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reinvent-and-believe · 3 years

Text

saying your names

Prompt: hallucination Relationships: Geralt & Visenna Rating: T Content Warnings: unintentional but constant misgendering by a parent; depiction of gender dysphoria in a small child; reference to child self-injury (scratching); abandonment issues; minor book spoilers Summary: Visenna's child is claimed by a witcher through the Law of Surprise. When she bears a daughter instead of the promised son, she thinks she's cheated Destiny. But Destiny rarely accepts such defeat. (Or - the trans Geralt mommy issues fic)

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

i. The Brave Knight

There’s an old fairy tale from far-away Toussaint, one Visenna remembers her grandmother telling her when she was little more than a babe, of a cohort of the bravest knights who gathered at the behest of the first duke to slay monsters and defeat villains and protect the land from all manner of evil. They were five in total, but none rivalled the gallant Sir Geralt, who defended the innocent and the weak, who perfectly embodied the Virtues, who fearlessly and faithfully loved the beautiful maiden Liliana. It’s a story like no other, full of heroics and chivalry, grand quests and epic romance. Visenna remembers sighing as a little girl, of braiding flowers into her shining copper hair and pretending to be Lady Liliana, rescued by that most puissant and most chivalrous of knights.

She hopes that her own daughter will love the tales as much as she did, so she recounts them while Greta lies in bed, wide dark eyes barely blinking as she soaks in every detail. She’s two now and obsessed with stories, any silly rambling thing Visenna remembers from childhood or improvises about the forest creatures near the village, but none have captivated her quite like this tale.

The next day, Visenna hears her daughter whacking at the swaying cattails at the bank of the river with a stick. “I defeat you!” comes the tremulous cry. “I Sir Geralt! I brave knight!”

It’s a small thing, and silly, yet Visenna goes cold.

ii. The Babe

When she realizes she’s with child, Visenna knows it will be a boy, feels it as sure as she feels the wind on her face, the blood pounding in her veins. She’s happy for a time. She knows the horrors women face, has seen, has felt firsthand the cruelties the world inflicts on beautiful little girls. Better a boy, then. Better a boy with a chance at a good life, a boy she can teach and train, a boy who won’t beat or violate or torment.

A mere month before the babe is due, the man returns, and finds her with child, and tells her what he’s done. He blames Destiny and the Law of Surprise and Tradition as Visenna learns a new type of cruelty men can inflict.

And so she hardens herself, tells herself that she will not become attached to what’s growing within her, this life promised to pay a life debt. “Don’t be absurd,” her friends tell her, through nervous glances. “You always assume the worst. It may well be a girl. The witcher won’t have need of a girl.”

But Visenna knows it, feels it with every spark of chaos within her and every pulse she sends out. The babe will be a boy, and she will have to give him up to the witchers, to be trained and transmuted into something other, something more and something less than the child she’ll birth.

And so Visenna grows cold.

When the midwife puts the squalling red girl with dark hair and wide dark eyes in Visenna’s arms, she sobs for days, sobs until she has no tears left and her eyes are raw and swollen. She won’t let the tiny thing out of her sight, barely lets others hold the babe, even in her utter exhaustion. Destiny may have promised her child to the witchers, but Destiny made the folly of giving her a daughter instead of the promised son.

iii. Greta

Greta will not wear her clothes.

At first, it’s almost a game. Visenna dresses her in a frock while the three-year-old protests then glares in turn when she’s overridden. She moves stiffly in the garment, pulling at the sleeves and tugging at the skirt, but she complies. But the minute she’s out of her mother’s sight, the dress comes off, and Visenna finds her naked, regardless of the weather. And the process repeats.

The struggle over clothing is only the beginning. Generally obedient, respectful, intelligent, Greta is nonetheless not an easy child, prone to inconsolable fits of panic and distress, prone to disappearing if not constantly monitored. It’s as though Visenna has birthed two different children. There’s the sullen, timid girl who hates wearing clothing, who barely speaks, who flinches at the sound of her own name, who stiffens in panic sometimes when she’s called, who cries at the slightest provocation, who goes missing only to be found after a frantic hour of searching lying on the floor in the narrow space between her bed and the wall, staring blankly, hearing nothing, seeing nothing. Then there’s the other child, the one who cuts dark curls short with the pruning shears from the shed, who runs fearlessly through the woods, slaying invisible monsters all around, yelling and laughing and breathless.

When a young couple with a son not much older than Greta moves into a nearby cottage, Visenna hopes that companionship will stabilize her daughter’s volatile, inexplicable moods. Instead, it leads to an immediate altercation: on the first day Greta and the boy Marek play together, the boy’s father shows up on Visenna’s doorstep, furious, with a wide, bleeding gash in his hand. He’d found them wearing each other’s clothes, he tells her. Greta had refused to surrender Marek’s clothes, and when he moved to force her out of them, she’d bitten his hand. “Like a rabid beast,” he spits out as Visenna runs past him to the small shack where Greta makes herself as small as possible, shaking all over.

Visenna shoves a few coins at the man with a glare. “Buy your son another outfit,” she snaps, and when she kneels down to Greta’s level the terrified child’s arms wrap immediately around her neck. She takes her child home in the roughspun tunic and trousers.

(Maybe she should punish the child for biting, but Visenna knows the ways men can be cruel, had seen the terror in her child’s huge brown eyes. Even if he meant no harm in trying to retrieve his son’s clothes, she can’t help being glad the child bit him rather than permit his touch.)

Visenna has never listened to Greta’s thoughts before, rarely listens to anyone’s on purpose, hates the uneasy sense of violation the act stirs up in her. But as she carries the silent, shaking child home, the thoughts ring so loudly she can’t keep them out.

Not an idiot girl. Not an idiot girl. Not an idiot girl. Not an idiot girl.

Then:

Not a girl.

iv. The Child

The morning after the incident with the neighbor, Visenna lays two outfits side by side on the bed: the tunic and trousers nicked from the neighbor boy, or the dress most frequently tolerated, a plain shift of soft linen, comfortable and loose.

"Which would you rather wear today?" Visenna asks, making the beds as usual. She hears the sharp intake of breath, sees out of the corner of her eye the hesitation, and then the child grabs the boy's clothes and cradles them in trembling arms.

Visenna visits a tailor and trades in little frocks for breeches and shirts. She watches her child’s face light up when she presents them, watches the child run reverent fingers over each garment, little hands doing their best to neatly fold each piece.

She stops calling the child Greta; stops calling the child anything but child. The child doesn’t seem to mind this namelessness; on the contrary, the child thrives. The too-thin frame rounds out with healthy, nearly chubby development as the child begins to eat more than a few bites at each meal; weak, skinny arms and legs grow strong with constant running and playing in the woods near the house. Banished is the pale, terrified little girl; only the rambunctious, talkative, joyful child remains.

"When I'm a knight," the child tells her one day, coming in from the yard wearing a bucket as a helmet, "I'm going to ride a big horse."

"Oh, a big horse," Visenna echoes, ladling the soup into a wooden bowl and blowing gently to cool it. "What will you name the horse?"

The child considers this. "Does it have to have a name?"

"All creatures need a name."

The child doesn't speak for a long while. Then that piping, gentle voice rings out. "What if the horse hates its name? It won’t be able to tell me."

Visenna sets the bowl down on the table. She doesn't ask any of the questions pounding through her head as she looks at her nameless child, lost in thought. She doesn’t think about Destiny, how a witcher may well show up at her door at any moment looking for their payment, doesn’t think about taking the child there herself. "Helmet off," she says instead, running a hand through dark curls when the child obeys. "Come, eat your soup."

v. The Butcher

She first hears whispers of the Butcher of Blaviken when she’s traveling through Poviss, brought north by an outbreak of smallpox needing healers. She hears of the vile, deranged, white-haired witcher who slaughtered nearly an entire village unprovoked, even women and children. She thinks little of it. The child she left with the witchers over half a century ago had brown hair, and the years would not have turned it so quickly, not on a witcher.

If he’s even still alive.

She puts the thought away, carefully, as she has for decades.

She thinks of it a little more in Kovir. “You’re one of them!” shrieks a woman in the tavern, pointing at a bulky man sitting in the corner. “One of them witchers like that Butcher! I seen your wolf necklace!”

All eyes train onto this disfigured witcher who is not Visenna’s child. (Does her child bear scars like this? Do his shoulders stoop in such defeat?) He scrubs a square hand over his face, looking almost pained, before he shoves away from the table in silence and leaves.

School of the Wolf, then, just like the witcher she’d surrendered her child to with naught but a letter left at the inn where he was staying. Your Child Surprise will be at the crossroads by the river at midday. A few brief, stilted sentences explaining that the child was different from other boys but Destiny had chosen him nonetheless. A terse plea that the witcher treat the child with kindness, to protect him if he could. A postscript, written in a shakier hand than the rest of the letter. My son’s name is Geralt.

Vesemir. The child’s father had called him old, grey-haired even then. Is Vesemir this Butcher, the ruthless, barbarous old witcher who leaves a trail of fresh corpses in his wake? Had she entrusted the helpless child to a merciless brute all these years ago?

It’s not until the notice board outside of Tridam that she understands. It’s a fairly standard notice concerning some vague, nondescript monster that’s caused disappearances, pleading for help from any witcher, excepting the butcher Geralt. Show your face in Tridam and we’ll finish you off like they should have done in Blaviken.

Her child, the Butcher of Blaviken.

She doesn’t know what happened in Blaviken, can’t find a clear telling. Killed a woman, some say, killed an army, killed all but three people, killed everyone down to the dogs and cows and sheep in his rage. Tales grow in the telling, she knows, but she can’t dispute it. Perhaps he is evil incarnate, perhaps by sending him to the witchers she doomed the continent to bloodshed, perhaps he is the monster in these furious whispers.

But she can’t help remembering the tiny, terrified body, rocking in the corner of a shack, those wide eyes staring up at her in panic. “Like a rabid beast,” the man had said, but Visenna found only a petrified child shaking in the corner.

vi. The White Wolf

The young man swaggers towards Visenna. Between the bright turquoise doublet, the enormous feather swooping dramatically through the air on his jauntily tilted hat, and the self-assurance of his stride, he looks like a veritable peacock.

It’s her own fault. She knows she’d been staring, but the sound of that name on his lips…

“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” His smile is bright and surprisingly genuine, reaching all the way up to his eager blue eyes. He’s younger up close than she’d imagined from across the tavern, barely more than a boy. “Though not half so lovely as you, I daresay. Might I interest you in a drink?”

She nods, silent. Watches him charm a passing barmaid who blushes and quickly returns with the desired ale. He slips into the chair across from Visenna, resting his elbows on the table and lacing his long fingers together beneath his chin, fixing her with a wide-eyed, adoring smile.

Before he can speak, she asks, “Your song. About the witcher.” She pauses, unsure what she means to ask. “Did you write it?”

Somehow the boy looks even more delighted. “Indeed I did! By the gods, it’s wonderful to chat with a fan. It’s one of my most recent compositions. How did you like it?”

“Hmm.” The boy’s song had been so jarringly different from any reference to the child she bore than she’s ever heard. In the bard’s honeyed voice, he sounded almost heroic. She hesitates. “Do you know him?”

“Only a little,” he admits, but there’s a slight flush on his childish face that he attempts to cover with bravado. “The song is the true telling of our grand adventure. I accompanied the White Wolf on his quest to defeat the Devil of Posada, the most terrifying monster to ever...well, terrorize the good people of the Valley of the Flowers.”

“And he’s...he’s not what people say?” Those huge brown eyes staring up at her, tiny body trembling. “Not a butcher?”

“Oh my good lady, not at all!” The bard’s expression of dismay is guileless, earnest. “He saved me, put himself between me and harm’s way when we were captured by the elves, offered his own life for mine.”

A life debt. Just as the child’s father had promised the Law of Surprise to the old witcher, the vow that had set the course of Geralt’s life before he was even born. And now this strange boy owes Geralt a life debt of his own.

“So that’s why,” she confirms cautiously. “Why you write songs for him. Make him the hero when men would be more than happy to remember him as a monster.”

The boy hesitates, his charismatic blustering slipping as he bites at his bottom lip. He reaches distractedly into his pocket, finding some trinket he rolls about in his palm to occupy his busy, nervous hand before he slowly answers. “Even if he hadn’t saved my life I would have written about him. Well, not if I hadn’t survived that particular encounter, of course. But if I’d gotten away myself, or if I hadn’t followed him into the wild in the first place, I would still have written about him.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I…I don’t think he’s known very much kindness.” The bard doesn’t look at her, quite, as he speaks, slower and softer than before. “You ought to see the way he responds to a simple compliment, you’d think his head might explode, he twitches and looks bewildered and grunts angrily. It’d be amusing if it weren’t so very sad.” He’s quiet for a moment, tracing the wood grain in the table with his eyes as he gathers his thoughts. “But he’s kind, even if the world isn’t. He gave his reward for the contract to the…well, to someone who needed it more. And before that, he…” He glances down at the dull gold coin between his fingers, rubbing absently at worn, beveled edges, his face flushing prettily. “He liked my singing.”

She watches the bard, lost in thought and fiddling with a lone coin, for a long while.

vii. Geralt

A slip of a thing running through the woods. Frightened. Alone.

A fight. Gruesome, brutal, fast.

The stench of decay.

“And me? What did I do? I bandaged a wounded man who’d fainted away and put him on my cart and didn’t leave him to expire. It’s an ordinary matter.”

“It’s not so ordinary. I’ve been left...in similar situations...like a dog.”

Blood. Not running, red and healthy and clean; slow. Thick. Dark. Foul.

Infection.

Youths dancing in lusty delight on a warm spring night. A woman with raven curls, naked and wistful in his arms, the warmth of a bonfire lighting her face a beautiful gold. Children screaming, playing in a dried moat. A queen, formidable and sneering, full of contempt.

Hideous wounds, threatening the leg. Amputation may be necessary, without immediate intervention.

Resin in the air.

Ashen hair matted over the clumped, drying cake of blood deforming half of a pale face.

Black potion with a green seal. And then darkness.

Visenna awakes with a start.

The druids’ campsite is still, the last embers of the fire the only light in the darkness of the forest. She pulls the woolen cloak around her thin shoulders, grabs her medical bag, and goes to find the witcher that was once her child.

She finds him a pale and bloody mess on the back of a cart, eyes open and unseeing. He’s racked with feverish chills as his body desperately attempts to fight the infection poisoning him.

She helps the merchant move Geralt carefully onto blankets on the ground. She tends to him, as she’s tended to thousands of others. She cleans his wounds, scraping destroyed, decaying flesh away from healthy tissue, pulling the gentle pulses of chaos from the earth to purify his blood, draining infection and necrosis and narcotic alike from him.

She’d cleaned blood and dirt and debris from scraped knees, once, the too-fast beating of a little, huge heart pounding so loudly she could feel it. The wounds of childhood.

His pulse is slow, the drumbeat of a dirge.

She’s warm all over, suddenly, then cold. Her vision swims before her eyes.

A little more. The pulsing wanes, wavers as she begins to join him in the dark void beyond consciousness.

No.

She breathes, her eyes closed, then returns to her work.

She feels him stirring before he makes a movement, senses him swimming to the surface, coming to. He’s quiet, still, blank. When his eyes open, he’s staring at the treetops above them. His face is impassive. Lifeless.

The way she would find him, sometimes, after he went missing as a child. Staring at nothing. Trying not to be.

She can hear it in his voice. He knows.

His leg will heal, now. She’s done all she can.

She moves on to the bedsores, massaging ointment carefully into the open wounds. His body is stiff and unyielding beneath her touch.

She gives him what she can. “It’s my profession,” she says. Her voice is steady, cool. It’s no excuse, no answer, but it’s what she has. “The only thing I’ve ever been good at.” This much at least is true. This much she can give him.

She’s always known she would meet him again. She never sought him out, never avoided him. “People linked by destiny will always find each other.” She hears it, as though it’s someone else’s voice.

“I want you to look at me.” It’s a snarl. Not a sound she’s heard from those lips before. “How do you like my eyes? Do you know, Visenna, what they do to a witcher to improve his eyes?”

She knows enough. She meets his gaze.

Those eyes, the greatest marker of his difference, his inhumanity. They’re golden, now, instead of brown. His pupils are wide, round, black, pained. They aren’t so different. So monstrous.

Just the eyes of a terrified child lashing out in desperation.

“Do you know it doesn’t always work?” he demands.

“Stop it, Geralt.”

And something breaks.

“You don’t get to use that name!” There’s a frantic rage dripping off every syllable, hatred and agony, like a festering wound ripped open and left to bleed. He glares at her with a wild fury. “Vesemir gave me that name.”

And he’s a child, he’s three years old and screaming like he’s being tortured when she calls his given name. He’s five and distraught over the thought of a horse who hates its name and can’t tell anyone. He’s four and he’s a trembling mess with blood beneath his fingernails, shaking and unable to stop ripping at his own flesh.

“You trusted Destiny rather than trying to find me yourself,” he begs.

A child with nothing in the world running through the forest and into the arms of a witcher.

There’s a tear running down her face. It’s the only thing she can feel. “Don’t ask me any more questions,” Visenna says softly.

“Why?”

She’d known since before he was born that she wasn’t to keep him. That Destiny had other plans.

When she thought she had a daughter, there was hope.

“The answers will only hurt us both.” Carefully, Visenna presses him back into the makeshift sickbed.

“Yen was right.” His voice is low, barely audible, a broken murmur. “It’s not enough to be destined for each other.”

A child runs through the woods and finds a witcher waiting.

Brown curls become ashen locks. Eyes swirling brown and gold and green.

“Something more is needed.” He’s not speaking to her anymore. He’s staring up, at the treetops and through them to the stars above, his eyes losing and regaining focus. “I...I want…”

“No.” Her voice is soft, and she sees him relax into the smooth cadence in spite of himself. “Go to sleep, Geralt.” She hesitates as his eyes grow heavy, begin to drift shut, and she can’t help leaning toward him to gently whisper, “And just between us, Vesemir didn’t give you that name.” She lets herself reach out, carefully brushing white hair off his sweating brow. “It doesn’t change anything, but I’d like you to know that.”

“Visenna…”

“Sleep. I was just a dream.” She hesitates, watching silently as he fights the exhaustion, like a child fighting to stay awake past his bedtime, begging for one more story. “Sleep, Sir Geralt.”

He does.

viii. Sir Geralt

She does not see him again.

She travels to Sodden and heals the injured, soldier and mage alike.

She hears tales, as she has for years.

Geralt’s kidnapped a young Cintran princess for unspeakable, nefarious purposes.

Geralt died on Thanedd, caught up by chance in the mages’ bloody revolt.

Geralt led the forces of Lyria and Rivia against Nilfgaard, earning himself a knighthood and a position in Queen Meve’s army.

(She doesn’t believe any of them, doesn’t let herself care either way, but she hopes the latter is true. Hopes he lives out the rest of his days a brave knight, as he always dreamed of becoming.)

Visenna works. Cleans and stitches and bandages wounds, wanders from battleground to battleground. There’s no shortage of work for a healer.

So many tales of Geralt the witcher, Geralt the traitor, Geralt the butcher, the knight, the outlaw, the hero, the father. Of his victories and defeats, his loves and enemies, his transcendence, his demise.

