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rumblelibrary · 3 years

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The Diary of Doctor Laszlo Kreizler

Chapter 1

Synopsis: Alienist’s notes are private, sometimes gruesome, secrets of others and of himself.Those pages belongs to secrecy and decadence, have a glimpse to this world made of drafts, notes, accidents and reflections. Or maybe it is you the only person that should ever reach for it.

While you read this imagine Laszlo mostly at the end of his day, scraping the ideas and the thoughts, adjusting previous notes with additions, closing the day behind himself with a couple of sentences while sitting in his evening robe, a good glass of whiskey and his glasses bridged almost at the tip of his nose. Or maybe imagine yourself, you sneaky thing, reach for it from a far shelf.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: listen, this is the set of ideas and confessions of a man living in the 1890’s. Most of them will be outdated, rough, even deprecating in some analysis of the roles of men, women and social status, religion, etc.So be prepared, my point is to make Laszlo reflect upon those topics, but to be as faithful as I can to his time. Mention of death, mutilation, self harm and a minor depiction of a fight. Psychologically troubled young children ahead! Author’s note: I am a nerd for a good Victorian novel and a sexy Alienist.I have always been charmed by Laszlo’s mind and inner conflicts. So I took the chance and tried to have a run into that rollercoaster. The story is placed between season 1 and season 2.

Diary belonging to Dr. Laszlo Kreizler. This is a professional book of annotations over medical treatments of an alienist toward his patients. Do not disclose and send it back to the address if found: Kreizler’s Institute, xxxxxx, New York City (NY) L.K.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, Illustrated Natural History of the Animal Kingdom (c1859). Contributed for digitization by University Library, University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign.

Schiller in his “Die Weltweisen” wrote: So long as philosophy keeps together the structure of the Universe so long does it maintain the world’s machinery by hunger and love. From the philosopher point of view sexual life takes a subordinate position in human’s life, from recent studies pushed by European philosophers, everything is about sexuality and its development. I like to think of the experience of being an alienist as the process of Queen Penelope that, while waiting for her husband Ulysses return, undoes her craftwork every night. I undo the fabulous constructs of people’s beliefs to go back to the rough sketch that stands at the beginning of their loss, their complex, their pain. Maybe that’s why working with children is so motivating and fascinating. They can be saved and yet, I am well aware, some of those sketches already traced in their young lives equal to scars that not even the most advanced theories could cure. But I can sooth them. I can prevent them the torment, the anguish, the recollection at night of those monsters. I feel like a poet would be a better alienist than a philosopher, but I have got no poetry nor philosophy in my veins, but the cold experience of the razor blade judgment of Life itself.

Today I observed a fight among the children at the Institute. Age range between 10 and 12. Boys. The fight was over the possession of a side of the playground, the territory of a pack of youngsters formed under the name of Steven. Peculiar lad, coming from a military background finds comfort in replicating the schemes he lived in his family. He takes the role of the Father/Captain of the team and subjects children that come from a similar background story, but do not posses his same attitude to the command. All quiet on the front, until the space he declared is own spot got affected by the presence of others. Intruders. I knowingly let the events unfold to see how Steven would react to his challenged authority. His reaction was, at first, worded, a sketch, a stage-play of an action he witnessed over and over, and he knew the part so well that some of the contending kids lowered their stance against him. Among considering to mildly intervene into this pyramid scheme of authority, another boy, Jan, calls himself on the role of the educator and hero of the masses and proceeds to unfold a wild and well assessed punch on the newly declared dictator face. Balance is established again. No need for me to arbitrate, once more the laws of nature seem to apply to children as in a state of nature.

Meet John Moore over lunch. His job at the newspaper is picking up, he is charmed by the spirits and the wits that he finds in his shared office with all the other writers. He mentions many, goes on and on over qualities and troubles, gossips and tendencies, and even little scandals here and there. To be aware of all those details gives me no interest, but to see a dear friend so invested clearly gives me something to pick up. To consider also the amount of details and the way he describes this or that member of the journal, I can do a small exercise of analysis. It is almost too easy because John is painfully genuine, even some of the kids at the institute would beat him hands down in a battle of lies. The more he likes somebody, the more he goes on about all the details and the characteristics, often letting aside the physical appearance. When he doesn’t like somebody he has a couple of adjectives for the wits and around four or five for the physical aspects that usually indulge on some repulsive idiosyncrasies. John is a man that painfully fits in the storyline of The Picture of Dorian Gray: to him physical beauty is spiritual beauty and, of course, the other way around. This part of him surely intrigues me, makes me want to tease more from him. But, as a friend, it concerns me as John is way too prone to purposelessly decide that somebody with good eyes is also a good human being, which is a very romantic and admirably naive way of judging matters. I noticed some names that keep repeating in his narration. I dread that it is synonymous of a soon encounter from my side with the objects of his admiration. Fetiches, I dare to say, that I will have to annihilate before they sediment into his mind, perpetuating a narration that soon sees John being mislead by others.

Reserved: Tickets for the Eroica, Symphony n. 3 by Ludwig van Beethoven. Thursday evening.

Note on the show: the first movement lacked the pathos needed to begin with, I am not sure that the guest orchestra really managed to portray the wider emotional ground needed to withstand the whole representation. As the evening progressed there were some outstanding performances by the cellists. Still not approving the choice of reprising the early quick finale movement against the lengthy set of variations and fugue that we are used to in presence of the Eroica. Underwhelming the performance of the horn and oboe, vital in the comprehension of the genius of Beethoven.

Niki is a new addition of the Institute, quite old for the standards. He is already 16, he will leave when summer ends to some expensive college his family meant him to stay. His parents expect me to make him “normal” in the time we are allowed together. He is Austrian and I let him act it out like I don’t understand German for the first week of hist stay until today. I believe I hit his pride, which is good, in the moment I answered back to one of his sneaky comments. Now he knows. He is not safe from me, he doesn’t like it. The young man has a tendency to danger, risky tasks and edgy situations. In his mother’s own words “Niki is not afraid of anything”. The phrase didn’t raise any excitement in the father, rather some sort of painful acceptance that is role as the alpha male of the house is probably not only being challenged, but already diminished, if not abolished. I have taken in consideration that Niki will break himself a bone or two in the process of the therapy, probably out of the spite of boredom or rebellion. It took him less than few days to turn himself into an outcast among the outcasts, which only drives me closer to analyse the complexity of his narcissistic wall of self defence. I gave him a physical challenge to lift a certain weight, he is a pretty skinny one, he didn’t like the challenge, but I am sure he will take it. He is a brainy guy, he hates to be questioned on unfamiliar ground. He won’t sleep at night thinking about it. A challenge, in this first phase, can only bring me closer to the ease of his pains. To continue the observation.

It is a sad privilege of medicine, in particular the one I practice, to be able to witness the weaknesses of the human nature and the reverse side of life. Nevertheless, I oblige this same privilege of the study as life moves into shades of darkness. To be aware of it gives more solace to my soul than to be victim of patiently waiting for the inevitable unfolding of the events. To be able to understand more about psychology would bring more comfort and elevation to any human being, the times might not be there yet, but eventually something will move into the direction of a more wholesome approach.

Dinner meeting with Sara Howard, at the restaurant Jardin Des Cygnes, 7 pm sharp. Do not expect to reach the dessert. Do not know if John will be participating due to undeniable tension among the two and the fatal despise of John over French cuisine.

The case that Sara unfolded tonight to my ears feels more and more like pulled out from some gothic book or from the mind of a Roman historian that needed to justify the godly origins of an Emperor. One killing, apparently random, a very constructed iconography over the body. Signs and insults, shapes and drawings. Is this a work of art? Does the killer wants his victim to be his Mona Lisa? His David? I am charmed and destabilised. If this was a murder like any other, then why to spend so much time into it? Based on the description the act of killing itself was quick: a sharp cut over the throat, almost like not wanting to ruin too much the surface to use as base for, what? I keep rerunning those symbols over and over as Sara described them to me, my mind is flooded with the designs of greek philosophers that needed to explain themselves why the sky is above our head and never collapses on us. Hilarious how, no matter the science advancement, in the mind of many the sky stands inevitably overt their shoulders, suffocates them, brings them to a death of the soul and not of the body. Is all this graphic charade indeed only a form to scream for attention? To stress the eyes of an unaware viewer? It seems ridiculously elaborate, a scream for attention would be quick, it would be like guided by instinct, not reasoning, craftwork. Any man with a knife can paint in blood red the walls of a room and that’s asking for attention. That is the primal howl: look at me! I am here! But this one. I don’t know yet.

Spent the early morning reading anew my copy of The Metamorphosis by Ovid. Didn’t touch it in a long time and I got bedazzled by the world of terrible sensuality, anger and selfishness of those gods and mortals. I think back at all the deviances and weaknesses of human kind and I try to relate it to all of those humanoid figures. Niki would be a minotaur, the lonesome son left in the labyrinth and his strive for success is his bull’s head. Or maybe a centaur, because of his wits and strategic thinking. I might keep up the process, maybe this is the way to understand my patients better, to understand the killer better. Must remember not to romanticise it. Greek gods were probably the first form of self indulging of a society that needed gods to be forgiving and allowing favours and punishments, but only in exchange of sacrifices. But the sacrifice never comes from the God’s will, but from the will of the man that perpetuates the act of killing. To sacrifice someone or something is the sadistic response to a lack of love deeply inherited in human mind that becomes neurotic. Is the killer giving the God of his own neurosis a body to feast upon?

I talked with Jan this morning. The young boy is about 10, but he acts like a full grown adult. I could easily asses that’s the reason why he could challenge Steven in that fight. Two children mimicking adults situations they know too well. Jan is son of an industrial man, but he is also son of the dialectics of the industrial revolution. He sounds like he swallowed some of those books about working class rights and communism, probably pushed by a resentful surrounding (mother?uncle? the midwife?) over the social role of his father. As much as incredibly smart and lectured, Jan lost most of his early occasions in life by spending a considerable amount of time using his fists. The anger ever present in the young boy always surprises me, he seems to be holding a power, a strength of a full grown man in those tiny arms. Nevertheless, he is already the tallest of the group. He is surely an idealist, which makes him also tragically fragile. His strength mixed with his heart of gold can make him the best of the heroes or the worst of the villains. He apologised for the fight, he specified how he didn’t like the sound of Steven’s voice, more than the sound, the level of pitch. I can’t stand somebody shouting orders, I just don’t listen anymore. He is so mature even about his own feelings, almost a gentleman in his chivalry toward the weaker children, honest with his open heart and resentful against any form of injustice. I am not spared by his ways, he would come at me whenever he feels like I was being partial over some of the kids, his sense of justice blinds him and transform a perfectly balanced boy into a ranging animal.

Ordered book, to be delivered around tomorrow evening: Introduction à la méthode de Léonard de Vinci by Paul Valéry. Suddenly feeling myself as a gross ignorant in art themes. I always regarded myself aware of the artistic personalities and tendencies of present and past, but this new amount of perceptions over the human figure and the human body leads me to document myself more. I could ask John for advice, but he wouldn’t take things at matter that seriously. I can almost hear him say how I can make gruesome a pleasant topic such as art. I should probably wait to see the body to push any further aesthetic study, but I find myself not being able to stop. I reckon, I can allow myself a vice or two.

Today I saw the body of the killed man, courtesy of the Isaacson's. To be fair, I had underestimated it. In Sara’s descriptions, probably due to her more analytic mind, all the charm of the representation got lost in favour of a less cryptic and reasonable understanding of the act. Sara got what some alienists will call a masculine mind, which I don’t perfectly agree on. If I apply that same approach John would be a very feminine mind, all wrapped up in romanticising even the ugliest. I guess that dividing the world in “fragile and gentle” and “strong and powerful” is just easier to explain the fluctuation of something that doesn’t need a real name or a category like human inclinations on thoughts. I got a feverish sense of patience by looking at the body. Each symbol traced with sapient slowness, dense of the time that the killer spent with the body. That is a work of hours, he had time and meaning. He had resources and was able to spend not less than the time he needed to reach, a vision? An ideal? A message? Is it the message meant to be understood? Am I supposed to unravel it or it is maybe just the way the killer communicates within himself? And if I do decifrate the code, will that bring me closer to him? Or to his next victim?

Reminder: ask John to replicate all the symbols on the bodies in the correct measure and order. It might be needed some hard convincing. Addition: scheduled meeting, his house, 3 pm.

It wasn’t a day like any other when I met you. Or maybe it was, and that’s why I got so struck by it and now I am here playing it over and over through what my memory clung on so desperately. In my own experience, life was often similar to swimming in a lake. Those rich, dense lakes in the north of (illegible cancelled word) were my father used to bring us during summer. I still feel the pull, the draw down toward the abyss. It ashamed me, in a way, the fear that such a simple feeling aroused in my young mind, unaware nevertheless, that such a feeling would follow me through all my existence. It was a prophecy and, like most of the prophecies, was a riddle. I cradle in my heart the charm of those days, the mindless happiness. The foolish feeling of freedom. Little I knew that freedom would be taken away from me that soon, that the body that used to navigate me over the dense waters, helping me to fight the haul toward the unknown, would become my own cage. That day. Today. The day where I met you, the day I was afloat. The child gasping for air felt the wrench become a gentle push and now he is floating on his back over the scary waters of reality and malice. It gave me relief and it gave me terror, because since that very moment I knew that I would never be able to move on from the sight of you. From the feeling of your eyes lingering on me. From the smile you so easily shone upon me. From the whiff of imported perfume that hit me when you turned on side exploding that swan like neck. And nothing, not even my stern look, could dim that wave of hope that your sole presence washed over me. The abyss roars, calls me to a home of damnation and terror and curses my name and yet you repeated that hell-bound name of mine after me and I felt safe.

John told me so much about you, it feels like I have always known you.

The rope is gone from my neck, the guillotine won’t fall on me, I am spared, I am free.

I have read your latest article, I am thrilled to help with the case.

I am in disbelief.

Your voice.

Dr. Kreizler

How dare you? How dare you to come into my life, to appear, like a vision, mystical, in a way I despised at University when all those theology students talked about the divine. In this very moment I can’t recollect much of what you said, something about the case, about going with John at the obituary. It feels confusing, I feel overstimulated, my memory fails me, I am not sure anymore. I write these few lines and it is passed the hour of the witches and I wish, I demand, to never see you again, because life should never grant hope to a condemned man.

#dr laszlo kreizler #dr laszlo kreizler imagine #dr laszlo kreizler x reader #dr laszlo kreizler x you #laszlo kreizler #laszlo kreizler headcanons #laszlo kreizler x reader #the alienist fanfic #victorian age #v writes #the diary of doctor laszlo kreizler

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writtenjewels · 3 years

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Dance

Cullen glanced around the library looking for one particular face. He was hoping to see the man at the front desk but no such luck. Sighing, Cullen slid his book into the return bin and started going through the shelves. He did enjoy reading so these frequent visits to the library weren't entirely because of the handsome librarian. But he had to admit that he was much more eager to come by these days because of the man.

He turned the corner toward the next line of shelves and felt an excited thrill in his heart. Dorian, dark hair swept in an elegant style as always, was putting books away. He wore an outfit of blue and white today, which Cullen thought complemented his dark skin well. Dorian shifted to grab the next book and noticed Cullen. His mustache was perfectly styled too with just the hint of a curl.

“Finished your book already, Cullen?” he asked.

“Yes, I enjoyed it.” He was aware Dorian had learned his name as a show of good customer service, but it still thrilled him to hear it. Dorian's lips curled into a smile and he picked up a book from his cart.

“Here, you should read this one next. I've read it myself and found it wonderful.” Cullen took the volume with a muttered thanks. “You'll have to let me know what you think when you're finished.”

“I will.” Damn it all, why couldn't he have a more coherent conversation with this man? It was easy to talk when he was giving out orders or discussing strategy, but the idea of expressing romantic interest had him tongue-tied. Not wishing to stand there like a fool, Cullen turned on his heels and went to check out the book.

Naturally, his friends felt the need to tease him about it later.

“So did you finally talk to the handsome librarian?” Josephine wondered. “For more than five minutes?”

“No,” he was forced to admit. Varric let out a groan.

“You're hopeless, Curly. You've been pining over this guy for... what, a month now? Why don't you ask him out already, for Andraste's sake?” Cullen squirmed uneasily. He didn't know how he would go about doing that. Varric seemed to come to the same conclusion. “You know what you need? A night out. Friday, we're going out for some fun. No excuses.”

There was no point in arguing with Varric Tethras. And knowing the dwarf, his idea of “fun” was not going to line up with Cullen's. He contented himself with seeing Dorian again in the meantime. As they chatted about books, a thought came to him. If he could just ask Dorian out, he could avoid whatever “fun” Varric had in mind.

“Are you doing anything interesting this weekend?” he asked, hoping that came out as casual and friendly.

“Not particularly. I have to work my second job.” Cullen deflated a little at that. “I forgot to mention,” Dorian continued. “The library is going to be putting out a chess set for patrons. You said you liked playing, yes? Maybe you can help me break it in.”

“Play chess with you?” Cullen confirmed. Was Dorian flirting? Or was Cullen simply hoping, and this was all just the same friendliness as usual? Either way, it meant more time spent with the handsome librarian. “Yes, I'd enjoy that.” Dorian's face practically glowed in a responding smile.

Friday night found Cullen with Varric and Josephine about to enter a club. He was already regretting this before they even walked through the door. What he found inside had him nearly choking on his own tongue. There were half-naked men everywhere: walking around serving drinks, sitting on top of tables, dancing on a stage....

“Varric, is... is this a strip club?!” Cullen squeaked out.

“Yeah. I figure this was a good way to take your mind off your librarian.” Too stunned to speak, Cullen turned to Josephine hoping to get her support. But her face was alight in a grin. “It doesn't do anything for me,” the dwarf continued, “but you and Ruffles can go enjoy yourselves. I'm just here to foot the bill.”

