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twentiethcenturymoviesandtv · 3 years

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The Princess Bride: The Story

The story of The Princess Bride doesn’t even open with the actual story at all. In fact, it opens on something out of the realm of fantasy entirely: in a little boy’s bedroom, circa 1987.

This is The Grandson (Fred Savage), and he is home from school, sick.

The Grandson is interrupted from his video games by his mother, who tells him that his grandfather is here to visit him. The Grandson is less than pleased. His grandfather will pinch his cheek again. He hates that.

True to form, The Grandfather (Peter Falk) enters the room and does just that, but he’s not here for any ordinary visit. He is here to keep The Grandson company while he is sick. It turns out that he has brought the Grandson a book to read to him: The Princess Bride.

The Grandson isn’t exactly blown away by the title, but the Grandfather assures him that this is a story full of adventure and excitement. The Grandson reluctantly settles back to listen to the story, admitting that it doesn’t sound too bad, and that he’ll try to stay awake for it.

The Grandfather begins to read: (Spoilers below!)

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful girl named Buttercup (Robin Wright), who lived on a farm in Florin. Working on the farm for her was a young man named Westley (Cary Elwes), who Buttercup calls ‘Farm Boy’. Buttercup loves ordering Westley around, but oddly enough, every time she gives him an order, he responds with a smile and a quiet: ‘as you wish’.

The Grandfather reads that as it turns out, ‘as you wish’ is Westley’s code for ‘I love you’.

Eventually, Buttercup figures that out, and realizes herself that she loves him too. However, they don’t have much time for pursuing their relationship, as Westley decides to take to the high seas to see his fortune. Shortly after leaving, we are told that his ship was captured by the Dread Pirate Roberts, who is famed for never leaving captives alive.

Once the news arrives, Buttercup locks herself in her house, and declares that she will never love again.

Five years pass, and the ruler of Florin, Prince Humperdinck (Chris Sarandon), announces to his kingdom the identity of his new bride: Princess Buttercup.

The Grandfather explains that Buttercup may have agreed to marry Prince Humperdinck, but she doesn’t love him. The only joy she takes anymore is riding her horse, as it provides an escape from his company. As she leaves the castle grounds on horseback, she meets three interesting figures: Vizzini, a short Cicilian, (Wallace Shawn) Inigo Montoya (Mandy Patinkin), a Spanish swordsman, and Fezzik (Andre the Giant), a giant. They claim to be lost circus performers, lulling Buttercup into a false sense of security, an instant before they abduct her.

Vizzini, Fezzik and Inigo load up their boat and prepare to push off with Buttercup on board, while Vizzini explains his plan to frame Guilder, Florin’s sworn enemy, for the death of the princess, who they plan to kill once on Guilder’s shores. Vizzini also reminds Inigo and Fezzik that he hired them to help him start a war. The trio head out to sea, preparing for step two of their plan and noticing that they are being followed by a strange ship in the distance.

The next morning, they discover that their pursuer has gained on them, now considerably closer. Vizzini isn’t worried however, as they are approaching the Cliffs of Insanity, and there, he is certain, they will lose him for sure. The group docks in a secret harbor and all climb onto Fezzik, who climbs a rope hung there previously. Their pursuer, a mysterious Man in Black, docks shortly after, and immediately sets to climbing himself.

Despite Fezzik’s great strength, the Man in Black gains on them pretty quickly. Fezzik beats him to the top, but not by much. In an attempt to stop him, Vizzini cuts the rope that the Man in Black is holding onto, but it doesn’t work: the Man in Black manages to hold onto the cliffside, continuing to make slow, but steady progress towards them.

Vizzini decides to take Fezzik and the princess and move on, leaving Inigo to deal with their pursuer once he gets to the top. Inigo, as it turns out, is an incredibly accomplished swordsman, who has been training for years, ever since a man with six fingers on his right hand killed his father and left Inigo scarred.

“I was eleven years old. And when I was strong enough, I dedicated my life to the study of fencing. So the next time we meet, I will not fail. I will go up to the six-fingered man and say, ‘Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.’.”

