke couldn’t stop thinking about that woman. She was utterly surreal. It could have all been part of her imagination, a hallucination. But the fierce stare had penetrated straight into Brooke’s soul. The interaction had been so abrupt, had it been literally anyone else, it would have already slipped her mind.

But it lingers, and it burns.

If Brooke was smart, she would go home and sleep it off. Wake up in the morning, perhaps a little hungover, but at least with a clear mind. Her mind is foggy, just enough for her to keep pushing. She takes the final drags of her cigarette, stubbs the remainder into the wall and she steps towards the building’s door. Except as the door swings open, Brooke’s stopped in the tracks by a sudden force. She loses her balance temporarily as the other person curses in a raspy voice.

“Hey! Watch where you’re goin’.”

“I’m so sor-“ Brooke starts, as she looks up. Caramel hair. Dark eyes. Oh fuck.

Startled, both women step back. The other woman’s mouth agape, eyes wide. Deer in the headlights. Once she regains composure, Brooke restarts her apology.

“I’m so sorry, I should watch where I’m going.”

“Uh,” the woman stammers, “Don’t worry about it. I was just leavin’.”

Hurried, she pushes past her trying to escape. Brooke reaches out, in a rare moment of intoxicated bravery, and grabs her wrist gently. Her fingertips ignite at the feathery touch.

“Wait!” Brooke’s words come out shaky in confusion, hoping, praying that somehow she can get this woman to stay. Brooke was definitely intrigued, “Let me buy you a drink to apologise.”

“I-“ The woman pulls away, stuttering through her words, “I have to go.”

Swiftly, the woman disappears into the night. Left silent and astounded, Brooke is still. Illuminated in the neon light, wind hissing in her ear.

Brooke is on fire.

#rpdr fanfiction #branjie #angst #lesbian au #slow burn #in retrograde #ephemerals #submission #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo

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ariderofcomets · 6 years

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Descrying love.

PART II-

The incestous relationship between Cersei and Jaime Lannister has, in my eyes, always been problematic. Setting aside the fact that it involves incest (honestly, some could argue that's reason enough), there are so many other reasons why it could never work out between them, and the progression of the story is leading us to just that.

First, a note on Cersei Lannister.

I had begun to dislike Cersei from the very start of the series, but my feelings were fixated after I read A feast for crows. It didn't, of course, marr my enjoyment of her POV chapters. To me, reading some parts of her story involved equal portions of amusement and disbelief. Her internal monologue, laced with malice for almost everyone she encountered, was at times, cringeworthy. Sometimes, I had to pause, put my book aside, and dwell on just how far she went with her delusions and what that meant for her.

Some might say that her paranoia was justified. Isn't she facing imminent death at the hands of a 'valonqar'? Doesn't she have proof to support the fact that the Tyrells were, in fact, the perpetrators in her son's death? Yes, I will not be the one to deny that. Cersei Lannister is not the first person to do everything in her literal power to thwart a fate that has been prophesized to be unfortunate, to lash out blindly with a club as if to deter her destiny. But it has caused harm to so many innocent people, and that has never bothered her, not in the least. In her fits of rage, she is sometimes callously cruel, even to those she loves (and that list is shorter than her temper).

By Dance with Dragons, of course, I had begun to pity her, because yes, no matter how horrible a person she was, she deserved none of what the insurgent, radically insane Faith Militant doled out for her (the same Faith Militant, which, in a move that she believed was a stroke of genius, she allowed to be freed from their restrictions), but I am afraid that was all the empathy that I could muster.

To Cersei, the only person worth protecting in Westeros is herself, and her children. She wants them to bend to her will, because only she knows what's right for them. She may have been trying to protect Tommen, with his best interests at heart, but unarguably, the two do not have the best mother-child relationship. As a matter of fact, Cersei did not have that with any of her children. In Joffrey, she encouraged the streak of blatant brutality, in fact even stating that her son's willfulness was his best quality as it would keep him out of trouble in the treacherous mire that King's Landing was. I have no doubt that she was trying to be a good mother, but I also suspect she was anything but that in Tommen's eyes.

In her defense, one can also add that she believed that she was shielding her children from the worst effects of the waves of war that crashed around them. In some instances, however, it seemed to me that she was using the protection of her children as an excuse to assuage, or even absolve herself of blame in the face of the hair raising atrocities that she subjected some of her people to (Blue bard and Falyse). Here is what she thinks after she torments the Blue Bard into admitting to a lie that would aid in framing Margaery-

Getting the truth was wearisome work, and she dreaded what must follow. I must be strong. What I must do for Tommen and the realm. It was a pity that Maggy the Frog was dead. Piss on your prophecy, old woman. The little queen may be younger than I, but she has never been more beautiful, and soon she will be dead.

In this statement, Cersei imputes all that she does to Tommen and the realm, and then, in the very same stream of thought, goes on to dwell over Maggy the Frog and her own motives for wanting Margaery dead. So while Cersei may tell herself all she wants that all of her actions benefit her children alone, they are, in the end, rooted in her own desire to put the stopper on the prophecy that predicts her ousting from power and death.

