Finished resynced and I just really need Edward wanting reader to meet Jenny? And he’s super nervous because these are the two ladies he loves most in life and what if Jenny isn’t taken with you the way he is? Then seeing the two of you, he thinks he might have a shot of being what he wasn’t to Caroline: a good husband and father.
oh Eddie😭 everyone finishing the main quest and i'm just over here trying to savor every moment with Edward (NG+ come to me). anyways, i loved this idea so much (i've thought about doing something like this for years now) and i have no chill for Edward Kenway.
EDWARD KENWAY PENS the letter three times. Each one is a little different from the last, but they all start the same way. Four days past, I was given the greatest blessing and the greatest shame of my life in equal measure. I met my daughter. Jennifer.
Anne tells him he’ll be a good father—when his blood finally cools enough to keep to one place. But thinking about the little girl sleeping in the next room over and alone at his desk with only a piece of parchment and a quill, his doubts and guilt gnaw at him. What if Anne is wrong? What if I cannot do this? What if failing Jenny is my last betrayal of Caroline? He recalls Jenny's hesitant smile when she disembarked the brig—the way she'd looked at him as though she weren’t certain he truly belonged in her life. Edward cannot blame her.
Devil curse him, he'd seen your face in his waking thoughts since the moment Jenny first took the lilies he'd picked and his hand. The thought shamed him for half a heartbeat—Caroline deserved his grief; Jenny deserved his whole attention—but you refused to leave. You hadn't left his thoughts since the day the two of you sailed from Nassau in different directions. But if he could not believe Anne, perhaps he would believe you.
He inks the quill, tapping it once against the slip of parchment before writing again—Pride's an ugly thing. I've carried enough of it to know. He’s never been one to ask for help, but Edward writes to you because he wants to do this right, and he knows he cannot do it alone. I've crossed oceans with less uncertainty than I feel when walking into my daughter's room.
The letter starts the same each time, and ends the same, too. I would very much like for you to meet her, should you wish that. He reads the words once, then twice, and does not toss it into the fire like the others. Instead, he signs his name. Yours, Edward James Kenway. Ink dry, he folds the parchment with careful hands and seals it with wax and a doubloon stamp, addressing it to you, in Beaufort.
IN THE TIME since first writing you, he's had more than enough time to doubt, to second-guess himself, and nigh convince himself the letter was lost at sea—or worse, that you had no wish to answer it, that he’d asked too much. But a merchant sloop slips into harbor with fresh wares and a rumpled letter from the Carolina colony. Anne knows the curl of the letters spelling Edward’s name before she ever turns the letter over. The green wax only confirms what she'd already known.
Edward sits in the chaise lounge of the library, watching Bernard play a game of chess with Jenny—a game he’s never had the patience or temperament to learn. The butler hums thoughtfully after Jenny moves one of her rooks. “An ambitious move, Miss Jennifer.” A ledger rests open in his lap, but it’s been several minutes since he’s turned a page or made a mark, eyes always drifting back to his daughter, lips curling each time she takes one of Bernard’s pieces.
A knock sounds against the frame of the library door. Anne leans in, a weatherworn letter hanging loose between two fingers. “Thought I'd find ye here," she greets—there was a time not so long ago when she'd never have wagered on finding Edward Kenway in the same place twice, unless it were a pub or the bottom of a bottle. Yet here he is, watching a game of chess instead of the tides.
Edward glances up, distracted only a moment. “What is it?”
Anne doesn't answer at first, only looks down at the letter, thumb brushing over the familiar sweep of ink. “For you,” she says, holding the folded parchment out. The corner of her mouth lifts. “From Carolina.”
His keen blue eyes drop to the letter, but he doesn’t move. Not at first. He glimpses the game again—Jenny has taken another of Bernard’s pawns—then rises and crosses the library from his place by the hearth. Edward takes the letter from Anne, murmuring his thanks, and steps out into the dining room.
With your reply in hand after weeks of waiting, he fears he hasn't the strength to read it. What if she wants no part in meeting Jenny? No part in a life with me? Those demons quell themselves when he breaks the wax seal and catches the faintest hint of rosemary and lavender.
My dearest Edward, the letter reads. His shoulders fall with a trembling, slow exhale. I confess I spent a fair while wondering what sort of little girl could soften and steal the heart of Edward Kenway in so little time. I suspect she must be extraordinary. A helpless smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. And the next line, his throat tightens. I should be delighted to meet your daughter. He breathes again; unaware he’d even been holding his breath.
If you are reading this, then know I am already én route. Edward bows his head, perhaps because the smile pulling at his lips will make him look a fool. I could never leave you wondering and waiting for words when my answer has always been and always will be: yes. His eyes blur, but he blinks away the sting. Pray the seas and winds are kind to me, and I will see you and Jennifer very soon. His thumb drifts over the signature: Your Dove.
He reads it again to be certain his eyes have not played him for a fool. And when he reaches the words, I am already én route, Edward sinks into the nearest dining chair, staring at your words as though he still cannot believe them. Already. You could arrive on the tides tomorrow or the next full moon—when doesn't matter all that much. You're coming. For him. For Jenny. And maybe for a life he’s been holding onto a fool’s hope could still exist.
Anne turns from watching Jenny and Bernard’s game, her amusement softening to kindly warmth when she sees him slumped in a dining room chair, looking defeated and victorious all at once—the fearsome Captain Edward Kenway, undone by a woman and a little girl.
THE BRIG ROUNDS the headland, entering the cove of Great Inagua—you lean against the bow rail, letting the salt spray sting your cheeks. The voyage has been a treat for a restless soul after trading a ship for a spade, the open sea for plowed fields, and piracy for honest work.
You thought the years away might make the place feel distant, but the sight of the cove and the Jackdaw at anchor kindles a familiar warmth in your chest. It looks different from the last time you were here—tossing back pints with Thatch, playing dice with Kidd, stumbling into Edward’s arms on the beach during a celebration. It was nothing more than a hovel—a poor substitute for Nassau.
