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det-loki · 3 years

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poison & wine pt. eight

You give me love, give me love Until it breaks my back

warnings: angst, blood mention

pairing: detective loki x fem reader

word count: 2,162

A/N: close to the end! sorry for the delay

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 ⌽

The car ride over to Bob Taylor’s house was uncomfortably silent. David’s hands gripped the steering wheel till his knuckles were white, jaw clenched as he stared ahead.

“When are we going to talk about everything? We can’t keep running on autopilot.” You broke the silence as Loki’s jaw ticked, his hands tightening around the wheel.

“Let’s just focus on this case, okay?” You hated when he did this. He silenced himself, avoiding everything until it simmered over, emotions exploding out of control. You remained silent, deciding it was better to not add more fuel to the fire.

You arrived at the house which was covered with various cars and forensic teams. You got out of the car quickly, tugging your coat tighter as the wind chilled through you, following David as he talked to Rich, who was a part of the forensics team and running point on the scene.

The brown dying grass crunched under your boot clad feet as you walked up to a marked off area in the yard, two analysts working to uncover two kid sized department store mannequins that had been buried with their heads caved in from the frozen ground.

Rich looked at Loki as he spoke, “I just talked to our lab guys, and they told me that all the blood that we sampled from the plastic containers- pig’s blood.”

You moved from the yard to inside in the kitchen, mazes still littered across the walls. Multiple people were inside the home, taking pictures of evidence and booking it. Listening to Rich continue to speak, “It’s like he’s play-acting. I mean, case in point. Except for the few items I.D.’d by the Dovers and the Birches, all the kids’ clothes that we found still had the tags on them. And that maze book that we found, he made it. Photocopies, pictures from this book that we found in the attic. Ex-F.B.I. agent wrote that.” You wondered who would go through the trouble of doing all that, but you had to remind yourself of the case you were dealing with. Nothing was ‘textbook.’

You looked down at the red and black book in the evidence bag as Loki read the title out loud, fingers grazing over the cover through the plastic of the bag, eyebrows furrowed, ‘Finding The Invisible Man.’

“Yeah, it’s about a theoretical suspect that he believed was responsible for a bunch of child abductions. It’s totally discredited, I guess, but I read some of it.” Rich explained to both you and Loki as you rocked on the balls of your feet.

Loki cut Rich off, “Taylor- Taylor was abducted when he was a kid. He ran away after three weeks. And the capture drugged him on some sort of LSD/ketamine cocktail.” When you and Loki learned of the use of the ketamine cocktail, your eyes darted to each other, a silent understanding between the two of you. Broken, forever; everything connected in this shit town you called home. Loki continued speaking, “He never remembered. They never caught the guy.”

“Okay, so...he read the book and decided he was taken by the invisible man. Now he’s doing his best imitation, right?”

Rich stared at Loki, waiting for a response, “Yeah, he was doing his best imitation. He killed himself last night.” Loki turned away, walking away from you and Rich, stopping in the doorway to study the mazes on the wall as Rich turned to him, “How did he do that? I thought he was in custody.”

“It’s a long story.” Your response was short, voice cracking with exhaustion, details weren’t needed. Your hands were still stained with red, you constantly felt the need to scrub them raw under hot water until they bled. The urge hit you again last night at home in the shower, sending you into a crying mess on the shower floor, scaring David when he heard your sobs through the door. He was worried about you. And himself, you two were getting bad again, the feeling was familiar, similar to how you felt after the funeral. Indescribable pain.

Loki turned to you, asking for the map Taylor drew as he stepped closer in your direction. You take it out of your coat pocket with a gloved hand, handing it to David who snatches it out of your hand. He pointed to it aggressively as he spoke to Rich, “Hey, Taylor drew this. It’s a map to the bodies. It’s a map to the bodies and we found the same design on a pendant that we pulled off that corpse the other day. There’s a connection, okay?” Loki spoke with growing intensity as Rich looked at him dumbfounded, obviously lost with Loki’s explanation.

“The connection is that it’s the last maze in the book.” Loki scoffed at Rich, upset with him for not understanding the point he was trying to make. Rich continued, “I did it. It’s unsolvable. There’s no way out. Your corpse is another wannabe who read the book.” Loki had spent hours trying to find a way out of the maze, each failure feeling more and more doomed.

Loki stormed away from him, “What are you saying to me, Rich? What are you saying to me? What are you saying? That-that this guy is a fake? You’re saying the girls are still out there somewhere?” Here was the one big difference between you and Loki. You had hope the girls were still alive, maybe you were ignorant, but you weren’t ready to accept the fact that two little girls were dead. Loki was coming to terms with the fact that they might be dead, his hope was dying out. Loki’s voice rose, your fingers digging into your palm as he spoke, “How did Bob Taylor get those clothes? How did-how did the parents positively I.D those clothes?!” At this point, Loki was yelling at Rich, looking at him expectantly.

“That I can’t reconcile.” He walked past you and then Loki as Loki snaps at him, “You can’t reconcile that?”

“Just keep knockin’ on doors, lookin’ in windows.” At that, Rich disappeared through the doorway.

Loki stood across from you, hand trailing through his hair, head snapping in your direction as you spoke, “Loki, maybe he’s right. The girls might be out there somewhere, we-” You stopped talking as Loki pulled out his notepad, flipping through pages quickly, obviously looking for something in particular. He flips to a page and stops, “The window.” That’s all you needed to hear before running to the car.

The car stopped abruptly in front of the Dovers, sending you lurching forward against the dashboard, Loki’s door already open, feet on the ground and running. You followed him quickly, approaching the back of the house, staring up at the second story window that Grace Dover had said that had been opened the other night. Loki looked around before jumping the chain-link fence, crouching down under the window, looking for footprints or anything disturbed. He takes a pen out of his front coat pocket, balancing it in his fingers as he reaches into the bushes, pulling out a pink sock teetering on the pen. The same sock Keller positively I.D.’d as Anna’s.

You were out of breath as you ran to the car for an evidence bag, your body too tired for the physical exertion. As you reach inside the glove compartment, your phone buzzes in your pocket. Answering it, your stomach dropped as Detective Chemelinski’s voice spoke in your ear. Joy Birch had been found.

The hospital was cold as you entered, a chill running through your body, but not from the chill of the air. You hated hospitals. The elevator dings as you and Loki arrived the pediatric ward, doors sliding open and you wanted to puke, your throat raw and scratchy. It looked the exact same as it did when your little girl died here, same beige paint on the walls, the same as the rest of the hospital, only difference being the sickly bright yellow sun painted on the walls. The smell of antiseptic burned your nose, the fluorescent lights already starting a headache to pound in your skull. You pushed your emotions down as Loki exited the elevator, you trailing after him through the halls.

“I said nobody’s allowed in that room but her family.” Loki barked orders to officers as you rounded the corner. Keller Dover came into view, David yelling out for him as he took off down the hall away from you. “Where you goin’?

You stopped in front of Grace, “Where is he going?” She only shook her head, she had no idea. You took off running, multiple officers trailing you as bystanders stared at the scene unfolding in front of them.

You and Loki took off down the hall after him, telling officers to not let him go. Bolting outside you see Keller’s truck slam over the parking lot median and on the highway, speeding down it. Loki and you turn back, sprinting for the car to follow him, your breaths coming out in clouds in front of you in the cold air.

The tires screeched as Loki sped through the wet pavement of the parking lot; Loki pulled onto the highway, muttering to himself, “I got you now, fucker. I know where you’re goin’.”

The car pulled aggressively into the driveway of the old apartment building, Keller’s truck nowhere to be found. Loki slammed his hand down onto the steering wheel, “Fuck!” You jumped slightly at his outburst, adrenaline pumping through your views despite the feeling of pain in your entire body. He exited the car quickly, you following, your boots splashing through the muddy puddles as you advanced toward the boarded up building slowly.

Above you, you could hear muffled screams, you and Loki reach for your guns as you near the door. Loki kicks the door open with a bang, entering the building with his gun drawn. Your heart was in your throat as you crept through the first floor, heading up the stairs towards the sound of muffles screams and banging. Your pulse was racing and your vision was blurry, exhaustion nipping at your heels every step you took, threatening to take you down.

The screaming got louder as you got to the top of the stairs, wailing piercing the air. Your boots creak along the floorboards, you approach the room the screaming is coming from and the air escapes your lungs.

You see a boarded up area, the boards vibrated as whoever was behind it banged against it. You stood back, letting Loki enter as you reached for your radio and called for backup. Loki pries at the wood, it doesn’t budge at all, mocking you. The wailing continues, Loki calls out to the person, telling them to hold on. You clip your radio back onto your jeans and turn to look for anything to pry off the wood, not wanting to waste time by running back down to the car.

You see a crowbar lying against a wall, and you thank god as you grab it, the metal heavy in your hand. Loki grabs the crowbar from you and begins to work his way through the wood. The minutes seem to drag by, each second longer than the last.

“Hey, just hold on for us in there okay?” You talk through the wall as Loki finally gets the panel off revealing a sight that shook you to your core.

Alex Jones. Badly burned, bruised, bloody and beaten. He looked terrified, eyes wild with panic, whimpering in pain as he coward away from your gawking stares.

You stood next to Loki as Alex was taken away by EMS, O’Malley stood in front of you, “Someone needs to notify the aunt and we need to get an idea of where Keller is.”

You spoke up next to Loki, “I’ll tell the aunt.” Loki looked at you with a confused expression as O’Mallley nodded and walked away.

“I want to be the one to tell her, I’ll be fine, Loke.” You could tell by his expression that he was unsure about you going alone.

“Babe, if this is some karma thing for her-” It wasn’t. At least you didn’t think it was. Your little girl couldn’t be saved. You accepted that fact even if it tore your heart apart, forcing you to move on.

You interrupted Loki, not allowing him to finish his sentence, “Don’t. It’s not. Find Keller, I’ll tell Holly. I'll text you, alright?”

Loki nodded curtly as he handed you the car keys, he’d get a car from the station, an uneasy look spread across his face. He didn’t have a good feeling about letting you go alone, but he knew better than to hold you back from doing your job.

Little did he know that he would regret letting you go in alone more than words could describe.

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mariamermaid · 3 years

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Best Fake Smile

Neville Longbottom x fem!Slytherin Reader

Summary: After yet another set of detention, you come face to face with the shy Gryffindor student Neville Longbottom. But as you are doomed to clean the pots for the herb class, Neville catches you off guard…

Words: 2.2k

A/N: slightly inspired by the song “best fake smile” from James Bay

Warnings: mentions of alcohol

Staring blankly at McGonagall’s long and stern face, you bit down on your lip. Maybe putting a hex on a student, a class above you wasn´t the smartest move.

The old witch shook her head, realizing you were barely listening anyway.

“Mrs. Y/L/N, you´re going to help Professor Sprout with cleaning up the pots for the coming classes, I don´t have time to bother giving attention to you yet again.”

Her harsh words drew you back into the present and slightly taken back, you nod without another word. There was no use in dispute.

Friday night, and you were spending it cleaning dirt off pots while your friends enjoyed their evening at Hogsmead. You huffed annoyed at yourself as you drifted to the greenhouses. At least you wouldn´t miss the Slytherin Quidditch game tomorrow and as a fellow Slytherin student, you hoped for a victory. Mostly because the parties afterwards were known to be legendary and drowning some of your thoughts in fire whiskey seemed all too welcoming right now.

To your surprise, the light in the greenhouse was still on and you caught a glance of a certain Gryffindor student.

“Longbottom”, your voice cut like glass through the air and Neville jerked, his head turning towards you.

“What did you do to end up here?” You asked further strolling through the rows of plants until reaching the pile of pots, where Neville already stood. The change in his appearance was hard to miss, even for you. Once crooked teeth and slacking posture had disappeared from the Gryffindor boy, he was also taller than you for the first time. Unlike other Slytherin students, Draco for example, you found no interest in the bickering with other students just for the sake of it. It was the reason why you had practically nothing to do with Neville, he was off your grid.

Even though his grown attractiveness was admiring, he seemed nervous around you.

Truth was, he didn´t do anything. Neville had chosen this task out of his love towards plants, not as a punishment. But he didn´t have the guts in telling you so. Instead, he shrugged, avoiding your glance again and continued cleaning.

“Missed curfew”, he lied. You nodded while raising your eyebrow.

You were known to get detention for causing much bigger troubles; hexing students classes above you, as well as relief teachers, missing curfews, sneaking out, spiking punch, prank wars with the Weasley twins and sometimes getting caught making out after Slytherin´s victory parties.

“Let´s get it over with, hm?” You sighed and grabbed something to help clean as well.

For several minutes you both stayed quiet, focusing on dividing the work.

Just as you were to grab another pot, Neville reached for it as well. His hand brushed against yours, warm and earthy, but quickly pulled back. The pot fell down to the floor and the crashing pieces made you wince.

“Sorry”, you both apologized at the same time, while leaning down to get the broken pieces.

“Don´t be sorry, it was my fault really”, Neville admitted hastily and you couldn´t help but stare at him.

“Such a gentlemen”, you muttered and Neville´s eyes lurked up to you. For once, he didn´t overthink and his tongue was quick to answer.

“Probably not used to it after Zabini.”

A huff escaped your lips. You hadn´t expected for him to drop a comment like this. But you found interest in Neville´s new, more daring side.

“Excuse you?”

Neville, instantly regretting his words, shrugged reluctant. “It´s just talk.”

“Talk? From who?” Your words were firm, Neville had taken a direction without being able to reverse.

“Just rumors going around, thought you and him are a thing.”

You growled, rolling your eyes and as much as Neville was scared, he was also curious in your answer.

“I don´t know what kind of dung brains tell you stories like that, but Blaise and I aren´t a thing! If you run across the person telling false rumors, you can tell me their names!”

You were clearly angry, but also a flustered. Neville watched your reaction closely, as he did so often in your shared classes. Truth was; he was head over heels in love with you. However, until this fateful evening, he never even thought in approaching you.

“Just because we made out once or twice, by Merlin´s beard!”

His heart sunk from his head into his stomach and he felt his shoulders dropping. But he kept going in order to save himself from any embarrassments. “So, he´s not my boyfriend?”

You let out a laugh and Neville listened to the light sound of your voice. You didn´t laugh much, at least not in class. You grinned or snickered when you whispered with Pansy, but never an honest laugh. It made you seem way less intimidating, at least in Neville´s opinion.

“Blaise my boyfriend? Never. Just because they won at a Quidditch game and I had too much punch. He´s all bark no bite. What about you though?”

He was caught off guard by your question, which made you chuckle softly. “Me?”

“Yes, you Mister I had a glow-up over the summer holidays!”

He blushed, had you just complimented him? Awkwardly, he scratched the back of his neck, making you take notice of his strengthened arms and broader shoulders.

“Didn´t you dance with Ginny Weasley at the Yule ball?”

“The yule ball is long gone.” He explained and you nodded understanding.

“But as if your Gryffindor girls didn´t notice your change in appearance?” You asked lurking while leaning over the table. Neville shrugged. Yes, he had comments, but no girl had ever approached him. It was something he could only dream of. He might have changed on the outside, but on his inside, he still felt like the slender boy.

“Maybe you should ask someone out!” You exclaimed instead and his eyes traveled from the table filled with dirt and old roots, to your eyes. Your grin slightly dropped as he continued to stare at you directly and breathing calmly, until his gaze wandered to your lips.

Tilting your head ever so slightly to the side, your playful grin returned. What was happening?

“What makes you think I´d go out with you?”

It took all of his and Merlin´s bravery to answer as confidently as possible, while leaning forward as well.

“Maybe you´d enjoy not having to carry your act and not wearing that fake smile of yours.”

The corners of your mouth dropped immediately.

You liked to play, but there were these moments, standing still between time and reality, where you felt a hole in your heart.

Lonely, you felt lonely more often than anyone could´ve imagine, but no one ever seemed to care enough. Meaningless make out sessions only filled that void for short periods of time.

Your expression hardened and you pulled back, your hands hugging your side. The feeling of someone getting so close and personal felt new and you didn´t like vulnerability.

Slytherin, pure-blooded with a rich family; you were raised to act strong and independent, at the same time upstage. Your family was picture perfect in that very sense, but you craved the feeling of warmth and safety.

“What makes you think I´m faking?”

It was Neville´s time to chuckle, it was so absurdly easy to tell for him.

“Why should I tell you their names?” He asked instead, but your back was still facing his direction.

“Why does the cold-hearted Slytherin girl even care? No, you don't have to wear your best fake smile. Not with me. It´s just me after all.”

Silence settled, you felt your heavy breathing and the burning inside your stomach. The worst of all? Neville was right. And even though, he barely knew you, he could see behind the façade. Bitter taste spread in your mouth, slowly running down your throat into your stomach.

“I´m sorry, I had no right to say that.”

You spun around, facing the tall brown-haired boy again. He saw your teary eyes and your shivering body. He had struck a delicate chord, that he didn´t know the existence of.

Yet, you weren´t able to form any words. Neville cleared his throat, taking off the gloves and making his way towards the door.

“I think, you might need some time for yourself.”

You wanted to protest, stepping closer to him.

“You can´t leave me, what about our punishment?”

Neville let out another soft chuckle. “You´re here for punishment, I´m here because I wanted to help.”

Then he left you standing in the dim light of the green house, darkness surrounding the garden area for the herb class. You felt as the night crawled into the space and further in, right into your body.

You couldn´t sleep that night after finishing your chores. Your mind was running crazy; Neville Longbottom was right and you both knew it.

After endless turning in your bed, you got up with the first ray of sunshine on the next Saturday morning. As hard as the nightly events had been on your mind, you had come to terms with them.

You were so done; you didn´t and couldn´t care anymore.

There was only one thing left, that you hadn´t quiet figured out.

Why by Merlin’s beard, did a certain, shy Gryffindor boy not leave your mind. You remembered how Neville had left the greenhouse the night before; well, he did rather stroll.

The pure thought of it made heat rise to your cheeks and your stomach tumbling.

Was this boy, who had never stood out in a crowd due to his insecure posture and his crooked teeth, suddenly winning your cold, Slytherin heart?

No you don't have to wear your best fake smile

Don't have to stand there and burn inside

Your steps hurried through the great hall, but instead you found yourself at the Gryffindor table right in front of none other than Hermione Granger. Even at this early hour, she was leaning over a pile of papers and books. Surprised and confused, she looked up to you. Besides some minor contentions, which were mostly related to house pride, the two of you never much more to exchange views. Hermione had sorted you, just like most of the students, as an ambitious Slytherin girl with a reputation, to have a liking in playing with fire. But unlike other classmates in green uniforms, you never said a word about families with other bloodlines.

