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biboocat · 5 months

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Vladimir Nabokov’s Brutally Honest Opinions on 63 of the “Greatest” Writers to Ever Write (1973). I got this from a literature FB group; I can’t verify its authenticity. Even if the source is authentic, it seems to me a very subjective exercise, so take it in that spirit.

Auden, W. H. Not familiar with his poetry, but his translations contain deplorable blunders.

Austen, Jane. Great.

Balzac, Honoré de. Mediocre. Fakes realism with easy platitudes.

Barbusse, Henri. Second-rate. A tense-looking but really very loose type of writing.

Beckett, Samuel. Author of lovely novellas and wretched plays.

Bergson, Henri. A favorite between the ages of 20 and 40, and thereafter.

Borges, Jorge Luis. A favorite. How freely one breathes in his marvelous labyrinths! Lucidity of thought, purity of poetry. A man of infinite talent.

Brecht, Bertolt. A nonentity, means absolutely nothing to me.

Brooke, Rupert. A favorite between the ages of 20 and 40, but no longer.

Camus, Albert. Dislike him. Second-rate, ephemeral, puffed-up. A nonentity, means absolutely nothing to me. Awful.

Carroll, Lewis. Have always been fond of him. One would like to have filmed his picnics. The greatest children's story writer of all time.

Cervantes, Miguel de. Don Quixote. A cruel and crude old book.

Cheever, John. “The Country Husband.” A particular favorite. Satisfying coherence.

Chekhov, Anton. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter. Talent, but not genius. Love him dearly, but cannot rationalize that feeling.

Chesterton, G. K. A favorite between the ages of 8 and 14. Essentially a writer for very young people. Romantic in the large sense.

Conan Doyle, Arthur. A favorite between the ages of 8 and 14, but no longer. Essentially a writer for very young people. Romantic in the large sense.

Conrad, Joseph. A favorite between the ages of 8 and 14. Essentially a writer for very young people. Certainly inferior to Hemingway and Wells. Intolerable souvenir-shop style, romanticist clichés. Nothing I would care to have written myself. In mentality and emotion, hopelessly juvenile. Romantic in the large sense. Slightly bogus.

Dostoevsky, Fyodor. Dislike him. A cheap sensationalist, clumsy and vulgar. A prophet, a claptrap journalist and a slapdash comedian. Some of his scenes are extraordinarily amusing. Nobody takes his reactionary journalism seriously.

Dreiser, Theodore. Dislike him. A formidable mediocrity.

Eliot, T. S. Not quite first-rate.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. His poetry is delightful.

Faulkner, William. Dislike him. Writer of corncobby chronicles. To consider them masterpieces is an absurd delusion. A nonentity, means absolutely nothing to me.

Flaubert, Gustave. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter. Read complete works between 14 and 15.

Forster, E. M. Only read one of his novels (possibly A Passage to India?) and disliked it.

Freud, Sigmund. A figure of fun. Loathe him. Vile deceit. Freudian interpretation of dreams is charlatanic, and satanic, nonsense.

García Lorca, Federico. Second-rate, ephemeral, puffed-up.

Gogol, Nikolai. Nobody takes his mystical didacticism seriously. At his worst, as in his Ukrainian stuff, he is a worthless writer; at his best, he is incomparable and inimitable. Loathe his moralistic slant, am depressed and puzzled by his inability to describe young women, deplore his obsession with religion.

Hawthorne, Nathaniel. A splendid writer.

Hemingway, Ernest. A writer of books for boys. Certainly better than Conrad. Has at least a voice of his own. Nothing I would care to have written myself. In mentality and emotion, hopelessly juvenile. Loathe his works about bells, balls, and bulls. The Killers. Delightful, highly artistic. Admirable. The Old Man and the Sea. Wonderful. The description of the iridescent fish and rhythmic urination is superb.

Housman, A. E. A favorite between the ages of 20 and 40, and thereafter.

James, Henry. Dislike him rather intensely, but now and then his wording causes a kind of electric tingle. Certainly not a genius.

Joyce, James. Great. A favorite between the ages of 20 and 40, and thereafter. Let people compare me to Joyce by all means, but my English is patball to Joyce's champion game. A genius.

I. Ulysses. A divine work of art. Greatest masterpiece of 20th century prose. Towers above the rest of Joyce's writing. Noble originality, unique lucidity of thought and style. Molly's monologue is the weakest chapter in the book. Love it for its lucidity and precision.

II. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Never liked it. A feeble and garrulous book.

III. Finnegans Wake. A formless and dull mass of phony folklore, a cold pudding of a book. Conventional and drab, redeemed from utter insipidity only by infrequent snatches of heavenly intonations. Detest it. A cancerous growth of fancy word-tissue hardly redeems the dreadful joviality of the folklore and the easy, too easy, allegory. Indifferent to it, as to all regional literature written in dialect. A tragic failure and a frightful bore.

Kafka, Franz. The Metamorphosis. Second-greatest masterpiece of 20th century prose.

Kazantzakis, Nikos. Second-rate, ephemeral, puffed-up.

Keats, John. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter.

Kipling, Rudyard. A favorite between the ages of 8 and 14. Essentially a writer for very young people. Romantic in the large sense.

Lawrence, D. H. Second-rate, ephemeral, puffed-up. Mediocre. Fakes realism with easy platitudes. Execrable.

Lowell, Robert. Not a good translator. A greater offender than Auden.

Mandelshtam, Osip. A wonderful poet, the greatest in Soviet Russia. His poems are admirable specimens of the human mind at its deepest and highest. Not as good as Blok. His tragic fate makes his poetry seem greater than it actually is.

Mann, Thomas. Dislike him. Second-rate, ephemeral, puffed-up.

Maupassant, Guy de. Certainly not a genius.

Maugham, W. Somerset. Mediocre. Fakes realism with easy platitudes. Certainly not a genius.