All of this he explains to the Man in Black. Inigo helps him up the cliff by throwing him the rope, allows him to rest, and even shows him his superior sword, before commencing with the fencing match. It’s an impressive setpiece, one that demonstrates both swordsmen’s abilities and wit, but in the end, as good as Inigo is, it’s not quite good enough. The Man in Black knocks Inigo out, and continues on after Buttercup.

Vizzini, seeing the Man in Black still approaching, leaves Fezzik behind to deal with him, his way: brute force.

Eventually, the Man in Black shows up and Fezzik fires one warning shot with a boulder, just to let him know that he could have killed him. He then offers a ‘fair fight’, as fair as it can be.

“We face each other as God intended. Sportsmanlike. No tricks, no weapons, skill against skill alone.”

“You mean, you’ll put down your rock and I’ll put down my sword, and we’ll try and kill each other like civilized people?”

They commence the battle, and while Fezzik’s incredible size and strength give him an advantage, eventually, the Man in Black manages to beat him with a chokehold, knocking him unconscious.

While all this is going on, Prince Humperdinck and his men, led by Count Rugen (Christopher Guest), are searching for Buttercup. Humperdinck, as it turns out, is a great tracker, and somehow gathers exactly what went on with the Man in Black’s battle with Inigo. He continues to follow the Man in Black’s footprints, which lead towards Guilder, admitting that it could be a trap.

Meanwhile, the Man in Black catches up with Vizzini, who has Buttercup at knifepoint. Vizzini freely admits that he can’t beat the Man in Black in a fight, as he’s already bested his swordsman and his giant. The Man in Black agrees, and offers an alternative: a battle of wits, to the death. Winner gets the captive.

The battle of wits begins. Vizzini pours wine into two goblets, and the Man in Black takes the goblets, and, keeping his actions hidden, pours iocane powder (a deadly colorless poison without odor) into one of the goblets. Turning back around, he places the goblets before Vizzini.

“All right. Where is the poison? The battle of wits has begun. It ends when you decide and we both drink, and find out who is right… and who is dead.”

Vizzini demonstrates his ‘dizzying intellect’ by stalling, going around with circular logic a few times before distracting the Man in Black, switching goblets while his back is turned. He then chooses the goblet in front of him, (the one that had been in front of his opponent) in utter confidence, drinking only after watching the Man in Black do so himself. In the middle of his gloating, however, he falls down, dead.

The Man in Black unties and un-blindfolds Buttercup, taking her along. Surprised, Buttercup remarks on the fact that it was the Man in Black’s cup that was poisoned the whole time.

“They were both poisoned. I spent the last few years building up an immunity to iocane powder.”

Behind them, Humperdinck discovers the scene of the wrestling match with Fezzik, and again, correctly deduces the events of the tussle. A little further on, he discovers the empty container of icoane powder, and the footprints that Buttercup and the Man in Black left behind, gathering that they’re gaining on them.

Meanwhile, the Man in Black allows Buttercup to stop for a breather, where she informs him that he won’t get away with this: her fiance will hunt him down. The Man in Black doesn’t seem very concerned. Buttercup also tells him that she knows who he is: he’s the Dread Pirate Roberts, her beloved Westley’s murderer.

They spot Humperdinck and his men riding towards them, far in the distance, and while he’s distracted, Buttercup pushes the Man in Black down a steep hill, telling him that he can die for all she cares. As he falls, he calls out Westley’s familiar catchphrase: “As..you..wish!”

Realizing that the Man in Black is Westley, Buttercup throws herself down the hill after him.

Humperdinck, watching the fall, concludes that they are heading for the fire swamp, not remarking on the unusual method of transportation.

Westley and Buttercup are reunited, but before they can get much further romantic celebration, the Grandson pipes up, griping about this development. To pacify him, the Grandfather skips ahead: to the Fire Swamp.

The Fire Swamp is a dark, cramped forest, with areas that spontaneously erupt into flame, patches of lightning-fast quicksand, and Rodents of Unusual Size. Despite these perils, Westley and Buttercup press through, while Westley explains to Buttercup how it came to be that he survived an attack by the Dread Pirate Roberts.