Now the docks stretch farther than you remember, enough room for a fleet of small ships. Weather-beaten buildings have been patched and painted. Proper flags are flying from main masts, not black swathes of cloth. Doesn’t seem like a refuge for pirates riding out the storm anymore, but a place made into a home.
Edward sees you before he is truly ready. One glimpse of you is enough to turn his legs to plumbum. He stands frozen on the dock, the breeze tugging at his tunic and the strands of straw-blond hair that have escaped their tie. His heart gives a traitorous thud, and his palms feel damp, throat tight. Two years apart. He’s rehearsed words for this moment—dozens of them. Clever ones. Honest ones. Even a few that sounded dangerously close to poetry. They all scatter like gulls before a storm.
The brig’s lines are made fast, and sailors call to one another to secure the vessel—it’s only a short stopover here before they set off to Kingston. Edward’s feet move of their own accord when the gangplank slides down to meet the dock. Anne watches him pass the tavern, leaning against a piling with her arms crossed. She says nothing, but he knows that look: Told you, Kenway. Now breathe before you make a fool of yourself in front of the lass.
Your heart stutters the moment your eyes find him. You’ve lost count of the number of reunions you’ve had like this—one of you disembarking a ship, the other waiting, like you couldn’t find your way into each other’s arms quick enough. He looks the same, is your first thought. Handsome, broad-shouldered, the same unruly hair tied back from his face. But there are new lines at the corners of his clear, blue eyes and a thoughtfulness you’ve seldom seen.
“Edward,” you breathe. His name slips from your lips, soft and lovely. He reaches for your hands, helping you on the last step off the gangplank, and draws you closer with nigh unfamiliar tenderness.
“You came.” Is all he can manage. Of course, you did. You told him you would. Before another word can be said, his arms fold around you—tight and warm—hand pressing into the center of your back, his other cradling the back of your head. Edward tucks his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in. Salt, rosemary, lavender, home.
Tilting his head, he plants a lingering kiss on your forehead. You lean into him, and Edward’s arms tighten once more, a low, shaky exhale escaping him. When he finally draws back, his eyes are brighter than hope, the corner of his mouth curving into that crooked, charming smile only you seem to draw from him.
Taking one of your hands, he threads his fingers through yours, giving a gentle squeeze. You cup his cheek then, thumb tracing over the curving scar there, and he leans into your palm. “Whenever you call, my love” —it’s barely a whisper— “I will answer.” And God, what has he ever done to deserve such a love as yours?
Reluctant, he draws back enough to offer you the crook of his arm. "Come," he says, nodding toward the manor on the hill. You slip your arm through his, and together, begin the walk up from the docks. There are familiar faces along the path; some offer rushed greetings, others friendly smiles. They all know why you’ve come back. Word travels fast in a place like this.
It’s only the crunch of shells and gravel underfoot when you turn from the main stretch of buildings, but Edward’s pace slows, and his arm tenses beneath your hand. “What if she doesn’t,” he starts, the doubt slipping out before he can catch it, jaw tightening, “take to you?”
You stop him before he can dwell on it any longer, squeezing his bicep. "Edward." He looks at you. And oh, how he’s missed that tone—chiding and comforting all at once. You reach up with your free hand, resting it lightly against his chest, fingertips absently following one of the dark lines of his tattoos, exposed by the dip in his tunic. “If she is anything like her father,” you say, “then she has a heart far larger than she knows what to do with.”
His smile is almost hangdog. "You've a generous opinion of her father."
"I've known him longer than most,” you tease. Aye, that’s true. Eight years spent beside Edward Kenway, terrorizing the West Indies—sailing, fighting, laughing, surviving.
Edward huffs a quiet laugh, catching your hand when you move to lift it from his chest, and brings it to his lips, pressing a slow kiss to your knuckles. He means for that to be enough. It ought to be. You've only just arrived, and there’ll be time enough for everything else.
But it isn’t. Not after two years. Not after the letters, the waiting, the permanent ache in his chest knowing you weren’t with him. His breath catches, and hunger, relief, and love flash across his face in an instant. Whatever restraint he'd clung to on the docks gives way. He bends to you, catching your lips with a kiss that is relief and longing.
His forehead rests against yours when he pulls away, thumb brushing gently along your cheek, just breathing for a moment. Then his eyes open, shifting toward the manor. Edward exhales shakily, a rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Jenny,” he murmurs, voice rough. “She’s in the garden.”
Miss Jennifer Scott is sitting near the reflecting pond with her feet in the water—red hair gleaming in the afternoon sun like burnished copper. She must take after her mother. Edward clears his throat. "Jenny." She turns, her round face brightening, and those blue eyes. She has Edward’s eyes. Your gaze flits between him and her, and you’ve seen him look less nervous boarding a man-of-war. "This is..." he looks at you, realizing he doesn't quite know what title to give.
Friend? No, you’re much more than that. Companion? That’s too distant. The woman I love? The truth of it sits plainly in his heart, but the words feel too heavy to place upon her all at once. You spare him the decision, offering your name and extending a hand with a kind smile. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Miss Scott.”
But your name is no stranger to the girl. She’s heard her father talking to Anne about you in the long weeks since arriving—about how much he misses you and how certain he is you’d be able to talk sense into him and know what to do. You’ve found your way into nearly every tale he's told of his time at sea. And now, meeting you feels less like meeting a stranger than finally putting a face to one of her father's favorite stories.
The girl stands, wiping her hands on her skirt, and places her small hand in yours. “Father talks about you,” Jenny tells you, matter-of-fact—the type of blunt honesty one can only get from a child.
You glance back at Edward as he closes his eyes and drags in a slow breath. “Jenny,” he warns, though there’s no heat in it.