Melville, Herman. Love him. One would like to have filmed him at breakfast, feeding a sardine to his cat.

Marx, Karl. Loathe him.

Milton, John. A genius.

Pasternak, Boris. An excellent poet, but a poor novelist. Doctor Zhivago. Detest it. Melodramatic and vilely written. To consider it a masterpiece is an absurd delusion. Pro-Bolshevist, historically false. A sorry thing, clumsy, trivial, melodramatic, with stock situations and trite coincidences.

Pirandello, Luigi. Never cared for him.

Plato. Not particularly fond of him.

Poe, Edgar Allan. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, but no longer. One would like to have filmed his wedding.

Pound, Ezra. Definitely second-rate. A total fake. A venerable fraud.

Proust, Marcel. A favorite between the ages of 20 and 40, and thereafter. In Search of Lost Time. The first half is the fourth-greatest masterpiece of 20th-century prose.

Pushkin, Alexander. A favorite between the ages of 20 and 40, and thereafter. A genius.

Rimbaud, Arthur. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter.

Robbe-Grillet, Alain. Great. A favorite. How freely one breathes in his marvelous labyrinths! Lucidity of thought, purity of poetry. Magnificently poetical and original.

Salinger, J. D. By far one of the finest artists in recent years.

Sartre, Jean-Paul. Even more awful than Camus.

Shakespeare, William. Read complete works between 14 and 15. One would like to have filmed him in the role of the King's Ghost. His verbal poetic texture is the greatest the world has ever known, and immensely superior to the structure of his plays as plays. It is the metaphor that is the thing, not the play. A genius.

Sterne, Laurence. Love him.

Tolstoy, Leo. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter. Read complete works between 14 and 15. Nobody takes his utilitarian moralism seriously. A genius.

I. Anna Karenina. Incomparable prose artistry. The supreme masterpiece of 19th-century literature.

II. The Death of Ivan Ilyich. A close second to Anna Karenina.

III. War and Peace. A little too long. A rollicking historical novel written for the general reader, specifically for the young. Artistically unsatisfying. Cumbersome messages, didactic interludes, artificial coincidences. Uncritical of its historical sources.

Turgenev, Ivan. Talent, but not genius.

Updike, John. By far one of the finest artists in recent years. Like so many of his stories that it is difficult to choose one.

Wells, H. G. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter. A great artist, my favorite writer when I was a boy. His sociological cogitations can be safely ignored, but his romances and fantasies are superb. A far greater artist than Conrad. A writer for whom I have the deepest admiration.

Wilde, Oscar. Rank moralist and didacticist. A favorite between the ages of 8 and 14. Essentially a writer for very young people. Romantic in the large sense.

Wolfe, Thomas. Second-rate, ephemeral, puffed-up.

https://twitter.com/Essayful/status/1729559047102153008?

#vladimir nabokov #opinions on writers

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thespiralgrimoire · 4 years

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So just realized that all of the female cast members (and probably some of the male ones) are based on fairytales Grey is Cinderella, Noelle is Snow White, Vanessa is rapunzal, Yuno might be Peter Pan or at least Sylph is tinkerbell

I got an ask similar to this quite a while ago, but it was a little more cumbersome and I wasn't sure how to respond to it....

I think this is an interesting take but personally I think it's a little reductive. There are definitely some similarities between the BC ladies and the Disney princesses, but I think to say that any of them are based on Disney princesses is a disservice to them as characters. While the BC universe is definitely loosely based in a European fantasy setting, I would think that the fact that it's written from a Japanese perspective would mean that the similarities to our classic Western fairytails can't be taken for granted.

HOWEVER, there is also the point to be made that the Disney Princess stories are based in tropes that show up in a LOT of traditions and stories, so maybe it would be more accurate to say that these characters' stories contain a lot of the same elements that appear in folklore all around the world?

That being said, I think it's fun to play with what we know, and I don't know a lot of Japanese fairytales. So let's take a look at some of the ones you listed, because I spent $75,000 on a Bachelor's degree in English literature and I don't get to use it much.

☘️ Of all of these, Grey is DEFINITELY the most obvious one. Like, it’s every element of Cinderella... The step sisters, the mistreatment, the false identity. But I think that’s is very important how it differs from the classic tale to play on Grey’s sense of self.

The classic Cinderella story doesn’t paint Cinderella as a self pitying damsel who needs to be rescued. She is upset with her situation, she knows it’s not fair, and she knows she’s entitled to a nice night out, especially after she puts in the work in to make an outfit appropriate for the occasion. Her step sisters’ vindictive nature ruins this for her, not any fault of her own, which is why her fairy godmother steps in to right the wrongs of her situation.

Grey doesn’t have the sense of self that Cinderella has. Be it through abuse or quirks of her own personality, she’s a rather passive victim to her step sisters’ bullying, and instead of doing what she does despite of them like Cinderella, she does everything she can to please them. The ending result is more or less the same: they can’t be pleased. In both cases the step sisters retaliate violently: in Cinderella’s case, they destroy the dress she’s made for herself, and in Grey’s case, they drive Grey into the woods, taking her attempt to please them as a personal insult.

Grey gets no fairy godmother, and no ball. And unlike Cinderella, she gets rescued by a “prince” character (as much as I loathe to call Gauche that, but an analogy does exist there, so let’s acknowledge it.) Gauche saves Grey in the literal sense, and he also gives her the courage to better her situation, which eventually leads her to develop a sense of self that is not “her step family’s doormat.” She varies from Cinderella in this way because Cinderella never had to make this personal jump in her narrative; she started her narrative already there. Whereas Grey was desperately trying to become something that someone would respect, Cinderella knew from the start that she was worthy of more than the world had given her.