Cersei is also a woman who believes that everyone takes her opinions with a pinch of salt because of her gender. Her entire life, she has seen firsthand the yawning black chasm of differentiation that exists between women and men in Westeros. Her father had always sought to sell her like a commodity to men she never wished to marry, even as her twin was allowed to tread the path to glory. This is, of course, the very picture of injustice, one that exists in the entirety of Westeros. All of our fortuitous female characters, from Sansa to Arya to Brienne to Asha have been subjected to this form of discrimination.

But how did Cersei choose to react to this inequity? By believing that she had been cursed by being born into the wrong gender, that women were weak and vapid and soft and could only wield power with the 'charms of their sex' and what was 'between their legs'. She eyes most women with distaste and contempt and distances herself from every frail thing that she has associated with femininity and looks to find 'masculine traits' within her, traits which will help her manage the realm as efficiently as her father. Womanly emotions are viewed as nugatory by her, and even when she is queen, she does not do much to alleviate the condition of women in Westeros, botherations not very different from her own. Instead of shunning the flawed paradigm of women that so many men in Westeros hold, she believes it, and begrudges her fate for having been born a woman.

Okay, so Cersei Lannister may not be my absolute favorite character, but seeing as how everything in her life is in a jumbled disarray, and how she is treading the fine line between suspicion and full blown paranoia, she deserves to be freed from any other exigency that weighs her down, including destructive or toxic relationships in her life, which is what her brother needs too, maybe more than her. Where best to start but with each other?

When one person truly loves another person, they will go out of their way to ensure that they do all they can to ease any suffering the other person may be enduring, even if they have to put aside their own sorrows for the moment or if not that, at least listen to the other person and then relay their own difficulties. Even listening to someone talk about their worries can go a long way in making them feel better.

Now, when Jaime came back from Riverrun, miamed both physically and mentally, he practically rushed to Cersei, and didn't even wait for her to consent before proceeding to make love to her. He knew that Cersei had lost a son. Albeit a monstrous one, she was still his sister, and he should have been more understanding of the circumstances.

And Cersei? She was repulsed by his stump. Instead of bolstering his already frangible self esteem, she went on to reveal her own intentions and plans to him, hoping to rope him in, all for her own benefit, even going so far as to asking him to quit the Kingsguard (an institution she had once asked him to join for her own purposes). And when he refused?

Was it your hand they hacked off in Harrenhal, or your manhood?

You great golden fool. He's lied to you a thousand times, and so have I.

Oh, an angry cripple. How terrifying. A pity Lord Tywin Lannister never had a son. I could have been the heir he wanted, but I lacked a cock.

It is clear from their interaction that Cersei was thinking only of herself and of the problems that she would soon encounter, not sparing much thought for her brother's conflict and pain.

While I do not doubt that Cersei and Jaime loved each other as they grew up together in Casterly Rock, I do know that this love must have begun purely as the love that brothers and sisters share, and in their case, a deeper bond of twinhood. This was warped by their thoughtless experimentations later, and as the years advanced and they continued to attach a sexual relationship to it, they twisted the sinuous connection even further.

I do not think they were ever in love. Cersei Lannister surely wasn't. Even as a little girl, she had dreamed of marrying Rhaegar, dreamed of soaring into the gaping skies with him upon the scaly back of a majestic dragon. Her love for her brother, which had begun as platonic, was only sexual for sating her own needs. For lack of a better analogy, his role in her life could be likened to a bloodrider.

I name you ko, and ask your oath, that you should live and die as blood of my blood, riding at my side to keep me safe from harm.

-An oath asked of a bloodrider

They were the khal's brothers, his shadows, his fiercest friends. "Blood of my blood," Drogo called them, and so it was; they shared a single life.

In my opinion, this is pretty much how Cersei views Jaime. A man who is hers, to protect her, live and die for her and vanquish her enemies. She loved him, and he pleasured her, but she was never in love with him. She believed that he was, wholeheartedly, and that she deserved to use that to her advantage, which was what she did most of their life (Prominent instances that stand out to me- Persuading him to join the Kingsguard and asking him to miam or kill Arya on sight if he found her in Darry). When he began to demonstrate his heedlessness to her wishes, she began to regard him differently- He had changed, and he was a thorn in her side. He was supposed to assist her in whatever she did, and if he couldn't do that, she had to send him away.

As for Jaime, he had painted an entirely inaccurate picture of the relationship in his mind. In his ideally rose tinted imaginings, he was the Warrior and Cersei was the Maiden. He believed he loved her for her uproarious flames, but he never gazed deep enough to see the crucible of untamed wildfire. She believed she loved him for his undying fierceness, but never quite took the time to see the contrariant idealism and carefully buried trauma shoved away inside. Neither of them knew or understood the other entirely, they 'loved' each other because they had projected the image of who they believed each other to be on to themselves. The curtains were flung from their eyes in the gales of the personal tribulations that they had to face (particularly for Jaime, who was forced to re-evaluate his whole life).

After discovering that his sister hadn't been as loyal to him as he had to her, and encountering aspects of her that he didn't knew existed, he thinks-

I thought that I was the Warrior and Cersei was the Maid, but all the time she was the Stranger, hiding her true face from my gaze.

And here is an excerpt from his conversation with Daven which highlights his disillusionment-

"How is Cersei? As beautiful as ever?"

"Radiant." Fickle. "Golden." False as a fool's gold.

He also dreamed of finding her in bed with Moon Boy and in the very same dream, proceeded to smash her teeth in, which is a very violent form of expression of the dismay in his sub-conscious mind.