“Do you know where Neville is?”

Her mouth gaped a little open, completely confused by your statement.

“Neville? Neville Longbottom?”

You rolled your eyes. “Yes.”

“Why do you want to know?”

Your jaw tightened, the talk and gossip was inevitable anyways and just like Neville had stated; Why does the cold-hearted Slytherin girl even care?

“I want to ask him out.”

If Hermione’s mouth was open before, her jaw basically dropped to the floor. She always knew the right, and considerable fitting words, but she was speechless now.

“He likes to take morning walks around the lake”, she mumbled.

“Thank you.” You nodded appreciating, before leaving her again.

The morning was cold and fresh wind hollered around the towers of the school. It was easy to find his tall figure, he was the only one walking at the lake. When he caught eye of your approaching, he couldn´t help but smile a little as his heartbeat quickened. Even with your messy hair and tired eyes, clearly your conversation yesterday had led to some sleep loss, you looked stunning to him.

A few feet in front of him, you stopped abruptly.

“Hi!”

Good job Y/n, very creative, you thought to yourself. Had he always been this tall? You wondered as you had to stare up a little. And his eyes, did you never notice his calm and kind eyes?!

“Hi?”

“I-“, you took a deep breath, then you continued. “I thought about what you said and you were right. I shouldn´t care, because it doesn´t make me happy.”

Neville nodded understanding, he appeared a little aloof. “I´m glad I could help.”

In the daylight, things were differently. His bravery to speak out his mind was gone, he had remembered who you are, and who he was. It all felt like a far dream to him. He wanted to keep walking, save himself the blushes and humiliation. But you were a true Slytherin, determined to keep going.

“Do you want to go out on a date with me?” You asked, practically yelling to stop him from leaving and Neville stopped in his tracks, slowly turning back to you. His face had softened, the same kind expression from the night before.

She used to put it out and get it all back

But now she's slipping trying to carry the act

She's sweating under the lights, now she's beginning to crack

“I don´t want to wear my fake smile and I think you´re cute and funny, maybe I can genuinely smile for once.”

Neville smiled from ear to ear, as he stepped closer to you, carefully taking your hands in his. There were warm and slightly rough from the garden work.

“It would be my pleasure to go out with you and maybe make you laugh a little.”

Now, finally, your lips grew into a smile as well and Neville´s hand placed a strand of hair back behind your ear.

“It truly suits you.”

#neville longbottom imagine #neville longbottom x reader #neville longbottom fanfiction #neville longbottom #matthew lewis #harry potter imagine #mariamermaidimagine

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panlight · 4 years

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submission

I wish we had more of the human Edward in Midnight Sun, instead there were little flashbacks, which I liked a lot, from the beginning of his vampire life with Carlisle and these I also caught myself wishing they would be more recurring and longer during the narrative. I understand that according to Meyer’s world building, vampires tend to remember very little of human memories, but Edward is built to mourn these losses, his sins, the eternal question “what if…? He is Hades (I’m rolling my eyes with this comparison, but it’s in the book), the god renegade by his brother (in this case his adoptive father, Carlisle) living and reigning over the dead forever, with no choice. Wouldn’t it be a rule that he was one of the most attached to his old life? That he struggled to keep the memory of his mother Elizabeth, to whom he was closest, alive in his mind? That he always took care of his properties? And this I’m just imagining: the house, the law office of his late and distant father, the cars and the furniture. The only mentions we have about her possessions during the saga are about the jewels and these are only used for Bella to live the cliché of having an old engagement ring, a family relic and nothing else. She didn’t even bother to honor her mother-in-law by putting her name on Renesmee, despite wearing her ring. In fact, it is described that Edward came from a wealthy family, it would also be normal for him to keep portraits of his relatives. He must have some picture of his human self with the family somewhere, no? Old newspapers kept that reported about the war, his ambition at the time. And diaries! It was common in those days to keep diaries, his parents certainly did. Stephenie Meyer, are you really denying me the pleasure of having this vampire boy, tortured by his monstrosity and said like mommy’s boy, reading and regretting the blurry pages of ink that his devoted mother used to write her thoughts, emotions and memories of her family life in the Edwardian era? What could she have recorded? The advances on the piano that her little prodigy made over time, her favorite toys, the games they played together, her first words, her recitals, development of reading and hobbies, her religion? By God, mainly, his religion! Where does this fervent idea of Edward’s that he is condemned to hell come from? Was religious interest born alone or was it stimulated by others when human? Was it Elizabeth who instructed him in religious terms? Did she know anything about vampires or did she think they were just scary stories? Anyway, I just wanted more of him as a character.

We only know Edward from two perspectives: the monster he believes to be and the perfection idealized by Bella, two extremes. The narrative leads us to believe that there is no more powerful love than these two teenagers feel for each other, but it also shows us, intentionally, that Isabella Swan doesn’t care to show the slightest interest in human Edward. Until the scene of the conversation with Carlisle in New Moon, a few months after the beginning of her courtship, she didn’t even know what the color of Cullen’s human eyes had been like and didn’t mention any time, if I’m remembering well, when would be his birthday. Her focus of interest is totally on her post-human life. Where are the insignificant questions, but makes us empathize with the character? I mean, Edward will always be stuck at his 17 years. His life as a human has shaped him to be what he is today. Did he have or wish to have any pets? Did he have any allergies? Did he like his tutors? Did he attend a private school, no? What was it like? The human mind is not an encyclopedia like that of vampires, so what subjects did he like and dislike? What moments of his life marked him the most? Did he always compose or did he become more confident with the passing of his vampire life? Where are the imperfections that make us human? Did he have scars, bruises? Was he an athletic boy and well disposed to sporting activities or in poor health? Was he easily ill? He was the fastest vampire. Did he like to run? What did he want to achieve with the war? Just the glory? The pride of his parents? Personal satisfaction for fighting for a cause he believed in? His mother was not so inclined to accept his life as a soldier, but what about his father? Did he encourage it? What about your friends? Did Edward have friends as a human? He is said to be the kindest and brightest of all the Cullens, but what did he do to deserve such a great distinction? Did he show more interest in the afflictions and thoughts of those around him when human? Did it qualify him as a sensitive boy? What kindnesses was he used to do? He always wanted Bella to make the most of human life, but why he didn’t care to show what he was like when vampirism destroyed everything? We could have Bella visiting Chicago, his old house. What a drama that would be! Instead we had long pages of a weird Edward who enters her room without her permission or knowledge. Stephenie can write whatever she wants, but I refuse to believe that the son of Elizabeth Masen, a woman I believe is a lady of high society who values etiquette and old habits above all, would have raised a son who did not respect the privacy of a woman, especially a beloved, because her Edward is a gentleman, after all. I don’t know, but it seems that Meyer, through Bella, is more interested in building him the basis of the epitome of perfection that vampirism has made him than he should really be as a human, with only a few more accentuated characteristics. I just want to know more about Edward before being Edward Cullen. Seven hundred and a few pages and Edward Masen rarely came to the surface of them. What do you think about that? Do you find it interesting that human memories tend to fail and disappear over time for vampires? Because forgetting what makes you what you are must be scary, it reminds a lot of Alzheimer. Or do you think it’s just an excuse to not develop their human part anymore? Because one of the most recurrent criticisms of books is that Meyer sinned in character building, Bella practically didn’t exist before arriving at Forks in Twilight (2005), many pieces of her life and tastes were missing, which she tries to patch up in Midnight Sun. I’m sorry if the text got confused to understand.

I too think it’s sad that Bella didn’t ask more questions about Edward’s human life, or really any of their humans lives. I think SM is also a bit inconsistent with how much it “fades” or not. It’s sort of implied that if you try to hold on to it, you can keep it to some degree. Rosalie, for example, has held on to her human memories so tightly. (It seems to me if vampires never forget anything, if they think about their human memories in their early days, before it fades, then they will have those memories forever, right? They might be imperfect or fuzzy but they’re there).

And I’m really curious about his religious upbringing, too. His obsession with being damned and doomed doesn’t sound like 1918 Chicago theology but something older. I suppose it could be influenced by hearing Carlisle’s thoughts, since he IS from the older, fire-and-brimstone, most-people-are-damned era, but Carlisle himself is more hopeful, hoping (foolishly perhaps) they might get some measure of credit for trying. Sometimes I think Edward would have been more coherent as a character if he came from an older time period. 1918 is not THAT long ago but SM writes him, at times, as if he were hundreds of years old.

#submission

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watarigarasu · 4 years

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October 23rd – Monster

13 Days of Spooky Writing Event

Pairing: Thranduil x Reader

Word count: 1,896

Warnings: Big sad, much emotion.

Author’s note: I really love Thranduil, okay?

During many years of your lone journey through the Middle Earth, you have heard many words describing the King of Mirkwood. Some of them revealed the hidden fear of the Elvenking, some included fascination and some said that he did not even exist in the first place, that he was a made up story for children, just like his whole kingdom. However, there was one term you could not so quickly forget, the one engraved in your memory for some peculiar reason—the one you repeated to yourself while crossing the borders of Mirkwood, wary of what you might encounter.

The rumour that the Elvenking was a heartless monster.

You were familiar with the infamous stories on how he paid no mind to those in need, how little did their lives mean to him, how his egoistic nature caused him to fight for what he believed was right only, how selfish was his attitude and how he considered his kin as above everyone else. Perhaps you would eventually believe in them all if you did not know better than to listen every rumour you hear along the way. Words spread faster than a diseases, every next one changed a little by the mouth they were spoken from and so, you wondered how much of a truth they actually contained.

Contrary to what you imagined to see, the Elvenking did not resemble any kind of monster in the slightest. His grace and pride was undeniable, his beauty outstanding and his voice deeply serene. The weight of his gaze upon you seemed to be enough to crash you to the ground but instead of that, you were invited to the feast as a guest. A storyteller, the one who could share the most recent news about the world outside of the kingdom.

He did not act like a monster when he shared his people’s food and wine with you, neither did he act like one when he was listening to you talking, lazy sight carefully picking out every single detail of your appearance. Firen was the only way he addressed you endlessly, no matter how many opportunities you took to remind him your real name.

You have lost the track of time soon after arriving to Mirkwood, all days melting together like one, the kingdom surrounding you so magical that you forgot about all the evil creeping outside. There was no flesh eating creatures under the magnificent roof with countless waterfalls flowing down the halls. There was no fear between the ancient pages of the books you were eventually allowed to look at. There was no tears during the evening feasts in the forests. There was no pain in dancing all night long in the pale starlight.

There was only calmness filling your soul, the steady rhythm of your beating heart and the utter peace of your soul where apparently nothing bad could reach you. Walking in a dream, you found yourself falling in love with the world you did not belong to and to your surprising notice, you could experience all of it simply because the Elvenking—Thranduil, as you learned—allowed you to.

Simply because his heart was not as cold as the rumours claimed it to be.

“Tell me about your ancestors, firen,” he ordered on one particularly warm day, when the first, vivid green leaves were poking their tips out from the thin branches. It was an early morning, the fog still not fading in the sunlight and it was an accident that you stumbled upon each other—the Elvenking attending his usual morning stroll and you, still not going to sleep after a truly interesting lecture you managed to find in the library, written in a language you understood.

“About my family?” you wondered. “With all due respect, I’m not sure if I can interest you with this kind of story, My Lord. They are no royalty.”

“If I wanted to listen about royalty, I would simply take a look upon the letters my father left me.” His voice was haughty yet soft, like a fresh rime. “I was wondering what kind of people could beget a woman willing to travel alone through the foreign lands.”

“Are you thinking about lunatics or heroes?”

He did not smile at your little joke, but something in his expression changed. Perhaps your words did amuse him, which might be the reason why he apparently enjoyed your company, or maybe it was just the small bullfinch sitting on a nearby branch which caught his attention.

“I suppose we are to find out about that,” he barely whispered, not taking his gaze off the bird.

And so, you started talking, carefully choosing what to say next so you would not bore him with this not so exciting story. Living for as long as all Elves did, you would be surprised if he thought of any part of your speech as even remotely interesting. He has seen it all and much more, already, he has witnessed war, loss and love, he had an adult son and once a wife also. Your history, no matter how much could it mean to you, would soon be nothing but a blink of an eye for him, just as fleeting the seasons were.

You were a whisper on the wind, made to be heard by his ear and eventually fade out.

“Give me your hand.” The command caused you to stop talking in a middle of the sentence and look at the Elvenking confused. A quick motion of his arm caused an expensive robes to move gracefully before he showed what he expected from you. “Like that.”

You did as you were told, slowly outstretching your arm and only then noticing how the bullfinch tilted its head to the right and jumped few times on the branch before opening wings and swiftly landing at Thranduil’s open palm. It was a breath-taking view to observe, the trust of the small creature completely unexpected. You stood in the same position, listening as the Elvenking started talking, while gently stroking the bird’s head with his index finger.

“There is beauty in simplicity, something a race of Men often tends to forget about. Ironically, since they are the ones who should cherish it the most, the gentle passing of time. I find your admiration to save as many moments as possible as equally pointless and fascinating. To know that one day your whole existence will turn into ashes brings out the most primal instincts—but only the wise can focus on the beauty of a fleeting moment. A single memory.”

Slowly, he reached to you and you held your breath when the bird cautiously jumped from his hand onto yours, it’s tiny feet gently tickling your skin and the smile appearing on your lips.

“Not many of the race of Men can find a beauty in evanescence.” Thranduil continued, watching you staring at the bullfinch as if it was the first time in your whole life that you experienced such a moment. “It is a rare ability among those who do not feel the impact of time and even rarer in those who are the most prone to it.”

The bird on your hand with its adorably red belly was fascinating enough that you did not notice the way the Elvenking looked at you, aware that he was going to savour this single image in his memory for many, many thousands of years in the future.

Thranduil was not a monster, although he understood why many were ready to address him as such. He was aware of his doings, of his regrets and faults but he also knew how much does it take to carry the weight of the necessity. Men were foolish, easily led by their own emotions which changed as quickly as the wind, and it was their doom they always brought upon themselves. Perspective makes history look different, the deeds appearing in a light nobody would expect them to centuries ago and it was the ability their kind lacked.

How could they possibly understand what was wise and what not, if they never truly lived to face the consequences of their own actions? If they had no idea what would their descendants have to endure?

The human he decided to invite to his kingdom was no less blind than the rest of her kind, nevertheless he found her presence and stories amusing. It was different; her point of view, the news she brought from the lands far on the east, and he found himself roaming through the halls of his kingdom with head full of the images of her face and the sound of her voice. She talked about the beauty of the lake she stayed by one night in a way which made him feel like a fool. As if it was him, who was blind for this whole time and could not see the world in the same way she did.

Ironically, it was his eyes which were used to seeing more, looking through darkness and illusions.

There was a reflection of the setting sun in her eyes when she spoke about it, a picture so clear that he could almost touch it, as if he was witnessing it for the first time in his whole life. There was a melody in her tone when she was repeating the legends she heard along the way and for some reason he grew fond of it, the excitement being something he has forgotten long ago. There were not many things which could still surprise him, after all, there was nothing to look for, nothing to long for.

Except, perhaps, for the gentle softness of her lips when he imagined how would they feel against his. Would it be different and refreshing, just like her stories were? Would he still be able to enjoy it? Would the kiss bring out new palette of unnecessary emotions from her fragile heart?

He was never a monster, he told himself. The real monsters were out there, in the world, ready to slay the weaker, the ones of her kind. He would be selfish if he did not offer his help to those in need, if he did not provide the food supplies and wine for people from the Laketown who needed it the most after the terrifying dragon attack. The great serpent was the worst monster walking upon this lands and suddenly Thranduil felt grudge for everyone who dared to compare him to the vicious beast.

The Elvenking was never heartless, not in the moment when he was trying to protect his people from the mindless slaughter the Dwarves suffered in Erebor dozens of years ago, nor when he was ready to fight until his last breath to reclaim the gems of his wife—the last physical memory of her that he could still own. But especially not when he was kneeling on the cold, hard ground on the battlefield, holding the body of the human storyteller to his chest and listening to the silence where once her heartbeat was, the echo of a sword slicing the air where he was supposed to stand still loud in his mind, just like her desperate scream and a pitiful attempt to shield him.

Thranduil was never a monster but he knew better than anyone that he was, instead, a fool.

#13daysofspookywritingevent #13 days of spooky writing event #thranduil x reader #thranduil #the hobbit

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nutty1005 · 4 years

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Wei Wuxian – An analysis on Xiao Zhan's acting Part 3

Part 1.1 – Wei Wuxian

Part 1.2 – Wei Wuxian

Part 1.3 – Wei Wuxian

Part 2.1 – Yan Bingyun

Part 3.1 – Period Dramas

Part 3.2 – Period Dramas

Original Article: https://www.weibo.com/ttarticle/p/show?id=2309404473348091412589 Original Author: 诗债累累

From Conscious to Subconscious, the Art Behind Crafting a Role

Let us quickly review the previous two articles:

1.1 Grasping the character’s base psychology by understanding the character’s childhood and teenage years.

1.2 Crafting the character’s theatrical actions during the Yiling Patriarch stage, using incite and conflict.

In this article, we will talk about the creation of Wei Wuxian, from the conscious to subconscious.

In Xiao Zhan’s portrayal of Wei Wuxian, his realism blurred the line between role and actor, and caused viewers to believe that he and the character were the same person. In his interviews and events during the publicity period for “The Untamed” in China, audiences were usually struck with the sudden realization that his personality is quite unlike that of Wei Wuxian. This was further amplified when “Jade Dynasty” was released – “Was the actor for Wei Wuxian the same actor who did Zhang Xiaofan?”

Following the timeline of this article, we should be currently at the point of “the invincible Yiling Patriarch” until his eventual death in the Never Night City. Using dramatic action, the incident and conflict came from the changes from war to postwar, i.e. winning was paramount before Sunshot Campaign; distribution of the spoils of war and political maneuvering became the main activity post war.

The changes in situation also created an opposition for Wei Wuxian.

(1) The fear of an uncontrolled power

This could be attributed to the natural instinct of the survival of the fittest. Even if the tiger would not attack you, you would feel threatened by his existence nonetheless, because he could if he wanted. The existence of Wei Wuxian became a threat.