But the nice thing about Grey’s narrative is that she IS working to be this person! She’s got to put in the work to get to where Cinderella is, but who knows? Maybe by the time she isn’t afraid to be her authentic self, she’ll get some help from an exterior source (a metaphorical fairy godmother character) or maybe that power will come from within (with this new magic she’s using to save Gauche?). If we stick with the fairytale princess narrative, her reward would be Gauche. Just like Cinderella was rewarded for her strength during an adverse time in her life, Grey will be rewarded for overcoming her insecurities.

☘️ I... gotta come clean here, I read “Snow White” but my brain went “Sleeping Beauty”, and I was all ready to talk about THAT fascinating analogy. So apologies if this one is a little lackluster while I get my fairytales straight.

I think this one is a little flimsy, but again, I prepared to talk about the wrong fairytale. Would we paint Magicula as the evil queen, wanting Noelle dead because she’s “fairer”? Or would her siblings be an abstract reading of the “evil queen” because Noelle looks too much like their mother, and therefore is the bane of their existance, like Snow White was for the evil queen? The Black Bulls as the seven dwarves is the one part of this I’m really digging, because it’s hilarious. But I think this one is a hard sell. Noelle has failed to be a victim to any serious threat for more than a few minutes because she’s always surrounded by people who fight tooth and nail for her, and she’s fighting every second to be stronger. Of course, that furthers the “Black bulls = seven dwarves” thing, which is just. So great. Snow White never had to do anything but housework. She doesn’t get stronger because strength was never a part of her equation.

☘️ Vanessa as Rapuzal is eh. She’s a classic princess trapped in a castle, but she’s the second one of those in the series (Charlotte being the other). In both cases, Yami saves them with a strange mix accidental concern and casual heroism. I think this says more about Yami as an accidental prince charming than it does about either of them as Disney princesses.

I haven’t seen Tangled, but from what I’ve gathered, there’s an analogy to be made here between Vanessa and Tangled Rapunzal being trapped by their mothers under the guise of caring for them. Hell yeah, can’t deny that connection! But it’s far from a sign of a fairytale princess. It’s just shitty parenting. Unfortunately, it’s rampant across all cultures, and therefore appears in all forms of media.

Charlotte’s case is, I believe, supposed to be a parody of a “strong independent woman” (which is a big problem I have with how she’s written but that’s a different conversation). There very well could be a specific fairytale that fits Charlotte’s case (Sh. Shrek?) but I think it’s meant to be more of a parody of the false persona she puts out than anything else.

Yami is really the one to look at here, since it’s not a coincidence that he’s rescued TWO of these fairytale-princess-knockoffs over the course of the story, and they both have unrequited crushes on him (although Vanessa’s is mostly for show). While Charlotte is a parody of a strong independent princess, Yami is a parody of Prince Charming. He doesn’t want the role, he didn’t ask for the role, he’s not looking for the role... He’s just doing what he’s doing and if he happens to rescue some ladies in peril, it’s just part of his day of wandering around busting through walls like the Koolaid man. That’s not a jab at Yami’s character. It doesn’t mean that he’s not a hero. Yami’s whole shtick is that you don’t have to be a conventionally handsome dude in a cape with a winning smile to be a hero. That’s the mantra he’s built the Black Bulls around. His whole character is a counterpoint to the traditional hero stereotype with Fuegoleon (and to a lesser degree, Nozel) as the point he’s countering.

Yami and the Black Bulls exist to make the point that there is more than one way to be right, to be strong, to be brave, to be heroic. You don’t have to look, act, think, or feel a certain way to be on the right side of things.

☘️ Okay so Yuno as Peter Pan is the one I’ve really been chomping at the bit to talk about because while I don’t think you’re right, I can’t decide if you’re wrong???

I don’t know what other stories and traditions could influence Bell’s design, so based on what I know, she’s a dead ringer for Tinkerbell. Moving past that.

Yuno as Peter Pan has me WILDING because he’s literally the host for an unborn baby. I don’t know how much harder you can drill in the “Never grow up” theme.

Does it really hold up past that though? I kind of want it to, just because the very premise of Yuno as Licht’s baby screams it so hard. But I don’t think it does.Which is a shame, because it could.

Yuno was a crybaby as a kid, which is a very infantile trait, but when he and Asta made their pact to be the wizard king, he went the opposite direction of “never grow up” and rapidly matured in order to accomplish this dream. We don’t really know how else Yuno may have changed besides “he doesn’t cry anymore”, but from the way he acts and the way he’s treated at the orphanage, it seems to me that a lot was placed on him. And that carries into his magic knight career. Because of his talent and his resolve, he was made to face some very adult problems at a very young age.

Major manga spoilers ahead!

This carries into the current events we’re seeing, too. There is no semblance of “never grow up” in the way that Yuno acts or is being treated as a member of the Golden Dawn. He’s the vice captain at... what, 16? 17? and he’s just found out that he’s also the next heir of a kingdom that he does not call his home-- that’s he’s considered the enemy for his entire career. Then he’s forced to handle the violent deaths of half his squad, the severe injury of the other half, and the kidnapping of his captain, which leaves him in charge. We see him give a big old holler about all this, but I what’s really interesting to me is that he doesn’t cry. The most infantile part of his identity, which he abandoned to get where he is now, does not come back to him in a moment of weakness, at a time where he very much has every write to feel like a helpless child. Whether he wants to or not, Yuno is no longer allowed to be a child, and he will never get the opportunity to be one again.

I guess you could say that this may mean that we’ll see him want to be Peter Pan, that he’ll grow nostalgic for the days where everything was simpler and he had the time to cry, the freedom to be scared and confused and feel sorry for himself. I would love to see that explored in his character, but I really don’t think that we’ll see it happen. In both the meta and the story universe, there’s no time for Yuno to have that breakdown and regression. It wouldn’t fit the pacing and Yuno’s got shit to do. Yuno isn’t Peter Pan. He’s lost the chance to be.

