#but then he could also read stories like the premature burial and just..... sit with the feeling of being so *seen* | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

s-aned · 3 years

Text

Dark Paradise - Chapter 1 - “I killed her”

“I killed her”

Her voice whips through the air. The older man turns his head towards the young woman, a frown twisting his face. Did he understood what she meant?

It’s been a few minutes since he arrived on the back porch. The lights were out, but she was there, sitting with her gaze fixed on the mountains or in the void, softly humming to herself a tune he didn't know.

“It’s 2 a.m., why aren’t you sleeping?

- What about you?”

Fair enough. He let out a small sigh before sitting down next to the young woman. He rubbed the back of his neck, his body still tense after a long day of work. Silence had settled in. Not a tense or embarrassed one. If she could be talkative and teasing, she also knew how to savor the comfort of a shared silence. That’s one thing he surely appreciated.

It had been a few weeks since she moved into his home, about one year after he settled in Jackson. At first glance, she seemed like a strange roommate for this fifty-year-old man, as she must have barely left her twenties. But she couldn't stay with Tommy and Maria forever and he had a spare room. Everyone seemed satisfied with the arrangement.

Joel was beginning to enjoy this company, and the good meals that accompanied it. He found it amazing how someone who struggles to eat anything other than soup can enjoy cooking so much. Gradually, a relationship of trust began to take hold. That's why he doesn’t hesitate long before breaking the silence.

“I heard what you said earlier to the girls. Your mom. Tommy and I… We also lost our mom to sickness. She... She got cancer. Before the outbreak. Nasty business.”

She nods but doesn’t add anything. She knows that the man isn’t one to spill about his past. She knows about Sarah, and some bits of his past in Boston QZ. Oh, she doesn’t know much, but enough to understand that he had seen and done things that morality could disapprove of.

And yet, she doesn’t dare to tell him what is on her heart. She’s afraid of his reaction. She’s trying to resist but the words are making their way to her mouth and she’s unable to hold them back, like a sour, uncontrollable bile. It’s too late. It must come out, regardless of his reaction.

“I killed her.”

She hears a rustle, and feel his incomprehension’s look on her. She resumes, turning her head towards him without daring to meet his gaze.

“My… My mom. I killed her.”

She bits her lip, wanting to prevent the tears from falling. She has started now, there is no going back. Might as well tell him everything.

“She… She was sick, real sick. But she kept dying. Most of the time when she was awake, she wasn’t even conscious, her open eyes and her mouth only let out a few inconsistent messages. And she was in pain, she was in excruciating pain. Day and night, she moaned. It was just the two of us. The neighbors would drop me food sometimes. But most of the time, I was alone with her suffering. I would stay day and night by her side, with no more hope of seeing her emerge. But her body was refusing to give up.”

She pauses for a moment, taking a breath before starting again.

“One night, she was finally sleeping. I wasn’t. She seemed so peaceful, so quiet. I thought, this is it. This is how she should be. Just in peace. No more pain. It was dark in the room, there was no moon that night. So I gave her a kiss before taking a pillow and… I put it on her head. As strong as I could. She didn’t react. I stayed like that for minutes but it felt like hours. I stayed until I felt it… Her last breath.”

Tears are now streaming down her cheeks. She stares into void, pursed lips adding nothing more. She doesn’t know why she told him about it. What would he think of her now?

“How old were you?

-14.”

He lets out an overwhelmed sigh. He already knew she had been through hard times. Heck, who hasn’t in this crazy world? But putting her own mother out of pain, that was something else. He tries to find something to say to ease her.

“You relieved her. QZ life wasn’t easy, she might have suffered for weeks, months even, if you hadn’t done that. You did that out of love. You’re brave.

-No, I’m not. After I did it, I just grabbed my stuff and left. I abandoned her there. God knows how much time it took before someone noticed. It’s probably the smell that alerted the neighbors. I didn’t give her a decent burial, and we both know that FEDRA probably tossed her bodies with all the others, infected or not.

-Why did you leave?”

She doesn’t answer right away. She knows that she will have to tell the full story if she keeps going. But now looks as bad as any other time. The night offers some protection. She lets it go.

“Hmm, I was an orphan. They would have put me in one of those FEDRA institutions. I heard what happened there. All this stories about girls being abused by soldiers or other boarders. I thought I was better to try it on my own.

-How did you survive without being caught?

-My dad. He had a sister in that QZ. We barely knew her, she had fallen out with him and when he died, we cut ties completely. I showed up at her place, and she was kind enough to take me. Oh sure, she treated me like a dog, making me do all the thankless jobs. But at least I had a roof over my head. After a few months she started dating this guy, scumbag but it kept her from being alone, I guess. There was only one room, so most of the time I had to stay in the hallway. But slowly, he started to look at me. Once, she was gone god knows where, he cornered me and told me a whole bunch of stuff a 15-year-old shouldn't hear from a grown-up man. My aunt walked in as he began to slide his hand under my shirt, and of course she got it on me. She beat the crap out of me, before tossing me out of her place. Obviously, she kept all my stuff, ID included. Probably sold it to black market, the bitch. I was left with only the clothes on my back."

She finally looks up at the man, unable to read the expression on his face. Sadness, anger, pity? She had only seen this face once. The day Tommy and he found her, after she killed her captors. It was Joel, she believes, who put a bullet in the head of the last of them. The one who had caught her and was standing over her, his knife stuck in her lower abdomen.

Joel had the same expression than today when, in Jackson's infirmary, she told them that she had been sold to these men, after being forcibly prostituted for months, years maybe, in her previous QZ. She didn't know where they were taking her, but she knew full well that her function would remain the same.

“Is that when?” He leaves his question hanging, but she understands what he means. She shakes her head.

“No. There was this guy I saw from time to time, we flirted with each other. He had managed to set up a junk studio in a building in the slum quarters of the QZ. He let me settle there. Of course, he didn’t ask for a kiss on the cheek in return. I won’t teach you how a 16-year-old boy is like.” She says sarcastically, a slight smirk appearing on her lips. Joel chuckles lightly. Touched. It’s around that age he got his girlfriend pregnant, and with that, got in adulthood prematurely. She goes back to her story.

“He got tired of me eventually, and I felt that soon I would find myself again in the cold streets, at the mercy of the first predator lurking around. But Heaven proved merciful, and I met Talia. She was in her fifties and had quite a temper. She saw me hanging out on the street in the rain and pulled me into a building that looked completely abandoned. She asked me questions, listened to my story without commenting, before opening another door. I discovered that there was a whole other life in this city. Rare alcohol, red armchairs and above all, a stage in the middle of which sat a bar.”

She grins at the surprised look of man.

“Yep Joel. There was a strip club in my QZ. She made me sit, gave me a towel to dry myself and began to explain what was happening there. There was no resistance group like your fireflies in my area. There were small local gang, who greased the military tab to do their little business.

At first, she didn't even want me in the room when the club was open. I was way too young for her liking, she couldn't tolerate me being exposed to men. So I did the housework, some services for the girls, all the little chores behind the scenes. From there I watched them dance and drive all the spectators crazy. Soldiers, small strikes, or average guy, they all drooled and get rid of everything they owned for a look, a caress.

After a year, I was entitled to serve at the bar. But just at the bar, I was forbidden to pass in the aisles. It was the girls' work. Talia was tough but she took good care of all of us. We were like family. When the club was closed, we laughed a lot. It was a good time.”

She ends her story with a sigh, before taking a sip of her infusion, now cold. She grimaces. She would have liked it to be whiskey. She still has plenty to talk about, but she's not sure she has the strength for it. The older man must feel it, because he doesn't ask any more questions.

She's already released a big chunk tonight. And what is yet to come is not the happiest. Above all, she is afraid of his reaction. For the moment, he believes she was an innocent victim, captured by ill-intentioned men. But she's not quite sure. She often wondered if she hadn't been responsible for all of this. So she keeps quiet and lets the silence of the night engulf her.

There is nothing more to say, and yet none of them moves. It’s only when a gust of wind makes her shiver that Joel straightens up and speaks in a firm but gentle tone she now knows by heart.

“Let’s go inside. You have to try to sleep.”

-------

Chapter 2

#TLOU #TLOU2 #TLOU fic #TLOU fanfic #Joel Miller #The last of Us

4 notes · View notes

razberryyum · 5 years

Video

The Untamed/陈情令 Rewatch, Episode 9, Part 2 of 2

(spoilers for everything MDZS/Untamed)

[covers MDZS chapters 28 and 29...kinda….]

WangXian meter: 🐰🐰+🐰🐰🐰🐰+🐰+🐰🐰🐰🐰 +🐰🐰🐰+🐰🐰+🐰🐰+🐰+🐰+🐰+🐰🐰🐰🐰🐰+🐰🐰🐰🐰🐰+ 🐰🐰🐰

Continued from Part 1:

Aside from the fact that Wei Ying grabbing and pulling on Lan Zhan’s tassle like a leash is really one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen, I think it’s also adorable how Lan Zhan went from not even tolerating Wei Ying touching his sleeve to now putting up with him poking him and holding onto his wrist. Once again he never makes any attempt to shake him off and instead allows Wei Ying to lead him forward. Watching the little ways Wei Ying is changing Lan Zhan is so endearing and rewarding. I’m so glad Wei Ying came on this mission with him. According to Big Bro Xichen, Lan Zhan’s never had friends before, the reason he wanted Lan Zhan to attend classes at Cloud Recesses was so that he could make friends with people his own age. However, considering his cold and aloof disposition, it’s doubtful he would have made any friends if Wei Ying hadn’t come along and been so insistent on gaining his friendship. Just thinking of the boys that were at Cloud Recesses with them—Jiang Cheng, Nie Huaisang, Jin Zixuan, Wen Ning, in addition to all those other nameless disciples—whom among them would have even made the slightest effort to get through to Lan Zhan? Jiang Cheng and Jin Zixuan couldn’t care less, Nie Huaisang seems downright scared of him, and Wen Ning probably feels the same, not to mention, I can‘t even imagine shy sweet Wen Ning trying to proactively make friends with anyone anyway. Therefore, if it wasn’t for Wei Ying, Lan Zhan would have ended up as friendless and alone as he started out being. He probably never experienced something as simple as sitting down and having a meal or drinks with his peers, and yet now he’s doing it as if it was just the most mundane event for him. To think, if Wei Ying hadn’t invited himself along on this secret mission, thereby eventually bringing in Jiang Cheng and NHS as well, Lan Zhan would’ve been all alone through this journey...who would’ve been there to comfort him when that yin metal went all haywire on him?