(2) Orthodoxy (path of the sword) and unorthodoxy (path of the spells)

This basically stood for the difference in values, and in this, Wei Wuxian was a heathen. Values were something that meant nothing during times of crisis and war. For example, Lan Xichen said, “He had read all the books in the world to no avail”, or Lan Qiren said, “No eggs are spared in an upturned nest”. However, this would definitely become a problem in peace times.

(3) Wei Wuxian’s pragmatic altruism

This character cannot be bribed or restrained by worldly rules. He would not haggle, nor would he abide by norms. He was not self serving, he did not have any specific desires, maybe with the exception of protecting the Jiang Family.

(4) Breakdown of clan structure, because his existence could not be surpassed

In the Bloodbath of Lotus Pier, a new clan leader rose and joined the ranks of established clan leaders. However, Wei Wuxian became some sort of a special force on his own, an ace, one who could defeat tens of thousands on his own.

(5) The horror of demonic cultivation

This was overlooked in the Sunshot Campaign, but when peace times arrived, for one’s psychological comfort, they would judge those who were demonic-cultivated using their ethical and moral values.

This was the environment in which the character faced, and this environment has a very strong sense of realism. This is a classical trope, for example, under the benevolent ruler, a very strong general might be asked to relinquish his military powers and retire, but under a not-so-benevolent ruler, this general might be killed after completing his conquests.

This realism also stimulated the actor and the audiences. Audiences would have been drawn in and mesmerized by the sense of impeding tragedy and doom.

For the actor, with feedback with partnering actors, the above 5 points of opposition were able to arouse creative intuition. As briefly stated in my previous articles, Xiao Zhan’s handling of direct emotional scenes, i.e. scenes that required a direct reaction without much thought, was still quite halting, as though he would be thinking about his reactions, but for the scenes which required complex emotional outburst, he handled very cleanly.

Xiao Zhan’s understanding of his character during this period could be summarized in the following phrase: “What’s black or white, what’s good or evil?” Note that this refers to this period – this is not a conclusion of the character, just a status of the character. The gist of it was that it was impossible to determine what is right or wrong during such trying times, and hence whatever he did or whichever path he took, would have to answer to himself according to his values and morality. In terms of status, it meant that he would be swinging between black and white, good and evil, and he would only be faithful to his heart based on the current situation.

Xiao Zhan captured this status perfectly and showcased his intelligence as an actor. He did not simply portray this as an antihero, but instead, added layers of tragedy, self-conflict, and selflessness to his character.

During this period, most of Wei Wuxian’s actions should have been thoughtless. Most of his reflections would be related to whether he could have walked a different path from demonic cultivation (he could not), and whether his actions would really bring forth a better world after killing so many people.

This resulted in Wei Wuxian not providing any explanations for this actions, but instead, creating a system of philosophy for himself such that he was able to face his own values and morality. Once this system is not unified, it would break apart, and once it broke apart, it became highly sensitive to him. Xiao Zhan added this layer of fragility and high sensitivity, when Wei Wuxian met Nie Huaisang after his return – he dodged his arm, shrunk away from his touch and went into high alert, which reminded his viewers of his days in the Burial Grounds.

When Lan Wangji told him about how demonic cultivation would harm his spirit and possibly become uncontrollable, his reaction was to rebut, “How would you know the kind of person I am?” and thereafter, comforted by assuring that he would not have any problems.

When Jin Zixun refused to tell him where the remnants of the Wen Family were, he became conceited, his lips curling in a grin, his hands twirling Chen Qing. He almost drew Chen Qing like a weapon, as though he was telling everyone that he was a bomb ready to be set off. And he gave these famous words: “Who dares to stop me? Who can stop me?”

In the Ambush at Qiongqi Path, he was confident at the beginning that he would survive even though there might be traps. However, when Jin Zixuan died, he broke down. His performance showed two points – this was his brother-in-law, and this was his retribution.

At the Battle of Never Night City, Xiao Zhan’s emotions reached his peak, showing extreme arrogance and condescension, and he viewed his existence as an outlook of life and values. He had lost all sense of logic and rational thinking.

When facing Jiang Yanli, his performance became childlike, akin to a child who has made a terrible mistake.

When he jumped off the cliff, he had understood that this was truly his retribution, and his performance showed relief, liberation and atonement. Life was but a tragedy, and only death could put an end to all of this.

The emotions, action and psychological characteristics in all these scenes are connected and highly coherent, and encompasses the phrase: “What’s black or white, what’s good or evil?”. This was a conscious effort leading to the subconscious creation of the character.

Subconscious character creation requires the actor to be able to control and summon his inspiration, and you would need a lot of hard work on the conscious creation in order to do this.

When actors create their characters, knowing how to do so is easier than the action creation – the actor will need to temper his will, and get close to his character, and draw inspiration from the actor’s personal experiences. In order to experience the character, the actor will need to firm up his external actions to allow his audiences to have a fixed impression on the character, and then display the internal fluctuations appropriately. This would enrich the performance and create a drama that would be worth watching again and again.

With a complex character such as Wei Wuxian, Xiao Zhan has stepped into the school of acting through his painstaking hard work.

Author’s Note

With this, I end my analysis of the character, Wei Wuxian, because the scenes thereafter would be his reconciliation with himself, and would create repetitive analysis.

I would slowly edit and supplement this article, but there would be limits to this. This article was meant to create some food for thought, and I welcome friends to add pictures or videos to support this series of articles.

Upcoming would be an article on Yan Bingyun.

#xiao zhan #sean xiao #xiaozhan #肖战

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davidmann95 · 4 years

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All-Star Superman #2

A scant year to the day since part 1!

All evidence to the contrary I actually have always wanted to go back to this, especially since I keep getting asked if I’ll do so and it stirs my omnipresent sense of guilt over my lack of productivity, and also the last year has not resulted in a mass turnaround of people realizing it’s a for-real good book and not just comfort food so this remains necessary. This isn’t going to be quite as in-depth as the first go-around - both that as the introductory issue and that as the introductory recap had a lot of groundwork to lay - but still plenty to cover, as this issue sets up Lois and Superman’s arcs for the series, which is rooted (amazingly, especially right off the bat, given the book’s reputation of being about how amazing Superman is) in how badly Superman’s let his fears and shortsightedness poison the most important relationship in his life.

If the first issue is the big classic Superman material - Superman saving the day from the monster! Lois and Clark and the rest of the Daily Planet crew! Lex Luthor’s sinister schemes! A ticking clock to doom! - this scales all the way down to the uncomfortably, stiflingly intimate. Classic archetypal Superman stuff gives way to the most Silver Age issue: casual huge ideas, relationship drama, misunderstandings, last-minute reveals that recontextualize the entire issue, and baaaarely latent psychodrama bubbling up at the edges. In service of that the visual framing here is not unlike a stage play, a limited set of physically connected locales as a pair of figures bounce off one another. Quitely and Grant’s work is therefore comparatively subdued next to issue #1, keeping to traditional panel layouts and wide or medium shots with a background color palate of mostly blacks and whites and grays with a handful of other colors popping out...until Lois starts to lose her shit at the end of the issue and we get close-ups and full black and white panels and eerie glowing and dutch angles and that unsettling abstract image of her clenched teeth, as the story starts to squeeze us like Lois’s gut.

She’s right to be unsettled for that matter; she’s alone on Superman’s turf (the one issue where that’s the case other than #6, and that one’s about how Smallville stopped being his home), the weird antiseptic alien lair of the ultimate super-hobbyist, and all the baggage of their relationship is spilling out into the open as she has less and less reason to think the best of this odd man who’s been lying to her for years. Unlike the Silver Age tales this is referencing, she’s absolutely on the money with her complaints about him: he’s been dicking around with her forever and thinks it can all be okay now (His little “What?” on the second page when she bursts his bubble says it all), and he’s awkwardly overcompensating trying to fix it.

While the Fortress tour serves to peacefully acclimate us to how utterly bizarre Superman’s world really gets past the traditional rescues (the little cubic starfield we don’t know the meaning of yet, trophies are floating rather than physically suspended, the glowing flowers in Lois’s room, “The Phantom Zone map room’s pretty dull unless you can see radio-negative anti-waves”), Superman himself is...humblebragging isn’t the right way of putting it, but it feels like he’s working way, way harder than he ever will again in this book to be cool and impressive and assuring. He’s a dope in love, but he can tell something’s up and that super-brain of his isn’t putting the obvious pieces together, or noticing that this is just putting her off further and further until, like Bluebeard’s wife before her, she stumbles through the threshold of the door she was never meant to, even of course in the end he’s still Superman and there’s a perfectly good reason. Not a good enough reason, however, for her accusations at dinner to not hit home - his mind may be expanding, but he’s still way up his own ass here in a genuinely unpleasant way that’ll be elaborated on momentarily. For now he’s left stammering that she should trust him and it’s limp and phony, especially compared to his big entreaty for someone to trust him in #10 (which’ll be right after he finally comes clean with her); while Superman may not be considered a savior figure by his friends in here the way he often is in the mainline comics Lois seems to be the only one who doesn’t look up to him at least a little bit, but that clarity means she’ll call him out where no one else will.

Across the next two pages it’s all laid out, and we get to the roots of where things have gone wrong between the two of them. Lois is paranoid, certainly, the panels are literally squeezing in on her, but with Superman seeming so out-there and alien like never before she would have every right to be even sans alien chemicals. But notably there remains throughout a part of her assuming the best of him wondering if maybe this is just another big misunderstanding or that he’s simply been mutated by the solar overexposure. And in her heart of hearts, she admits that maybe she wants this to be another big damn trick with a completely sensible justification, because the alternative is that this is the new normal and she has to accept that he’s a flawed mortal man. It’s ugly and it’s mean - especially since she likes Clark - and it’s human as hell in the worst, most understandable way. It’s not going to be until said mortality is staring her in the face that she’ll be able to accept it.

Superman, meanwhile...someone could write a thesis on these panels as an articulation of the Superman/Clark dynamic. The Mirror of Truth is actually preexisting, centerpiece of a Jerry Siegel/Curt Swan joint in Action Comics #269 that was later adapted into the Superman newspaper strip where Lois uses it to figure out Superman is Clark Kent until he tricks her into believing the mirror can lie, after which he tosses it in a volcano; here it’s survived, and curiously shows him as Superman rather than Clark, when in the original tale it displayed Kent even though that was fully the era of Clark as a disguise. In here too it’s Superman who’s the ‘true’ identity of the two and which this time is reflected in the mirror, yet as in #1 it’s Clark who says what he’s truly feeling. In that light, the final panel of the abandoned glasses reads like nothing so much as Superman using the mirror as affirmation that the truth of the solemn, steadfast Superman identity gives him licence to deny the uncomfortable emotions his squishy human farmboy side is dredging up, ‘lying’ to him in a way he had to fake in the source material. Those emotions however knock right on the door of what he can’t grasp here: Clark’s so wrapped up in his own head trying to do the ‘right’ thing that he’s overlooking how his attempts at self-sacrificing selflessness are hurting the people around him. Throughout the series he’ll come to rely on others, first at his lowest points with Jimmy and the Bizarros, until at last he comes to invest true trust in Lois, and the Kandorians, and Leo Quintum, and even Lex.

For now though Lois is deep in a hole, a brief but memorable meeting with the Unknown Superman of 4500AD - everything Superman seems to be becoming to her even before she wonders if it’s literally him, cryptic and masked and with a big ‘ol question mark right on his chest instead of the familiar comforting logo, even his gutbuster of a question reinforcing his distance from a recognizable human experience - leading her all the way to reimagining her Silver Age ideal happy ending of marriage and family with Superman as a Cronenbergian horror. It’s still a Superman story, it turns out he had the very best reason possible for wanting to keep her in the dark, but right through to the end he remains just a little condescending in his reassurance, and his gift of essentially bringing her up to his ‘level’ isn’t going to solve the problem. While the next issue lets us see the two of them properly in love, it won’t be until the elephant in the room comes out that they can come to terms.

Additional notes

* God Quitely is so good. Look at the way the seatbelt curves in the first panel! Lois’s bemused little disbelieving smirk!

* Pages 2-3: Aurora Borealis?!

* Lois is the only character other than Superman who gets to have actual narration (in both cases as looks at their in-text writing), the only one whose viewpoint is thus privileged in the same way as his.

* The key is the realization of this series’ aesthetic in a nutshell: the old-school idea in a sleek, shiny, clever new way that doesn’t take away from the fantastical toyeticness of it all. For that matter, the key is the centerpiece of a later bit with Superman that could be fairly described as the long-term goal of the book book as Morrison’s hoped-for perennial: “One day some future man or woman will open that door, with that key. When they do, I want them to know how it felt to live at the dawn of the age of superheroes.”

* This is A. The first note of a larger DC universe existing offscreen, something that I’ll go into more when discussing #8, B. A brilliant, concise, fun little summation of his place in Superman’s world, and C. Absolutely hilarious given Morrison suggested in his exit interview that this could be seen as much later on in the same universe as All-Star Batman & Robin The Boy Wonder, which entirely rewrites the tone of that moment.

* Already discussed the key but the muscles in Superman’s hand tensing a bit at picking it up is another great detail.

* The glimpse of the Fortress here is excellent: the statues of his friends and enemies instead of pictures because he does things bigger with the yellow electric something crackling at the end of it, the off-model but curious-looking robot appearing to glance at Kandor (are it and the bigger robot with the seats on top of it trophies, or Superman Robots with different designs tasked for specific purposes?), the classic Bad Penny Good For One Crime, the Legion time bubble that establishes his time-traveling credentials for later, the Titanic where he and Lois will dine when their relationship hits a proverbial iceberg, and most strikingly the space shuttle Columbia, his apparent rescue of which I have to imagine is a reference to Astro City’s Superman analogue Samaritan debuting by averting the Challenger disaster.

* It’s next issue that has my actual favorite Superman/Lois moment of all time, but “When we’re married fifteen years, when I’m sagging and he looks just the same, will he still meet me and say things like...” “These are for you. I picked them on Alpha Centauri 4.” is right up there.

* The technological aesthetic of the Fortress is so different than P.R.O.J.E.C.T., sleek and solid and cleanly-lit and antiseptic, beautiful and advanced but a little cold in its own way. As stuffed with wonder as this place may be, there’s something hauntingly empty about it, suiting both the tone of the issue and as a physical embodiment of Superman’s emotional state. The one part that goes against it is the forbidden room, it even has beakers and test tubes to sell the mad scientist vibe...though if you were to stretch it, it much more close resembles the human technology seen at P.R.O.J.E.C.T., and this is meant as a gift for one.

* The cosmic anvil made it along with the key into the CWverse, Lois used it in Elseworlds! I may not be expecting All-Star quality from the upcoming Superman and Lois, but it’s good to know the powers that be are using it as a reference point (beyond how it inspired Supergirl’s take on Cat Grant, a connection I discussed in a post that seems to have vanished into thin air). The whole page is perfect, Superman at his most joyfully benign and beautiful and godlike; it’s the one bit where Lois’s skepticism cracks a touch watching him feed his adorable little Lovecraftian abomination from beyond the stars.

* While he never appears physically aside from a statue Brainiac hovers over this series from beginning to end in name and deed, the ominous ultimate enemy of Superman’s past, the great trial overcome even as the scars forever remain. Morrison mentioned in the exit interview that he didn’t appear in here because he and Quitely already used him as the villain of JLA: Earth 2, but that if he had it would have borrowed Superman: The Animated Series’ take on him as a Kryptonian AI gone rogue. Personally I like his place in here as-is, a little totem parallel to the Justice League references indicating the breadth of Superman’s history between putting on the cape and Luthor’s final scheme.

* A pair of minor notes: Lois points at Superman with the pointy fork when asking him pointed questions, and while it’s not immediately clear on first read she does in fact ask the Unknown Superman exactly 3 questions (“Kal Kent?” “Will Superman and I ever marry and have children?” “What do you mean?”) before he replies with his own, as promised.

* “Oww.” and “Tickles.” literally could not be more perfect Superman moments.

* Worth taking a moment to marvel at just how many future plot elements are seeded here. There’s the obvious bit of Superman thinking about having a partner setting up the next issue, but we also for issue #6 have our first look at Kal Kent and Lois wondering “What if (the Unknown Superman) was really (Superman)?” when Clark will indeed pose as him, for #10 we get our first look at Qwewq, and for #11 not only is the Sun-Eater introduced but so is Robot 7′s malfunction as a result of Luthor’s tampering.

* The structure of the series according to Morrison is a solar cycle, beginning and ending at midday with nightfall in the center. If last issue was the sun at its brightest we begin the descent here, with Superman remaining larger-than-life and ultimately trustworthy but with his classic persona and habits held to an additional, unflattering degree of scrutiny.

#All Star Superman #Superman #Lois Lane #Grant Morrison #Frank Quitely #Jamie Grant #Phil Balsman #Art #Silver Age #Clark Kent #Batman #All Star Batman & Robin the Boy Wonder #Fortress of Solitude #Astro City #DCTV #Brainiac #Opinion #Analysis

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bmoviedragonsreloaded · 4 years

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Review: The Russian Specialist (2005)

"Oh Christ, whoever you are, take whatever you want – I'm going to bed"

SOURCE

When Dolph Lundgren began directing his own vehicles in the mid-2000s, I thought it was a big deal. After Seagal and Van Damme fell short with their own directorial debuts a decade earlier, the Swedish Superman’s more economic outings in the video realm seemed like the stabler path for a western action hero to redefine himself as a filmmaker. I never assumed that Dolph would be our answer to Sammo Hung or Jackie Chan, but I still think that the surest way for the classic style of karate B-movies to survive the future is for the stars of yesterday today to become the filmmakers of tomorrow. Disappointingly, Lundgren’s sophomore outing is indistinguishable from the slew of already-undistinguished movies put out by the Nu Image film studio around this time. Expect cliches and limited action in a drab European setting, with some highlights.

The story: Former special forces agent Nikolai Cherenko (Lundgren) is hired to rescue a young woman (Olivia Lee) from the clutches of the same gangster who killed his family (Ivan Petrushinov).

I need to talk about Lundgren’s effort as a filmmaker before anything else. While his directorial debut (The Defender) happened by accident, The Russian Specialist seems to have been his project from the start. It was the first movie he wrote the story for, and there’s a general feeling of investment here not present in the features he’d recently done. That said, the film looks so very much like countless others the studio was producing that I suspect there was a lot of executive meddling afoot. Lundgren has a fair hand for interesting shots and artful cinematography, but they’re lost amid the cheap overexposure, senseless slow motion, and annoyingly sped-up footage. The Bulgarian shooting locations further stifle the originality, with everything looking colorless and boring. Say what you want about Seagal’s On Deadly Ground and JCVD’s The Quest, but at least they left an immediate impression.