So in conclusion, I can see why a lot of people want to assign fairytale roles to characters in Black Clover, and I do think that the creators play with the concept themselves, but I think to boil any of the Black Clover characters down to a single character or fit them into a single fairytale is a disservice to the characters themselves, and overlooks everything else going on with them. None of the black clover characters are “based” on a fairytale character. Their stories may take inspiration from them, but there is far more going on with each and every one of them to ever take such similarities at face value.

#grey #vanessa enoteca #noelle silva #charlotte roselei #yami sukehiro #yuno #black clover #spinda tea #call me a big fuckin bottle rim glasses wearing pocket protector pointdexter nose in a book nerd #but I really miss writing essays #I would fucking LOVE to do more of these #if anyone wants me to #but no one probably does LOL #bc fairytales

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eeveevie · 5 years

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Shadow and Light

Nothing in Varric’s life ever goes as planned, but he’s damn good at improvising with the hand he’s dealt.

Varric introduces Hawke to the Inquisition, and with Garrett Hawke comes Bethany, much to Varric’s surprise. And there was much rejoicing. (Monty Python jokes not included).

Chapter Summary: Typical Orlesian bullshit occurs at the Winter Palace. Varric has some memories, Bethany has some feelings, and Hawke has excellent timing. Also, Alistair.

Varric Tethras x Bethany Hawke previous | next

5457 words (chapter) | Teen + | Ao3

Chapter Two: Coup de foudre

Kirkwall, 9:34

“I can’t believe Garrett killed the Arishok in single combat.” Bethany’s eyes shined with a mesmerized glint as Varric recalled the tale for her.

They sat in an isolated alcove of the Gallows Courtyard, hidden by the cover of night. It was risky for her to sneak away, but the Templars had their share of work cut out for them in the clean-up of the Viscount’s Keep.

“Are you sure you’re telling me the truth?”

“Would I lie to you, Sunshine?” Varric grinned.

Bethany copied him, though her smile didn’t reach her eyes. That hadn’t happened since before her mother was murdered earlier in the year. That was something Varric had wished he could lie about. Hesitantly, he reached out to place his hand over hers.

“Did you get my letter?”

Bethany shook her head, and her disposition changed. “They keep confiscating them. Classifying them as love letters.”

“Damn,” Varric cursed. He squeezed her fingers and eyed the way her frown only increased. “And here I thought I kept the lewdness to a minimum…I didn’t even mention my—”

“Varric!”

“Shh!” he hushed her, pulling on her hand so she was closer to him. She giggled softly, head ducking into his shoulder to stifle her sounds. “Do you want us to get caught?”

Her laughter slowly died down and Bethany leaned away from him, again a serious look in her eyes. Varric reached up to tuck the loose strands of hair from her brow behind her ear.

“No,” she locked eyes with him and was silent for a long moment before continuing. “Varric I don’t think we—”

“I know.” It was his turn to interject.

He could sense this was coming, but he didn’t want to be the one to say it. Their meetings had become more and more infrequent, and with the ever changing political climate in Kirkwall, the harder it was to maintain a clandestine relationship with a mage. If you could call stolen kisses and hand-holding a relationship. The death of Leandra only distanced Bethany further. Varric couldn’t, and would never, blame her. She hadn’t moved away, solemnly looking down at their clasped hands.

“Keep sending me letters,” she finally spoke. Her eyes flicked back up to his face. “Never stop writing to me.”

“I’ll make sure to remove the lewd comments then?” he asked.

“And miss an opportunity to embarrass a Templar who reads them?” She shook her head. “Don’t you dare.”

Varric eyed her for a moment, wondering for a brief moment what it would be like if they weren’t in such dire circumstances. “We’ll have to try this again one day, Sunshine.”

“When society is done locking up mages, perhaps.” Bethany nodded. “And the Qunari aren’t waging a war.”

“When the world isn’t burning?” he suggested.

“When nugs fly?” she countered. Varric smirked, amused at the notion, even if it bruised his ego slightly.

Bethany eventually stood up, holding onto his hand until he followed suit. And then, she leaned down the small fraction she needed to do so to close the distance between them, her hands framing his face as she brought him in for a kiss. A last kiss—not nearly as long as he would’ve liked. She moved to place a second kiss to his temple. Varric could only shut his eyes to keep himself grounded in the moment.

“I’d like that.”

Orlais, 9:41

The memory had come to Varric out of nowhere. Dwarves didn’t dream, but that didn’t stop his mind from wandering in the waking hours, taking him back to a time he thought he had moved on from.

Kirkwall had been in his thoughts more frequently than not as of late, and it all had to do with both Hawkes’ presence in the Inquisition. The investigation into the missing Wardens was taking longer than expected, so Garrett Hawke stayed in Skyhold to lend support when needed. As such, this extended Bethany’s stay with the Inquisition as well.

Nearly a month had passed since their initial arrival, and while Hawke was more frequently out in the field with the Inquisitor and her agents, he was still grateful to have one of his closest friends around. It wasn’t Kirkwall, but the two still managed to stir up their fair share of fun and trouble. When Hawke was away, Varric found himself spending more time with Bethany. He would observe her studies with the mages, and he even helped her gather herbs from the Skyhold mountainside, as much as he loathed the cold. She would sit with him as he took care of his Merchant’s Guild correspondence, giggling as she “proof-read” the letters to make sure they weren’t too snarky before sealing them.

At first, the more time he spent with Bethany, that initial awkwardness Varric had felt when they were reunited had disappeared. He was settling into a familiarity he hadn’t had since crossing the Waking Sea. Their friendship had picked up right where it left off, but sometimes, in the quiet moments, Varric would wonder if he could really classify their relationship just so plainly. She’d tease him about something he’d mentioned in one of his letters, remind him of something he’d said to her years ago and it would send his gut into a spiral. He thought he had lived a life of minimal regrets. Yet, he would look at Bethany when she wasn’t paying attention and wonder—what if?