As it turns out, when he was captured, he managed to catch Roberts’ attention with descriptions of Buttercup and his love for her. Curious, Roberts let him live, bringing him aboard as his valet for quite some time. Every night, Roberts would say the same thing:

“Good night, Westley. Good work. Sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.”

But he never did, obviously. During this time, Westley learned as much as he could about fighting and survival, until one day, Roberts called Westley in to talk to him.

“Roberts had grown so rich, he wanted to retire. He took me to his cabin and he told me his secret. ‘I am not the Dread Pirate Roberts’ he said. ‘My name is Ryan; I inherited the ship from the previous Dread Pirate Roberts, just as you will inherit it from me. The man I inherited it from is not the real Dread Pirate Roberts either. His name was Cummerbund. The real Roberts has been retired 15 years and living like a king in Patagonia.’”

After a few narrow escapes, Buttercup and Westley come out the other side of the Fire Swamp, but find themselves cut off by Humperdinck and his men. Afraid for Westley’s life, Buttercup surrenders on one condition: Westley is to be returned to his ship, unharmed.

Humperdinck swears it, wholly dishonestly, and orders Count Rugen to deal with him. Before he’s taken away, Westley notices that Reugen has six fingers on his right hand: the key trait of the man Inigo Montoya was looking for.

Rugen orders Westley taken to the Pit of Despair, where he is healed of his wounds and then strapped to Rugen’s torture machine, a device he constructed specifically to suck the life out of his victims. Meanwhile, Buttercup begins to suffer nightmares about marrying Humperdinck, feeling guilty about turning her back on Westley when she knows he’s still alive.

With the wedding ten days away, Buttercup tells Humperdinck that if he insists on marrying her, she’ll kill herself. Humperdinck convinces her to accept a deal, promising to send his four fastest ships to try to get word to Westley’s ship to tell him of the wedding. If Westley still wants her, he’s welcome to her. If he doesn’t show though, Buttercup has to consider marrying Humperdinck as an alternative to suicide.

Reluctantly, she agrees, not knowing that Westley is nowhere near his ship.

Humperdinck later reveals to Count Rugen that he actually hired Vizzini and Co. to kill Buttercup themselves, framing Guilder for her murder so that he could have an excuse to go to war with them. Humperdinck then explains that, with Buttercup recovered safely, the plan has been changed somewhat: on their wedding night, after the ceremony, Humperdinck is going to kill Buttercup himself, blaming Guilder so he can still get his war.

To help with this plan, Humperdinck calls in his chief enforcer, telling him that killers from Guilder are planning to murder Buttercup, saying that he wants security measures to be taken. He orders the Thieves Forest to be emptied, and for security on the castle to be expanded so that no-one can get in.

Ten days later, on the day of the wedding, the king’s brute-squad rounds up the thieves from the forest, all except one troublesome Spaniard: Inigo Montoya, who is drunk out of his mind and waiting for Vizzini, unaware that he’s dead. Before the king’s enforcers can attack him, Fezzik, a member of the brute squad, steps in and nurses Inigo back to health and full strength, filling him in on all he’s missed in the meantime. He also tells him that Rugen is the six-fingered-man that Inigo has been chasing nearly his entire life.

Once Inigo is restored to full vim and vigor, of course, his first goal is to find Rugen and take his revenge for his father. However, Fezzik explains to him the security measures around the castle: thirty soldiers, far too many for both of them to take on. Inigo concludes that the only way they can win is if they have one more ally: the Man in Black, Westley. Inigo and Fezzik immediately set to looking for him, even though they have no idea where he might be.

Meanwhile, Humperdinck’s enforcer tells Humperdinck that the Thieves’ Forest has been emptied, and there is only key to get into the castle, which he himself has. Humperdinck has him double the guards still more, and as the chief enforcer leaves the room, Buttercup enters. She’s onto Humperdinck, and knows he’s lying about the ships to tell Westley. However, she tells him that it doesn’t matter: Westley will come for her anyway.

Humperdinck, now enraged and abandoning pretenses, locks Buttercup in her bedroom and races to the Pit of Despair, turning on the torture machine that Westley is hooked up to on it’s highest setting: killing him.

Westley’s dying scream is so loud that it can be heard throughout the kingdom, literally. Inigo and Fezzik hear it and follow the sound to the forest, as Inigo has deduced that this scream can only belong to the Man in Black.