Of course, taking a closer look at what may seem bland and unremarkable to others is what we do here at B-Movie Dragons, and sure enough, there are some things that make this one stand out. The best of these, without a doubt, is the casting of Ben Cross. He plays Nikolai’s contact and de facto partner, and darn if he isn’t better than this movie deserves. Cross is up there with Lance Henriksen and John Rhys-Davies as an actor possessing both talent and prestige yet who never fails to offer his time to smaller productions. You may know him for playing Spock’s father in the Star Trek reboot or starring in the Oscar-winning Chariots of Fire, but he also pops up in trash like Species: The Awakening and the odd Dolph Lundgren actioner. Here, at his best, he’s absolutely hilarious and certainly gets the best lines. (“From one old dog to another – shut the fuck up!” he admonishes a noisy German shepherd.) He’s got surprisingly good chemistry with the monosyllabic Lundgren, giving Nikolai’s stereotypical somberness some contrasted weight. Disappointingly, Cross is about it as far as standout performances go. Even though the cast includes several award-winning Bulgarian actors, these have either too little screentime or insufficient material to be memorable. Comedienne Olivia Lee feels particularly underutilized, her character having very little personality and she even less opportunity to express it. (There is an unintentionally funny moment where Nikolai’s handed a photo of her, and it’s the exact same headshot you can find on her IMDb page to this day.)

The action content is good enough that I’m disappointed there’s not more. It’s a decent mix of shootouts, vehicle stunts, and fighting. Lundgren was apprehensive to commit to hand-to-hand action scenes even before he started directing, and as a result, we only get a single match between him and a henchman in a strip club. It’s not even the lead henchman (Raicho Vasilev) – Ben Cross has to fight him during the climax. There’s a gnarly-looking crash into a fountain during a motorcycle chase, and a couple shootouts feature some well-executed choreography. If there were just a few more scenes like this, I would’ve been more satisfied. It’s understandable that Lundgren wasn’t nearly as flexible to shoot action scenes while he was directing all other scenes across multiple countries, but even the bandaid solution of giving his character a team of four mercenaries doesn’t help because they don’t do anything cool.

I’m not entirely sure what the point of the story is. Nikolai clearly must come to terms with his trauma and Lundgren delivers some respectable nonverbal acting to that end, but we don’t find out too much about his mental state and I’m not even convinced that he establishes genuine relationships with anyone. With the exception of one scene, Olivia Lee’s character is also unable to express her feelings. Ben Cross seemingly overcomes his alcoholism by the end, but I’m not sure how. The general thesis is likewise elusive. Lee’s character is being groomed as a sex slave and sex workers in general are protrayed sympathetically, but I’m not even convinced that the film stands behind the most basic notion of “sex trafficking is bad” because it still indulges in some masturbation fodder within the same context. I’m not saying the story sucks, just that it doesn’t commit to much.

Lundgren’s progress as a filmmaker was halted for a long time after he recaptured some of his old stardom with 2010’s The Expendables, but he seems to be returning to the director’s chair these days. If he remains free from the restrictions that made The Russian Specialist so unremarkable, he may yet become a valuable force in maintaining the gritty, physical style of action we know and love. As for this particular film, it’s probably best viewed as a decent but ultimately elementary exercise in the big guy’s movie-making education. Dolph’s biggest fans shouldn’t be without it, but it’s harder to recommend to more casual action devotees. Martial arts nuts like me shouldn’t even bother.

SOURCE

The Russian Specialist (AKA The Mechanik) (2005) Directed by Dolph Lundgren Written by Bryan Edward Hill (screenplay), Dolph Lundgren (story) Starring Dolph Lundgren, Ben Cross, Ivan Petrushinov (Longing for the Wide, Wide World), Olivia Lee (The Olivia Lee Show) Cool cast: Bulgarian stunt pro Raicho Vasilev (Spartacus) plays the lead henchmen. Action regulars Valeri Yordanov (Death Race 4) and Dejan Angelov (Leatherface) are mercenaries. Pop star Maria Ilieva plays the doomed, sympathetic sex worker Natalya. Second unit director Mark Roper was already a director proper, having helmed video and TV vehicles for Bryan Genesse, Joe Lara and Ralf Moeller. Fight consultant and karate master Barry Evans would henceforth be Dolph Lundgren’s personal choreograher for the next ten years. Content warning: Violence against women, child murder, sex trafficking, sexual assault, drug use, extreme violence and gore, alcoholism Title refers to: Both the title on the DVD case (The Russian Specialist) and the one in the movie (The Mechanik) refer to Dolph Lundgren’s character, who’s both a Russian specialist (i.e. special ops) and a mechanic. Cover accuracy: The classic cover, featuring a shotgun-toting Lundgren standing before the gangsters with Russian architecture in the background, is accurate and to the point. The newer cover with starker contrasts and a close-up of Lundgren is also accurate but conveys a comic book aesthetic that the movie doesn’t have. Number of full-length fight scenes: 2 Copyright Millennium Films / Sony Pictures Home Entertainment

#film review #film criticism #the russian specialist #the mechanik #dolph lundgren #ben cross #ivan petrushinov #olivia lee #action #martial arts

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velvetinewitch · 4 years

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wip reintroduction: painted cards

Vindex is last. Venifica seems to study him before speaking, as if she isn’t quite sure what to say. “You are the page, the innocent one,” she decides. “You lack motivation and feel as if you are going nowhere. Someone has held you back and damaged every attempt you’ve made. You will be best if you give up, but there is another path, more dangerous and heartbreaking, that might lead you to salvation.” Her hand reveals a card at his bicep, tilted at an odd angle, like a kite. The card has an envelope in the center, a wax seal with a strange pattern closing it. Behind the envelope, a leafless, desolate-looking tree stretches its branches up his shoulder and towards his throat. “I trust you to make the right decisions, no matter how much they hurt, because they will be your salvation.” Venifica returns her gaze to Rosai. "You should check your reflection," she advises. "You won't like what you see, but it's important."

Rosai follows her advice, struggling not to trip as she pushes past the door and into the bathroom. She stares in the mirror. Her reflection stares back. The card is perfectly oriented, from her throat’s apple to below her collar bone. There’s a crown in the center, with three jewels across the design. Five lines hang from it, the center one holding a rose. Beneath the lines are two closed eyes. Vines wrap around the card and spread beyond the border, entangling her neck and chest like an overgrown weed. One branch extends just onto her cheek, the leaves small as they die away. She knows that if she were to undress, she’d find them spreading across the rest of her body, overgrown beyond the borders of what she can see. Rosai presses her fingers to the ink and feels the tears strike against them.

The message is clear.

She’s always going to be trapped.

Painted Cards WIP Reintroduction

genre: young adult, fantasy, slice of life, basically a coffee shop trope with just a little law breaking, lgbt+

tropes: found family, enemies to lovers, modern technology and magic, criminals running a coffee shop, every single romantic trope ever but translated into platonic terms, a lot of sarcasm

rep: poc, main m/m and w/w relationship, queer-platonic relationship, aro/ace spec characters, PTSD, Anxiety Disorder, BPD, trans and nb main characters

pov: third-person limited, rotating

synopsis: They don’t talk about the champions in school. They’re related to the goddess, and to tarot cards, and often, they’re Sifgyn, all of which are too close to magic to be taught in the classroom. In the sixties, a teacher was arrested and lost her license for it. That doesn’t mean students haven’t seen pictures. Photographs don’t work on Champions, but artistic renditions have been around since the beginning of time: paintings of a girl with a Queen card on her chest, a tree’s branches born from the border and spreading along her body. A statue of a boy with a Page card reading of golden oceans, water leaking down his legs, a ship tumbling along the waves. Most social medias will take posts with the images down, but that doesn’t spare anyone.

Basil is not supposed to be chosen to be a champion. He’s still in his senior year of high school, working odd jobs to support his mothers, struggling not to fight his therapist, dreaming of days from before the fire. But it’s as if the goddess enjoys spiting him: not only does she choose him, but she announces it in front of an audience. He and the other three champions rush to safety, but the damage is already done. They’re criminals before even getting their high school diplomas, the youngest champions in generations, and the most doomed, thanks to the internet.

It isn’t long before they realize that sitting still, locked inside an apartment building in the city, is getting them nowhere. So Rosai, the Queen, sets up a social media presence and establishes connections. Fierro, the Knight, helps her with statistics. Vindex, the Page, and Basil, the King, clean the coffee shop beneath their apartment up. Venifica, the High Priestess, teaches them to use magic.

In the midst of the coffee shop begins a rebellion. It’s all, of course, an accident.

characters: (king) Basil Roi- he’s grown up in a loving environment, although an incident involving fire has haunted him for years now. he’s quiet and analytical, and not always the best with understanding people. he’s supposed to be their stability, but he’s afraid of letting people down again.

(knight) Fierro Knightly- a genius rescued from a war-torn country only by a scholarship. he lost a part of himself in the escape. now, he hides his insecurities with jokes (as many tend to do), but is unable to support his false confidence with action. someone once said he’d die because of his indecision. (queen) Rosai Reina- the serious, easily angered businesswoman. to escape her past, she tucked away funds and purchased a building she thought her parents would never suspect her of buying. the queen is supposed to be loving and nurturing, but she is afraid of the idea of beauty and family. (page) Vindex Insons- the sweet, kind, and shy member, someone who’s excitable and naturally makes you want to protect him. he is shiny and naive, but his past is locked away tight, too painful for him to talk about. or so they assume.

(high priestess) Venifica Lusus- the witch/psychic who enjoys the mystery and the crime. she treats this as a game, acting as the all-powerful guide of the champions. when the time comes that her magic fails her, she’s nothing.

other characters: -Jasper: a prince with magenta eyes, in need of a lot of coffee -Siro and Carnen: two witches, rescued from the pyre -Koril: a boy who works at a rip-off Burger King joint (not Burger-King because that doesn’t exist in this world) -Noah: a student questioning their gender, “adopted” by Basil -Kan: a student “adopted” by Fierro after including him in their essay -Indela and Marigale Roi: Basil’s mothers, who run a flower shop

Vindex sets the bottle on the counter of the pharmacy section in the store. Customers are staring at him. There’s a poster on the wall, a sketch of each of the champions, reading, “dangerous criminals, do not interact.” Rosai's lips are curled with a dangerous humor as she tapes an advertisement for Charms and Chocolates directly beside it.

The boy behind the counter swallows, and very nervously asks, “Is that all?”

Vindex nods. Basil stands behind him, his arms crossed threateningly, with a look of disinterest on his features but something sharp in his eyes. Venifica is contemplating which set of vitamins she should get (and lets her magic put the discarded one back for her, openly breaking the law). Fierro is casually sprawled across the waiting seats. He’s sifting through a book on how to effectively murder a person.

Vindex gets his medications.

#i have no idea how to make graphics :)#painted cards #painted cards spoilers #wip intro #wip introduction #well #wip reintroduction #that first excerpt is so long but i couldn't figure out how to cut it down so

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howwelldoyouknowyourmoon · 4 years

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On the Outside Looking In: Growing Up in the Moonies

Flore Singer Aaslid, Ph.D. (2007)

Abstract The author recounts her experiences as a child and young adult in the Unification Church (“the Moonies”). She discusses the enduring sense of not fitting in, which arose from her many years of travelling and being taken care of by people other than her parents (who were usually busy with missionary work) and stigmatized for being an “unblessed” child (not born to Moonie parents). During this prolonged conflict situation she vacillated between trying to “buy it” and rebelling. Leaving the group proved to be difficult because she discovered that she did not fit in “outside” either. Ultimately, however, she left the group permanently and began to build a new life.

____________________________________________

There is a saying that if something doesn’t kill you it will only make you stronger. A spiritual perspective might interpret this statement as meaning that most challenges in life, however unpleasant or inconvenient, are like trials laid out by some Grand Master Plan for the sole purpose of adding some muscle to one’s otherwise weak disposition. Perceived from such a perspective, being raised in an environment such as that of the Moonies is really a blessing in disguise, with a vast array of potentials and possibilities to grow and expand in every conceivable manner. In my case, I can see how the whole experience has toughened me up in many respects. Nevertheless, for me, the most enduring and overwhelming side effect of growing up as a cult kid (having been set apart from society at large and carefully protected in a dogmatic cocoon for most of my formative years) is the relentless, almost haunting, yet mostly exasperating feeling of never quite fitting in—anywhere. I have yet to discover whether this is a blessing or a curse, but it’s probably a little of both.

Like that of many of my peers also raised in “the church,” as we called the whole ordeal, my childhood was somewhat turbulent. From the age of two, I never lived more than two years at a time in any one place. By the time I was eight, I had already lived in four different countries and learned three different languages (two of which, unfortunately, I forgot as I no longer used them). The number of “caretakers” I had during those years is beyond my recollection (probably more than 20 and fewer than 50), for both of my parents were missionaries, busying themselves with the very important task of saving the world. I was a sacrifice for the sake of a greater good, my mother used to tell me. I was put into God’s Hands, and with the help of a lot of faith and a seemingly endless number of dedicated prayers, He would protect me (sort of like paying holy instalments toward some kind of sacred life insurance). This might have worked, for all I know; I was an almost abnormally healthy child, and even today the most serious illness to fall upon me has been the flu and some nasty stomach problems in India.

Still, it is as if all this moving about, learning new languages, making new friends, adapting to different environments, only to be torn away from it all and repeat the process all over again (and again, and again, ad infinitum), somehow turned me into a weird little muddled misfit. I was doomed to feel like a perpetual stranger, forever the foreigner, like some bizarre product of shoddy enculturation, sloppy socialization, or whatever one wishes to call that process through which young children experience a sense of belonging, and identify with their nearest and dearest. I wasn’t, of course, consciously aware of my predicament at such a young age. I just felt exceedingly lonely, and of course being an only child didn’t help matters. Children, as a rule, don’t like to stand out, and lord knows I did my best to fit in. I made friends easily, was unusually outgoing, learned languages and dialects in record time, joined the Girl Scouts, the swim club, the ski club, and even a glee club (chorus). I wore the right clothes and probably liked the right things, but to no avail; that lonely feeling just never left me. And all this, by the way, relates purely to my experiences with the Outside World (that is how we Moonies referred to what other people might perceive as “normal society”). Children growing up in cults, or in any kind of fundamentalist movement for that matter, always get stuck between (at least) two worlds.

Things probably would have been slightly different, although not necessarily better, had I felt some sense of belonging in the Inside World (my own personal term for the Moonies, or “the family,” as we insiders referred to ourselves). This fate was not to be mine, however, for one big reason that I can explain only by examining the Moonie Belief System (B S). This “family” came complete with a set of True Parents (Sun Myung Moon, also founder and self-proclaimed messiah, and his wife) and True Children (their 14 children). All the other members lovingly referred to each other as True Brothers and Sisters to complete the Holy Metaphor, but also, I suspect, to linguistically prevent any kind of sexual activity from occurring between these “Brothers and Sisters.” Premarital sex was regarded as an almost unforgivable mortal sin. Sex was so terrible that any children born from this impure act were blemished forever with the stain of Original Sin, passed on through generations all the way back to when Adam and Eve had premarital sex. This is “the fall” according to the Moonie bible (otherwise known as “The Principle”)—which, incidentally, was Eve’s fault because she had sex with Satan first and then felt guilty because she remembered that it was Adam she was supposed to have sex with, whereby she seduced him, but, alas, too late or too early, or both, and so women became the inferior sex and suffer childbirth and menstruation and all sorts of womanly misfortunes as a consequence of this badly timed and somewhat bungled-up sex act.

To remedy this calamity, all lowly mortals (both men and women) must pay Indemnity. Any kind of personal misfortune could be seen as one form of paying Indemnity, but most members supplemented this payment with additional suffering, just to make sure that Indemnity was indeed being paid. There was fasting (often for [7] days with absolutely no food whatsoever); getting up very early and praying hysterically for days, weeks, or months on end; as well as fundraising (practically all the members fundraised at some point or another; many did nothing but fundraise) and witnessing (getting other unsuspecting outsiders to join the happy family). The only other activity that could remove the stain of Original Sin was The Blessing. Here, several hundred (sometimes several thousand) couples, whom True Father himself picked out from pictures or in a great big gathering called “The Matching,” would all get married at the same time by True Parents, in some very big place, like a football stadium, or Madison Square Garden.

▲ Sun Myung Moon “matching” couples in the 1980s.

Not only the Blessed Couple, but all the future children born from this holy matrimony, would then be freed of Original Sin (which explains why it was so popular; I think the Moonies are even in the Guinness Book of World Records for the biggest mass weddings in history). The offspring of these decontaminated couples were then subsequently called the Blessed Children since these lucky little cherubs were born into the world unblemished and completely free of Original Sin. In all metaphysical respects, as perfect as can be.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on one’s point of view), I was no such child. Born to an unwed mother before she joined the church, I was doomed to carry the burden of Original Sin. I and others like me were continually reminded of this disgraceful state of affairs by simply being given the rather unflattering designation of Unblessed Children [“Jacob children”].

As an Unblessed Child, I was excluded in several different ways: Ritually during Sunday morning prayers (which always took place at the ungodly hour of 5 a.m.), for example, where I was consistently prohibited from saying the Pledge of the Families (not belonging to a Blessed Family myself). Socially, during big Moonie celebrations such as God’s Day, where special seats were always reserved for Blessed Children (I was allowed to sit there on many occasions, but hardly ever without first being solemnly informed that these seats were really for Blessed Children). Then there was the obligatory trip to Korea ( [usually for 40 days, but possibly] lasting several years), which was an absolute must for most Blessed Children, but not for me (although from what I’ve heard, I think I was blessed to have missed it). And of course, as opposed to most of the Blessed Children, I was in no way exempt from the fundraising and witnessing. After all, Indemnity must be paid, and I have many (not so very fond) memories of myself standing on street corners selling flowers with my mother, usually for some worthy “Christian” cause (we hardly ever said it was for the Moonies, unless we happened to be in the mood for some rather unpleasant “persecution,” as we called the stone throwing, name calling, and other mostly verbal abuse).