The memory flashed in Varric’s mind again. Kirkwall. How he would do anything to be standing in the Gallows instead of the Winter Palace courtyard.

“A dwarf in Orlais,” Varric mumbled to himself as he climbed the stairs leading to the palace gates.

He made sure to size up—quite literally—every person he passed. He stuck out, but maybe this was why Josephine had insisted he join the event in the first place. All for the Game. It was also why Hawke had also joined, or at least a rumor that the Champion of Kirkwall would be in attendance. In reality, he was scouting to the East in the Western Approach with some of the Inquisitor’s most trusted companions—Blackwall and the Iron Bull to name a few. The rest were in Orlais, just like Varric, dressed in finery to be paraded about while the peace talks were underway.

By the time Varric reached the Vestibule, he was uncomfortable and cranky. He tugged at the collar of his tailored jacket, and looked around for a more familiar face. At first he only saw the Commander—Cullen standing near the top of the stairs with a pensive look. Beyond him were Josephine and Leliana at the large door to the ballroom, presumably waiting for their Inquisitor so they could make their grand entrance together. Just as he started to think about what kind of gaudy dress her female advisors had drowned her in, Aurelie appeared at the top of the staircase, escorted by the Grand Duke Gaspard. She was dressed much more elegantly, the ball-gown she wore made of flowing silk and lace. In a daring statement, the fabric cut low across her back, as if to purposely leave her exposed.

Varric was impressed, and judging by the hushed whispers around him, so was the court of Orlais. He watched as Cullen fumbled over a greeting, bowing politely. He stumbled over a proper compliment, and instead fell silent when Aurelie called him handsome. The exchange amused Varric to no end—this would be going in the book for sure.

“He looks like he’s been struck by lightning,” he spoke aloud as a body moved behind him. He might as well join in on the gossip with the court.

“Coup de foudre.”

Varric turned at the familiar voice and nearly swallowed his tongue. Bethany had snuck up on him, and surprised him in more ways than one. While not as dolled-up as the other Inquisition members, she was dressed in a stylish floor-length gown, one of Ferelden design. Deep red velvet, accented with gold—it got him thinking of Kirkwall again. He cleared his throat, glancing back at the Commander and Inquisitor exchanging pleasantries. Awkwardly. Varric vowed to not fall into that much of a stupor. He grinned at Bethany, exaggerating his bow to her.

“M’lady, if I do say so myself, you are looking exquisite this evening,” he noted her bashful smile. “If you aren’t careful, they might mistake you for Orlesian nobility.”

“Oh hush,” she waved her hand at him while using the other to try and cover her amused expression.

Varric shrugged. “I didn’t know you spoke Orlesian, Sunshine. You’ll have to translate for me.”

“You were saying that Cullen looked like he had been struck by lightning,” she started. “Coup de foudre. Though, that’s the literal term.”

She seemed to hesitate when Varric raised a curious brow for her to continue. “It’s more commonly known as, well, love at first sight.”

“Damn Orlesians and their romance,” he softly chuckled. “A phrase for everything, giving me a run for my money.”

Bethany didn’t respond, and he wondered if that was the reaction she was looking for—or if she was even looking for one at all. He didn’t want to think about it. Varric shook his head, focusing on the mission at hand as a loud bell rang out. The Inquisitor would make her grand entrance, and then one by one her entourage of advisors and companions would be introduced to the court. That was more trivial than some imaginary romance. Still, he offered his arm to Bethany with a smile.

“The Game calls us, Sunshine.”

As expected, Aurelie’s entrance alongside Gaspard was calculated, the herald of the ball taking his time in calling the names of those who passed through the doorway. Leliana must’ve paid him off to stretch out the fanfare.

“The Lady Inquisitor, Aurelie Trevelyan, daughter of Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick. Vanquisher of the rebel mages of Ferelden, crusher of the vile apostates of the mage underground, and Herald of Andraste.”

Varric rolled his eyes. “This guy writes better fiction than I do.”

“I’ve already heard so many titles, you’d think we were in a library,” Bethany mumbled back as they slowly walked behind the procession of people.

Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine had their share of flourish as well. Vivienne and Cassandra’s introductions were long enough that he almost didn’t notice the announcer presenting him. They didn’t introduce Bethany—most likely to spare her the inevitable questions of where her brother was. She didn’t seem to mind, instead holding an amused grin.

“Renowned?” she questioned. “I thought your books didn’t sell in Orlais.”

“Ouch!” He mocked her with a pained expression. “At least they didn’t call me Lord.”

After the last of the Inquisition companions had been introduced, Aurelie and her advisors approached the Empress for a more private conversation. At least, as private as the ballroom dancefloor allowed for. Varric made sure to slip away as soon as Josephine wasn’t looking, deciding that Aurelie would come find him if he was needed. Bethany followed suit, though she seemed much more uncomfortable with her surroundings than he was. He led them to the garden, hoping the fresh air would calm her nerves.

“Shouldn’t we mingle?” she asked, looking around. “Or at least people watch and gossip?”

“Sounds delightful. But first, some fancy wine,” he suggested, stopping one of the wait-staff as they passed. Bethany took two glasses from the tray and passed one along to him, the two clinking the sides together in a silent cheer. While it tasted just fine, Varric couldn’t help but make the joke. “Is that despair I taste?”

When Bethany didn’t respond, Varric followed her line of sight across the courtyard towards a gathering of people. She glanced at him for a moment before looking back. “Is that…?”

“What?” He stared until he could clearly see she was staring at an unexpected guest indeed. The King of Ferelden. “King Alistair?”

Bethany whipped her head back to Varric with a bewildered expression. “Why are you so nonchalant? That’s King Alistair!”