Arriving near the area of the Pit of Despair, Inigo asks his father to guide his sword to the Man in Black, so he can find him and have revenge. Somehow, the sword does seem to ‘take over’, leading him to the entrance of the Pit of Despair. Entering in, Fezzik and Inigo discover Westley’s body. Only momentarily discouraged, Inigo tells Fezzik to grab Westley’s body, to take with them on their way to “buy a miracle”.

Inigo takes them to a man named Miracle Max (Billy Crystal), who tells them the good news: Westley is only ‘mostly’ dead. Max initially wants nothing to do with this, but eventually relents thanks to prodding from his wife, Valerie (Carol Kane) and the promise that Westley will humiliate Humperdinck, who fired Max from his previous job. He gives Fezzik and Inigo a Miracle Pill for Westley and sends them on their way.

Westley is revived, but he is weakened, as the pill is slow to take full effect, and can’t really move on his own. Thankfully, his brain is working fine, and he comes up with a plan to storm the heavily armed gates using nothing but themselves, a wheelbarrow, and a holocaust cloak. They dress Fezzik in the cloak, put him on the wheelbarrow, and set the whole thing on fire, moving towards the gates with Fezzik bellowing to all that he is the Dread Pirate Roberts. Terrified, the guards flee, leaving only the King’s enforcer, who the trio take the gate key from.

Meanwhile, inside the castle, Buttercup’s wedding is underway. With the commotion going on outside, Humperdinck starts getting nervous, and has the Impressive Clergymen (Peter Cook) speed through the rest, claims Buttercup as his wife, and takes off.

Once in the castle, the trio comes face to face with Rugen and four of his men. Inigo dispatches the foursome in seconds, without taking his eyes from Count Rugen, and delivers his practiced line:

“Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

Rugen flees.

Inigo runs after him, but runs into a locked door that he can’t break down alone. Fezzik props Westley up and comes to assist, and while Inigo chases after Rugen, Fezzik returns to find Westley gone.

Inigo continues his battle with Rugen, and although he sustains a few wounds, he continues to goad Rugen with his catchphrase, gaining strength until finally, he runs him through. Rugen dies, and Inigo’s father is avenged.

Meanwhile, Buttercup arrives at her chambers and prepares to kill herself, stopped by the sound of Westley’s voice. After another happy reunion, Westley explains that since she never said ‘I do’, technically, she’s not married. In the middle of this discussion, Humperdinck enters the room, declaring he’s going to make sure he kills Westley for real this time. Westley threatens right back, challenging Humperdinck to a battle ‘to the pain’, describing how Westley will dismember Humperdinck, leaving him in a painful state of awareness of his freakishly mutilated appearance, forcing him to go through life as monstrous on the outside as he is within.

At this, Humperdinck drops his sword, and allows Buttercup to tie him to a chair.

Inigo enters the room, vengeance taken care of, and offers to take care of Humperdinck as well, but Westley, saying that he wants Humperdinck to live with his own cowardice, turns him down. Fezzik arrives outside the window with four white horses from the prince’s stable that they can make their escape on. Westley offers Inigo the job of the next Dread Pirate Roberts, the foursome ride off into the sunset, and Buttercup and Westley enjoy a kiss, one that this time, the Grandson doesn’t object to hearing about.

The book finishes, and as the Grandfather gets up to leave, the Grandson asks if he can come again and read it some other time.

The Grandfather smiles and nods, parting with the words: “As you wish.”

The end.

So, now’s as good a time as any to discuss something that tends to ‘plague’ The Princess Bride: the story doesn’t really make sense.

Humperdinck comes up with an overwhelmingly complex plan instead of just killing Buttercup himself. Somehow, Westley knows exactly when and where Buttercup was taken so he’s able to follow her. The fight scenes are civil, the villains never actually follow through with the simple solution, Inigo can identify the Man in Black’s scream, loud enough to be heard kingdom-round, and follow it to the forest, and the ghost of Inigo’s father momentarily possesses his sword and leads him to the cave. Westley miraculously has enough strength to drag himself to where Buttercup is going to try to kill herself. Fezzik somehow has a holocaust cloak with him. Buttercup and Westley’s relationship is founded on, as the end credits say, ‘storybook love’, an ideal more than an actual relationship.