But the one scene that sums his disenchantment up the best is when he throws this letter by Cersei into the fire-

Come at once. Help me. Save me. I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once."

When Cersei sends this letter to Jaime, her need is truly dire. Her sending such a letter and Jaime's reaction upon receiving it both reflect exactly what their relationship has come to.

While Cersei knows that Jaime could not possibly be of any aid to her without his sword hand, she wants him by her side, because isn't that how it has always been? He was meant to protect her. They were meant to die together. He had to come.

And Jaime? He chose not to go.

He chooses not to go when the woman he is supposedly in love with needs him the most.

She has never come to me, he thought, She has always waited, letting me come to her. She gives, but I must ask.

Could it be attributed to his rage at being betrayed? Possibly. But how long can rage last in the face of truly eternal love, and particularly a loved one in mortal peril? Jaime chose to ignore Cersei's request because he no longer wanted to give up everything for a woman who was, in all probability, only going to require him for that purpose. He was not about to put everything on the line for a woman whose shrouded true face had slowly begun to come into the light. He was a knight of the Kingsguard, entrusted with an important task, and he meant to see it through. He didn't leave, even though he knew it could mean a terrible punishment for Cersei, or even death.

Jaime had started to discover other priorities in his life, and Cersei had begun to see him for just who he was. Both of them had. How can two completely different people with a set of conflicting beliefs, who don't see eye to eye, and who dream of things that the other could never possibly comprehend, ever summon true love within themselves for each other? Can a woman who has viewed love as a sweet poison ever look beyond to realise what the liberation and wonderment of love truly entails? Love isn't poison. The absence of love is. Can a man who has distorted sibling love and attached a component of lust to it ever see how truly falling in love with someone is like?

I sure hope they can (though in Cersei's case, sadly, it is unlikely) and I also understand that it is implausible so long as they continue to view each other as lovers.

Theirs isn't a tragic love story. It isn't a love story at all.

And beautiful, wonderful, Brienne of Tarth deserves her own love story, and I really hope that she finds it with the man she has begun to love.

Note-Excerpts from the books in italics.

#asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #cersei lannister #jaime lannister #jaime x cersei #brienne of tarth #jaime x brienne #asoiaf meta

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aamccarthy · 5 years

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Lucifer and Thomas - The Pencil

Wattpad Link: https://www.wattpad.com/story/186855778-lucifer-and-thomas

Artwork Master List

Chapter 1 - 10 Master List

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

—–

The lessons were uneventful and dull. Lucifer rolled a pencil back and forth on his desk, barely paying any attention to what the teacher was saying. Small little demons darted in and out of the shadows, they were harmless but would occasionally prank a student by causing them to stumble or trip. He amused himself by watching their antics, passing the time as he sat through his first English class. An hour passed and now they were in a Maths class.

‘Levi.’ He called out, utterly bored, ‘What are you doing?’

‘Talking with Asmodeus about the Empyrean. Astaroth hadn’t managed to find anything,’ Lucifer felt a flicker of annoyance come from Leviathan, ‘But Asmodeus had actually managed to go through and collect some resources for us. We are going through them now.’

‘Find anything interesting?’ He stopped rolling the pencil back and forth, the teacher had asked a question and several of the students around him had their hands raised in the air, shouting ‘pick me, pick me!’. He found the gesture strange.

‘Confirmation of what we already knew. Shortly after our Rebellion, Father created the Empyrean and created two new types of Angels, then isolated himself within the Holy Realm. That matches the intel we had. The surprising thing though is that since isolating himself, no one except these two new types of Angels has seen him since.’

Lucifer raised an eyebrow, sitting up in his chair, spinning his pencil in his hand, ‘That is interesting. So, who is running Heaven?’

‘Those two. According to the information we have, they are the representatives of the Empyrean and the voice of God.’ Leviathan replied.

‘And what are they exactly?’

‘They appear to be Fiery Ones possessing the same abilities as the Seraphim, but are different. In the text that Asmodeus found, they are referred to as the Phoenix and the Chalkydri.’ Lucifer tightened his grip on the pencil. ‘They are twelve-winged beings, and are supposedly stronger than any Seraph ever created before.’ Leviathan paused, then continued quietly, ‘Both the Phoenix and the Chalkydri have been Blessed with the Miracle of the White Holy Flame.’ The pencil in Lucifer’s hand shattered and his eyes darkened in anger.

No Angel had ever been blessed with the Miracle of the White Holy Flame before. It was a flame of cleansing and destructive ability, one that only their Father had. Lucifer remembered his Father’s lessons, and how he had told Lucifer and his brothers about the Holy Flame. When he had asked if his Father would ever pass on the Blessing, he refused and had cautioned them against it, saying that the Flame did not discriminate against good or bad, that it had the potential to destroy even Hell, upsetting the balance of the world, and that is why he would never release it from his hand.

Why though? Why did He bless another with the White Holy Flame? Lucifer felt himself shaking in anger. He wanted to march up to the Empyrean and demand an explanation from his Father. He felt heat surge through his body and he tightened his hands into fists as he mustered his self control to avoid going through and setting anything alight. He could vague hear Leviathan’s voice, but it was faint, his mind had clouded over in anger and all he could hear was the pounding of the blood in his ears. His eyes had begun to darken to black.