“Yes,” he agreed, before waving his hand towards another grouping of people. “And there’s the Queen of Antiva, probably. Also, I’ve met the guy, remember? Rivaini and I helped him a few years ago now.”

Realization washed over Bethany’s face as she nodded. “Those letters didn’t have a lot of detail, Varric. For all I know that was some strange fever dream you had after leaving Kirkwall.”

“Would I lie to you, Sunshine?” Varric noted the way she titled her head with an arched brow. “Don’t answer that.” He gestured towards the King. “I could introduce you, if you’d like.”

Bethany’s face went white and he nearly laughed at how she flattened her hands against the skirt of her dress, smoothing out the fabric. “Oh—right. Of course.”

“Remember, you curtsy to the King.” Varric teased as he took her arm once more.

As they approached the group surrounding the King, Varric caught Alistair’s eye and the man did a double-take, his dignified demeanor disappearing as he waved for the person he was talking with to shut up. A bright smile lit up his face.

“Varric Tethras! Finally, a familiar face.” Alistair didn’t seem to care that his guests were slowly departing from around him. “Are you here with the Inquisition? A little birdie had told me you were serving with them now.”

“You know me, can’t keep myself out of trouble for too long.”

“Indeed,” Alistair agreed. His eyes shifted to Bethany, and for a moment, scrutinized the way her arm was draped around Varric’s. “Who is your lovely companion?” His eyebrows seemed to waggle. “You never told me you had married.”

“I’m not—” Varric countered, and glanced to see Bethany’s face had turned a similar shade to her dress. She moved away from Varric a fraction. He was reminded again of why some thought the King of Ferelden to be just a silly man—it was the Queen who was the real diplomat. Varric knew that was just one side of the coin, of course. King Alistair was more than capable as a ruler.

“This is Bethany Hawke,” he finally introduced and watched as she curtsied. “The Champion of Kirkwall’s little sister. She’s staying with the Inquisition for now.”

Alistair nodded for a moment, and Varric could tell the King knew there was likely more to the story. But there were ears everywhere, and he wouldn’t risk giving up Hawke’s location, or Inquisition business. Instead of pressing for more information, he slyly took Bethany’s hand and dipped it in greeting.

“A pleasure.”

“Oh!” She seemed startled by his action. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” She held onto his hand for much longer than Alistair had intended.

Varric cleared his throat, and Bethany glanced down at him, her blush not fading in the slightest as she finally pulled her hand away. At least he had more blackmail to use later on.

“What brings you to the Winter Palace?” Varric asked. He took a larger sip of wine as the King pulled a face.

“Does anybody ever really know why they are invited to Halamshiral?” he joked. “Peace talks? Though I’m not sure what Ferelden has to offer at this time.”

“I don’t envy you one bit, Your Majesty.”

Alistair stared longingly into his cup of wine at the comment, and sighed. “It would be easier if Evelyn were here.”

Bethany looked to Varric, her brows knitted together in concern. He had only met the Queen of Ferelden—the Hero of Ferelden—Evelyn on a few occasions. It was always when Alistair was leaving Denerim to take passage on Isabella’s ship, the Queen entrusting the pirate and dwarf to keep her husband safe. For the brief encounters Varric had had with the woman, he knew that she was a kind soul, and worked tirelessly to keep Ferelden a safe place after the Blight. She was one of those rare people that lived up to the reputation build around her. Mostly though, all Varric knew her as was Alistair’s love—a story for the ages.

“How is the ol’ ball and chain?” he asked, remembering the nickname Alistair liked to use.

Even though Alistair offered a small smile, the sparkle was missing. “I’m afraid she’s not present at court,” he explained, before lowering his voice. “There’s been no contact for months. Even I can’t stall the nobles for very much longer with silly excuses as to where she’s gone. ‘Warden Business’ only gets you so far, even as King.”

“I’m sorry to hear.” Bethany sympathized. Alistair nodded and Varric could tell the man was getting sick of hearing condolences on his disappeared wife, even if they did not know the whole truth.

“You know, I could have people look into that,” Varric offered. “Think of it as just another royal favor I can cash-in later.”

Alistair’s smile was a little more solemn. “Thank you Varric, but I’m afraid Leliana has already diverted many of her top agents to search for Evelyn.” He explained. “If the Inquisition cannot find her, I doubt the Merchant’s Guild could.”

“You underestimate the dwarves,” Varric countered, pausing to drink from his glass.

Bethany took this opportunity to bring up an obvious, overlooked point. “We could ask Ser Stroud when Hawke makes contact in the Western Approach.”

Alistair held a knowing look, while Varric nearly choked on red. “Say that louder for the spies, Sunshine.”

She covered her mouth with her fingertips, while Alistair turned his attention to Varric. “Stroud and Evelyn worked together when rebuilding the Amaranthine Wardens. The Inquisition is investigating Wardens, right? They may have crossed paths.”

“Who says we are investigating Wardens?” Varric asked, narrowing his eyes at the King. Alistair arched his brows up in surprise and sipped his glass of wine, feigning innocence.

“What?”

Before Varric could ask any more questions, the three of them were interrupted by Lady Fleur, one of Celene’s ladies-in-waiting. She leaned as she waved at the King in some sort of Orlesian greeting.

“Your Majesty, King Alistair,” she started. “The Empress wishes to speak with you in the ballroom. At once.”

“You hear that?” Alistair smirked. “At once.”

Varric watched as the King followed the lady out of the garden, briefly wondering when the next time he’d encounter the man. He also made a mental note to ask Leliana if she had been sharing Inquisition secrets with him, even though she had told Varric otherwise. Not that it was a huge concern of his, but perhaps the Inquisitors?

Bethany let out a solemn sigh that brought him back to the moment. He looked up to find her frowning into her cup.