This is a story that is so unrealistic, with so many lapses in logic and leaps to conclusions that it could very easily be rendered completely ridiculous. However, miraculously, it’s not.

The Princess Bride is played extremely sincerely, albeit with a hint of tongue in cheek. Inigo’s grief is not played for laughs, and neither is Westley and Buttercup’s love. Dialogue may be funny, but the overall story is meant to be taken seriously.

Occasionally, the story’s ridiculousness is tempered by the Grandson’s questions and interruptions, waved off by his Grandfather so that he can continue on with the story, but overall, the audience is left to contend with this bizarre world where these things just happen. Characters don’t seem surprised by anything. In fact, they take everything in stride, nodding as though this is the only option that makes sense. Even stranger, their attitude is contagious: until you stop to think about it, the audience just nods and goes along too.

In another story, they wouldn’t get away with this. Plot holes would be torn wide open by fans pointing fingers, demanding to know how this happened. In The Princess Bride, it doesn’t seem to matter. And there’s a pretty simple reason for that:

The Princess Bride is a fairy-tale.

This is not supposed to be a ‘fantasy’ story, not in terms such as Ladyhawke, anyway. This is a fairy-tale, a storybook. The rules are different here. When events happen, the how is not important, only the why matters. It doesn’t really matter how Westley finds Buttercup, because true love always brings them together. It doesn’t matter how Fezzik has the holocaust cloak. What matters is that it works out, and they get to continue the story to get the fulfilling end of the story, for everyone. In the end, good wins, evil loses, and the good guys all get what they want: revenge, true love, and the prince’s humiliation.

In a way, it’s almost anticlimactic: there’s no final duel with Humperdinck, Westley’s too weak to even stand for too long, and Inigo doesn’t even get to finish him off. Like the Grandson complains about: Humperdinck lives, and the good guys merely escape.

So…is this a satisfying ending?

Yeah, actually.

The question of The Princess Bride was never one of ‘will Westley kill Humperdinck’, because that’s not what Westley’s story is about. As swashbuckling as Westley’s story is, it has nothing to do with revenge or things like that, like Inigo’s is. Westley’s end goal, his reason for going on, is exactly what he tells Miracle Max from the great Beyond:

“True love.”

Westley couldn’t care less about Humperdinck other than the fact that he’s getting in the way of his and Buttercup’s storybook love. Humperdinck is an obstacle to his true goal and drive, and he’s not worth the killing. Once he’s out of the way and Westley and Buttercup are reunited, Humperdinck ceases to matter to Westley. If the story had been from Miracle Max’s point of view, Humperdinck would have died or at least, have something more horrible happen to him, but since Humperdinck never really succeeded in doing much of anything throughout the story, he’s actually so pathetic that he’s not worth Westley’s time.

So, yeah, Humperdinck is left to live with his cowardice because his death wouldn’t have provided the characters anything except maybe catharsis, and honestly, that’s not really a good enough reason to off your villain.

On the other hand, Inigo’s villain, Count Rugen, is killed, for a very simple reason: that’s the logical end to fulfill Inigo’s story. It does no good for Westley to kill Rugen, or for Inigo to kill Humperdinck like he offers to do, because it doesn’t contribute anything to the respective hero’s story. In the end, the story balances out perfectly, and both heroes get what they want: revenge, through Inigo’s climactic battle with Rugen, and true love.

Westley’s driving force is reuniting with Buttercup, and as a result, the climax of the movie, the real climax, is when they reunite for the last time, proving Westley’s previous words true:

“Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while.”

In short? The ending fits as perfectly as Westley and Buttercup themselves.

Thanks so much for reading! Join us next time for an analysis on the genre and themes of The Princess Bride! If you liked it, please leave a comment or a like, and I hope to see you in the next article.

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scribbleseas · 4 years

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The Indignant Pawn, Chapter V: The Extent of Language

Description: You are Y/n Y/l/n- formerly known as Princess Helena, the runaway princess.

