blue vs. yellow in CSM ED 8 (the indifferent cruelty of society vs. the warmth of human connection)
ed 8 is the most visually stunning ending iâve ever seen of any anime. i remember just staring gape-mouthed and blank at the screen when it ended. obviously, there was so much in it that i had to scour through on rewatchesâitâs the kind of ed that deserves a meticulous eye. so! without further ado, hereâs some handy analysis focusing on two colors used not only repeatedly in the ed, but also in the ed songâs official track art:
fictional character: *canât bring their powers back down to a safe level after losing control of them and has to be given a cooldown hug by the person they love because theyâre the only person who can safely approach them*
Thatâs my first ever write down! This was a rough month for me for a lot of reasons, so I was proud that I was able to cross the finish line without missing a day! This was a really great challenge to start pushing my writing in new directions, and it was also really gratifying to dig deep and flesh out this iteration of Remeraux as a character. Thanks to everyone who kept up with my work this month, and it was a pleasure to write alongside such talented folks. Without further ado, hereâs the list!
When all was said and done, she was exactly what people believed her to be. Nothing more and nothing less.
The duskwight, the sharp, the odd-eyed woman with a sly little smile and too-sharp teeth biting at her own lip.
The singer, the performer. Heavens and hells on stage. The Mullet - sometimes little more than that it seems and the impression lingers even when the hair is shaved down, trimmed back. âAre you growing it backâ on the lips of absolute strangers. âProbably so! Just trying someone newâ. Same old skin just the same.
Still the Saint when she walks past the right back streets in Ulâdah. A nod or a wink or a wave or a bow more than once. Savior when needed - never asked about more than that. Like why or how are you doing this. Why does a stranger give and help and ease the suffering of absolute strangers? Doesnât matter, not so long as she helps us.
A warehouse full of clothing. Wigs. Makeup. Jewelry. A warehouse full of the people she could be at any given time like pulling change out of her pocket. So easy to slip them on and off like jackets or the perfect shoe for the occasion. The chef, the steward, the detective, the whore. Whoever was perfect. She could be that kind of perfect.
People who loved her still expected of her - as was their right. It was part of the unspoken contract of friendship. Expectation. Understanding of the general vagaries. Youâll care for me because of what I provide for you (stability, income, a roof, food, a shoulder) and Iâll care for you because you give me purpose.
The people who did not simplify and distill her were the ones she felt at her simplest around. A mere wave of responses to stimuli. Safe. Warm. Protected. Challenged. Supported. Believed. Simply Loved.
Figure 8 - FKA Twigs
Iâslei smiled at the debonair Imperial Optio in his shining armor. The man strode confidently from his airship, the noisy magitek engines winding down to leave the clearing blissfully silent after a moment.
âIs this all the tribute you have?â asked the Optio sweeping his hand to indicate the barrels of whiskey and rum.Â
âOf course not,â chided the Miqoâte as a leather courier pouch was held out. The Optio opened the pouch, eyed the strands of pearls before squinting at Iâslei. Taking a moment the Optio took one of the strands, dragging it across his teeth, eyes widening at the smooth feel. He grinned, then turned on a military gil, and marched back to the airship. Village boys scurried forth, grabbing the barrels of booze, carrying them to the waiting Imperials, handing them off to be stowed.Â
Even before the barrels had been loaded, the Optio had handed a strand of pearls to his subordinate officer, who also ran the strand across his teeth. Neither noticed the glittering look in Iâslieâs eyes, the attentive twitch of his ears as strands were passed around the remaining members of the Imperial squad.
âHow long will it take?â
âFor the poison to set in? At least a bell, maybe a bell and a half.â
Mixhe eyed her husband.
âWhat else did you do?â
âThe barrels are full of straight grain alcohol, uncut, undiluted. I dropped a fire crystal in each coated in just enough wax. It should take about a bell and a half to melt off, another half a bell to bring the alcohol to a boil, they should burst into flames about that point.â He looked at her smiling wickedly. âI figure it will be another six months before a random patrols spots the islands and comes visiting.â
As Remeraux wound her way through the bustling Kugane marketplace, she was all too aware of the fact that she didnât really have anywhere to be, at the moment.Â
What does one do with themself after wrapping up a war?
She supposed there wasnât really a good answer, as she pushed her way through crowds of shoppers, ogling at the sights and the smells of the port-side city. The air was full of the shouts of hawkers peddling their wares, pleasant conversations, and the hiss and sizzle of the food stalls as they pulled fried foods from the depths of pots of oil.
If there wasnât truly a right answer... then shopping was as good of a place to start as any.