Visenna listens to them all. Collects the stories, the lies, the praises, the calumnies. She draws them carefully within her. Carries them with her as she continues on the path.

For all the rumors and speculation and ballads, of all things, for all the different Geralts, there’s one that’s hers and hers alone. A skinny, adventurous child with brown curls and a bucket-helmet falling into his eyes who swings a gnarled oak stick as a sword. He’s ever vigilant, ever ready to defend the weak against the unrelenting onslaught of monsters only he can see.

#the witcher fic #the witcher #geralt of rivia #visenna #trans geralt #my fic #still don't really know how i feel about this but here it is #witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

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ddagent · 3 years

Note

Superstar

SUPERSTAR: Actor/Celebrity AU Part of the “30 Promptathon”.

When Brienne arrived at the production offices of Oathkeeper that morning, it was as if a group of White Walkers had been spotted on the horizon. Staffers were fielding call after call; production assistants were sprinting through the corridors. Brienne’s tea nearly went flying as one of the runners, a young lad named Podrick, nearly barrelled into her.

“S–sorry, Ms Tarth. It’s–it’s mayhem today.”

“So I can see, Pod. What’s happened?”

His eyes went wide. “You haven’t heard? Tarly’s been sacked. They’re bringing in a replacement.”

With that bombshell, the young lad returned to his quest. As her heart sunk into her stomach, Brienne made her way through the labyrinth of offices towards her own cubicle. Her wall-mate, Hyle Hunt, was griping over the sudden change in showrunner. But, then, he had been good friends with Randyll Tarly. He and the other male writers went out every Friday night while Brienne was often left picking up continuity issues in their scripts or fielding complaints from the higher-ups that Tarly didn’t want to deal with.

Brienne was not upset to see the back of him. She was, however, concerned to see the front of the new showrunner.

“TARTH. WRITER’S ROOM, FIVE MINUTES.”

Putting down her tea and last season’s scripts, Brienne merely nodded at Connington. Four minutes later, she was joining the rest of the writers – all-male, all wankers – in the writer’s room. Today they had meant to begin planning season three of Oathkeeper, which had gained some traction over the summer. Now – now who knew what they would be doing.

Brienne took a seat at the farthest end of the conference table while Hyle, Ed, Ben, and Ron Connington filtered through. Hyle was the first to speak. “So, do we know who they’re bringing in yet?”

Connington scoffed. “Probably a woman. The network probably want us to appear ‘diverse’.”

“We’ve got Tarth for that.”

“Tarth doesn’t count.”

Brienne refused to rise to their bait. She had, in the early days. She’d gone to Tarly’s office after work and pled her case more evenings than she could count. But he hadn’t listened. Had, in fact, insinuated that if she continued to complain she would be out on her ear. And Brienne needed this job. More so, she wanted this job. She loathed to think what Lady Alys, based off the great Ser Brienne of Tarth (a very distant relation) would become when left to these troglodytes.

They were still making guesses as to who their new showrunner would be, each more offensive than the last. Brienne caught the tail-end of Hyle’s suggestion: “I bet he’s some snot-nosed kid whose daddy got him the job.”

“Actually, my father would prefer I worked in the King’s Landing Stock Exchange than in television.” A smooth, silk voice cut through the chatter. Brienne lifted her head to see the most beautiful man she had ever seen. “Jaime Lannister. Ser Jaime Lannister, actually.”

The writer’s room went quiet in the presence of their new showrunner. Gods, Jaime Lannister was a legend in cinema. He had produced some of the greatest historical epics, earning himself three Dayne awards and a knighthood for honours in filmmaking. He also had a reputation for being difficult to work with. If he liked you, you would have a career spanning decades. If you crossed him, the closest career in film you’d get is taking tickets at the local multiplex.

Her shoulders sagged. At least she enjoyed the smell of popcorn.

Lannister took a seat at the head of the conference table and leaned back, assessing his new writers. “As I’m sure you’ve heard, Randyll Tarly is no longer with the show.”

“He was a great showrunner,” Connington offered.

“He was a dick who had multiple allegations made against him and had a history of covering up complaints from female staffers. He will not be missed.” Lannister smiled at them; his teeth bared. “You should all be happy to know that I’m a great fan of the show. Well, the source material. I have all the books; read them cover to cover.”

Ben shrank in his chair. “We’re–we’re trying to tell our own version.”

Lannister nodded. “That I can see. The actress playing Queen Cerelle. Has she read the books?”

“Well, we—”

He raised a well-manicured hand, cutting Ben off at the knees. “Get her copies of the books. I want her to have read them cover to cover before we begin shooting. Who is in charge of writing Lady Alys’ storyline?”

All heads swivelled towards the end of the table. Brienne sighed; she had honestly expected it to be longer before they all threw her under the bus. “That would be me, Mister Lannister. Brienne Tarth.”

Jaime Lannister stared; swallowing hard. “The scene between her and Ser Jason where she saves his life from the Northerners. That was you?”

Before she could respond, Connington intervened. “We’re looking to bring Ser Jason back to his sister early on in season three. The audience like the incest storyline.”

“No, they really don’t.” Lannister sunk his hands through his thick head of hair. “I was afraid of this. These books are...sacred. The story of the Blue Knight and Goldenhand the Just isn’t just a legend, it’s an integral part of Westerosi history. And it’s been left in the hands of four ‘dudebros’ and a woman with a degree in Ancient History and a Masters in Creative Writing.” He huffed out a breath. “You’re all fired.”

The table erupted, then. Shouts and insults flew through the air although Jaime Lannister remained unbothered by them all. None of them had noticed the man in the doorway until he began escorting the writers out. Connington tried to put up a fight but his face was inevitably smushed against the fibreglass door. Rising to her feet, Brienne decided to leave with at least some shred of dignity.

She made it three steps before Lannister addressed her. “Ms Tarth, I’d like the proposed storylines for season three on my desk in two hours.”

“But I thought—”

He met her gaze for the first time. If Brienne was a different kind of woman, she’d have sworn his breath caught. “—you’re free to go if you wish, Ms Tarth. But I hope you don’t. I hope you stay here. Stay with me.”

If Brienne was a different kind of writer, maybe she’d have followed her colleagues out the door. But she wasn’t. She stayed.

#braime #jaime x brienne #ship: braime #mine: paragraph prompts #Anonymous

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snowbellewells · 3 years

Text

Self Promo Sunday: “Kingdom Come”

This is another one of my early Captain Swan one shots, this one written during the hiatus between 3a and 3b. The idea entered my head when I first heard "Demons" by Imagine Dragons, which is where the title and the lyrics included come from. There was also some added inspiration from episode 3x06 "Ariel" and episode 3x07 "Dark Hollow". I don't think there is anything in here that goes against show canon; it's mostly imagined thoughts and missing scenes that go along with what has happened, and some guesses at what we may see when "Once" returns again in March.

As always, I have no claim to the show, the characters, or the song used. They belong to their creators and I'm merely celebrating their genius!

Also available on both AO3 and ff.net

“Kingdom Come”

by: @snowbellewells

He knew that he should have kept his distance. She was shining light in contrast to his dark shadow, and a villainous wretch was the last sort she needed to have dogging her steps. Yet from their first meeting – knife at his throat, fingers fisted in his hair, hard, dangerous eyes hiding tense, nervous fear – he hadn't been able to pull away. He had no choice but to follow her. Call it a compulsion, an addiction, but he was as drunk on her as he had ever been on his chosen rum, and he despaired from the moment she left him chained atop that bloody beanstalk to any time she had left his side since.

The words Cora had hissed at him in warning echoed back to him, "You chose her…and the consequences of that decision…" Whether it was good or bad for either of them didn't seem to matter to his black, barely-beating heart. It was true: he had chosen the Swan girl…

When the days are cold

and the cards all fold

and the saints we see

are all made of gold

When your dreams all fail

and the ones we hail

are the worst of all

and the blood's run stale

It had become even clearer to him after the Echo Caves. When he had bared his soul and the feelings he harbored for her to be met with only silence and Emma's panicked uncertainty, fearless pirate he might be, but Killian Jones knew he should take a step back. The incredible, unparalleled kiss they had shared in the Neverland jungle told him the Savior was as attracted as he, but she was not ready for him. Her sole focus was on her boy – as it should be – but beyond that, she was running scared from anyone else who might try to breach her emotional defenses.

He knew it had been too much, too soon, to unload the truth about feeling that he could love again upon meeting her, and if he had been free to proceed as himself – as Killian Jones wooing a lady properly – he would have never been so clumsily blunt, but instead he was a pirate captain desperate to prove his loyalty and worth, while stuck on Peter Pan's nightmare island. They had needed to get Neal back without further delay and return to seeking Henry, and so he'd had to make clear that he was correct in the way the infernal cave worked. It had not been easy to look into her beautiful, tormented eyes when he had offered his confession, hoping he hadn't driven a wedge which would push her even farther away. It had been even worse to see her run across the bridge formed for her of their painful admissions, right up to Baelfire without giving him a word of comfort, encouragement, or thanks. He felt his shoulders slump in defeat, hurting more than he had imagined, when the cage holding the Crocodile's son vanished at words from Emma which he could not hear, and she fell into the embrace of her first love.

Killian felt her slipping away – if she had ever been within his grasp at all. Bowing his head, he hid the pain in his eyes from Snow White and Prince Charming's curious, searching gazes. Burning fire within him seared away the tentative hope he had foolishly let kindle within. He was nothing but a pirate, as the Prince had reminded him not so long ago. Though he couldn't help wanting to hold her, it was probably for the best…

I wanna hide the truth

I wanna shelter you

But with the beast inside

there's nowhere we can hide

No matter what we breed,

we still are made of greed

This is my kingdom come,

This is my kingdom come

There was no longer any doubt. He was a fool – a sodding, pathetic fool. For him to let a glimmer of belief take root in his chest again was begging for misery, but Killian Jones had felt it growing all the same.

Venturing into the Dark Hollow had been a risky, desperate move at best, but after his face-off with Baelfire and discovering that Emma had not even deemed what had been brewing between them worth mention, self-preservation had not been so high atop his list. He had barely cared what happened to him in their suicide quest to capture Pan's shadow.

Of course, the fiend trying to rip his shadow from his body had jolted things into focus with frightening clarity; especially when he realized that Baelfire was facing the exact same fate, but it was his moniker of 'Hook!' that Emma cried out in horror. That she found the power to magically light their star map shadowcatcher just after her concern for him surfaced was not lost on Killian. No matter how much he cautioned himself not to dwell on it, he couldn't ignore the implications. Emma might not want to admit it, might not be free to show it, but when push came to shove, she cared more for him than she wished to admit.

He had not lied to her when he had promised no deviousness or trickery. If Emma Swan – the Enchanted Forest's lost princess – ever gave him the chance to truly win her heart, he would use no dishonorable means. He understood good form and had once dreamed of being a hero. He might be an orphan and a pirate, not some prince or man of noble blood, and his thirst for revenge had kept him lost in villainy for countless years, but he still had honor, could strive to show it valiantly once again. He knew deep down that she wanted him; what he did not know was if Swan would ever allow herself to acknowledge her desires. He could only vow that he would endeavor to deserve her if she came to him with such a golden opportunity.

Swan needed some joy and lightheartedness in her life. Though she looked fragile, she was hard as steel; she'd had to be for far too long. To him, her beauty was unrivalled, but it was clear that Emma did not see that in herself. He wanted to worship her as she deserved, unfit as he might be to do so. Killian Jones wanted to restore her lad to her, heal the wounds of her past, love her unconditionally, and never leave her side. He trembled to risk pulling her that close; his history proving over and over that anyone he dared to love had suffered a horrible fate. It was better his own heart be crushed than for her to suffer harm by nearness to him. Still, if he fought back the darkness he had sunk into, shouldn't he be allowed to step into the light?

When you feel my heat,

look into my eyes

It's where my demons hide

Don't get too close

It's dark inside

It's where my demons hide

She came to him at the helm of his ship once Henry was truly safe and resting peacefully with Regina watching over him. There had been a scare when Pan had tried to take Henry from them once again, but it appeared Rumplestiltskin's strength had indeed been greater than the ageless boy's, and their antagonist was now trapped safely in Pandora's Box. Sighing as she came to a stop just beyond arm's reach from him and leaned against the Jolly's hull, Emma didn't know if weariness or relief was winning within her at present. She was not sure that seeking out Hook when her emotions were such a mess was a good idea, but it was a need all the same. She was drawn to him like a magnet – impelled to speak to him, to thank him for helping them to get this far…to make sure that he was alright.

Emma knew he had been left hanging, knew he wanted more. What she didn't know was what she had to give. It had nothing to do with still doubting his motives or that he was a pirate; Hook had long since proven himself in her eyes. She simply wasn't sure her heart could let any man in the way he would want and deserve. She found it didn't matter though: she still ached to be near the Captain. He calmed her, despite the turmoil she had been in ever since this voyage started, and his constant support at her back, whatever the situation or whatever her decisions, had given her strength. She wanted to tell him so; if nothing else, he ought to know what it meant to have had him in her corner and that she would not soon forget it.

"Hook…" she began, then shook her head to cut herself off, knowing that wasn't right. Her corrected word came out breathy and more ragged than she had intended, "….Killian…"

He turned to face her when she spoke his name, though he had already known she was there. Just then, she could see everything he was feeling in those ocean blue eyes. Though their decadent depths often smirked, prodded, threatened, or demanded as the situation called for, at that moment they were raw, reflecting mirrors letting her see right into his exposed inner soul.

All the words she had intended to give him flew from her head, and Emma was left standing frozen, swallowing hard and wondering why she wanted to talk at all. With that in mind, she moved to stand before him, just within his reach, when one corner of his mouth tilted up in a tempting smirk as he beckoned her closer. Obviously pleased with himself, he took things a step farther, resting both hand and hook at either side of her waist, his thumb rubbing soothing circles that she could feel the warmth of through the waistband of her jeans, as if he were stilling a skittish animal so it didn't flee. "Was there something you wished to discuss with me, Love?"

"I…" her mouth went dry staring into his eyes and she struggled to focus on anything other than the desire for a second kiss from him, but she finally pieced together coherent words. "I just wanted to thank you…for everything. We couldn't have even followed Henry without your ship and your help. David would be dead by now. And I, well, I just…"

"Come, Lass, it's just me. There's no need to be so formal. I offered you my ship and my services, and I meant it." As he said these words, he was slowly, deliberately, pinning her in his gaze so she understood just how much it did mean to him. He placed the cool, smooth curve of his hook under her chin, tilting her face up to meet his.

"But – it's just – it's so much more than that," she floundered, and if she weren't so grateful and attracted and muddled all at once she would have been irritated that he could sound so composed and romantic while she struggled to get a sentence out. Emotional tears almost welled over her eyelids, but she blinked them back and stepped closer yet, almost begging him to hold her, causing their noses to nearly brush. Looking up at him, she hoped that just maybe her eyes could convey her affection, gratitude, and want without the words that seemed lost to her. Biting her lower lip in nervous anticipation, Emma raised her eyes, blinking, to his cerulean gaze and prayed he would simply read her scrambled mind.

Chuckling low in his throat, Killian seemed to do just that, and wrapped his muscled arms around to reel her in. "All you had to do was ask, Love," he teased, lightly ghosting his lips over her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, forestalling the inevitable and making her heart thud erratically even as she grew impatient for his lips to reach hers. Just as she had grabbed him and driven their first kiss – fast, desperate, bruising – he was taking over this second one, creating a slow, languorous, building simmer that Emma wasn't sure she would survive.

Killian's hand came up to cradle her head, hook resting along her neck on the other side, the one bit of cool relief to the fire in which he had engulfed her. His calloused fingers stroked along her jaw as if hoping to coax her nearer still. This kiss carried their feelings in it; there was still heat and passion, but below it thrummed something more, something deeper: it required a decision. Emma's breath caught at the realization that this kiss was something which might last.

Killian was thinking, hoping, the same thing, hardly daring to believe, but unable to stop it either. Greedy thief and pirate that he was, he wanted more of Emma; it would never be enough. Fool he might be, but he did not aim to stop until he had stolen her very heart. Not so long ago, he had been rudderless, with nothing in this world to keep him but his vengeance. Now, he prayed that he could change his course. At last, he had something to fight for, someone to hold dear. Killian Jones – Captain Hook – had despaired of being anything else but hell bound…until she crossed his path. Perhaps he might still find redemption in Emma. Heaven had to know his every effort and act for good has been due to her. It's all for her.

Don't wanna let you down

but I am hell bound

Though this is all for you,

don't wanna hide the truth…

This is my kingdom come

The door slams in his face – her door – and Killian lets himself slump against the wall, dejected. It all happened so quickly and now Emma is gone. She is beyond his grasp, as he had always known she was. He has waited so long to see her lovely face again, traveled so far, and though he tried to prepare himself for the very reaction he received, it didn't hurt any less when she gave him the blank look which told him his Swan no longer knew him.

Upon their forced return to the Enchanted Forest, he had tried to steer clear of everyone. Angry, wounded, and bitter, he had wanted nothing more than to hide himself below deck on the Roger and drink until he couldn't think of how being ripped from her just when she had given him a chance had hurt. He had not wanted to be near anyone and had made horrible, snarling company when someone forced the issue, but that had not stopped Snow and Charming. Emma's parents were a painful reminder of her, but no matter how he strove to avoid them and steer clear, they would not leave him alone.

It was exasperating how they kept trying to draw him into rebuilding the castle and their kingdom, tried to cheer him up, provided work for he and his crew as supplies were needed from other ports, and generally would not allow him to wallow in his misery as he had desired. They kept repeating that they had faith this separation would not last forever. For some unfathomable reason, he seemed to have found his way into their affection, and they would not let him despair either.

When Regina had finally put together a memory restorative potion, he had been willing to concede that these royal types and their unending hope were not so completely off base. The former evil queen had been almost pleasant and much more willing to help ever since meeting Robin Hood – apparently the man she had been destined to meet long ago. Some of the dangerous emptiness and hurt left her eyes when she was around the archer, and especially near his young son. Killian knew that she hoped Emma would find a way back and bring Henry if she could be made to remember. Regina also knew the rules of the second curse well though; she was to give up the thing she loved most. She couldn't be the one to go after them, couldn't force her hand. She would have to trust those whom she had spent so long fighting against.

Killian had been stunned however when David and Snow both championed his undertaking the quest. Something knowing flickered between the Prince and Princess' eyes, but he didn't waste time trying to figure it out. He was too grateful, touched, and ridiculously anxious to get going, whatever the mode of travel, to ask questions.

Now, faced with the harsh truth, he almost forgets the potion tucked into a pocket of his vest. He had to try True Love's Kiss, had to see for himself if it were possible. He shouldn't have even entertained the dream, and yet he couldn't help himself. He truly thought she loved him…but maybe she still does and has simply forgotten. He has come too far to turn back now without seeing his mission through. Any realm he tries to make his life in now will be empty without her regardless. He will wait for his moment, and he will try again…

They say it's what you make

I say it's up to Fate

It's woven in my soul

I need to let you go

Your eyes they shine so bright

I wanna save that light

I can't escape this now,

Unless you show me how…

Killian stands outside the large, several story building where Emma and Henry now reside, oblivious to the crush of people rushing around him on all sides, looking up to the window he knows is theirs, comforted by the fact that, though she may not remember him right now, they are once again in the same place and time. He can get to her, and he will succeed in bringing her back to her family…and to him.