When Cullen still couldn't speak, Varric herded him over to a table where the three of them took a seat. A waiter came by to get their drink orders. Cullen supposed that the tight shirt and short shorts could be considered a uniform, but it left little to the imagination.

“My friend here is a first-timer,” Varric informed the waiter, patting Cullen on the shoulder. “What would you recommend?” Cullen blushed as the waiter gave him a once-over.

“You have a good view of the stage. Sparkler is going on the pole in a few minutes. He's one of our best dancers.” Going on the pole...? Cullen gulped as he focused on the men sliding up and down metal poles, draping one leg around it and arching their backs. He dropped his eyes down to his lap. He was relieved that his arousal wasn't that noticeable.

There was no denying that this club hired attractive men. All varying sizes and shapes to appeal to different customers. Qunari, elves, humans, even some dwarfs. Josephine was hooting and clapping, loving all of this. Someone announced the next set of dancers and Varric nudged Cullen hard. He sighed, lifting his head again. He would indulge the dwarf a while longer before insisting they leave.

The one called Sparkler walked onto the stage and positioned himself at the pole nearest where Cullen and his friends were sitting. Cullen's mouth dropped, his heart gave a lurch in his chest, and he momentarily forgot how to breathe. That styled dark hair, the gently curled mustache, those sea-grey eyes... Cullen's whole body started buzzing. It was Dorian. The man was wearing form-fitting clothing that sparkled when he moved.

The music started and Dorian began to move along the pole. He slid his hands up its length until they stretched above his head and then he bent his back in an elegant arch. Straightening again, he sank down with legs parted until he was nearly sitting on the stage. Dorian rose up slowly, jutting his ass out as he did. Cullen gaped, spellbound. He was likely biased but he could see why Dorian was one of the best: he had a way of moving that displayed his body in a sensual, almost teasing way. Making the crowd hungry for more.

Off to one side a group of men were cheering and calling for Dorian to start stripping. Cullen glared at them. Dorian placed a hand on his chest and pretended to swoon. He winked at the group and ripped his shirt off in one tug, throwing it toward the delighted men. Now Dorian was bare from the waist up. Cullen was finding it more difficult to breathe. He'd seen half-naked men before-- hell, he'd seen a completely naked man before when that one recruit lost his armor. But seeing Dorian like this, beautiful and glistening under the stage lights, was quite a different matter.

It struck Cullen that he might not have reacted so strongly if he didn't know Dorian from the library. Superficially, yes, the man was just as attractive as every other employee in the club. But Cullen had heard his laugh, seen his smile, knew some of his interests. Seeing the friendly librarian like this only added a new layer to the man. Dorian was stretching himself on the pole again, displaying his body shamelessly. His head was tilted up, his lips parted as if caught in pleasure. Cullen felt a stir of desire inside him. He wanted to be the cause of that pleasure...

Dorian was gliding his body down the pole and Cullen followed the progress. The man's legs were spread wider and Cullen leaned forward. Keeping his back pressed against the pole, Dorian trailed his fingers down the planes of his chest and stomach. Cullen's breath hitched in excitement. Dorian's eyes slowly opened, his expression hooded and sultry for whichever man he happened to be focused on. And his eyes met Cullen's.

Cullen saw the moment when the persona of the wanton seducer dropped. Dorian's eyes went wide and his mouth opened again, in surprise this time. It was hard to tell with the body oil glistening on him, but he might have even been blushing. Dorian wet his lips and rested his hands on his knees. He ran them up the insides of his parted thighs, Cullen following the progression. His eyes darted back up to Dorian's face. The man's eyes were still locked on him and he was breathing heavily. Not, Cullen thought, from the exertion of his dance.

Cullen wet his own lips and swallowed. His eyes went back down to Dorian's spread legs. The man's fingers gripped onto his inner thighs and tugged. The trousers ripped off, revealing his legs and the small bit of cloth covering his crotch. Cullen nearly fell out of his chair. He managed to recover but he had to get a hand down and press against the straining bulge between his legs. Dorian noted that and shuddered a little. His mouth moved in a deliberate forming of Cullen's name, spreading his legs out even wider, throwing back his head and arching his body.

Thoughtlessly, Cullen rubbed the heel of his palm against his clothed erection. Some part of his mind was aware he was still in a club and other men were drooling over Dorian right now, but it was all background noise. All he could see was Dorian stretching, sliding up and down the pole, displaying his body for Cullen. He continued rubbing and Dorian's eyes kept centering on him with every dip and sway he took on the pole. The song ended far too soon. Dorian swept a bow, again lingering on Cullen, then turned to the group who had his shirt.

“Well,” Varric spoke up, reminding Cullen that he wasn't alone after all, “you seemed to like that one, Curly.”

“Yes,” Cullen agreed, clasping his hand tight over his rock-hard erection. “I suppose I did.”

#dorian x cullen #dorian pavus #cullen rutherford #cullrian #modern au

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bookaboutabook · 3 years

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dress by ts= rowaelin

this might be long but i thought of it and it has to be done :)

“our secret moments in your crowded room they've got no idea about me and you”

okay so literally in QoS they communicate basically entirely in silence, like they’re the only people in a crowded room, especially at arobynn’s party they are basically flirting without anyone knowing because at the time things are basically all platonic to everyone else. no one knows that they’re growing feelings or having secret conversations.

“there is an indentation in the shape of you made your mark on me, a golden tattoo”

this is EoS and KoA energy-- the claiming marks, and the tattoos that rowan gives aelin. ALSO the choice of the color golden screams rowaelin because as we know thats the nightgowns color and i feel like it comes up a lot when describing aelin-- golden eyes, hair etc.

“all of this silence and patience, pining in anticipation my hands are shaking from holding back from you all of this silence and patience, pining and desperately waiting my hands are shaking from holding back from all this ”

QoS is almost entirely sexual tension so i think this is very self explanatory. they were both holding back the way they felt about each other when they both clearly wanted something more. this gives me vibes of rowan needing to cool down from aelin’s presence and taking forever to fall asleep with her so near yet so far away.

“say my name and everything just stops i don't want you like a best friend”

um please so several points-- 1.) rowan is the first person that starts calling celaena by her real name, aelin ( if i remember correctly i don’t think he really ever calls her celeana?? only aelin and she gets mad, but i may be wrong bc it has been a while since i’ve read HoF) he makes her comfortable with her real identity and helped her come to terms with who she was and her name. 2.) fireheart. that’s it. it’s who she was to her family and its who she is now to rowan. ALSO “i don’t want you like a best friend” their relationship goes from basically entirely platonic in HoF to something more in the late books. in QoS, it took them forever to get together bc they had to break through the past definition of their relationship which was strictly friends, carranam, and fighting partners. but they obviously wanted more, and started feeling more comfortable with their past trauma and relationship baggage to face that.

“only bought this dress so you could take it off take it off carve your name into my bedpost 'cause I don't want you like a best friend only bought this dress so you could take it off”

ALRIGHT HERES THE KICKER. so this is obviously referring to the golden nightgown that rowan requests. i KNOW that he technically doesn't even take it off her and they don’t go there but she literally only bought it for him bc he said he would love that color. in conclusion it still counts and the sexual tension was there so.

“inescapable, I'm not even gonna try and if I get burned, at least we were electrified”

SO i feel like they both know that they are inevitable and i think it kinda ties into the idea of the mating bond being something that you can’t break or avoid. they subconsciously knew that being apart would not work. AND we have a reference to aelin’s fire... she might burn too brightly, but at least she burned.

“i'm spilling wine in the bathtub, you kiss my face and we're both drunk everyone thinks that they know us, but they know nothing about”

HAHA we have a little reference to aelin bathing rowan and washing his hair in that one scene. tbh this doesn’t really fit that well but it’s not too out of place-- i also may not be thinking of anything bc i havent re read them in a while. anyways, we also have another moment where rowan and aelin are kind of keeping what is blooming between them a secret from the rest of aelin’s court.

“flashback when you met me your buzzcut and my hair bleached”

their haircuts at the beginning of QoS... rowan cut his long ass hair and aelin had to dye her hair red to go undercover and not get caught... WHY DOES IT WORK SO WELL I--

“even in my worst times, you could see the best of me”

in HoF aelin was at the lowest point of her life. even though he was closed off was dealing with his own baggage, he saw the power aelin held. the light that had been snuffed out inside of her. he pushed her because he knew what she was capable of. and i forgot who said this, but rowan was never afraid of aelin the way chaol was. he saw every part of her and loved all of it.

“flashback to my mistakes my rebounds, my earthquakes”

rebounds??? *cough cough* CHAOL AND DORIAN *cough* okay but for real these weren’t really mistakes but she had made plenty of other mistakes around that time. he helped set her on a better and clearer path. and i guess we could technically consider chaol a rebound...

“even in my worst lies, you saw the truth of me”

her keeping the mating bond from him? her keeping so many of her plans a secret? her pretending she’s okay and KoA and him seeing right through her? yea <3

“and I woke up just in time now I wake up by your side”

I think around nehemias death she was kind of in a trance where she felt like nothing mattered and her life was useless (the whole “i do not care” scene where she was lashing out is a good example), but he helped her out of that. she has that one quote that im gonna paraphrase about how he held her hand and walked back into the light with her. He essentially woke her up from the nightmare she was living and now she wakes up next to him. this literally also happens in HoF because he starts letting her sleep in his bed, which was a huge step in the right direction for their relationship. he started seeing her as a friend and he literally falls asleep with his hand over her heart bye.

“my one and only, my lifeline”

mates are truly each others one and only and i think it’s beautiful that she says “lifeline” because that’s literally what it is to them. they are stronger together and even the forces of their existence are tied together <3

anyways if you read this whole thing thank u lol i just had to get that out:)

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danceworshipper · 3 years

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Ida Sommer - HPHL MC

Info subject to change as more game information is released. All of my HPHL ocs exist in the same universe

[profile template by me]

Personal

Full Name: Ida Marie Sommer

Gender: Female (cis)

Sexuality: Pansexual (closeted)

Birthday: August 20th

Birthstone: Peridot

Zodiac Sign: Leo

Age: 14 (at beginning of game)

Blood Status: Pureblood

3 Positive Traits:

- Charming

- Spiritual (nature oriented)

- Resilient

3 Negative Traits:

- Childish

- Uncommunicative

- Vain

Usual First Impression: When first meeting Ida, people often assume she is immature, ignorant, and easy to take advantage of due to her sheltered nature and cutesy appearance. This impression is highly incorrect

Location

Birthplace: Germany (exact location TBD)

Current Home: Her father's estate in one of the richest areas (Germany)

Future Home: A beautiful cottage secluded from the world, near a mountainside (Germany)

Favorite Place: A cliff overseeing the sea in Japan, close to the little shop where she got her wand

Disliked Place: Her maternal grandparents' home, simply because she doesn't enjoy their company

Appearance

[image created using the Live Portrait Maker app]

Face Shape: Roundish jaw, soft features with a strong brow bone

Eye Color: Yellowish green

Hair Color: Light blonde

Hair Style: Ida wears her hair down or in a single braid. Her hair is mostly straight with side bangs, and is parted in the middle

Skin Tone: Light

Freckles/Spots: A few freckles on her cheeks, more visible when she's been out in the sun

Scars: None during her schooling. After graduation, Ida marks her arms with runes only she and Sebastien can make sense of to strengthen her connection to the world around her

Piercings/Tattoos: Single earlobe piercings.

Final Height: 5'9"

Final Weight: 137lbs

Physique: Thin with long legs, slightly wider than average shoulders

Clothing Style: Ida is a rich kid, so her clothing is always of high quality material and her jewelry is noticeably unflawed. She dresses modestly until she turns seventeen, when she stops caring what her parents think. Her favorite colors to wear are pastels

Carried Items:

- her wand

- a locket with a picture of her and her parents in it - not worn, but kept in her satchel

- a silver pocket watch stuck at 11:18 pm, handed to her by the same Seer who told her where to get her wand

- a handful of candy

- extra quills for her roommate who keeps forgetting hers

- a book from the Restricted Section about Elementals, written by Elementals and charmed so no one other than an Elemental can ever figure out what it says

Magic

Wand: 12 inches of firm Ebony wood with a koi-mer hair core. A pitch black, rounded wand with a pattern of scales carved into the handle. This wand was custom made in a small, almost unknown shop in Japan after a Seer she bumped into on the street told Ida that her perfect wand would be created there. It would seem foolish to go all the way from Germany to Japan on the word of an unknown Seer, but it was Ida's turn to plan the summer trip, so she picked a place in Japan close enough to the mentioned shop

Animagus: Loon

Boggart Form: A headless figure easily recognizable as herself, crumbling away into dust. A failed attempt to merge with nature resulting in her demise

Riddikulus Form: A statue of her like the one in her parents' back garden, over glorifying her features, that has been attacked and is crumbling away. She hates that statue

Amortentia (to others): Someone smelling Ida would smell lime juice, fresh water, and static electricity

Amortentia (to her): TBD

Patronus: Ida has never been able to cast a Patronus. Not for a lack of happy enough memories, but because of her powerful soul. The Patronus can never escape her magical core

Patronus Memory: N/A

Mirror of Erised: A tree so big it grows up an entire mountainside. The tree bark is covered in swirling patterns Ida recognizes as Elemental runes. She doesn't yet know what exactly this tree is, but she feels an undeniable longing for it

Family Spells: The Sommer family has no special family spells

Inherent Magic: Elemental

- Ida has all the magic of a normal witch, but on top of that has a deep connection to the earth and the magic stemming from it, even beyond the earth into the universe. If not properly trained (or if driven to a great enough temptation), an Elemental could vaporize the entire planet, or bend it to their will. They could also leave humanity behind if they so wished and become nature itself

- Elementals are theorized to have fragments of Merlin's soul fused with their own, hence why they feel strong connections to each other and can't ever fatally harm one of their own. Most Elementals also fall in love with each other as well, and the connection is thought to be stronger than a normal human's love could ever be. These connections help ensure no Elemental gives in to whichever temptation has the strongest pull on them. Only one Elemental has ever yet gone evil, and this is how it was discovered that they cannot kill one another

- This special magic is not hereditary. In fact, no one knows what causes someone to be born an Elemental, only that there have been less and less of them in the recent centuries. There are only two known Elementals left: Ida and Sebastien

Family

Mother: Lina is a warm hearted woman who wants the best for her daughter, misguided though she might be. She often has to shout at her husband to trying to hold Ida back, or discourage Ida's dreams. She noticed Ida's growing power long before her husband did, and was the one to finally contact someone for help when Ida grew so strong and uncontrolled she couldn't stop floating

Father: Elias is a business oriented man who, though he loves his daughter, up until her reveal as an Elemental wished she was a son. He's the reason Ida was homeschooled for so long, as he didn't think a girl was worth the tuition money. He refused to believe that Ida was anything other than ordinary until a man in a high position told him otherwise

Sisters: None

Brothers: None

Pets: A screech owl named Goldig, meaning 'cute'

Other Important Family: Ida's paternal aunt, Ingrid, is one of the biggest influences in her life as a child. Ingrid is an independent witch who lives fabulously by herself with her dead husband's fortune. Ida used to yearn for a future where she wasn't tied down by a man and could do as she pleased

Family Values: The Sommer family as a whole is mainly concerned with two things: remaining pureblooded, and growing richer. Most of the Sommers are decently good people, but they have period-appropriate prejudices and are willing to leave someone behind to save themselves, metaphorically and literally

Opinion on Family: Up until entering Hogwarts, Ida really only knew her family, so she loved them and thought very highly of them. As she becomes more socialized and learns more about the world, she starts to notice her parents' many flaws and though she never stopped loving them, she does resent them for homeschooling her and ignoring the signs of her being abnormal, because she used to think she was broken when in reality she's nearly a god

Friendships

Introverted or Extroverted: Extroverted

Best Friend: Sebastien Parr - another mc of mine who is also an Elemental, and an exchange student from Beauxbatons

Worst Friend: TBD

Friend She Didn't Expect: TBD

Who She Wishes Was Her Friend: TBD

List of Casual Friends:

- Sophia Burton @gcldensnitch

- Charlotte Grant @weasleysandwheezes

- canon friends TBD

Romance

Current Crush: None

Current Partner: None

Past Partners: None

Future Partners: TBD - will likely be picked from the game's characters, but could possibly be someone else's mc

Her Type: TBD

Hogwarts

House: Slytherin

Prefect Status: No

Quidditch: Never played, but loves to watch

Clubs: None

Organizations: The fake Headmaster's Apprentices organization that she and Sebastien use to hide what they're really doing

Favorite Class: Herbology

Least Favorite Class: History of Magic

Favorite Professor: TBD

Least Favorite Professor: TBD

Timeline

Young Childhood: Ida is kept at home. She knows no children her age, and spends most of her free time roaming her father's land. No matter how far she wanders, she never seems to get lost. Ida has strange dreams where she watches the world as an outsider. After being told by a Seer that her ideal wand would be created at a small shop in Japan, Ida convinces her father to spend a month there over the summer, and her mother takes her to the shop to get her wand. Ida sneaks out one night and climbs a cliff that looks out over the ocean. In later years she can't remember whether rising up over the waters and hearing the stars call to her by name was a dream or not, but she knows the moon smiled at her.