Thomas looked over at Lucifer, then gently tugged at his sleeve. Lucifer turned and glared at the offender, but then stopped when he saw Thomas’ wide eyes.

“Here.” Thomas whispered, placing a new pencil in his hand.

Lucifer wordlessly took the pencil as Thomas quickly looked away, staring intently at the board before him. His eyes slowly brightened from black to their normal gold colour.

‘Sire?’ Leviathan called out, hesitantly. He had felt Lucifer’s anger.

‘Leave me.’ Lucifer uttered, cutting off the mental link. He opened his palm, staring at the pencil in his hand. He hadn’t seen that look on Thomas’ face before. The boy was wide eyed… and scared? Closing his hand over the pencil, he held it towards his chest.

He was used to having people look at him in fear, but didn’t want to see that look on Thomas. It felt as if there was a heavy weight on his chest, so he drew his palm closer, trying to make the sensation go away.

The bell rung and Lucifer looked up as chairs scraped across the ground and all the children in the room stood up, the teacher tried to talk over the noise but the students ignored them, quickly rushing out the door. Lucifer saw that Thomas had gotten up and had also walked out the door. He quickly got to his feet to chase after him, but several students pushed past Lucifer, and Thomas fell out of sight.

The rush appeared to be over as quickly as it had started; all the students but Lucifer and the teacher were left in the room.

“Go on then,” The teacher urged, “go have lunch.”

Lucifer looked back at the pencil in his hand, it had been used but was well looked after. There were no dints, chips or chew marks in the wood and near the end, on the side the word ‘Thomas’ was engraved. He quietly pocketed it, before walking out of the room.

He walked through the school, casting his mind out attempting to sense where Thomas was. It was difficult to concentrate, and he could barely hear anything. It was like being in a crowded room where everyone was talking at once and trying to pick up a single voice.

Lucifer stepped out of the main hallway, descending down the stairs outside. Students were scattered outside, some were sitting under trees eating their lunch, whilst others played on the playground equipment. He shoved his hands in his pockets, walking around, trying to find the young boy. After some searching, he was able to locate Thomas sitting at the edge of the oval, next to the storage shed. He was resting against a tree and was eating his lunch quietly.

“Thomas?” Lucifer called out softly, hesitation in his voice.

Thomas looked up and coughed, choking on his food. “Luce! How did you find me?” He coughed again, then rubbed at his mouth before taking a drink.

Lucifer shrugged and sat down beside him, he opened his mouth to say something but no words came out. He frowned and instead looked at the ground.

Thomas looked at him and paused, trying to work out what to say.

“I’m,” Lucifer began, then sighed, running his fingers through his hair, “I’m not good at controlling my temper.”

“Luce?”

“I told you earlier, I’m not too sure how this friend thing works, so I’m probably pretty shit at it, but I’m willing to try.” He tugged at the red streak from his hair and stared at it, avoiding Thomas’ curious gaze, “I need to work on better controlling my emotions and not lashing out. So, if I scared you earlier, I’m sorry. I can’t promise I won’t do it again, but I’ll try not to at least.”

Thomas blinked then looked down at the ground, “That’s OK.” He drew a circle in the dirt, then looked up, “I wasn’t scared. Just, surprised.” Thomas looked up at Lucifer, giving him a squinty eyed look. “You looked really grumpy.”

Grumpy was an understatement… Lucifer scoffed to himself as a small smile crept across his face, “I guess I was.” He responded, bemused. “Here.” He dug his hand into his pocket and held out the pencil that Thomas had given him earlier, “Thanks for lending it to me.”

“Ah,” Thomas held up his hands in front of his face, shaking them slightly, “No, you keep it. Look after it, it’s one of my favourites.” He smiled.

Lucifer looked at the pencil, apart from it almost looking new, he didn’t really understand how someone could have a favorite pencil. Was that a normal human trait?

The bell rung, signalling the end of the lunch break. Thomas stood up and dusted off his shorts then handed Lucifer a red apple, “Did you eat?”

“No?” Lucifer took the apple in curiosity, turning it in his hands. He remembered when he had presented an apple similar to this to the first humans that were created, back in the Garden of Eden. That was the start of his feud with his Father.

He bit into it and followed Thomas as they made their way back to the school. He vaguely wondered what had happened to Lilith. She was the first woman that his Father had created, but Adam was unhappy with her, and she was cast out, replaced instead with a woman named Eve. Lilith was of similar mind of the Angels, born with free will and thought, the same as Adam. Adam though, despite having free will was too eager to please his Creator, and Eve was nothing more than an obedient doll. She had no free thought and seemed content to just follow Adam’s word. Lucifer had felt pity for the two humans, trapped in that little garden, but it was Lilith who was the one who prompted Lucifer to give humans the Forbidden Fruit of Knowledge. Part of him was always curious if her actions were out of spite or because she genuinely wanted them to be aware.

He took another bite of the apple, not realising that Thomas had asked a question, having been lost in thought, “What was that?”

“I said,” Thomas sighed, repeating himself, “do you know what class you have next?”

Lucifer continued to eat the apple, “Hmm, something called Physical Education?”

“Yay! You are on the same rotation as me.” Thomas grinned.

---

Lucifer stood to the side, under the shade of a tree, watching the students running around a track. The teacher blew on a whistle, and all the children stopped running and immediately started doing ‘jumping stars’. He had learnt about that awful term only minutes prior - something about jumping up and down on the spot and throwing your legs and arms out at the same time, all in the name of ‘fitness’.