Fascinating thing about this moment that I noticed is that the words (the Chinese characters specifically) Wei Ying uses to calm Lan Zhan are the same exact words that Lan Zhan uses later on at Phoenix Mountain when he is trying to calm Wei Ying down as he is being overcome with dark rage.

I would love to think that Team CQL set up this parallelism on purpose to show how Lan Zhan remembers everything that Wei Ying did for him and said to him, even down to the usage of two simple calming words. It melts my heart to imagine Lan Zhan carefully collecting all these memories and holding on tightly to them because every single moment they shared together became so important to him. When I think about how he probably lived on just those memories alone, not only during the sixteen long years when Wei Ying was dead, but probably even during the times when they were apart while he was still alive, I just feel so unbelievably sad for Lan Zhan that my eyes always well up with tears.

Yeah, I pretty much get weepy once a day because of these boys. Unfortunately I’m not exaggerating at all.

Nie Huaisang/Ji Li Appreciation Time

To be honest, I don’t know if what I feel about Nie Huaisang could really be called love, even though I think I’ve thrown that word around when referring to him at least once. I definitely don’t hate him...he’s too complex and interesting and adorable in his own way to hate. And I did buy into his dumb, naïve and helpless act for a long time, much like everyone did. But I can’t say I really love him anymore either because of what he did to dear, sweet Big Bro Xichen, which was really unnecessarily cruel. It’s premature to go into all that now, so all I’m going to say is, while my feelings towards him are probably more on the ambivalent side overall, I do really appreciate him as a character, especially at this point of the story, because he’s always so funny and entertaining. I’d like to think that he did genuinely like Wei Ying as a friend because, as exemplified in the scene above, Wei Ying was actually really nice and considerate to him, not to mention protective. I hope that was part of NHS' motivation for reviving Wei Ying later on, and not just because he thought the Yiling Patriarch would be the only one strong enough to deal with the Stygian tiger seal.

Despite how I feel about NHS, I do really enjoy Ji Li’s portrayal of the character, and I think his voice performance is awesome as well. I believe he’s the only actor on the show that used his own voice whereas everyone else’s dubbing was performed by a voice actor, and his voice work definitely made NHS even more fun as a character. He definitely has a talent for voice acting. He’s been cast in the Hikaru no Go live action due to be released next year and I cannot be more excited. I can totally imagine him as Sai. (Although, there’s not much information on the show yet from what I can see; looks like one of the male leads has been cast and also a female, but no other information on their actual roles...God I hope they don’t decide to turn Hikaru no Go into a BG romance because that’s not what it’s about AT ALL.)

ChengQing

We didn’t really see his reaction but when Wei Ying grabbed Wen Qing’s wrist, I did wonder how Jiang Cheng felt about it. Here he is, trying his hardest to gain Wen Qing’s favor, but all of his efforts seem to be mostly futile since she hardly gives him the time of her day. Honestly, for a while as I was watching the show for the first time, I did worry that Team CQL was trying to create a love triangle between Jiang Cheng/Wen Qing/Wei Ying. Even after reading the novel and knowing nothing of the sort exists in the source material, because Wen Qing’s characterization in the show was already so different from her novel counterpart, my concern remained for quite some time. I hated the mere idea a lot because it’s such a tropey and stupid gimmick, especially since Jiang Cheng really didn’t need yet another reason to be angry at Wei Ying. I’m glad they didn’t go in that horrible direction after all, but I don’t think I was able to breathe easy about the issue until after her death. Poor Wen Qing, she gave me so much anxiety throughout the first half of the show; I would be lying if I said I wasn’t more than a teeny bit relieved when she died because I was finally able to lay my worries to rest completely.

Odds and Ends

I just love these three stooges; they’re so adorable together and I wish we got to see them engage in more shenanigans before all the fun was over forever.

When I first saw this scene, I thought it was pretty horrific and creepy; really, it’s one of the most effective scenes in the show. However, now, when I see this scene, my heart clenches a little because I know that’s the same fate that will eventually befall the Yunmeng Jiang sect as well. The fact that both Jiang Cheng and Wei Ying are present to see that horrible tableau just makes things worse, especially the sight of those two sect leaders hanging in the doorway. Completely heart-breaking.

Wen Qing being able to control the ghost puppets with the flute was totally a creation for the live action since she never did that in the novel, but I actually thought it was a neat touch. At first I thought she was going to be the one to teach Wei Ying that ability, but when that didn’t pan out, I wondered if he was inspired to learn that ability after seeing her do that. While it does take away Wei Ying’s inventiveness since in the novel that was a skill he developed on his own, I didn’t mind that change since it also established that other people can control the ghost puppets as well, which nicely sets up what Su She does later on with that skill. Interestingly enough, she’s playing “Rest” so now I wonder if she learned that during her time at Cloud Recesses and if so, does that mean essentially Wei Ying’s inspiration for fluting can be traced back to his time there as well, which means he was able to survive the Burial Mounds really because of his tutelage by the Gusu Lan sect. Omg that’s so sweet.

Anyway, I just wish we got to see Wen Qing do more with that skill, it’s kind of odd how later on she relied on Wei Ying completely for calming Wen Ning when she seems to be perfectly capable of that feat as well. It’s like the show forgot she had this ability.

Question I still had

So basically, Lan Zhan met A-Yuan this early on but he completely forgot about that little Wen kid when they crossed paths again in Yiling? It’s no big deal, but I just thought that was rather odd considering Lan Zhan is usually more observant than that and of course he has a really good memory. I guess there’s always the possibility that he just didn’t care enough about the Wens to notice the kid.

Overall Episode Rating: 8 Lil Apples out of 10

152 notes · View notes

alstanfordart · 4 years

Text

Come Into My Lights

A Robert Gray origin story I wrote a few months back. Has some fairly disturbing content in it, so read with caution.

At the start of Autumn, in the chilly, foggy early hours of the morning, the circus arrived to sleepy Derry. The colorful painted wooden wagons and elephants parading along Witcham Street drew the children of the town out of their homes to smile, gawk and laugh while still in their pajamas.

The performers clamored about the town, exploring, or posing for photographers as set-up began, including the biggest draw of all; the big top tent being erected by young laborers. Decked out in overalls with smudged cheeks, they traveled with the circus and during performances often did humdrum chores, such as tending to the animals and the handling of props the various performers used during their acts. The laborers, while not paid well, certainly ate well, with three hearty meals a day. The opportunity for travel was also desirable for many young men and women.

The wagons were sitting in a circle around Bailey Park, in the center is one emblazoned with 'Pennywise The Dancing Clown.'

Otherwise known as Robert Gray, formerly Gustafsson. He'd picked up his stage name while performing in London with an English clown George Rowley, known as 'Sad Jacques,' who uttered the saying, "Penny wise and pound foolish" in response to the lavish spending he'd witnessed while in the city. Robert found the saying delightful and adopted it as a stage name. Before, he simply was known as 'The Dancing Clown.'

Robert was born in Södermalm, the only son of Anna and Sven, both from familes of dancers, musicians and actors. His father had been known sinply as "The Sångare," and had moved the family to England upon landing work at King's Theater. His actress mother made regular appearances on the Royal Theatre stage.

The family's home life was often filled with drama that matched that depicted in his mother's plays; his father had at least three different mistresses, each having bore him a child. Robert had never acknowledged or spoke with any of them. His father was also a strict disciplinarian, often beating Robert mercilessly for something as trivial as not finishing all of his vegetables.

His father, who had a taste for the macabre, also spent a fair amount of time consuming magazines and books filled with horrifying tales of people being buried alive. As a result, this caused him to request that his teenage son promise to behead him upon death for fear of premature burial. When the time came, Robert did as asked and upon the death of his mother a few years later, set out on his own, mostly finding work in Italy, Denmark and Sweden.

It was in London where Robert met his charismatic wife Agnes, also known by her stage name Elvira, who was a trapeze artist famed throughout Europe as the "Daughter Of The Air." Her performances often took her up fifty to sixty feet from the ground, without using any net or other safety measures. The audiences adored her and she was often the subject of magazine news articles.

Born in Stockholm, she was of Danish ancestry and had come from a family of trapeze artists, 'The Flying Jensens' and had been performing since she was a toddler, with her father balancing her on his hand during his opening act.

Robert had been taken with her hourglass figure, and long light brown hair which was well past her waist. She'd been drawn to his height and striking eyes, the blue-green color reminding her of the sea. Even finding his slight buck teeth appealing. They had eloped when they were touring with the French circus director Didier Gautier in Cirque Du Nord

Their seven year old daughter Emma was a dark-haired morose child who was born in Austria while the couple were touring with Circus Renz.

When America came calling, they landed on Ellis Island and they promptly changed the family name from Gustafsson to the more easily pronounced Gray and eventually were hired by P.T Barnum upon hearing of the couple's fame throughout Europe.

America, however, wasn't all it was advertised to be, and Agnes and Robert were becoming increasingly weary with life on the road. Overworked and exhausted, at this point their young daughter was their priority and settling down was maybe what was best for her. A stable home. School. And, most of all, friends. The girl was isolated, and apart from a stuffed lion she called 'Fred' given to her by the lion tamer Isaac Van Der Berg, she had no real companions. She often spent long hours sitting in Agnes' wagon printed with 'The Legendary Elvira,' reading or playing marbles while the couple did their shows.

Derry seemed like the perfect place to settle down permanently. They had acquired enough savings to live comfortably.

Upon their exploration of the town, Robert, Agnes and Emma happened upon 29 Neibolt Street and a lovely two-story mansion, somewhat rundown-looking, encircled by patches of half-dead grass and sunflowers that looked like tiny suns sprouting around the yard. Upon talking with the locals they discover that the home is for sale and was owned by one of the wealthiest families in Derry, the Muellers.

In fact, according to the local residents, the place hadn't been lived in for many years. The last known occupants, the Vance family, had moved out around thirty years prior. There were whispers that the place was haunted-rumors both Robert and Agnes immediately dismissed.

But not so much Emma. Standing outside the wrought iron gates, she gawks up at the circular attic window at the very top, goosebumps breaking out along her skin. The window almost resembles the eye of a cyclops, watching her closely. She takes a step backwards.

"No, I don't want to go in here." she mumbles, dropping her head down, holding Fred tight to her plaid dress, prying her fingers from her mother's. The house had a strange atmosphere, like it would come alive and gobble her up if she set one foot inside.