Understandably, after many years of this kind of treatment, one is always in danger of feeling vaguely inadequate and prone to a slight sense of inferiority with respect to those Holier Than Thou. So, to finally make my point, even in the Inside World, amidst my own True Brothers and Sisters, I felt like an outcast, a recluse, a misfit, and once again, the freak in the group.

Psychologically speaking, there are probably several ways to deal with this type of dilemma. I have ascertained two primary methods: Either you buy the crap (pardon my French), or you don’t. Choosing the first method would have been highly destructive to my fragile psyche. No complex psychological analysis needed here; I simply state what to me seems obvious: believing that one is fundamentally inferior to most of one’s peers, for whatever reason, can dangerously stagnate one’s own personal growth and development. (However, believing that their superiority is due to a somewhat more elaborate mating ritual between their parents than that of one’s own does make it all the more absurd, even though some 50-odd years back, the majority of our God-fearing citizens adopted this view regarding unwed mothers and their “bastard” children. But this just goes to show how cruel and easily duped we humans can be.) Therefore, probably to protect myself and spare myself serious damage in the long run, somewhere in the depths of my psyche (possibly even subconsciously), I decided at a relatively early age that I was surrounded by a group of gibbering morons.

This was, perhaps, not the most sophisticated strategy, but it was effective, and it worked wonders when it came to ignoring and shutting out most of the ranting and raving that appeared to compose the greater part of my conceptual reality tunnel (the Inside World), although, admittedly, many times the two worlds collided. The resulting clash was so straining that I did my best to convince myself that this plump little Korean guy jumping about on a stage, flailing his arms energetically and barking loudly in gibberish (Korean), really was the Messiah, here to save the world and populate the planet with little Blessed Children. Fortunately, this phase was usually fleeting, and then I was back to my familiar miserable, cynical self. Ironically, I strongly believe today that had I been a Blessed Child, this strategy (deciding that I was surrounded by a group of gibbering morons) would have been very difficult to adopt. This is because Blessed Children had, for the most part, been told all their lives how very special, important, and unique they were, sort of like Holy Super Kids. The whole world depended on them, and if there is still widespread misery and suffering today, it is because they haven’t taken their role and mission seriously enough (what a burden, poor kids). Basically, my guess is that it is much harder to disregard and block out positive affirmations that build self-esteem and make one feel like a Very Important Person than it is to ignore a Belief System that ultimately makes one feel like a little piece of poop. In other words, I think I was blessed to have been unblessed (life is funny that way).

Another factor worth mentioning here is that many of the Blessed Children, in addition to being conveniently Blessed to one another, later became very economically dependent on the church, which mediated and sponsored both jobs and higher education, making it hard for a recipient to break free on any level, even if one did start developing a mind of one’s own. Put slightly differently, where subtle and sophisticated mind-controlling techniques fail, hard economic facts still tend to win out in the end (I, of course, was never worth sponsoring and have had to make do with a combination of student loans and welfare, sigh). Finally, I do believe that all that moving about during my early years, and the fact that I never really managed to “bond” successfully with my mother, made it much easier for me to break out later on. Filial piety (playing the role of obedient and devoted daughter) just didn’t seem to be in my nature; and as for my father, he drifted out when I was 12 and later helped me do the same.

I have often wondered why it was so easy for me to turn my back on my True Family, and (almost) never look back. I left to live with my father in California when I was 14 (although mentally I was long gone way before then). About two years later, I decided to re-join, and become a missionary myself in France (the Outside World was too much for me at such a vulnerable age, and I had to escape before it gobbled me up—“from the frying pan into the fire,” as they say). Being a missionary in France was probably the most serious attempt I made at “buying it” my whole life. Growing up in the Moonies was due to unfortunate circumstances way beyond my control, but becoming a missionary at the age of 16 was a desperate and conscious choice. It was, in many ways, a matter of survival, at least existentially. The loneliness and emptiness I felt in the Outside World at the age of 14 was so intense that I’m really quite surprised I emerged from it all as relatively unscathed as I did (my mother was almost certainly paying holy instalments to my sacred life insurance more than ever at that point).

The best illustration I can think of to illustrate this feeling is that of a small animal, locked up in a cage most of its life, and then suddenly set free to manage as best as it can in the jungle. Or, as another cult kid I read about in a Norwegian newspaper described it, being raised in a sect is like growing up in a spaceship, protected and confined, and then one day leaping out into space. Compared to the chaos, the overwhelming freedom and the incredible loneliness I encountered out in the big cruel world, being an Unblessed Child in the Moonies seemed like peanuts. After all, here at least I was part of something, even if it was the lesser part of an otherwise perfect family. Orbiting the Outside World, having cut all ties linking me to the Mother Moonie Spaceship, I felt utterly and completely alone. Therefore, I quit high school and set off to become a missionary and sell flowers (more out of necessity than conviction). A stranger in yet another strange land, but, as fate would have it that was probably one of my wisest and most courageous decisions. Sunny California would have been the death of me, and even though I ended up staying in France only for a year (after which I fell in love with a young Norwegian and moved to Norway), I knew instinctively that I had to get away, no matter where, no matter how.

The Moonies (or whatever they call themselves today) are not the Ku Klux Klan, as one of my childhood friends has already pointed out in a previous article. They do have some positive values, and they do mean well (yes, I know, the road to hell is paved with good intentions). On the whole, my experiences have taught me a lot about society, human nature, and this very bizarre and sometimes unpleasant state called life. The feeling of being a misfit, a social freak, doomed to dwell forever on the outside looking in, still haunts me wherever I go. However, I do have a new “family,” I have my friends, and I have my son (and I can rest assured knowing that when it comes to child rearing, I certainly know what NOT to do). I also have my sense of humor to chase away any new devils (traumas and tragedies) that might happen to fly my way. I have noticed that fanaticism (in its many forms and guises) and humor are unhappy bedfellows; they just don’t mix very well. So for those of you who find this article somewhat offensive in any way, my sincere apologies; but when it comes down to a conflict between preserving other peoples’ Belief System and my own mental health, I tend to get a little selfish.

In many respects, I suppose that growing up the way I have has made me stronger and wiser. But I certainly didn’t choose the easy way out, and sometimes I can’t help but wonder if things might have been less problematic if I’d just stayed on the inside, content with looking out. But then, I seem to attract adversity; and besides, I was never really on the inside, just like I’ll never really be on the outside. You’ll find me floating in those fuzzy grey zones in between.

____________________________________________

This material was originally prepared for a presentation at the AFF [now known as ICSA] annual conference, June 14-15, 2002, at the Crowne Plaza Hotel, Orlando (FL) Airport.

It was published in Cultic Studies Review, 2(1), 2003, 1-8

http://www.icsahome.com/articles/on-the-outside-looking-in-growing-up-in-the-moonies

____________________________________________

Flore Singer Aaslid was born 12 October 1972 in Rosenheim, Germany. She was raised as a “non-blessed” child [a “Jacob child”] in the Unification Church and grew up in Germany, England, USA, France, and Norway, respectively.

She was about 8 when her mother was ‘blessed’ to her father at a Unification Church mass wedding at Madison Square Gardens in 1982.

Currently, she is a social anthropologist based in Trondheim, Norway, where she lives with her son.

____________________________________________

Wise Mind – A Case for the Integration of Subjective Experience with Objective Reality in the Age of Fragmentation written by Flore Singer Aaslid

Introducing ‘Ethnography and Self-Exploration’ — Sjaak van der Geest, Trudie Gerrits, Flore Singer Aaslid

Marginal groups, marginal minds Reflections on ethnographic drug research and other traumatic experiences by Flore Singer Aaslid

Flore Singer Aaslid Thesis: Facing the Dragon: Exploring a conscious phenomenology of intoxication

Flore Singer Aaslid Book: Facing the Dragon: Exploring a conscious phenomenology of intoxication Paperback – 23 Feb 2010

Do you see it? Adam and Eve were husband and wife before the Fall, not brother and sister.

In the 1952 Divine Principle, Jesus was married.

Sun Myung Moon’s explanation of the Fall of Man is based on his Confucian ideas of lineage, and his belief in shaman sex rituals.

Hooked on the “true lineage” rhetoric

Sun Myung Moon’s theology used to control members

Sun Myung Moon: The Emperor of the Universe

Writings of former FFWPU members Many recount their experiences in the organization or their journeys out of it

Ashamed to be Korean

#Flore Singer Aaslid #Sun Myung Moon #trauma #Unification Church #Family Federation for World Peace and Unification #Divine Principle

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teamfreewill2pointo · 5 years

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Chuck accidentally set up his own demise.

This meta was produced in the Profound Bond discord. @blueeyesandpie came up with the basics, I ran off with it, and others helped flesh it out. Chuck built TFW to fulfill certain roles: Dean as executioner. Sam as rebellious evil. Castiel as protector. Jack as villain. In doing so, Chuck accidentally set up his own demise.

Sam is THE wayward son. He has devil blood in his veins, he’s Lucifer's perfect vessel, he was always intended to rebel, and repeatedly prophesied to go big bad. He was judged negatively by the angels, who represented Heaven.. Castiel called him “the boy with the demon blood” and an “abomination”. In 5.16 (Dark Side of the Moon), Joshua tells Sam that Chuck granted him salvation--judging him harshly for his past actions, even though Sam had good intentions.

Sam’s desire to live a safe, normal life could never happen because Chuck cursed him and doomed him to play a certain part: to rebel and be killed by his older brother, the Righteous Man. The order was passed down through John, but ultimately it was from Chuck, who wanted Dean to kill Sam as part of a grand story.

Originally, Sam did as he was made to do. He argued with John repeatedly and was punished for his disobedience, which only increased his hatred and rage. Like Lucifer, he left his family, which was supposed to be the breaking point for his relationship with Dean. It almost was. In the first season, Sam and Dean’s differing view of their father and how obedient they should be to him nearly drove them apart. The brothers reconciled after a brief time apart, and Sam returned to hunting life, but he maintained his desire to leave it and, by extension, Dean.

As the brothers grew closer and Sam's destiny was revealed, Sam accepted Dean's role as God's executioner and asked Dean to kill him 2.11(Playthings). He debated with Dean over which creatures were deserving of death, but never questioned Dean as the enforcer.

In order to push Sam to the darkside and better prepare him for his role as Lucifer’s vessel, Sam was manipulated and eventually killed in order that Dean would sell his soul and a greater rift between the brothers could be forced open. Ruby planted the seeds, in part by convincing Sam that Dean could not be trusted to do what needed to be done. Sam lost faith in Dean's role as enforcer. In season 4, Chuck, the angels, and demons nearly succeeded in tearing the brothers apart, but they stood by each other in the end.

In season 5, both brothers were repeatedly told by the angels to play their parts. Gabriel took this to an extreme. It nearly worked, with Dean just about to fit into the role Chuck had clearly laid out for him. Despite everything that heaven and hell (including Chuck) threw at them, despite multiple attempts to tear them apart, Sam and Dean stood by each other. Sam forgave and loved Dean, and Dean, in turn, seeing how much faith Sam had in him, forgave and found faith in Sam. In the end, Dean refused to follow his destiny/role and kill Sam.

In 5.23 (Swan Song), Chuck acknowledges that it ended up different than what he expected it to, but he supported the change - Dean saving Sam instead of killing him, because Chuck knew the story wasn’t over yet and he’d grown rather fond of the Sam and Dean adventure. He stood by as Sam fell into hell and was tortured so badly, his soul was practically skinned alive.

Then Jack enters the picture. Perhaps Chuck meant for Jack to appear. Perhaps Chuck didn’t expect him. Sam notes that Chuck seems afraid of Jack. Maybe there’s something in one of Billie’s books that says Jack kills or replaces Chuck? Maybe Chuck knows that Jack can replace him? Maybe Jack just throws too much chaos into the system, like a character in a book or fanfic stepping out of the page.

Perhaps it has something to do with the Grace and soul combined.

Archangels were created first, but Chuck stopped at four. Why? Probably because they were too powerful. They have free will, they can think, and they can destroy Chuck’s creations. Chuck likes being in full control. He locked away Amara because she got in his way. He used Lucifer to lock up Amara and, when he couldn't control Lucifer, he locked him away too.

Souls are repeatedly mentioned as powerful in the Supernatural world. A creature with the power of an archangel, but the soul of a human to power it may be powerful enough to destroy Chuck. Perhaps all the rules against nephilim were created by Chuck to prevent any from being made.

So why doesn’t he just kill Jack? I think he thought he could control the story still. I think he didn’t realize how fast it was running away from him.

All this time, Chuck has been dismissive of Sam. He doesn’t realize that he’s built one of the weapons of his own demise. He kept punishing Sam. Indirectly, he killed Sam’s loved ones, he criticized Sam for his choices without giving him options, he punished him through the universe for his later attempts at leaving the hunting life. He threw him to Lucifer like a chew toy. And what does Sam do with all that hate and rage? He loves. He loves the son of Lucifer.

Meanwhile, Dean was supposed to kill the son of Lucifer. Castiel was dead, Mary was dead (as far as Dean knew), and all of creation said that this creature must die. Once again, the instructions were passed from father figure to son. Once again, Dean was placed in the role of executioner, and he accepted this role without question.

But Dean was never going to be the perfect soldier either of his father figures wanted. Chuck had set Dean up to be the Righteous Man, built to punish those who deserve it. Originally that was supposed to be Sam and Lucifer. Then it was supposed to be Jack. At multiple points throughout the show has Dean acted as judge, jury, and executioner. Dean, like Michael, was built to keep things in line and enforce Chuck's order.

In the end, Dean turns his judgement on the actual monster--Chuck. Chuck built Dean to stop his big bad, not realizing that Dean would judge him as the big bad.

Similarly, Castiel was meant to just keep the Winchesters alive and power them up to fight more and bigger bads, but along the way, Castiel became something more. Castiel’s real rebellion is loving Jack in a way Chuck never could. Angels shouldn’t even be capable of love, but Castiel learned how to love from the Winchesters, not the blind obedience Chuck wanted.

All of Team Free Will broke out of the cycle of abuse left by their fathers.

Dean was able to overcome his soldier programming and sense of duty. He became the dad who treats his son as a child, not a soldier, and takes him fishing. John told Dean to kill Sam if he couldn’t save him, but Dean refused to kill Sam, even when Sam was possessed. Chuck ordered Dean to kill Jack and Dean refused. He defied both John and Chuck, rejecting his role and saving his family members.

Sam was able to overcome John’s and Chuck’s attempts to reduce his autonomy and force him into certain roles. He respected Jack’s wishes and choices, even when he disagreed. He broke free of the roles his father figures expected him to play, and now lives on his terms; not theirs. He prayed and respected God, but unlike his own father, who believed he needed to die, he refused to kill Jack and turned the gun on God himself. He rebelled all right, but not in the way Chuck wanted him to.

Castiel was able to overcome being abandoned by his own father to be by Jack’s side and love him unconditionally. Punishment was never his focus, but rehabilitation. Forgiveness instead of wrath.

In 6.22, Castiel sat on a bench and begged God for help. Chuck didn’t answer. In seasons 5 and 14, Castiel begged for help from his father only, when Chuck finally showed up in 14, he didn’t come to help Castiel, but to kill. Castiel never turned his back on Jack, never neglected him, never saw him as the monster nearly everyone else said he was. When Jack went down his own Godstiel path, Castiel remembered what the Winchesters had taught them, remembered how Sam had saved him through forgiveness and love. He used that knowledge to meet Jack on a bench, giving him the support and guidance he sought from his own father and never received.

Castiel started out with firm faith in heaven and God. He lost that over time, lost faith in humanity, and even lost faith in Sam and Dean. However, Sam and Dean proved themselves worthy of his early faith, and he carried that forward and beyond, to have faith in love and family, even when Sam and Dean lost theirs.

Team Free Will have proven that they are more than the roles Chuck expected them to play. They’ve proven they will stand by love and family up against monsters, demons, angels, and even God himself.

That’s exactly why they will win over Chuck. He tried to bend and break them, but only made them stronger, giving them exactly what they need to take him down.

#supernatural #spn #spnfamily #spn family #spn meta #spnmeta #sam winchester #dean winchester #castiel #tfw #team free will #spn s14 #spn 14.20 #moriah #spn s14 spoilers #chuck #god #free will

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finderskeepersff · 5 years

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67. Part 2

I be thinking how I get myself in these situations but then I remember that my temper gets the better of me, I don’t care though because I would do it again. Fuck them, I mean I don’t know what they got because they put me in this holding cell and luckily I ain’t have no gun on me, just money and my chain of my son, I am trying to be calm about this. They put me in this cell on my own, I feel like it’s been hours. It’s night fall too, nobody has spoken to me and if they have evidence of me doing that then I am doomed, I need to be hopeful they playing. I don’t miss this at all, I can hear niggas singing and shouting and I ain’t even been fed or anything “Cassius” hearing the door being unlocked “if you would like to follow us to the interview room” getting up from the bed “y’all not going let me put some shoes on?” he didn’t answer me but just stood there “hurry up” making my way out “follow me” I hate this Eddie guy, he is on my dick “put these slides on” he kicked them to me “I just want my Timberlands back?” mean mugging him “y’all full of shit” putting the slides on “I want to press charges on you all, y’all bruised my arm and cheek got a cut, dragged me too!” I spat, they fucking dragged me all the way here “you can cry to someone that cares, in the room now” I will get my revenge on him, walking into the room “nah, where is my lawyer” turning around “get the fuck in!” I got pushed back into the room, falling onto the floor. I am so fucking angry “get up then” getting up from the floor “now sit down” the officer gripped my arm and dragged me to sit down “shut your mouth too, speak when your spoken too” I ain’t saying shit so there is that.

I am not even interested at all “Brooklyn doesn’t have snitches, they all on your payroll, not in Atlanta. So what happened?” Eddie asked “I want my lawyer” I said, looking over at him “you think you going to have anyone help you, we have evidence” I sniggered “then show me it, you don’t have shit. You have some story from a guy I don’t know. Ain’t he some ex drug user? He’s black, why do you care?” his face dropped as he sat back “you going to let me go now?” he pulled a file over “we have reason to believe that Sofia Bundy’ car has been bought by drug money” they just want me here just because “are you done?” he flipped the picture “Sofia’ car leaving the car park, do you see the person driving it? So you was there” looking at the picture “she is pregnant, we was getting medication from there. And?” Eddie laughed “it was you, you beat him. You are also the same one for all these killings, it’s you. You are the boss of this new wave of drug selling, you are actually on our watch list. Did Jaivon not sell drugs right?” I stretched my body out “so my lawyer? Y’all want to keep me here long, you don’t have shit on me and you know it. I am a family man” Eddie sniggered “the boss never gets his hands dirty” I sighed out, they just want to get me on anything to keep me here.