“You do!” She protests. “Just two nights ago, you told me about the time a monkey stole your compass and the two of you ran through the forest to get it back.” You laugh at the memory. It wasn't either of your proudest moments, but it had been a good one all the same. Edward opens his mouth to object, thinks better of it, and shuts it again, finding no defense against the truth. You turn back to him, a smile tugging at your lips as he rubs the back of his neck, a flush creeping into his cheeks.
“I’ve brought you something,” you note, taking a seat on the stone bench near the small pool. Jenny settles beside you, her curiosity barely contained as Edward steps forward, handing you the parcel, and kneels nearby as you pass the gift for the girl to unwrap.
It’s a small bundle, plainly wrapped in burlap and tied with an indigo ribbon. And inside are neatly sewn doll clothes, a slim book with lithograph maps and flowers of the West Indies, and a checkerboard just big enough to fit in a gaming purse.
Jenny picks up the green doll dress first—it has silver thread and glass beads decorating the bodice. Her fingers trace the tiny stitches. There’s a blue dress too, and another that’s simpler. Edward’s gaze falls to that one. He recognizes that tanbark flax. Sailcloth. A small piece of your ship now sewn into a little dress for his daughter’s toy. “Did you make all these?” She asks. You nod, smiling, having traded your cutlass for a needle during the voyage here. “They’re pretty. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome,” you tell her.
There’s a pause—a moment for you to meet Edward’s gaze over Jenny’s head, and the look he gives you is so soft, grateful, and adoring that it makes your chest ache.
Jenny looks up at you, clutching the green dress in her lap. “Will you be staying with us?” It almost sounds hopeful.
You look back to her, then to her father. Edward’s gaze drops to the ground, bracing himself for the answer as the question hangs in the garden air. You smile. “So long as you and your father will have me.”
She smiles, albeit a little shy. “I would like that,” Jenny tells you. And Edward's heart very nearly stops.
IT MUST BE a week since you’ve returned that the gravity of your arrival and what it means for his life, for Jenny’s life, truly settles on Edward Kenway. And it does so at the most unlikely of times—watching you and Jenny play checkers on the library floor from the doorway.
Sunlight and the sea breeze spill in through open windows. A plate of orange scones sits between you, slowly disappearing as Jenny voices almost every thought crossing her mind. And there you are. The woman he loves sitting cross-legged on the floor, losing a game of checkers because you’re too busy letting his daughter think she has the upper hand. Edward almost laughs, knowing exactly what you’re doing.
An ordinary moment, one he might have thought dull only a short time ago, but he wants years of these small moments. The thought seems so natural, it startles him. Years of this. Years of mornings waking beside you. Years of Jenny’s laughter echoing through the house. Years.
For so long, happiness was something waiting for him somewhere else. In another port. Another fortune. He spent years chasing gold and glory while Caroline waited across the sea. All she had asked of him was that he stayed. And every time, he told himself he was doing it for them. For a better life. For the future they would have once he had enough coin, once he had finally made something of himself. A man of quality instead of a poor farmer’s son.
But Caroline did not need a fortune. She needed her husband. And all she got was a man who was always somewhere else. He loved her. God, he had loved her. But love had never been enough when he didn't know how to give anything back. Maybe that’s what haunts him the most. He had loved Caroline, and he still left her to spend years searching for everything he thought he needed, never realizing he was abandoning the very thing he had been chasing.
Now he stands here, watching Jenny laugh with delight as you let her capture another piece. You catch his eye across the room, and the knowing smile you give him loosens the knot in his chest. He knows this is different. You’ve seen the worst parts of him ten times over and chose to love him anyway. And there’s nothing left for him to chase, nothing left to prove. It’s all right in front of him.
Edward pushes off the doorframe and crosses the room. Jenny is too focused on her next move to notice him at first. He lowers himself to the floor beside you, close enough that his thigh and shoulder brush yours.
Leaning forward a bit, you make your next move, inching a checker closer to her side of the board. Edward reaches for your hand, resting on the rug, callous fingers closing around yours. I’ll do right by you, he thinks, and by Jenny. He turns your hand over and brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss atop a little scar there. A small and simple gesture. But it tells you everything he still struggles to say—Thank you. I love you.
Jenny’s blue eyes flit up from the board when you don’t immediately take your turn, and she catches you leaning your head against her father’s shoulder. And him planting a kiss to the top of your head—the same thing he does for her before bed—and his hand stays holding yours. She decides she likes seeing her father like this—happy. Jenny ducks her head back toward the game, pretending to be more interested in her next move than what she’s just seen.
Because Edward Kenway has spent years chasing fortunes across the horizon, only to find that the greatest treasure is your hand in his, a daughter smiling at him, and a home. And this time, he intends to stay.
[Edward taglist: @awondrouslove / @certifiedlittleshit / @chonkercatto / @dontwannabeanamericanidiot / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @fridrssvardagi / @hereforreadandwrite / @hc-geralt-23 / @hnybnny / @itseivwhore / @jadynchronicle / @maddiethecanadianassassin / @morganamayne / @mossywossy14 / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @rainsought / @slytherinmates / @stevie75 / @thatrandomfeministgamer / @theoriginalannoyingbird / @theexaustedmermaid / @vymyn ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Edward taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!
Oh my God, what happened to him? He was going to buy some sweets. He was so excited because he hadn't tasted them in months. I saw him going, his face beaming with joy. He couldn't believe it. On his way, the killers of children and women bombed a house near him. His joy and smile were stolen. He suffered several head injuries, resulting in a concussion. He is now in intensive care and will undergo surgery; it's a matter of life or death.
What did this innocent child do to deserve this? What did his smile do to deserve being stolen by child killers? This is genocide. They don't care about children, women, or the elderly. They have no conscience, no humanity. Youssef suffered multiple fractures in his limbs and now needs your support. He is an orphan; his father was killed at the beginning of the war, and he has no one but his mother. I implore you to provide quick and urgent support for Youssef's recovery. Please, Youssef needs $900. Please donate anything, even $5, $10, or $20. It could save the life of an orphaned child. Please don't hesitate to help him. It's a matter of life or death. Please donate. 💔😭😭
paypal vetteed#475✅
Help support Mohmd Hlywat by donating or sharing with your friends.