Like some kind of monster from a fairytale.

"It's just a house, my love. Nothing to harm you," Agnes lovingly reassures. "Nothing to be afraid of."

Robert gives his daughter a gentle rub along her shoulders, removing his cigar from his lips to give her a comforting smile. "We're just going to have a look around, okay? Nothing to fear."

She's never lived in a house before. It's all a little foreign to her. She'll adjust.

But there's something about this house. Something drawing Robert to it. It certainly wasn't the most attractive and the work going into it would be time-consuming. But there was a charm about it. It had potential to be their dream home.

Robert leads his family in, with Emma returning her hand to her mother's protective grip. Once inside, they stand gazing about the living room, admiring the woodwork; the staircase and wooden beams, evidence of fine craftsmanship. The furniture was still here, as if the former owners had left in a hurry. The fireplace inlaid with 'Good Cheer, Good Friends,' and a piano sits beneath the window, sunrays coating along its white and black keys, the dust particles floating through the air twinkle in the warm light.

"The price they're asking for this place is a bargain, given how it includes the furniture and everything," Robert says as he approaches the stairwell. "Seems too good to be true."

"The furniture will have to be replaced. Look at it," Agnes runs a white gloved hand along the blanket of dust along the wooden frame of a parlor chair. "It's filthy! We can't possibly use it."

"No, just a little dirty. Just needs some sprucing up a bit. Just a little bit of love." Robert grins like a kid, his round cheeks turning up as he bounds up the stairwell.

Agnes follows, with Emma at her heels, clinging to her, her large brown irises searching along the walls, waiting to see if something emerges, or moves out of anywhere. A pair of massive hands with hairy fingers reaching out for her, like a troll from the Scandinavian folk tales the children back home told around a camp fire. The eerie sensation that this house was somehow alive was rustling within her. Every nook and cranny was just seeping with this discomfort.

Robert opens a door to a bedroom where two of the windows have been shattered.

No matter. Easily replaced.

Agnes enters behind him, leaving Emma out in the hall. As she stands, a whispered voice touches her eardrums.

Emma.

Startled, the girl spins around. That voice was neither male no female. That was not either of her parents calling her name. Although it seems like it was speaking to her through her mind. A cursory glance into the bedroom shows her parents are preoccupied with discussions of renovations.

Emma.

She stares down the hall towards the kitchen as the door opens ajar and just inside there's a miniature ball of light, doing a little dance mid-air. It looked no bigger than one of her marbles. It reminded her of the fairy stories her mother told her. Describing the little sprites as having an otherworldy glow.

It couldn't be though, could it?

Without hesitation she runs to the kitchen as it disappears behind the doorway. She stands watching, holding Fred tighter to her as the little glowing ball skips through the air to the open door of the basement, casting its luster along the darkness. As she steps closer, she feels a pull, a force, beckoning her further in. Like a pair of large invisible hands guiding her along by her shoulders.

She had to go down there.

As she enters, standing atop the steps leading down into the murkiness, she is met with a bone-chilling cold, the clammy decayed odor of the basement air meets her nostrils, causing her to cough. She charily begins to descend the stairwell, in direction of the light ball as it highlights each step, creaking loudly under her tiny feet as she reaches the bottom.

There, just a few feet from her, in a weak beam of sunlight from a nearby window, is an ancient stone well. The little ball of light hovering just above it, circling the opening. The well is partly destroyed, a rusted pulley dangles just above. With Fred still tight in her arms, she stares at it, almost mesmerized. Gradually, she starts to come closer. As she does, something moves just along the broken stones.

A pair of luminescent yellow-orange hands rise from within and cup the tiny light ball, followed by the head of a woman with her hair pinned back, her entire face illumined in that same bright color that resembled an amber gemstone. She rises up out of the well, still holding the tiny bead of light, wings sprouting out from her back. She lands on her feet with a dainty ballet-dancer like movement, wearing the same style of lace-up slippers and dress her mother wore when she performed.

Emma stares, her mouth agape.

A real fairy. An actual real-life fairy.

The fairy gestures for her to draw near. "Come." she says in a delicate feminine voice that sounds like an angel, or the most delicate porcelain bell chiming.

Emma heeds, inching closer, in utter awe of what she was seeing. The fairy sticks her hand out, wiggling her slender fingers. "Come with me, child."

Emma swallows, still feeling the embers of fear smoldering, although much of it had dampened. But a fluttery anxious feeling was still present. "Come where?" she inquires.

"Come and you'll float. I promise. Don't you want to have wings?" the fairy replies, turning her shoulders slightly to display hers. "Come and you will float too."

Emma is about to take her hand, when she sees the fairy's features up close. Her eyes are two empty black sockets. At this, Emma pulls back, an unnerving feeling starting to shiver through her.

"Um, that's okay. I-I think I need to go upstairs now," she says as she starts to back away, gaze not wavering from the strange sight. "I need to leave now."

The beaming visage the fairy was displaying now falters, her tiny mouth curling downwards into an exaggerated pout. "Now Emma, that's not very polite. Come and let me take you into my lights. You won't grow old there. You'll remain the same forever." she says grinning. Although friendly, there's enough hint of malice beneath it to cause Emma's fear to skyrocket, coupling it with a burst of panic.

No, this isn't normal. Fairies aren't real.

Then, out of the corner of her vision, she spots something moving beside the fairy, something black. Possibly a rat or a mouse

A closer inspection shows it is neither, but some sort of...thing.The closest she could describe it as is a shadow, only solid. It danced along the edge until another appeared. And another. And another. Until what looked like a writhing bundle of obsidian tentacles begin to rise up from the well. Followed by veins of orange light creeping up along the grooves of the stones, pulsing and flickering.

"Come Emma. Come into my lights." the fairy intones as ebony webs begins to snake out of her eyes, cocooning around her head and neck, slithering down her thin frame.

The pulley above the well begins to swing as the monstrosity starts to lift out and towards Emma, now taking on the appearance of thick inky tar, the fairy vanishing within. The powerful scent of raw sewage fills the musty air as the orange light brightens the well as if there were a fiery lava pit deep below, painting its smoldering gleam along the stones.

The hairy phantom tentacles start to crawl towards Emma, the fear now escalating, almost making her numb with fright. A scream is wedged in her throat, she works her jaw, trying to utter a sound of alarm, her nails digging into Fred's soft fur.

"Emma!"

Agnes' voice jolts the little girl out of her stupor and she shrieks, whirling around to dash up the stairs, the slimy tentacles nipping at her ankles. As she reaches the top, her mother appears in the doorway. Emma almost knocks her down as she wraps her arms around her waist.

"My goodness, what-" Agnes begins, patting her daughter's trembling back.

"Down there! There's something there!" she stammers, turning and jabbing her finger downwards.

Only there's nothing there. Nothing at all. No sign of the strange yellow-orange light, that menacing fairy, or the black tentacles. The pulley now immobile. The horrid smell of sewage replaced with the mildewy scent of the basement.

As if nothing had even been there at all.

"There was something there..." Emma breathes, tightening her small arms around her mother. Agnes glances in the direction of the well. The whole basement was going to take some serious work, something she may not be up for. But Robert's enthusiasm was contagious.

"There was something coming out...and I thought I saw-"

No I did see. There was a fairy, but you wouldn't believe that.

"It's alright dear. That young man was only joking, I'm sure. Those ghost stories are just make-believe. Not anything real."

They'd spoken to a local youth who had informed them it was "the haunted house" in earshot of Emma, and it clearly had influenced her into 'seeing' something.

"What's the matter?" Robert appears beside Agnes, gazing down at his shaken daughter. "What is it?"

"That." Agnes, still holding Emma to her arms, gestures at the well. Robert smirks.

"That won't be a problem," he says. "We can take care of that."

"Mhm." Agnes arches her brows as she peers down at the unsightly area. It seems like more trouble than it's worth. But if he is convinced they could do it...

"Come on, I want to go see the owners, see if we can get this going." he announces as he gently maneuvers his wife and daughter away from the basement door. He takes one last glimpse as he shuts it.

Inside, just above the opening of the well, three tiny orange lights appear, hovering in a circular motion.

After the trip to the Muellers, and despite the fact that the snooty family looked down on circus performers, the house on Neibolt was now officially the new Gray residence.

Robert, inspired by the architecture of the churches they'd seen throughout Europe, went out and immediately bought a pair of stained glass windows from a local artist, painted with bright scenes of the circus. Once installed, they filled the room with rays of yellow, orange, blue and turquoise.

This was to be Emma's room, but the perceptive child was still frightened. Frightened and perplexed. Why did nobody live here? Why did the Mueller family not reside here? What of the family that did live here before? Cleaned up, it made for a lovely home. So, why was it just sitting here unattended to? Her young mind could not make sense of the questions her parents seemed unconcerned with.

No doubt, it was connected to whatever that was in the basement.

Snuggling Fred, she stares at the newly-installed windows, the design almost resembling a pair of wicked eyes grinning at her. The image of that fairy comes on. She shudders as the sound of the fairy's voice still plays in her mind.

Come into my lights.

In their new bedroom, Agnes was laying out her mother's large old quilt along the bed, featuring a scene of men herding cattle, women fetching water from a stark blue river and boys building haystacks. At the foot of the bed sat a large cedar chest, inset with the initials R.G, where Robert kept his clown costume, made of fine off-white silk from Lyon, and his make-up supplies.

As he and Agnes prepare to perform, Robert, or rather Pennywise, stands looking at the full-length mirror. Adjusting the thick ruffle around his neck, he grins, his trademark red stripes thick along his cheeks, his lazy left eye slightly askew. As he stares, something rather curious happens. The kerosene lamp just behind him on the nightstand flickers, the tiny flame within breaking apart into three smaller flames, forming circles.

Seeing this odd movement in the reflection, Robert turns to look as the flame returns to normal. He approaches, taking the lamp in his large gloved hands, staring intently at the light as a small, barely-audible voice arises from its warmth.

Robert.

Dazed, he watches as the flame begins to break apart again, separating into the three tiny balls of orange-yellow as they begin to rotate. Robert's corneas begin to mirror their glow, the voice still speaking to him, whispering, before-

"Robert?"

Agnes is now beside him, her thin fingers caressing the puffy material of his shoulder.

"You okay?" she whispers, bringing her pink lips to his and planting a quick kiss.

"Fine," he replies as he places the kerosene lamp back down. "I'm fine."