You're an assassin for hire who only agrees to find the worst of London's criminals at the business end of your knife; until a mysterious woman hires you to end the likes of Ciel Phantomhive, the King of the Underworld. You find yourself trading your weapons for your abandoned family crest in order to infiltrate his home as none other than Princess Marie-Louise, your twin sister. What's to happen when you find that the young Earl is more than a callous businessman?

OVERALL STORY WARNINGS: sexual assault, objectification, misogyny, death, detailed description of blood/gore, detailed description of murder, lying, impersonation, theft, weapons, detailed panic attacks and flashbacks, symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: single mention of self-hatred.

Author’s Note: If you have any questions or concerns about these warnings, please don’t hesitate to contact me!

-Dan

⇠ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇢

. . .

JANUARY 28TH, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

The riding habit Doña provided you with was much less intricate than your everyday gowns and pumps. The second you had grown accustomed to squeezing into multiple layers of skirts, the leisurely riding habit reminded you of you who truly were. Instead of balancing on the small, dainty heels of the shoes, you were given black boots that buttoned up. They supported your legs and resembled the ones that you had abandoned at Doña’s residence, save for the high quality leather that they were made of.

Oh, how you loved irony.

Even your long navy gown resembled the sensible style you favored between assignments, the long hem lengthening your profile and the sleeves allowing you to tuck your gloves in with ease. The neckline revealed nothing besides the casual white button up that Mey-Rin surprised you with- the collar ended inches above your throat as it served as your innermost layer of clothing. The dark palette of colors would aid in concealing the stain of Lord Phantomhive’s blood when the time came.

You ran your thumb over the engraved lines of your knife’s wooden handle. The divots that you felt helped you focus and the familiar weight of the weapon was a comfort. You memorized each detail of the silver blade’s intricate design; swirls of turquoise, abstract bits of purple and gold leaves, held together by the illustrated vines. The detail ran up the blade spine, but left the tip a plain silver.

It was finally the day that you’d add the Earl to the count of those whose lives you took with that very blade, putting an end to the assignment. Cautiously, you slid the knife into your boot, between your thin stocking and the boot’s rough leather to avoid slicing the skin of your ankle. Your boot was high enough to conceal the whole of the blade- past the silver quillons. Paired with your extra long riding skirts, the weapon was concealed perfectly.

As you went to the front of the estate where you agreed to meet Lord Phantomhive and Sebastian, your heart raced, expecting the violence you had planned- as if it was going to happen at that very moment. The pace of it only picked up as you opened the front door and shut it behind you, revealing the pair. The Earl was scratching the muzzle of a chestnut horse, it was completely tacked and to your surprise, there wasn’t another one. The fact was bewildering until you recalled that it was poor form for a girl; much less a woman, to properly steer and ride her own horse.

Sebastian was the first to speak, and the amusement in his voice was disarming to you. “Guten Tag, Eure Hoheit. Darf ich vorstellen: Autumn, unser zuverlässigstes Clydesdale-Pferd. Ihr und mein Herr werdet sie heute reiten,” (Good afternoon, Your Highness. Meet Autumn, our most reliable Clydesdale horse. You and my master will be riding her today) he said, likely catching the subtle show of irritation that you fought in your face.

“Autumn is quite accustomed to this trail, if it helps to set your mind at ease,” Lord Phantomhive commented, quickly taking in the sight of your dressed down state. Your hair was even out of its braided bun, for the favor of a looser one that was tied with a black ribbon. Stray strands framed your face, falling in strategically curled waves. The adlib strands accentuated the thin pearl choker and matching earrings you had chosen.

“Right, thank you,” you acquiesced, presuming that any sort of protest would be out of character for Marie, or any high ranking woman in general. You stepped down the small stairs, deliberately avoiding the suspicious glare of ice. The last thing you needed was to take a tumble and injure yourself, which heeled boots made it easy to do.

Upon closer inspection, Autumn was a beautiful horse. Her coat stuck out against the white and grey winter terrain and complimented the black tack set and warming blanket. Her neat maine and tail strategically matched her tack.