Please don't hesitate to help; it's saving a life. Please, you could be the reason for bringing a smile back to his face. He has no one to support him in this life. Please donate; we still need $885. Please donate anything you can. 🙏🙏😭
Thank you so much to everyone who has donated and contributed! We still need $860. We urge you to support us and contribute so we can reach our goal as quickly as possible. Donate now! This child's life is in danger! Donate now! 🥺🙏🙏
Please don't leave him alone. Help this innocent child and don't hesitate to help him. Please bring back his smile. Time is running out. Please donate as soon as possible. Please, only $835 remains. Every minute that passes is difficult for his mother. Please, her heart aches for her son. Please help him. Please. 🙏😭😭
Please donate! Why the delay? The child's life is in danger, and we haven't even raised half the required amount. He's on life support. Please help us! If the power goes out, the child will die. Save this innocent child's life! We need $785. Please don't delay; it's a matter of life or death. Please donate! 💔😭😭
Please, we desperately need your help. Please, time is running out. Help us save the life of an innocent, vulnerable child who has no one to support him. Please don't let us down. This war is so cruel, and he is a weak child. Please donate whatever you can. I'm writing to you while crying. Every day I see him, my heart aches for him. Please, we still need $735. Please, you can help. Donate, donate! 😭😭🙏
What's happening? Time is running out and we've only raised $240. Please, don't let us down. Please donate. Our child's life is becoming more dangerous every day. Please help us. We don't want to lose any more children. This is enough. We want the genocide to stop. Please help us. We still need $660. Please, don't leave us alone. Please donate. 🥺🥺🙏
I need you young people to know it was almost never this hot when I was a child. Millennials and Gen Xers are all nostalgic and excited about summer because it was about ten to twenty degrees cooler to experience it back then!
I cannot express to you how FAST it has gone. I grew up in a world that does not exist now.
We're starting on the path to reverse it, globally. You might not know how much solar has EXPLODED in the last decade or two. It's gone from a side thing, a weirdo novelty that was just Not Viable... to whole countries investing in infrastructure.
but we have to keep fighting big oil and fascism everywhere we can in order to keep on this road to a new better less scorching burning earth.
But any time you wonder wtf the weather is doing- THIS IS NOT NORMAL, NO. THIS IS NOT WHAT IT WAS EVEN TWENTY YEARS AGO.
Many people in the comments are saying “trauma”, but this is actually a very normal occurrence. It’s called Childhood Amnesia, and it’s a process which, as the brain reorganizes itself for cognitive thought that is developed in late childhood, it changes the Accessibility of those memories during recall. Many childhood memories are available to the person, but they will not be remembered during regular recall activity, you have to “trick” your brain into remembering with different tactics.
This is because there are two parts to memories - their encoding and their recall. The encoding determines their availability, their recall determines their accessibility. The reason why trauma memory and childhood amnesia are different is in this distinction. Trauma memory is often encoded differently, bypassing to the limbic system where it is stored as intrinsic memory. It can’t be recalled because it was never encoded. Childhood amnesia, however, seems to indicate that the memories are encoded, but we lose access to them as we age. This is most likely due to the development of brain structures that fundamentally change our encoding and recall of memory as we get older.
This is an important distinction, because trauma memory is “stored in the body”, i.e. you get triggers that send your body into a cascade of uncontrollable feelings, sensations and reactions. Whereas childhood memories won’t generally do that, they are just recalled at odd times with odd associations.
reblogging this because I’ve legit seen people freaking out when they realised they can’t remember some of their childhood, thinking they might have some repressed trauma.
I see a lot of nobles out here who think "Well I have a 10,000 square foot castle, surely that's enough space for a knight." WRONG. Knights are WORKING BREEDS, they need to go on regular quests to prove their fealty and come home horribly wounded. I have seen SO MANY adopted knights DESPONDENT because their liege keeps them cooped up in a castle and won't let them go on quests. If you want an armored warrior who will be happy in your castle you need to get a castellan. They're closely related to the knight breed but adapted to the castle environment.
so i feel the urge to add a bit of context here because i find the vague on-screen text deeply underwhelming.
this is not just "a picture", it's Pale Blue Dot, one of the most famous works of astrophotography ever made public. and it was not just "a dying spacecraft", it was Voyager 1, a probe launched in 1977 to study the atmosphere and moons of Jupiter and Saturn, among other things. both Voyager probes carried on them a golden record meant as an introduction to humanity for any alien species that might discover them (if you saw Kane Parsons' Backrooms, you've heard the contents of that record coming out of a cardboard caveman standee). they did this because NASA planned to sundown these probes by letting them drift out of the solar system to parts unknown. Voyager 1 is currently 16 billion miles away, the farthest any manmade object has ever traveled from earth.
AND it's not even dead! despite supposedly being a "dying spacecraft" all the way back in 1990, Voyager 1 is not expected to be fully out of commission until 2036. to keep the probe alive they've switched off unneeded tools, adjusted its trajectory, even essentially updated the firmware, and through all that time it's basically never stopped sending back priceless data for scientists to analyze.
this is the original Pale Blue Dot, by the way:
it's relevant because "a single point of light smaller than one pixel" makes a lot more sense in the context of the original than it does in the heavily corrected version up top, where our pale blue dot looks more like a vibrant dwarf star. the difficulty of spotting earth in these waving curtains of space IS the entire impact of the picture! the blue dot is "pale" because it's hard to see! by making earth stand out so brilliantly, Terribly Interesting have inadvertently created the impression that earth is this vibrant glowing pearl, bright for all to see for billions of miles around. and it just isn't! the point is not that we can see earth from far away, but that we almost can't, because we aren't the center of the universe! when science educators past have used this image they often referred to one where the earth is circled in bright red, which only further emphasizes how small and fragile our home really is.