First Year: N/A

Second Year: N/A

Third Year: Ida's uncontrolled Elemental magic reaches a breaking point, and Ida explodes her little study room as she lifts up in the air, unable to come down. Her mother sends for help: two healers, a historian, and three government officials later, Ida is brought down and informed that she will be enrolled in Hogwarts the following year. She is not informed why, though her parents are

Fourth Year: Ida enters Hogwarts with no social skills. She meets Sebastien and they're both informed of their true nature. As Ida struggles to catch up on her studies as well as train her Elemental magic, she also learns just how wonderful having friends her age is

Fifth Year: TBD

Sixth Year: Ida grows suspicious of Sebastien's "friend" Dorian. Other details TBD

Seventh Year: TBD

Post Graduation: Ida marks herself with ancient Elemental runes and her father gifts her the cottage. She spends a year and a half where almost no one hears from her, before appearing back in her friends' lives as if nothing happened, looking healthier and happier than ever

Career(s): Ida doesn't live long enough to have a career

Marriage and Children: Ida marries (TBD) from school, someone who had always had a crush on her that she eventually returned the feelings for. They spend a beautiful three years together before her end. Ida manages to give her love a son, but only after she's gone

Death: Ida sacrifices herself to stop Sebastien and Dorian from destroying the world. Ida's biggest temptation as an Elemental was always to leave her humanity behind and become nature, so she does. She traps the two men inside of a ridiculously large tree that grows out of the mountainside near her cottage. This tree forms from her body, and has a notch where her favorite necklace can be inserted to be allowed entry to the chamber Sebastien and Dorian are trapped. However, she hid the necklace in Japan, where no one will find it until a century has passed and her friends have passed away. Ida can occasionally gather her spirit into a physical form to communicate with her love and child that she left behind

Notable Facts Not Previously Mentioned

- Ida is the ancestor of my main hphm mcs, Gracie and Tessa Chiva, on their father's side

- The reason Ida is sent to Hogwarts and not Durmstrang is the fear of bad influences. No one wanted to risk her being corrupted

- Ida does feel guilty about leaving her love behind, but since she couldn't kill Sebastien and she still loved him and wanted him to be happy, this was the only way she could think of to stop him

- Her love watched her leave humanity behind. As they wept, Ida's spirit gathered to say her goodbyes, and point them to their son, who had been born from Ida's final breath at exactly 11:18 pm

- Ida thinks very highly of herself. This is both from being praised so much as a child and hearing so much about the good she can do as an Elemental

- She throws a graduation party so extravagant that it's talked about for decades after her death

- No one but her love knows what truly happened to her. All anyone else knows is that she and Sebastien disappeared at the same time

#hphl oc #hogwarts legacy #ida sommer #character profile

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terramythos · 3 years

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TerraMythos 2021 Reading Challenge - Book 10 of 26

Title: The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890)

Author: Oscar Wilde

Genre/Tags: Fiction, Gothic Horror, Third-Person, LGBT Protagonist (I... guess)

Rating: 8/10

Date Began: 4/13/2021

Date Finished: 4/20/2021

When artist Basil Hallward paints a picture of the beautiful and innocent Dorian Gray, he believes he’s created his masterpiece. Seeing himself on the canvas, Dorian wishes to remain forever young and beautiful while the portrait ages in his stead. The bargain comes true. While Dorian grows older and descends a path of hedonism and moral corruption, his portrait changes to reflect his true nature while his physical body remains eternally youthful. As his debauchery grows worse, and the portrait warps to reflect his corruption, Dorian’s past begins to catch up to him.

Perhaps one never seems so much at one’s ease as when one has to play a part. Certainly no one looking at Dorian Gray that night could have believed that he had passed through a tragedy as horrible as any tragedy of our age. Those finely-shaped fingers could never have clutched a knife for sin, nor those smiling lips have cried out on God and goodness. He himself could not help wondering at the calm of his demeanour, and for a moment felt keenly the terrible pleasure of a double life.

Full review, some spoilers, and content warnings under the cut.

Content warnings for the book: Misogyny (mostly satirical). Racism and antisemitism (not so much). Emotional manipulation, blackmail, suicide, graphic murder, and death. Recreational drug use.

Reviewing a classic novel through a modern lens is always going to be a challenge for me. The world seems to change a lot every decade, let alone every century—whether some canonized classic holds up today is pretty hit or miss (sorry, English degree). And considering the sheer amount of academic focus on classic texts, it’s not like I’m going to have a “fresh take” on one for a casual review. I read and reviewed The Count of Monte Cristo last year, and thought it aged remarkably well over 170+ years.

Somehow I never read Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray for school. I tried reading it independently in my late teens/early twenties, and honestly think I was just too stupid for it. Needing a shorter read before the next Murderbot book releases at the end of the month, I grabbed Dorian Gray off the shelf and decided to give it another shot. By the end, I was pleasantly surprised how much I liked the book.

I’m actually going to discuss my pain points before I get into what worked for me. The first half of the book is very slow-paced. The Picture of Dorian Gray is famous for… well… the picture. But it isn’t relevant until the halfway point of the novel, when Dorian does something truly reprehensible and finds his image in the picture has changed. There’s a lot of setup before this discovery. The first half of the book has a lot of fluff, with characters talking about stuff that happened off screen, discussing various philosophies, and so on without progressing the story. Some of this is fine, as it establishes Dorian’s initial character so the contrast later is all the more striking. I just think it could have been shorter. I realize this comes down to personal taste.

I’m also torn on the Wilde’s writing style. He’s very clever, and there are many philosophical ideas in his writing that did genuinely made me stop and think. The prose is also beautiful and descriptive; this is especially useful when it contrasts the horror elements of the story. However, there’s a lot of unnatural, long monologue in the story. Not sure if it’s the time period, Wilde’s background as a playwright, or just his writing style in general (maybe all three), but the characters ramble a LOT. My favorite game was trying to imagine how other characters were reacting to a literal wall of text.

I also feel the need to mention this book has some bigoted content, as implied in my content warnings. The misogyny in the story is satirical; it’s spouted by the biggest tool in the book, Lord Henry, whose whole shtick is being paradoxical. You just need basic critical thought to figure that out. However, some things don’t have that excuse. A minor character in the first half is an obvious anti-Semitic caricature. There’s also some pretty racist content, particularly when Wilde describes Gray’s musical instrument collection. While these are small parts of the book, it’d be disingenuous not to acknowledge them.

All that being said, there were many aspects of the book I enjoyed, particularly in the second half. Wilde does a great job characterizing terrible people who fully believe what they say. Lord Henry is an obvious example, and Dorian follows his lead as the story progresses. One of my favorite bits was after Sibyl’s suicide (which Dorian instigated by being a piece of shit). Dorian is initially shocked, but as he and Lord Henry discuss it, they come to the conclusion that her suicide was a good thing because it had thematic merit. It’s just such a brazen, horrible way to alleviate one’s guilt.

Dorian also goes to significant lengths to justify his actions. At one point, he murders Basil to keep the portrait a secret. While he briefly feels guilty about this, Dorian grows angry at the inconvenience of having killed this man, supposedly an old friend. He even separates himself from the situation, expressing that Basil died in such a horrible way. Bro, you killed him! It was you! The cognitive dissonance is just stunning.

It’s also viscerally satisfying to read about Dorian’s downfall as his awful choices catch up to him. Dorian becoming tormented by the portrait is just... *chef’s kiss*. Is it surprising? No, it’s pretty standard Gothic horror fare. But there’s something to be said about seeing a genuinely horrible man finally pay for what he’s done after getting away with it for so long. I wish real life worked that way.

There’s the picture itself, too. I know it’s The Thing most people know about this novel -- but I just think it’s a cool concept. I like the idea of someone’s likeness reflecting their true self, and the psychological effect it has on the subject. Most of the novel is fiction with realistic horror elements, but I like that there’s a touch of the supernatural thanks to Dorian’s picture. It’s an element I wouldn’t mind seeing in more works.

It's sad to read Dorian Gray with the context of what happened to Wilde. The homoeroticism in the novel is obvious, but tame compared to works today. Wilde and this book are a depressing case study in how queer people are simultaneously erased and reviled in recent history. Wilde was tortured for his homosexuality (and died from resulting health complications) over 100 years ago, yet the 1994 edition of Dorian Gray I read refers to his real homosexual relationship as a "close friendship". It's an infuriating and tragic paradox. Things have improved by inches, but we still have so far to go.

As I grow older I find I appreciate classic works more than when I was forced to read them for school. The Picture of Dorian Gray is a gripping Gothic horror story. Some aspects didn't age particularly well, but that's true for almost anything over time. If you're in the market for this kind of book, I do recommend it.

#this review is late but in my defense the nier remake came out #taylor reads #2021 reading challenge #8/10

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dacompanionreactions · 4 years

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Hi! Good to see another reactions blog. Just to start you off... DAI companions reacting to a somniari Inquisitor whose powers are greatly amplified by the Anchor?

Cassandra is unsure of what to think. Everyone has unique abilities, her own being able to set the lyrium in one’s blood aflame. She finds it unsettling at first. The idea that someone could enter the Fade while she sleeps and warp it worries her. According to Solas, a somniari himself, the Anchor amplifies this ability. Mainly she worries for the Inquisitor since they are much more vulnerable to demonic possession and the very presence of demons is painful. However, she finds there is no need to worry - the first (and last) demon that attempted possession was wiped out of existence. Cassandra has heard of how the somniari can use the Fade to drive their enemies mad, and in extreme cases, kill them. Cassandra considers the Inquisitor a dear friend and knows they will never hurt her on purpose. Truthfully, she pities the Inquisition’s enemies.

If romanced, she will be less wary around her lover and more concerned. When she’s having a particularly stressful day, the Inquisitor can shape her dreams to be pleasant. By her lover’s side, Cassandra never fails to sleep peacefully. For all the bad that comes with being a somniari, it can also be used for good. When the nights are particularly painful, she will embrace him, whispering sweet nothings and praying for some way for his pain to end.

Varric has seen a lot of weird shit in his lifetime. At this point, he’s hardly surprised, if not cautious. He makes a mental note to put this in his new book. It goes with the title. He’s become good friends with the Inquisitor, so he asks them questions. He doesn’t really understand all this Anchor stuff or the Fade, but he makes sure to regularly check in on the Inquisitor. Being a somniari isn’t the easiest of things, and when Varric learns the very presence of demons cause great pain. He finds the whole ‘enter the Fade and drive people mad’ weird to say the least, but he doesn’t let it change his view of the Inquisitor. They are his friend, abilities or no.

Solas is delighted to say the least. Somniari are extremely rare, believed to have been extinct for two ages. He is a somniari himself. Solas asks the Inquisitor question after question if they are comfortable. After studying the Anchor, he offers to teach them techniques on how to refine their abilities and lessen the pain associated with a demon’s presence. Often they will discuss the day’s events in the Fade rather than outside of it. Solas is almost rendered giddy with excitement, a difficult feat for the usually composed elf, when he realises they can offer him stories of their journeys into the Fade.

If romanced, Solas’s reaction does not change much. He is excited, anxious for knowledge and eager to teach his vhenan what he knows. However, this does leaves room for ‘Fade dates’. Two somniari in the Fade? Anything is possible. The pain is more manageable now, especially since Solas has someone who understands, but he would not wish it on his worst enemy, let alone the woman he loves. This revelation will make it so much harder for him to leave.

Dorian is beside himself. “If my family knew I were friends with a somniari, my father would positively shit himself,” he says between sips of wine. He is almost jealous of the Inquisitor. Tevinter culture widely romanticises the Dreamers, giving them their own name of ‘somniari’. However, his jealousy melts to sympathy when he learns of the great pains that come with it. Dorian researches ways on alleviating their pain, even going to Solas and Vivienne for help. The fact that they can enter the Fade and use it to kill doesn’t really bother Dorian, he’s a necromancer for the Maker’s sake.

If romanced, his initial reaction isn’t jealousy, it’s concern for his amatus. Dorian knows the dangers of being a somniari as well as the dangers that come with angering one. Dorian does not fear the Inquisitor’s abilities, rather he fears what it is doing to him. He is especially grateful when his nightmares ebb away into serene dreams, no doubt the work of his amatus.

Sera shudders. She hates the magey shite, the Fade, all of it. She can’t help her fear of the Inquisitor at first, even if they are friends. There is a whisper at the back of her mind, over and over, ‘what if?’ What if they attack her in her dreams, make her go mad? Then she realises who she’s actually talking about. The Inquisitor, helper of the little people and above all, her friend. Then she discovers the pain that comes with being a somni-what’s-it and all doubts wash away. In a way, seeing the Inquisitor like this makes them more human. It makes them little too.

If romanced, Sera will focus less on the scary magic stuff and more on how her Honey Tongue is feeling. She may consult Dorian in pain management because she doesn’t know jack about magic or the Fade, and frankly he’s the only mage apart from her Inky that she can tolerate. She worries for her Inky, and anyone who throws a shitty comment their way gets arrows.

Blackwall doesn’t really know what to make of it at first. He admits that he doesn’t quite like the idea of someone slinking into his dreams and driving him mad, though inwardly he believes it’s no less than what he deserves. He does acknowledge how the abilities can be useful and offers what comfort he can when he learns of the pain associated with it. Blackwall doesn’t necessarily understand all of the Fade stuff, but he knows how to be there for a friend.

If romanced, he will always check on his lover. If the pain is too much he will turn to Solas, Vivienne and Dorian for help. If he could, he’d enter the Fade and slay all the demons there if it meant the Inquisitor could be in peace, but things are rarely that simple. He makes sure his love knows that he has her back in this.

Cole is conflicted. On one hand, he is worried that their abilities could be used to hurt people. On the other hand, Cole worries for their safety, more so when he realises the only person hurt from this is the Inquisitor. He doesn’t understand ‘somniari’, to him it’s just a word. For the Inquisitor it’s another pressure, another expectation. People are either afraid of me or want to use this to their advantage. Don’t they see me as a person anymore? He appears by the Inquisitor’s side as soon as he hears these thoughts. “You are a person. Somniari is just a word. You are more than that.”

Iron Bull figures he’ll need a stick bashing soon. It’s not common knowledge, but his greatest fear is madness. To know that someone whom he respects greatly has the power to achieve this effortlessly? It’s not the best feeling in the world. However, his outlook changes quickly when he finds out about the pain. The Inquisitor didn’t even need to tell him verbally, his Ben-Hassrath training did that for them. Bull doesn’t get the Anchor or Fade stuff, but he tips off the Chargers about providing a fun distraction whenever the pain gets too much for the Inquisitor.

If romanced, he will pull his kadan close to him. He knows about their abilities but never once does he fear for his own sanity. Bull will consult their mage companions for a way to manage the pain. If anyone voices displeasure towards his kadan, they’ll be met with an angry qunari.

Vivienne is curious. For the last two ages, somniari were believed to have gone extinct. “My dear, that is absolutely fascinating! Do tell me more.” She wants to know everything there is to know about about their abilities, and chides them for not saying anything earlier. Her line of questioning ends abruptly when she’s informed of their pain. Vivienne has an affinity for potions, so she throws herself into research and even goes so far as to asking the apostate hobo, ahem, Solas for a second opinion. Within days she has a whole batch of elixirs ready for the Inquisitor.

Cullen doesn’t like it. His fears of magic almost override his friendship with the Inquisitor until he realises how it affects them. He empathises with them - lyrium withdrawal had him in so much pain on some days that he thought he would die. The Inquisitor informs him that it’s the same with them, and he hesitantly hugs them, unsure of whether the mage would appreciate comfort from a former templar. To his unexpected delight the Inquisitor does, and Cullen often finds himself confiding in the Inquisitor, and vice versa.

If romanced, Cullen will worry greatly for his lover, especially when she’s outside of Skyhold. Before each trip, he’ll nag the mage companion accompanying her to make sure they’re looking out for her. Cullen wishes the pain will end, but he takes solace in knowing that his presence helps her, and hers him.

Leliana has a mixed reaction. She admires the stealth that comes with entering someone’s dreams and shaping the Fade around them. She dryly mentions how it would solve many problems with the Inquisition’s enemies. Leliana also acknowledges how this could curry favour with Tevinter, but will only do so if the Inquisitor allows. She pities them, and no one knows how, but the Inquisitor suddenly finds themselves with an abundance of pain relieving elixirs. The Spymaster works in mysterious ways. Any negative comments towards the Inquisitor are met with silent but very deadly threats.

Josephine is unsure of what to think. She doesn’t like violence at all, preferring to take diplomatic approaches. She sympathises with the Inquisitor when finding out about their pain. Josephine writes to her mage contacts for information on how to lessen the pain and receives urgent replies within a week. She also asks the Inquisitor for permission to share this information publicly, for she knows a few nobles houses that would favour this knowledge.

If romanced, she will hold her lover close to her. She wants them to be in peace. As soon as she receives replies from her contacts, she passes the information on to their mage companions. Josie does not fear the abilities of her love for she knows that she will never come to harm with them.

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punwolf · 4 years

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Falling for You (Autumn Prompt with Dorian, Cas, Bull, Blackwall)

Prompt: Falling for You from this list Pairing: Friendships / Non romantic - Dorian, Iron Bull, Blackwall, Cassandra, Inquisitor

Time Period: During Inquisition and before Trespasser

Rating: T

Warnings: None

Content: Action and Dad jokes.

@cozy-autumn-prompts

It was a Greater Mistral. Big. Scaley. Trying to gobble all of them up. Annoyed beyond all belief. Able to spit more ice than the average Orlesian noble at a social event. It was just as flashy as a bunch of Orlesians, too, with all its buffed, brightly colored scales. The dragon probably ate fewer people than they did, but was just as fancy as their clothes. That was beside the point.

How did Audrie know exactly what kind of dragon was screeching like a terror demon someone stuffed into a corset? Because after so many flying menaces tried to turn her into a flaming, toasted mage kabob, she’d learned everything she possibly could about dragons. The shape of the head, coloration, and placement of horns signified a specific breed. “Ever so helpful to know what’s trying to swallow you whole,” she hissed with dripping sarcasm under her breath.

“Dorian!” she belted in the general direction of the other mage as she ducked beneath a spiked tail the size of a tree. “Shoot it with fire! It’s vulnerable to flames!”

“Shoot it where?” Dorian demanded, somehow keeping his balance on a boulder and managing a debonair pose which would have done credit as a cover for one of Varric’s Swords and Shields books.

“In the mouth, up it’s aft end -- I don’t care, just shoot it!” Ice rained down around her, freezing batches of red and gold leaves as they pelted the top of her head. She knew it was fall, but this was ridiculous.