He didn’t have a sports uniform, so got to sit out today, but the teacher instructed him to ask his father to organise one for him so he wouldn’t miss the next class. Lucifer decided that there was no way he would participate in this strange form of tortue that humans called ‘physical education’. He had already started planning on getting Leviathan to contact the school that afternoon and have him withdrawn from this class, or at least put on the sidelines.

He was happy to watch, but he refused to participate.

Looking over at the children, they had stopped their jumping stars and were now either standing or bent over, breathing heavily, sweat dripping down their faces and backs. He crinkled his nose in annoyance. Why did humans even do this to themselves? They were so weird.

Thomas jogged over to where Lucifer stood in the shade, “How-” he stopped, then caught his breath, leaning over as he rested his hands on his knees, “how are you holding up? Are you bored?”

“Is this what they really make small humans do each week?” Lucifer asked, aghast.

“Uh, I guess?” Thomas scratched his head, confused at the question.

“Why?”

“Fitness and health I think?” Thomas looked down at his foot, and there was a small ball like demon that started to climb onto his shoe. He shifted his weight, stepping to the side slightly.

Lucifer raised his eye at the action, “Can you see them?”

“Yeah,” Thomas said distractedly, stepping away again as the demon attempted to continue clambering up his shoe. “Mum says to ignore them, otherwise they will keep bothering you. I’m usually really good at ignoring them, but I don’t like them touching me.”

Raising an eyebrow, Lucifer didn’t say anything. He had already suspected that the kid could see demons; judging by his response, or lack there of both to his Satan form and the demons that were released from the mini Pandora’s Box. Thomas had seemed more surprised and interested in Lucifer’s banishing ability than the large swarm of demons that had spawned.

Bending over, he reached down and picked up the demon, squeezing it slightly, causing it to squeal. It possibly explained how Thomas was able to see through Berith’s glamour as well. He still didn’t believe what Nick had said about the boy being human, there were just too many inconsistencies. He quickly set his hand alight and the demon dissolved in a burst of black smoke. The flame on his had vanished abruptly once the demon was gone.

“Can people see when you do that?” Thomas asked, pointing to Lucifer’s hand.

“My flame?”

Thomas nodded in reply.

He hadn’t actually thought about it. Perhaps he should use glamour for it, or maybe not. “They probably can. But, humans are quick to dismiss things that are unbelievable, choosing not to see the truth.”

“Mum said the same thing too.”

“Thomas! Get back over here!” The teacher yelled and the boy jumped, laughing nervously.

“Bye Luce!” Thomas waved and ran back to the class.

Lucifer’s eyes widened as he watched as the boy ran, a path of Demon Summon Circles appeared on the ground, appearing wherever Thomas foot touched the ground. They started out inactive, but then slowly something or someone started pouring Essence into them, causing them to glow blue. Lucifer’s eyes glowed vibrant gold as he raised his foot, and stomped it on the ground.

Immediately a golden circle with swirling symbols appeared on the ground and Lucifer uttered a single word, his voice dangerously low, almost in a hiss, “Berith.”

#Lucifer and Thomas #LuciferAndThomas #Adventures with Lucifer and a Boy Named Thomas #Lucifer Fiction #Original Story #Original Fiction #Writers of Tumblr #Writeblr #Fiction

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uni-tierra-califas · 7 years

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[Unitierracalifas] UT Califas Fierce Care ateneo, 01.28.17, 2.00-5.00 p.m

Compañerxs

The Universidad de la Tierra Califas' Fierce Care Ateneo will gather on Saturday, January 28, from 2.00 - 5.00 p.m. at Miss Ollie's / Swans Market (901 Washington Street, Oakland, a few blocks from the 12th Street BART station) to continue our regular, open reflection and action space to explore questions and struggles related to the emerging politics of fierce care as well as some of the questions below.

J20 arrived with full streets. As promised, we witnessed mobilizations from all quarters with a wide array of constituencies and types of action engaged. The energy began percolating once the election results were clear and it was evident that the nation would have to endure at least four years of Donald Trump's presidency. The convergences, protests, student walk-outs, strikes, (such as the one voted on J19 by the dock workers in the seven ports of California) and direct actions in streets, on railway tracks, and a range of public spaces across America including those that targeted corporate sites colluding with or at the center of a right wing back lash were noteworthy and necessary. The day after the week of marches and mobilizations, especially and including the Women’s March, begs a critical question that everyone has already been asking: after the marches what next? And what exactly happened over the week with the culmination of the mobilization on Saturday? The Women's March on Washington and the mobilizations across the country far outweighed the inauguration and the juxtaposition confirmed what we already know: that while the Trump administration and it's bombastic claim to "make America great again" does not represent large numbers of the American population, there is a repression descending that will impact us all. The bumbling mendacity of the transition team not withstanding, the Trump presidency represents the extreme of American arrogance, an attitude that reflects the most shrill notes of American (neo)liberalism.

