HUMAN BEINGS IN A MOB,

Pale lilacs and greys flutter as a gust of winds shakes through her balcony door; he is always alone, even around others, and his solemnity is a hardship she wishes he didn't have to face. “ What's wrong, Ani? ” Cheeks lose colour as shivers spliner her body which is thinly wrapped in satin, and Padme comes into the light of the moon. “ What is it? ” @saintsknight––

Anakin is lost. In dreams, in jedi missions, in reality. Thoughts plague him, visions swarm in the night that he cannot discern real from not real. The latest is an image — a single image of his Padme, his rose-cheeked, angelic wife stuck in a scream. But he cannot hear her. He cannot get to her. The dream ends and begins in that image, forever ingrained into him that the mere thought of sleeping is too much to stomach. As she shifts in their bed, he makes the decision, a quick choice to sit and stare at the night instead of losing his mind and seeing the nightmare each time he closes his eyes. Outside, he watches the stars, the quietness of the night. It reminds him of home. Of nights when he could escape. Pretend he wasn't just a slave. It comes quieter, until he hears the rustle of her steps, the soft movements he has committed to memory since he first saw her. His eyes settle on her, on the glow. "It's nothing. Why are you awake?" Anakin studies her, vaguely concerned. "You shouldn't worry about me."

the north of ireland has the second highest rate of femicide in all of europe. it was dubbed one of the most unsafe places to be a woman in western europe. 30 women and girls in the north have been victims of femicide since november 2020. none of the people who set belfast on fire last night have ever gotten violent about that or made threats against the perpetrators. they don't care that the family of the victim of the attack this week (stephen ogilvy) have begged for there to be calm and no riots. they don't care that the brother of natasha mcnally called them out as toxic. they're just taking any opportunity they can to be brazenly racist out in the open. they aren't acting out of ignorance, a lack of education, or empathy for victims; they're simply racist. they are adults making a choice to intimidate, destroy, and target marginalised people. they are endangering black and brown families, setting their homes on fire, and destroying buses and public facilities to terrorise communities. black and brown families with young children are seeking refuge in their white neighbours' houses because they're so terrified. what's happening in belfast is a pogrom by the same people who burn effigies of irish people every july. they don't give a shit about victims, they only want an excuse to surveil and threaten black and brown people, who had nothing to do with the horrific incident, and tar them all with the same brush and claim that they're the dangerous ones. call it what it is: RACISM.

the silence between them does not feel uncomfortable. only careful, as though they are standing at the edge of something neither of them has quite learned the shape of yet. for a moment, elia says nothing. outside the window, king's landing glitters beneath the darkness like scattered embers. distant. untouchable. from here the city looks almost beautiful, softened by night into something kinder than it truly is. elia has always thought distance has a way of granting mercy to ugly things. perhaps people are no different. her gaze lingers on him a moment longer than propriety strictly allows. the prince of dragonstone, the heir to the seven kingdoms. the man half the realm has already turned into a song before he's had the chance to become simply a man. she wonders if he is lonely. wouldn't you feel alone if you were destiny's favorite? ❝ something no one would think to ask, ❞ she repeats quietly, the faintest hint of amusement threading through her voice. ❝ i dislike being underestimated much less than i dislike being admired. ❞ the confession settles gently between them. ❝ admiration is a strange thing. people decide who you are long before they've met you. then they spend the rest of their lives being disappointed when you turn out to be human. ❞ there are parts of her that wonder why he agreed to this marriage, wonder why the dornish princess was picked from the sunlight and brought here, some place so cold, so distant. it feels unnatural, wrong almost. she edges closer to rhaegar, as close as she possibly can without feeling scandalized. ❝ and you, my prince? do you care to be admired? ❞

He has always found silence more revealing than conversation, men rush to fill it, courtiers fear it, and lords mistake it for uncertainty. Yet standing here beside the window, watching the city burn gold beneath the darkness, he finds himself strangely unwilling to break it. His gaze remains upon her, studying each bit of her. Elia Martell is not what he expected, he thinks to himself, almost dangerously. Most noblewomen entered a room hoping to be admired — others hoped to impress. A few hoped to secure power through charm or beauty or careful obedience. Yet Elia stands before him speaking of admiration as though it were a burden rather than a prize. There is something unsettling about that honesty. The candlelight catches in the dark silk of her hair and softens the sharpness of her profile. She has crossed closer to him without seeming to realize it, close enough now that he can see the intelligence hidden behind her composure, the curiosity she does not bother disguising. Most people looked at Rhaegar Targaryen and saw a prince — Elia appears determined to find the man trapped beneath him. "No." The answer comes simply, without hesitation. "I do not care to be admired." His eyes drift briefly toward the city below, to thousands of lights scattered across King's Landing, thousands of strangers, and thousands of expectations. "The realm admires dragons. They admire their crowns, their prophecies, their songs. It gives them something to believe in. And when those stories disappoint them, they become angry." For a moment he studies her in silence once more, the dornish princess brought north beneath banners and agreements, sunlight transported into a colder world. Beautiful in a way the court poets would undoubtedly ruin if given enough parchment. "I find admiration is a poor substitute for understanding. And understanding is much rarer. "