“Has anyone told you that you have a very quaint and eloquent way with words?” Dorian called back across the field with a sardonic, mocking laugh.

“All the time! Don’t make me set Sera on you when we get back to Skyhold!”

“The horror!” Dorian snorted, sounding anything but terrified. “Whatever will I do?” He and Audrie coordinated an attack of swirling flames around the beasts head.

While it was distracted, Bull ran in with his usual dragon killing enthusiasm, bellowing almost indecently. He swung his two handed sword, aiming for wing membranes or joints. Cassandra tried to give him some cover with her shield and Blackwall closed in from what they all hoped was the dragon’s blind spot.

A hind foot the size of the Free Marches drug furrows in the ground with it’s claws before mule kicking Blackwall. His shield came up, taking some of the impact, but he flew backward through the air until he landed hard on his back. From past experience, the Inquisitor knew his shield arm was badly bruised or broken from the incredible force. The bearded bear of a man was weakly moving his legs, but couldn’t regain his feet.

“Cassandra! Healing potion to Blackwall!” Twitching meant alive. Not running or screaming meant injury. Audrie was relieved he was still among the living, but he wouldn’t be for much longer if the dragon got its teeth over him. She had a warm place in her heart for Blackwall. The last thing she wanted was her friend to wake up in the belly of the beast as an icicle.

Cassandra didn’t waste time and Audrie threw a magical shield around the Seeker as she boldly barreled beneath the dragon’s chest, weaving through legs. It snapped at her, huge maw descending to give Cassandra a view of draconic dental hygiene from the inside of its mouth.

Audrie didn’t envy her. Yuck.

A confused expression seeped over the mistrel’s stiff face as it chewed ineffectively on the transparent magical barrier. Never one to waste an opportunity, Cassandra drove her sword upward into the roof of the creature’s mouth, aiming for a weak point which would skewer the brain.

The dragon got crankier and spit Cassandra out faster than stinkstalk. Blood ran in ropes from the corners of its mouth, but it didn’t have the decency to roll over and actually die.

“Pity,” Dorian commented loudly enough for the group to hear. “I thought we might be done in time for lunch!”

“You’re going to be lunch if we don’t finish this thing off!” Audrie grumped, joining him in another fire attack. Bright blasts of orange pummeled down, sizzling through scales and making the creature belch a volley of ice toward anyone in its beady, vengeful gaze. Who knew a flaming dragon smelled like chicken? If she lived long enough to pen memoirs, maybe she could write a cookbook. 101 Ways to Roast Dragons: Eat before being Eaten.

Blackwall sprang upright as Cassandra flung aside the empty potion bottle. Charging toward the dragon while sheltering behind their shields, they gave Bull the distraction he needed to launch himself at the opposing wing. His sword slashed it to ribbons, assuring the monster was grounded. It was just as deadly, but lost the advantage of strafing by air.

It threw back its head and shrieked, spewing furious arcs of ice across the battlefield. Wide eyed, Dorian threw himself into a cluster of boulders for shelter. Bull flattened and hugged the grass, inspiring Audrie to follow his example. Blackwall folded to his knees, head tucked behind his shield, and Cassandra rolled beneath the blistering cold. While it’s head was still in reach, the Seeker thrust her sword through the tough sinew and muscles of its neck where they connected to the head. Putting all her weight into the strike, she plunged the blade deep, twisted it, and watched the life drain out of its baleful eye.

While she took a much needed breath, Audrie cautiously picked herself up, boots slipping on the premature ice crust. “Is everyone all riiii–eeeeeetttttt!”

Although dead, the dragon’s tail spasmed a final time, socking the Inquisitor squarely in the gut. She sailed for a sickening moment before crashing to earth. The world was still tumbling and spinning when her mind processed there was nothing under her feet. Showers of pebbles and mud flaked from under her soles as she slid over the edge of a cliff. Her fingers instinctively clawed for purchase, slipping on the wet vegetation slithering out of her grasp.

“Inquisitor!”

“She’s over the cliff!”

“Help me pull her up!”

A cacophony of familiar voices broke out as she didn’t dare breathe. All her weight was in her arms and the precarious finger hold which kept her between life and death was slipping. What a stupid way to die. What will they tell Cullen? I don’t want to leave him. Not now, just when I’ve started to love him. What are they going to do about closing Rifts?

She hung between disaster and survival for less than a minute, but it could have been ten lifetimes before strong grey hands grabbed one wrist, anchoring her. Gloves and gauntlets clamped around the arm, and Dorian latched on to the back of her coat.

“We’ve got you,” Blackwall’s calm, serious voice reassured her. Steady warriors inched her to safety.

“Don’t let go, Boss,” Bull agreed and gave her a mighty heave which hurled her into a pile of armor, padding, mud, ice, and people.

Her heart hammered in her ears and giddiness flooded through her body as it always did when she narrowly escaped certain death. Breaking out into a fit of giggles, she took the staff which Dorian placed into her hand. “Thank you,” she gasped, rocking into a sitting position as the other mage knelt beside her. “You know what? I almost fell for you.” She dissolved into peals of high pitched, manic laughter.

“Naturally,” Dorian retorted mildly, “but I think there’s a strapping young templar who might object.”

Audrie plopped face first into the grass, ignoring how it froze her nose, and tried to stop. “He’s not – he’s not a templar any more.” The preposterous fact she’d chosen Dorian made her heave with even more ill-timed laughter. He was a very handsome man, but lacked all romantic interest in women.

Audrie gulped down air and coughed a few times. Blackwall and Cassandra had seen her in this state before, so the bearded warrior rubbed her back until it passed.

When she finally sat up, she pushed tangles of blond hair out of her face and focused on breathing. “That was too close.”

Nobody disagreed, although Dorian arranged a very put upon expression to hide the fact he enjoyed her enthusiastic hug. “Yes, well, do be more careful next time, will you?” He patted the top of her head. “I haven’t enough friends to go losing them over the edge of cliffs you know.”

#CO-ZAutumn #Dragon Age #Dragon age Inquisition #dorian pavus #iron bull #blackwall #cassandra pentahast #Inquisitor/Cullen mentioned #not part of the story #whuffies drabbles

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johaerys-writes · 4 years

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Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 26: To Have and To Hold

A moment of respite in the midst of war and chaos. The comfort of knowing that one’s loved one is just within reach. Having someone to hold, and just holding.

In other words: It’s wine and poetry night in Skyhold, and the boys are making the best of it :)

Read here or on AO3!

(art by @le-mooon)

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“Lavender and lemon blossoms. Interesting.”

Tristan lifted his head from the edge of the tub where it had been resting and eyed Dorian questioningly. “What?”

“The soap you use,” he replied. His back was pressed against Tristan’s chest, his voice vibrating through him when he spoke. Low and smooth, making the water itself ripple. “I could always detect the lavender, and I knew there must be some sort of citrus in there, but I could never quite place it.” He reached out for the soap bar, bringing up to his nose to smell it again. “Simple. Unsophisticated. A touch mundane, perhaps. It suits you quite well. I approve.”

Tristan laughed softly at his teasing tone. “I’m glad you find my unoriginality appealing.”

“Amusing, amatus. I think the word you’re looking for is amusing. I guess there is some beauty in simplicity, but let’s not overdo it, yes? Next thing you know, you’ll be washing with the ash soap they use in the kitchens.”

“That might not be such a bad idea. I’ve heard it takes the grime right off. What? It’s true!” He laughed at Dorian’s horrified expression, leaning forward to nuzzle his ear. “You don’t have to worry about that. I wouldn’t let you walk about with a man that smells like a well scrubbed kitchen pot.”

“Good,” Dorian chuckled, leaning into his touch. “I almost feared you were being serious. One can never know with you Southerners.”

Fingers skimming over the surface of the warm, soapy water, a smile still lingering at the edges of his lips, Tristan let the weariness and tension of the last few days bleed out of his limbs. The fire in the hearth crackled softly and doused the room in a warm glow, the only other light coming from the bright orange glyph Dorian had cast on the bottom of the copper tug to keep the water warm.

“Fascinating,” he murmured.

“Hmm?”

Dorian’s eyes were closed, his head resting on Tristan’s shoulder. Tristan buried his nose in his hair, breathing deeply. “I find you fascinating.”

“You’re not the only one.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.” Tristan smiled at the soft hum that sounded at the back of Dorian’s throat. “How do you maintain the glyph? Are you channeling now?”

“Just a little. This is a relatively small one, so it only requires a trickle of magic to sustain it.”

“And you can do it just like that? With your eyes closed?”

Dorian’s smile widened. “You’d be surprised how many things I can do with my eyes closed.”

He was relaxed, almost melting in Tristan’s arms, his features soft, his breaths even and smooth despite the low chuckle that rumbled in his chest. Tristan let his eyes roam over the curves and planes of his body, sprawled as it was before him, submerged in the warm, cloudy water. He was… exquisite. Sublime. God-like. Real. He was real, tangible, there. Beautiful and daring, sharp-witted and eloquent, a shining example of all the qualities the ideal man should possess, those that philosophers and thinkers had debated on for centuries. Tristan wondered for a moment exactly what Dorian had seen in him. He had been average in most of his endeavours on the best of days, let alone now, that every new day was an opportunity for all his shortcomings to be exhibited for all the world to see. Most people, he was sure, saw him just a step away from failure.

Yet, with Dorian he never felt like a failure. He never felt less, or not quite good enough, or broken. He felt whole. It felt odd.

He idly traced a line with his index finger from the perfect half moons of Dorian’s manicured nails where they rested on his knee, all the way up to his forearm, past the angle of his elbow, up his bicep. His skin glowed copper in the golden light, and Dorian hummed softly when Tristan leaned forward and pressed a feather-light kiss upon the curve of his shapely shoulder.

That was when he saw it; a small, barely noticeable scar on his arm, a darker patch on the otherwise unblemished expanse of skin. His own skin was riddled with scars, large and small, smooth and ragged, and it had become a habit for Dorian to trace his long fingers over them, asking for the stories behind them. A habit Tristan had come to look forward to, he had noticed.

“How did you get this?” he asked him, examining the small mark.

Dorian reluctantly opened his eyes to glance at it, then closed them again. “A proper gentleman never reveals his secrets.”

“Who said anything about propriety?” Tristan asked teasingly, to which Dorian scoffed.

“You’ve got me there.” He let out a soft sigh. “I’m afraid it’s not as grizzly and thrilling a story as yours tend to be. I got it when I was thirteen, while I was still in the Circle of Trevis.”

“You’ve never told me about your time in the Circle.”

“Circles. I did change a few. Besides, what is there to say? I was incredible. Everyone loved me. My professors revered me and waxed poetic about my abilities. If they could, they would have carved my likeness in marble and set it atop the entrance of the University of Minrathous, I’m sure.”

“Right. Of course. I should have guessed.” Tristan huffed a quiet laugh at Dorian’s sarcastic tone. “Is that the way things work in Tevinter? Do they move you about in different Circles?”

“No. But it was the way things worked for me.” He let his head fall back against the crook of Tristan’s neck, peering at the snowy mountaintops beyond the wide windows. “I was admitted to the Circle of Carastes first, when I was nine. I got into a fight with another magister’s son, and I was expelled soon after. Then I moved to the Circle of Marothius, then Trevis, then Caimen Brea… I could go on. The very last one I went to, Marnas Pell, was by far the worst. No other Circle wanted a mage with such a terrible track record, as you can imagine. I didn’t even last a month.”

Tristan’s heart clenched with the resignation in his voice. Pain, deep, visceral, seared him to his core. Was that what Dorian’s childhood had been like? Kicked about from Circle to Circle, never lingering, never growing roots, never having friends? He let out a slow exhale through his nose, trying to keep his voice level. “Did you get into fights a lot?”

“I was admitted in the Circle very young, and progressed very quickly. I was usually the most competent in my year and beyond. There were many that didn’t appreciate this.”

“Who were they?”

“Older students. Some apprentices. They didn’t like that I moved ahead so quickly, my powers and knowledge surpassing theirs by a wide margin. Some were vocal about it. The one that gave me this scar was particularly loud about his displeasure.”

Tristan frowned. “Did he bully you?”

“Me? Bullied? On the contrary. He challenged me to a duel. I beat him quite easily, but not before he managed a gush on my shoulder.” He brushed his fingertips over the small scar. “It was the first time I had attempted healing magic on myself, and it would prove to be the last. I only got this small scar; the burn scar on my opponent’s face is still visible to this day.”

“How old was that boy?”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen? Blight,” Tristan breathed. “And they expelled you instead of him?

“Yes, well,” Dorian said with a bored wave, “I was the one with the terrible reputation, you see. He was the son of a magister, a powerful one at that. I had become something of a pariah at this point. He didn’t hesitate to call me that to my face, either.”

Tristan’s fists clenched, nails digging into his palm. Anger was bubbling inside him, thick and hot enough to choke him. He wrapped his arms around Dorian, pulling him close, as if that would be enough to shield him from the world. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you,” he whispered. “Never again.”

Dorian let out a dismissive harrumph. “This isn’t always up to you, amatus.”

“I’ll make sure that it is.” He reached out, threading his fingers through his where they lay on his knee. “I would let the whole of Thedas burn if anyone so much as thought of touching you.”

“Now, this is either incredibly romantic of you, or incredibly insane.”

“What if it’s both?”

Dorian paused for a moment, tilting his head to the side. “Yes. That sounds about right.”

Tristan huffed in amusement, and Dorian lips widened in a fond smile as he rested his forehead against the side of Tristan’s face. A long moment of silence passed before Dorian spoke again. “Did you ever get into fights when you were younger?”

Tristan paused for a moment in thought. “No. Not when I was that young. Except for Tilly, there weren’t that many children my age when I was growing up. I did have a few friends… but I didn’t see them quite as often. Other than during those awful banquets my mother used to drag me to.”

“How did you spend your time, then?”

“When I wasn’t fencing or riding, I would go to the beach with Tilly, or read books, or… I guess I tried to study, too, occasionally.”

“You must have been a stellar student.”

“Why is that?”

“You are very bright, amatus. Not to mention surprisingly well read. For a Southerner at least.”

An odd sense of pride swelled in Tristan's chest with the earnestness in Dorian’s voice. Why did it make him feel giddy that Dorian thought him bright? He shook his head, scoffing. “My tutors would disagree with you. They were never particularly pleased with my abilities. I didn’t have an affinity for history, or maths, or science. I found them incredibly boring, and my tutors found me very dull indeed, compared to my sister. She was the stellar student, not I. They all loved her. Me, not so much. A maths tutor once called me “terribly obstreperous and frightfully obtuse” because I’d refused to solve an equation.”

“He called you that?” Dorian turned his head slightly to look at him, incredulity in his gaze. “What did you do?”

“I pretended not to care, but Tilly was very mad. Oh, she was fuming. She told Nelly, our housekeeper, and Nelly told our mother. The tutor was dismissed the next day.”

“Good. I would have boxed his ears if I had him right here.” Dorian’s furrowed brow relaxed, his thumb brushing over Tristan’s palm. “Were there no subjects that you did enjoy?”

“I was fond of my Orlesian tutor. Madame Clemence. A lovely woman. When she’d first arrived, she had tried to teach me Orlesian the same way she did with my sister; grammar, syntax, rules…" He shook his head. " I didn’t take to that very well. The letters would dance before my eyes and my tongue got tied in knots. In the end, she gave up trying to teach me the rules. She’d noticed I was fond of poetry, and started bringing me books with Orlesian poems. We would go out in the garden when the days were good, and she would read them to me. Then, she would talk to me about them until I was able to reply back.”

“She sounds like a fascinating woman.”

“She was. I would probably have hated Orlesian too if it weren’t for her.”

Dorian huffed, but Tristan could see the smile painted just at the edges of his lips. “That would be such a pity. Your Orlesian is quite irresistible. I could listen to you talk for days.”

“You could?” Tristan smiled softly. He brushed his cheek over Dorian’s ear, tracing its contours with his lips. “J’ai regardé devant moi, dans la foule je t’ai vue, parmi les blés je t’ai vue, sous un arbre je t’ai vue, au bout de tous mes voyages, au fond de tous mes tourments, au tournant de tous les rires, sortant de l’eau et du feu, l’été l’hiver je t’ai vue, dans ma maison je t’ai vue, entre mes bras je t’ai vue, dans mes rêves je t’ai vue…” He tightened his arms around him, sliding his mouth to his. “Je ne te quitterai plus.”

Dorian hummed against his lips. “I think I caught a few words of that.”

“I hope you did.” Tristan ran his thumb over his cheek. “I meant them.”

Time stretched on languidly while they lay in the water, warm like a wet embrace, their lips gliding in soft, velvet kisses. The moon hung close to the eastern edge of the night sky, thin like a nail, silver against a velvet blue canopy. They kissed and kissed… until a soft rumbling sound echoed through the silence.

Dorian edged back to gaze at him. “Was that your stomach?”

Tristan felt heat travelling up to the tips of his ears. “I, uh… yes?”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“I think… this morning?”

Dorian’s eyes widened in their sockets, and he pushed himself up and away from him. He was dripping wet, water running in rivulets down his body and pooling around his feet when he stepped out of the tub. He held out a hand to Tristan, who simply gaped at him.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

“W-where are we going?”

“You need to eat. The way you’re going, you’re going to be falling flat on your face any day now. Come,” he said, his fingers curling, beckoning, “I’m taking you to dinner.”

Tristan huffed a laugh as he rose to his feet, letting Dorian help him out and pat him dry with a soft cotton towel. There was something in that gesture, the familiarity, the sheer tenderness and care of it, gentle touches with no ulterior motive or desire. The simple act of caring for a loved one, and taking joy in the shared moment.

Tristan caught Dorian’s hand after they had both put their clothes on, bringing it up to his lips and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “So,” he said softly, “what are we having tonight?”