Some argue that despite the spectacular success of the Women's march, we should be cautious about what it represents especially noting how it possibly signals the privatization of struggle given the dominance of the non-profit sector in all facets of the effort. We have also noticed that many news channels celebrated the march as the beginning of a “social movement,” a strategic claim in the professionalized joust over words and numbers between Trump and the press. The march was notable for the participation of ordinary women and their supporters, but mainstream participation from a disproportionately white crowd can also portend a certain level of de-politicization even though it is actually a profound moment of civic engagement. The question is what to do with this contradiction in a moment when we must (re)build grassroots institutions. By grassroots institutions we do not mean NGOs or 501(c)3s, rather we mean those moments when folks claim the arts of self-governance in locally rooted efforts by relying on what they already know —citizens actively making decisions not about their security or defense, but about their regeneration and the safety/space required for it. "Although the majority is not accustomed to self-government," explains Gustavo Esteva, "the impulse is profound and general. No one needs to be trained to do it. It begins at home when we create the conditions for the whole family, even young children and the elderly, to participate in the decisions that affect everyone. It then moves to the condominium, the street, the neighborhood, to all the spheres of reality in which every person moves." (see, Esteva, "Aprender a gobernarnos" <http://www.jornada.unam.mx/2017/01/16/opinion/016a1pol>)

The inauguration speech left little doubt that the Trump administration will invest heavily in a repressive apparatus to manage the mobilized outrage that will only grow as Trump and his cronies loot what they can as they can. It should be of no surprise who Trump and the white supremacists he empowers around him will blame for the violence across the country. As he stated in his inaugural: "And the crime, and the gangs, and the drugs that have stolen too many lives and robbed our country of so much unrealized potential. This American carnage stops right here and stops right now." No matter how clumsy it might be, it still signals a commitment to blame the victims. Kali Akuno of the Malcom X Grassroots Movement warns, "all of us, the veterans and rookies of struggle must get prepared for the worse —massive surveillance, repression, imprisonment, isolation, and assassination. We would be fools to take the new situation lightly. We must learn, really learn, from the failures of societies and movements in the past that failed to fully challenge white nationalism and fascism as they emerge, and even more so when they get a grasp of power. We have entered a period where sacrifice, self-sacrifice of the highest order, is imperative. If we don't view the situation this way, and resist as if our lives depended upon it (which they in fact do), we will find ourselves either back in the 16th century or extinct. So, people should expect intense repression and get prepared to make tremendous sacrifices." (see, "How to Prepare for the 'Trumpocalypse': Notes from an Organizer"<http://www.telesurtv.net/…/How-to-Prepare-for-the-Trumpocal…>) From across the nation, groups working on the ground brace for an anticipated spike in violence: deportations and the breaking up of families and communities, the ramping up of militarized policing, incarceration and surveillance, and political repression in myriad forms. Groups targeted during the campaign and their allies have organized sanctuary spaces and have begun implementing defense strategies. Beyond national borders, we brace for the legitimatization of more violence, including those violences exacted through increased settlements in Palestine and escalating tensions with Iran.

Reclaiming America through enhanced security measures, it seems abundantly clear to most that Trump's presidency will usher in a new era of militarized violence. But, the violence has been with us. Many have been contesting it for generations. And there seemed to be no respite with the Obama presidency. Many mainstream Americans, for example, have not been completely aware of the price paid by communities defending mother earth, especially the cost borne by communities confronting extractive industries directly. For those disenfranchised by the neoliberal machine and engaged in these struggles for survival, the violence is everywhere —in the privatization and poisoning of water, the destruction of forests, the infiltration of crops by genetically modified agents, the poisoning of the air including from the very paint on the walls in homes of primarily Black and Brown communities. (see, "Fruitvale District Has Highest Levels of Lead Poisoning in California" <https://www.indybay.org/newsitems/2017/01/12/18795313.php>)

In the turmoil of the election and leading up to the inauguration, mobilizations have been growing across the country against pipelines. While the Whitehouse.gov website quickly scrubbed all references to many social justice issues including climate change, angry citizens and Indigenous communities have joined forces in the Trans-pecos region and extended the efforts in Standing Rock to stop yet another pipeline, declaring a moratorium on environmentally destructive drilling and pipelines. (see, Derek Royden, "Fighting the Black Snake at Two Rivers: How Standing Rock-style protest came to west Texas" <http://www.nationofchange.org/…/fighting-black-snake-two-r…/>) The sacrifices of Indigenous communities at the front lines of the battle to protect the earth are gaining strength and visibility in the U.S., and continue to be central to Indigenous resistances and struggles for survival across Mexico and the rest of Latin America. But the costs have been great. On January 15, Isidro Baldenegro López, a Tarahumara who dedicated his life to protecting the forests in his native Chihuahua was shot to death by a lone gunman. Baldenegro's assassination recalls the death of Berta Caceres (March 2016) who was also struck down and taken from us for her tireless devotion to the environment and her community. (see, Nina Lakhani, "Second winner of environmental prize killed months after Berta Cáceres death."