Over the next few days, they perform a show in the afternoon and again at night, with Agnes doing her signature one-arm plange act, enthralling the audience who marveled at her grace and elegance. When the time came for Robert to do his dancing clown act, the children all squealed with delight as he did his gags, slapstick comedy and dance moves where he engaged the children in the front rows. Adopting a slight lisp as part of his performance, he coaxed one little girl from the front to stand before him as he presented her with a large silver dollar from behind her ear. The girl looks positively enchanted.

The show concludes with the two African elephants, Sylvia and Thump performing and the lions Ivan and Maurice, jumping through hoops of fire.

Afterwards, the children all gathered around Pennywise to ask for an autograph or a special trick just for them, usually with him presenting them with candy or a small toy. One girl in particular, a redheaded child with a round freckled face hangs behind the other children, waiting for them to clear away, before she approaches the clown.

"Those kids do love you. They just flock right to you, don't they mister?" she says, smiling, displaying a minor gap between her two front teeth. Robert gazes down and chuckles.

"Kids love clowns. They bring happiness and joy. As P.T says; 'clowns and elephants are the pegs on which the circus is hung.' Did you like the elephants?"

"Oh, I did, but the you were the best part. The children all loved you." the little girl replies, fingering one of her braids.

"Well thank you. Now if you excuse me, I got to get going. My little girl is waiting." Robert gives a little wave as he walks towards his wagon where Agnes is waiting with Emma, smiling back at the girl, who returns the wave enthusiastically.

Agnes wraps her arms around his neck as he reaches her. "You were fantastic as always...um... who were you talking to just now?" she queries as Emma steps out the door of the wagon, looking relieved to see her father.

Of course this meant they'd be going back to that house.

To Neibolt.

"That little redheaded girl, she really loved my performance. She just thought the elephants were okay," he grins proudly as he pulls Agnes in for an affectionate hug. "You know, I'm gonna miss this. The crowds."

Agnes simply smiles weakly as she peers over his shoulder, her brows knotting together as she studies the area where she'd seen him engaged in a conversation outside the tent exit all by himself with nobody there but a wooden barrel.

Over the next few days, Robert starts to undergo a drastic personality change. His normally cheery upbeat demeanor became more somber, his words curt. He was short with both Agnes and Emma. His eyes underlined by dark half crescents. While he performed, he still saw that little redheaded girl in the bleachers, smiling and cheering. But it was on the second to last night that the circus would be in town that he saw something that made his blood run like ice rivers through his veins, his heart palpitate.

Tucked away in the back of the bleachers, standing with the girl,was Sven. Looking as he did the last Robert saw him. The shock sends Robert tumbling from a large ball on which he was balancing. The crowd responds with a chorus of gasps as Robert stands and shouts a phrase in Swedish that was incomprehensible to the spectator's ears.

Later that night, Agnes is woken up by the sound of the piano, the same sharp note over and over again. Groggily running her hand along Robert's side of the bed, feeling nothing but the cold sheets. Heading downstairs, she sees him sitting at the piano, hunched over, his right index stabbing at one single key repeatedly. He flinches as her fingers come up to brush along his back.

"Another nightmare?" she quietly asks, moving to sit alongside him on the small bench, tucking her blue silk nightgown around her knees.

"I keep thinking of him. Since we've been here. He's been on my mind. I don't know why." he replies, still poking at the key. Agnes reaches and grabs his hand in hers. He keeps his face down, obscured from the light of the kerosene lamp that sits atop the piano.

"Your father's gone. He's not here-"

"But he is. I saw him. Saw him in the bleachers tonight."

"What? How could-"

"He was here, Aggy, I saw him. And when I woke up just now. He was standing in the corner of the room staring at me," Robert pauses, before continuing under his breath. "I know it was him. He didn't have a head."

A much more ghastly image of Sven had appeared in the far corner of the bedroom, gripping his head by the scalp, blood dripping from the bloody stump of his neck, grinning maniacally.

Agnes rests her forehead upon Robert's shoulder, wrapping her arm around to massage his shoulder blades. She'd grown accustomed to his past occasionally showing its ugly head, as disturbing as it was, but this was merely a phase.

He then violently shakes her arm off.

"Get your ass back to bed. Stop bothering me." he sneers.

She pauses and stumbles up, her visage mixed with both surprise and hurt, even though this attitude has been present since they'd arrived.

"Robert, please just let me-"

"Just leave me alone!" he shouts as he smashes his fists against the piano keys. Agnes continues to back away as Emma, woken by her parents voices, appears at the bottom of the stairs with Fred in her arms, nuzzling him against her cheek.

"Mommy?" she says as Agnes rushes to her, guiding her back up the stairs.

"Come on, get back to bed." Agnes orders as Emma glances over her shoulder at her father, who has resumed his one-note playing as the flame of the lamp takes on the form of three rotating spheres.

Near him, a thick black mass hovers along the wall.

The last night of the circus was their largest crowd yet, with it nearly doubled from the last few days, most likely people from out of town or drifters who'd received the free tickets they'd given out. Both the crew and the performers were relieved, as things had not been right the moment they'd come to this town. Technical difficulties, the people getting into arguments in the bleachers. The animals, especially the lions, seemed agitated, pacing back and forth in their cages. Isaac was doing everything her could to keep the beasts calm and collected. Not an easy task with the roaring sounds of a raucous crowd.

Agnes stood on her platform, nearing the roof of the tent, the last night she would do so. Then the house on Neibolt would be their permanent home. The circus life left behind. Certainly a positive thing given the bad turn Robert was taking. She gazes down at Robert as Pennywise. He put on his clown face and performed his act with the gags and humor, but privately, he was different. Some shadow had overtaken him. Something she knew wasn't quite right.

Something to do with this town. That she felt. The people, the atmosphere. It was...unsettling. For reasons she couldn't comprehend. Perhaps settling down here wasn't the right decision.

Inhaling a deep breath, Agnes swings down from the platform, about to perform her final act when a loud 'snap' echos throughout the tent as the swivel that was holding the rope shatters. The audience gasps and screams in alarm as Agnes plummets to the ground.

Robert runs to her lifeless body laying in the center of the ring, cradling her in his arms, touching her cheek, feeling her heartbeat slowing.

"No, no...why?" he whimpers, before he turns his head up at the ceiling. "Why did you do this?!" he cries as the Ringmaster Norman Claude and the laborers watching from the sidelines dash over to aid.

Just outside, Ivan and Maurice are pacing impatiently in their metal cages. An invisible force opens the latch of each, the two lions pouncing out as Isaac shouts, taken by surprise by their sudden escape. The two large cats attack him, tearing out his throat before turning their sights to the circus entrance, the chaotic sounds of the people drawing them in.

Nearby, a kerosene lamp atop a crate that a few laborers had been using tips over, the flame crawling towards the flap of the entrance.

Inside, the lions attack. Anyone and anything in their path. Tearing at clothing and flesh alike, the people screaming in confusion only fuels their bloodthirsty rampage. Outside in Agnes' wagon, Emma sits, hugging Fred to her as she sees through the small window the tent becoming engulfed in flames. The frantic spectators all knock each other down as they try to excape both the blaze and the lions.

Inside, Robert remains holding Agnes in his arms as the top of the tent starts to collapse as the fire engulfs it.

Emma stays sitting in the wagon, weeping as she hears the ensuing chaos, too frightened to move. Just as she decides to move to open the door, it bursts open, with her father standing before her.

Oddly calm.

"Daddy!" Emma runs into his arms, noting for one brief moment how cold his torso felt as she snakes her arms around him.

"Where's mommy?" Emma queries, tears cutting down her pink cheeks as she gazes up at her stone-faced father as he leads her away from the inferno, the lions now outside the burning tent, still attacking those that managed to escape from inside.

"Daddy, we can't leave mommy."

Robert halts, turning his head slowly to look down at his daughter. Emma stares back, eyes damp and red. There is a strange emptiness within his irises. She feels a chill travel along her spine as her heart drops to her stomach as they continue to stare at each other.

"Where's my daddy?" she asks in such a low intone that the words are barely even a whisper. She works her hand loose from his, still maintaining eye contact.

Robert only smiles calmly, derisively, his pupils taking on an orange glow that matches the fire burning against the night sky. His mouth then opens, revealing three tiny balls of orange light.

"Come into my lights, Emma."

Emma's eyes cloud over as her stuffed lion drops from her fingers.

It's only a few weeks later that the horror of the fire is forgotten. The death toll is said to be in the hundreds, however, the exact number is unknown.

Decades later, while reading about the great circus fire of 1881, Mike Hanlon comes across a black and white photo of a tall clown, standing before a wagon, painted along its sides is 'Pennywise The Dancing Clown.'

Beside him is a little brunette girl, holding a stuffed lion, a bright smile across her face.