Dorian smirked playfully. “Whatever is left in the kitchens, of course. Beggars can’t well be choosers at this hour. Let’s pray it’s something edible and not that meat pie they keep serving at the tavern. Or, Maker forbid, that stew.”

Tristan shuddered at the thought of the thick, floury crust, or those tasteless stews that felt like boiled mush on his tongue. “I’d happily go another day without food if it meant not eating that foul stuff.”

“No. No, you would not. Not while I’m here. Now,” Dorian said, showing him towards the door, “I want to see that lovely derriere marching down those stairs and to the wonderful midnight feast we’ll no doubt be having very soon.”

Tristan rolled his eyes, yet couldn’t help the wide smile that blossomed on his face. He did as he was told, walking out of the quarters, Dorian in tow. Maighdin mumbled a quiet “Your Worship” when he informed her he would be going to the kitchens with Dorian. Alone.

“She’s quite nice, that girl,” Dorian said to him after they were well out of earshot. “Kinder than she looks. She actually came by the library a couple times while you were gone to ask me if I needed anything. I joked about wanting caramel apple slices to nibble on with the tea I was drinking at the time, and she brought me some the next day.”

“Did she?” Tristan tried to combine the image of stern-faced Maighdin and caramel apples. No, it didn’t quite fit. “Why would she do that? That’s hardly her job.”

“She knows we're seeing each other. Perhaps she feels the need to check up on me simply because I'm associated with you. She does seem very diligent. Cullen has chosen your guards well.”

Tristan’s brows furrowed as he walked on. “Yes, he has. I wish they weren’t needed, yet I’m happy with the people he has chosen anyway.”

Dorian shrugged, his steps falling almost at the same time as his. “You can’t change the way things are. Besides, they make you look intimidating. That’s what the leader of Inquisition should look like, isn’t it?”

“I think that was the idea from the start,” Tristan grumbled. “I’m glad that’s working, at the very least.”

“Not as intimidating as you look now, though,” Dorian said teasingly. “That scowl you wear could drive anyone in their right minds away.”

“How come it hasn’t driven you away?”

“I happen to be quite fond of it.” He turned to glance at him, head cocked to the side. “There’s this small line you get in the middle of your brows when you do it. It’s rather lovely.”

Tristan laughed quietly under his breath as they walked to the lower keep, a flush warming his cheeks despite the night chill. The narrow staircase before Josephine’s office was long and dark, seemingly unending as they descended to the bowels of the old keep. The damp there was far thicker than upstairs, permeating the stone walls and clinging to the dampness than still lingered in Tristan’s strands. They walked along the corridors, illuminated only by the dancing light of torches, their footsteps echoing in the silence. The underground level was thoroughly empty at that hour, and Tristan found that he could breathe more easily now that it was just him and Dorian there. He had almost forgotten there were other people in the keep other than them, when they heard the shuffling of boots, hushed whispers, the sound of fabric brushing against fabric.

Dorian and he exchanged a quick glance before cautiously approaching. They hadn’t even taken a step before a slender female figure dashed past them. Tristan had just enough time to glimpse the black hair gathered in a long braid that flowed down her back, her grey washerwoman’s cotton dress rustling around her feet as she ducked around the corner.

A man followed soon after, but he didn’t flee down the corridor like the woman had. He stood before them, blinking, his dark eyes wide as realisation dawned on him.

“Y-your Worship,” Nhudem mumbled. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, then bowed before him, as if remembering himself. He was wearing his Inquisition armour, the golden eye on the breastplate catching the light of the torches as he moved.

“What are you doing here, Nhudem?”

The man paled visibly, fists clenched at his sides. “N-nothing. Your Worship. I-I was… was on my way t-to your quarters and I… I-” He stopped, bottom lip trembling. He looked ready to pass out.

Tristan’s frowned at him. “Who was that-”

His question was cut short when he felt Dorian’s elbow nudging his sides. He glanced at him, and saw the minute shake of his head, and the smirk that curled his lips before he reined it in. With a soft exhale through his nose, Tristan turned to Nhudem. “Maighdin should be expecting you upstairs to relieve her of her duty. You are late as it is.”

Nhudem bowed eagerly again, throat bobbing as he gulped. “Yes, Your Worship. Of course, Your Worship. By your leave, Your-” Tristan waved him off, and the man bowed once more before walking- or rather running away.

“It seems your guard has found a lady friend,” Dorian said after Nhudem had disappeared down the corridor.

“Right.” Tristan sneaked a glance behind him, making sure there was no sign of the woman or Nhudem before resuming his march towards the kitchens. “Did you get a look at that woman?” he asked, lowering his voice.

“No. She was very fast. Why?”

Tristan worried his lip as he walked on. “I should tell Leliana.”

“For whatever reason would you do that?”

“They’re my guards, Dorian. I need to know who they associate with.” So far as he knew, Nhudem had been a widower for years. Leliana’s very thorough vetting had mentioned no other relationships, which meant that whatever had been going on between him and that washerwoman must have been fairly recent. Unless he was really good at hiding. Which was troublesome in and of itself. If Tristan had learned anything from having grown up around servants and guards is that they talked. A lot. His own guards would soon come to know more about him than his own advisors, if they didn’t already. He couldn’t afford to have them spilling that information during secret trysts in storerooms and dark corners.

It was odd, how much things had changed for him ever since the title of Inquisitor had been bestowed upon him. A few months before, Tristan himself would have clapped Nhudem on the back and never thought twice about the whole thing, but Inquisitor Trevelyan had entirely different considerations.

Dorian’s steps fell alongside his, his palm brushing against the small of his back. “You don’t have to be in control of everything all the time, amatus. Let your people have their fun. You know they deserve it.”

Tristan rubbed the back of his head, trying to shake off his unease. He took a deep breath, nodding. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“When am I not?” Dorian asked with a wink, placing a kiss on his temples. Tristan leaned into his touch, threading his fingers through his. It would do him some good after all to let go of the Inquisitorial mantle, he realised, if only for a little while.

Their steps echoed along the dark corridors, and the damp lessened more and more as they made their way towards the kitchens. The warmth from the fires that roared most of the day had seeped into the stone, hot to the touch even in the middle of the night. Tristan let his fingers trail along the ridges in the centuries-old bricks, relishing the silence, when he noticed a soft, eerie light coming from behind one of the many doors.

Without really thinking, he pushed it open. The smell of dust and old parchment reached his nostrils as soon as he took a step in.

“A library?” Dorian gasped, walking ahead of him. “An actual hidden library?” He immediately went over to the shelves, glancing at the book titles. His eyes grew wide, like a child in a sweet shop. “This is fascinating. Maker only knows what else is tucked away in this place.”

Tristan smiled at his lover’s enthusiasm, letting his gaze sweep over the many books on the shelves. Most of them were far too old for the letters on their backs to be legible. It surprised him how many things he still didn’t know about Skyhold- he had lived there for months, yet he kept finding new places every time he happened to wander aimlessly about. Not that he had been doing much of that lately. There was usually no moment to spare from his Inquisitorial duties, his days scheduled by Josephine to account for nigh on every single minute. They were filled with meetings, training, judgements -the list went on, seemingly endlessly- and by the time he finally got to meet Dorian at night all he had mind for was… well. When it came to Dorian, there were a few things he had mind for no matter his exhaustion or the time of day, but even they weren’t enough to sate him. Nothing could ever be enough.

“How’s your research going?” Tristan asked, his fingers brushing over the books’ hard leathery backs.

“Ah! I’d almost forgotten about that,” Dorian said, turning to him. “I think I’m on to something. Remember when I told you that I could tell that the Venatori glyphs looked familiar? As it turns out, they are.”

Tristan’s eyebrows shot up with interest. “Are they? You remembered where you’ve seen them?”

Dorian nodded enthusiastically. “I believe I’ve seen them before, in Minrathous. It was a very obscure piece of research, but I might be able to retrieve it. I’ve already written to Tilani. If she manages to locate the scroll again and send a copy of it to me, I may be able to find what the Venatori are trying to do. That should give us an advantage when we next encounter them…”

Tristan’s fingers strayed to the scar on his neck while Dorian spoke, where the Venatori blade had cut him so long before. Talk of them always made him uneasy. Thinking about how close he had been to dying at their hands was... unnerving. Had Solas not been there during that time in the Hinterlands to heal him… His lips tightened in a line as his guts twisted and turned. Knowing that he had only himself to blame was even worse. He had been so reckless back then, always dashing about, getting into fights he couldn’t possibly win. In many ways, it was as if he had been challenging his fate, pushing at its edges to see where it would snap. Wasn’t he still doing that, in a way? Wasn’t he testing his limits, day after day? How long before he actually met them? Even in his last encounter with those blighted Venatori, he had only been a hair away from getting burned to a crisp, and Dorian with him. He had almost died, and still he hadn’t been able to rescue but a single person. There was so much at stake, people’s lives hanging in the balance, while he teetered. While he stood, as a symbol of hope, even though he had very little. And how much blood had been shed, so that he may stand there? How much more before his task was done? Before-

“Amatus.”

Tristan blinked. He hadn’t even realised he had stopped listening, lost in his own thoughts. Dorian was holding him by his shoulders, concern evident in his features. Tristan rubbed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “Forgive me. I got distracted. You were saying?”

Dorian shook his head. “It’s alright. We can talk about it tomorrow. Now is not the time.”

“No, I really want to-” Tristan cupped his cheeks. “I want to hear everything about it. This is important. You’re important.”

“So are you. My research can wait. This night is for us. You deserve some time away from it all.” Dorian smiled warmly at him. “Tonight, the only subjects we’re allowed to talk about are food, wine, and all the things we’ll be doing once we get back to your quarters.”

“Sleeping, that is?”

Dorian clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes. “You’re dreadfully dull and I hate you.”

“Mm-hmm. Why do I find that hard to believe?”

Dorian returned Tristan’s cheeky smile with one of his own, pulling away to return to the dusty shelves. Tristan let his eyes linger on Dorian’s back for a long moment, following his movements. He wouldn’t mind simply standing there and watch him for a day or three; watch as long fingers brushed over the books’ hard leather spines, careful, light as feathers; as he pulled the books out, caressing their covers before tilting them open; as his brow furrowed in concentration, as his eyes glided over the letters, as he brushed his knuckle over his chin in thought. As he sniffed in contempt, snapping the book shut and placing it back on the shelf.

“Senseless drivel. The amount of Chantry propaganda in this place is shocking. How they found themselves here, I’ll never know. One would have thought that a place this ancient would have some decent books, but apparently this is not the case.”

“A mystery for the ages,”Tristan murmured in agreement, glancing at an entire shelf of biographies of various Divines.

Dorian let yet another book snap shut and placed it on the shelf. “I challenge you to find one book in this place that isn’t about some Divine’s or saint’s life or some other similar nonsense.”

“A challenge?” Tristan asked, perking up. “I like the sound of that. What do I get if I win?”

Dorian smiled wickedly at him. “That will depend on what you find.”

Tristan thought for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. I’ll bite.” He glanced at the tomes on the shelf closest to him, squinting as he tried to read their titles, faded with time and obscured by generous coatings of dust. He drew one out, brushing the grime away. “This one doesn’t look so bad.”He handed it to Dorian, who peered at the book cover and huffed in amusement.

“Assorted Poems and Elegies of the Storm Age. Why am I not surprised?”

“It isn’t a Chantry book," Tristan said with a grin."What’s my prize?”

“Not so fast.” Dorian flipped the book open on a random page, peering at the writing. “Wilt thou love the Maker, as He thee? Then digest, My Soul, this wholesome meditation, How the Holy Maker In His Ascension, doth make his Temple in thy breast.” He glanced at Tristan, quirking a brow.

“Oh," Tristan breathed. "Right. I'd forgotten how much of the poetry from that Age is religious. Let me see.” He took the book from Dorian, flipping through the pages, scanning their contents until he found what he was looking for. A small poem, tucked away at the bottom of a sprawling epic about a Templar blessed by the spirit of Andraste. He handed the tome back to him, tapping the page lightly with his finger. “This one.”

Dorian shot him a lingering, apprehensive look as he accepted the book, lips parting slightly on a soft intake of breath. “He is equal with the Gods, that man, who sits across from me. Face to face, close enough to sip his voice’s sweetness, hear him laughing love’s low laughter. Fire in...” He squinted at the page. “I can’t make out the rest. The letters are faded.”

Tristan moved closer, placing his palm on the small of his back, reciting from memory. “Fire, delicate fire in the flesh, with flowing rein, gliding swiftly through every vein. Though ’tis death to me, I cannot choose but look on him; But, at the sight, my senses fly, I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die; I lose my colour, I lose my breath, I drink the cup of a costly death, Brimmed with delirious draughts of warmest life. Ears resound with noise of distant thunder, eyes gaze on stars that fall forever into deep midnight.” He gazed expectantly at Dorian, watching the soft light of the room play across his features as he tilted his head to the side.

“‘Eyes that fall forever into deep midnight’,” Dorian said after a moment, drawing out the syllables. “Is that some very elaborate way to say that someone kicked the bucket?”

Tristan let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re hopeless.” He plucked the book from his hands, placing it back on the shelf. “I still win, though.”

“Not a chance. A single poem does not a decent library make. I need more.”

Tristan rolled his eyes, biting back a smile as he continued searching through the shelves. He was never one to back down from a challenge. He was combing through a shelf filled with books of chants and psalms, when he saw a small, thin book, almost hidden behind the large tomes.

“Tristan de Lydes,” he whispered as he pulled it from the shelf and held it in his hands, heart thumping in his chest.

“Hmm?”

“Tristan de Lydes. It’s an old Orlesian epic. I used to have a book just like this. I took it with me when I left home, but it was lost after the explosion at the Conclave.” Tristan turned to look at Dorian, who had drifted from his corner of the room to glance at what he was holding. “It was my father’s favourite. He was so fond of it, he named me after it. He used to read it to Tilly and me all the time when we were kids.”

Dorian’s touch was light and tentative, his hand brushing the base of his spine. “You never talk about your father.”

Hazy memories, half hidden and half forgotten drifted through his mind unbidden, like smoke gliding over a fogged mirror. Smell of old parchment and burning smoking leaf. Light blonde hair streaked with white, gathered at the nape of his neck. Ink stains on crisp white sleeve cuffs, long fingers constantly fidgeting with the stem of his ivory briars. Carvings of flowers and birds around the pipe bowl.

Grey morning light streaming in through the wide window panes of his study, dancing dust motes catching the sun, settling on the books and scrolls that covered every surface. The sound of his mother's laughter as his father recited a silly poem, their tea forgotten in their cups. One of the few memories he had of his mother laughing like this, bright and carefree.

Light blue eyes, almost translucent, that grew more and more weary as time went by, absent, red rimmed, unfocused. The silence that spread over the Trevelyan manor after they had closed for good.

He clenched his jaw, his hold on the book tightening. “He died when I was very young,” he whispered. “I don’t remember him well.” He swallowed past the knot in his throat as he lovingly brushed his fingers over the letters etched on its leather cover. “After he passed away, Tilly and I used to read it to each other before we went to sleep. She loved the sappy, romantic stuff, while I wanted to hear all about the sword fights. We would argue about which part to read for ages.” His lips curled in a soft, reminiscent smile. “She always got her way in the end.”

Dorian’s arms slithered around his waist, drawing him closer. He rested his chin upon his shoulder, the side of his face touching Tristan’s cheek. “You could read it to me, if you’d like.”

Tristan huffed quietly. “I thought you hated poetry.”

“Not when you read it.”

The tenderness in his voice made Tristan’s heart swell, pushing away the shadows, like a shining globe made of pure starlight. He leaned against him, the warmth of Dorian’s chest soothing and comforting as it seeped through his clothes. They stayed like that for a long while, simply touching, simply holding, speaking little, perhaps not at all. The companionable silence, the presence of someone that cared for him, and that he cared for in return.

He could get used to this, he thought.

****

Tristan swirled the wine in his cup, bringing it up to his nose to inhale the rich blend of grapes, berries and honeysuckle. He tipped it over his lips, letting the dry red roll over his tongue, savouring the taste. “This is exquisite. 9:32 was an excellent year for Antivan wines. This one may actually surpass that Rowan Rose we found in the Hinterlands that one time.”

Dorian blinked at him, incredulous. “You must be joking. Rowan Rose is one of the most prized wines in Thedas. Only second best to Aggregio Pavalli. Antiva can never hope to challenge Tevinter in wine making.”

“Different years yield different wines. The one we found was from 9:26, and it had been a relatively poor year for strawberry grapes all over Tevinter, what with that pest outbreak. It was still good, but I dare say this one here is better.”

Dorian harrumphed, still unconvinced as he took another sip. “You Marchers wouldn’t know good wine if it hit you on the head with a frying pan.”

Tristan shot him a teasing smile, slithering closer to him. The embers in the kitchen hearths were still glowing, enveloping the wide room in a thick heat, and he was feeling slightly flushed under his coat. Dorian’s presence and the wine they had both been drinking was enough to make him sweat. “You seem to have a lot of opinions about Southerners. Specifically Marchers.”

“Indeed,” Dorian said, quirking his brow. “There’s one Marcher in particular I am chock full of opinions about.”

His scent tickled Tristan’s nostrils when he buried his nose in his neck. “Care to share them?” he whispered, placing soft kisses along the underside of his jaw. Dorian caught Tristan’s bottom lip between his teeth when it brushed over his, sighing softly. Sitting on the floor of Skyhold’s kitchens, tipsy from wine and heady kisses - could there be anything better than this?

“This isn’t going to work, you know,” Dorian murmured against his lips.

“What isn’t?”

“You think I haven’t noticed that you still haven’t finished your dinner?” he said as he gingerly picked up a small piece of pie from the plate beside them- the only leftovers they had been able to find. “Kisses don’t work in distracting me. Now, eat.”

Tristan scrunched his nose as Dorian held it before him with the tips of his fingers. “I don’t like it. It tastes like plaster. Plaster with a terrible filling. It makes me queasy.”