“That was…rather depressing, don’t you think?”

“How so?”

“Well…” Bethany trailed. “I always thought of the Hero of Ferelden’s story to be so romantic. It’s this epic tale of fortune and glory and in the end, the female hero saves the day, and marries the love of her life.” She moved to place the glass on the nearby bench. “Turns out, the fairytale doesn’t have much of a romantic ending. She’s missing, and he’s lonely.”

Varric wasn’t sure how to respond. “I’m sure not all heroes are affected by this.”

“Hardly.” Bethany’s expression steeled. “Even my brother suffered the safe fate. Sure, his relationship with Isabella isn’t…conventional, but perhaps it could be, if they could spend more time together. But no, he has to spend most of his life running from the Chantry, the Inquisition, the Templars…”

“Sunshine…” Varric tried to intervene, wondering where this was all coming from.

“Who’s to say the same thing won’t happen to the Inquisitor and the Commander after Coryphaeus is defeated?” Finally, she seemed to be finished with her rant and silence filled the space between them. She looked embarrassed.

“I stand corrected,” Varric muttered, and shot back the rest of his drink. “This is why I don’t write the shit.”

Bethany’s expression seemed to worsen, which wasn’t what Varric intended. He was about to suggest they sneak away to the private party Dorian had mentioned happening in the lower gardens when he noticed the Inquisitor approaching. She seemed to have urgent news.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Bethany shook her head and Varric waited for Aurelie to tap her nose. That was the signal. A little on the nose, they had joked, but it would have to do in their current setting. Before she could usher them away, Varric thought of something to save face. He quickly grabbed Bethany’s hand, cupping her fingers in a way so that he could bring it to his lips. He gently kissed her knuckles, flashing a wink and chuckling as she flushed with color.

“Romance ain’t dead yet, Sunshine.”

Bethany spent the next half hour in the garden unsure of what to do. At times, she felt lost without Varric’s companionship, but only because they had been spending so much time together as of late. Ever since she had come to Skyhold with her brother, much to Varric’s surprise, most of her time had been spent with the dwarf, even when she was supposed to be studying with the Inquisition mages. It was a relief to have a familiar face in the hold, other than Garrett. Sure, there was Commander Cullen, but Varric was somebody she could trust. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so happy.

Bethany smiled to herself as she looked down at her hand, brushing over her knuckles with a thumb. A warm feeling washed over her chest and she rolled her eyes, internally yelling at herself for allowing feelings from nearly a decade ago to resurface. She admitted, to nobody but herself, that she still harbored a small flame for the man, even after all this time. It was easy for Bethany to hold a soft spot for anyone, but Varric was special. But now, she was older, and with those memories behind her, she felt foolish about the way her heart nearly leapt from her chest when she first saw him in the Skyhold great hall.

Perhaps it was the letters. They had stayed in written contact the entire time, even if the correspondence dwindled when the two were far away or isolated. For the most part they were informative; letting each other know where they were and what they were doing. Now and then they would trail into random thoughts, and memories of the past, including their own. As much of a feat as it was, they had kept it a secret from everyone, or at least nobody had informed them they knew. In the letters, they didn’t have to hide.

She had tried to move on, but nothing had ever felt right, even with Varric’s written encouragement. Instead, she found herself holding back in other relationships until eventually she found herself with the Inquisition. With Varric. Everything seemed to click into place. Bethany was almost sure about the way she was feeling. But what did he think? She didn’t want to have any regrets.

The change of scenery did nothing to help quell her emotions. She had foolishly brought up romance far too many times. Maker—the King had thought she was his wife! With a groan, she decided it was best to return to the ballroom. Perhaps she would be swept off her feet by a random Orlesian noble and fall in love. Problem solved. Instead she ran into a familiar figure, his smirk something she could recognize even if he was burnt to a crisp. Her brother, Garrett Hawke.

“Don’t ever say I didn’t have good timing.”

Bethany looked at him flatly. “For what exactly?”

As if right on time the nearest doors opened, and the Inquisitor shot through, her dress swapped for rogues’ armor. She made a beeline for Cullen, panic on her features. “Detain the duchess. She’s the assassin!”

Bethany whipped her head back to Hawke and he only flashed another grin. Quickly following Aurelie were Dorian, Cassandra, and Varric. They too had changed out of their Inquisition finery to armor. Just where had they been? What had they been doing? Aurelie and Cullen rushed across the ballroom, and Inquisition guards moved into position as the Inquisitor called out for Duchess Florianne to stand down.

“Now!”

Hawke pulled Bethany closer to him as Florianne’s spies attacked. She froze, and watched as people in the room started to move in a panic. The duchess quickly escaped out towards the Winter Palace courtyard, but Aurelie was hot on her trail, not before instructing Cullen to protect the people. The other Inquisition members in the ballroom quickly escorted guests to safety, those who were secretly armored or holding weapons rushing to dispose of the duchess’ plants.

“Come on, let’s get to the courtyard!” Dorian ran after Aurelie, Cassandra following suit. Varric hesitated, the only one to notice that Hawke had seemingly materialized out of thin air.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Orlais?” he asked.

Hawke chuckled in response. “I am in Orlais.”

“You know what I mean,” Varric waved his hand at the man before switching his attention to Bethany. “Sunshine, are you okay?”

She nodded. “Yes. What’s happening?”

“Typical Orlesian bullshit,” he answered, before pulling his crossbow from his shoulder and nodding towards the door. “Let’s go.”

While Bethany ran with them to the courtyard, she wasn’t sure how much help she would be without a staff. It wasn’t always easy for mages to focus their casting without one—not impossible, but difficult. She instead trailed behind Varric, who rushed to find cover behind one of the bushes. Hawke had ran ahead, happily pulling his daggers from his back as he leapt into the fray.

“I’ve come to save the day!”

“I’ve missed that man,” Varric commented.