That she wants him to keep his distance right now means little. He is sorry that she is at last safe with her son and free of the heavy weight of her destiny and he seeks to interrupt that. However, he thinks he knows Emma well enough to believe she would not wish for an illusion over truth; even if it pained her, she would rather face reality. He knows that much of his Swan.

Villain that he has been, that the world has always seen, the selfless action would be to let her go, but he cannot allow himself to admit defeat. Emma has never truly been loved – treasured – as she ought to have been, as he had planned to do. He fervently wishes to be the one to show her what it is to be wholly adored. He wants her to know that she is his whole world, and he needs the chance to see if she can love him in return, keep him striving to live again. The demons that still haunt him, that say her kingdom and his black soul are already lost, try to whisper that he will fail. Their voices hiss that he will never bring her back, that her knowledge and memories are lost forever. Killian pushes those insidious echoes from his mind. Soon, he will meet her haunting, storm-tossed eyes again, and he will make her see.

This is my kingdom come…

Tagging a few others who may enjoy: @searchingwardrobes @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @laschatzi @whimsicallyenchantedrose @thislassishooked @resident-of-storybrooke @ilovemesomekillianjones @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @scientificapricot @tomeandflickcorner @lfh1226-linda @xsajx @stahlop @donteattheappleshook @hollyethecurious @winterbaby89 @darkcolinodonorgasm @elizabeethan @wefoundloveunderthelight @jonesfandomfanatic @spartanguard @tiganasummertree @optomisticgirl

#self promo sunday #cs ff #cs one shot #season 3a missing moments #ouat 3b spec fic #kingdom come

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ohmightydevviepuu · 3 years

Text

for tonight you’re only here to know / part three

(artwork used with permission from carpedzem) part one | part two | part three AO3

A/N: no beta on this one. we die like real small creatures from alpha centauri.

Sometimes on the rarest nights Comes the vision calm and clear Gleaming with unearthly lights On our path of doubt and fear Winds from that far land are blown Whispering with secret breath Hope that plays a tune alone Love that conquers pain and death

We shall never find that lovely land of might-have-been I can never be your king, nor you can be my queen Days may pass and years may pass and seas may lie between We shall never find that lovely land of might-have-been

Ivor Novello

There is applause and it is thunderous as it echoes off the rafters and the walls and sneaks into the crevices between the bookshelves where every manner of humanity is squeezed in, side-by-side; he feels as if he can hear them all breathing, or trying to, hung on his every word even as he is reliving it. Every second.

There is a voice next to him, poking at the edges of his consciousness, and he remembers.

Who he is.

Where he is.

Here, and now.

He shifts in his chair and glances with only the barest hesitation at the device on the table in front of him that records his voice and transmits it even farther, to those who are not physically present. He directs his question at the woman seated next to him, pert eyes and short hair and a beaming smile.

“Apologies, love,” he says. “Can you repeat that last bit?”

“How does it end? Do the princess and the pirate--?”

“Oh, aye. They get their happily-ever-after. It’s a thrilling tale, to be sure.” He suits his tone to match his words but the truth, of course, was rather more gruesome. He shuts his eyes, an attempt to stave off the flood of memories that threatens to overtake him, replacing the brightness of the bookshop’s event stage with the bleakness and the blackness of the dungeon and how it felt to fall, to catch his breath--his breath, he was breathing. His view of her was magnificent, her hand outstretched in defiance, the purple glow of the squid ink he’d given her--pressed into her hand in a moment of desperation and trust and love--enveloping the Evil Queen and binding her, immobilizing her on the spot. Emma twirled--dancing--spun on sure feet the three steps between herself and the Queen and caught his heart in her hands before it hit the stone floor.

“Killian!” It was a scream and sometimes he hears it, still, in his nightmares.

He coughs, swallowing bile.

There is--as if by magic--a bottle of water being pushed at him and he braces it against his left wrist, bringing into view the black glove he wears on his left hand as he twists off the cap and sips greedily, wishing it was possible to wash away the taste of a memory. The Dark One’s laughter as he smiled, as his teeth glittered and he straightened, pulling a sheet of paper from his pocket and blowing gently across the page as the words disappeared and re-formed in the air and settled on the bars, causing them to vanish. As if the bars were nothing more than an illusion, a trick, a plan. The creature lifted a single finger--in warning, in disappointment--pointed it at the Queen as he spoke. “You should have come to me for help when the Curse failed,” he whispered. It was conversational and chilling and the Queen her mouth to speak but said nothing, moved not a single muscle as she was bundled into the Dark One’s cell and the bars replaced, as solid as they ever had been. “You should have listened when I taught you the proper casting of it. And what have you to show for it, Your Majesty, after all of these years? Nothing.” The creature sighed. “Whereas I have a deal to conclude with this lovely young woman. Emma.”

The way he said the name was a caress and it was Emma’s turn to shiver, blinking as her palm turned up--the hand not holding Hook’s heart--and her knife pointed at the Dark One.

“Put that away, dearie,” the creature said. “I have other weapons I prefer. And you have something I need. And as soon as we are done--”

The plastic crinkles in the tightening grip of his fingers; sometimes the sound it makes still surprises him, soft and loud at the same time.

The water spills and the woman jumps.

“I’m quite all right,” he assures her, and she does not know enough to know he is lying.

She giggles, gives a grin that flashes the whitest and most perfect set of teeth he’s ever seen.

“So the princess, does she give Hook his heart back?”

He pulls at the chains around his neck as if it is a reflex, and maybe it is--maybe every time he feels the weight on it he thinks of nothing but her fingers and the way she smiled when she tangled her hand in the chains and pulled him upright, golden hair and glittering eyes as she smiled at him, the rush of success and victory coursing through her though he could not feel it.

“That would be telling,” he says, raising a single eyebrow and plastering on another smile as a wave of laughter rumbles through the audience.

(Her sad smile and the nervous way she said, “I’ve never done this before.”)

(“Held my heart in your hands?” Hook’s hand on her wrist, the warmth and the energy there. (“You’ve had it for longer than you realize, love. It is--and always will be--yours.”)

“We’ll just have to read and find out,” she laughs, gesturing at the bound book stood up for display on the flimsy table.

The Land of Might-Have-Been.

By Killian Jones.

“So, Killian.” Her eyes flutter. “Tell us more about your main character. Hook. Where did you get your inspiration?”

He smiles, his hand rubs at the back of his neck before he leans forward, anchoring his elbow on the table and settling his hand under his chin. “In some ways I think of him as the man I used to be,” he says. “The man I would have been, if I had not found my way to a change.”

He put his life on the line for two things: Love and revenge.

Captain Hook had been forged in the fires of the former.

Killian Jones had been set free by another kind of flame.

“I had a brother once. And a first love.” He rubs unconsciously at his right wrist, though the thick fabric of his shirt more than covers the tattoo there--more than covers all of them, the details of his life inked into his arm like a sleeve, that told the story as easily as the book did and in fewer words. “I was hurting, and chasing after anything that might help me to overcome that pain, to regain control.” The octopus curling around his shoulder and down the side of his torso; the roped sailor’s knots; the tangled thorns of the vines digging into his bicep, dripping black venom. “I realized that I could be a better man. That I wanted to be, and what I needed was to try something new.”

The Dark One’s voice was silk and oil, smooth and greasy. “--as soon as we are done, Regina, you are going to give me Belle. You are going to tell me what you’ve done with her. I will flay you while you speak, perhaps, or--”

“Rumplestiltskin.” It was the first time Hook had spoken the man’s name in decades.

Names had Power.

Such as the power of distraction; Hook struck as the creature turned, blocking Emma’s whitening face from his view as he stepped in between them and grasped the creature’s wrist with his hook, wrapping his hand around the other. Wrapping his hand and the object he concealed there--for while Hook may have been fatally unprepared for his first encounter with the Dark One, he’d vowed never to be without recourse again.

The creature screamed as the cuff closed around his wrist and Hook said, “Surely you did not think I only traveled to Neverland in my quest for your demise? Cora sends her regards, crocodile.”

The Queen’s gasp was audible--as well it might be, for she had banished her mother to Wonderland almost thirty years ago--and Emma’s face was blank, a cipher, as the creature whirled back to face her, clutching his wrist as if his hand had been sliced off, and pleaded. “Missy. Missy…”

Hook stepped in between them, blocking the princess from the Dark One’s sight. “You want to make a deal, Dark One? Then you’re going to deal with me. That cuff will block your ability to access your magic unless or until I decide to remove it, and not a minute sooner.” He turned to Emma. “Promise me, Swan, that you will see to it that Ariel truly got away safely, back to her prince and to her home. And perhaps you can do for Graham what you have done for me.”

“Killian.” Power. Magic. Fire. “What are you going to do?”

Lunacy.

The room around him is fully silent and even the interviewer is holding her breath when Killian says, “I thought about what it would be like for him--for Hook--if he had a chance to be a part of something. Because I know a little something about that, about not being able to forget your first love, to believe that you can’t move on. But all it took was meeting the right person--”

And on his left shoulder blade, just above his heart, a swan.

“It’s like he said. The Curse failed, love,” Hook said. “None of this was meant to happen--none of this is what he foresaw, or what she planned. Isn’t that right, crocodile?”

The Evil Queen moved as if to strike, as if she had--or would ever have again--that freedom of movement, but the Dark One merely smiled.

“It wasn’t just your parents that were meant to be swept away by the Queen’s curse,” Hook said. “It was all of us. This entire realm sent someplace else, into a Land Without Magic. That’s where Baelfire went when he left his father.” Hook paused before continuing. “When he left me. He believed it was the only place he would be safe.”

“What’s your point, pirate?” The Dark One snapped.

“My point is that all magic comes with a price. My point is that when the spell failed, something went wrong. And now is your chance, crocodile--to tell us. The truth. And in return--” he held up his hand, pointed it at the Dark One in attempt to forestall the protest that was surely imminent “--I will tell you where the maid is, your precious Belle. Where Regina has kept her all of these years. Perhaps I will even remove that cuff and allow you to do something about it.”

It took all of his strength not to mention the other thing, the object that consumed his days and his nights and his nightmares for the better part of three decades. The object that could kill the Dark One--his crocodile, Milah’s murderer. But Hook had made his choice.

He just wished he could feel it--feel her--the fire--the magic--because now he had a name for it, the way he felt about her--all of the things she made him feel and want and believe.

“Tell us, and I will use the portal to bring back the King and the Queen; I will leave, so long as you leave Emma out of this. Emma and her family will be free of you and all of your schemes, hereafter.”

The creature cocked his head and tasted the air with his tongue, considering, until--

“No.” Emma was definitive.

The creature giggled as Emma moved, deliberately switching places with Hook to place herself between him and the crocodile, so she could force him to look at her and her green eyes. “I don’t need saving,” she said.

Hook smiled and said, “That’s good. Because I’m not a hero.”

“I can handle it. I’m not a damsel in distress.” She was lying; there was distress written all over her face, but this--this was something he could do for her, something he wanted to do. Something with purpose, with meaning, something new.

“Emma, think of yourself. Of your family. Of your kingdom. You can’t leave--and even if you could--there would be nothing left for me here. Not even the pursuit of my revenge. I cannot be that man any more. Darkness and hatred have left my life empty.” He cupped his hand over her cheek and stroked the tear forming there, brushing it aside. “I do not want to end up like Regina. Please.”

It was then and not a moment sooner that the world he’d so carefully constructed over the long years shattered, finally--completely--to pieces. As he stepped forward and pulled her against him, a drowning man grasping for a rope. As he pressed his lips to hers and she kissed him as if he were dying and she alone had oxygen.

“So, one last question, then, Killian. We’ll take it from the audience this time.”

In the crowd, someone rises--there is a flash of blonde and blue and Killian cannot--he cannot--

The woman’s eyes sparkle with amusement as she speaks. “Killian,” she says, “do you believe in True Love?”

Killian smiles. He forces himself to. He exhales a laugh.

He exhales a laugh to cover up the fact that all of his breath seems, suddenly, to leave his body.

Again.

On account of a kiss.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like that, slow degrees of feeling welling up inside him, coming from someplace deep and unfamiliar except for the heat and the magic that seemed to guide it; he had no defense for it, no protection against it, and it built into a wave so powerful that to feel it crest over him, exploding in sparkes of rainbow light, was nothing so much as a relief. He staggered back under its impact and braced himself against the bars of Regina’s cell and watched as a door formed before his--before their--eyes. His heart, so recently returned to him, pounding so hard that everything around him seemed to vibrate--his mind a thick haze of fire and light and magic. The torches in the dungeon ablaze and every kiss before this one merely a prelude, flint to light the kindling.

The door was three times the height of a man, taller than the dungeon as it seemed to pierce the ceiling. When it opened there was a lonely stretch of forest bisected by a strangely-paved path and a sign.

“Welcome to Storybrooke.”

At the sign--or more properly at the edge of it, just where it met the road--was a vessel unlike any Hook had ever seen before, heaving and steaming as a man kicked at it, swearing under his breath as if his invective would serve as fuel.

“Father,” Emma whispered.

And--from inside the vessel--a woman’s voice; “Mother.” There was the sound of something opening and closing as a piece of the thing swung open--a door--and a boy slid out.

No. Not a boy.

A young man.

The Evil Queen growled.

The Dark One hissed.

And Emma said, “Oh. Oh, shit.”

The lights are dim and the crowd dispersed as he leaves, waving a hand behind him and walking away from the storefront branded Housing Works Bookstore. It’s dry--a rarity in this city, he has found--dry and cool and clear, and if he angles his head just so between the so-called ‘skyscrapers’ there is a faint glimmer of the stars that are very nearly the same here as they were there. He still remembers them, the way they shone in her eyes as the truth of what they were watching through the portal struck her.

“I have a brother,” she said, and her voice seemed to carry across the portal, across time and space, because a petite, dark-haired woman nearly fell out of the vessel as she looked up, looked around.

“Emma?”

It was a sound of disbelief and doubt and hope but it, too, carried; the man straightened, the vessel forgotten as he started walking unerringly toward the portal that surely he could not see.

Emma swore again and turned to her grandmother, to the Evil Queen, and said, “They remember?” Out of all the possible questions, of course she chose the least expected. How--why--what--none of them was as salient as the simple fact. They remembered.

The Queen raised in eyebrow in pure hauteur and Emma grabbed his hook and pulled him toward the door. “I must go to them,” she said, and he followed.

He would follow her to the end of the world and beyond; with a cry and a lunge she hurled herself at them, at her parents, at her brother.

Hook watched as Queen Snow took her daughter’s head in her hands and kissed the forehead, delicately--as King David pulled his daughter into his arms and cupped the back of her head, gently--as Leo introduced himself.

“Please don’t call me Leopold,” he said, and Emma laughed through her tears.

“This is Killian,” she said. “Captain Killian Jones.”

David’s eyes narrowed as he took in the silver prosthetic where Hook’s left hand used to be. “Captain Hook?”

But Snow said, “Now is not the time, David,” and her green eyes shone almost as brightly as her daughter’s as she looked at him, up and down from his boots to his eyes that were lowered, respectfully--as she stepped forward and took his face in her hands the same way she had taken Emma’s. “Thank you,” she said.

Hook blushed. “I--milady--gratitude is hardly necessary,” he said. His voice was low and gravelly and, for the first time in a long time, uncertain. He was uncertain and his hand reached, unthinkingly, for Emma’s, for the warmth and the comfort he found there.

“You found us,” Snow insisted.

“Emma found you,” Hook said.

“And I never doubted she would,” Snow said. “But I know what you did for her, why she is able to be here right now.”

“What--” Hook swallowed. “What did I do?”

Queen Snow looked at him, and looked at her daughter, at their hands clasped together and said, “True Love’s Kiss. It’s the only magic strong enough to break any curse.”

“Oh,” Hook said. Oh.

He dropped Emma’s hand and stepped back.

The King grumbled. “Let’s discuss this at home. We have a kingdom to take back.” Then, under his breath: “Again.”

The word hung in the air. Home.

Hook took another step back--turned away--opened his mouth--all he knew, with certainty, was that he could not go back there. He could not go back to that place and that person who carried around all of that darkness and anger and hate. He wanted to stay. He was a pirate, a Lost Boy; it would not be the first time in his life that he found himself in a new place with nothing but his wits and his hook and the things he carried.

But Swan--

Emma.

Princess Emma.

She--

He would follow her. Of course he would. He could just as soon live without air as he could live without her.

(He’s known that since the first morning he’d woken up to find her gone; he’s known that every night he’s dreamed of her and every morning since.)

“Oh,” Snow said. “Oh.” Mother and daughter watched each other, identical eyes matched in understanding. “Emma’s not coming home,” Snow said.

It is very nearly midnight when Killian returns home, unlocking his front door with practiced ease and slipping the keys into the pocket of his leather blazer.

What he is not prepared for, or expecting, is her.

Waiting for him.

(Truth be known, he might never be.)

Emma Swan, his True Love, is waiting for him, her green eyes twinkling in the streetlights that are shining through the windows of their flat and still--always--nothing prepares him for the sight of her. Her golden hair is lighter now, streaked with very fine strands of silver; the blue leather of her jacket is bright and adorned with zippers instead of gemstones. She wears no jewelry, in this place--they sold most of it a long time ago. Her only adornment is a silver chain around her neck and the ring he gave her--his brother’s ring--between her breasts.

“You beat me home,” he says.

“You had your adoring fans to contend with,” she says, and laughs. Killian shuts the door behind him and inhales, slowly, savoring it the way he always does--sweet and spicy--and she watches him.

“Your eyes,” she says. “I love the way you look at me. Still.”

“Always.”

And it’s not a dream, but sometimes it still feels like one, when she grabs him and says his name and--somehow--he can feel the Power in it. She grabs him and he forgets where they are and when they are and he remembers the day she decided to stay here. With him.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” she said, looking at her mother and her father and her younger brother, the heir-presumptive once the King and the Queen were back on their rightful thrones. Killian had no doubts that they would see to Regina, and to the Dark One. Snow would give Graham back his heart and make certain that Belle was safe and cared for.

For the moment, there were more important matters to attend to.

Snow White ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair. Her voice was somehow strong and brittle at the same time--understanding twinged with sadness. “No,” she murmured. “You didn’t.”

Emma didn’t cry when she said, “I want something free of all of this. Free of the past and all its scars. Something I’ve chosen. Away from--”

“Us,” King David--the man once known across realms as Prince Charming--said.

“No,” Emma said. “But--yes. I’m sorry.”

That’s when David took her in his arms. “You have nothing to apologize for. Not to us. Not ever. We love you. All that matters is that you know that, and are happy.”

And they were.

They are.

Together; they still make a good team.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she whispers. “Do you believe in True Love, Killian?” She stands on her toes and kisses him and it’s full of sweetness and love and he can feel it--the warmth and comfort and the magic that they were both told couldn’t exist in this place but which they kindled with the light they made for each other. The past, here, is nothing more than a bad dream from which he’s awakened, finding himself in her arms until the nightmares are banished and there is nothing but the two of them.