<https://www.theguardian.com/…/isidro-baldenegro-lopez-kille…>) Both "community leaders" had earned world-wide recognition for their work. Yet the awards and accolades from people and institutions eager to find climate solutions could not prevent their murder. Even as the climate accords are being dismantled at pace with other protective measures including national health care, we are forced to interrogate the role of large institutions in protecting those on the frontlines of climate change. How can we reclaim our communities against such senseless and cynical violence by those few who only know to plunder, to take for themselves. Global Witness' "On Dangerous Ground" reports that "more than three people were killed a week in 2015 defending their land, forests, and rivers against destructive industries." In the investigation, Global Witness "documented 185 killings across 16 countries —by far the highest annual death toll on record and more than double the number of journalists killed in the same period." Brazil alone witnessed 50 killings of people fighting forms of extratavist capital in 2015. (see, "On Dangerous Ground" <https://www.globalwitness.org/en/reports/dangerous-ground/>) There is little disagreement that Trump's acceptance speech was a blatant, bombastic populist appeal ringing the same bell he has rung since he entered the race: to make America great again. But what does that mean exactly? It can only mean that America will continue to enjoy its lifestyle, now even less and less available to the "middle class," at the expense of the rest of the world. And, this lifestyle will be maintained through violence —a violent apparatus that has long been in place. Witness America's intolerance of the pink tide —as popular movements rose up to overturn neoliberal regimes, most notably in Uruguay to Venezuela, but even washing up on the shores of Greece.

In opposition to the war and to advocate peace throughout the world W.E.B Du Bois warned that America, the nation forged through a bond between capital and labor, depended on the exploitation of the "darker peoples of the world." Du Bois explained that the thin veneer of democracy was not for working people to have a say in government as part of democratic nation. Rather, the perception of belonging to the nation worked to prevent people from recognizing that their lifestyle came at another worker's expense; they enjoy only a slightly better life as a result of the degradation of another worker in the Global South. It is this democratic despotism that makes "the nation" intolerant to independence and self-determination outside its borders even though it claims to be both the arbiter and defender of democracy. (see, W.E.B Du Bois, "African Roots of War."<https://www.globalwitness.org/en/reports/dangerous-ground/>) It is the U.S.'s insistence on "democracy" across the globe, and the commitment to impose it everywhere, that costs so many lives.

But the election of Trump signals a break in the consensus of what the nation means. Even the show trials, such as the extradition of El Chapo, are not even believable to mainstream Americans anymore. According to Akuno, "In the immediate future, we can definitely expect that the ongoing resistance will have a broad, diverse, and autonomous character. This in itself is not a bad thing. But, I would note that it is not necessarily a good thing either, as without a higher degree of political and strategic alignment and coordination between the various social movements and political forces mounting the resistance, we won't be able to withstand the onslaught that the Trump regime and the reactionary neo-Confederate forces are planning to unleash. So, we have to overcome the fragmentation that has plagued the left in the United States for decades, and be clear that we cannot rely upon the liberals and the Democrats to be consistent and principled allies in the struggle against the resurgence of white nationalism."

North Bay Crew

NB: If you are not already signed-up and would like to stay connected with the emerging Universidad de la Tierra Califas community please feel free to subscribe to the Universidad de la Tierra Califas listserve at the following url <https://lists.resist.ca/c…/mailman/listinfo/unitierracalifas>. Also, if you would like to review previous ateneoannouncements and summaries please check out UT Califas web page. Additional information on the ateneo in general can be found at: <http://ccra.mitotedigital.org /ateneo>. Find us on tumblr at <http://uni-tierra-califas.tumblr.com>. Please note we have altered the schedule of the Democracy Ateneo so that it falls on the second Saturdayof the month from 2.00 to 5.00 p.m. and the Fierce Care Ateneo convenes on the fourth Saturday of the month from 2.00 to 5.00 p.m.

#unitierra califas #fierce care ateneo #oakland #Accion Zapatista #universidad de la tierra #UTC

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dark-canary · 7 years

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I’m Alive! I Live!