Throwing my phone on the bed “they won’t let me speak to him, they won’t even tell me anything!” I spat, it’s stressing me out because I want to know if he is ok “Lucas is on the first flight out” Josiah said “he better hurry up, I am going there actually. I want to see Cassius, they have to let me see him” getting up from the couch “Sofia don’t, they are being spiteful and Cassius won’t want you there” hearing the buzzer go off “get that” I said as I walked off towards the kitchen, I knew the police would somehow get him and I didn’t want him to even go out but he did and now he is locked up, they can’t keep him. It’s hurting me to even think about it, the thought of him in there and he said that he would see me later but look at that, this is what scares me the most about his life “I heard” hearing Amira say, I didn’t want everyone to know “how?” Amira walked into the kitchen “Kyle told me, I mean the streets are always watching and saw it happen” Kyle stood behind Amira, I sighed heavily “I don’t need this” I walked off, I don’t need this.

I don’t want people watching, I mean they are not people but it’s just misfortune and it’s always Cassius or me, it’s just not fair on us and with the new year coming, am I going to do this alone again. Will they send him down, I have so many thoughts and I can’t even hear his voice “enough rolling around in your diaper, nightie needs to go on now” Cartier is just rolling around on the bed babbling to himself, my phone started ringing at the side of me. Grabbing my phone to see the I.D and it’s my mom, it’s late there so it’s weird for her to call me anyways. Answering the call “hi” I don’t usually answer, it’s like the second time I am even hearing her voice on the phone, first time Leyton was there “hey Sofia, I just wanted to check on you” please tell she doesn’t know too “why?” I questioned, I am confused on why she needs to call “I just couldn’t sleep, I just want to know you are coming to Barbados. And I just wanted to hear your voice and I can hear Cartier too” she doesn’t know then “oh right, I said I am, I just need to wait for Cassius on when he is free mom. It will be next month, Cassius terms too?” she needs to understand “I know, I just want you to come when you can. It’s nice to hear your voice, I am excited to see Cartier. We have Bryce here and Celine, she is leaving after the new year” rolling my eyes “anyways” I said “I need to go, put Cartier to sleep but I will come mom, don’t worry about it” I don’t know why she is so worried about it all when I am going there.

My heart feel so warm, just my son in my arms as he slept peacefully. Cartier is my heart, just to watch him sleep peacefully without a care in the world makes me happy. Pressing kisses to the top of his head, I love that Cartier is giving me lots of love. His eyes fluttered open but I swore he was asleep “hey baby, you awake still” he lifted his head up, he looked around the room “what is wrong?” Pushing his hair back away from his face, he stifled out a yawn and then rested his head back on my shoulder “ok then” I did think he was asleep but clearly not, he just want snuggles I guess. I guess he feels Cassius not close, I feel it too. Wrapping my arms around Cartier “sorry” Jasmine said in a whisper “Kyle wants to speak to you” nodding my head, I guess if he wants too “he’s asleep?” He pointed out “he trying too, he’s probably feeling his dad not being here. He’s always all over Cartier when he is here” I smiled “thanks for coming to the home, I know the love you both got is there” Kyle chuckled “he my nigga for life, I had to know y’all was ok but I know he wouldn’t want me here but I am. From what I know is that they going to try and pin anything on Cassius, they do this a lot with him and Lucas will get him out” nodding my head as I rocked Cartier again “you think Cassius will ever forgive me. I am starting to think he won’t now, it’s been a while. I miss my nigga, you know” Kyle is used to Cassius and him getting along again “I can’t say, he is being very stubborn with it all” I shrugged “he blames me for leaving you alone with him” I cringed a little “then it will be a while, you can just be there. I think he will eventually. You think I could see Cassius? Just for a little while or something?” I just need to see him “you could go and try, not sure. Erm, say you need to see him in regards to your baby, I don’t know. You could try?” I will try, I need to see him.

Ethan must have free ran here because he came Atlanta so quickly but he is walking me to the police station where they are holding Cassius, Ethan looks stressed as fuck “come” Ethan waved me over as he held the door “thanks, if you could let me speak and not you. Just wait out here, please” Ethan just looked at me dumbfounded “it’s an order” I added, I feel he will just ruin it. Walking over to the desk, there is like a few people waiting here, it’s quiet though anyways but it is late at night “how can I help you?” Handsome black man “hi” I smiled at him “is Cassius Warren here?” I asked, trying to play dumb “I can check for you” nodding my head, I need to see him. The officer is checking his computer I guess “erm, yes ma’am. He is booked in here” letting out an oh “but you knew that right?” He grinned “well, uh. I guess I did but I wanted to make sure. I need to see him” he paused and then breathed out “I can’t, I mean you can’t see him. It’s late and you shouldn’t be here, there is bad guys around and you shouldn’t be alone” licking my lips smiling “I need to see him, we have a son together but it’s his mom. She is in hospital, please let me see him and tell him. Just five minutes, please” he turned his head “he’s asleep” trying to see his screen “it’s important please, just five minutes. You can search me? It’s his mom, please” he took in a deep breath “give me your bag” he held his hand out “thank you” I breathed out “five minutes, no longer” he is so sweet, I get to see my baby.

God bless Cassius mom, hope she will be ok after this lie. I need to see him, I want to know he is ok, he is my heart “follow me ma’am” looking behind me and Ethan just side eyed me, I got my way so who cares. This officer is very muscular “what is your name?” He’s been ever so kind to listen to my lies “Howard” he answered, he seems so sweet “that’s cute, will you get in trouble for allowing me to see him?” I should shut my mouth “family emergencies, we’re not all that cruel” he turned around and I abruptly stopped “you know” he finished off “he is asleep” I smiled “wake him up then” I grinned, he nodded his head. Watching him bang on the door “visitor!!” He shouted and then grabbed the keys at the side of him “step back please” moving back a little, he pulled down a shutter “Cassius, you got a visitor. You awake?” I want to see him “come up where I can see you” he said, does he think Cassius would attack him, I mean he does have a tempter on him “good” he pulled the shutter up “he’s awake, not happy though” he unlocked the door and pulled it open “you got five minutes so if you would like to go inside” he is so kind “who the fuck is it” hearing Cassius say, slowly poking my head around “me” smiling as I said it, Cassius face dropped “what?” Slowly walking inside “will have to lock you in ma’am” the officer closed the door behind me but I don’t care “hey baby” Cassius looks bewildered that I am here, he thinks I’m not real “I must be asleep still, what?” Shaking my head at him “it’s me, it’s real. I am here, I needed to see you” grabbing his hand “I am real Cassius” staring at Cassius face “did they hurt you” I frowned, Cassius moved his hand away from mine.

He is still thinking I am not real “what is wrong? I came to see you, I had to leave Cartier with your sister. I came here to see you, baby what is wrong?” seeing his lower lip quiver “don’t get upset Cassius, you will be out. Lucas will get you out, also Ethan is here. He wanted me to not come here” Cassius placed his hands over his face “stop it, you going to make me cry. What is wrong” getting on my tiptoes to hug him “come here, my baby. I love you so much” pressing kisses to the side of his head “I love you too” he mumbled, he wrapped his arms around me “I don’t want you to see me like this, you know. Not here” it’s not even been a full twenty four hours and I miss him “wherever you go I am with you Cassius, are they feeding you here. It looks horrible” this place is nasty “they gave me my own hold cell, I could be in a populated one. I am shocked they let me see you” Cassius and I are not going to let go of each other “don’t get annoyed, I may like you know. Be all cute towards him, I also lied about your mom” Cassius let out an oh “that is ok, I miss you both so much. Tell Ethan, tell him I said he needs to get Jaivon to drop this, do not harm him but he knows what to do” Cassius said in a whisper in my ear “I fucked up again, niggas be pissing me off you know. But I want you to go home, just wait there for me please. Don’t come here again, tell dada I love him and I will see him soon” loosening my grip around Cassius as I moved back “how can I do that when I love you, my heart is with you. I can’t do that” Cassius swallowed hard “because I find it hard with you around” Cassius’ eyes searched my face, he smiled intently “I love you, tell the boy I love him ok?” they have hurt him, hearing the door unlock “come on now” I don’t want to leave him “I will and you will be back home soon, I love you too Cassius” he just nodded his head.

“Thank you” I said to the officer as he gave me my bag back “no problem” he smiled at me “let’s go” Ethan said behind me, Ethan creeped up behind me I didn’t even notice “I am coming” walking off ahead of him, Cassius is so sensitive when it comes to me, he is just a different guy with me and I see it. My baby just wants to be loved, he gets all weak with me and I feel it. I know he misses Cartier and I so much too “Josiah called, he said Cartier is not settling” I knew he would have woken up “thank you for letting me know, we are going home now anyways Ethan” my poor baby, I think he feels it with Cassius being away from us. Walking towards the car “oh and Cassius said you need to get that guy to drop this without harming him” Ethan unlocked the car door for me “I will do that, we will get him out. They ain’t got shit on him” I think I want Cassus out before the New Year comes around, poor him. If we don’t end up going Canada before this I know he will be hurt, I don’t want that for him at all “Sofia I need to take some money from Cassius spot in the home, I need to bribe the guy. Just if I need too” sitting in the back seat, that does mean I need to open that wall for him and I hope I remember how “I will” I mumbled.

I can hear Cartier from outside the door, he is really crying out in the home “I will get the money out, I just need to see Cartier first” stepping inside the home “I am back!” I shouted out, placing my bag on the floor. My poor baby, I didn’t think he would be like this “I am so glad you are back” Jasmine said as she walked over to me “I didn’t think he would do this, not this dramatic anyways, hey monkey. What’s wrong” taking Cartier from Jasmine “hey, it’s mommy. I love you” placing him over my shoulder “I know, I know. I am sorry” he is quietening down now “thank you Jasmine” turning around, I need to get the money out for Ethan “I won’t be a moment” pressing a kiss to the side of Cartier’ head “mommy loves you so much, it’s ok drama queen” walking up the steps, he is so dramatic. Maybe he just wanted me, he probably did.

#Chrianna #Chrianna FF #Fanfic #Fanfiction

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yasbxxgie · 5 years

Link

Now that the cast is coming together, Denis Villeneuve’s upcoming adaptation of Dune is getting more attention than ever. And with that attention an interesting question has started cropping up with more frequency, one that bears further examination: Is Dune a “white savior” narrative?

It’s important to note that this is not a new question. Dune has been around for over half a century, and with every adaptation or popular revival, fans and critics take the time to interrogate how it plays into (or rebels against) certain story tropes and popular concepts, the white savior complex being central among them. While there are no blunt answers to that question—in part because Dune rests on a foundation of intense and layered worldbuilding—it is still an important one to engage and reengage with for one simple reason: All works of art, especially ones that we hold in high esteem, should be so carefully considered. Not because we need to tear them down or, conversely, enshrine them, but because we should all want to be more knowledgeable and thoughtful about how the stories we love contribute to our world, and the ways in which they choose to reflect it.

So what happens when we put Dune under this methodical scrutiny? If we peel back the layers, like the Mentats of [Frank] Herbert’s story, what do we find?

Hollywood has a penchant for the white savior trope, and it forms the basis for plenty of big-earning, award-winning films. Looking back on blockbusters like The Last of the Mohicans, Avatar, and The Last Samurai, the list piles up for movies in which a white person can alleviate the suffering of people of color—sometimes disguised as blue aliens for the purpose of sci-fi trappings—by being specially “chosen” somehow to aid in their struggles. Sometimes this story is more personal, between only two or three characters, often rather dubiously labeled as “based on a true story” (The Blind Side, The Help, Dangerous Minds, The Soloist, and recent Academy Award Best Picture-winner Green Book are all a far cry from the true events that inspired them). It’s the same song, regardless—a white person is capable of doing what others cannot, from overcoming racial taboos and inherited prejudices up to and including “saving” an entire race of people from certain doom.

At face value, it’s easy to slot Dune into this category: a pale-skinned protagonist comes to a planet of desert people known as Fremen. These Fremen are known to the rest the rest of the galaxy as a mysterious, barbaric, and highly superstitious people, whose ability to survive on the brutal world of Arrakis provides a source of endless puzzlement for outsiders. The Fremen themselves are a futuristic amalgam of various POC cultures according to Herbert, primarily the Blackfeet Tribe of Montana, the San people, and Bedouins. (Pointedly, all of these cultures have been and continue to be affected by imperialism, colonialism, and slavery, and the Fremen are no different—having suffered horrifically at the hands of the Harkonnens even well before our “heroes” arrive.) Once the protagonist begins to live among the Fremen, he quickly establishes himself as their de facto leader and savior, teaching them how to fight more efficiently and building them into an unstoppable army. This army then throws off the tyranny of the galaxy’s Emperor, cementing the protagonist’s role as their literal messiah.

That sounds pretty cut and dried, no?

But at the heart of this question—Is Dune a white savior narrative?—are many more questions, because Dune is a complicated story that encompasses and connects various concepts, touching on environmentalism, imperialism, history, war, and the superhero complex. The fictional universe of Dune is carefully constructed to examine these issues of power, who benefits from having it, and how they use it. Of course, that doesn’t mean the story is unassailable in its construction or execution, which brings us to the first clarifying question: What qualifies as a white savior narrative? How do we measure that story, or identify it? Many people would define this trope differently, which is reasonable, but you cannot examine how Dune might contribute to a specific narrative without parsing out the ways in which it does and does not fit.

This is the strongest argument against the assertion that Dune is a white savior story: Paul Atreides is not a savior. What he achieves isn’t great or even good—which is vital to the story that Frank Herbert meant to tell.

There are many factors contributing to Paul Atreides’s transformation into Muad’Dib and the Kwisatz Haderach, but from the beginning, Paul thinks of the role he is meant to play as his “terrible purpose.” He thinks that because he knows if he avenges his father, if he becomes the Kwisatz Haderach and sees the flow of time, if he becomes the Mahdi of the Fremen and leads them, the upcoming war will not stop on Arrakis. It will extend and completely reshape the known universe. His actions precipitate a war that that lasts for twelve years, killing millions of people, and that’s only just the beginning.

Can it be argued that Paul Atreides helps the people of Arrakis? Taking the long view of history, the answer would be a resounding no—and the long view of history is precisely what the Dune series works so hard to convey. (The first three books all take place over a relatively condensed period, but the last three books of the initial Dune series jump forward thousands of years at a time.) While Paul does help the Fremen achieve the dream of making Arrakis a green and vibrant world, they become entirely subservient to his cause and their way of life is fundamentally altered. Eventually, the Fremen practically disappear, and a new Imperial army takes their place for Paul’s son, Leto II, the God Emperor. Leto’s journey puts the universe on what he calls the “Golden Path,” the only possible future where humanity does not go extinct. It takes this plan millennia to come to fruition, and though Leto succeeds, it doesn’t stop humans from scheming and murdering and hurting one another; it merely ensures the future of the species.

One could make an argument that the Atreides family is responsible for the saving of all human life due to the Golden Path and its execution. But in terms of Paul’s position on Arrakis, his effect on the Fremen population there, and the amount of death, war, and terror required to bring about humanity’s “salvation,” the Atreides are monstrous people. There is no way around that conclusion—and that’s because the story is designed to critique humanity’s propensity toward saviors. Here’s a quote from Frank Herbert himself on that point:

I am showing you the superhero syndrome and your own participation in it.

And another:

Dune was aimed at this whole idea of the infallible leader because my view of history says that mistakes made by a leader (or made in a leader’s name) are amplified by the numbers who follow without question.

At the center of Dune is a warning to be mistrustful of messiahs, supermen, and leaders who have the ability to sway masses. This is part of the reason why David Lynch’s Dune film missed the mark; the instant that Paul Atreides becomes a veritable god, the whole message of the story is lost. The ending of Frank Herbert’s Dune is not a heroic triumph—it is a giant question mark pointed at the reader or viewer. It is an uncomfortable conclusion that only invites more questions, which is a key part of its lasting appeal.

And yet…

There is a sizable hole in the construction of this book that can outweigh all other interpretations and firmly situate Dune among white savior tropes: Paul Atreides is depicted as a white man, and his followers are largely depicted as brown people.

There are ways to nitpick this idea, and people do—Paul’s father, Leto Atreides might not be white, and is described in the book as having “olive” toned skin. We get a sense of traditions from the past, as Leto’s father was killed in a bull fight, dressed in a matador cape, but it’s unclear if this is tied to their heritage in any sense. The upcoming film has cast Cuban-Guatemalan actor Oscar Isaac in the role of Duke Leto, but previous portrayals featured white men with European ancestry: U.S. actor William Hurt and German actor Jürgen Prochnow. (The Fremen characters are also often played by white actors, but that’s a more simple case of Hollywood whitewashing.) While the name Atreides is Greek, Dune takes place tens of thousands of years in the future, so there’s really no telling what ancestry the Atreides line might have, or even what “whiteness” means to humanity anymore. There’s a lot of similar melding elsewhere in the story; the ruler of this universe is known as the “Padishah Emperor” (Padishah is a Persian word that essentially translates to “great king”), but the family name of the Emperor’s house is Corrino, taken from the fictional Battle of Corrin. Emperor Shaddam has red hair, and his daughter Irulan is described as blond-haired, green-eyed, and possessing “patrician beauty,” a mishmash of words and descriptions that deliberately avoid categorization.

None of these factors detract from the fact that we are reading/watching this story in present day, when whiteness is a key component of identity and privilege. It also doesn’t negate the fact that Paul is always depicted as a white young man, and has only been played by white actors: first by Kyle MacLachlan, then by Alec Newman, and soon by Timothy Chalamet. There are many reasons for casting Paul this way, chief among them being that he is partly based on a real-life figure—T.E. Lawrence, better known to the public as “Lawrence of Arabia.” But regardless of that influence, Frank Herbert’s worldbuilding demands a closer look in order to contextualize a narrative in which a white person becomes the messiah of an entire population of people of color—after all, T.E. Lawrence was never heralded as any sort of holy figure by the people he worked alongside during the Arab Revolt.