Killian lifts his mouth from hers and takes her hands and kisses them, the backs, each knuckle, before he settles them over his heart. It beats, hard but steady--so steady--as he holds her hands there. “Aye, love,” he says. “You are my happy ending.”

She pulls her hands away, pulls his hands in hers as she says, “That’s not what this is.” He feels it through the layers of her clothing as his hand rests over her abdomen--the flutter there--and he laughs, as she smiles a real smile, that same smile, from the night they met. “It’s a happy beginning.”

And that, surely, is nothing short of magic.

-30-

@profdanglaisstuff @katie-dub @thisonesatellite @carpedzem @captain-emmajones @kmomof4 @optomisticgirl @spartanguard @karl0ta @mariakov81 @tiganasummertree @stahlop @scientificapricot

#cs fic #enchanted forest #true love and other stuff

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theshapeshifter100 · 3 years

Text

Wolf and Raven: Old Friends Chapter 5

First

Masterlist

Wolf returned to camp later that night, while the fire was still burning. Erina had fallen asleep by now, but Satyarani was still awake.

As a wolf, she lay down next to the fire and rested her head on her paws, not looking at anyone.

“I am sorry, Wolf,” Satyarani said, making Wolf perk her head up. “I should not have brought it up.”

Wolf let out a soft whine and shook her head.

“I do not wish to listen to the pair of you argue and snip at each other for this entire quest, but the two of you need to calm down before we can try and talk again.”

Wolf huffed.

“I do hope that was a huff of agreement.”

Wolf briefly swished her tail before laying her head back on her paws and trying to sleep.

---

She was back in the tent.

Torchlight could be vaguely seen from outside, but otherwise it was dark. No, it was the cell now. Still dark, only a single torch to light the room

She was alone. Alone hurt, but alone was safe. It hurt more when she wasn’t alone.

As soon as the thought manifested, she wasn’t alone.

A shadowy figure stepped towards her. First it looked like Raven, then after another step it was Raven of Old, then Erina. Finally Nevar towered over her.

Heart thumping in her chest, Wolf tried to back away. Her back was already to the wall. There was nowhere to run.

Her hand reached to grab for her staff, but instead closed on empty air. Nowhere to run and defenceless.

The metal mask loomed, moving from plain to horned and back. There was a tugging in her mind and the feeling of a tree trunk slamming into her forehead. She screamed as like a fish on a line, thoughts were dragged out. A map, the talismans, Haryad-

---

She was awake.

Wolf immediately cast around her staff, finding it next to her and grabbing it, hugging it to her chest. She rolled onto her back, staring up grey sky, breathing rapidly as she hugged her staff. As far as nightmares went, that hadn’t been too bad. Rough, but not the worst.

There was a rustle of grass and Wolf shot up upright, searching for the source. A rabbit stared right back at her before darting into the undergrowth.

Wolf slowly lowered her head into her hands, barely registering that she must have shifted in her sleep. More sleep seemed unlikely now.

She looked back up at the sky. It had to be before dawn, with thick clouds coming over. She really hoped that it wouldn’t rain.

She looked over at the fire, which had mostly died. Only a few embers were glowing in the ash.

On the other side was Erina, curled up on a sleeping mat with her cloak around her like a blanket. As if she knew Wolf was looking at her, Erina inhaled sharply and her eyes snapped open.

She also sat up, scanning the area and taking in the sleeping Satyarani, and the awake Wolf.

Erina narrowed her eyes at Wolf before laying back down and facing away.

Wolf remained sitting, staff held between her knees and hugging them, staring at the embers. She was aware of the weight on her hip, of the bottle of Dreamless Sleep that she had forgotten to drink from.

---

Satyarani woke up with the sun, once again being the only one with a decent night’s sleep. The three of them packed up camp and began to trek towards Flint Drop. Both Erina and Wolf were yawning as they walked, but slowly managed to wake up as they approached the mountain.

Flint Drop was well named. The mountain face was sheer, with safe passage few and far between.

Satyarani handed Wolf back her cloak before changing into a dust cloud, in order to fly to the top and wait. Erina and Wolf, as they had done in their youth, strapped their staffs to their backs and climbed the old-fashioned way.

It was almost nostalgic. Wolf would mostly scale mountains with four paws, but she had scaled them like this, to prove that she could. Even Raven of Old back in the day had scaled Flint Drop by hand, rather than soaring over it.

Wolf found herself out of practice however, so had a few close calls as climbed behind Erina. Meanwhile Erina appeared to have no such problems and quickly pulled ahead.

Wolf felt some degree of embarrassment when she reached the top of the rockface and the two princesses were waiting for her.

“Not a word,” Wolf growled as she handed the cloak back to Satyarani.

“I was not going to say anything,” Satyarani assured, wrapping the fur cloak around her shoulders.

“I was. Perhaps you’d like to find a wolf friendly path on the way down?” Erina asked in a mocking tone.

“Do not tempt me.”

The trek across the main part of the mountain was easier, but if you go up, you must go down.

Erina tied a rope to a sturdy outcrop and began to abseil down the sheer rock face. Wolf waited at the top with her cloak on and with Satyarani, who was going to untie the rope and turn into dust to get down.

Something was making Wolf’s hackles rise, but she could not put her finger on it.

Still, Erina reached the bottom, and it was Wolf’s turn to go.

She grabbed the rope and instantly let go like it burned.

A growl built at the back of her throat as something unpleasant churned in her stomach. It was just rope, what was the matter?!

She grabbed for it again, but when she touched it her feet were scrambling back and away. She could feel its bristles, tough fibres digging in and tightening-

“Wolf?” Satyarani asked with concern.

Wolf looked down at her hand. It was fine, she had abseiled many times. Just, not within the last couple of decades.

She tried for a third time, but now her hand trembled, and she could not bring herself to touch it.

“WHAT IS TAKING SO LONG?!” Erina bellowed from the base of cliff.

“…I WILL HAVE TO FIND ANOTHER WAY DOWN!” Wolf responded.

“WE DO NOT HAVE TIME FOR THIS!”

“I WILL CATCH UP!”

“I WILL GO WITH HER!” Satyarani called down the rockface.

Erina dramatically threw up her arms in response. Satyarani untied the rope and let it fall, and once Erina had gathered it up she turned and continued her way down the mountain.

“Are you well, Wolf?” Satyarani asked.

“…I do not think I have been well for a very long time,” Wolf admitted. “And in this moment? I do not know.”

“I see. Let us find another way down then. You are familiar with this mountain?”

“Mostly. There should be a wolf trail somewhere. There usually is.”

The wolf trail was still dangerous. In truth it was more of a goat trail, with Wolf having to leap from safe point to safe point. Still, it was easier with four paws.

It was afternoon by the time Wolf made it down, followed by a patient Satyarani as a dust cloud, who gave her helpful tips on where to jump next.

Once back on the ground Wolf gave herself a shake before casting the air for Erina’s scent. She trotted north, making for the River of the Rising Moon.

Satyarani changed to human to follow, but kept up remarkably well.

They found Erina talking with Haryad a few miles south of the river as the sky turned orange.

“…moving onto the northern most edge of Green Lady Wood for their second talisman,” he said.

“Aye. Any news from Raven of Old?”

“He has been moving quickly, for he is making his way to place his fourth talisman.”

“That is excellent news to hear,” Satayrani said as she stepped towards Erina. Wolf shifted mid step.

“There you are, I was starting to worry,” Erina frowned. “I am concerned, about how easy this has been. There has not been a single demon spotted so far.”

“Nevar is likely hoping that we will not be able to fight him off, or possibly impede us in reaching the portal,” Wolf suggested, face twisting as Erina turned to face her. “Do not Erina, please.”

Surprisingly, Erina did not jump on the potential bait. “I fear you may be right,” she sighed.

Wolf was surprised. “What did you say?”

“Do not make me say it again.”

“I am not entirely certain I heard you the first time.”

“You heard me loud and clear Wolf.”

Wolf was grinning despite, or perhaps because of, Erina’s annoyed expression.

“Some things do not change,” Erina sighed before turning to Haryad. “Please inform Cyrus and Raven that we will be camping along the River of the Rising Moon, with plans on crossing tomorrow.”

“I shall!” Haryad disappeared into the horizon.

Erina looked back at Wolf, opened her mouth to say something, then decided against it.

“What is it?” Wolf asked.

“I…” Erina shook her head. “I am too tired to start a fight with you. That was the first genuine smile I have seen from you.”

“…Oh.”

Erina cleared her throat and without another word began striding north.

Wolf glanced at Satyarani before following Erina.

They camped where Erina suggested, watching the waters of the River of the Rising Moon rush past.

Erina watched it warily, eyes flicking up and down the bank.

“Erina?” Satyarani asked.

“It is an old habit. Demons used to patrol this river, and I could not cross to avoid them.”

“Why? It is fast to be certain, but it does not appear deep.”

“While Nevar held dominion here, the waters became cursed. To touch it was certain death. And now, logically I know the curse is likely broken, yet still…”

“I am certain you will not be concerned if I fell in to test this,” Wolf commented lightly, whittling a new lump of wood.

“Wolf I do not think that is helpful,” Satyarani said.

“Wolf… no.”

“Very well, it was merely a suggestion.”

“That does remind me,” Erina turned to Wolf. “Why did you not abseil down Flint Drop?”

Wolf paused. She had been trying not to think about it.

“I am, uncertain. Something made me feel uneasy.”

“Did you not trust my rope?”

“That was not the problem,” Wolf tapped the side of her head. “Here is the problem.”

Erina furrowed her brow and looked away. “…I see…”

She was saved from having to continue her train of thought as a raven flew in. It landed just outside the campsite and shifted, revealing that Raven had flown to them.

Wolf immediately got to her feet. “Raven? Is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes. Everything is proceeding smoothly. Wolf, I was hoping to speak with you for a moment.”

Wolf glanced at Erina and Satyarani before leaving her whittling tools by the fire and walking to Raven. The two of them stepped away from the firelight.

“Are you certain you are well?” Wolf asked, now having a closer look. Raven looked pale, and bags were beginning to form under her eyes.

“I have not been sleeping well,” Raven admitted quietly. “I had hoped that you still have some of the Dreamless Sleep potion you used in the Lands to the North?”

“Aye, I do! One moment,” Wolf felt around her belt for the correct bottle, then after a second found an empty bottle. She poured some of the potion into the new bottle and handed it to Raven.

“That should tide you over for several days,” Wolf informed. “I will try and brew some soon. Return if you need more.”

“You are too good to me my friend,” Raven stowed the bottle away carefully.

“I could say the same of you.”

Raven gave a small smile. “I thank you Wolf.”

“How is Cyrus?” Wolf changed the subject. “Has he lost his voice yet?”

“Not as of yet, although he is making an admirable effort,” Raven looked over at the campfire. “How are things here?”

“Tense,” Wolf decided to be honest. “But slowly improving, I think. Time will tell.”

“Cyrus has been telling stories,” Raven looked over at Erina. “I do hope your relationship repairs somewhat.”

“What stories has he been telling?”

“Old glory day stories. The battles with Nevar, how he met you, some of his accomplishments. I did not think listening to the finer details of how Time Wells function would be boring.”

“He does enjoy the sound of his own voice,” Wolf commiserated.

Raven nodded. “Aye,” she raised the bottle. “Thank you again my friend. I will leave you now.”

“Give Cyrus my best.”

“That I will,” with that Raven started shifting, but paused as Erina called over.

“A moment Raven, if you please!”

Raven returned to her human form and looked at Wolf quizzically as Erina came over.

“There is something I wish ask you, privately,” Erina shot Wolf a look.

“Very well,” Wolf conceded irritably. “I will not be far if you need me. Safe travels,” Wolf walked back to the fire.

Erina and Raven spoke for a few minutes, Wolf doing her best not to eavesdrop. Still her name and ‘staff’ and ‘Nevar’ pierced through her ears. Erina didn’t seem to get the answers she was looking for, as Raven shifted into a raven and flew west. Erina walked back, face equally as stormy as the sky.

Wolf watched Raven fly away until she could no longer see her, before turning her attention to Erina.

“What did Raven wish to speak to you about?” Erina asked before Wolf could.

“She asked for some of my potion of Dreamless Sleep,” Wolf gestured to the bottle on her belt. “I will be looking for ingredients to make a new batch tomorrow.”

“I see,” Erina didn’t appear too convinced. “Do you still remember how to make it?”

��I believe so. Why, are you offering aid?”

A muscle worked in Erina’s jaw. “Perhaps. I will think on it.”

“…I see,” of all the responses, Wolf had not been expecting that. “And what did you ask of her?”

“I merely asked her to confirm something for me,” Erina sighed and looked long and hard at Wolf. “You did always insist on being difficult.”

“Excuse me?”

“Raven confirmed your story, and while I am not ruling out making portals in the night, I…” Erina shook her head. “Never you mind.”

“…No matter,” it did matter, but Wolf wasn’t sure if she had the energy for this. “I will sleep now,” she took a swig of the potion and curled up to sleep.

---

Yeah, Erina being alone on the Island for four years dodging demons, that's going to leave some marks. I haven't really got much to comment on the chapter itself, but I will say this about the River of the Rising Moon. When I was preparing this fic I rewatched Raven: The Island, as you might expect, and then I went back, cross referencing with the wiki to find specific challenges, and a I noticed that the three teams mostly stuck to a certain area. The Lions were usually in the southeast of the island, the Eagles in the northeast and the Wolves in the West. There is at least one challenge at the River of the Rising Moon, by the Lions, which should have been in this area, but when the map did it's travel thing, it scanned over to the west! Where the Wolves where and nowhere near where the Lions were usually!

Okay, I could have ignored that I'll admit, but I didn't, so there's no challenge remnants here. In hindsight, it should not bother me this much. Instead it bothers me greatly.

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pocketseizure · 5 years

Text

The History of Light and Shadow

At the end of Twilight Princess, Ganondorf delivers one of his most memorable lines, “The history of light and shadow will be written in blood.” He is not wrong. As the player has witnessed over the course of Link’s adventure, Hyrule is haunted by ruins and ghost towns, a mere shadow of what it once was. The landscape is filled with numerous sites of past violence and empty spaces visibly marked by decay and wasted potential.

When Zelda tells Link and Midna that “these dark times are the result of our deeds,” she is referring to specific historical acts of imperialistic aggression. Hyrule established hegemony over its outlying territories by crushing the rebellions against its advances, but the kingdom has suffered from cultural stagnation as a result. Without the dynamic diversity symbolized by Ganondorf, Hyrule finds itself in economic and political decline, isolated from any contact with the world beyond its shrinking borders.

As a representative of a marginalized group of people who have been attacked and driven from their homes, Ganondorf is a tangible manifestation of the horrors of imperialism. He must be defeated, but doing so does not address the underlying problems that have resulted in Hyrule’s decline. I therefore want to argue that Twilight Princess uses Ganondorf to deliver a subtle yet poignant protest against the discourses of empire reflected by the dualistic “light and shadow” rhetoric of heroism that has resulted in tragedy and regret.

In the era immediately preceding Ocarina of Time, the kingdom of Hyrule united multiple geographically proximate groups of people at the end of a devastating civil war. Ganondorf was the leader of the Gerudo, an ethnic minority that resisted Hyrule. After several years of fighting, Ganondorf was eventually captured and imprisoned. The Sages of Hyrule were unable to execute him, so they sealed him away by casting him into the Twilight Realm, a world of shadows that exists alongside Hyrule. The events of Twilight Princess are triggered an indefinite period of time later when Ganondorf manages to persuade Zant, a prince of the Twilight Realm, to stage an uprising against Midna, its legitimate ruler.

Guided by Midna, the player takes on role of the teenage hero Link in order to defeat Zant and Ganondorf and thereby save Hyrule with the aid of its crown princess, Zelda. Many (if not the majority) of players will be influenced by the broad archetypes reproduced in this heroic narrative to understand Link as “good” and Ganondorf as “evil.” Throughout most of Twilight Princess, Ganondorf is characterized as a ruthless tribal warlord who attacked Hyrule because of his lust for power. As indicated by his monologues and gradual humanization over the course of the final battle, however, Ganondorf represents much more than simply an evil to be defeated. He is introduced to the player as a foolish man who became evil incarnate, and he does little more than scream in rage and pain when the player first sees him in a flashback. When he is allowed to speak for himself, however, he reveals himself to be highly intelligent with motivations that are not unsympathetic.

When Link finally confronts Ganondorf in the throne room of Hyrule Castle, he is sitting alone. The world he once knew is long gone, and all that remains to him is the intense emotion he has directed toward Hyrule, whose wealth and security he simultaneously covets and resents. Ganondorf has succeeded in conquering the kingdom, but his victory no longer has meaning, as his people have been killed, driven away, or assimilated.

As established in Ocarina of Time, the Gerudo historically maintained uneasy relations with the majority ethnicity of Hyrule. The views once espoused by the people in Hyrule concerning the Gerudo are reminiscent of Orientalist stylizations, in which the peoples of certain “non-Western” and therefore “uncivilized” nations are characterized as being either unintelligent animals incapable of governing themselves or decadent and weak and thus a prime target for colonization.

The villainization of Ganondorf and the Gerudo as deceitful and lawless thieves within Hyrule echoes contemporary postcolonial discourse, in which former colonial powers exhibit a longing for “the good old days” of expansive imperial hegemony. The British sociologist Paul Gilroy has termed this fabricated nostalgia “postcolonial melancholy,” a tonal atmosphere characterizing stories that are often haunted by the gothic figure of the postcolonial ghost. Ganondorf is a textbook example of a postcolonial ghost – a menacing supernatural figure who represents the frightening native traditions of the past that the supposedly enlightened colonizers attempted to “correct” but were prevented from eradicating completely.

In order for culturally odorless global capitalism to move forward, the ghosts of the colonial past must be laid to rest, regardless of whether they are symbolic narratives or actual human beings. Such narratives are not uncommon in the political discourse and popular narratives of Japan, which is still struggling to come to terms with its history of imperial violence on the Asian mainland. In essence, the demonization of Ganondorf reflects the historical and contemporary villainization of both specific and broadly defined groups in the real world, including entire nations of people who have been discursively positioned as “enemies.” As a medium, video games require challenges for the player to overcome. Story-based games such as those in the Legend of Zelda series tend to be relentless in their construction of enemies whose unequivocally evil deeds propel the hero to action. In Twilight Princess, there are two primary categories of characters with whom the player can interact: NPCs who offer material assistance and advice on how the hero can proceed through the quest, and monsters who must be attacked and generally yield tangible rewards when defeated.

In other words, the fundamental elements of gameplay reflect a worldview built on the foundation of a battle of “us” versus “them,” which is given literal expression in the dichotomy between who cannot be attacked and who must be attacked in order to advance. Many players take it for granted that a game will present a class or race or species that deserves to be destroyed, and the lack of alternative options for interaction suggests that it is still somewhat radical to suggest that perhaps the player-character is not entirely justified in the demonization of people who don’t look or think like them. Video games are adept at engendering a sense of subjectivity, meaning that one of their functions is to give the player a feeling of controlling their movement through the game while enacting their will via the actions of their character. At the end of Twilight Princess, however, Link must fight and defeat Ganondorf, no matter how much sympathy the player may feel for him. The gameplay elements of Twilight Princess therefore perform abjection, the process by which we demarcate the boundaries of the whole and wholesome “self” by setting up a contrast against a fragmented and unclean “other.” As individuals, we employ this process to construct monsters that violate the sanctity of our bodies; and, as cultures, we employ this process to construct enemies that violate our sense of belonging to a shared identity.