(Queue the Sia song or Mushu from Mulan, I couldn’t decide which was appropriate so I used both.) Hello, my darlings! (To those who don’t mind me calling them that.) And my fellow witches and followers. (To those who do in fact mind?) This has been a long time coming. The last several months of my life have been crazy. Not crazy as in unbelievable, but crazy as in lacking severely in sanity. I needed to take some me time. I know I dropped a few messages saying I was going to get back on here, be more active, start up tarot reading and spell making again. But honestly, every time I said that something new would crop up and I just couldn’t do it. I was not in a good place. I’m not really in a good place now but I’m getting better. Not only that, but I have changed. (We’ll get to that.) For those of you who may be wondering, I’m still a witch of course. That’s in my blood and bones, teeth and hair. Nothing will change that. I’ve just become more focused. So first off let’s give a brief overhaul of the last few months. My anxiety and the stress of life had forced me to disconnect from basically everyone I know. Old friends and new. Despite missing those friends and thinking about them, actually talking to them became extremely difficult. So I basically became a ghost. In doing so, my craft became very quiet and based internally. Lots and lots of meditation and quiet contemplation. My changes began before November, but really started to take hold in that month so that is where I will begin. For the months before November and well into it, I had stopped dreaming. If you know me, you will know that this is very, very unusual. Much of my craft takes place in and is inspired by my dreams. It is where I most often spoke to Loki (my patron God) and where I received answers to questions, and questions that needed answers, as well as predictions of how the next week or month or year would go. So losing my ability to dream was like having a limb cut off. It was terrible, physically and mentally uncomfortable. And while I stopped dreaming I also stopped sleeping normally. I still don’t sleep right, I wake up at the same time every night (between two and three in the morning) with a physical shift happening inside of me. The lack of dreams began shortly after I lost my cat (Mine) in September. I don’t remember if I posted anything about that here but it was absolutely tragic and traumatic. And that is when I grew terribly quiet. It is also when I started to work on my art. It started out as something I did in honor and memory of her. I painted a picture of her soaring through the stars. I felt a need, bone deep and shaking, to take up pen, pencil, paint, and tablet (any medium I could find really) and being to sketch, draw, and paint whatever I could. It was like a compulsion. In November I began to work on digital art with a sense dedication I haven’t had for anything except writing and my witchcraft in many, many years. I felt there was something to it. Something I needed to do with it. I still feel that way and I’m still trying to figure it out. So aside from the last few months of me trying to change myself and the day to day stress of life, that is what I have been doing. Drawing for hours, studying art, finding different ways to express something inside of me. Now I know I keep talking about changing. It isn’t a physical change but a mental, emotional, and magical one. One of a witch’s most powerful tool is their will. It is what breathes life into spells and wishes and magic. It is what allows us to change the world around us, concentration of will is key. Well my will was and has been weak. In magic I was able to exert that will, but in literally every other aspect of my life I could not. I let people walk all over me. I let them get to me. I never finished or stuck with anything. Especially not something like art. All of my stories were left unfinished to gather dust. My muse was fickle, my inspiration started to become nonexistent. And it was at that point that I stopped writing completely and felt half alive and stepped on that I needed to change. I also used to have a bad temper. Not the kind of rage and violence but the kind where when I was being attacked or FELT that I was I would jump and snap and snarl, speaking without thinking and saying everything I felt or that came to mind, even if it was hurtful. Now in some cases this was not uncalled for, it was necessary. But I couldn’t distinguish the difference. I am empathic. So when someone came at me I tended to throw the same nastiness back in their face. While this can be a useful tool, it is just that, a tool, and I had absolutely no control over it. I was pure chaos in those moments. As I often am in everything I do. But I realized (with the help of Loki) that I needed not just chaos, but also the control to USE that chaos at the appropriate times. When someone would hurt me I would let it fester inside of me for days, weeks, months! And it would ruin my mood, drive me into depression and anxiety. It would keep me from finishing things. It would keep me from starting new projects or caring about finishing the ones I had already started. And not being able to finish them would add to that rotting spiral of self doubt, self hate, self destruction. With this change, I let myself realize that I am not always going to finish the things I start. And that is okay. But that doesn’t mean I have to give up completely on doing anything. With this change, I realized that I was expending MY energy and power, letting it be eaten up by USELESS arguments and angers and hurts that I could not change. I cannot make people stop hurting me, I cannot make them change THEIR behavior. But I can change my own. I could learn to let go. And I am learning to do just that. I am learning to take that hurt and anger and pain and use it when appropriate and letting it evaporate when it is not. Chaos and control. Those are the two things I live by. By the end of December I became more passive. Instead of becoming submissive and meek or lashing out when someone would say something cruel or do something that was typical of them but something I would dwell on for weeks after, I let it roll from my bod in waves. Waves of energy that I could harness and USE. In my art for example. Or in my craft. By the end of December my dreams began to come back. They were hard to remember at first. But they are becoming sharper, clearer than they ever were before. And something new happened. It was on very rare occasions that I could speak to Loki outside of a dream and hear him echo back. Now I am not only able to speak with him on a more regular basis while awake but he has taken to guiding me in a stronger manner. He has also helped me to let go, to have control, and to develop my sense of will. For which I am eternally grateful. This last month has been insanely difficult. For many reasons. My relationship, if you could call it that, is on rocky and crumbling ground. Has been for a while. Will be until I’m standing on my own two feet. I have absolutely no money right now. Which means very little food and necessities. I won’t have much of anything for the next two - three weeks. Though I will get a small amount on the 1st of February to help pay for food. This has stressed me out to no end. Add to that my relationship being what it is. Which at times you could hardly call it a relationship. The one saving grace is that with these internal changes, I am able to let some of the stupid and hurtful things he does not get to me. In fact it only enforces my sense of will, drives me to do better, be stronger. I am not grateful to him for that, but I am grateful that I am able to do it. So that is where I am at now. My art and my craft have become the two most important things in my life right now. And they are not separate. There is something of my craft in my art. Some purpose for it. Much of what I draw are things that I see in visions while meditating, things I find in my dreams. There is a deeper connection that I am looking for. But now that I have begun that journey and have gotten to the point that I have a better control over my chaos and what I feel, I feel comfortable coming back here. Back to you. So! My asks are open again. My inbox, my IMs, all of it. I will start creating and customizing spells again if you need them. I’ll give some tarot readings too. I will answer your questions and even just talk to you when I get the chance. So don’t be shy. Feel free to talk to me. Ask for advice. Or just unload. I’ll be more than happy to dedicate my time to you. I want to thank the followers who have stayed with me so far. I want to welcome any and all new followers. And I want to be more active, so I look forward to meeting you and letting you know what’s going on, on a more regular basis. I know this was long.

tl:dr - These last few months have been a bitch. But I’m here now (for real this time) and I want to be more active and a better part of the community. So my asks and inbox and ims are open. The crazy has become more manageable and it is in my power to use it for my own purpose now. So feel free to message me or ask for tarot readings or any of that. I may be slow on getting to it but I promise I will get to it!

Thank you for your time!

Ydra

#witch #witchcraft #magic #an update #my life #extra extra read all about it

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