“I know. But this is all we have now. So, open up.”

Tristan smirked, brushing his palm down the inside of Dorian’s thigh. “Why does that sounds so enticing when you say it?”

“Oh, no. No, no.” Dorian swatted his hand away, dangling the pie before him again. “I told you I’m not so easily distracted. Don’t even try.”

Tristan rolled his eyes and huffed, accepting the vile thing. Before Dorian could withdraw his hand, Tristan caught his wrist, flicking his tongue over his fingers, drawing them in his mouth. Dorian’s lips parted on a silent gasp, his lids growing heavy as he watched him. Tristan smiled wickedly, placing his cup on the ground as he slid his mouth off Dorian’s fingers, then pushed him on the floor, climbing between his legs. Dorian let out a soft moan, threading his fingers through Tristan’s hair.

“Amatus,” he rasped, “we’re in the kitchens.”

“Are we?” Tristan said, looking around him with a perplexed frown. “And here I thought we were in Cullen’s office.”

“Ha-ha. Very funny. Positively hilarious.” He smoothed his palm down Tristan’s back, following the curve at the base of his spine. “What if someone comes in?”

“At this hour, it’s probably just us and a couple rats doing the rounds.” Tristan pushed himself up on his elbows, peering into Dorian’s eyes as he lay beneath him. Dorian watched him carefully, running his tongue over his pillowy bottom lip, over that indentation in its center that Tristan wanted to lick, and bite, and kiss. Maker help him, but he could spend an eternity just kissing his lips.

He took a deep breath to bring some focus back into his brain. “Would it bother you if someone saw us? Together? If it makes you uncomfortable, being seen with me…” He paused to swallow thickly. “I wouldn’t want to do anything that makes you unhappy. If you wish for what we have to remain a secret, so it shall be. I’ll do my best to hide it, and-”

“I want you, amatus,” Dorian whispered, cutting his sentence short. “I want to be seen with you. That’s what worries me.”

“Why?”

Dorian gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment, then exhaled softly through his nose. “You and I both know how people will react. They will say that I ensnared you with my wit and charm. That I used evil blood magic from Tevinter to turn you into my plaything.”

Tristan shot him a perplexed frown. “Can blood magic even do that?”

“It can do worse than that.”

“Dorian,” he said, putting on a serious face. “I have something very important to say.”

“Yes?”

“I want to be your plaything.”

Dorian huffed a laugh, smacking him playfully on the shoulder. “Oh, just stop it. I’m being serious.”

“So am I. I want to be your plaything. I want to be your plaything. I want to-”

Dorian stopped him with a kiss, chuckling against his lips. “I know you do, you terrible, terrible man.” He pushed a strand behind Tristan's ear, his silver gaze fixed on his. “Beis festis umo canavarum.”

“What does that mean?”

“'You will be the death of me'. Quite accurate in this case. Especially if your highly religious and anti-Imperium followers find out about everything you’ve just said.”

Tristan looked at him, his brows furrowing in determination. “They can try to pry you away from me, if they dare.”

“You’re full of lofty declarations tonight, aren’t you?

“You bring it out in me.”

“I’ve noticed I’ve been bringing a great deal out of you lately.”

Tristan laughed, cupping the back of Dorian’s neck as he brushed his lips over his. He deepened the kiss, savouring the sweetness of his tongue, drinking in the sound of his sighs, the pie and their wine entirely forgotten beside them. Tristan didn’t need any of that for sustenance, not when he had Dorian in his arms. He didn’t need food to eat, wine to drink, air to breathe.

He had him. He had him. He had him.

***

The first light of morning was slithering through the folds in the curtains of his quarters when they finally lay down to sleep. Enveloped in Dorian’s soothing warmth, Tristan felt there was nothing in the world that could disturb the calmness of that moment.

There, wrapped in the heat of Dorian’s body, surrounded by his sweet, earthy scent, with the gentle pull of sleep at the edges of his consciousness, was when the nightmares finally caught up to him.

#dorian pavus #dorian pavus fic #dorian pavus/inquisitor #dorian pavus x inquisitor #dorian pavus/trevelyan #dorian pavus x trevelyan #pavelyan #dorian x tristan trevelyan #dorian x tristan #tristan trevelyan #a world with you #johaerys writes

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allisondraste · 5 years

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Let’s Talk About Cole

Hi! It’s me again with another segment of “Allison Can’t Stop Analyzing Dragon Age Characters.” This time, I am going to be talking about fan favorite Cole. I think it’s relatively universal for people to like Cole and to enjoy his character. People like to draw him, write about him, and just talk about our Fade Friend all the time. It’s great!

However, the nuance of Cole is a little harder to understand, and as with most characters, he often gets reduced down to basic qualities and then those basic qualities are changed ever so slightly that the character starts to not even feel the same anymore. I love Cole, and I have done some research about him in order to write a handful of scenes involving him, so I am just here to share some of the things that helped me out while I was learning about what makes him tick!

Step 1. If you have not read Asunder, I cannot more highly recommend it. It has so much information about Cole’s back story. Also, if you haven’t read Asunder and you don’t want spoilers for Asunder, you should probably go read it and then come back to my post later.

Step 2. The Cole section of this post right here is literally magic. The whole post is magic, but since this is a Cole meta, I’m specifically referring to the Cole piece.

Step 3. Things about Cole that are essential to understanding him:

Cole is Neurodivergent ( and no, it’s not up for debate)

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term, “Neurodivergent” is simply a word that describes a person whose mind works and processes information in a way that is considered different from an average joe neurotypical person. Often times neurodivergent is used to describe autism, ADHD, and other conditions that affect neurological development.

Because Cole is a spirit, he processes the world around him differently from non-spirit characters in the Dragon Age Universe. He perceives different things and understands things differently from how other characters might. Cole also has some misunderstandings and misperceptions about human social norms and boundaries, that he becomes more acquainted with over time. It is important to note that this development happens *regardless* of the path chosen for him with regard to Varric V. Solas (I am not a fan of this particular part of his character arc, but I am going to go into that later). The fact that Cole is neurodivergent means that someone who is neurotypical is likely going to have a hard time understanding him and may perceive him as “childish,” “naive,” or “helpless.” They might also have difficulty understanding his speech patterns and especially recreating them if they seek to write him!

Neurodiversity is so important, and Cole is excellent representation, so it’s equally important that we strive to do our research and make sure that we are not removing that representation or presenting neurodiversity in a way that its harmful to others. Different is different, not bad, and certainly not less.

Cole is Not a Child

I mentioned above that there is a tendency to interpret Cole’s neurodiversity as childishness or naivete, and even when it is unintentional, it is an ableistic view point that can be harmful to entire communities of people. There is a pattern (not just in DA fandom, but also in DA fandom) whereby neurodiverse folks are often viewed as children. They’re infantilized and treated as if they are helpless and/or cannot make good decisions on their own. Cole suffers from this as does Merrill (sometimes Sera, too).

For Cole, this situation is not helped by the fact that the game portrays him as helpless and in need of a “father” figure to help him choose his path. Hence we see Solas and Varric arguing on whether Cole should increase is affinity for spirtdom or for humanity. I understand that everyone has their own opinion for what the “better” path for Cole is, and I’m not here to argue that; however, I do think that his arc would have had so much more meaning and been so much less invalidating for neurodivergent people if Cole had the autonomy to make his own decisions. In Asunder, we see Cole being very independent and making his own choices, figuring out who and what he is. At the very end, his very last line in the entire book is, “I’m not helpless anymore.” I don’t think that sounds like a character who cannot make his own decisions.

Fun fact: Cole is designed to be approximately 20 years old, which is the exact same age that Alistair was in Dragon Age: Origins. (While Alistair is also the victim of infantilization… it still puts things into perspective a little bit). In order to avoid the “kid”/child dilemma, it is best to conceptualize some of the things in Cole commonly interpreted as childlike or immature as “newness.” In Inquisition, Cole has only been in the mortal realm for a few years, and he has only been cognizant of the fact that he is not a human, but a spirit of Compassion for even less time. Rather than treating him as a “baby” it is best to treat him as someone who is just learning a new culture, a new world.

Cole is a Spirit of Compassion, Not a Spirit of Matchmaking and/or Meddling in your Personal Affairs.

A trend I see often is Cole as matchmaker, or Cole as interested in every detail of everyone’s sex life or Cole being a filterless vent for whatever the people near him are thinking. It’s easy to assume that about him, as he does comment on a few relationships (Cullenmance, Solavellan, and Bullmance) in particular; however, there is an interesting tidbit of how Cole’s thought reading works located in his banter with Dorian.

Dorian: That little trick, Cole, when you dip into someone's mind and take a drink?

Dorian: Do you choose what you're looking for, or is it random?

Cole: It has to be hurt, or a way to help the hurt. That's what calls me.

Cole: Rilienus, skin tan like fine whiskey, cheekbones shaded, lips curl when he smiles.

Cole: He would have said yes.

Dorian: I'll... thank you not to do that again, please.

Essentially, Cole can only tap into thoughts that are 1.) Painful or 2.) Can help lessen the pain in some way, shape, or form. So, when he accesses thoughts about an LI or something else very personal, he does so to HELP. It is not random. It is not filterless. It is a very pragmatic way to be compassionate. When I was thinking of ways to explain this, the first thing that came to mind was the work that I do as a mental health professional. We are actual practitioners of compassion. It is our job to listen to our clients and help them to solve the problems that are causing them to suffer. We ask a lot of deep questions and probe about a lot of personal things, but it is very targeted. We do not ask intimate questions just out of curiosity or just for the heck of it. It is geared toward the issue at hand. That is exactly what Cole does.

Unless prodding your OC about the details of their sex life is going to make them feel better, he will not bother.

Cole is Not an Innocent, Precious, Little Cinnamon Roll

First of all, that goes along with the infantilization of his character, so it’s just a really ill-considered choice of language to describe him. Second of all, it is simply not true.

I understand that for people who have not read Asunder or played the Champions of the Just questline (and especially people who have done neither) there is very little information about him to judge his character on, and what we do see is a person whose only mission, his sole purpose, is to help the hurt. That does seem very wholesome.

In Asunder, we see a much different side of him. Believing himself to be Cole, a young mage who died of starvation after being forgotten by Templars, Compassion roams about the White Spire in a confused and lonely daze, unaware that he is actually a very powerful spirit. He is called the Ghost of the White Spire, a legend that is terrifying to those that inhabit the tower. Why? Because he murders mages.

If you are thinking “oh, he probably killed them because he felt them suffering and he thought it was the only way to end their misery,” you are thinking exactly as I did, and you would be wrong. While he did target individuals who were despairing, it was not altruistic. He killed them because it felt good when they died, because that was the only time anyone could see him. The way the book describes it, it was almost an “addiction” or a physiological need for him to kill. He was distressed by his actions, but was not able to stop without Rhys’ help.

Over the course of the book, Cole learns more about his past and figures out what he is. He also, through the help of his relationship with Rhys and Evangeline, comes to understand that he does not have to murder people to be seen and remembered. When he is sent to the Fade using the Litany of Adralla, it all finally clicks and he returns to haunt Lord Seeker Lucius, for all the pain and suffering he caused his friends and loved ones. It is such a brilliant character arc and I so wish that we got to see more of it in the game.

Cole is a Person the Entire Time (Human vs. Spirit/Varric vs. Solas be damned)

Regardless of your opinion of Solas, one thing he gets right is in arguing that Cole is already a whole and complete person when he joins the Inquisition. He actually argues for the personhood of all spirits in general, and I think that any reasonable person can look at the spirits (and demons) with whom we have interacted so far and, putting aside feelings about Solas, draw the same conclusions.

Let’s take a look at all of the Spirits/Demons we have had actual interactions with thus far:

Valor

Justice

Compassion

Command

Wisdom

Choice

Desire

Pride

Sloth

Rage

Fear

Envy

While some of these interactions were minimal, each of these entities show qualities that one would associate with personhood. Qualities such as motivation, goals, higher order thought processes, emotions, etc. When we meet Justice in DA:A, he is a thinking, feeling being who longs to right wrongs and comes to care for mortals a great deal. He comes to this conclusion on his own after interacting with his companions in the events of the game. Choice, or Imshael, who we see in The Masked Empire, and in DAI, has such an identity of his own that he does not like to be referred to as a demon. I could go on. These are not mindless, thoughtless creatures, and so viewing them as people just makes sense. This is part of the reason I do not like the Solas vs. Varric questline (aside from the fact that Cole should be able to choose or not choose as he wishes). Cole is already a person, and Varric’s line of thought is not “making him more human,” it is only serving to make him “less compassionate,” and that’s all. He becomes more selfish which is why he is able to have more of his own personal goals (it’s not because he did not have them before; rather, it is because they were drowned out by everyone else’s).

This is not to say that I think Cole should have to forgive his abuser. He shouldn’t. Not unless he wants to, and that choice should be his to make, not Varric’s, not Solas’, and not the Inquisitor’s. I have an opinion as to which path is better, but I’m not going to discuss that here because it will detract from the actual point which is that the language of “human” versus “not human” is just bad and here’s why.

It implies that forgiveness is not a human quality.

It implies that in order to be considered a person, one has to “think” and “do” as everyone else does.

Because of Cole’s romantic/sexual interest in Maryden when Varric’s path is chosen, it implies that lack of romantic/sexual attraction is not “human,” which is aphobic.

Because of his Maryden interest in the “human” path, and because he has “become more human” in his thought processes, it implies that neurodivergent people cannot or are not interested in relationships, which is ableist.

TL;DR: I’m not a fan of that questline. Your mileage may vary.

Finally, and Probably the Reason You Sat Through the Rest of It: Cole’s Speech Pattern!

Cole’s speech is really difficult to capture in a way that is both enough and not too much. It is not as simple as just seeing how much alliteration can fit into a chapter. Sure, Cole uses a lot of alliteration, and it is incredibly fun to play with while writing him; however, his communication is not as simple as that. If you check out the link I shared in Step 2, it will take you to a Character Files reference where there is some information about Cole’s speech pattern that is much more in depth than I am going to go so definitely check it out. When I am writing Cole, I categorize his speech into three different types:

Synesthesia

- the alliteration, the purpley flowery descriptions, the metaphors, the in the moment, no regard for grammar, run on sentence speech he is known for. This comprises most of his dialogue.

Direct thought reading

- when he is actually quoting characters’ thoughts or stating their feelings out right. He might speak as them or he might speak as himself observing them.

Cole’s own thoughts

- Yes, he has them, and he has a lot of them. Many of these show up as his interpretations of and suggestions for others regarding their hurt. However, he also shows a lot of agency of thought. He wants to know if Dorian thinks he’s handsome, he talks about wanting there to be more rabbits in stories because Bunny was Cole’s sister’s name and it reminds him of her. Cole expresses a lot of his own thoughts and feelings if you just take time to listen.

Writing Cole effectively involves a good balance of all three types and I recommend just playing around with it!

To Sum It All Up

Cole is amazing, but he’s also often misunderstood and mischaracterized, and Allison has a lot of feelings about it that you could spare yourself from reading if you do Steps 1 and 2 and skip the middleman. The end!

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #cole meta #understanding cole #writing reference #my ramblings

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firehrt · 4 years

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𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑺𝑯𝑬𝑬𝑻.

Repost, don’t reblog.

BASICS.

full name. aelin ashryver galathynius, queen of terrasen. nickname. celaena, fire-breathing bitch-queen, laena, elentiya, fireheart gender. Female height. 5′8‘ age. 19 zodiac. taurus spoken languages. her native tongue is the spoken language of terrasen, which could probably be comparable to old welsh; fluent in the spoken language of rifthold, comparable to english; fluent in eyllwe.

PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS.

hair color. golden blonde --- closer to strawberry currently. eye color. turquoise, her pupils ringed with gold. skin tone. sun-kissed. accent. she’s worked hard to stomp out any lingering accent that could trace her back to terrasen, but a rolling purr of a drawl slips out from time to time. voice. lilting, highly emphatic and expressive. she can be either brash and booming or coy and flirtatious; on several occasions she’s described as ‘purring,’ so it really just depends on the mood. dominant hand. originally right-handed, but arobynn made sure she was ambidextrous. by, y’know, making her break her dominant hand. :) posture. perfect, although it depends on the crowd. if she needs to slouch to blend in, she will. scars. she has....... a lot.

ALONG THE TOP OF HER PALM AND ENCIRCLING HER THUMB : these are from book one, in which she defeats a ridderak — a creature from a different realm — and it leaves teeth marks.

THE BACK OF HER RIGHT HAND, PARTICULARLY DENSE SCAR TISSUE TOWARDS HER WRIST : when arobynn, her mentor, found her swordsmanship to be lacking in her left hand, he offered her a choice. she could either break her right hand, or he could do it for her. she chose the former, slamming her right hand in a door frame.

ACROSS HER PALM : this one is self-inflicted via dagger, the result of a blood oath she formed on behalf of nehemia.

UPPER LEFT THIGH : also earned from book one, in her duel with cain. it’s the only permanent scar she received from the brutal beating. sword wound.

ALONG THE CROOK OF HER NECK AND COLLARBONE : earned in book two, after defeating an ironteeth witch. due to the literal relationship between a witch and iron, the nature of her mark is recognizable to any ironteeth witch ( and even some non-witches ); this earns her the name ‘witch killer.’ shaped like teeth.

FULL LENGTH OF HER BACK : these are by far her most prominent, most horrific, and most significant scars. i won’t go into full detail, but they are indeed the result of whip lashings. many of them.