The dualism of “the pure” and “the abject” functions to further erase the nuances and possibilities denied by the artificial designation of the characters in Twilight Princess as either “good” or “evil.” Ganondorf’s cultural barrier-crossing, his shifting physical form, his open physical and emotional wounds, and his occupation of the liminal spaces between one world and another place him squarely in the realm of the impure and abject. Both the story of Twilight Princess and the narrative functions of its gameplay demand that the abject ghosts of the empire be purified and expelled by cleansing Hyrule of the pollution of Ganondorf’s lingering malice.

By humanizing Ganondorf but then forcing the player to fight him anyway, Twilight Princess employs various tropes relating to the figure of the postcolonial ghost not to invoke unironic postcolonial melancholy, but rather to force the player to experience the violence of these tropes in a subjective and visceral way. Twilight Princess is therefore not so much a heroic legend of triumph over “darkness” as it is an elegiac legend of regret concerning past atrocities. Link’s victory is bittersweet, and it is not presented as a triumph for him or for Hyrule. At the end of Twilight Princess, Princess Zelda barely looks at the young man who supposedly rescued her. Midna, whose people were once banished to the Twilight Realm for opposing Zelda’s ancestors, takes her leave of Link, shattering the gate between their worlds after she departs. Midna explains her decision by saying, “Light and shadow can’t mix, as we all know.”

As Link and Midna’s friendship throughout the game has demonstrated, light and shadow can indeed coexist. Midna does not explain why she would choose to destroy the Mirror of Twilight that connects the Twilight Realm to Hyrule, but it is significant that this occurs immediately after she has witnessed the fight between Link and Ganondorf. Perhaps the prolonged spectacle of Ganondorf’s death has convinced Midna that there is no room for “monsters” in Hyrule, and it may be that she fears that she and her people will always be seen as abject outsiders, just as Ganondorf and his people once were.

It’s not clear to whom the title of Twilight Princess refers, and it could easily designate Midna, who emerges from and returns to the shadowy Twilight Realm. The title could also apply to Princess Zelda, however, as the victory over the forces of evil at the end of the game does not necessarily reverse or alleviate her kingdom’s slow decline. Before the end credits roll, Zelda sends the hero back to his village and returns alone to her empty castle.

Despite the narrative arc of Link’s progressive competence as an adventurer, this element of sorrow has been present from the outset of the game. Unlike the other games in the Legend of Zelda series, Twilight Princess begins not with Link waking up in the morning, but with him returning home in the evening. The opening scene is suffused with the golden light of the setting sun, and the game’s first spoken line is delivered by Link’s mentor Rusl, who asks, “Tell me… Do you ever feel a strange sadness as dusk falls?” The player’s first few minutes with Twilight Princess thereby establish melancholy and lament as two of the major themes of the game. The people of Hyrule are entering the twilight of their civilization under the rule of an ineffectual monarchy that has not allowed its people to be revitalized by change and diversity.

The slow apocalypse suggested by the environment of Twilight Princess, such as eroded ruins and decaying ghost towns, is not presented with an opportunity for renewal along with Ganondorf’s defeat. The potential for energetic dynamism represented by Ganondorf has been violently denied in favor of cultural purity, and the severity of this loss is reflected in the somber tone of the game’s closing scenes. If Ganondorf cannot exist in Hyrule, neither can Midna – and perhaps neither can Link himself.

When Ganondorf speaks of a history written in blood, he is referring to the history that has been lost to Hyrule along with the bodies and voices of the people who have fallen in its imperialistic conflicts. Twilight Princess thereby uses the menacing yet tragic figure of Ganondorf to suggest that, if the lifeblood of the kingdom is to remain vital, its history must be able to accommodate more than a reductive dualism between “light” and “shadow.”

#Legend of Zelda #Twilight Princess #Ganondorf #Midna #Princess Zelda #and Link too #Twilight Princess gives me feelings #witness my tears #lord help me I'm back on my bullshit #Zelda meta

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lux-i-fer · 4 years

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Can you explain why you view Cain’s emotions as being frozen by the passage of time? I’ve read a very convincing theory that he’s a psychopath so it’d be interesting to see your take ( on why he isn’t??)

Yeah I sure can! So the basic story of Cain is that he was condemned by God to live an eternal punishment on Earth right? So he’s been alive for a pretty long time. And over that long span of time he’s become quite jaded to the world around him. Think of how Lilith or s1 Amenadiel act. Neither of them care all that much about humanity or their happenings because what is a decade in the face of someone who has lived through millennia? More importantly, why should an immortal enjoy the ‘small things’ so to speak if they have infinite time to enjoy them? Writers often wax poetic about how humans burn so bright because they never know when their flame will be snuffed out, and I think there’s some truth to that. An immortal like Cain would eventually grow tired of seizing every day like his fellow humans do. He has an infinite amount of days, what’s the rush? Eventually that mindset morphs into what’s the use? Why should I go out and do things when time doesn’t matter to me? Why should I form bonds with people I know will perish? Why should I participate in this life, knowing full well that it’ll just pass me by? Cain himself is quoted as saying this:

“I have walked this Earth for thousands of years. I have seen everything, I have done everything. I have watched everything I have ever known turn into ashes over and over again. And I’ve been searching for a way out forever.”

This type of thinking is a slippery slope. I will say that Cain was never quite “good” to begin with, he kills his brother with a rock because he felt like Abel was taking up too much spotlight I mean who does that? Cain is a selfish and manipulative person who uses others as if they were mere chess pieces to get what he wants, there’s really no way around that. However, I would not classify him as a psychopath. An absolute asshole, yes perhaps, but not a psychopath. Like I said, he’s become impassive to the world at large. He’s a human with the world view of a celestial/infernal being. Momlotte had a similar world view (oh what’s another human death, they’ll just make more. He was getting annoying anyways) yet no one ever categorized her as a psychopath. While I admit Mom is not the best comparison, we cannot deny that she and Cain share that aspect of themselves. Because like Mom, Cain does show moments of true emotion. Tom 2.0 might not have done the best job showing that (sorry Tom :/ ) but there were still traces of it.

I think the most notable example of this is in 3x12 when Cain tells Lucifer he wants to die. Like I said before, Cain isn’t a very expressive character but we do see some indication of emotion when Lucifer pries his desire out. I think where a lot of people get hung up is on Cain’s lack of empathy for other people--and that’s valid--but again we forgot that he has the mentality of an immortal. He just does not care about other people, and yeah that’s a dick move but it is what it is. Sometimes people just really are assholes and that’s just who they are. Forgive my forwardness, but not every prick on the street is a psychopath just because they didn’t help you pick up your groceries when the bottom of your bag gave out or because they said they loved you and then fucked off with a hooker. People can just be assholes for no reason sometimes, and that’s just what Cain is.

But like most assholes, Cain still cares about things. Usually those things pertain to only one subject, himself, but he still values them. And like I said before, this is most visible in his quest to die. Cain truly wants to end his life and I feel as though he has very genuine emotions for why. Think about it: you’re an immortal. The first few years seem alright, but then your friends and family start to die off, one by one. Over the next few years you make more friends and acquaintances. They also die. You have to move houses because your neighbors are suspicious of your eternal youth. You now have to move every fifty years and cut all contact with the life attached to that identity. You continue this cycle for hundreds of years with no end. Doesn’t that sound depressing? Doesn’t just thinking about that grate on your very bones? Of course it does, you’re human. And so is Cain. (We could almost draw a Lilith comparison here, no?) Humans were born knowing that eventually this will all just end. In a twisted way that’s what makes living so great; it won’t last forever. Cain knows that ultimately death is where he belongs, yet it is the one thing he will never be able to do. Can you imagine that? You have the power to do anything you could ever want, but you have no power to achieve what you truly desire. I think it’s safe to say that that would do a number on anyone.

Now I have not addressed his manipulative side in detail yet so lets carve out some time for that. Did Cain manipulate Chloe, Maze, and pretty much everyone else to get what he wants? Yes. Did he feign emotion in that process? Yes. But then again, who hasn’t? I’m not trying to justify his actions, because he did some truly horrific things, but I’m just putting it out there. How many times do we put on fronts in our own lives just to get what we want? We see it all the time. Someone flirts their way out of a situation, serial cheaters tell their spouses they love them while stringing along three other people behind their backs, or we say something we know will set someone off just to see their reaction. If we diagnose psychopaths using this logic, do we not all contain some hint of psychopathy? Well yes, we do. Humans aren’t perfect creatures. Some are better than others and some are worse. Like I said, I’m not saying that Cain was justified in his actions, but I do not think we can slap a psychopath label on him just because he’s a dick.

I believe the psychopath theory does not take Cain’s situation into account. I believe it neglects to recognize the warped way in which he views both humanity and the world at large. Cain is a human condemned to live an immortal’s life and I don’t think that’s something to shrug at.

#ask #anon #lucifer morningstar #lucifer on netflix #s3 #lucifer spoilers #5x04

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fanfic-fangirl · 4 years

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My Little Mortal ch 1

My Curse to Bare

Summary: My take on The Little Mermaid, with some Beauty and the Beast elements thrown in!

This is also, a Dark Fairy tale

Loki is a merman, cursed by his father, Odin, after centuries of violent attacks against The Kingdom Above the Waves. Believing they were responsible for the death of his mother, Frigga, he vows revenge and kills any and all humans, who cross his path.

After centuries of separation and failure to un-curse himself, Loki comes across a lost mortal. Curious how she made it to their realm, and the unknown force that seems to pull him towards her, at every chance.

Warnings: violence, mentions of abuse, major character death, attempted sexual assault, magic, dark magic, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, swearing,

MASTERLIST SERIES MASTERLIST

First Impressions

A few days passed before Loki woke up again. He opened his eyes and looked around, slightly confused when he realized he was laying on his bed in the palace. He finally realized, nothing looked right. Colors that used to be bright and vibrant, now looked dull and lifeless, he still felt hollow like something was missing and there was a slight chill in the water. He didn't remember everything feeling this cold. He tried to think back to what happened between him and his father, he couldn't remember the words that were spoken, only the sadness on his father's face before he placed a hand over his heart.

“Brother! You're awake!” Thor beamed when he swam into Loki's room and saw him sitting up in his bed.

“Thor? What am I doing here? What happened?” He asked, his voice a little rougher than usual.

“In good time brother. How are you feeling?” Thor asked, sitting next to Loki on his bed.

“Still a little tired and like I was tossed around by a family of whales.” Thor let out a small chuckle.

“Father said you might feel that way.”

“Where is father? I need to speak with him.” Loki asked.

“He's gone Loki.” Thor replied, Loki missing the look of sadness on Thor's face.

“When will he be back?” Loki asked, lying back down in his bed, eyes closed.

“He won't. Don't you remember what happened?” Thor asked, giving his brother a look of concern.

“Everything's a little fuzzy and cloudy. I remember he said something, then placed his hand here.” Loki said, moving his hand over his heart, “Then nothing but excruciating pain.”

Thor let out a heavy sigh, “Laufey tried kill to you, Loki.” Loki shot up, staring at Thor in disbelief. “He used the last of his life force to kill you as a punishment for father. Father wasn't going to let Laufey kill you and the death curse hit him instead. He's gone.” Thor was more somber than Loki had ever seen him before.

“Why would Laufey want to kill me, after spending decades training me?” Loki asked, realizing Thor's explanation wasn't making much sense.

“He was using you. He was angry with our father for keeping you and raising you.” Thor sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “There's no easy or gentle way to say this. Loki, Laufey is........no, was your biological father.”

“WHAT! How was that monster my father?” he asked, the look in his eyes, pleading for Thor to admit it was some kind of sick joke.

“Come, lets get you some food and I'll tell you everything.” Thor said, pushing himself off Loki's bed and offering him his hand. Loki looked at the offered hand, then at his brother, who just smiled at him. Knowing Thor would tell him nothing if he didn't agree, Loki had no choice. Despite how betrayed and angry he felt, he took Thor's hand and followed him to the dinning hall.

After eating and listening to Thor explain everything, Loki retreated to the library. He needed to find any information about what happens, when to the recipient of a death spell who continues to live, after the spell hit an unintended target.

Centuries later, the dark prince was still searching for any information on his condition. He had moved out of the palace and into a home on the outskirts of the royal city. Thor still gave him full access to the library and still went to him for advice and council, but Loki had all but locked himself away, consumed with trying to find out any information on his condition.

He had heard about an old sorceress in another city, who was older than his father or mother would be, were either of them still alive. He had gone to see her in the hopes that she would be able to tell him about his current condition. She just laughed at him and told him to give up his quest and just enjoy life. Loki could tell she knew exactly what was wrong with him, he even called her out on it. All she told him, was that no one would be able to explain his curse, not because they didn't want to, but they physically wouldn't be able to. Anyone who continued to try, would have their tongue turn to sand.

What she wanted to tell him was that it wasn't a spell, but a curse, which she merely hinted at, knowing he'd catch it. His particular curse was unbreakable. It wasn't the spirits that decided the penance, but the soul itself. It would be the other half of Loki's soul that would decide when it was time to return, if it ever decided to return. If the soul decided never to return, Loki would remain. Indefinitely. He would watch everyone he ever knew and loved, live long and happy lives. Watch them grow old and die, surrounded by those who loved them. Loki would never find that kind of peace, he would remain, cursed to swim the tides for all eternity. Eventually becoming insane, losing the other half of his soul, forgetting who he was and becoming an immortal monster of the deep. She wanted to tell him to forget about his condition and concentrate on trying to woo back his other half, but the curse was stronger than her, and she couldn't. If she was being completely honest, she wasn't sure he'd even be successful, even if she had been able to tell him.

He was on his way back home, thinking about her words, when a shadow passed over him. With the ocean and land realms being separated, it was very rare for anything to float on the surface. Over the centuries, he had discovered that, occasionally, a doorway between the two realms would open randomly. It was always a fixed position in his realm, but when it opened on the land realm, it was random. When the doorway was open for an extended length of time, sometimes, a kelp patty would find it's way through. This was the closest to joy he ever felt, as there was always something delicious hiding in the kelp. So he always made it a point to visit the area he knew the gateway to be. On occasion, he would even share with Thor.

Feeling rather hungry after swimming such a distance from the old woman's home, he looked around to make sure no one was around, before swimming towards the patty to see what might be hiding inside. The closer he got, the less it looked like a kelp patty and the more it looked like floating debris. Being curious by nature, he continued making his way towards the patty. Upon closer inspection, this was like no patty he had ever seen before, it was a horrid orange color with one large white stripe on each of the sides, there were no leaves, and definitely no delectable creatures hiding within. Curious about the texture, he cautiously extended a finger and poked it. Poking it a few more times, certain it wasn't some unknown sea creature lying in wait to attack him, he put both hands on it. It was like nothing he'd ever felt before. The skin was similar to that of a shark, rough and almost leathery, but not really leathery. He had no idea how to describe it, this was something new and could only have come from the world of mortals. He swam around the entire perimeter, noting that it was exactly the same all the way around, before he ventured underneath, still running his hand along it, feeling the texture and what he could only assume were some sort of decorative markings. They were firm and stiffer than the rest of the object. He thought they might be some kind of boning to protect it from attack. He thought it odd that in the center, it hung lower in the water and the shape was rather lumpy and round. Considering how uniform the rest of the object was, this didn't make sense. He took a few minutes to ponder what it could possibly be, before placing both hands on it and giving a slight push. He heard a muffled scream and watched as it changed shape and moved. Now, instead of one large round mass in the middle, there were four, two smaller and two that were long and thin. They kept moving about and making strange muffled noises. He knew before the curse, this would have really got his blood pumping and excited, now, he felt nothing. There was no joy in his new discovery, no excitement, nothing, just empty curiosity.

Wanting to know what it looked like above the water, he swam to one of the sides, keeping most of his body underneath the large mass, he cautiously peeked out from underneath it, his eyes went wide when he saw a face staring back at him. He quickly ducked back under the creature's belly, watching as the shapes began moving around making strange noises again. Not wanting to risk an attack from it's head, and since it hadn't tried to alter it's position or attack him, he swam to the opposite side. He couldn't help but feel slightly irritated and angry with the situation, he knew he should be feeling excited and his heart should be racing, but with being cursed, all he could feel were negative emotions, and he hated it.

He heard the creature emit a high pitched squeal and couldn't help his curiosity, he watched again as the shapes began to move towards where he had seen the head. Deciding the creature was distracted with where he had been, he took advantage of the distraction and poked his head out of the water, not being able to see above the creatures sides, he placed a hand on what he thought was it's backside. Satisfied that the creature wouldn't turn and attack him, he pulled himself up and looked over the edge, quickly realizing that it wasn't a creature at all, but it held a creature. He stared in confusion at what he assumed was it's backside, wanting to get a closer look and not wanting to draw the creature's attention, he slowly and cautiously, pulled himself up and over the side. With most of his tail hanging over the edge and one hand supporting him, he began to reach out to the odd looking appendage in front of him, wanting so badly to touch it. Looking up, to make sure it was still distracted, he was surprised when he saw it looking back at him. Both frozen, as they made eye contact and their brains tried to process what they were seeing, Loki quickly pulled his hand away as the creature let out a shrill scream and began flailing about. He rolled his eyes as it fell over the side and splashed into the water. Allowing himself to glide back into the water, he watched as the creature flailed in the ocean, creating too many bubbles in it's struggle, not allowing him to see clearly what it was. He watched as it tried to climb back inside, screaming as it did. If this thing wasn't careful, it was going to draw the attention of a guard, and then he'd never get to examine it while it was still alive. With a huff, he swam over and underneath it, trying to be cautious of it's flailing limbs, he put his hands on what he hopped was some part of it's body and used a little magic to help push it back in the floating contraption. He heard more screaming by the creature, climbing over the side like he had done earlier, he shook his head as he watched it try to scurry away from him. Irritated beyond belief with it, he used more magic to silence it and hold it still.

“I swear, if you don't stop making such a commotion, you're going to draw the attention of the guards and my oafish brother, and I'll never get a good look at you. Now hold still and be silent.” He growled, satisfied that his magic was doing it's part. With his current condition, he was nowhere near as powerful as he was before, but he still had more than the average sorcerer.

“What are you?” He asked, as he allowed himself to slide into the contraption. He normally wouldn't allow himself to get this close to something new, especially out of the water. But with it being restrained by his magic, and how easily it will be to slide right back into the water, he felt the risk was worth it.

He took his time looking the creature over, assessing it for any threats, it had no claws, appeared to have no sharp teeth, but it definitely had the biggest, ugliest eyes he'd ever seen! He knew it was scared, could smell the fear rolling off it, he wasn't sure if the rapid breathing was normal or because it was scared, he assumed it was the former. Looking at it, he could have sworn it had more appendages before falling in the water, now, it appeared to only have two on it's lower half.

“Will you calm down, I'm not going to hurt you!” He hissed, irritated that it was breathing so heavily.

He reached out and poked one of it's lower appendages. He gasped, feeling a small jolt run through his finger, he quickly pulled his hand back. He stared at the creature in front of him, curious how it shocked him. The only thing he knew that emitted a shock like that, were jellyfish, but this creature was much to solid to be a jellyfish.