As sounds of fighting rang out around her, Bethany looked to Varric. He took the periodic shot from behind cover, and she would spot him, careful to watch their flank. “What do you need me to do?” she shouted above the chaos.

“Here, hold this.” Varric didn’t give Bethany a chance to dispute as he handed her a handful of explosive charges, her eyes widening as he struggled to reload his crossbow—it looked like the pin was stuck. “Come on now Bianca baby, don’t quit on me now.”

She blinked, looking between Varric and the weapon, before shaking her head. Now was not the time to conjure up jealous feelings about a feminine named crossbow. Instead she focused on the barrage of arrows coming overhead. A few stuck through the wall next to Varric’s head. Another arrowhead shot through the wall, closer to Varric and Bethany felt the panic rising. After a third arrow caused his hair to fly upwards, she pulled him aside, just in time for a fourth arrow to pierce the spot he was standing in.

He could only smirk at her. “Thanks, Sunshine.”

With that, he grabbed a grenade from her and lit it with a match, peeking over the wall before tossing it. It wasn’t long before he had dispersed all the explosives in the enemies’ direction, and Bianca was in working order. As the fight continued, Bethany found herself shooting the occasional firebolt from her fingertips, much to Varric’s surprise. Dorian kept her guarded with a mana shield, and even laughed as she shook her hands in mild pain after sending down an electric shock to a soldier with a shield.

It took longer than expected, but eventually, Aurelie cut down Florianne. It was a sight to behold, really, for Bethany, watching as the Inquisitor emerged from battle breathless, but nearly unscathed. She was covered in her enemies’ blood, and had a triumphant glow. It was admirable, unlike the shit-eating-grin her brother held as he danced in place nearby. The fool. Aurelie was amused, but she quickly directed the group back towards the palace.

The party wasn’t over yet.

It was a long night. Bethany didn’t bother to stick around for the negotiations, knowing somebody would inform her of Orlais’ outcome in the morning. Josephine and another noble helped escort her to her own private suite for the evening. She was overwhelmed by the size, never knowing what it was like to have her own space. Living life in Lothering, Lowtown and the Gallows didn’t give her much space. Now, she was surrounded by gold and silk, and even if it was temporary, she would relish in it.

She began to retire for the evening, changing from her velvet dress into her nightgown and coat. Still, she admired the dress she had worn that evening, smiling when remembering the way Varric had complimented her. Again, she found herself frustrated and closed her eyes, wondering if it was a good idea to come to Skyhold in the first place. Garrett made it seem like she would have fun, and while was was—having fun—there was something off.

Just as she hung the dress back up, she heard the balcony door handle wiggle. Her heart lurched forward and she glanced around for the nearest object she could use as a weapon before a second thought entered her mind. What if…? She slowly approached the door, cursing the fact she had closed the curtains in order to sleep. Hesitantly, she opened pulled down on the knob, and jumped back as the weight of a person came barreling into the room.

Again, she was not surprised to see her brother. She glared at him.

“Expecting somebody else?”

Bethany only rolled her eyes and watched Hawke close the door behind him, his eyes scanning the room before he fell face-first onto the nearby chaise lounge. She grimaced, noting that he was still covered in blood.

“I think Varric would just knock.”

As soon as she said it, she widened her eyes, knowing it wasn’t wise. Curse her thoughts. Her brother sharply turned his head, his eyes gleaming as he looked at her from his awkward position.

“And just why would Varric be visiting you at such a clandestine hour, dear sister?”

When she couldn’t come up with a clever answer, she stayed silent, and hoped Garrett couldn’t see through her expressions. He was the last person she wanted to be talking to about Varric—at least about this specific topic. After all, Garrett knew nothing about their past. Who knew what he would think. Her brother leaned up the more the silence dragged on.

“I’m glad the two of you are spending time together, but I hope nothing serious is developing!” He wagged his finger.

Bethany knitted her eyebrows together. She didn’t like what he was insinuating. “And why not? Why exactly did you push for me to come to Skyhold then? And keep it a secret from Varric?”

Garrett pondered that with a finger to his chin. “I may have been drinking when I made that decision. Also, Isabella.”

“Fuck you.”

“Language!” Garrett gasped. His expression softened a bit as realization hit him. Bethany shifted, uncomfortable. It seemed the preverbal cat was out of the bag. “Wait. Beth.”

He shifted so he was sitting upright, and could clearly see Bethany. “Do you have feelings for Varric? Our Varric?”

Again, she couldn’t answer. Not without revealing too much. That wouldn’t be fair. But her silence was an answer too, it seemed. Bethany was shocked to see that it had stunned Garrett. He blinked, and he rubbed at the stubble on his chin for what seemed like ages.

“Beth. Varric. Beth. Varric.” He repeated until she moved her foot to kick him in the shin.

“Stop it,” she insisted. “I’m not a child. I wasn’t asking for your opinion anyways.”

Garrett pursed his lips, and surprisingly, didn’t say another word. The two sat in silence, Bethany caught up in her mind and wondering more and more what her brother thought, despite what she had just said. It was all so damn confusing. Bethany did have one question she wanted answered. She wrung her hands together and Garrett seemed to pick up on her nerves.

Finally she sighed out. “Did Varric ever tell you why his crossbow is named Bianca?”

“No.” He shook his head. “The one story he doesn’t tell, I’m afraid.”

Bethany wondered if her brother would lie to her under these circumstances. She looked at his expression, and the softness in his eyes and decided he was telling the truth—for once. She wasn’t pleased with how serious the conversation had turned, and how strange her heart and mind felt after an eventful day.

“Bethany, you know I love you.” Garrett reached over to take her hand. “Just be careful with your heart.”

Bethany nodded. She had a lot to think about.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #varric tethras #bethany hawke #varric x bethany #a crab writes #fanfic #alistair #Hawke

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