As Remeraux scanned over the crowd from her helpful vantage of six fulms eight, those tired violet eyes of hers settled on a shop that caught her eye. It was a cute little boutique, one of the few proper shops in the sea of colorful canvas stalls, with various kimonos of vibrant silk displayed on mannequins in the windows. And the placard to the side of the door read, in Hingan:
âNew imports in stock! Come see our new collection, the latest in Ishgardian fashion!â
The combination of âIshgardianâ and âfashionâ got a real guffaw out of Remeraux, a genuine snort of laughter. The latest in Halone-respecting chic, eh? Oh, this she had to see.
So, she shoved the rest of her Takoyaki into her mouth (the molten hot batter within did not seem to bother her much) and ditched the container in the nearest trash can, and pushed her way into the boutique.
It was a simple little shop, done up in rich walnut wood and green accent walls. A graceful looking Raen woman with red hair nodded to her from behind the counter as she entered.
âGood afternoon, miss.â She said, unable to hide completely her surprise at her latest patron. Remeraux looked down, catching her ratty army jacket, ratty jeans, and boots still coated in an unshakable layer of Bozjan mud. Probably not their usual clientele, Remeraux wagered. â...Can I help you find anything in particular?â
Remeraux smirked. âYeah, I think ye can.â Remerauxâs Brume accent tumbled out thick as fog as always, as she crossed her arms. âCould ya show me to thâ Ishgardian collection?â
âCertainly.â The woman nodded her head in reply, and beckoned for her to follow with an outstretched hand, the long sleeve of her azure kimono waving out with it.
And as Remeraux followed suit, internally hyping herself to see the most absurdly high collars, the most goofy chain mail couture⊠she wasnât prepared to see the most stunning dress sheâd seen in her life. As she took it off the shelf, taking in the flowing ruffles of the skirt, that striking black leather corset, the off-set sleeves and that lovely ornate collar, she just grinned from ear to ear and asked:
âDoes this come in red?
A man stood at the back of the crowd just where the shadows in the corners started to fade into the lapping lights from the stage. Around him were gorgeous bodies and on the stage were vivid figures, stunning voices. Smoke hung in the air like a low-rolling fog and mixed with alcohol and sweat and the scent of so many people.
He was easy to miss. And impossible to ignore.
The light glittered off his hair, soft dark waves dappled with glints of silver. It coiffed low across his brow and across one side of his face, almost masking the pale leather eye patch. His stubble was the perfect mix of unkempt and purposeful dishevelment and he wore his duster with loose purposefulness. Tailored to his frame but with unmistakable signs of wear at the seams and edges.Â
He moved back further into the dark to let a small group of gossiping friends get a better view of the stage. And to avoid the gaze of the blue-haired woman who climbed up onto the stage and lifted a hand in greeting to the cheering crowd.
A slow breath sighed out of his lungs, filling the air around him. He pushed a hand into his own hair, murmuring an apology to the girls in front of him who began sniffling and dabbing tears at the same time without knowing why. And he ducked his head when the music started.
He was out the door and into the cool Gridanian air before the first notes were sung.
Drops in the Lake - Lord Huron
Sheâs always approached life as if it was a play, and every day a casting call.Â
She put on her make-up, brushed up on her lines. (Thatâs what lines were, right? Recitation of someone elseâs words, pre-strung in the perfect order?) And sheâd traffick the stage; playing the rogue, the hero, the soldier, the brigand. (Never the ingenue. Thatâs a role that sheâd never been cast in. She didnât have the range.)
When she entered the theatre, she prayed for a comedy, a picaresque, a romance, but the audience was only interested in tragedies, so she played her part to perfection. And every time at curtain call, she bled herself for an encore. But the end of act can only be stalled for so long, and sheâs melting under the stage lights. So, while she waited in the wings when the other actors were taking the stage, sheâd practice taking her bow.
She was a consummate performer, after all. And as much as it pained her, she wanted to leave the crowd with a smile as the curtain fell.
The little carved piece of ash is pressed into her hands, her pereâs fingers showing her where to grasp steady. Fitting her knuckles around the string to show her how to pull it back. When she first starts she can barely draw it to the tip of her nose and he wonât give her an arrow until she tries and tries and eventually the string is all the way back to her cheek. She shoots at loaves of moldy bread out by the stream while her father gives her pointers. Eventually she learns where to shoot a rabbit, a deer, a man in order to take them down painlessly. Or painfully. Should it need to be.
The lyra is a difficult instrument to master. Three strings and a constantly-moving tensioned stick in her little hands. She has a good grasp of her little lap harp by now but she heard the bee-in-a-jar like whine of the lyra and was fascinated enough that they let her try it as well. In short order sheâs sawing out accompaniment to her own sweet voice.