You ran your hand over Autumn’s neck as Lord Phantomhive hoisted himself onto the saddle by putting one foot through a stirrup and using that as leverage to swing his other leg over the horse’s back. After righting himself, he extended his hand to you, his white pair of gloves matching the ones you sported, making his rings much more conspicuous. “Your Highness,” he spoke, briefly bending his fingers to express that you needed to take his hand- as if you lacked the knowledge of riding etiquette.

After taking a brief moment to stare at the startling sapphire on his ring finger, you accepted his hand and stepped in the stirrup to settle your bottom on the pillion behind the saddle. Vaguely, you could recall that sitting side-saddle required you to both hold on to the driver’s middle with an arm and cross your ankles, allowing your legs to bend naturally from your sitting position. “Thank you,” you quickly let go of his hand, nearly frowning at the loss of warmth. It wasn’t blizzard cold, but it was enough for you to see your breath when you exhaled. As a girl, you liked to pretend you were smoking a cigar right along with the conman; merely breathing out of your mouth while he exhaled smoke through his nose.

You and the Earl fit well on Autumn’s back, who made no effort to protest against your additional weight.

“My Lord,” Sebastian said, handing the reins to the male before you. You noted that he had no horse prepared for himself and frankly, you didn’t care to ask why. Sebastian accompanied his master at nearly every hour. Following you and his master on foot wouldn’t be a feat that surprised you, at this point. “We should arrive at Richmond Park before a quarter after three.” By the last time you looked at your mantle clock in your room, that would mean that the journey to the start of the trail would be a fast fifteen minutes.

“Alright. You’ll walk at least ten paces behind us- understand?” Lord Phantomhive ordered. While he was distracted with commanding his butler, you anchored your arm around his waist as you took in a sharp breath. The gesture was customary and the Earl made no effort to address it, even though you could feel the warmth in your cheeks intensify with each step that Autumn made.

. . .

As he was ordered, Sebastian remained at a considerable distance from you and Lord Phantomhive. If he felt any discomfort from walking in the powdery snow on the trail, he didn’t show it.

You tried to keep your gaze in front of you, watching the gnarled trees on either side of the wide trail, catching the brief sight of families of deer- their hair thicker to suit the cold weather. Red squirrels jumped about the trees, chasing one another and chattering to accompany the light wind. It seemed that everything around you and the Earl was making noise to make up for the cold silence between you. The serenity of the nature surrounding you was too calm to break with needless conversation. There was no point in disturbing that peace in the first place.

You were in the midst of preparing yourself to put an end to this long assignment. To hopefully stab the nobleman from behind and shove his body down the overlook for the vultures. Fending off Sebastian wasn’t any sort of daunting task, considering his physique suggested that he was just as lithe as his master. You were trained to take down opponents such as him.

“We’re nearing the overlook,” Lord Phantomhive said, speaking over the ‘who’ of a snow owl perched on a bare branch above. The bird quickly flew away and you looked up to watch it go, only for the momentum of its push off to cause the bits of snow to fall down onto you. You squeaked in surprise as the snow fell on your hair and down your face, the cold snapping you out of your daze.

You attempted to pat the flurries off of your head and face with your free hand, pausing when the Earl looked over his shoulder to figure the source of your awkward noise. “I-Is something wrong?” he asked as he squared his shoulders once again. The motion drew attention to the way your arm squeezed tightly around his waist, which was another result of your moderate scare. The intensity of it caused him to stutter, considering you were unaware of your own strength in a barest reaction. You loosened your grip instantaneously.

“Only some falling snow,” you briefly met his eye before facing your front once again. “You scared off the owl by speaking so abruptly.” You didn’t need to see the Earl’s face to have a vague idea of his vexed expression.

“Look ahead,” Lord Phantomhive changed the subject tersely, gesturing to the nearling cliff with a slight nod of his head.

“I see it,” you squinted at the bright glare of sunlight that stared you in the face and reflected off the white snow. The trail had been leading upwards for the bulk of the time, carving a safe route up and down a hill. As you neared closer, Lord Phantomhive pulled on the reins, telling Autumn to stop her slow pace.

After dismounting himself, the Earl took your hand in order to help you down once again. Your boots sank in the loose snow, although it was only a few inches deep. It hindered each step that you took as you allowed Lord Phantomhive to pass you to inspect the height of the overlook. You followed in suit, methodically stepping in the tracks that his riding boots made in the snow.