#pennywise #fanfiction #Robert Gray #no smut #might get creeped out though

35 notes · View notes

swest1903-blog · 4 years

Text

What if -a fathers story coping with miscarriage

What If ? This is something I have asked myself over and over again and I suspect that all dads to be who have had to deal with the loss of a child have had the same thoughts. We didn't have the surprise that many couples get when discovering they are going to be parents, my wife and I had been receiving fertility treatment, this was to be our last attempt using “clomid” before the doctors investigated further. Day 28 came and still no sign of that moment when your wife looks and you know “not this month” a test was taken and not much hope was held. At first glance there was only 1 line, but as I looked harder I could see the faintest 2nd line (or was I looking for something that wasn't their) many tests were taken over the coming days and they kept saying POSITIVE, we were over the moon but were told not to get too excited, the clinic would do a test in 2 weeks to confirm if the news we wanted was in fact true. My heart was pounding as the nurse looked for a little flicker on the screen, it seemed like an eternity and then the words came “theres your baby” I gripped my wife’s hand as she gripped mine (we were going to be parents). Telling my parents that they were going to be Grandparents again was a very proud moment. The weeks passed, keeping this secret was getting harder, deciding on names and buggies was now the main topic of conversation (I was enjoying every minute of it) 12 weeks came and like the first scan we were gripping each others hands, and there it was the heartbeat, the scan wasn't just a bean anymore it looked like a baby. We got so much pictures, smiles from ear to ear. The picture went public and everyone was over the moon for us. A couple of weeks passed and then we decided to find out the sex, my wife was 16/17 weeks Pregnant at the point. IT'S A GIRL, well I was over the moon, I was going to be a daddy to a little girl. My wife was excited as she had all these plans, Pink, Pink and a little more pink. The next day was a nice warm day so I decided I would go play golf, boast about going to be a dad , etc. My wife was working and said she would either get a taxi home or walk depending how she felt after work. She called to say she got a taxi and was running a bath and she would see me when I got home. 2 holes later I’m putting out when I feel my phone go, all I remember was my wife crying down the phone “somethings wrong, somethings coming out of me”. I took off over that golf course and got to the car, called my parents to tell them something was wrong and I would let them know. I got home in no time at all, ran inside and my wife was on the bed. I called an Ambulance which seemed to take forever but in reality took only a few minutes. The nurses were asking questions, taking readings and doing checks. A female surgeon turned up and examined what was going on. She was going to Theatre but her senior consultant would do the procedure to see if they could solve the problem. I went outside and made some calls thats when it hit me that something was wrong, I had been staying strong for her and didn't even let it hit me I guess. She was taken to Theatre and I went home to get changed and get the car, I arrived back at hospital as she was being wheeled back into the ward. As I walked into the single room I looked at the nurse and she just shook her head. I walked out the room into the corridor and fell to the floor in an unconsolable mess, my family were there to help me to my feet and calm me down. The next morning I was attending the funeral of my Nana (grandmother) I was numb and broke down whenever anyone tried to speak to me or say how sorry they were. I spoke to the man who held the service who knew my wife and I because he married us not 2 years previous. I told him what happened and he said he would do anything he could for us. I got a call form my wife that the surgeon wanted to talk to us. The surgeon came and spoke to us he said the words “Premature Rupture of Membranes” he tried explaining but it wasn't sinking in. we were told my wife’s cervix opened and the membrane burst when they tried to insert a stitch to keep everything intact. We were now faced with the decision to let nature take its course or “take a tablet” we had just heard her heartbeat so in our eyes if she was fighting we would fight too. This went on for a few days, hearing the heartbeat and thinking we made the right choice, she can do this I kept thinking, she is fighting so hard. On the Thursday our world stood still, my wife gave birth to our daughter that evening. She never took a breath and was still born. “what was her name” the nurse asked; “Olivia” I said, she weighed less than a tub of Pringles 156 grams. She was perfect in every way. We held her, we looked at her we fell in love with her. She was wrapped in a lovely pink knitted blanket with a knitted hat and in a Moses basket. The nurses done a terrific job ensuring My wife was well looked after and that she was comfortable. It fell to me to call Family and friends, one of the worst things to do telling people your child has passed away. We were given leaflets on what service we would like, we didn't have to decide then but we did, a burial seemed the right choice. Once we got home we sat in silence, all the baby pink things that were bought not even a week before were sitting in the corner. Flowers were arriving in what seemed to be a never ending shipment. People had been so generous and there sympathies were heartfelt and appreciated. We started going over poems, the tears started to some but I felt like I shouldn't cry as I HAD to be strong for my wife. We chose a poem, service was organised. We placed the only picture where the 3 of us were in it (the picture we put on Facebook) into the coffin with our little girl with a letter explaining how much we loved her and wanted her to be part of our life. It was just the 2 of us at the service, when the poem was read I had tears that were rolling down my face that I tried to stop because I HAD to be strong for my girls. We went for something to eat and to raise a glass to our baby girl. We don't want to cry anymore But the pain won't go away Our hearts are torn in two Because our baby couldn't stay We don't want to cry anymore God had other plans for you Mommy and Daddy will get through this someday But right now our world is blue We don't want to cry anymore We never thought we'd be torn apart Even though we can't hold you in our arms We will always hold you in our hearts We don't want to cry anymore Our Angel, there was nothing we could do Mommy and Daddy will miss you so much And never forget, we will always love you Over the coming weeks things would return to normal, we got away from it all and went on a little holiday, came home and got about our business, the whole time she was never far from our thoughts, I see her everyday when I look at my arm and see her name with her footprints and the saying “Briefly known forever loved” Fast forward to February 2015 and I get a message from my wife but it's a picture, “1 - 2 weeks pregnant” I am back on the top of the world, I am going to be a dad, then I start worrying what if we have more complications ? We tell less people this time, we don't make it public, we feel that way if something goes wrong we don't have the anguish of telling the world that we wont be getting our little bundle of joy. I am so happy for my wife as people close to us have told us that they are expecting so I'm glad my wife can join in with all the baby talk, even though she is being very conservative and rightly so, especially after what happened last year. Were in a different room this time but were still holding hands tighter than we ever have. "there's the baby's heartbeat" again I'm on top of the world, but I don’t get too carried away. After what happened last year My wife has to get a procedure that will involve getting a stitch to prevent ”PROM" The procedure was a success, I feel some weight lift off my shoulders and start to believe I am going to be a dad ! “IT’S a girl” she says as we both stare at the screen, tears of joy running down our faces. The name we decided on was "Aimee Olivia” a perfect name for a perfect little girl, I thought. Picking out pregnancy pillows and looking at buggies was becoming a nightly conversation along with wall decorations for the room as we were getting further along in the pregnancy. I was working away from home, constantly talking on the phone and checking in everyday to make sure everything was ok, Getting told how much she was kicking and wriggling about put the biggest smile on my face, getting pictures on how big the bump was getting making me wish I was kissing and talking to Aimee through the bump. Sitting having some food before I head back to the hotel and my phone rings and it’s my wife “something is wrong” she never calls me. “I haven't felt her move all night, and I have cramping” my heart starts thumping but I know I HAVE to stay strong for her, everything comes rushing back to me from before but I block it out and say to myself “this cant happen again” she is away for a scan so I wait by the phone. “baby she is gone” I break down and try to call her but I cant get through the signal is terrible, I eventually manage. Her heart stopped beating they said, labour pains were starting to get worse, I felt helpless halfway across the world, I organised my flight home which was 5 hours away. I called my parents and everything seemed like a daze, I was fine until I spoke to someone then I would break down, they didn't know what to say, they were in shock also. My wife gave birth to our baby girl and I wasn't there to hold her hand, to give her words of comfort, it felt like a nightmare that I couldn't wake up from. I slept for the first 5 hour flight, While I was waiting for my connecting flight I called my wife to tell her I was on my way and waiting for my next flight. The next flight was 8 hours and I hoped it would go by in a flash, an older woman sat next to me and started talking to me asking questions about where I was going etc, well I broke down. I explained everything that happened and she started crying and said a prayer for me which I thought was a very nice gesture. I wish I got her details to thank her for being next to and listening to me. I got home and my parents were waiting at the airport for me, my mum couldn't look at me as I knew she was ready to burst, my dad grabbed me and hugged me I felt the tears coming but I held back and grabbed my bag, this felt all to familiar and I dint know what I was going to say when I seen my wife. As I opened up the door to the single room I pretty much collapsed on my wife and started crying, all I could say was “sorry” “I should have been here" she asked me if I wanted to see her and my immediate response was “yes" when she came in everything came flooding back from when this happened with Olivia but she was much bigger this time, my wife had been 27 weeks into her pregnancy when this happened. she was beautiful, again a beautiful baby pink blanket with a little hat. some photos had been taken and I looked at them, my wife holding her and looking at her perfect little face, these first pictures should bring joy not sadness. Again burial arrangements were made and the same man carried out the service and it was just the two of us. Aimee was buried across from her sister just 10 feet away, I liked this because I knew they were close to each other. “this isn't right” I said to myself, I shouldn't have to bury 1 child let alone 2. Of course I got the usual “but how are YOU” “I'm doing good, trying to be strong for my wife” which was true but it was killing me inside. Driving to and from the office I would cry in the car, I would get upset at work and have to walk outside incase anyone seen me, explaining to the few people at work that knew she was pregnant what happened. The whole time this was happening to us others that were pregnant were now having their baby’s. This was extremely hard on both of us but they knew what we were going through and were very understanding. I am no writer by any stretch of the imagination but I wanted to share my experience to anyone else going through something similar, There is nothing wrong with showing your feelings and that you are hurting. I have found that I ask myself what if quite often. What if someone picked up that there was something wrong during a scan, what if I managed to get her to the hospital sooner, what if I wasn't away working, what if I made sure she ate healthier, and what if I made her quit her job so she was at home instead of work. I know I am not alone with thinking what if ? If you are going through this then talk to people open up, mention their names all this helps. Below is something I have found that I believe any man that has been through this type of situation will resinate with. It must be very difficult To be a man in grief, Since "men don't cry" and "men are strong" No tears can bring relief. It must be very difficult To stand up to the test, And field the calls and visitors So she can get some rest. They always ask if she's all right And what she's going through. But seldom take his hand and ask, "My friend, but how are you?" He hears her crying in the night And thinks his heart will break. He dries her tears and comforts her, But "stays strong" for her sake. It must be very difficult To start each day anew. And try to be so very brave- He lost his baby too.

#miscarriage fathersofmiscarriage itsoknottobeok mencrytoo

1 note · View note

aion-rsa · 3 years

Text

The Masque of the Red Death: Roger Corman Talks Pandemics and Restoration

https://ift.tt/3pjWssJ

During the 2020 lockdowns and ongoing COVID-19 pandemic, people at home sought isolated comfort. News reports continued to count the number of dead while people in charge downplayed its seriousness or offered dubious advice on dealing with the disease. It certainly didn’t interrupt many golf games. As workers were furloughed from jobs, they binged. One of the movies at the top of the playlist was The Masque of the Red Death, Roger Corman’s 1964 low budget masterpiece.

It told the tale of a wealthy medieval prince in a country decimated by an epidemic. The satanic overlord, played by the legendary actor and horror icon Vincent Price, locks his gates to his god-fearing dominions while he and his friends party like it’s 1999.

Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Masque of the Red Death” is about 2,300 words. Corman’s adaptation, which has been fully restored and can now be seen in its lush, psychedelic splendor, padded it with more Poe to reach 90 minutes. The screenplay by Charles Beaumont and R. Wright merged the tale with Poe’s “Hop Frog,” along with elements of the short story “Torture by Hope” by Auguste Villiers de l’Isle-Adam.

The devilish revelries came deep into a filmmaking cycle that began with American International Pictures executives Samuel Z. Arkoff and James Nicholson asking their in-house director Roger Corman to make two black-and-white horror films at $100,000 each. At the time, Corman had been producing tightly budgeted horror, science fiction, and juvenile delinquency quickies. With this opportunity, he pitched one film based upon Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Fall of the House of Usher,” saying it would move AIP to up in the motion picture world, as the studio was regarded as the maker of exploitation pictures.