but hey, if you DO want an improved version of Pale Blue Dot you don't even need photoshop:
this is Pale Blue Dot Revisited, released by NASA in 2020. this is a reinterpretation of the original data using modern image processing techniques to create a more realistic or at least more high-definition rendering of the scene. it's important to understand that this is not the original image dropped into photoshop and airbrushed. strictly speaking, there isn't an "original" Pale Blue Dot the way there are negatives of traditional photography. astrophotography is almost always the product of raw data being deliberately interpreted by scientists, so the same data can produce many different images (ie if they want to emphasize the infrared spectrum vs visible light). similar work was done by Don P. Mitchell in ~2005 to enhance images taken by Soviet Venera probes of the surface of Venus to be less noisy.
here's an original:
and here's Mitchell's version:
i'm not here to argue which is "better" (and i highly recommend you read the source for this one because it's quite fascinating), just to give another example of the process in action and hopefully clarify how it's distinct from editing a jpeg in photoshop. also i just think it's neat!
which is the real reason i went to the trouble of making this post. Terribly Interesting may indeed find all of this to be terribly interesting, but it appears to be interest for the sake of a vague transient feeling of having been interested and little else. it doesn't name the probe, the photo in question, nor does it give historical context for the mission it was part of. the only substantial thing it says about the probe, that Voyager 1 is a "dying spacecraft", is so frustratingly oversimplified it may as well just be a lie.
so what's actually learned here, if you're someone who knows none of this history? that one time there was a thing and it did a thing? earth tiny from far away?? obviously it's just one image macro but i see this kind of thing making the rounds SO often, a screenshot with like two sentences on it explaining the image with as little descriptive text as possible. it's like there's a space-themed inspiration-posting rulebook that says you can't imply the existence of information not contained within the image. mention NASA? mention Voyager 1? mention Pale Blue Dot? nope! "a dying spacecraft" took "one last photograph", and here's a photoshopped version to make earth more visible.
and it might not even get to me nearly as much if this was any other space photo. i could accept that space stuff is complicated and this kind of fast-food image can only say so much if we were talking about Cassini or JWST's role in helping us find exoplanets. but this is Pale Blue Dot, the brainchild of arguably THE science communicator Carl Sagan! he wrote a book about Pale Blue Dot, he was on TV to announce the image personally! it's arguable that no astrophotograph exists whose context has been more digestibly packaged for laymen than Pale Blue Dot, which just makes it that much more egregious when someone doesn't go to the trouble.
so much of what i love about astronomy and studying the past & future of space travel is that everything you can learn is a doorway to learning more. you can't earnestly read about Voyager or Cassini or Venera or any other mission without finding some odd searchable detail and going "wait, what is that" and immediately falling down an hourslong rabbit hole to find an answer. and you'll never reach the bottom! i love reading articles about cutting edge astrophysics written for people in, like, early grad school, because i fully comprehend maybe 10% of it, vaguely understand 20% (on a good day), can kind of wrap my head around 30%, and find the rest totally inscrutable... but that's still a solid 60% scrutability rating even at the lowest-quality end of the spectrum! i'm no expert and i never will be, but in scouring the written expertise of others i almost always find one or two ideas that end up sticking with me forever. and it starts, every time, from questions about a photograph.
the sin of the above image is that it's solipsistic. it doesn't give you anywhere to put your curiosity or interest, doesn't invite you to leave their website and learn more than they have space to share, it doesn't even tell you anything useful about its subject! it reduces the entire history of Pale Blue Dot down to a vague and nondescript wonder that's just a pale imitation of the highly specific and ideologically driven wonder that Carl Sagan wanted us to feel.
here, feel it for yourself:
----
[P.S.: before you lament that this is an "AI" problem, while yes "AI" has radically increased the volume of low-value (often negative-value) inspiration bait like this, know that this has been a problem in online science education for a LOT longer than chatgpt's been around. this example isn't extraordinary, just close to my heart. nothing new under the sun and all that]
lmao someone else got their knocks in on this post before i could finish writing mine. clearly we are hand in hand re: Talk About How Cool Voyager 1 Is You Fucks
💬 0 🔁 109 ❤️ 245 · Okay, I need to add some clarification and correction to this.
This photo is known as The Pale Blue Dot. It was take
And if you're wondering where Voyager 1 is right now:
Note that the orbits of the inner planets are barely even visible inside Jupiter's orbit. That's how far Voyager 1 has gone.
It's really fucking far.
You can see Voyager 1's live location, as well as that of Voyager 2, here on NASA's site.
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A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your amazing support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: A book can be very intriguing for many.
Word Count: 4k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes, medieval era expectations and viewpoints on marriage and gender. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
Being raised as the heir to Winterfell, Robb had known his entire life that one day he would have to step up to his father’s place and rule the North.
Though, he hadn’t thought it would be under these circumstances.
The whole castle had been in chaos since the royal visit. His father was in the Capital with the girls, his mother had gone there to meet him, and his little brother had woken up, thank the gods, but could no longer walk according to Maester Luwin. Meanwhile, he had to act as the Lord of Winterfell, make sure the castle did not so much as notice his father’s absence in their daily lives, he had to hear the lords, hold meetings, and ensure that the whole north was ready for the fast approaching winter.
And in the middle of all this, the one person whose mere presence made everything better, soothed his mind and held his heart—the very gift from his gods; was his lady.
“You’re staring again.”
Robb didn’t even attempt to stop the smirk on his lips while he put his shirt on, then leaned sideways to the column of the bed.
“Can a man not admire his wife?”
Though she tried to bite back her smile, the happy glint in her eyes gave her away when she lifted her head from the letter she was writing.
“Not while he’s supposed to be attending to his duties.”
She did have a point, as always. Robb was supposed to have gone to the rookery to talk to Maester Luwin before breakfast, yet he still lingered in the room, unwilling to leave.