When the songs end she stretches her arms wide, palms to the audience like she could catch their praise in the cage of her fingers. A sweet smile, glad to be here, glad to see you, thank you. Her hands pressed over her heart as she dips at the waist, never taking her eyes off those faces, clutching the sensation of their approval to her chest.
Her hair has grown out and sheâs let it get shaggy around her shoulders. She runs her fingers through it distractedly when she talks some times, or listens to someone tell her story or just ramble on about her day. Sometimes she glimpses herself in the mirror and realizes sheâs braided it down the side of her face. Once she takes a little piece of sky blue ribbon, wraps it around the end. Knots and twists it. A little rope of whimsy.
Sirens - Lola Marsh
Remeraux, with some effort, cracked open one eye to see the familiar pale face of Maxim Florentinus, silhouetted by the pink-orange rays of the sunset that trickled through the fronds of the palm trees.
He was kneeling on the ground next to where sheâd been lying, and he had⊠something in his hands. She couldnât quite tell what it was, but it looked like some kind of⊠makeshift bowl. For whatever reason, the thing that struck her about him at the moment was his stubble. Sheâd never seen him not clean-shaven.
âMnhmâŠ?â Was all Remeraux managed to say, as on instinct, she tried to push herself up to her elbows and was rocked by a lance of pain that skewered her straight through her left side. She grunted in pain, lowering herself right back down and breathing heavily.
âSteady, steady. No sudden moves, I daresayâŠ.â He smoothed her hand over her shoulder; a touch awkwardly. Hands not used to gentility, even if his heart moved him to in the moment. âDo you think you can eat?â
Remeraux couldnât trust any information from her body, at the moment. It was all nausea and pain, but she also couldnât remember the last time sheâd eaten. Or whether that last time had been a dream or not. She nodded.
âThatâs a girl⊠Here. Let me help prop you up.â
Remerauxâs head swam as she felt Maximâs arms under her back, lifting the mat of weaved palm fronds that she was still too weak to leave and sliding it onto the rock behind her. She settled into the position with a wheeze and a cough, closing her eyes when the way the world was spinning became too much.
âThere we go⊠You might be pleased to know,â Maxim said in those always proper tones of his, âthat you are officially past the worst of it. As long as we keep your bandages clean and changed, you should be on the mend. The tissue necrosis has not spread to any of your organs⊠All in all, Remmy. Whatever lucky star you were born under, be sure to thank it.â
âEvery⊠damn dayâŠâ Remeraux lied, giving a weak wheeze of a chuckle.
âHere. Open your mouth for me, wonât you?â
Remeraux did so, and felt a curved piece of plant fibers against her tongue, and as it tilted a broth with rubbery solids poured into her mouth. All it tasted of was the sea, salt and brine.
âXavier and I were lucky in our foraging efforts today. Weâre eating clams and mussels tonight. The depths provide, eh?â Maxim laughed just a bit, as Remeraux chewed through the resilient flesh of her dinner.
They continued in silence for a bit, spoonful after spoonful. Remeraux was just cognisant enough to feel shame at having to be spoon fed like a babe. But even still, she was still too weak to raise her arms, really. So, she allowed it, until she lapsed out of consciousness again and back into the realm of dreams.
âWe buried them today, Remmy. Ankaswys and Ganzaya.â Maximâs voice was the first thing she was aware of, as she was brought back to the land of the living. Remeraux worked to squint an eye open again, to find that he was fiddling with starting a campfire. His back was turned to her, from where she lay, still propped up lightly against the rock. She didnât know if he knew she was awake now. âWe found a lovely spot on the hill, overlooking the sea. I hope they forgive us, having to bury them on some forsaken rock. We can visit them, when youâre up and about.â
It was hard to tell-- the world was still fuzzy and indistinct, but Maximâs shoulders appeared to be shaking in the last light of dusk.
â...I donât know why Iâm here, and theyâre not, Remmy.â He said, quietly, voice choked with emotion. âFor goodnessâ sake, I was a Legionarius. If there was any justice in this forsaken Star, the sea should have claimed me. And yet I live.â
Remerauxâs brain was too fuzzy to find the words, to say what she was thinking. That she didnât want him to be lost. That she had loved every violin lesson heâd spent with her. That she used to love to climb into his lap, and she loved that heâd begrudgingly allow it. Even when he was smoking those clove cigarettes. Especially when he was. That she didnât ever, ever want to be asked to trade one family member for another. But all of this was beyond her still. And so, she mumbled from where she lay:
âThe depths⊠provide⊠eh?â
Maxim looked back at her, cheeks wet, and chuckled.
âMy dear girl, what in the hells is that supposed to mean?â
But the way his eyes shone, Rem could tell that somehow, heâd gotten the gist.