The decision to have Paul become the Mahdi of the Fremen people is not a breezy or inconsequential plot point, and Herbert makes it clear that his arrival has been seeded by the Bene Gesserit, the shadowy matriarchal organization to which his mother, Jessica, belongs. In order to keep their operatives safe throughout the universe, the Bene Gesserit planted legends and mythologies that applied to their cohort, making it easy for them to manipulate local legends to their advantage in order to remain secure and powerful. While this handily serves to support Dune’s thematic indictment of the damage created by prophecy and religious zealotry, it still positions the Fremen as a people who easily fall prey to superstition and false idols. The entire Fremen culture (though meticulously constructed and full of excellent characters) falls into various “noble savage” stereotypes due to the narrative’s juxtaposition of their militant austerity with their susceptibility to being used by powerful people who understand their mythology well enough to exploit it. What’s more, Herbert reserves many of the non-Western philosophies that he finds particularly attractive—he was a convert to Zen Buddhism, and the Bene Gesserit are attuned to the Eastern concepts of “prana” and “bindu” as part of their physical training—for mastery by white characters like Lady Jessica.

While Fremen culture has Arab influences in its language and elsewhere, the book focuses primarily on the ferocity of their people and the discipline they require in order to be able to survive the brutal desert of Arrakis, as well as their relationship to the all-important sandworms. This speaks to Herbert’s ecological interests in writing Dune far more than his desire to imagine what an Arab-descended society or culture might look like in the far future. Even the impetus toward terraforming Arrakis into a green world is one brought about through imperialist input; Dr. Liet Kynes (father to Paul’s companion Chani) promoted the idea in his time as leader of the Fremen, after his own father, an Imperial ecologist, figured out how to change the planet. The Fremen don’t have either the ability or inclination to transform their world with their own knowledge—both are brought to them from a colonizing source.

Dune’s worldbuilding is complex, but that doesn’t make it beyond reproach. Personal bias is a difficult thing to avoid, and how you construct a universe from scratch says a lot about how you personally view the world. Author and editor Mimi Mondal breaks this concept down beautifully in her recent article about the inherently political nature of worldbuilding:

In a world where all fundamental laws can be rewritten, it is also illuminating which of them aren’t. The author’s priorities are more openly on display when a culture of non-humans is still patriarchal, there are no queer people in a far-future society, or in an alternate universe the heroes and saviours are still white. Is the villain in the story a repulsively depicted fat person? Is a disabled or disfigured character the monster? Are darker-skinned, non-Western characters either absent or irrelevant, or worse, portrayed with condescension? It’s not sufficient to say that these stereotypes still exist in the real world. In a speculative world, where it is possible to rewrite them, leaving them unchanged is also political.

The world of Dune was built that way through a myriad of choices, and choices are not neutral exercises. They require biases, thoughtfulness, and intent. They are often built from a single perspective, and perspectives are never absolute. And so, in analyzing Dune, it is impossible not to wonder about the perspective of its creator and why he built his fictional universe the way he did.

Many fans cite the fact that Frank Herbert wrote Dune over fifty years ago as an explanation for some of its more dated attitudes toward race, gender, queerness, and other aspects of identity. But the universe that Herbert created was arguably already quite dated when he wrote Dune. There’s an old-world throwback sheen to the story, as it’s built on feudal systems and warring family houses and political marriages and ruling men with concubines. The Bene Gesserit essentially sell their (all-female) trainees to powerful figures to further their own goals, and their sexuality is a huge component of their power. The odious Baron Harkonnen is obese and the only visibly queer character in the book (a fact that I’ve already addressed at length as it pertains to the upcoming film). Paul Atreides is the product of a Bene Gesserit breeding program that was created to bring about the Kwisatz Haderach—he’s literally a eugenics experiment that works.

And in this eugenics experiment, the “perfect” human turns out to be a white man—and he was always going to be a man, according to their program—who proceeds to wield his awesome power by creating a personal army made up of people of color. People, that is, who believe that he is their messiah due to legends planted on their world ages ago by the very same group who sought to create this superbeing. And Paul succeeds in his goals and is crowned Emperor of the known universe. Is that a white savior narrative? Maybe not in the traditional sense, but it has many of the same discomfiting hallmarks that we see replicated again and again in so many familiar stories. Hopefully, we’re getting better at recognizing and questioning these patterns, and the assumptions and agendas propagated through them. It gives us a greater understanding of fiction’s power, and makes for an enlightening journey.

Dune is a great work of science fiction with many pointed lessons that we can still apply to the world we live in—that’s the mark of a excellent book. But we can enjoy the world that Frank Herbert created and still understand the places where it falls down. It makes us better fans and better readers, and allows us to more fully appreciate the stories we love.

+Dune’s Paul Atreides Is the Ultimate Mighty Whitey

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worryinglyinnocent · 6 years

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Fic: A Streak of Luck (4/?)

Summary: Lady Belle of the Marchlands sets out to break the curse that has doomed all the women of her family line for centuries, seeking out the legendary sorcerer Rumpelstiltskin to aid her in her quest. Even if she finds him, will he be able to help her break her curse?

Rated: T

[One] [Two] [Three] [AO3]

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A Streak of Luck

Four

Now that they had established Rumpelstiltskin’s actual identity after the Bill farce, he was no longer taking any pains to conceal his face, and as such, Belle had the opportunity to observe him properly.

They had been riding together in silence for the most part of the afternoon, with Rumpelstiltskin lost in thought, no doubt trying to work out how to break Belle’s curse once they arrived at the Dark Castle, and whether it was even possible. Belle for her part amused herself by trying to piece together a true picture of the man riding beside her from the person she could actually see, the things she had read in her book, and all the tall tales that she had been told over the years.

That he was under some kind of curse was clear from his strange appearance. Now that the light was shining on him, Belle could see that his mottled skin had a strange little sheen to it, as if he had been covered in gold dust. Well, that would make sense if all the tales of him being able to turn straw into gold were true. Some of it must have rubbed off on him.

She wondered what kind of curse it was. Whatever it was had definitely made him immortal; if all the stories were to be believed then he had been around for several centuries. She fell to pondering, letting Philippe fall out of step with the other horse so that she could daydream in peace. Perhaps he was not the original Rumpelstiltskin of the legends, still alive today. Perhaps it was just a title, passed on to several successors of the original dealmaker.

“Rumpelstiltskin,” she said presently.

He turned to glance over his shoulder at her.

“Yes, dearie? What is it? You know, if we’re going to hold a conversation, it might be easier if you come up here again, I can’t be talking to you over my shoulder all the time. I’ll get the most terrible crick in my neck and if the wind changes then I might be stuck like that forever.”

Belle trotted up alongside him again.

“That’s much better. So, what was it that you wanted to know, my dear? I can see that you’re practically bursting at the seams with questions, no matter how proper and polite and ladylike you’re trying to be.”

He was right. There were so many things that Belle wanted to know about him, but she didn’t know if her questions would be too personal this soon into their acquaintance. She had read so much about him and she was desperate to know how much of the legend was rooted in reality, and how much had been made up by storytellers over the years. If he really was as old as people claimed, then it would be unlikely that there was anyone else alive today who could substantiate the tales.

“Why are we still riding?” she asked, picking her most innocuous question to start with.

Rumpelstiltskin raised one eyebrow.

“Because as I am sure you are aware, we are not yet at the Dark Castle.” He gestured around himself theatrically at the open expanse of grassland that they were travelling across. “I can assure you that the place itself is not in any way, shape or form invisible. We’re not going to suddenly happen across it where it wasn’t before. Therefore, we are still riding because we have not arrived at our destination.”

“I know that,” Belle said. “What I mean is, why are we still riding when you have the magic necessary to transport us there in a fingersnap.”

“Ah.” Rumpelstiltskin waggled a claw-tipped finger at her. “Now there, you see, is the problem.”

“Don’t you have that kind of power?”

“Oh, I have that kind of power, all right, dearie. I could transport us to the castle in a fingersnap. I could transport the castle over to us in a fingersnap. I could make you invisible and send you to the bottom of the ocean and back without harming a hair on your head. Raw power isn’t the problem here.”

“So why wouldn’t you transport us?” Belle asked. She was intrigued by his vehemence about the whole affair, and she wondered what his motives were in extending their journey longer than they had to. Surely it would be in everyone’s best interests for everything to be cleared up as soon as possible; the sooner that they could get started on breaking her curse, the better. Or, to put it another way, the sooner that Rumpelstiltskin could tell her that her curse was unbreakable, the sooner Belle could start coming to terms with the idea.

“All magic comes with a price,” Rumpelstiltskin explained. “It’s a basic law of nature, you see. Equal and opposite reactions and all that kind of thing. You can never get something for nothing. Every time I perform a feat of magic to assist me, then the magic requires something in return. Can you imagine what life would be like if there were no prices for the spells that we weave? Everyone would get a magical solution to their problems with no questions asked and the world would be very boring.”

He gave an explosive, high-pitched giggle, and Belle could immediately tell that there was something else behind the words than mere flippancy.

“Somehow I don’t think that boredom is the reason,” she said sagely.

Rumpelstiltskin just looked at her for a long time. His eyes were narrowed, scrutinising her thoroughly, and Belle wondered just what he was thinking. It looked like he was sizing her up again, taking some measure of her although she didn’t know what.

“You’re an interesting one, Lady Belle,” he said, not that the cryptic words really shed any light on the situation.

He didn’t speak again for a long time, and Belle assumed that the conversation was closed. Perhaps she’d touched a nerve somewhere along the line without meaning to, although she couldn’t for the life of her think what she might have said to offend him.

“It’s a question of balance,” he said suddenly. “Every spell cast takes its toll on its caster. Why do you think I look like this? My complexion wasn’t always this rosy, you know. Several lifetimes of dark magic will do that to a person.”

His dark eyes flashed dangerously, but Belle didn’t feel any fear. “If you know the legends, then presumably you know the bad ones as well as the good ones. There’s a reason why people only come to me for a deal when they’re desperate.”

“Well, I’m desperate,” Belle said. “And yes, I know all the legends. I know the prices that you extract from people who seek your help. I may be young, but I’m not naïve.”

“Well, I suppose that will remain to be seen,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “Still, it’s good to know that you’ve done your research. The price that I extract from my deals is simply the price that would otherwise be extracted from me instead. All magic comes with a price, be it the dark magic that we sorcerers have harnessed for centuries, or the mystical magic of the fae. The difference is that the fairies don’t tell you about the price in advance. They just let you pay it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, they’ll give you a solution to your problems all right, and they won’t charge you a penny for it. But somehow, in some way, that solution to your problems will inexplicably start causing more problems than it solved, and no-one ever thinks to link this mysterious coincidence back to the fairies.” He gave an emphatic sniff. “At least I’m up front with my prices. No-one can ever accuse me of not setting everything out in writing. Whether or not they read it is entirely up to them.”

His feathers were ruffled; Belle could tell.

“I apologise. I seem to have touched a sore spot.”

Rumpelstiltskin just bowed his head a little. “All magic has a price,” he repeated. “Even the magic to break your curse will have a price. I just don’t know what it is yet.”

“I’m willing to pay it,” Belle said.

Rumpelstiltskin just looked at her, raising an eyebrow.

“Are you absolutely sure about that?” he asked. “You may not like the price once I’ve worked out what it’s going to be.”

“Well…” Belle thought back to the tales of her youth. “I’m not sure that being uncursed is worth a first-born, but then again, I probably won’t survive to see a first-born in the first place, or at least to live with one for very long.”

“You’re incredibly pragmatic about it,” Rumpelstiltskin observed.

“Like I said before, I’ve had to be. There’s no use in pussyfooting about the whole thing. Sometimes you have to look at things from a different point of view in order to get anywhere in the world.”

“Hmm.” He paused. “I’m glad you thought about the first-borns.”

They rode on in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. At least Belle knew now why they were still travelling on horseback even if Rumpelstiltskin had probably poofed himself to the inn to meet her as soon as he knew that she was on her way to seek him out. Magically transporting another person probably came at a much greater cost than just moving himself, and she couldn’t ask him to pay that price now just for the sake of her convenience.

“You mentioned all the legends that surround you,” Belle began again. “I was wondering about them.”

“How many are true, you mean? Oh, all of them and more, I can assure you. Especially the really bad ones.”

He grinned then, showing sharp, mossy teeth, but Belle was unperturbed.

“No, I wasn’t thinking about the truth of them. I know that all legends get embroidered over the years.”

“Most of them embroidered by my own fair hand, if I do say so myself.” He seemed extraordinarily proud of the fact.

“Well, be that as it may, I was wondering why there were so many legends in the first place since you’re still, you know. Alive. Active. Still making deals. You’ve fallen into folktale and legend but you’re as real a person as I am. How did that happen? How does a man become a myth like that within his own lifetime?”

Rumpelstiltskin didn’t answer for a long time. He was staring out into the middle distance as they rode towards the mountains, but Belle could tell that he wasn’t taking any of it in at all. His mind was miles away.

“I suppose it might have something to do with the fact that my lifetime is rather longer than everyone else’s.” He looked over at her at last, and in that moment, Belle could see the centuries etched into the lines around his eyes. Physically he didn’t look to be older than his late forties, but his eyes held many more years in their depths. “Yes, I really am as old as people say.”

“How?”

“You’re not the only one who’s cursed, dearie. Like I said, all magic comes at a price.”

They continued to ride on. Belle was lost in thought, but she didn’t dare to ask Rumpelstiltskin any more questions until later, once they had reached the castle. She felt that there was something different about him now. Despite his strange appearance, he was the closest to a normal human man that he had been throughout their short time together, and it perturbed her. The knowledge that there was a man who had once been human there underneath the veneer of magic and legend made her wonder just what had happened to turn him into the person she saw now.

There had to be a reason why he had allowed his name to become legend. There had to be a reason why so many people thought that he was just an old wives’ tale and that he didn’t really exist. He was a figure from local myth and history, someone who wasn’t entirely real despite his presence throughout their folklore.

Up until now, perhaps he hadn’t been entirely real to Belle. Now, he was definitely a man of flesh and blood like anyone else, and she was more than intrigued to find out what the real story behind him was. His origins had been lost to time; like so many figures of legend, no-one could tell precisely how he came to be. The books had spoken of a curse, vague mentions of making a deal that he hadn’t understood at the time. Belle wondered if fairies were involved somewhere along the line to give him his antipathy towards them and their magic.

Other than those few vague words, though, there had been no mentions of where he had come from or who he had been before this curse. It was as if he had always been there, a constant presence that no one questioned. She had been intrigued by him before, but now having met him and verified his reality, she was even more so.

A cold wind had started to blow in from the north, and Belle pulled her cloak in tighter around her against the chill, pulling her hood up and tucking in her chin.

“Yes, the mountains are a forbidding place at times.” Rumpelstiltskin seemed unaffected by the sudden cold, and he looked over at Belle, shivering in her saddle. “Don’t worry. The castle will be more welcoming once we get there.”

“Do you have to live in such a remote place?” Belle muttered.

“I don’t like uninvited guests any more than the next man looking for peace and a quiet life,” Rumpelstiltskin pointed out. “At least I know that anyone who comes looking for me here really means business. I find that living so remotely does help to sort the desperate from the truly desperate. Most people would think it madness to make such a journey.”

“Well, call me mad then.”

Rumpelstiltskin just chuckled and squeezed his heels in to pick up the pace against the driving winds; Belle followed suit.

“Here,” he said, snapping his fingers. An empty glass jar appeared in his hand, and he held it out to Belle, who took it gingerly.

“What is it?”

He gave her an unimpressed look. “It’s not finished yet. Stop getting ahead of yourself.”

He snapped his fingers again and a small ball of blue flame flickered into life, dancing over his palm. Carefully, he tipped it into the jar, and immediately Belle felt her chilly hands begin to warm up.

“Thank you,” she said. “What’s the price for this one, then?”

Rumpelstiltskin waved her question away. “Oh, this one’s on me. We can’t have you dying of frostbite before we even get there, can we? It would be a terrible waste of a journey and I was really looking forward to analysing your curse; it’s one of the most complex I’ve seen and I’d hate to be denied the chance to take a closer look at it.”

Belle didn’t think that he was being entirely truthful in his reasoning there, but she didn’t press him any further, simply grateful for the warmth that was now suffusing her veins from the little jar of fire.

She felt a tingling sensation at her scalp again, at the base of her maudlin streak. It was the same feeling that she’d had the night before in the tavern, when she and Rumpelstiltskin had first talked and she had first been clued in as to his identity. He had said that her curse trusted him. It was the magic in her that had recognised the magic in him, and now it was doing so again, reminding her about just why she was here with him in the first place.

Her curse knew something about him that she didn’t, and she was determined to find out what it was.

Not now, though. In time. He had said that her curse was a complex one, so it might take some time for him to break it. It might take some time for him to find out if he would be able to break it in the first place. There might be plenty of time once they reached the Dark Castle and were out of the cold in which she could find out more about him. Because she really did want to find out more about him. She knew that she really couldn’t trust what the books said, and she had barely scratched the surface with her questioning this afternoon.

Rumpelstiltskin pulled up short, reigning his horse in.

“We’re here,” he said.

Belle came up alongside him, and looked over the mountain ridge. He had been right in the tavern when he had looked at her map; she never would have found the place so quickly had she gone on her original planned route. In fact, she wondered if he had perhaps used magic to make their journey shorter after all.

They weren’t there yet, there were still a few miles of winding roads into the foothills, but the Dark Castle was now in sight, looming impressive in the distance.

It was a foreboding place, and Belle shivered, but any fear that she felt soon gave way to anticipation. If she was going to succeed in finding a way to break her curse, then it would soon be close at hand.

She looked over at Rumpelstiltskin.

“Lead the way, Bill.”

He rolled his eyes but said nothing, and they continued down into the foothills, coming ever closer to the Dark Castle.

#rumbelle fic #rumbelle #Belle French #Rumpelstiltskin #Fic: A Streak of Luck

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fiendishthingee · 6 years

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“Searchers after horror haunt strange, far places...”

I was thinking of certain scary movies I revisit around this time of year and why, and ended up writing some stuff below.

The Dead Zone (1983, Dir. David Cronenberg)

This one isn't strictly horror but captures the bleak, wintry New England vibe of early Stephen King perfectly, and has what is to my mind Christopher Walken's most moving performance. One of the few times Cronenberg has cared less about disturbing you or ramming a philosophical point home than in using a solid narrative to explore the emotional experience of a man caught up in an extraordinary situation. One of those films that deepens in your mind the more you live with it.

The Haunting (1963, Dir. Robert Wise)

Shot widescreen in gorgeous black and white, this one is one of the crown jewels of haunted house pictures. From the first moments it has a rich sense of foreboding, like a whisper that sends chills down your spine. Great performances, especially from Julie Harris as a young woman who was never quite right slowly going insane.