Gods be good, how could any man just walk out the door while she looked like that, all prim and proper in her pretty dressing gown as if she wasn’t gasping under him and moaning his name last night?
She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes as if she could hear his thoughts.
“Maester Luwin already warned me in the nicest way possible, I don’t wish to put him through such discomfort again,” she told him, pointing at him with her quill. “Off you go.”
“Warned you?” he repeated. “How?”
“He asked if I could perhaps remind you that though marital duties are of utter importance, so are your duties to the north.”
He threw his head back with an impatient groan.
“I am attending to my duties to the north, I’ve done nothing but!” he said. “For weeks now!”
“Yet here you are,” she noted, resting her chin on her fist. “Lingering.”
“I’m not lingering, I’m reminiscing.”
That seemed to have confused her for a moment. “Reminiscing?”
“Mm hm.” He grinned. “Reminiscing last night.”
She lowered her head to scribble something to hide her smile, but before he could say anything, her lady maid had knocked on the door.
“M’lady, you wanted to know when Lady Barbrey’s cousin arrived.”
“Thank you Kyra!”
He raised his brows. “Who?”
“House Flint,” she answered and put the quill down and stood up from her chair to walk to the other side of the room. “Barbrey’s cousin married their heir, and they dislike each other, I’m told. Well, Barbrey does.”
…Seven hells, her dressing gown was see through in the sunlight.
“Either way,” she continued and returned to the table, holding the seal stamp, “we must make sure we host them well, not only for Barbrey but also—”
“Undress and come here.”
Her jaw dropped. “Robb!”
His chuckle at the scandalized look on her face echoed in the room before she balled up a piece of parchment and threw it in his direction. It bounced off his chest and went under the bed, where Robb could see the corner of a book sticking out, so he knelt down to grab it while his lady turned to melt some wax to seal her letter.
This had to be the poetry book.
“That sounded like a demand,” she whined, pouring some of the wax on the rolled up parchment, “rather than a romantic request.”
“Shall I recite you a poem then?” he asked and opened a random page to read it, but the illustration made him raise his brows.
This was no poetry book.
Robb looked from the page to her, his grin widening while she scoffed, her whole attention still on the scroll.
“Wouldn’t hurt,” she reprimanded him, pressing the stamp on the wax. “If not a poem, at least a line or…”
“What’s this?”
She glanced over her shoulder, her breath hitching when her eyes fell upon the book he was holding up. From the look on her face, one would’ve thought she was caught with something of great offense rather than a simple, albeit risque book. She opened her mouth but no word came out, so she pursed her lips for a moment as if she was considering her options.
This was one of the many times that Robb remembered not only their upbringing, but also their positions in their families were completely different. As the youngest among her siblings and having grown up with six older brothers, she had to have been very used to tussling for something she couldn’t reach, that was why she rushed to him to grab the book from him. However, Robb was the oldest brother to five younger siblings, who—with the exception of the perfect little lady Sansa— had no problem catapulting themselves into him at full speed to grab whatever he was holding, so it was instinct at this point.
“Robb!”
He let out a laugh and he held the book above her reach. “I’m reading!”
“Give it back!” she exclaimed, grabbing at his arm to pull it down but Robb switched hands, gently pushing her head back with his other hand to keep her at arm’s length.
“So this is your poetry book?”
“Give it, I said!”
“Not very romantic though, is it?”
“Give it!”
He lowered the book a little so that she could snatch it out of his hand before she stepped back, breathing hard.
“Riveting read?” he teased her while she fixed her hair, then stuck her nose in the air in a haughty manner.
“I shall take no part in inappropriate conversation.”
He scowled. “No conversation we have can be inappropriate.”
“Yes it can.”
“No it cannot, we’re wed.”
“And I’m a lady!”
“You’re my lady, and I’m inside you every night—” He tried to contain his laughter when she gasped and smacked his arm. “Do I not speak the truth?”
She huffed and stepped past him but he grabbed her arm to turn her around before she could reach the door, tut-tutting.
“Not so fast.”
She glared up at him, holding the book to her chest like it was a shield before she took a deep breath in an attempt to look composed.
“I must get ready to greet our guests,” she said. “And I refuse to entertain such vulgar remarks—”
“Show me your favorite.”
She stomped on her foot. “Robb!”
“Or draw a star on the page,” he taunted her and she let out a whine. “We can try it tonight.”
“For some reason that remains a mystery to me, you seem to find this rather entertaining.”
“Very entertaining,” he corrected her, reaching out to play with her hair before she swatted his hand away.
“Well, you can entertain yourself all you want,” she said. “But I’m in a rush, you see, so I’m afraid I must leave and we’ll never talk about this ever again.”
“Oh, we’ll talk—”
“We cannot, I’m in a rush!”
She opened the door, gave a quick kiss on top of Grey Wind’s head, then made her way to her own bedchambers, the sound of her heels echoing in the hallway before she slammed her door shut. He shook his head with a fond smile, then grabbed his cloak and walked out of the room with Grey Wind following him.
“It’s important to give a lady her space,” he told the direwolf wistfully while they both made their way down the hallway. “Even though the lady forgot we sleep in the same bed.”
After he was done in the rookery, Robb visited Bran, listened to some of the bannermen in his solar, then went to Wintertown with Jon and Theon per Maester Luwin’s advice. With everything that had happened lately, Robb had missed spending time in the town; though this time, he was not going to the tavern with Jon and Theon to grab drinks and have fun, they had to visit the vendors in his father’s absence to see if they were in any need. Once they were back in the castle yard, Robb couldn’t help but think that Maester Luwin had been right in his advice, as always.
Unlike Theon.
“What do you mean, we’re not going to the mountains to settle that dispute?”
Robb dismounted his horse and rolled his eyes.
“It means I sent for them, and that they’ll come here instead of us going to them.”