It was the first of a cycle of eight films. Poe is read in every high school and is part of America’s literary canon; Corman’s Poe cycle made the writer an international gothic horror fan favorite.

The Masque of The Red Death was the seventh in Corman’s series. The adaptation also stars Jane Asher (Alfie, Death At A Funeral), Hazel Court (The Premature Burial, The Raven), David Weston (Becket, The Red Baron), and Nigel Green (Jason And The Argonauts, Zulu).

The 4K restoration of the extended cut of The Masque Of The Red Death was done by Martin Scorsese’s Film Foundation, and the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. Additional funding came from the Hobson/Lucas Family Foundation. The Masque of the Red Death opened the same year as Stanley Kubrick’s nuclear nightmare Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb. The fallout from an atomic war would result in a Red Death among survivors. Corman’s take on Poe was seen as a comment on the collateral damage of the Cold War, but it is a film which bridges generations of apocalyptic omens.

We spoke with Corman about the timeliness of his classic adaptation, as well as about stars Price and Asher, cinematographer Nicholas Roeg, and why Corman continues to find different delivery systems for message pictures.

Den of Geek: The last time we spoke, it was right before the inauguration. You had put Malcolm McDowell in funny hair and made him the president of the United Corporations of America. At the time, you said you hadn’t expected Trump to win. Today is the day after his (second) impeachment. Now that 2020 turned out to be a death race, did you expect him to be President Prospero?

Roger Corman: No. I assumed that [Joe] Biden was going to win. The polls all indicated that he was ahead. The polls have not always been correct, but in this case, they were so much in his favor, I assumed he was going to win.

Was there a conscious effort to put out The Masque of Red Death during the COVID-19 crisis with him as president?

Yes. Masque of the Red Death, in the United States, was on one of the platform streaming services, and the ratings on it went way up during COVID, because it was so appropriate. It’s actually more pertinent today than when it was made, because we do have the equivalent of the Red Death pandemic that is killing people all over the world.

In Masque of the Red Death, Prince Prospero brings together his friends, aristocrats and so forth, and they hold themselves up in the castle, to prevent the Red Death from killing them. And we have a somewhat similar situation today.

For instance, Trump is very careful. He claimed that the coronavirus was overrated. As a matter of fact, he said there was no such thing as coronavirus; it was “a hoax” perpetrated by the Democrats to make him look bad. But at the same time he was saying that, he was holed up in the lighthouse, going up primarily only to play golf or to hold big rallies. People were not protected within the rallies, but he himself made a real point of staying away from the crowd, to be on the stage and let the crowd get together and kill themselves, which they did.

The Mar-a-Lago of Red Death.

The Masque of the Mar-a-Lago.

Is it hard to keep a social distance when you’re squirming around on a floor like a worm?

It’s a little difficult, I would believe.

Vincent Price’s voice is beautiful in this movie. This is one of his most seductive parts. How quickly did he capture the character, from rehearsal to shooting?

He had the character pretty much set in mind when he came into it. Vincent always did a great deal of preparation. So what we would do [is] we would discuss the characters, just Vincent and me, before the rehearsals. He and I were in agreement on the character, and then he would bring that character to the rehearsals. We did not do a great deal of rehearsing because of the Screen Actors Guild rules. They charge you as if you are shooting when you rehearse.

Do you remember any notes you had to give him?

This is so long ago. It’s a little bit difficult to remember. But as I remember, I said, “The real key to Prospero’s character is that he believes God is dead.” And everything stems from that belief. That with the absence of God, he was free to do anything he wanted.

Did he always talk like that, like when he was ordering a bagel?

It was pretty much his normal voice. He added a certain drama to [lines], but basically that was Vincent. He was a highly educated man and very intelligent, so he spoke very well. And we simply heightened that somewhat in the films.

The film suffered some major censorship from the Legion of Decency, and the package booklet points out there was church involvement. Did you ever wonder whether you might be going to hell?

No, that never occurred to me. I’m sort of a lapsed Catholic, and I don’t believe there is a hell.

Is Red Death a disease or a sin?

The Red Death is a disease. That’s one of the reasons that’s a plague. You could consider it to be the Black Death of the Middle Ages. It would be the equivalent of coronavirus today.

In the booklet which comes with the DVD, it says that Father Miraliotta said the occult parts of the screenplay were “strung together gibberish” and “mumbo-jumbo Latin.” But did any of the satanic rituals have any validity?

No. We made up pretty much what we wanted. Actually, there were two writers, Chuck Beaumont and Bob Campbell, and I think it started with my discussions with Chuck.

How was Jane Asher to work with?

Jane Asher was wonderful to work with. She was a very young girl. She had worked on the stage. I think she was in the Young Shakespeare Group. And I don’t know if it was her first picture or not, but she was very good. She was an excellent actress and very good and easy to work with.

She was dating Paul McCartney when this was made, and her brother was a musician and a producer. Did you get to experience any Swinging London in-crowd during shooting?

A little bit. As a matter of fact, I can tell you a true story. Jane and I used to have lunch together in the studio commissary. And on a Thursday, she said a friend of hers was traveling through, on his way to London the next day. Would it be all right if he came and watched a shooting during the morning, and we could all have lunch together? And I said, “Sure, fine.”

Culture

When Paul McCartney Braved the Set of Roger Corman’s The Masque of the Red Death

By Tony Sokol

So, I got a director’s chair, sitting next to mine, during the shooting. And it was a nice, young guy, and we talked during the shooting. And I explained to him a little bit between shots how it all worked. And then we all, Jane and he, and I, had lunch together. And it all went very well. I said at the end of it, “Jane tells me you’re going to London. What are you going to be doing in London?”

He said, “Well, I’m with a singing group from Liverpool, and we’re going to be making our debut tomorrow night in London.” He was very cool. He knew that as an American, I didn’t know who The Beatles were or what he was. And as he left, I said, “Well, good luck, Paul, on your debut in London tomorrow night.”

And I remember he was very cool. He understood and he didn’t want to say, “Listen, buddy, we’re the number one group.” He just said, “Well, we’re a singing group.”

And then I saw the paper Sunday morning headlines, “Beatles conquer London.”

Did he ever come back to the set again?

No. But it was very funny. We were at an Academy Award party, which was I think the Vanity Fair party, which was a big thing, of people who were invited and so forth. We were at the Vanity Fair party, and I saw across the room Paul McCartney. And I said, “Oh, there’s Paul over there.”

And my wife, Julie, said, “Let’s go over and talk to him.” And I said, “No. I had lunch with him 60 years or so ago. He isn’t going to remember some guy he had lunch with 60 years ago, and I don’t want to intrude.” because he was in a conversation.

And Julie said, “Well, I want to meet Paul McCartney.” So, she went over and talked to him, and he came over to see me. As he approached, he said, “Masque of the Red Death.” He knew exactly where we’d met.

I interviewed William Shatner a few months ago and I asked about The Intruder, a piece he’s still very proud of. What draws you to consistently infuse your works, in any genre, with at least social questioning?

I’ve always been on the left, liberal side of politics. The Intruder was a time when the desegregation of schools in the South started. The schools in the South had maintained separate schools for Blacks. They were separate, but equal. And the Supreme Court ruled they were separate, but they were not equal, which was correct. They were inferior, and schools had to be integrated rather than keeping them separate. And it caused tremendous rebellion in the South. Chuck Beaumont, who worked with me on a number of pictures, had written the book The Intruder about an agitator, a little bit like somewhere between Joe McCarthy and Trump, who comes in, talking about patriotism and being against integration.

And I bought that book, The Intruder, and made it with Bill Shatner. It was his first picture. He was a Broadway actor, and he just came to Hollywood, and he was wonderful to work with, and the picture got incredible reviews. I’m trying to think of one of them, which was really good. Oh, it said, “The Intruder is a major credit to the entire American film industry.” And it won a couple of awards at minor festivals nobody ever heard of, but it was the first picture I ever made that lost money.

You consistently do social commentary in your work. What brings you back to it?

I stayed with it, but I tried to analyze why The Intruder got such wonderful reviews and such a great reaction, but the audience didn’t come to see it. And I thought, “I think I was too serious in this.” It was almost like delivering a message. And I remember years ago, some Hollywood producer said, “If you want to send a message, use Western Union.” And I thought, “I broke that rule.” And I thought, “I forgot that motion pictures are really basically an entertainment.”

So, from there on in, I used motion pictures as an entertainment, but as a subtext, with whatever theme or thought I was interested in. But first and foremost, the audience came to see and got the entertainment they paid to see. And as a bonus, as it were, there was the subtext, which sometimes was so slender that people didn’t get it. But [some] people got it. That was fine with me.

The restoration is really beautiful. I’d like to ask about the look. Your translation of Poe’s colors. Nicolas Roeg was the cinematographer. What was that collaboration like?

It went very well. It was the first I had done in England, except for a Formula One racing picture, which was in England and a number of other places. And they showed me a work of a number of English cameramen, and I thought Nic was the best of the group. And the collaboration went very well. I thought he did really, a brilliant job of camera work.

Afterwards he became a director. I never knew, did I inspire him to be a director, or did he feel if Roger can do it, anybody can do it?

So, he didn’t actually go through the Corman school of directors. I know you never produced any of his films.

I did not. He did it on his own.

You shot Masque on the set of Becket. What was different about having that as a cinematic playground, as opposed to shooting Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre?

It wasn’t really the set of Becket. What it is, Danny Heller, my art director, and I, always went to what was called a scene dock in studios where we’re going to work. The scene dock contained flats from previous pictures, just individual flats. Each of the pictures we shot in the United States, we were shooting at small rental studios, and the flats were not particularly impressive, but Danny would use them in the designs of sets.

When we did Masque of the Red Death, we found these magnificent flats from Becket. So they were not the sets, but we used those flats, and used them as an integral part of the sets.

Masque of Red Death was one of the first films that you had a longer shooting schedule. What was the first aspect of filmmaking that you noticed was affected by the extra time?

Well, two things. The English crews were very good. They were fully equal to the Hollywood crews, but they worked a little bit slower than the Hollywood crews. So I had a five-week schedule, whereas I had a three-week schedule in Hollywood. And I always thought I really had a four-week schedule, because we were working a little slowly.

Also, when we’d show up to work at 11:00, we would stop for elevenses. And then we would stop for lunch. And then in the middle of the afternoon, we would stop for tea. And I remember mentioning, I’ve forgotten who the assistant director was, but I said, “We’re spending half the day eating here. We should be shooting.”