ALONG HER SIDE / PART OF HER BACK : earned in book four, during the final fight at the glass castle. stab wound.

tattoos. she had rowan tattoo over the scars on her back toward the end of book three. written in the native language of the fae, they tell the stories of every single loved one she’s lost. birthmarks. none most noticeable feature(s). her eyes. they’re hereditary, and every direct member of the royal family of terrasen has them. when she’s in her fae form, her ears also become pointed and her canines elongate --- so that, y’know. kinda sticks out

CHILDHOOD.

place of birth. orynth, the capital city of terrasen siblings. none --- but she has always considered aedion, her cousin, to be like a brother parents. rhoe and evalin galathynius, both assassinated parental involvement. when they were alive, they were very close --- although the nature of aelin’s uncontrolled fire magic occasionally put strain on that dynamic.

ADULT LIFE.

occupation. adarlan’s assassin, formerly --- the most notorious assassin to walk the streets of rifthold. currently, she’s the queen of terrasen --- if a little displaced. for the time being, she works for spirale’s Third Street Saints as an associate on her own terms. current residence. golden ward. close friends. none in the city, really. back home: rowan whitethorn, lysandra, dorian havilliard, chaol westfall ( a bit estranged at her current canon point ) relationship status. single financial status. stable enough driver’s license. a what now criminal record. ohhhh god uh---- murder, treason, theft, grand theft, a whole myriad of smaller offenses probably vices. chocolate, cakes, sugar, a beautiful dress, luxury dining

SEX & ROMANCE.

sexual orientation. Bisexual romantic orientation. Biromantic. preferred emotional role. switch preferred sexual role. switch libido. she can control herself, but her libido is pretty damn high. turn ons. assertive personalities, hair-pulling, neck-kissing or biting, biting in general, scratching, being pinned, massaging, pampering. turn offs. shaming women, unwanted advances, an unearned sense of superiority, bad hygiene love language. words of affirmation, physical touch, and acts of service are the big ones --- particularly acts of service. she isn’t always good at voicing her feelings or opinions about someone if they might leave her vulnerable. relationship tendencies. no matter how hard she tries, she keeps winding up in someone’s arms and loving every second of it.

MISCELLANEOUS.

character’s theme song: she doesn’t have a designated one, but THIS ONE gives me big celaena vibes and THIS ONE gives me big aelin vibes. hobbies to pass time. training, running, reading. mental illnesses. ptsd, depression, dissociation/depersonalization so strong it should be its own damn category physical illnesses. none fears. the dark, whips / whip sounds, sewers, heights. self-confidence level. really high and really low. she’ll exude an arrogant energy, and she’s unapologetic --- aware of her talents and looks. but at the same time, she puts the lives of pretty much everyone else before her own and generally views herself as ‘unworthy’ of a whole laundry list of good things. vulnerabilities. her memories of her last night in terrasen were a huge vulnerability for a long time, and it’s still not something she discusses with pretty much anyone. that, and her time in endovier. sewers also make her highly anxious, seeing as she almost died in one. any situation where she doesn’t have control is a big one.

tagged by: i snatched it tagging: u snatch it

#* metas.#* memes.

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mogwaei · 5 years

Note

"Winter's chill on a fevered brow" for dadrunkwriting! Because, Light, am I feeling wistful on this melancholy night ❤

@dadrunkwriting

Solas/Maori!

Quick background for those who haven’t read The Guardian: Maori is an ancient elf like Solas. She was/is an agent of Fen’harel (one of those who led the Venatori to the Orb). This is just Solas reflecting back on pre-relationship. :D

~~~~~~

Solas’ knee bounced restlessly. His eyes twitched between the table beneath his hands and the massive oak doors that filled Skyhold’s main entry. He was alone. Which, as of late, was an unusual occurrence. Usually, it didn’t bother him. There were plenty of things with which to occupy his mind. But the sudden change made him…anxious. Weeks ago, he told himself he wouldn’t notice her absence. There were plenty of studies to keep him occupied, after all. She’d be back before he knew it - he liked to imagine she might surprise him on her return, walking in with wine and something sweet for him, a story of her travels ready on her clever tongue.

All would be well.

And he did quite well for some time. His focus stayed on his most pertinent studies and he went with the Inquisitor on a short expedition into the east. He might have been too focused, because soon enough, he’d fulfilled all that he needed to do and was left waiting on requisitions to be answered. It became a waiting game.

And thus, the daydreams came in earnest. Then the longing. It had already been growing in her stead, particularly since each night after she’d left he’d rushed into the Fade hoping to meet her. Each time it had been empty, reflecting the feeling in his heart and gut. The longing expanded like a rift. It was fierce, relentless…and lonely. He worried.

Solas began stealing into the pigeoncotes and even the Spymaster’s letterbox, desperate for updates on her whereabouts. It seemed the world wanted to keep her away from him. To torture him with one more thing. But she was not a thing, she was everything.

His grainy eyes dropped once more to his left hand. His fingers were stained with ink though it had been hours since he’d actually touched the stylus itself. It sat abandoned across the pages of his journal, a black splotch marring the mediocre vellum. Instead, between his fingers he held a whittling knife. He could not recall how he came by it - perhaps swiped from Blackwall’s table or maybe the Undercroft - but it had become a tool he carried with him everywhere as he did with charcoal or his journal.

Probably because of her.

Anything to remind himself of her.

The little acts of vandalism had started as an accident - one borne of a wandering mind and idle hands itching to take part in something creative. He’d taken it out on a table - the one back in his hut in Haven. A memory of the dragons that once roosted in the Frostbacks just above the mountainous village. He’d etched it after they’d drank wine and failed to finish carving her a staff. Now that table was lost beneath the burden of the Inquisitor’s avalanche.The habit had followed him from Haven. Here in Skyhold, he sat before the first one, adding details here and there. A scene of a forest from a dream he’d encountered in the Emerald Graves.

He’d earned himself yet another title, “The Whimsical Whittler”. Silly as it was, he would rather be known as a serial artist than anything else.

Regardless, once he’d heard that on the lips of Skyhold’s new residents, he thought to stop. No one seemed to connect the murals of the rotunda to the idle scratchings finding their way across the keep. It wouldn’t do to be caught. The kind Ambassador would be livid.

He’d resolved to desist. Until Maori made the connection. She stopped him from stopping.

You are the Whimsical Whittler, she whispered, appearing at his shoulder while he was perusing in the library.

And what, exactly, will you do with this knowledge? She only winked and left without a word, carrying books beneath her arm.

Later, he remembered staring at the carving tool while he stood stumped in his research with the keystones. Frustration gave way to consideration. Research shifted to artistic study. His wandering mind began to map out a small mural for his desk. He was filling the rotunda with frescoes of Yin’s achievements, but perhaps the one on his desk could be for her. It would be nice to see her every time he came into his study, even when she wasn’t there in the flesh. But carving into his desk would reveal the identity of the Whimsical Whittler. So he drew the mural in his sketchbook - for now. He didn’t finish it because she found him again.

She came unexpectedly as he was dousing his candles and turning in for the night. Skyhold was sleeping, but she was not. He wondered if she was having troubles again and had come to ask his help at last.

Unexpected but not unwelcome came her request:

Let’s get some wine and sit by the fire.

He followed like a happy puppy. He would have heeled her into the heart of a volcano if she’d so desired.

They stole into Skyhold’s lower levels like two thieves in the shadows, but speaking like two long lost friends about the events of their day. They slipped into an alcove in the cellar where Yin and Dorian had taken to stashing their mismatched collection of wine bottles.

As he took his turn recounting his day, Solas watched rapt as she struggled to reach the top shelf. Pulled up onto the tips of her toes, fingers straining as far as they would go. The barest hitching of her ragged sweater over her jutting hip had put a lump in his throat and blood rushing to his cheeks. He’d seen her before - treated her wounds without any compromising thoughts. But that had been because it was necessary. Now…now he had time to imagine what lay hidden beneath those roughspun layers. If there had been gods, he would have prayed then for one to strike him with lightning where he stood.

Her quiet cursing had reminded him that he was not in the Fade watching a memory. She was very alive and real and present - he was not. He had also trailed off mid-thought.

Hoping she hadn’t noticed his complete and utter distraction, he stepped forward quickly and grabbed a bottle, then held it out She settled slowly back onto the flats of her feet and accepted it carefully, eyeing the label.

“Is this the one you want?” she mused. “Butterbile?” Solas realised he hadn’t even grabbed the one she was reaching for.

“It seemed…curious.” One of those inky brows arched at him. Even he wasn’t convinced of the lie.

“Yes, you are.” Her voice was dark like the cellar. How it had coiled around him in a binding of stifling arousal. He should have kissed her then. Pushed her up against the wall and tangled his fingers in the silken kelp of her hair. Lavished that sinful neck with his tongue –

She broke his focus once more with a throaty chuckle.

“Come with me, falon.” For one foolish moment, his brain had gone utterly blank. Falon had sounded too much like vhenan. The absent gods had thrown their lightning bolts after all and struck him with a condemning realisation. Vhenan. It was something he had not realised he was missing from his life. A hopeless fantasy supplied by a delirious mind. Lord of Tricksters. His mind more often deceived him than he tricked anyone. To hear that word off her tongue…that was a title he would be proud to wear.

“Solas? Are you coming?” She was already at the top of the stairs. He’d faltered, hand clawing into the wall as though intending to tear the stones down around his head. He nodded and forced his numb legs to climb the rest of the way up. She waited to go on until he joined her in the light. She searched his face.“Are you tired? If you are…this can wait–”

“No, I was…only thinking,” he said with a forced smile. She was always worrying for him. Maori squeezed his forearm - he’d remember that touch for days to come - and led him to one of the tables he’d decorated. The first one - now Varric’s favourite place to sit. The hearth at his back and all of Skyhold to watch.He wondered if the dwarf did it on purpose to keep an eye on all those who visited or if it was simply his writer’s mind in constant search of inspiration.

Maori lit the hearth with a gesture and turned to him, pale lips still pulled into one of her rare smiles. So rare, even they seemed confused with the movement. As a result it was a lopsided sort of thing, yet it had his heart fluttering like the new flames.

She slid into a chair on the adjoining side of the table, pulling the cork from the bottle with a wisp of magic. It came free with a strangely serpentine hiss. Solas only had eyes for the shapely legs stretched out beside him, nearly touching his own.

“This took place after Mythal’s warriors defeated Falon'din in his temple,” she started in her smoky voice, drawing his wayward gaze. Calloused fingers brushed over the ridges of the Emerald Grave’s mural, silver eyes reflecting bronze in light of the fire. She poured the Butterbile into two goblets she’d acquired at some point and handed one to him. He remembered the tangy scent of the wine intermingling with that of the burning logs of pine. The familiar stones of Skyhold about them. In her company, the riven world felt right. Whole again. He felt…content.

They drank at the same time and grimaced. It was sour and…maybe even rancid. He’d need to have a talk with Yin about collecting stray, questionable bottles and putting them with the reputable ones. But at the same time, the poor choice of wine felt like it had been the right one.

Maordrid hummed and took another sip with a humming chuckle. “This is disgusting. I like it.” Her fingers made yet another pass over the mural.Solas swirled the drink in his goblet, watching her intently. He did not need to look at the carving itself. She was far more intriguing anyhow.

Solas crossed his ankles. “You were saying?” She smiled faintly.

“Yes. There was a celebration. One that lasted a hundred years, the people were so elated that the god of death had been halted of his mad killings. The warriors were elevated and many of Falon'din’s surviving followers became Mythal’s instead.” In her reaccounting of the events - the true events - Solas had leaned forward, wine already forgotten on the table. He stared at the mural with renewed interest.

“Not many know the truth of Falon'din’s greed.” Lips now stained dark as plum flesh twitched into another smile. He resisted the urge to taste them.

“I am not many. I am just one.” One who has dreamed of the world I once lived in. One who understands both the flaws and the endless beauties it once beheld.

“So you are,” he had answered. “Would you…like to see how the Emerald Knights came to be?” To that day he wasn’t sure how he’d resisted her. How she had touched his face with her gaze, as though imagining her hands caressing his cheeks and lips. She’d looked at him with wonder and awe. What does she see? Even now the memory gave him pleasant shudders.

He often thought about her love. Maordrid’s affection was not always gentle or delicate - the only thing she ever touched was her blade or staff. Her touches often came in form of these intense gazes, as though afraid she might hurt him if she used her hands. They were still learning how to love each other. Sometimes he thought that if he could reverse it - go back to that night at Varric’s table, he would have kissed her. Maybe even in the cellar. He would have guided her hands to his face or neck - carried her to his room or her tower. Whichever she wanted. There were countless many ways he wanted to love her and not enough time.

There never would be.

Solas ran a hand across his brow and turned his tired eyes to the dying fire at his side. He rocked out of his chair and tossed a log into its mouth.

“My fault. Another failure. The hope in their eyes, their cries of relief. Turned to terror when the shadows struck. I tried, void, how I tried.” He turned slowly at the quiet voice of Compassion. Cole stood on the other side of the table, clutching a little wooden carving between his bandaged hands. A hawk? Or was it a griffon? “I will try harder. Something must give.” Cole blinked and looked up at him. Solas was never unnerved by Cole, but something had him stepping closer to the fire. “Word comes on the wind. Pale and fraught with shame. Winter’s chill on a fevered brow.”

Solas’ heart skipped.

“She is near?”

“I can’t tell. The Fade burns around her like a fever dream. She wants to visit the emerald waters but it hurts. Everything hurts. Head and heart are heavy like this unchanging domain.” Cole rubbed the side of his head. His wispy hair stuck up when he removed his hand. “Sorry. I thought it might help your worry but it’s worse now.”

“No, I would rather know, my friend. But you do not need to assuage my troubles. There are too many,” Solas said. Cole nodded sadly.

“I would, if you let me.” Solas smiled softly.

“I know, Cole. But it is all right.” Cole’s crooked smile reminded him too much of hers. He averted his gaze into the flames. His lids felt heavy. He should probably try to rest.

“She would want you to. She misses the spices and worn wool of your sweater. Beneath the blankets, legs entangled. She tries to be first to wake to watch you slumber. Aeons of light or eternity of night, she sees you anew. Solas. Solas. Vhenan. I will never get used to it. Who will be there for him when I’m gone?” Cole stopped before Solas could ask him to. “Oh, she needs honey in her wine. Good night, Solas.” The spirit was gone before he could even reply. As usual, anything Cole ever had to say of Maori’s mind had his brain spinning on its stem.

He sighed and made his way to his lonely chambers. He hadn’t slept in his bed since she left. The blankets he had not touched since her body last warmed them. They retained her scent of oakmoss and the bergamot oils Dhrui had given her…but the comforting warmth had long been sapped from them.

Slipping underneath the covers and facing the wall, he pretended she was there with him again, sitting up late to read. Come morning, she would be curled around him, warm and pliant. It was a sweet little lie, but it was enough to help him to sleep nonetheless.

~~~~~

There will be a part 2 :D

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jorrmungandr · 5 years

Text

Aesthetics and Evil

So, I’ve been thinking about something lately. It’s a bit hard to explain, having to do with a lot of sort of vague concepts that I am not particularly educated on. But I will endeavor to be as clear as possible.

This has to do with how evil is presented in fiction, and in media in general. Bad guys, acts of cruelty and violence, and those who perpetrate it. The power of aesthetics to shape the way that people view the world around them. The morality of using the finely honed skills of modern artists to push an ideological agenda, and what effect that can have even, and especially, when it’s unintentional.

I think that fiction warps the way people perceive the world, and makes them reach for easy, aesthetically-oriented answers instead of actually engaging with ideas. This isn’t to say that people are lazy, but the world is complicated and loud, and they’re going to take shortcuts whenever possible. It’s only human.

But that’s a bit heavy and dense. Let’s start with something simple: The Picture of Dorian Gray.

In this famous novel by Oscar Wilde, a young dandy has his portrait painted by a friend. He becomes obsessed with the idea of not growing old, but more importantly not having his appearance blemished by any sins he may commit in his life. And lo, a miracle happens and it comes true, the painting suffers the effects of his misdeeds, and ages in his stead.

In modern interpretations, it is often simplified into the painting aging while he remains young. But it is a big point in the original that for every horrible thing Dorian does, the painting is altered in some way. The idea being that the evil in his heart is externalized more and more as he indulges in it.

When I saw a stage version of this story at the Book-It theater last year, this really stuck out to me, because that’s not actually how it works, in real life. You can’t see a “curl of cruelty” on someone’s lip. Immorality is not necessarily externalized, and even in the modern media climate we have to learn this lesson over and over again. Bill Cosby didn’t get uglier every time he assaulted an unconscious victim. Louis CK didn’t have a shine of cruelty in his eyes even as he continued to victimize women. Evil thoughts and actions do not have an effect on appearance, actually.

Who do we have to keep learning this lesson? What is the cause of this cultural amnesia? We expect evil people to announce themselves through their aesthetics as well as their actions, because that’s the way it works in basically all fiction, everywhere.

Stories are crafted, by human hands and minds. They don’t spring fully-formed from the aether, people think about what they’re making, and the put a lot of work into it. There are all sorts of techniques of various sorts used to imply things subtly, to clue the audience in without saying it outright. The use of colors, shapes, tones, staging, camera direction, all sorts of different things, combine into what I refer to under the broad umbrella of “aesthetics”. This is what I mean when I say that “evil” is usually accompanied by appropriate aesthetics.

So, when you spend your whole life seeing this presented to you in media, that evil always warps the world around it to be presented a certain way, why, it’s only natural that you actually think that way. When you’re taught something, so universally if subtly, it can only affect the way you think!

This isn’t to say that this is universal, or absolute. I absolutely do not mean to say such a thing. It varies from person to person, and even then there’s the matter of taste, which is in fact the most dangerous and troublesome thing of all.

You see, the intentions of artists don’t really amount to a hill of beans when it comes to interpretation by the audience. When I was a kid, watchin’ cartoons and movies, I often sympathized with the villains because they were more interesting, visually and conceptually.

Let’s use a concrete example: I love the aesthetic of the Republic of Zeon in the Universal Century series of Gundam media. They’ve got the cooler-looking giant robots. They have cool uniforms. I like the idea of a group of space colonies declaring and fighting for their independence from Earth.