Jon got off his horse with Theon following him suit, and Robb stroke his horse’s neck before the stable boys came closer to lead the horses to the stables. He approached the basket of fruits on a table to grab an apple, then tossed one to Jon, another to Theon.
“You sent for the Norreys and Burleys?” Jon repeated and Robb nodded.
“Aye.”
“You realize they’ll kill each other on their way here?”
Robb took a big bite of his apple, then leaned back to the table. “I sent them a raven earlier today, I made sure to add that they will have to wait until they get here.”
“But why?” Theon insisted. “Why are we not going?”
“Because we just came back from Castle Hornwood.”
“And?”
“And it’d take me a moon to go and come back, it’s not a good time for that right now.”
Theon and Jon exchanged glances, and Jon let out a chuckle while Theon scowled.
“Don’t tell me it’s because of your lady wife.”
...Where was his lady wife?
Robb looked around the yard with a frown, then stole a glance at the Inner Keep, chewing his bite.
“Robb,” Theon said. “You cannot be serious.”
“Why is it surprising I’m not willing to leave my wife for a moon?”
“Because you’re the Warden of the North in Lord Stark’s absence!” Theon said. “And while your lady wife is pulling your leash—”
“Careful now,” Robb warned him and Jon raised his brows, looking between them.
“But she is,” Theon insisted. “Come on, she asked you not to leave, and that’s the only reason we’re not leaving? That simple?”
“You’re not winning that fight, Theon,” Jon muttered and Theon shook his head.
“If he makes decisions based on her whims, follows her commands like he’s put under some southern spell—”
“It was my idea,” Robb cut him off. “My decision, she said nothing. You sound like Old Nan.”
Jon stifled his laugh.
“But you can go up to the mountains for a moon if you want, Theon,” Robb added, pushing himself off the table with a shrug. “No one will stop you.”
He tossed the apple aside and crossed the yard to enter the keep, Lady Wylla and Lady Alys making their way down the hallway.
“My ladies,” he greeted them. “Have you seen my lady wife?”
For some reason, the sight of him made both of them blush and a giggle escaped Lady Alys before Lady Wylla elbowed her.
“She’s um—she’s in the Great Hall, my lord,” she said and Robb gave them a curt smile, then walked past them, half wondering why they were acting so strange.
The Great Hall was crowded as usual, but he immediately caught the sight of his lady; a skill he had acquired in the last moons. She wore a silk, light blue gown today, the fabric glimmering among the sea of darker colors worn by the northern ladies around her. One of the women she was speaking to held a babe in her arms; the little girl nearly enchanted by her judging by how she tried to reach for her while her mother rocked her. His lady cooed at the babe and held her tiny hand, and Robb felt his chest tighten.
He was well aware that they both enjoyed being newlyweds, and it was way too early. Not to mention there was no point in talking of such things; the gods would give them children when they deemed it fit, yet the dream was faster than lighting, as bright as the beam of light that always managed to surround her, bathing her in warmth. A glimpse of future—or he hoped it to be; with her cooing at their babe, standing right there in the Great Hall of their home, her beautiful face lit up with happiness.
Though everyone kept singing the same tune about heirs and spares, Robb realized he could not care less whether their firstborn was a boy or a girl, all that mattered was that she would be their mother.
A piece of them both, carrying his name and her perfection.
He let out a breath and shook his head, willing himself to snap out of it before he took a step to approach her. She was too busy with the baby until the other ladies curtsied, and Robb bowed at them with a polite smile as she turned around to see him.
“My lord husband!”
That never failed to make his heart skip a happy beat.
“My lady wife,” he greeted her back and she gestured at the ladies.
“This is Lady Maege of House Flint, and her ladies-in-waiting,” she introduced them. “And this is little Sara.”
Robb ran a knuckle over the baby’s chubby cheek.
“Hello Lady Sara.” He bowed his head slightly, making the ladies giggle. “You honor us with your visit. Me and my lady wife hope Winterfell is to your liking.”
There was a soft light glimmering in his wife’s eyes while the baby babbled something, and Robb turned to the mother.
“Welcome to Winterfell, Lady Maege.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“If you’ll excuse us for a moment,” Robb said and took his lady’s hand in his, then walked to the corner of the hall with her following him.
“You’re back!” she said with a smile. “How was Wintertown?”
“It was good,” he said. “How was here?”
“Oh, Lady Maege is quite nice, I’ll have to ask Barbrey—Robb, we’re in public!” she hissed when he reached out to play with her hair absentmindedly, and he shrugged.
“They don’t mind,” he said. “Besides, we’re doing something of utmost importance.”
“Which is?”
“Talking of your favorite book of late,” Robb tried to control his expression at the flustered expression on her face. “It’s crucial you see, for me to learn my lady wife’s favorite…poem.”
She scrunched up her face and looked up like she was praying for patience.
“How else will I know how to recite it?” he added, a grin twitching the corners of his mouth. “I’m told it’s very important back in the Reach.”
“Are you done?”
“Not even close.”
She narrowed her eyes, then stole a glance at someone over his shoulder and waved at them.
“Lord Martyn!” she called out. “Lord Martyn, hello!”
“What are you doing?”
“Lord Martyn is Lady Maege’s husband, and he loves the sound of his own voice,” she said through her teeth as she gave him a smile. “He told us all about the new tapestries in their castle. For two hours. He was looking for you while you were in Wintertown, but now that you’re here…”
“What?” Robb shook his head fervently. “Lamb, you cannot—”
She made a noise of disagreement. “It appears that I can, though.”
“We’re wed,” Robb reminded her in a heated whisper. “You’ve sworn an oath in front of the weirwood tree!”
“I’ve sworn no oath to save you from socializing with chattering guests.”
“It was implied in the vows!”
“I’m southern,” she pointed out. “Anything that is not specified in a vow does not count as a vow.”
“So you’re stabbing me in the back?”