But he said, “Well, this is the way we do it.”

In 2009, you made the Joe Dante series, Splatter, and each episode was shot in a week based on audience votes. Was that reminiscent of your early days of shooting on the 10-day schedules?

No. By that time, when I first started, although I did shoot a number of films in five or six days, in one picture, The Little Shop of Horrors, in two days. But my general schedule was two weeks when we started. As we moved along, starting with The Fall of the House of Usher, the first of the Poe pictures, I had three-week schedules. And our standard schedule for everything at that time was three weeks, so it was shot on a three-week schedule.

Did you really edit Little Shop of Horrors during a lunch break?

No. I shot Little Shop of Horrors in two days with a little bit of night shooting. So I’d say maybe two-and-a-half days. What happened, I had an office at a small rental studio in Hollywood and I was having lunch with the head of the studio. And he mentioned they had just finished a fairly big, slightly bigger budget picture. It was still low budget, and they had this really good, big set of an office. And I said, “Can you leave that up for a little while?” And he said, “Sure. We’ll leave it up until somebody comes in and rents the stage. And we’ll tear it down and put up the new set.”

So, after lunch, I went over and looked at it. And it was really a very good set, and I said [that] I was sort of experimenting with the concept of comedy and horror combined. And I thought, “It might be fun.”

I didn’t have a great deal of money at that time and nobody was going to back me with what I wanted to do. I thought, “I could shoot a picture here. And since almost everything is within this set, what I could do, I could shoot it in a couple of days, based upon this.”

Movies

Little Shop Of Horrors & the Tale of its Lost Ending

By Seb Patrick

Movies

The Roger Corman Fantastic Four Movie: The Most Faithful FF Ever

By Mike Cecchini

Screen Actors Guild salary structure was such that if you hired a person for a day, he got more money than one-fifth of what the weekly structure was. So I thought what I’ll do is hire everybody for a week. We’ll rehearse Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, because everything is in this set. And with everything set up, we can come and shoot on two days, on Thursday and Friday, which is what we did. And the whole thing was done sort of as an experimental lark.

It was quite successful. They made a Broadway play out of it and one thing and another, and a musical. And one of the reasons I think it was so successful was that none of us were taking it seriously. We were taking it and just sort of fooling around and having fun. And I think that attitude helped the picture, because the crew had the same attitude, and the whole thing permeated the shooting.

I remember we started shooting Thursday morning at 8:00. And at 8:30, the assistant director announced we were hopelessly behind schedule.

What are your favorite genres to shoot, and are they the same ones as the ones you watch?

Not particularly. I should watch more genre films to keep up with it. Actually, I watch a certain number, specifically to keep up and see what’s going on now. But I’m more inclined towards somewhat more serious films, and particularly foreign films, although I see fewer foreign films now than I did before. I don’t know why.

We were a production/distribution company, New World, which I founded in 1970, and we distributed for Fellini, Bergman, Kurosawa, Volker Schlöndorff, François Truffaut, a number of others. And I was a great fan of those films and went out of my way to distribute them. I was very much interested in that type of film.

In your early films, were you watching Mario Bava to see what he was doing? And were you expanding on that?

Actually, I saw only one film by Mario Bava, who incidentally I think was a brilliant filmmaker. It was because Jim Nicholson, who was the head of American International, had seen the film and liked Barbara Steele in it. He suggested I see the film and possibly use Barbara Steele.

I saw that one film. I don’t remember the name of it, but I thought it was really excellent. And indeed, I did bring Barbara Steele over. I think it was The Pit and the Pendulum. She played the leading lady.

What did Poe bring to your storytelling that, say, Lovecraft’s adaptations didn’t provide?

Well Poe, and this was part of my interpretation of Poe, I think Poe was working with the unconscious mind, from a writer’s standpoint, the same way that Freud, a little later in the same century, was working from a medical standpoint. I think the concept of the unconscious mind was starting to influence thinking in the 19th century, so I always thought that Poe represented the unconscious mind, and I shot according to that. It was one of my themes.

For instance, I felt the unconscious mind doesn’t really see the world. The conscious mind sees the world with eyes, ears, and so forth, and simply transmits information. So I made a point on all of the Poe films of never going outside unless I absolutely had to do it. I wanted to have full control, to shoot within the studio. Whether it came through to the audience, I don’t know. But at least in my own mind, I was able to deal with special effects with a number of things, with the concept of the unconscious mind.

When I did go outside, I tried to make it something that was not normal. For instance, on the very first picture, The Fall of the House of Usher, the only exterior sequence is when a man, played by Mark Damon, rides through a forest on his way to the House of Usher. And before we were shooting, there was a forest fire in the Hollywood Hills. I saw a picture of it in the Los Angeles Times, and all of the trees were burned. Everything was covered with ash, and I immediately put together, I think, a three or four-man crew. And we were up there in the Hollywood, burnt out hills, showing Mark on his horse, riding through that exterior.

I also used the ocean, a number of times. I feel that essentially, we came out of the ocean, and I felt somehow there is something fascinating about the ocean, even today.

Hazel Court’s invocation sequence is exquisite. When you were putting it together, were you having fun experimenting, trying to capture the unconscious mind?

Yes, it was all of the above. It dealt with the unconscious. We were experimenting, and I was having a lot of fun. I give a lot of credit to Danny Heller, the art director on that, because he would construct certain backgrounds. I would then work with different colored lenses on the camera, and then we would go in to a special effects shop, and they would take what I’d shot and overlay certain images. It was just a lot of fun putting them together, but I think I used that concept in almost every one of the Poe films.

And then of course, many, many years later, when I did The Trip, which was about an LSD experience, I really went crazy with those sequences.

On the other hand, I have to say this, at the time they came out, I got a lot of critical praise for that. But if you look at them today, they look primitive because the special effects today are so brilliant and so far advanced, that not only my pictures, but everybody was pictures at that time, when we used special effects, there was no way we could get the effects you can get today.

What do you think we’ve lost from the Mitchell cameras and having to lug things around and meticulously put together special effects? What do you think is lost in technology making filmmaking easier?

What’s gained is the fact that the special effects are just beyond anything anybody ever dreamed of before. They’re just astonishing. What is lost is the fact that there’s a tendency for the special effects to take over the picture, and the story and the characters are secondary to the special effects. And we’ve lost that to a certain extent. I wouldn’t say all the way, but we’ve lost to a certain extent the examination of characterization and the simple narrative, and the writing of dialogue.

How do you work with your composers on your films?

I work with composers probably a little less than most directors do. I don’t pretend to have great knowledge of music. What I do [is] I talk with the composer and discuss the themes, the mood within each individual scene, the basic feeling I want from the music, and then I leave it to him.

For instance, directors are generally on the soundstage when they’re recording the music. I’m never there. I’m not a conductor. I leave that to the composer.

The last movie you directed was Frankenstein Unbound in 1990. What would it actually take to put you back in the director’s seat?

Well, what happened was because when I started in 1970, I started my own production/distribution company. And I had planned simply to take a year off from directing, because I was just tired. I’d directed about 60 films in about maybe 15, 16 years. And I thought I would take a sabbatical, one year off from directing, and just be a producer and a head of the company. But then the company became instantaneously successful.

It was really amazing. Our very first picture was a giant success, and so were all of the following ones. And I got so involved in all of that [that] I just stepped away from directing. But then Universal did some kind of research, and they came up with the idea that “Roger Corman’s Frankenstein” would be a success for a film, and they asked me if I would like to make it, to produce and direct it. And I said, “No. You may have that research, but in my opinion, it’s just going to be another Frankenstein film. There have been so many Frankenstein films. It isn’t worth going back.”

But they kept coming back to me, and they offered me so much money. Finally, I thought, “Geez, I’d be an idiot not to turn this opportunity down for what they’re now offering me.” And I said, “All right, I can’t say yes right now. But if I can find a new version, something that is a different interpretation of Frankenstein, I will do it.”

And I read a novel, Frankenstein Unbound, by Brian Aldiss, a very good English science fiction and fantasy writer. And it was a story of somebody from the future, who, through a time warp, is thrown back into the 19th century and meets Dr. Frankenstein.

In the novel, he was some sort of a diplomat. But in the movie, I changed him from being a diplomat to a scientist, so that the picture essentially brought a 21st century scientist back to meet a 19th century scientist. And I thought that was an original and new interpretation. So I said, “If you can buy that novel, I’ll make the picture.” Which we did.

With all the streaming alternatives now for new projects, do you think it’s easier for an independent director to break in, or is it still just the same corporate-owned studio stuff?

I think you would divide that into two sections. It’s a little bit more difficult today, particularly with the studios, because they’re making now primarily these giant special effects pictures, and they’re not going to give a new director a chance to play with a $200 million budget.

But new directors are breaking in pretty much the way they were when I started, which is on independent films and particularly on low budget films.

You’re both the producer and the director on Masque. Were there things that you wanted to do as a director that you wouldn’t let yourself do as a producer?

I was a producer and director on almost all of my films, so I never really had any problems with the producer. If there was a problem with the producer, it was a problem with myself.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

The Masque of the Red Death is available on Blu-ray, DVD, and Digital now.

The post The Masque of the Red Death: Roger Corman Talks Pandemics and Restoration appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/2Mnk6X1

#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

0 notes

alberteamllc · 7 years

Text

SMART PEOPLE LIKE YOU AND ME (721)

It’s hot in Agresjia and the breeze never really stops tasting like salt. It gets to her hair, which she never really bothered to take care of that much anyway, but now she wakes up every morning to find a pile that’s dry and frizzy and above all else, big. Every day she decides to go get it cut, reaches to the bedside to fumble for her coin purse, gives up, goes back to sleep.

Words she thought she’d never say: well, the money’s good. But the money was good, and a different kind of girl, she thought, could carve out a decently fulfilling life with this happy disparity between labor and compensation, but she was mostly bored, and she knew that when she got bored she got depressed, she’d heard it from Tavi and she’d heard it from Elam and she’d heart it from Tartuffe and from everyone else. She was depressed in the army too but that was a different thing. She still couldn’t eat a biscuit without cringing, bracing herself for that unpleasant hard crack of long-march cooking.

She wakes up sweating, which folk lore insists that elves can’t do, but what the hell does folk lore know about half breeds and bastards she wonders, scrubbing her face with a wet wash cloth. She doesn’t bother dealing with her hair, just ties it back. It’s not like I’m getting all dressed up for anybody important. Just the crown bloody prince.