Curious if he would feel a second jolt, he reached out again and touched the same spot. Nothing, though the creature did try to flinch away, he assumed that meant it must have felt the jolt as well. He sighed as he saw it's muscles continue to contract as if it was trying to get way from him.

“It's magic, you won't be able to move. Like I said, I'm not going to hurt you, so just calm down.” He said, looking in it's grotesque eyes. Deciding he was more curious about it's hideous face, than it's lower half at the moment, he pulled himself closer to it. Watching as it's eyes got bigger and the breathing quicker as it struggled in the magic binding.

“You are a curious looking thing aren't you? Has the Kingdom above the Waves really changed so much since we left it?” He asked, grabbing it's face and turning it to the side.

“You're eyes are absolutely disgusting! What would cause them to develop in such a way?” he asked, touching the side, not wanting to hurt the creature, at least not to much.

“Interesting, you have hair, but then why has this piece of skin grown over it in such a way? Were you injured some how? A birth defect, perhaps?” He asked, running his finger along the odd band.

“Wait, it's not a part of you. A covering for your eyes? How intriguing!” He said, turning the creatures face and forcing it to look directly at him.

Tapping the odd material, with a slight smirk, as the creatures eyes flinched. His curiosity really was getting the better of him, he, not so gently, pulled the eye coverings up and off the creature's face. More intrigued by the coverings than the creature at the moment, after turning them over a few times in his hands and tugging on the odd band, he held them up to his face and looked through them just as the creature had done. He heard an odd sound come from the creature, still holding the coverings to his face, he looked at it. It looked as though it was trying not to laugh at him, smiling as it bit it's lower lip.

“No. You can't be. It's been centuries.” he said, almost breathlessly, lowering the coverings, astonished that the creature in front of him was a mortal. A human.

With a wave of his hand, the magic bindings released. Still in shock, he didn't hear what it said, just watched as it stretched it's limbs and made itself comfortable in front of him. He couldn't believe it, had humans found a way into the realm? Had his father's spell been undone? No, he'd have felt it if it had. The only way it could have gotten here was from one of the gateways, most likely, by accident.

Then that meant, he was in the human's ship, looking at it again, it was the oddest ship he had ever seen, it wasn't even made of wood, he wondered what kind of creature they had used to make it. The ship had no apparent way to propel itself, and no sail to catch the wind. So did it just rely on the currents to carry it, is that how it ended up in his ocean?

Turning his attention back to the creature, he hadn't even realized it had been talking to him, it's hands moving about animatedly, the curiosity and fascination in his blue-green eyes. The coverings this human wore were so much different than what he remembered them wearing. They seemed lighter and there was definitely less of them. His eyes roamed the human's body a little more, he never could tell the males from the females. Though gauging from the higher pitch in it's voice, the more fair facial features, he felt pretty confident in his assumption, that this one was female. or, quite possibly, a very young male. He was amazed at how much this female could talk, she'd been talking since the binding had been released. He'd always thought human females could never speak, not that he'd ever seen one before, and definitely, not this close. This was the closest he'd ever been to a human.

He was brought out of his thoughts when she jumped and attacked him. Startled by the light shock she sent through him, he pushed her off and away, then pulled himself back into the water, swimming away as fast as he could. Hearing a splash, he stopped.

Have the mortals developed gills? He thought, turning around to see her swimming towards him, strange, gurgling sounds coming from her. Of course it's still talking!

He watched as she stopped, her hand covering her mouth as she quickly swam back towards the surface. What amazed him wasn't the fact that she could swim, though he was surprised. No, it was the way she swam, she used her lower limbs in the same manner he does. She didn't use them separately, like all the drowning humans he had seen. She used them as if they were her tail. She was oddly graceful in her swimming and he could almost imagine her having a tail. Forgetting about the little shock she had given him, he swam back to her, watching as she broke the surface, her limbs once again moving individually. He wasn't that surprised to hear her gasping when his head breached the surface.

“So that's what the coverings are for, they allow you to see under water. You mortals sure have gotten clever over the centuries.” he smirked as he watched her remove them from her face.

He was shocked to see her smiling at him again, her eyes sparkling and so alive. He had never seen eyes so bright and vivid. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen such beautiful colors, he never wanted to stop looking at them, they were mesmerizing.

The trance she had him under was broken when she made some odd squealing noise and started talking again. He rolled his eyes and they landed on her ship, behind her. A good distance behind her. With the speed of the current, he was pretty sure if she didn't swim for it now, she'd never catch up to it. He tried to draw her attention to it, looking at it, pointing, but she was so busy talking, she didn't notice. He let out an irritated huff, put one hand on the top of her head, the other on her shoulder and turned her around, forcing her to look in that direction and, much to his relief, silencing her. Though it didn't last long, she made another odd squealing noise and began swimming towards her ship. He was intrigued by the way she swam this time, not like a fish, but again, moving each limb separately, he was surprised at the speed. She would never be able to out-swim him like that, but it was still somewhat impressive. Quickly realizing that without his help, she would never catch her vessel, he shrugged his shoulders and began his journey back home.

What was one more dead mortal to him?

#loki x reader/oc #loki x reader #loki x oc #loki #thor #little mermaid au #the little mermaid

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ukdamo · 3 years

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The Abdication Question: Throne or Personhood

One of mine, from March, 1997. I wrote this 24 years ago: the narrative and characters have moved on - but the central question is still not resolved. It has a somewhat theological flavour - which might be off-putting to some. It would have a different flavour if I were to write it now. But, don't let the taste put you off...

It is so far a truism that revolution devours its children that we have failed to recognise, in the present plight of the House of Windsor, that monarchy can do so just as voraciously. The fact is that revolution and monarchy devour their children for the same reason - they represent a tyranny which is inimical to the “freedom of the children of God” (Rom 8:22). Present indications are that the demands made upon individuals by the institution of monarchy, as experienced in Britain, are simply insupportable. More pertinently, the issues raised have as direct a bearing on matters spiritual as on matters temporal.

Commentators on recent royal events have focussed on the question of duty, obligation and service. Rightly so, for this is one of the prime concerns. Of equal importance, however, and increasingly restless and demanding, is the necessity of giving the liberty of the children of God - and kings - its true value. The House of Windsor is sinking into an unhappy morass of unresolved tensions between these two. We have been slow to read the signs of the times; the winds have been blowing from the south (Lk 12:55) for a long, long time; 60 years or more.

In the person of Edward VIII, we see an individual obliged to wrestle with the paradox posed by the conflict between his constitutional role and his personal needs: evident in his concern, when Prince of Vales, with the miners and their working conditions, supremely evident in the Simpson Affair, He resolved the conflict between ‘role’ and ‘person’ by stepping out of role. This choice had enormous repercussions for this brother, George, and for the future development of the monarchy. George, subsequent to Edward’s abdication, was faced with the same dilemma. He resolved it differently - becoming the dutiful, if reluctant, king.

His consort, the present Queen Mother stiffened his resolve. In these events, we see the genesis of the family’s present problems: her strong personality, the circumstances surrounding her husband’s accession to the throne, the advent of WWII, all paved the way for a doubling and redoubling of the emphasis on ‘duty’ and ‘obligation’. These two have become so far elevated that choice and personhood have become synonymous with wilfulness and selfishness. A great pity, and a great stumbling block, because choice and personhood are the crux of the gospel and central to salvation.

Everyone knows that Christian theology places enormous emphasis on service, even to the extent of denying oneself and laying down one’s life. The Greek word used in the New Testament to indicate this self-emptying is kenosis. Relevant scriptural references might include I Phil 2:6-8, “His state was divine, yet he did not cling to his equality with God but emptied himself” or Mk 10:45, “For the Son of Man did not come to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many”.

When carrying such a big (intimidating!) stick, the Church / state / institution need only ever speak softly. Or so one might think.

Increasingly in recent decades, the rationale for such Christian service has been challenged. An imbalance begins to be redressed. New perceptions - dimly recognisable in the earlier part of the 20th century - become more and more distinct. People rebel because they recognise (perhaps unwittingly) the half-truth which kenosis represents. The corollary of kenosis - the very thing which validates the significance, value and virtue of self-sacrifice - is complete self-possession and, stemming from that, informed choice. Significantly for us, this trend, too, has roots in Christian theology.

I would contend that the self-possession spoken of is born of a dialogue between self and God. This dialogue illuminates and informs personhood. The early Church recognised as much: Augustine of Hippo, “Ut te cognoscam Deus meus, et meipsum” (To know you, my God, and myself likewise); or Irenaeus, “The glory of God is a person fully alive.” It is worth noting that the early Church stood outside the power structure of the ancient world. In the intervening centuries, weighed down by accretions, pacing the corridors of power, the Church lost sight of this valuable insight. Conformity and service is much more highly valued in such circles. Only now are we beginning to rediscover self-possession and choice, with the wonder of children. We recognise emerging possibilities, possibilities other than those which have been ‘received’.

To turn to informed choice. When person truly knows themselves, they may recognise that the realisation of their personhood only comes about through a humbling of self in service. Each of us has probably experienced the fulfilment which comes as a result of committing oneself to something outside of self. But we walk on a knife-edge: too often we have erred by substituting mere obedience, a suspension of the critical faculties, an abdication of personhood for such selfless service. This is sacrilegious. No-one, no institution, no power, no Church, no state, especially not God, may ask this. (Where there is service, there must be an ‘I’ who serves). Such an abdication would be to make oneself unrecognisable to self and God. It would trample the unique dignity of the human person under foot, it might imperil salvation. Imagine coming face to face with God at the last, only to be asked “Who are you?” The absolute necessity of self-possession and the informed choice which arises from it is attested to in ancient wisdom, scriptural and otherwise. Aristotle held that the unexamined life was not worth living.

John, in his gospel, places Jesus’ self-sacrifice in the context of absolute self-possession and self-knowledge. “Jesus knew that the Father had put everything into his hands, and that he had come from God and was returning to God, and he got up from the table, removed his outer garment and, taking a towel, wrapped it round his waist; he then poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel he was wearing”.

It is evident, my argument goes, that to serve out of duty and obligation profits nothing. (There can be no sin where there is no freedom; nor can there be virtue).

The younger members of the House of Windsor have been restive for two generations as the ‘service’ ideals conflicted with the equally demanding virtues of self-possession and choice. Margaret was ambivalent enough to voice the desire to marry Peter Townsend before the Firm reasserted its influence. Anne has been bold enough to divorce and remarry, and refused to have her children styled royals. Edward refused to serve any longer in the Marines and sought out a theatrical career. Andrew and Sarah failed to reconcile the roles of high profile navy couple and husband / wife. Most poignantly (?) and more centrally, Charles and Diana faced conflicting demands that have brought their marriage to grief and jeopardised their own physical and emotional well-being as well as that of their children. It appears evident that the pressure to conform becomes more intense the closer one is to the Succession.

Charles and Diana have, in different yet related ways, instinctively rebelled against the tyranny of monarchy. Charles’ searchings are no secret; witness Charles ‘the crofter’, the philosophical enquirer, follower of Laurens van der Post, commentator on architecture, organic farming etc...

Present reports indicate that Charles is still plagued by uncertainty and the quest for a personally meaningful role, Diana was obliged to pose the same question to herself almost before the ink was dry on the marriage register in St. Paul’s. For her part, she has been trying to answer it for more than fifteen years. The list of causes to which she is patron may be taken as a barometer of that endeavour.

The great tragedy of the House of Windsor, and its most monstrous feature, is its insistence on so lionising ‘service’ that it effectively precludes any possibility of its individual members gaining any real sense of themselves as persons. It dehumanises. It not only fosters but actually expects the abdication of personhood. Those of us who identify as lesbian, gay or bisexual will be familiar with the contours of the conflict described in this reflection, if not its precise topography. There are universal lessons to be learned from the particular experiences of lesbians, gay men, bisexuals and from the experience of the House of Windsor: conformity may exact a terrible personal price.

Great portions of the world have moved on in the past 60 years and now find such an insistence on conformity, duty, obligation, to be unacceptable. The Berlin Wall was breached in 1989, apartheid has been driven to extinction, the USSR crumbled, but the British monarchy resists. The present upheavals surely demonstrate that the line cannot be held much longer?

My personal hope, and perhaps the best resolution of this troubled affair of the House of Windsor, is for William (when he comes of age) to recognise that the game’s not worth the candle and abdicate the throne, thus saving himself both now. And forever?

#house of windsor #royalty #service #duty #monarchy #royal family #princes #harry #meghan #britain #power #overcome #estrangement

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margdarsanme · 3 years

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NCERT Class 10 English Footprints Without Feet Chapter 7 The Necklace

English "Footprints Without Feet"

Chapter : The Necklace

Read and Find Out (Page 39) Question 1. What kind of a person is Mme Loisel and why is she always unhappy? Answer: Mme Loisel is young, pretty, ordinary but discontented woman. She is of a humble background but dreams of riches and comforts. She is proud of her beauty and wants to be admired. Her meagre resources are not enough to satisfy her expensive cravings making her angry all the time. Question 2. What kind of a person is her husband? Answer: Her husband M Loisel, is an ordinary and average young man. A mere clerk by profession, he is still contented with his job. Also, he is a caring man as he is excited to show the dinner invitation to his wife. Page 41 Question 3. What fresh problem now disturbs Mme Loisel? Answer: After spending a fortune on a beautiful dress, Mme Loisel is faced with yet another disaster. She frets over the fact that she does not have a beautiful jewel to go with her dress. So, she asks her husband to pass on the invitation to someone else.

Question 4. How is the problem solved? Answer: Matilda Loisel’s husband, M. Loisel, comes to her rescue. First, he suggests her to wear fresh flowers. Matilda just mocked at the idea. Then, he advises her to borrow some jewels from her rich friend, Mme Forestier. Thus, the problem is solved as Mme Forestier lends her a beautiful diamond necklace. Page 42 Question 5. What do Mr and Mme Loisel do next? Answer: The Loisels leave no stone unturned. M. Loisel goes back and searches to the lost necklace. Then, he goes to the police and to the cab offices. Also, they put out an advertisement n the newspapers and offer a reward to anyone who finds :he necklace. But, all their efforts go in vain. Question 6. How do they replace the necklace? Answer: After all other efforts fail, Loisel’s decide to buy a new dentical necklace to replace the lost one. M. Loisel pooled n eighteen thousand francs of his inheritance and borrowed :he rest. Then the couple managed to buy the new necklace :or thirty six thousand francs and returned it to the rightful 0wner. Think About It (Page 46) Question 1. The course of the Loisel’s life changed due to the necklace. Comment. Answer: It takes Loisels a decade to pay back the money they borrowed to buy the necklace. And, it changed everything for them. They had to move to the poorest quarters of the city. With no maids or assistance, Matilda had to cook, clean, mend, sew, bargain with the grocer and butcher to save every sou just for mere survival. The husband had to work in the evening and night to pay their debt. In this way, the course of the Losiel’s life changed due to the necklace. Question 2. What was the cause of Matilda’s ruin? How could she have avoided it? Answer: Matilda’s pride and her materialistic aspirations coupled with her dishonesty pave the way for her ruin. She could have avoided it by learning to accept her current situation and being content with what she had. Question 3. What would have happened to Matilda if she had confessed to her friend that she had lost her necklace? Answer: Truth and honesty would have saved Matilda from her doom. If only she has been courageous enough to confess to her friend the truth of the necklace, she would have come to know that it was a fake one that cost a mere five hundred francs. She would not have Spent her husband’s entire inheritance and borrowed eighteen thousand francs to pay for its replacement. In fact, she would have saved herself and her husband from ten long years of crushing poverty, misery and back breaking labour Question 4. If you were caught in a situation like this, how would you have dealt with it? Answer: Foremost of all, I would have done my best not to become a victim of my own pride and aspirations. If, I was caught in such a situation, I would have let the truth out and then face the consequences. Honesty would have been the way out for me. Talk About It (page 46) Question 1. The characters in this story speak in English. Do you think this is their language? What clues are there in the story about the language its characters must be speaking in? Answer: Though the characters speak in English, it is not their language. Maupassant wrote the story in French and it was translated into English. Again the very text throws up enough words in French to prove it otherwise. First, the very names of characters like ‘Mme Loisel, Mme Forestier and the minister’s name George Ramponneau indicate their French origin. Then, the words for currency like ‘Franc’ and ‘Sou’ show the same. Also, the shop’s location at ‘Palais Royal’ and ‘Champs Elysees’ point out the French history of the characters and the story. Question 2. Honesty is the best Policy. Answer: Honesty is definitely the best policy. Falsehood and hypocrisy seem very attractive and rewarding at first. But, the path they tread on leads to nothing but misery, evil and utter gloom. Honesty, on the contrary, seems to be a difficult choice in pursuit of material happiness. However, it is the only choice for a life of contentment, peace and everlasting happiness. Question 3. We should be content with what life gives us. Answer: Life is a great mystery. For every individual this mystery of life comes wrapped in a unique package. For some, it is all riches, comfort, name and fame. For some, it is nothing but sheer hunger, poverty, anguish and an everyday quest for bare survival. One, however, must learn to live within one’s means and be content with what one has. One may try to improve his lot by honest means but eventually must be at peace with what one manages to have.

from Blogger http://www.margdarsan.com/2020/12/ncert-class-10-english-footprints_10.html

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helshades · 6 years

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Question! Darcy stated that older civilisations could have worshipped Asgardians as gods, which other characters support throughout, but - if this is the case - Thor and Loki weren't born at the time of most myths, so how did humans incorporate them into the myths? Or did Odin like the myths so much that he named them after the stories?

A long, long time ago, we were discussing this with people like @fostertheory, @diana-godkiller (back when she was Romanovasledger) and, someone who was of immense help when it came to pondering Asgardian lifespans, amongst many other things, @survivingrealitywithoutnormality; I recall one of the results was this:

The Young Gods: a zany theory on the possible origin for the Asgardian reputation of godliness on Earth, with the unwilling help of Norse poets.

Thinking about it again now, after three films (plus two) and a couple episodes of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., I’d say we could reprise the idea without risking complete dishonor, in fact.

Obviously, MCU!Earth is meant to imitate our own as closely as possible, and we usually are better off assuming that most events have occurred there just the way they have here. On the other hand, we know that certain things are entirely different: there is no such place as Sokovia or Wakanda, Tony Stark didn’t save the President of the U.S.A., and the rules of physics of our universe don’t actually all apply to MCU!Earth or Bruce Banner would have died a very painful death in that explosion and there wouldn’t be a Hulk in the first place to break Lavoisier’s law repeatedly with brutish application.

So I wouldn’t be cocksure about MCU mythologies matching our own in every respect, either, and I wouldn’t be so sure about their chronology. But even if we choose to be lazily reasonable and assume that the Norse myths followed roughly the same course in European history within the MCU they did in our world… well:

maybe Odin’s Asgard was, like in some comics, a repetition of past events, with Ragnarök having already happened several times and the Asgardians getting revived for a new cycle by Those Who Sit Above In Shadows (there was an Easter Egg for this theory in Thor, actually, in the form of a tablet that read exactly this in runes, next to the Eternal Flame) and there has already been a Thor and a Loki before, or several;

there is always the possibility that Odin gave his sons the names of legendary characters in Asgardian folklore;

… or the Thor and Loki of Midgardian mythology are a mixture of reality and more or less irreverent stories woven from both older Scandinavian myths and whatever iconoclastic bullshit Asgardian deserters have been feeding their new human friends.