“Aye, we do it in the south all the time—Lord Martyn, here’s my lord husband!” She grasped Robb’s arm to lean into him once Lord Martyn reached them. “Did you not need him for a meeting? Here he is, and he’d love to talk to you, he said! You’re free until dinner, are you not my lord husband?”
Robb gawked at her while Lord Martyn clasped his hands, letting out a cheerful laugh.
“Oh how wonderful!” he said. “Shall we go to your solar, my lord?”
Robb let out a breath and shot his lady a look, then turned to Lord Martyn and forced himself to smile.
“Of course.” He heaved a sigh. “Let’s go to my solar, Lord Martyn.”
To say Lord Martyn loved the sound of his own voice was an underestimation.
He had all but taken Robb hostage, but he also spoke about the issues his own people had, so Robb couldn’t simply make up an excuse and dismiss him. Around dinner time, he had to speak to a couple of other bannermen, so he ended up taking his dinner at his solar with some of the bannermen instead of joining his lady in the Great Hall. Once he was done, he had gone down to the hall but his lady had already retired for the night, so he decided to do the same.
However, his lady wasn’t in their shared bedchambers. Judging by how Grey Wind curled up in front of her own bed, she had to be in her own bedchambers, and it was only when Robb knocked on the door and stepped in that he realized the reason.
The whole room was surrounded with steam, the lovely scent of her bath oils trickling into his lungs when he took a deep breath before his gaze fell on his lady.
Naked in the bathtub.
Seven hells, she was trying to kill him.
She turned her head and repressed a smile, then glanced at her maid.
“That’ll be all Kyra,” she said, her voice smooth as silk, “thank you.”
Her maid curtsied, and went past him to leave the room, closing the door behind her.
“How was your um...” His lady scrunched up her nose. “Your meeting?”
Robb approached the bathtub and crouched down, half lost in a daze.
“My meeting or your vengeance?”
“Both,” she said with a giggle while he dipped his hand into the hot water to trail his fingers through the flower petals that covered the surface and hid her body from his gaze. “Serves you right for teasing me.”
“I feel the punishment exceeded the crime.”
She pouted her lips, water splashing around her when she moved to pull her knees up to her chest. He ran his fingertips over her bare arm, following the small droplets racing down her soft skin as she rested her cheek on her knees. A comfortable silence fell upon the room; the only sound is the crackling of wood in the hearth mixed with the tiny waves in water following her movements. She leaned towards him a little, her eyes darting over his face.
“What are you thinking about?”
“That perhaps what I’ve been told today was right,” he murmured. “Perhaps I am indeed under some southern spell.”
“Some southern spell?” she repeated. “Who told you that?”
“Theon,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “He thinks the reason why we’re not going to the mountains is because I follow your commands under some southern spell.”
It had to be a trick of light in the dim lit room, but for a second—less than a second, a dark shadow sharp as a dagger crossed her face, but it was gone as soon as it came. Confusion furrowed her brows and she paused for a moment, looking down at the flower petals before lifting her gaze to his.
“But…” She blinked a couple of times. “That’s nonsense even for Theon. It was your idea, not mine.”
Well.
Not exactly.
In all honesty, Robb had had every intention to go to the mountains to settle the dispute between Burleys and Norreys. He didn’t want it, but duty demanded it, and the Lord of Winterfell did visit the northern mountain clans from time to time; his father had done so multiple times. Though these hill lords were quarrelsome among each other, they were loyal to Winterfell, and it would be the women and children amongst them that would be sent to Wintertown to survive the harsh winter.
The mothers and children that his lady wanted to help.
And Robb had indeed thought he would go and pay them a visit, until his lady told him it would break her heart so terribly to even imagine being away from him for a moon.
By the Gods, how could he put himself through such torment? Being away from her for a moon would have been pure agony already, and to break her heart on top of that?
Absolutely not. He could not bring himself to do it.
And contrary to what he had said today, he was under her spell, he did follow her commands and made decisions based on her whims.
But how could he be expected to do otherwise when his heart was her captive?
“Besides,” her voice cut through his thoughts. “Had I known I put a spell on you…”
He grinned. “What would you do?”
“I’d have very evil plans.”
“Like what?”
“Well,” she mused. “My first command would be that you send away all these guests so that you could spend more time with me, obviously.”
“You were the one who made me spend all that time with Lord Martyn just now,” he reminded her, “in case you forgot.”
“It seems that I overestimated my desire for vengeance and underestimated my desire for your mere presence,” she said. “How very non-southern of me.”
He leaned in to press his lips on her bare shoulder. “Mayhaps we are turning you into a northerner.”
A laugh climbed her pretty throat. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“No?”
“No,” she said, “because many will never see me such. Southern spell, was it?”
He should’ve known better than speak so carelessly about what Theon had said; his lady was saddened by what she had heard.
“Don’t mind his words,” he muttered against her skin, brushing his fingertips down her spine. “He’s Ironborn—”
“I haven’t forgotten,” she said, her voice sweet like honey. “I think perhaps he has forgotten that I’m a Stark, though.”
The simple statement was enough to stop all the thoughts, a fire shooting through his veins. The movement of his hand came to a halt, the fog of desire clouding his mind, her scent pulling him closer into the haze. He let out a breath, his lips still on her damp skin, softer than the flower petals on the water.
She was.
His lady wife, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, was a Stark.
She belonged in his house, belonged in Winterfell, and most importantly, she belonged in his arms.
“The water has gone cold,” she said petulantly, oblivious to the impact of her words on him. “Would you please hand me the towel?”
Robb licked his lips and stood up, but instead of grabbing the towel where she pointed at, he scooped her up into his arms out of the water, making her let out a tiny scream of surprise.
“Robb!” she exclaimed, water drenching his shirt as her fingers curled in his shirt. “What happened to reciting me a poem, or a line, or—”
“That’s the southern way,” he said and dropped her on the plush furs on the bed before he flipped her over onto her stomach, her excited giggle echoing in the room. “How about I show my lady the northern way?”
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