She’d been a little taken aback when he’d summoned her to the city five months ago. Maybe she shouldn’t have been. He was one of them, after all, as good as one of them, and even a Starry Messenger that’s out of the field is a Messenger for life, and you looked after your brothers and sisters. He was famous for it. And in fact she’d known him briefly on the campaign, he leading his little city-state’s proud but scrappy army, she putting up with entirely different forms of piss-poor weather and acting as a go-between between human and elven camps, making sure lives weren’t lost over quibbles in ad-hoc translation. They’d barely spoken. He’d nodded at the little silver constellation pinning back her cloak, and asked under whom she’d studied, and offered her a swig of the exquisite fucking stuff he kept in the flask beside his saddle. I’m Adeline Ingwers, your… highness? He sounded it out. Adeline Ingwers. I’ll remember that.

Her salary was thirty gold pieces a month, a figure that had made her cough violently when she first read the missive from the palace. She’d fished in her pockets and handed the messenger boy a shiny five-silver coin. What the hell, she could afford it now. Her job was, on paper, to aid the crown in long-term projects pertaining to elven philology and ancient history, a kind of jerry-rigged one-woman anthropologist, literary critic, archaeologist, apologist, and proof-reader for good measure. The prince was working on something big but the letter didn’t say what. She’d packed her bags that night.

She finds herself rehearsing all of this each time she makes that walk to the palace, running the math in her head again, double checking how long she can coast if this job dries up. Well… forever, she figures, but that doesn’t keep her from checking them again. Four gold pieces a month got her lodgings she’d call palatial, not that you’d guess it from the rime of clothes and books coating the floor, the piled dishes. She felt weird hiring a maid so she didn’t. Four gold pieces a month and so much left over. She eventually treated herself, bought a roomy little one-story house on the wrong side of town, cash up front, and filled it wall to wall with books. She worried about silverfish and thought back often to her childhood. Watery soup with thin roots, scrawny chickens. All six kids piled onto one low pallet, mother and father snoring three feet away, and now she’s a homeowner with a studio uptown to boot.

She nods to the guards, and makes a detour through the courtyard to sneak a look at the knghts sparring. Ilan Sarmasik, who always seemed distracted, a little mopey at times, but a decent person, cultured but not learned, so he could talk about a poem or a tale without having to sweatily establish his mastery over it. Faris Svette, young, who Adeline liked to observe in commiseration, the fluffy white mane on her head also turning into some ghoulish dandelion in the hot months. And old Verlaine Porlock, who was sword to a prince who died long ago and haunted the palace like a pensioned ghost, leaning on his halberd and watching his two pupils flit across the training ground at each other. There was a lot of history in this place if you bothered to learn it. She kept promising she’d find the time some day.

She finds the prince’s study door shut-- as good as locked--and when he emerges she’s been waiting in an antechember for fifteen minutes, lazily absorbing the room’s phalanx of starchy family portraits and marble busts of people with the prince’s nose and the queen’s aggressive chin, the fire roaring in the fireplace despite the sticky heat of the season. He’s impeccably dressed even in his offtime and she knows he’s holding back the urge to plead, once again, for her to permit a tailor to swing by her apartment, his treat, but she likes her robes with the elbows worn smooth, and she likes the only sarouels she ever found that fits just right so she can write in the pose that feels most natural, that is, as Tavi always teased, crunched up on her back like a dead insect, that she likes so much that she bought three pairs when she was stationed in Kukudhra, at the time an extravagance. Ok, she concedes, glancing down, she might have accidentally walked across town in her slippers, and that might be a flash of her little toe peeking out between the fake velvet and the cheap sole. But the prince is nothing if not polite, and he merely shakes her hand and holds open the door as she passes through.

He waves broadly to an assortment of objects arranged in a chunky row on his desk, smiling proudly at his finds. Adeline sees at a glance that at least some of it is junk but she knows he’ll take the news in stride.

“Handsome spread, your Highness. What have you been getting yourself into?”

He paces behind her as she begins to inspect the items, pulling little multi-paned monocle from her tunic and bending over each piece in turn.

“I took a trip out towards Faxfleet and Bottsford with Sir Sarmasik. There were rumors of a barrow that had opened up after the last heavy rain and, well, I couldn’t help myself. Some halfling salvagers had already gotten to it, sadly-- I had to haggle for all of this. I’m sure you’re chomping at the bit to tell me how badly they’ve cheated me, so I’ll forgo letting you in on how much I paid for the lot”

“Help yourself to a new pair of boots on the way back? Wouldn’t want to stomp mud all around these ritzy carpets after around out in Faxfleet, your Highness.”

“Rich talk from the young woman currently haunting my office with the world’s most alarming cuticle.”

“Har har, your HIghness. Try having to walk to work every day.”

“I walk quite a bit. It’s a large palace.”

“Sarmasik doesn’t carry you?”

He laughs under his breath and they lapse into the familiar silence that tells him that she’s working. The prince is sharp-- in some fields, she’d concede, he’s probably brilliant. But he gets at an archaeological site like a little kid. Everything’s a priceless find to him until it’s not. Case in point-- the cup in her hand. Circa three years ago, of the “shop around the corner from the fish market” dynasty. Probably thrown into a ditch and washed into the ruins by the heavy rain. But this…. this was interesting. She picks it up and immediately feels the urge to toss it down. That’s always a sign. Of something.

“Now what’s this beauty, your Highness?”

“Isn’t that your job? Well, hm, obviously it looks like a circlet or a diadem of some kind.”

“Don’t start developing hat-envy on me prince, you can call it a crown. This was in the barrow?”

“Yes. I suppose. That’s what I was told”

She snaps her fingers impatiently like a teacher trying to jog a pupil’ memory. “And... . what? Just sitting out? Was it on an altar? Was it displayed? Did you pry it off of somebody? Context, your Highness, context!” She catches herself. Other princes would have a person’s head for less, but Anselm just rolls his eyes, circling around the desk to peer at the crown from the other side.

“Just… jumbled up with detritus I imagine. Rubble. When Ilan and I had a look inside it looked like it might have been a burial chamber. A central slab-- a priest or something of the like-- surrounded by five other slabs in a radial pattern.”

“That sounds like--”

“Druidry?”

“Precisely.”

“That’s what I thought at first, but the dates don’t make sense…”

She shrugs.

“That’s what makes the Valley such a hell for serious academics. Hard to pin a date n a site when they come roaring up out of the dirt according to their own whims. We do our best, your Highness, but we’re always guessing.”

He looks irritated. She’s telling him things he already knows and he doesn’t like it, so she walks it back.

“But you’re right, of course. It’s unusual to say the least, although jumping to anomalous seems premature.”

Next to the crown is a crude stone knife, filigreed with little dancing figures, a stick-figure body tied to a sacrificial altar. There’s a buzz in her brain, a sudden shooting headache. It occurs to her to take the knife and drive it through the prince’s eye, fit the crown to her head, and sit down laughing beside his corpse. She shakes it away and puts the crown down like it was a burning brand. A blurriness she hadn’t noticed clears from her thoughts.

“Ahem. Soo… yeah. Moving on, this knife is interesting. It, again is typical in some ways of the druidic stoneworking you’d see in sites six or seven hundred years old well off to the West. Let’s take this conversation to that weapons display up the tower a bit, I’ve got an urge to compare this to something you showed me there a little while ago…”

“Ah. The axe? I see. Well, after you--”

As they leave he puts a hand on her shoulder like a friend, like a peer, and she allows it, and later in the evening, after the sun is down and they’ve had some wine and laughed about the same old senile lecturers back at the Tower of the Stars, she checks in with the seneschal and he hands her her check without saying a word. The walk back to her apartment is not too long but she drags it out, and, hyper-aware of her ragged house slippers now, stops to savor the feel of the smooth paving stones on her feet. It wasn’t like this in Dahora during the war when her parents wouldn’t let her run barefoot because the soil was so thick with spear-heads and shattered masonry. Tavi had always told her about this place, this Agresjia, with that Tavi self-effacement. She hadn’t told Andeline how lovely it could be, how that accursed salt air could be a gift too, something you turned your face up to and drank. She misses the cold. She keeps walking past the well-lit streets of the well-to-do, past her apartment, through alleys and night markets to her neglected little bonus house, full of books and garbage and probably insects. She unlocks the door and passes through to the only chair in the place and sits in silence for a long time.

He was lying. He was lying and smiling and he thought they were friends in spite of this. She pushes aside the heavy book-case that made her buy this house in the first place, a slab on rusty rollers that led down into what had once been some enterprising person’s hideout for swampweed packing or illegal charcuterie, but which now held the books she didn’t want Nevyah’s rent-a-spies to be poking through, if he thought to have them do so, and she knew he never gave a thought to her. Her logs. She pages through them, back and forth. The bastard was doing it. Inquiries he’d started making idly, that made the rounds of antiquarians and collectors, after ancient pharmakons, amulets against sickness and age. And this thing behind it all-- druidic, that was true, but buried deep, way down below, a fragment in the most effaced and dispersed bits of myth and taboo of the Valley. That twitch of the nerve she’d felt, that call to violence-- was that this crown, its weight on the brow of anyone who touched it? This was no chance find-- this was something he’d been searching for, desperately, she’s sure of it now. Rumors about the prince-- about this campaign against death, this obsession-- she’d heard them all at the Tower. And not quite believed them. But she’d kept them in her mind when accepted this job, and had kept an eye out. Everything suspicious about him-- everything behind that front of charm and erudition-- was beginning to click into place. She notes the day’s events down, cracks open a bottle of beer, and falls asleep fully clothed on the floor.

The next morning she buys a tooth brush and uses it and takes a leisurely amble uphill back towards the shops she can afford now, the shops she has no reason to avoid, and buys a new pair of fine, soft leather boots, with sturdy soles and a tiny ribbon on each cuff. She throws her old slippers in a trash-heap as she winds her way to the palace, munching all the while on a vegetable skewer, fragrant and delicious. At the foot of that tower she looks up at it blotting the sun and turns away, blinded, before straightening her lapels and marching in. Later, realizing a mistake in notation at the same time as her, he jokes in that familiar way, that suggests they’re in on it together, this universe of fools, smart people, like you and I, like you and I and Nevyah and every damned idiot that ever thought reading books and knowing dead languages meant you understood what was good for people, what they really needed but didn’t know, and she laughs, scoffs really, but he takes that scoff as something other than what it is.

1 note · View note