I tend to find the latter option more… harmonious, not to mention exceptionally tantalising: I love the idea that people like Berserker defector soon to be known as Elliot Randolph took every opportunity to secretly troll the royal family of Asgard by telling grand tales of dashing exploits to his human friends and adding a lot of frankly insulting tidbits to mock the aristocrats back home.

It’ll never happen but I’d love to see Randolph get to meet Thor, like Coulson once promised him, and suddenly realise that all the lewd jokes mayn’t have been the greatest idea, now that the brother of the King happens to be the former(?) butt of said jokes.

Chronologically speaking… as of 2017, Thor and Loki—who, it is now official, are basically twins—are 1052 or 1053 years old. The former stone mason who would become known on Midgard as Elliot Randolph enlisted in the Berserker army for a mission on Earth sometime during the late 12th century: the late 1100s, then, so back when Thor and Loki were already over a hundred years old—to be exact, they turned 135 at the beginning of the century, and would have been breaching 200 at the very least when ‘Randolph’ departed for Earth with the berserkers. If we consider the fact that Loki was already able to cast convincing illusions at only eight years of age… I say the brothers had already had ample time to make a name for themselves as an insufferable pair of royal nuisances by then, and Randolph enough material onto which, er, embroider.

Sure, the Asgardians have a lifespan or life expectancy of 5,000 odd years, and they certainly undergo decades of studies, especially the aristocrats, especially the two princes of the Crown; but, in spite of Loki’s disparaging comment in The Dark World about a human lifespan of a mere century being, to an Asgardian, ‘a heartbeat’, they probably experience the passing of time everyday roughly like humans do—and they probably age like we do before they reach adulthood. So, aged a hundred years and more, they will have had time enough to go on many a dangerous quest, and generally behave like pricks around the palace for long enough that an imaginative stone mason turned dejected soldier who decided to desert his home planet and the army to live amongst the quick-lived, ever-changing human race indefinitely, such a man certainly had ample material to work with, and a few grudges to exorcise. After all, we know a little by now the way the aristocrats themselves perceive their own actions, exploits and respective persons… but who shall give us the point of view of the ordinary folk on the subject?

SKYE

So… Asgardians are aliens from another planet who visited ours a thousand years ago…

COULSON

Or more.

SKYE

And, because we couldn’t understand aliens, we thought they were… gods?

COULSON

That’s what our Norse mythology comes from.

A few moments later in the episode, Skye makes this remark to Coulson:

‘You should give your buddy the God of Thunder a shot. He gets his powers from his hammer, right?’

Please notice that only a few moments before, Skye—known today as Daisy Johnson—acknowledged the fact that Asgardians are not divinities but aliens; yet she reprises the term rather matter-of-factly and speak of Thor as ‘the God of Thunder’. Once again, I don’t think, even now that Thor himself chooses to refer to himself as such, that Marvel filmmakers have ever changed their minds about the nature of the Asgardians: what truly changed is Thor’s perception of himself and his place in the grand scheme of things and his powers—if anything, I would argue that Asgardians gain the right to refer to themselves as ‘gods’ when they have accomplished enough exploits that they have become the stuff of legends, especially known for one special power. Loki is the master of illusions and Thor is basically an Asgardian mutant with an uncanny ability to manipulate electricity—for centuries, Mjöllnir served as a catalyst, but with Odin dead, Thor probably inherited certain abilities derived from the same source of Hela’s own: Asgard itself.

The stuff of legends, then. Naturally, Asgardians live for so long and are so resistant to body damage (and, arguably, psychical—the thing is, when you live that long, you must be able to withstand millennia of existence in the margins of worlds where people wither and die before you’ve had the time to love them, and you have to be vaccinated against boredom and repetition…) that the most notable of warriors end up having songs sung and theatre plays played about their Dashing Exploits whilst they’re still alive, and still going on adventures… then, as we know, they come back to Asgard and have more stories told. They don’t always have to be perfectly accurate, but they ought to be entertaining, and full of symbols, propaganda teachings and virility. I have a suspicion few Asgardian parents will prevent most of these stories to reach children’s ears, by the way.

So… as for the ancientness of Midgardian stories about gods who were born in an era corresponding to the early Middle Ages, when the stories themselves, in our reality, have their roots in Antiquity, and in fact certain figures, like this of Loki, might well have hailed from prehistoric times, surviving in one form or another. The thing is, the old peoples of Northern Europe transmitted these ancient tales orally, and some of them got written down only after this part of the continent was Christianised and clerks copied down a few—unfortunately, not without superimposing their own interpretations, integrating the Gods know how many exegetic elements… Which, mind you, is actually an excellent thing for the worldbuilder, who will then be able to cheat safely enough in stating that we simply have no proof that mediaeval clerks didn’t fuse together pieces of the stories people like Elliot Randolph would tell and (much) older myths. Indeed, in our world we may put a couple of archaeological proofs forward; but let’s agree for a moment on the idea that, in the M.C.U., it doesn’t have to be exactly like this. Let’s weave our own tales of dashing (literary) exploits.

To conclude, as a matter of fact, I’d like to attract your attention on the most grotesque (the grotesquest.) of these stories: I say there is some argument to be made about the idea of Asgardian defectors, fed up with the monotony of their old life, falling in love with the utter diversityof Midgardian landscapes and cultures, and charming maidens of yore with self-aggrandising stories as well as narratives interlacing the enchanting, symbolist Asgardian lore with anti-elite pamphlet mocking the types and habits of Asgardian aristocracy. Beauty and burlesque together. And the story about the one time the younger prince of the Crown turned into a mare and got fucked by a horse and gave birth to another horse, with eight legs, no, not the first horse, the second horse, anyway he became two-legged again after that, no, not the horse, neither of the horses, well, not the actual horses that is, the one who was a prince in the first place, because, yes, of course my love, that’s totally a thing that could happen to them magic wielders, you see, I’m telling you the events exactly the way they happened, and then there was this one time—

#answers #star-sought-light #Exploring Asgard #people of asgard #culture of asgard #agents of s.h.i.e.l.d.#elliot randolph

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angstbotfic · 6 years

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Revised: Her One True Love’s a Sailing Ship Ch11

Read at AO3

“What?!” Regina spat, looking at Emma, and Neal, and back at Red again.

“Didn’t you ever wonder how Snow defeated you?” Red taunted.

“The Imp did it for her, obviously. Though,” she admitted, “I don’t know what she had to offer in trade.”

“The condition was Emma’s first born.”

They all gasped, and Regina turned immediately to Emma, but Neal was the first one to speak.

“My son?”

“Not your son,” Emma snapped. “I carried him for 9 months. I did all the work and suffered all the pain.”

“Okay, you’re right,” Neal said, holding up his hands, and Regina appreciated that he conceded the point immediately. “But I still want to help, to rescue him from this- Imp- person.”

“Rumpelstiltskin,” Regina explained, since that’s who he would likely have heard of.

“What?! My- my father?” Neal jumped to his feet and started pacing.

“Your father?!” Regina demanded, on her feet now too. The man who had corrupted and then betrayed her was the father of one of her most trusted crew members?

“Yes. God. What- I-” Neal sputtered. “I’ve been hiding from him for- well- ever since I came back to this realm- I don’t know,” he gestured irritably, “ten years before joining up with your crew or so. Whatever, it’s why I changed my name.” He turned back to Red. “And now you’re telling me he has my son? Or-” he corrected, “Emma’s son that I fathered?”

“Wait,” Emma broke in. “Let me get this straight. My son was the price for my mother to defeat Regina, before I was even born, let alone him, and the person he was traded to is his- grandfather?”

“The family dimensions are news to me,” Red said. “But yes, the price of the magic was your first born, and so once you had one he was forfeit. But you’ve come back for him, and if you rescue him-” she trailed off.

“The deal would be broken,” Regina finished.

Red nodded. “And then Snow could be defeated. And all magical people could live freely again.”

Emma wheeled on Regina. “Wait a minute. You said the other day that my mother must have had to give up my first born. Did you know?”

“No-” Regina said, horrified, having completely forgotten she said it until just now. “No-no. Absolutely not. Taking firstborns as payment is just something I had heard about him doing. Please believe me,” she added, suddenly afraid of what this would mean for their budding relationship.

“I do,” Emma murmured, stepping close. Her hand twitched like she didn’t quite know if she could touch Regina, and Regina reached out and squeezed her shoulder. Emma nodded.

“So how do we rescue him?” Neal asked.

They turned to him, surprised. “You said you’ve been hiding from The Dark One for decades,” Regina said.

“I’ve been avoiding him for centuries, actually,” he said ruefully.

“You look great for your age,” Marian put in teasingly.

He snorted. “You know time flows differently between realms.” Then he went on, more serious. “Nothing could induce me to go near my father. Except my son.” He looked at Emma, his eyes almost pleading for her not to deny this now.

Emma nodded, and turned back to Red. “So where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Emma, talk to me,” Regina said quietly. They could only spare a few moments from setting up camp, but the princess had been pensive ever since their conversation with Red, riding silently through the twilight until Regina had called a halt just before it became too dark to see, and she didn’t want to leave her to her thoughts any longer.

But Emma didn’t answer, instead continuing to clear the ground of rocks and sticks so that they could pitch the tent. It had become her nightly task, but the single-minded focus was new.

“Em?” Regina asked again, cursing the little quaver in her voice. “I’m sorry,” she added.

That startled Emma into looking at her for the first time. “Why are you sorry?”

“I wanted revenge on your mother, and you paid the price,” she said simply.

Emma laughed humorlessly. “Or maybe my mother is legitimately evil and we both paid the price.”

“It’s fair to be upset,” Regina coaxed. She needed to get her out of this numbness. “You’ve had a lot of unpleasant surprises lately.”

“It’s not that surprising, sadly. I knew my mother controlled my life. I just thought it only meant she would marry me off eventually, no matter what I did or didn’t want. And I didn’t know she dealt in children, but it seems just like her now that I know about it.” She looked at Regina again, actually seeing her this time. “And now that I know who Neal is related to, it all ties together. I think we were all meant to meet and go confront this mysterious Rumplestiltskin person.”

Time for another revelation. She had hoped to be able to put it off so that it wasn’t so much at once. “Not so mysterious to me. He was my mentor.”

“He was?”

“Yes. Rumpelstiltskin was the one who first taught me magic—which I set out to learn to get revenge on your mother. That’s a piece of this story that I still can’t make sense of. Why stop me after making it possible for me to cast the curse?” She sighed. “I suspect we’ll find out soon enough.”

“In that case, I think we were definitely all meant to meet.”

“Maybe,” Regina allowed, wondering suddenly if Emma felt like what had happened between them wasn’t her choice any more than the rest of it. The idea hurt more than she wanted to admit.

“If I have to go on some wild quest, at least I have you,” Emma said, and her smile felt, in that moment, like a profound gift.

Emma stared at her in disbelief. “A dragon.”

Regina nodded.

“When were you planning to mention that this old friend we’re going to see is a dragon?” Emma looked across the campfire at Marian and Neal, clearly realizing they had both known.

“Maybe I should have said something earlier,” she conceded. It wasn’t as if she had been hiding it while they had been traveling for the past few days. They were nearly back to the port now, so there had certainly been plenty of time. It just seemed so routine to all of them to be seeking aid from supernatural creatures that it hadn’t crossed her mind to bring it up. “But it wouldn’t change the fact that she’s the only choice.”

Emma’s brow furrowed. “My son is being held by an incredibly powerful magical being, and you want to go see-”

“Another incredibly powerful magical being,” she broke in before the princess could work herself up. She really should have realized that with Snow’s magic paranoia this would bother Emma. “She’s the only one I know who might know where The Dark One would be keeping your son.”

“I just- You’re friends with a dragon?” Emma was clearly still skeptical.

Marian snorted. “Very good friends.”

Regina sighed. This really wasn’t the time to get into that, but now she had to. “She’s the one I told you about.”

“Your lover was a dragon?”

“She also takes human form,” Regina felt like she needed to explain.

Emma’s brow furrowed, but she nodded, then asked, “And you think she would help?”

“I can’t imagine she would be thrilled with what your mother has been doing. And,” she gave a small smile, “she does have a soft spot for me. Answering questions is not much to ask.”

“It’s okay,” Regina murmured, pressing close to Emma’s side. She seemed like she was about to jump out of her skin as they passed through the entryway of the castle.

“We’re walking into a dragon’s lair!” the princess hissed back.

“Well yes,” she conceded, “but she’s also my friend. It will be fine.”

Then came a booming voice, seemingly from the very air around them. “You always were a bold one, Regina.” Regina gave a little amused snort. If she was bold, Mal had a penchant for the dramatic. “I still remember you walking in here when you were just a baby queen,” the voice went on. “Like you were going apple-picking rather than taking your life in your hands by poking a dragon. And now you still act like you have every right to walk on in to my castle when you haven’t bothered to call in thirty years.”

“Twenty-five,” she protested, carefully keeping her tone light.

Maleficent chuckled and materialized before them. “It’s good to see you.” She stepped forward and enfolded Regina in a long, tight hug. When she finally stepped back, she nodded to Marian and Neal, then looked at Emma. “Who is this you’ve brought?”

“This is Princess Emma.”

A little bit of smoke trickled out of Maleficent’s nostrils as she gave an unimpressed snort. “Oh, so you’ve brought me a virgin princess as a peace offering to smooth things over, have you?”

“Uh, no-” Emma said, blushing.

“And actually, that’s why we’re here,” Regina explained.

“Because she’s not a virgin? You know there’s no magic for that. You can fake it, but-”

“Because someone has taken her son,” Regina cut in. “Someone we both know well. I was hoping you might be able to tell us where to find him.”

Maleficent took a step back in surprise. “There’s only one person I know who deals in children, and he is not someone to antagonize.”

“Not antagonize, exactly,” Regina temporized.

“Quick job,” Neal put in. “We get in and out, steal the kid back. He doesn’t even have to know we were there until he notices the boy is gone.”

“The last guy who tried to steal something from the Dark One was flayed alive.”

“Really?” Emma squeaked.

“Yes,” the dragon said with an airy gesture, “some asshole named Robin Hood.”

“Poor guy,” Emma murmured.

“Not really,” Marian muttered darkly. Regina knew the story well. He had been her husband once, but when she miscarried even after he had stolen from the Dark One to save the baby he had blamed her. It had been what drove her to take off on her own—and led her to Regina’s crew.

“Regardless,” Maleficent went on, “while I’m quite a bit harder to flay than a mere human, I suspect Rumpelstiltskin could manage.”

“He doesn’t have to know you were involved,” Regina wheedled. “All we need is for you to tell us where to find him.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Aside from my undying gratitude?” Regina teased. “How does dethroning Snow White sound?”

“Oh Regina, you are in so much trouble,” Maleficent chuckled.

Startled, Regina whipped her head back from watching Emma leave. The princess was off to bed, leaving her to catch up with her old friend in the study.

“What do you mean?” she asked, not quite casually.

Maleficent laughed. “You can’t lie to me, little queen. You are utterly enamored of that girl.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she insisted feebly. She should be used to the dragon’s ways by now, and yet she wasn’t. Perhaps she was just out of practice.

Maleficent cocked her head to the side. “I can’t decide if it’s sadder if you think you can pretend, or if you genuinely believe it. By your own admission you’ve known her only a few weeks, and in that time, you’ve given up on ransoming her for her weight in gold and now you’re off on a wild wizard chase to find her son.”

“She lost her son because of me.”

“The dreaded captain of the Jolly Roger, Pirate Queen of the High Seas, known in whispers as The Evil Queen, Destroyer of Navies would not take on the guilt of some random crime,” Maleficent teased.

“It’s not a random crime. She paid the price for something I did, Mal. I can’t not help her.” She paused for a moment, thinking about what Emma had said about being destined to go on this adventure together.

“What?” the dragon prodded, not teasing now.

“Don’t laugh, because it’s not romantic twaddle, but I feel like there’s a reason we have been connected for- her entire life, really. At her birth, her son was promised as the price to stop my curse, a price paid to Rumpelstiltskin, who turns out to be the father of the man who would not father that child for nearly twenty years, during which time he became one of my most trusted advisers? It’s all too-” she paused, looking for the word. “Too connected. It has to mean something.”

She expected Maleficent to laugh, despite having asked her not to, but looked up to see her looking at her thoughtfully. “That is quite a lot of coincidence, and with Rumpelstiltskin involved may be no coincidence at all. There was always that story that he was seeking something in all his deals. Some sort of magic even he did not have. I had thought it was the curse he found for you, but when he stopped it at the last moment I decided it had only been a rumor.”

“And now?”

“And now I’m not so sure. Do be careful, little queen. The kinds of magics beyond the power even of Rumpelstiltskin are likely to be dangerous indeed.”

#swan queen #sq ff #swanqueen fanfic #swan queen fan fiction #work: pirate regina

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azurblau · 6 years

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talk to me more about estinien's relationship with alphinaud (/chinhands.')

Some notes first. As some of you might know, the FFXIV-lorebook contradicts some facts which we can read in the actual game. I kind of believe that some of these differences occurred due to the gap between version 1 and version 2; for example the Dragoon-quest of 2.0 which is 1:1 with the original one – just five years later. So I believe that Square Enix made some mistakes. Particularly because replacing some ages and making characters five years younger fixes some issues.

For Alphinaud for example (and Alisaie therefore), the lorebook says that they would have been born in the same year like Estinien’s younger brother. Which is not possible, since we also know that Estinien was 32 during Heavensward and Alphinaud 16 – and that Estinien lost his parents with the age of twelve. His brother was born when he was eleven; do you already see what I am hinting at…? I think it was ‘planned’ for Estinien to be 27 years old, and not 32, during Heavensward. So that Alphinaud indeed is the very same age like the brother he had lost.

Alphinaud, albeit he had not viewed it like this from the very beginning, became a brother to Estinien. Truthfully, Estinien’s memory is quite vague about those events which had happened in Ferndale, but something in Alphinaud’s facial features reminded him of his brother who was, at that time, only one year old. He did not see those similarities until reaching western coerthas, mayhap not even before the Dravanian Forelands. Indeed, despite of Alphinaud’s experience and obvious talent, he was still a boy of the age of sixteen back then – one who had the same naivety like a child. He knew very little, mayhap also due to him actually being born in a wealthy house – and when Estinien realized how little the boy seemed to know of the most basic matters, like collecting firewood, he easily found himself in the role of teaching him all he did know. It was in fact the first time that he ever had to teach someone such thing; a skill he had learned from his very own father being so much younger than Alphinaud currently was. However, he did not see himself in a father role since he found himself bonding to that boy in a different way. Since Alphinaud was merely a few years younger than his own brother, at least if he had survived two decades ago, it was quite easy to view him as such; a brother not related by blood. Even if he certainly had not planned for this to happen – and in fact he had not realized it until much later.