Also, Zeon is fascistic and unimaginably monstrous, according to the fiction of the series. But that almost all plays out off-screen. In the lead-up to the original Mobile Suit Gundam, one third of humanity is killed in a variety of atrocities committed by Zeon. Their leaders are horrible, power-grubbing monsters who fall to infighting, but they’re characters and they’re interesting. So, despite all that, I still like them.

Now, I happen to be aware of all this extra backstory, but there are an awful lot of fans of Zeon among the fans of Gundam, who are in it purely for the aesthetics of the robots and whatnot. There’s a lot of Zeon merchandise. There’s a lot of sympathy for these horrible fascists, who keep coming back and losing over and over again.

This kind of appreciation can start out as ironic, and morph into something more sincere with repetition and time. Or with the intervention of just the right kind of charismatic individuals. The appreciation for this kind of aesthetic is easy to co-opt, especially since it’s based on fascistic regimes in the first place!

The problem is that people will engage more with aesthetics than ideas, because media presents aesthetics as a shortcut to ideas. But it’s all open to interpretation, and people aren’t always going to take everything seriously.

This all goes back to an idea I’ve had rattling around in my head for ages, and I’m not sure exactly where it came from. A lot of different places, I suppose. But it’s this: it’s impossible for evil people to create good art. Anything they make is ugly. All art produced by Nazi Germany, for example, is actually ugly, because it’s promoting fascism and genocide and whatnot.

But that’s just not true. That’s sticking your head in the sand, and saying that the sky is green. It’s putting ideas ahead of aesthetics, which is all well and good when you’re talking hypothetically and engaging only with ideas, but in reality it falls completely flat.

Look, I’m not comin’ out here going to bat for fascists and murderers and rapists, saying you should give their art a chance. What I’m saying is aesthetics have no inherent ideology. Using aesthetics is just a skill, like any other. You wouldn’t say that a plumber must be bad at his job because he’s a racist. The evil of great art and artists isn’t something that’s just for you, personally, to confront, but to consider in a wider, societal context.

You can say that fascism is inherently ugly ‘til the cows come home, but I will still look at the fight between Norris Packard and the 08th MS Team and think he looks super fucking cool. If you teach people to rely on aesthetics for hints towards ideology, they will do it.

All I’m saying is... be aware of it.

#my writing #gundam #the picture of dorian gray #philosophy #aesthetics #holy shit this is so long #but important #mumm ra the ever living #long post

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flwrpotts · 6 years

Note

1, 4 and 18 for bughead. (I love angst okay, also feel free to just pick one or two or whatever, I’ll take anything from you 😍)

omg im so sorry about the wait on this!!! thank you so, so much for these asks and I hope you enjoy!!!

1. “Do you want me to leave?”

4. “You can’t keep doing this.”

18. “I shouldn’t be in love with you.”

i. “God, could she be any more artificial?” asks Toni, disdain soaked all the way through her voice, like a sheet of paper drenched in gasoline.

Jughead looks up from his whiskey soda and sees Elizabeth Cooper, swamped by admirers at the front of the room. He shouldn’t be surprised to be at the same opening party as her- they’re on the same label, after all. And yet, there’s something shocking about seeing her in real life, not transmitted by the blurred out waves of a television screen.

Like always, she’s in shades of pastel and bubblegum, hair curled in ringlets around her shoulders and lips coated in a sticky, nearly reflective gloss. She blinks, and her unnaturally long, glittery eyelashes brush her brow bone.

She looks like plastic. Smooth, unblemished, and yet, somehow flimsy. Like you could stick a pin through her, and she wouldn’t even feel it. Jughead is suddenly and insistently reminded of an article he read about her once, just as she was first hitting it big. She’s the sort of girl who never laughs, only smiles.

“All those pop girls are like that,” he says dismissively, and Toni laughs meanly, but he cannot help but watch her for a beat too long. Discomfited, he swallows his drink and wades through the crowd of ghost thin models (heroin chic, they’re calling it now) for a refill.

ii. He was labelled a sell out before he even sold, product of being the kid of an almost-famous rock star, one of those burnt out near-supernovas.

The critics never tire of talking about it; rewind the clock a decade or two, and F.P Jones and Freddy Andrews were the hottest things on the scene, smashed bottles to smash hits, with the sort of chemistry between them that crackled through the live shows like a bolt of lightning.

Jughead knows the players, if not the story.

His father- the charismatic, volatile addict, with magic in his hands and whiskey in his veins, too unstable to ever hold onto anything for very long. Fred Andrews- sweet and talented and the only person F.P was ever truly scared to lose.

They only released one critically-acclaimed album before falling apart, a whole slew of cheating scandals and rehab rumors and and F.P’s drunken Vegas wedding to a young poet, whose journals he later riffed through for “inspiration,” a little more Bukowski than Fitzgerald.

Jughead’s parents had divorced when he was fifteen, and he hasn’t seen his father since. But it’s an undeniable truth that F.P passed his raw, unchanneled talent on to his only child.

Jughead never quite forgives him for it.

iii. The band is just him and Toni, and is barely even a real band, if he’s being perfectly honest with himself.

Him and Toni met as teenagers, two pretentious, angsty fifteen year olds stuck in the middle of Ohio, spending too much in the library and bonding over their shared taste in music. They had bought cheap, falling apart instruments at a local thrift store, and the rest was history.

They still aren’t technically called anything, ever since their first bar show where he had mumbled “Um, I’m Jughead. We don’t really have a name” into the mic and started playing.

It’s a childish sort of rebellion against the trappings of success, him refusing to give a proper title to the notoriety that’s fallen into his lap.

He used to think that making it for real would rid him of his father’s ghost once and for all. But one album in, and he’s learned that it’s all business, all show, the music an afterthought to the whole production.

Management wants him to get into fights, to play shows with his shirt unbuttoned all the way down, to have a breakout album or maybe just a breakdown. Something salacious, something to sell, a high profile affair, maybe.

He can’t complain about it, really- some people waste their entire youth away waiting for a big break, after all. He and Toni had only played three shows when the agent in the back of a grimy bar had caught his surname and gotten them a flight to L.A the next day. He should be grateful, for the platinum albums and the expensive bottles of champagne and the teenage girls in the audience that scream along to the lyrics.

But he can’t help but notice the darker underside to all that glitter and gloss, the seedy underbelly that people prefer not to notice. Jughead’s got addiction in his blood, and knows a lot of addicts coming from where he did, but it feels futile in the wake of all these pretty boys and girls being handed pills by their managers like candy. His father got caught in that riptide and was dragged all the way down under the water, never to resurface again, not totally.

Jughead can’t play their games. Not can’t as in won’t, can’t as in am not capable. The only thing he’s good for is popping open a vein and bleeding onstage. Somehow, it’s enough.

iv. Betty Cooper’s brand is good girl, and she does it well, all tulle dresses and blonde hair and sticky-sweet love ballads that always sound happy, even the sad ones.

They bill her and Veronica Lodge as rivals, tabloids conveniently forgetting that the two used to be best friends as children, hauled around by their respective mothers-turned-agents to auditions for commercials and music videos. They were on the Mickey Mouse Club together, too, back when they were still too young to understand what words like show business meant.

Articles run constantly about the both of them, about Veronica’s constant partying and the half-assed coverups of her hospital stays, or about their supposed spats- showing up to events in the same dress, fighting over boys, the works. The sort of high school stuff that people never get sick of.

Jughead has no idea how deep their feud never runs, but at the very least, it’s profitable.

Betty performs at the VMAs, and she’s good, but Veronica blows her out of the water, writhing around on stage with a snake and doused in glitter. The whole thing is a joke: Veronica’s lip syncing is bad enough that he doesn’t even know if she’s singing the right song, and she’s obviously on something or another, but her hair is still shiny and her smile is still gleaming and she still has some indefinable star power that means the people in the audience don’t care if she’s stumbling on stage.

The cameras all pan on Betty’s polite, pleased smile after she loses four nominations in a row, and Jughead cannot help but admire the way that her mask doesn’t crack, not even for a minute.

v. As it turns out, they’re recording albums at the same time, in rooms next to one another in the studio, and Toni spends hours crafting finely point barbs for Strawberry Shortcake, as the more vicious tabloids like to call her. She hates her on principle, and Jughead doesn’t begrudge her that.

But Betty mostly keeps to herself, curling up on the couch in the studio with oversized headphones and a book. Her manager, a vicious redhead that’s related to her in some complicated technicality he doesn’t care to keep track of, is fiercely protective of her, and sweeps away the press that lingers outside with a ruthless sort of efficiency. She doesn’t seem to have many friends, either, despite the gaggles of girls dressed identically to her that she’s always being photographed with.

He and Toni get into a sweeping fight one day about the bridge of their latest song, and he storms off, yanking at his beanie and looking for a place where he doesn’t have to play nice with anyone.

He somehow finds his way onto the roof, and much to his surprise, Betty is already up there, looking surprised at the interruption.

She’s the most dressed down he’s ever seen her, in a baggy pair of overalls and her styled hair coming undone from the wind. There’s a book in her lap, and Jughead is both surprised and a little thrilled to see it’s The Picture of Dorian Gray.

“Little dangerous up here, don’t you think?” he asks, taking in the complete and total lack of safety parameters around the roof, and the lock that looks like it was prised open with a hairpin.

Betty glances down at the pack of cigarettes in his right hand and arches an eyebrow. “We all have our vices.”

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks instead of arguing her point, only a little awkward.

“You don’t have to,” she says, and so he flops down beside her and teases her about classical literature, instead.

vi. Betty is engaged, to the lead singer from some truly terrible boy band, The Archies. Their music is mainstream, all generic pop and meaningless declarations of love, but his jawline is sharper than glass, and they look good together, objectively.

“It’s all for show,” Betty tells him, corner of her mouth pulled up in a wry smile.

They’re on the old studio couch, Betty with a biography in her lap (Marilyn: Norma Jean, by Gloria Steinem) and her feet propped up on his knee, her toenails painted a sparkly, pastel blue.

Jughead, for his part, is scribbling in an old, leather notebook, tooling around with lyrics. I’m lonely so I do lonely things he writes, and then immediately crosses out.

“So what’s the point? You’re engaged to someone you don’t even have an interest in.” he asks.

She shrugs, a little defensive. “We’re friends. The engagement is helping album sales for both of us. And besides, Archie is completely in love with Veronica, but his label doesn’t want him to be seen publicly with her, because of her, you know–” she waves, a gesture he presumes to mean out of control partying.

He gnaws on the end of his pen, processing.

“What’s the endgame?” he asks slowly. “You can’t keep doing this- you’ve already been engaged a year and a half. Are you just going to marry him? ”

This time it’s Betty’s turn to look pensive. She twists the obnoxiously huge heart shaped diamond around her ring finger.

“It seems like a contradiction, but marrying him would give me a sort of freedom. Less attention from the press. I would be able to do more of what I want.”

“You’re selling away your future. I don’t see how that’s freedom.”

The smile Betty gives him is a little pitying. “Jug, I signed away my future the minute I released my first album. So did you. This is just- making the best of the circumstances”

He nods once, and his heart beats unsteadily when she links his fingers through hers.

vii. She does a set for MTV Unplugged a few weeks later, and he stops pretending that he isn’t going to watch about twenty minutes after it begins.

She lights up on the tiny television screen, and she’s a six hour plane ride away but his breath still catches in his chest.

Her makeup is a frosty shade of lavender that makes her look a little sickly, almost alien, and her voice is pretty and well-trained as she works her way through the set, song by song. She’s good, but it’s obvious that she had to work for it, that her pitch, while excellent, is not the product of natural talent.

But I swore I would never fall in love with a boy in a rock and roll band she sings at one point, tucking a lock of uncharacteristically loose hair behind her shoulder, and Jughead can’t quite work out whether he’s in on the joke or not.

You’re an enigma, Coop, he thinks to himself.

“Jesus,” sighs Toni from across the room. “You’re in love with Princess Peach, aren’t you?”

viii. Jughead and Toni stubbornly refuse to upgrade out of their shitty apartment, even though they can more than afford to move somewhere nicer now, but as a consequence he spends more nights than what is probably necessary at Betty’s place, a lovely, sharply modern loft full of a loneliness that seems to echo around the corners.

She’s got stacks and stacks of records, and even more books, and it only hurts a little bit when he spots his father’s album among the meticulously ordered piles. He puts on The Cardigans to distract himself, and laughs when Betty sings along a little bit, batting her eyelashes in perfect pop star imitation.

I don’t care about anything else but you she breathes, and he kisses her, pressing her into the marble counter while her arms come up to lace around his neck.

After they sprawl out on Betty’s comically oversized bed, Casablanca burbling away in the background with no audience to watch it.

Betty looks both younger and older with no makeup on, and Jughead studies the planes of her face in the dim room, the way her eyelashes curve when they aren’t laden down with extensions and her chapped, unglossed lips.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, because it’s true.

“It doesn’t matter,” she replies, twisting to face him in bed. “It used to, when I was younger, and more insecure. But there’s no accomplishment to being pretty. It’s a product. People think I’m beautiful because the makeup artist, and the photographer, and everyone else made me that way.”

She looks at him intently, like she wants him to understand, and somehow there’s a part of him that does. He wants to protest, to tell her that she is the loveliest thing that he has ever seen, but stops himself at the last minute.

“So what matters, then?” he asks instead.

She smoothes her unstyled hair behind her ear with the back of her hand, eyes faraway and dreamy, a murky shade of bottle green in the darkened room.

“I think I’d marry the person who told me I had an exquisite, wild soul.”

“You have an exquisite, wild soul,” he deadpans, and kisses away the sound of her laughter.

ix. F.P dies on a Thursday.

Body found in a motel room, alone, reads the article, and Jughead calmly puts down his newspaper, gets sick in the bathroom, and pours himself a double of scotch.

Toni is across the country, shooting the cover for some magazine called Sassy, or something, and so it’s Betty that comes to their apartment, trepidation scrawled across her face.

He’s already drunk, and sprawled out on the couch, all the blinds in the apartment pulled shut. He blocks one hand over his face at the slit of light that shines through the opened doorway. In the background, the T.V drones about the recent updates in the O.J Simpson trial, and really, it’s the purest form of misery that he’s ever experienced.

Betty sits down next to him on the couch, and he expects her to ask all the usual, obligatory questions, are you okay? or is there anything I can do?

Instead she says “I broke off my engagement with Archie.”

“Well, that’s just swell, sweetheart,” Jughead replies, injecting as much soft malice as he can into the words. “What, do you think this is fucking happily ever after? You should’ve stayed with Archie. I’m a- a god damned dead end road.”

Betty doesn’t react, just stares at him with those green, green eyes, as wavering and fathomless as the ocean.

“Juggie,” she says quietly. “Are you okay?”

He balls his hands into fists and presses them into his face, until he sees stars.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits quietly, into the stillness. “He was an asshole. I shouldn’t- this shouldn’t be the fucking apocalypse. God, and I’m just gonna stumble right on after him. I shouldn’t be making music. I shouldn’t be in love with you, Betty. I ruin everything I touch. Like father, like son.”

“Oh, Juggie,” Betty says, pressing a cool, small hand to his cheek, and he’s in tears before he even knows what he’s crying about, whether it’s what F.P was or what he wasn’t, what he lost or what he never had in the first place.

He presses his face into the fuzzy material of her mohair sweater, inhaling the familiar smell of her, and she cards a comforting hand through his hair, cooing nonsense reassurances.

“It’ll be okay,” she tells him, her voice steadying enough to dull the world spinning effects of the alcohol. “You’re gonna be okay.”

x. Things get better, slowly.

He attends the funeral, the entire thing sick and surreal, and pretends not to notice that his mother decided not to attend. Fred Andrews is there, though, red eyed and overdressed in a suit, and Jughead swallows bile when he sees the man tuck a pack of Marlboro Reds into an open casket.

Betty is there, too, and the press blows up when a reporter snaps a picture of them holding hands as they walk out of the chapel. He no longer finds it in himself to care what his publicist deems important.

He does start writing more though, filling up notebooks with his messy, slanted handwriting, and stops being so afraid that what he writes will be too similar to what his father wrote.

Him and Toni still argue constantly about the music, occasionally storming out of the studio in the force of their fury, but the album finally begins to come together, to feel like something real.

It’s a departure from their first, a little less angry, less punk, but somehow realer, too. There’s only two covers on this one, I’m on Fire, because singing it makes something in his chest feel jagged and shivering and fragile, and Highwayman, because even though he can’t find it in himself to cover one of his father’s original songs, he can cover one of the ones F.P had been fond of, back in the day.

Betty, for her part, quits her label after finishing up her five album contract, to her own delight and the media’s dismay.

“I always hated the posturing,” she tells him at a celebratory dinner, smile bright and sharp and free. “And besides, the technical aspect behind the scenes was always my favorite part. Singing was just a means to an end, and the cost wasn’t quite worth it.”

Rolling Stone hires her as a critic, and she writes keen, insightful album reviews, using her years in the business to shape the narrative around other people’s work.

The tabloids don’t know about them, quite yet, if only because they don’t hop clubs the way her and Archie used to get paid to do, though the redhead still often comes over to their apartment, bringing Veronica with him.

Ironically enough, it’s Betty that gets assigned to interview him and Toni, just at the beginning of the press junket, and he’s hit by a wave of fondness as she uncaps her pen, the picture of professionality.

“So, Jughead, this album has a distinctive departure in the lyrics from that of the previous album, though the sound is still quite distinctive. Is there a reason behind this evolution?”

Jughead looks at her, at Betty, with her blonde hair and her big eyes and her ability to look at him and see the mess inside his head and understand it, and there’s only one answer.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess I fell in love.”

#hello this was probably in the top three most DIFFICULT things I have ever written #but like!#it's done thank god #also if anyone was wondering this is set in 1995 #bughead #betty cooper x jughead jones #mine #prompt fill

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