The Spiral Staircase (1946, Dir. Robert Siodmak)

A small gem from the 40's, in which a young mute woman is terrorized by a shadowy killer in a big house during a thunderstorm (do these films exist in any other conditions?). Small town scares with a bit of a noir feel, and a very creepy score. One that you see and instantly calls to the part of your mind that remembers that one time you ran home a little faster as the sun went down, a breeze kicked up, and you were just sure there was something moving back there in the shadows.

Frankenstein (1931, Dir. James Whale)

An obvious choice, but no less incredible because of it. I deeply love the first batch of Universal monster films because of how simple and pure and cinematic they are. Limited production values but MASSIVE amounts of atmosphere and feeling. Some people might feel they are dated but I think love them even more because of that. I love history, and the dark corners of these pictures carry a sense of not just film history, but of the old world itself, and the rhythms it had before it was overrun with technology. Terrific performances by Boris Karloff and Colin Clive, plus a very evocative and theatrical "introduction" before the film begins.

The Bride of Frankenstein (1935, Dir. James Whale)

Same as above, though this is a much more polished, eccentric and entertaining film. James Whale had free reign to do what he wanted, and he cut loose, aided by a gorgeous Franz Waxman score and indelible work by Karloff and Clive (again), Elsa Lanchester and Ernest Thesiger (whose prissy Dr. Pretorious is one for the ages).

The Mummy (1932, Dir. Karl Fruend)

A different type of monster, but just as eerie and surreal. Another of my longtime fascinations is the culture of ancient Egypt (don't get me started on "Land of the Pharaohs" or "The Ten Commandments"), which this quick film indulges along with a dash of the inherent creepiness that was completely missing (IMHO) in any of that stuff Brendan Fraser did. Again, the stilted nature of some dialogue and performance is all part of the allure, making it all feels so alien as to fit the mood of the story perfectly.

The Innocents (1961, Dir. Jack Clayton)

Another black and white widescreen beauty, this one a more subtle, ethereal ghost story centered on a pair of children that a well meaning but naive nanny (Deborah Kerr) has been hired to look after. Buried secrets are uncovered and dark forces unleashed, but in a much more subtle and emotional way (for a modern equivalent, look at something like "The Others"). The use of shadow and space here will make your knees buckle in spots, and the general aura of uneasiness will raise the hairs on your neck.

The Changeling (1980, Dir. Peter Medak)

George C. Scott loses his wife and daughter in an accident, then moves into a large, foreboding mansion in Seattle to focus on his musical compositions and recovering emotionally. Obviously, things don't go as well as planned. The trappings of the haunted house genre are given a real emotional grounding, and the backstory feels organic and engrossing rather than just an excuse to throw in loud noises. Wonderfully acted, designed and photographed, a quiet nail biter.

Something Wicked This Way Comes (1983, Dir. Jack Clayton)

Though a bit Disneyfied, this one is still a perennial because of how it captures that mixture of wonder and fear that Ray Bradbury's work had, pitting ordinary people up against sinister forces closing in on the spaces we consider the safest (in this case, a Midwestern town where the only thing that changes are the seasons) and crystallizing the moment when a parent realizes how little power they have to protect their kids. Driven by two wonderful performances, from Jason Robards (weary and homespun) and Jonathan Pryce (deliciously malevolent), this film has a genuine feel for small town life, the way that autumn can seem both hopeful and menacing, and the perils of both wanting to grow up too fast and wanting to be young again.

Salem's Lot (1979, Dir. Tobe Hooper)

The first thing that I remember absolutely scaring the shit out of me as a kid was a moment in this TV production involving nails scratching a child's window in the middle of the night. I won't say more about THAT, but I will say that despite this being made for late 70's television, with all of the restrictions inherent to that time, it's still pretty damn creepy, which is both a testament to Stephen King's original book and to the level of skill and atmosphere Tobe Hooper was able to give it. The depth of creepiness and history isn't as rich as in the book, but there is an approximation of the story's eccentric sprawl that draws you in, plus the eccentric, nostalgic vibe you get from late 70's TV.

Go To The Head of the Class (from "Amazing Stories") (1986, Dir. Robert Zemeckis)

A spooky, spirited lark made just after "Back to the Future" became huge. Nothing ground breaking, just a fast, funny goof made with Zemeckis' characteristic visual spark for Spielberg's mid 80's TV show and featuring a wonderfully cracked performance by Christopher Lloyd pitched somewhere between Doc Brown and Judge Doom (roles he played on either side of this one).

Curse of the Demon (1957, Dir. Jacques Tourneur)

The fact that my own family was menaced by Satanists (angry at my father for hauling one of their leaders into jail) when I was 9 probably has a lot to do with why I respond to this film, in addition to the general air of menace and atmosphere that Tourneur was great at (see "Cat People" and "Out of the Past"). Concerning the curse put on a man who debunks cults by the nefarious leader of one, this is a quick, creepy psychological ride with a classy script that doesn't scrimp on jolts.

Horror of Dracula (1958, Dir. Terrence Fisher)

Innumerable vampire films litter the history of scary movies, and there are certainly some that may have more ingenuity and pizazz than this one. But something about this early Hammer film, with its chilly, heightened gothic atmosphere and a sense of reality being peeled away in front of your eyes, sticks with you. It may be Terrence Fisher's brisk, efficient skill for building horror, or it may be the iconic performances of Peter Cushing and the great Christopher Lee. Or it may just be that particular, peculiar English sense of impending doom these films have. I first saw this one on during an AMC marathon (before they ever had commercials) hosted by the director of the next film on this list, and it's easy to understand how it spoke to his own feeling for the inevitability of a malevolent force slowly closing in on you.

The Thing (1982, Dir. John Carpenter)

Cold, stark and unsparingly tense, I saw this at a drive in when I was 7, and it sunk its teeth into me before I ever knew who John Carpenter was. The sense of isolation and foreboding built into the Antarctic location extends to the feeling of the direction, acting, photography and even the musical score (a mix of Ennio Morricone and Carpenter himself). At its core is the idea that you can't trust anything, whether it's the physical elements around you, the man sitting beside you or even your own sense of self. The opening sequence, of a dog being chased by a helicopter in the snow, is just gorgeous and evocative, and Dean Cundey's photography throughout is lithe and lurking. I think this film is so powerful for me because it came at a very formative time, the period between 8 and 11 where I was developing an understanding of the larger forces in the world that were not benevolent, that did not have any compassion, and did in fact want to kill you.

Halloween III: Season of the Witch (1982, Dir. Tommy Lee Wallace)

This one got a unduly bad rap out of the gate, as it went in a wildly different direction in terms of its story and had nothing to do with Michael Myers. Aside from that, though, this is very much in the early 80's Carpenter spirit, directed by schoolmate/editor Tommy Lee Wallace, shot by Dean Cundey and driven by an unsettling, dread soaked score by Carpenter himself. True, there is a definite B-movie spirit to it, with obligatory kill scenes that feel too calculated and acting (aside from lead Tom Atkins and the wonderful bad guy Dan O'Herlihy) that can be a little shaky, but overall it's a creepy, entertaining story about modern day witchcraft (with a TV jingle that will get in your head and stay there forever). Again, part of its appeal may go back to where I grew up, in a small, rural place where something always felt a little off, where bad things might be happening at any moment right under your nose, and the dark carried a powerful emotional force.

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gwydionae · 6 years

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You'd Be Surprised How Much Pain Can Help With That

A/N: Just had some thoughts on Paultin in 94. Because of course I did. No excuses - just thoughts.

Posted on fanfiction.net >here<. Posted on AO3 >here<.

Teaser: Paultin knew exactly what kind of drunk he was. These weren't the signs of a cheerful, pleasant drunk. No, he was definitely the loud, crass, disorderly sort. And this time he was going to use that to his advantage.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dice, Camera, Action or Dungeons and Dragons. Takes place during episode 94. Title and dialogue taken directly from the show.

You’d Be Surprised How Much Pain Can Help With That

When it came to pain - especially the sort that couldn't be healed with rest, bandages, or spells - alcohol, even copious amounts, could only do so much to dull the effects. Paultin knew this all too well. He might grow numb for a while, his mind blank while the ocean waves blurred past the small ship, but eventually that would wear off, usually upon waking from a nap or full night's rest to a pounding headache. And somehow, since the storm, with each passing day those moments of lucidity grew more and more painful, his conflicting desires each screaming at him to listen while the very fiber of his being felt torn between the dull comfort of apathy and the extreme highs and lows that came with having actual emotions. The wine would always help apathy win in the end, but every moment of sobriety piled more guilt onto him for ignoring the increasingly loud cries for action echoing within him.

That trope about the little shoulder angels and devils might have been one of the oldest in the book, but the idea wasn't too far off from the war waging in Paultin's mind. On one hand, there was a part of him that thought perhaps he should offer an apology for snapping at his travel companions, use it to calm them down so he could try to explain in simpler terms that not dying was the ideal outcome of any given situation. He really wasn't sure why something like that needed an explanation, but then, after the whole mess with the Storm Giants...

And that was where the other, louder, nastier side of him would chime in. He'd been no better. By putting a stop to the giants' magic, he had endangered everyone on the ship, condemning Captain Ortimay to a watery grave and nearly losing Strix and Evelyn. His fellow party members had never listened to him before, and proving himself deaf to his own words only made it less likely they'd listen to him now. Not that he blamed them. He wasn't a natural leader, he didn't have incredible strength, nor could he shoot fireballs from his open palms; he was just your average bagpipe playing drunk incapable of keeping those around him - his "new family" - safe.

That little devil inside of him sneered at the title, chastising him for admitting such a thing, especially out loud for anyone to hear. Evelyn, Diath, and Strix had become something he could only barely remember having in what felt like another life, something he'd been so careful to never have again. Because having something meant that it could be lost, and while the loss of friends was certainly undesirable, the loss of a second family wasn't a loss he was confident that he was capable of dealing with. But they were a part of him now, so it seemed his only option was to sit back and watch uselessly as they each burned out in one blaze of glory after another.

Unless...

Usually this was the part where Paultin forcibly shut both sides of his brain up by drowning them in alcohol, the possible solution to his dilemma one that he was sure to both hate and consider with far too much interest. But after his most recent little chat with Evelyn ended with her again cherry picking which words of his she wanted to hear, the desire to at last indulge his more selfish side, a side he'd been trying to suppress for the sake of everyone around him, finally won out. But while Evelyn may have gotten him to at last listen to this selfish plan of his, it was Captain Ruddell handing him a key to his private store of the finest wines that pushed him into action.

Paultin knew exactly what kind of drunk he was. Sure he didn't often remember what he'd done or said afterwards, but he'd found himself waking up in back alleys face down in vomit - as opposed to in a bed at the inn he could have sworn he'd been playing at - enough times to have a pretty clear idea. The occasional bruises and bloody lips helped to fully flesh out the picture. These weren't the signs of a cheerful, pleasant drunk. No, he was definitely the loud, crass, disorderly sort. And this time he was going to use that to his advantage.

If there was one thing he had come to learn about the colorful group around him, it was the lengths they each would go in order to protect each other. Whether that pain be physical, emotional, or otherwise, all three of them were ready to defend against it, no matter the cost. He was going to exploit those instincts, using a simple enough plan involving the two things he was best at: drinking and being a complete asshole.

After the first several days, things seemed to be going well, as far as he could tell, anyway. Paultin was far too drunk to actually remember a whole lot of what he'd done or said exactly, but both Evelyn and Diath were noticeably shooting him disapproving looks, and Strix, well, she couldn't even get within ten feet of him without jumping and scampering off in a random direction. No one confronted him about his destructive behavior, either, preferring to deal with the issue by keeping a wide berth, probably hoping they could ride it out until he regained his senses and composure.

But the reality of the situation wasn't what they were hoping for; all of this was the plan working as it was designed. He'd allowed himself to get too close, dooming himself to a life of helplessly watching a bunch of catastrophically selfless people die, and the only way to correct that oversight was to disconnect. Unfortunately, however, he had become too attached to simply leave, and even if he could have, they likely would have attempted to drag him back. Unless, of course, he gave them enough reasons not to.

A sober Paultin could never have carried out such a plan. Diath's disgust, Evelyn's disappointment, Strix's distance, all would have compounded painfully until regret settled in and his normal behavior did in fact return. But a thoroughly, utterly plastered Paultin? That fancy wine of Ruddell's made him numb to such pain, and even when it temporarily wore off, he generally found himself in the lone company of the ever stalwart Simon, free of the obvious signs of his forgotten cruelties.

He would force their hand, persuade them to finally give up on him and move on. After all, you can't lose what you no longer have, and he'd rather they cut him off then be pulled along behind while he watched their corpses pile up. Again.

After nearly three weeks of this, he'd lost a drinking buddy, found a hippo spaceman, and had rudely eavesdropped on more private conversations than the number of missions the four of them had managed to botch thus far, a fact that made it all the more shocking they hadn’t threatened to throw him overboard yet. They had also, however, gained one Zhentarim ship, too far to be an immediate threat, but close enough to know that it was indeed following them. The desire to help that he knew would probably never really go away made the absence of the mandolin with its Fly spell gnaw at him. Combo that with Invisibility and at the very least he could have found out exactly what they'd be up against upon finally reaching Waterdeep. But as usual he remained the helpless drunk who got to sit back and watch as -

"Paultin, you're the best to do this."

Having paid such little attention to the worried mutterings going on around him, it took him a moment to realize not only that his party was discussing a possible recon mission, same as he had been, but also that for the first time in weeks someone was directly addressing him. Strix, to be exact. Flinch-at-his-every-glance Strix. Strix, who had a flying broom, wanted him to go to the ship nearly a mile away. Even sober he would have had trouble keeping the irritation out of his response.

"No problem, I'll just fly over there on my mando- oh wait."

"I'll give you my broom!"

"I dunno know how'da use that thing!"

"You just point and go!"

Strix was now shoving her magical flying broom in his direction, glaring at him pointedly to take it. Blinking down at it with far more interest than he wanted to admit, Paultin glanced from the broom to her face and back before finally reaching out. As his hand curled around the handle, he could feel a familiar hum of magic against his fingertips and palm. It was wild and thrilling, and even as he slowly attuned to it he had a sense that it was something he'd never fully be able to tame. It took him a second to refocus on Strix as she spoke again, wringing her hands nervously. Her eyes, however, were clear and serious.

"I'm sorry that we all try to kill ourselves... all the time... And that's not smart, but it's because we all care very much about each other. And I'm sorry that I was a bad friend, and I care about all of you..."

Paultin was sure he had responded, probably in a suitably off-handed sort of way that wouldn't reveal his feelings on the whole exchange too much, but as his slightly-more-terrifying-than-he'd-expected mission concluded and everyone went back to busying themselves on the ship, he found that the bottle in his hand seemed to reach his lips less and less. The entire conversation with Strix nagged at him, but it wasn't until late that night, a time he'd normally be passed out on the floor too drunk to climb into his hammock, that he stumbled upon why. And as the rest of his companions slept, his eyes remained open and unclouded, that little angelic voice in his head finally gaining his attention for the first time since he'd put this whole plan into motion.

From the depths of his memory sprang a scene on another ship, one flying high in the sky rather than sailing the seas. He’d been drinking heavily then, too, doing his best to forget the fifty odd years he’d spent wandering the Mists. But a voice had interrupted his nonexistent thoughts, the sound of his name carrying through a nearby doorway as hushed voices discussed a different recon mission.

“ – have Paultin make one of us invisible. Not him – he’s too drunk. We can’t trust him to listen to anyone.”

Looking back, it was hard to blame Strix. He hadn’t truly appreciated his friendship with all of them until he was forced to go so long without it, and his decisions up to that point reflected as much. His self-serving actions really gave her no reason to believe he could be trusted with something so important. But now, months upon months later, that scene played out differently. They were still on a ship, there was still an intelligence gathering mission, and he was still drunk. The only real difference was that they had put their faith in him to handle it.

The dawning realization of the uncanny parallels between the two moments in time combined with Strix’s heartfelt apology to a man that had been nothing but antagonistic toward her for weeks caused an unfamiliar ache in Paultin’s chest to blossom. It wasn’t a new feeling, but it was certainly one he generally did everything in his power to prevent. Pain wasn’t something he was fond of, and caring about people other than himself had introduced him to some of the worst pains of all - guilt, fear, anxiety, grief, loneliness... Instinctually he took a sip of wine.

He knew, though, that this ache didn't only promise pain. Despite the countless horrors they had all lived - and sometimes died - through, still the first visions that sprang to his mind when he focused on it were of the calmer moments. Evelyn's bright-as-the-sun smile as she watched him play his mandolin, Simon on her lap. Strix excitedly baking everyone pies and cookies whenever she got the chance. Even the usually broody Diath standing at the ship's wheel with his shirt off, probably thinking no one was noticing his occasional glances over at Strix to see if she was watching. Peace, joy, affection - emotions he had faked his way through plenty of times, but somehow this ragtag group of misadventurers had caused him to experience all of them in very real ways.

The plan, however, had already been set in motion. Even if he wanted to put an end to it now, he wasn't sure if he could. Strix may have forgiven him and promised to take his words of caution to heart, but Evelyn and Diath's cold stares held a look of a trust broken, and he wouldn't blame them if such a thing was too utterly mangled to be fixed. But still that annoying little voice in his head told him that he should try, the ache in his chest begging him to fill it with more of those happy moments.

Paultin took one last drink from his half full wine bottle before setting it down, laying down next to Simon, and closing his eyes. He honestly wasn't sure which side he would listen to tomorrow as they continued their long trek or what he would do once they finally reached Waterdeep. Planning had never been his strong suit, a fact emphasized by how much one, small conversation had derailed his most recent agenda. He would wait and see, let the actions of others spur him forward as he usually did, remaining just tipsy enough to dull the guilt, but not enough to hold his tongue if need be.

The final thought that drifted through his mind before sleep at last overtook him was that, perhaps, he could maybe try to lighten up a little on Strix. Just a bit. Maybe.

A/N: The parallels - and differences - between the recon missions in 94 and 59 really struck me. Paultin's grown a lot since then, even if, looking at 94 on its own, it might not seem like it.

As always, critics and grammar police are appreciated!

#dice camera action #waffle crew #paultin seppa #strix #strix skizzicks #my fanfiction #i am never going to write anything happy for dca am i lol

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