Estinien had learned to keep everyone distant to him – in fact he had not spoken to his own mentor and foster father for almost six years at this point, albeit the reason for this was that he still could not face the very truth Alberic had never told him until it was too late – but Aymeric. Even Heustienne who actually a childhood friend and who know also became his second-in-command was no person he spoke regularly too, nor had any interest in doing so. However, speaking with Alphinaud felt natural. It was not the same like speaking to Aymeric who was his closest friend for a decade by now, mayhap the only one he even could consider as true friend – Estinien was way more brotherly, not friendly to the boy. He dared to mock him like he pleased, despite of the circumstances they were in; and he did his best to teach him the right methods. When the Warrior of Light and Ysayle parted for a while to defeat the primal Ravana, Estinien taught Alphinaud some combat skills like he had never taught anyone before. It was no training he offered to the Temple Knights, it was more like some sort of play. One even the Gnath seemed to have noticed since they eagerly watched the two of them.

Truthfully, this brotherly feeling seemed to be mutual – particularly since Alphinaud started to ask for Estinien’s opinion not due to his position as Azure Dragoon, but as friend. It was also then when Alphinaud started to try to impress him, for example by showing him what he had learned for him. This is also why Alphinaud was so quick to volunteer to collect more lumber in the Churning Mists – to prove that he had learn well from Estinien. Since Alphinaud and Alisaie lost their parents so early, the both of them had become quite attached to their grandfather Louisoix who also ended up dying five years ago. Alphinaud shares Estinien’s pain in some sort of way, not knowing much about true family either due to that. He only had his older twin sister Alisaie who reminded him of it – and she is still one family member Alphinaud greatly loves – but Estinien was someone he could let so easily into his very life. Like the brother he never had. Even Aymeric was quick to realize what was going on between Estinien and Alphinaud – seeing through them as if they had voiced as much. It is why he understood why Alphinaud was so keen on saving Estinien much later – because he realized that Alphinaud had possibly become similar attached to his old friend, just in a different way.

Estinien was in fact very grateful to know that both Alphinaud and Aymeric had watched over him whilst he rested in bed after he was freed from Nidhogg’s influence - one his best friend and the other the younger brother he had missed.

#multisfantasias #| ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀsᴛ ﹣ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ғᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ. | ( HEADCANON. )

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nileqt87 · 7 years

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Big Finish: Ten x Rose

http://gallifreybase.com/forum/showthread.php?t=245111&page=7

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If we were getting more than 3 audios per year, I'd be far more willing to give up the every-other-year Catherine/Billie dynamic for new companions or solo adventures here and there. It pains me already that if Freema comes in that it wouldn't be until 2020 that we'd see Ten/Rose again (2019 is bad enough!). I realize it's next to impossible to get David + Catherine or Billie's high-demand schedules worked out for anything more than what we're getting, but this already feels like the limit of how long to wait between the next batch of either companion. It's different with these audios, given we get so few, than it is for, say, the Classic Doctors or ranges that get far more audios per year. And for some like Tom and Paul, it's way more. Obviously, Tom's age makes him a priority (ditto William Russell in The Companion Chronicles range before he retired) and they're trying to build him up to where Peter, Colin and Sylvester are. If David was doing 8+ audios per year like Tom, weird little forays into other dynamics or a wider variety of companions would be fine. But with it being every other year already for 2 companions at a mere 3 audios each, the fewer companions to split between, the better. Best to make it the ones the audience most wants more of until the actors are willing to spend more time in the audio booth. Sadly, that might take a decade or more. I also note that Billie was on the show before the utterly massive deluge of media started getting produced for DW. It actually picked up dramatically during series 3. More Rose isn't actually giving her wildly more than Martha or Donna, given there are far fewer Ten/Rose books and NSA audio exclusives (didn't exist) than many later Doctor/companion dynamics got. There's also the fact that when Rose is placed with a Doctor for some kind of multi-Doctor comic, comic range or anniversary book collection, she gets given to Nine for lack of other choices for him, which means that Ten hardly ever gets to be with Rose for comics or books beyond the ones that were published during series 2. Despite the enormous fan following of these two (to this day!), it's a surprisingly under-served era in media. If we want to do a different dynamic, I'd suggest Metacrisis!Ten II and Rose (I'd suggest that Big Finish allow more mature character work), given they're an entirely blank slate and the story could ultimately be taken anywhere with no inevitable conclusion. I note that Camille's Short Trips are the first foray into exploring them. And that's another thing, it's obvious that Camille wants to do a lot of Big Finish and she really needs David and/or Billie. You can only have so many adventures of Jack and Jackie while the Doctor and Rose are away! LOL. Speaking of character work, as great as these adventures were, we need more character building. One thing that RTD did even in the most inane episodes was to put some big character moment. Even in the seemingly naff filler Fear Her, we have Rose reacting to Ten saying he's been a father before. These moments and the will they/won't they tragedy of it all are what make the era beloved by the people who actually love the era. Play to the audience that loves them in the first place. It would be a mistake to placate the haters of even the faintest whiff of romance or mutual attraction (most of these fans don't even care to buy Tennant-era anything). Obviously, it never got to the point of mutual declarations of love (despite 3 broken sentences about to say it and a Dalek declaring it), but it would be a mistake for Big Finish to eliminate the more soapy dramatic aspect of the Tennant era that was absolutely present and should carry over into audio form. Big Finish has this huge opportunity to play with this audience to build up to Army of Ghosts (not to mention the Metacrisis open-ended story) with a dynamic that coyly played with the audience to the point where how far the relationship had gotten is left a complete mystery up to a point. There's a lot of wiggle room. RTD pointedly gave the audience WTF moments like Rose mentioning the baby on Bad Wolf Bay that ended up being Jackie's pregnancy, but it was still played up for shock value with both the audience and the Doctor's own reaction. The relationship was at least serious enough that the Doctor had Rose's shirt with him in the console room and arguably was more blatant about his feelings for Rose after she was gone (using it to shove distance between himself and Martha and then making a big deal out of being only mates with Donna) than when she was there. Big Finish has options up to a point on how far they want to play with that. Of these audios, Zaross and Chevalier clearly give the most in terms of character depth and personal moments. More of that, at the very least. The 'shippiest thing here was probably Ten and Rose dressing up as a Harlequin and a devil (there's a flirtatious moment there with "you little devil") for the 1791 masquerade ball and Ten trying his hardest and failing to impress Rose with his swordsman skills (fangirl fantasies fulfilled). So far, the book that catered to the fangirls the most was The Stone Rose (Ten kisses Rose at the end in his exuberance at not being a stone statue), which is why you'll find it so popular in the community. That's an example of tie-in material knowing its audience and trying to do what RTD did rather than just [insert Doctor] and [insert companion] generic adventures. Zaross also had great stuff for Rose and Jackie, especially regarding Marge's classism and comparing her daughter at Cambridge to both 'runaway' Rose and 'cashier' Jess. The message that everyone has worth and you don't need fame or the greatest education/success/wealth felt very RTD. My suggestion to Big Finish is to do less generic, cookie-cutter adventures with Ten/Rose. Do things that are more personalized to their very unusual dynamic in the Whoniverse and follow RTD's character-centric approach. Even RTD's fillers had character moments, but the best episodes were ones that challenged the characters on a personal level. Remember that David excels at being a dramatic Shakespearean actor (Billie and Catherine are also strong at it). If anything was missing in these audios, it was perhaps that we didn't see enough serious, dramatic material. Perhaps if these were 2-hour adventures, we'd get scenes in between the madcap adventures that are quiet conversations with opportunities for something a bit more meaningful. Every RTD episode had some moment that was dead serious. Big Finish needs to remember that in the future. There was more to series 2 Ten and Rose than just happy-happy. Ten blowing a gasket over the Wire stealing Rose's face or his "you wither and you die" immortality speech are examples where even the Doctor at his most happy and love-struck is still the PTSD-suffering Oncoming Storm and Lonely God who is afraid of losing everyone he [loves]. Big Finish needs to remember this element of Ten in the future. The closest we got to it in this batch of audios was Zaross when Ten realizes that the villain has not only killed the few humans permanently, but has also killed others on many planets in their quest for fame. More of this, but remember that Ten also had such serious moments with his companions, too, not just villains.

My favorite scene, F.Y.I., was actually the callback to The Mind Robber and the Land of Fiction. You just know what name-dropping Ten would be like in such a meta world of fictional characters (think Babes in Toyland and Once Upon a Time on psychedelic LSD). I'd be pleased as punch if we got to see Ten and Rose journey through the Land of Fiction. Hey, maybe she can meet fictional!Jamie from Six's City of Spires tetralogy, given that Jamie was name-checked in Tooth & Claw, and I could have my two favorite companions together! Also, Scottish accents on parade.

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theteenagetrickster · 4 years

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Job Interview: Producer Troy Taylor consults Mayor of R&B, Career-Defining Songs, Whitney Houston & Extra

Three-time Grammy Award-winning Songwriter, Report Developer & Vocal Arranger TROY TAYLOR that commemorates 30 years in the popular music field this year has teamed up with everyone fromBoyz II Men, Brian McKnight ,Tyrese,Whitney Houston, Lionel Richie , Aretha Franklin,

Mary J. Blige,

The O'Jays, Patti LaBelle, Toni Braxton , Trey Songz to Jacquees to call a couple of

. I overtook the hit-making tremendously developer to review the experience, his advocate Mayor of R&B, career-defining tracks, Whitney

Houston & even more ... TERRANCE: This year notes your three decades in the popular music industry. What has the quest felt like hence far? TROY TAYLOR:&It's been actually interesting I would certainly point out in a feeling. I went by means of a separation when I was forty and also I must additionally make that Trey Songz Ready album in the method of going

with that divorce, to ensure that was actually one of the most difficult aspect of it. I began as a partner in a developer duo gotten in touch with The Characters. In 2002, I ventured off by on my own and also started a manufacturing firm,Songbook Amusement.

It is actually been testing but because I enjoyed it so a lot, I've found out how to adapt to transform with the moments. TERRANCE: You have actually an initiative gotten in touch with Mayor of R&B. Speak about that and also the goal. TROY TAYLOR: So I developed this Mayor for R&B as a campaign to dedicate my encounter, my love for music, my affection for R&B to devoting it back to plans, arrangements, bridges. All the traits our company do not listen to in songs today, thus when I place it as a campaign, it just simply suggests dedicating on my own to this age group to reveal them the market value of these changes that creates R&B have the sense that we understand it to become. TERRANCE: What was your innovative involvement in K. Michelle's latest cd,

All Monsters Are Actually Human!.?.!? TROY TAYLOR: Well, some years back I made some of her Gold single people contacted"Can not Elevate A Guy "however ever since, it's resembled one of those points that, K. Michelle recognize that there's certainly not as well many individuals than may control her as well as pull the most ideal away from her without her intimidating all of them off therefore I'm none of those individuals she scares off simply or even in any way. It enables me to pull the very best out of her as well as so she often tends to finish up calling me since she knows I would certainly be able to obtain the most effective out of her.

TERRANCE: Talk about the brand new Dru Mountain single you produced gotten in touch with "What You Need". TROY TAYLOR: So I really Executive Produced the entire cd as well as our experts have a lot of incredible songs

."What You Need"is actually a tune that they experienced would be actually a good tune to start off along with simply off of it possessing the initial Dru Hill type consistency and also audio and it is actually a great track to blend in along with their extremely initial tune"Inform Me". Collectively, they as a matter of fact mix it belong that track, so it is actually just something they experienced will be excellent to start with. I performed a considerable amount of tunes on the project.

TERRANCE: What was it like dealing with Kevin Ross on his singular"Trait Got in touch with Passion". TROY TAYLOR: Well, Kevin is among my proteges actually. He utilized to become my artist when he was authorized to Motown as well as our company simply permitted him vacate, as well as permit him spread his wings out a little bit of bit extra to venture out and also do his very own trait, but he as well as I possess a friendship at the same time, so whenever he needs me I am actually regularly mosting likely to sympathize him. He possessed the tune, however with the method he videotaped it, I thought his vocals needed to be

stronger. TERRANCE: As a recognized Songwriter & Producer in this particular sector, what creates a song great? TROY TAYLOR: What makes a song excellent to me, is actually a tune that has the capability to take you no matter where you require to be when you require to go. If you wan na be actually satisfied, it may make you pleased. A good song ought to create you feel the emotional state of whatever it is actually claiming as well as it should have the capacity to be a soundtrack throughout your day to express whatever emotion you believe. TERRANCE: What are your five career-defining songs you possess created and/or produced? TROY TAYLOR: Certainly not in any type of certain order, it would be actually, of training program"Sugary food Lady"by Tyrese."Neighbors Know My Call"through Trey Songz, considering that there's no track in the background of songs keeping that title."The First Noel ", a Xmas tune that I created for Whitney, considering that it arrives each year. "Merely Came Right Here to Chill" through The Isley Brothers, due to the fact that Ron Isley is actually like some of my beloved, preferred

."Your Passion"by Boyz II Males, since that song was supposed to be actually for my album and also when I heard all of them vocalize, I provided it to all of them. TERRANCE: Which years in popular music you would claim determined you one of the most and why? TROY TAYLOR: It's gon na be actually a cross between the 70's as well as the 80's along with the

80's probably initially given that a bunch of music I grew on in the 70's I remember, however didn't analyze until the 80's. In the 90's I discovered just how a lot I found out coming from the 70's. TERRANCE: Where perform you see R&B entering the future? TROY TAYLOR: I believe it's gon na come back. It's visiting definitely be extra efficient, because the millennial age group is actually growing up currently, so they wish a lot more out of music. They're heading to manage it a little

better, since it is actually going to stand for exactly how they think currently.

TERRANCE: What are your ideas when you believe you do not receive the debt you should within this electronic songs age? TROY TAYLOR: It's worse right now than ever before, considering that there are no CD's or inlays to consider and also read. Thus now I have to turn to performing tags and as much as I do not like tags, I perform understand right now the usefulness of it, is for individuals to know that I worked with that song. I do not essentially like it, yet it's what I need to do. It is actually all portion of transforming along with the moments. TERRANCE: Everybody have their viewpoint of what excellence is actually. Exactly how would certainly you describe it? TROY TAYLOR: Results to me is actually when you're at

the factor where no concern exactly how challenging it acquires, you still discover a technique to smile. That is actually effectiveness. Given that when you can not, no issue when it obtain difficult as well as you can not locate a technique to grin and also to always keep progressing, then you're certainly not effective. When you possess something that you really love and also you are actually productive at it, when hardships come as they perform with everything, you tend to be attracted in the direction of the thought and sensation of results, you know?

I can't allow this break me, to ensure to me is what effectiveness is. TERRANCE: What was the experience like to win Dove Awards for your recent deal with Donald Lawrence & Koryn Hawthorne? TROY TAYLOR: That's amazing considering that I didn't see that coming given that I am actually an R&B fella, despite the fact that I grew up in Congregation. I carry out, do Gospel music however I still wouldn't have actually anticipated that to happen, to ensure that was

definitely, really excellent. TERRANCE: What was it like teaming up along with Whitney on" Unashamed "for the Merely Whitney ... album? TROY TAYLOR: Well, that was actually a definitely, really exciting track for her if you listen closely to the lyrics. It was a little bit of in advance of it 's time I would state. I likewise teamed up with her on her Christmas time venture which was incredibly

fascinating considering that I was able to audio document while I was partnering with her. I possess a great audio of our team communicating along with one another while I was actually collaborating with her which was actually tremendously funny to hear her in her aspect, only being absurd as well as only being Whitney. The very most essential and also most reputable thing is that it is actually for me only and also nobody worldwide possesses it, therefore in my masterclasses that I do around the globe, I have a segment where I play those sounds for individuals to listen to how she was. TERRANCE: One of my preferred Kenny Lattimore cds is Weekend break. What was it like teaming up with him about that task? TROY TAYLOR: Kenny is my individual. He's one of my closest pals in this particular songs field. Carrying out that venture was actually really excellent since it stretched him vocally. I performed like six tunes on that particular cd. I managed to really, truly, definitely press him right into little a lot more edgier functionalities as opposed to the smooth singing that he is actually made use of to.

" arial", "helvetica", sans-serif;'> TERRANCE: You teamed up with the late Tony Thompson formerly of Hi-Five back in '95 on his solo debut album Sexsational. Why do you assume that cd didn't live up to it is actually possible? TROY TAYLOR: I presume a ton of it concerned his psychological health and wellness. Mental health and wellness had not been a major package in the past, yet he was definitely enduring and had some psychological health issues that decreased him below performing each of things that he required to accomplish to advertise it as well as to be all that he needed to be.&That is actually from my viewpoint coming from at that time from what I observed. I just found an unhappy person that had not been actually right into it as he might've been actually. TERRANCE: One of the exciting points concerning the remake you made for Brownstone got in touch with "I Can't Inform You Why", is actually Maxee performs the lead vocals on the cd model and Nicci performs the top vocals on the single version. What led to that switch? TROY TAYLOR: That is actually an amusing one considering that I seemed like if you know the original Eagles song, it's a rather smooth song and it's rather relaxed. I performed an R&B variation of it, I seemed like Nicci is precisely the diva but I felt like Maximum's vocal fitted better. It became a little bit of political because in order for it to become a solitary as well as to have the Brownstone audio, Nicci will've needed to be actually the lead performer on it consequently for the remix they exchanged all of them out.

TERRANCE: There is actually an SWV gem you produced named "Shock Me". Refer to that. TROY TAYLOR: That is actually a song where I had each one of the group sing on. Of program Coko performs the lead, yet they all possess parts in it, you recognize what I mean? I thought that if you are actually a group as well as you could possibly all sing, then you must all of have parts. The track could finish along with the top vocalist taking it residence, yet despite having like Boyz II Men. Commonly Nate or Shawn would certainly begin it off as well as either will go next and Wanya would deliver it home. To me, that's what a group carries out. TERRANCE: And also talking, exactly how performed you associate with Boyz II Guys? I recognize you dealt with them on their Cooleyhighharmony and II cds. TROY TAYLOR: Once Again, I was an artist on Motown at some aspect dealing with my job. When I met them, I chose I failed to desire to be a performer given that it was extra delightful to become behind the scenes as well as performing what I really love, somewhat to become in face consequently after finding their effectiveness I determined I really did not desire to be a performer any longer. TERRANCE: Are actually there any forthcoming tasks that you are actually working with that you can tell our company regarding? TROY TAYLOR: Well, I'm always cleaning performers. I'm still a large follower of Performer Progression, so I constantly have performers under me who I am actually brushing and also focusing on. The following approaching point is the Dru Mountain job. I have actually been actually dealing with Queen Naija and also I'm operating along with Pink Sweat $, to ensure ought to be awesome. There is actually a tune arriving along with Lil Duval featuring Storage tank & Jacquees and it is actually heading to be actually super hilarious as well as it is actually a truly great R&B file and also gon na be actually really suitable for R&B. TERRANCE: Exists anything not reviewed you would love to show your fans, fans & the audiences? TROY TAYLOR: I 'd claim follow me as well as ready to elect me as your Mayor of R&B. When individuals inquire, what does that indicate? That only simply suggests to help me assist the original elements of what R&B popular music should possess. The reason why it's certainly not in a lot of popular music today is actually due to the fact that the kids do not know just how to accomplish it. They do not recognize how to make improvements. They do not recognize any kind of idea, so they just usually tend to keep it repeating given that it's secure.

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