The valley before you was quite a sight to behold. The setting sun casted an orange hue in the sky, pulling out all kinds of pink and purple dimensions in the grey clouds and sky. A thick forest was below, coated in snow and likely rustling with life as the hill was. You could barely see it over the nobleman’s shoulder as you faced his back. Sebastian was occupied with fastening Autumn to a nearby tree, his back turned from you.

“The sun seems to be setting already. I don’t remember this trail being so long,” Lord Phantomhive commented, putting his hands into the deep pockets of his navy overcoat. The color matched yours and you couldn’t help but briefly wonder if that was a coincidence or not.

“Perhaps it was the speed...or, lack thereof,” you suggested, only half-listening to his sentiment. You were staring at his back, quickly running through all of your options.

“If we went any faster, you might’ve lost your balance, Your Highness,” you could hear the smirk in his patronizing tone.

The most efficient way to kill the Earl would be aiming for the base of his neck to sever his spinal cord. However, it was much easier said than done, since it was placed in a clever spot within the vertebrae, otherwise, the bones that made up the spinal column. Between these vertebrae were intervertebral discs- tough, spongy material that cushions the joints, in severing the spinal cord, you needed to cut between the vertebrae and through the disc in a single stab.

The conman marked the exact spot on his own neck for you dozens of times; outlining the steps quite clearly. Once his gaze left you, you bent down to pull your knife out of your boot by the handle and stood back up, your free hand patting at your skirts to fix them. Your heart rate increased as you slowed to a stop, engaging the blade of your knife by holding it flat.

“Sebastian, have you brought any refreshments along?” Lord Phantomhive asked.

It was your quick reflexes that led you to shove your knife into your pocketbag, keeping your hand steady on the handle. You showed yourself to the Earl’s side as you bit the inside of your lip. The opportunity was wasted, which was equally disappointing and frustrating. You’d need to either bide your time and find another chance or follow through at that moment.

“Yes, my Lord,” Sebastian approached you with a familiar tray and two teacups of steaming tea. You couldn’t recall him bringing any of the items, much less the big tray. He was walking behind the horse with empty hands and there were no pouches draped over her back. Odd. “Black Chai Masala; imported straight from Assam, India. This particular selection is served with a combination of milk and a spoonful of sweetener.”

Rather than drink yet another foreign tea, you would have opted for a large glass of hot chocolate. The conman added several teaspoons of milk and mixed it into the boxed mix and water and on top, he added a combination of whipped egg whites and powdered sugar on top. A proper meringue, he called it. As a girl with a demon-like sweet tooth, you demanded it year round- even during the spring and summer. After he was killed, you did everything you could to recreate the taste, but it was never quite right and eventually, you gave up. The despair that came from purchasing the same brand of mix, Baker’s Breakfast neared your capacity for grief.

If Sebastian could offer you a glass of Baxter’s hot chocolate, then you’d happily give up your knife and simply disappear from his master’s life in exchange. But instead, you were holding a cup of Black Chai Masala from India, rather than hot chocolate made from a mix that came in a short tin can.

You stared at the porcelain cup in your hands and rather than drinking it immediately, you simply enjoyed the warmth that seeped through your gloves.

“Is it not to your liking, Your Highness?” Sebastian was asking you why you had yet to sip from your tea in the most demure way possible. Turning to look at him, you took a long drink from the cup, meeting his gaze from the second your mouth made contact with the rim, to the moment you swallowed. The taste was aromatic and smooth, the robust of the chai’s cinnamon standing out to your taste buds.

“It’s fine,” you offered a halfhearted shrug as you faced your front once again. The winter scenery was much more appealing than Sebastian was. Although he was a dashing man, there was an unsettling countenance to him that you couldn’t quite name. “However, I feel that sweeter drinks are more suitable for this weather. Such as hot chocolate.”

“Hot chocolate,” the Earl repeated, his tone warmer than you anticipated. You were expecting a sardonic chortle, or even a long side glance. “That’s a favorite of mine as well.”

“I’ll keep your preference in mind. Thank you,” Sebastian bowed after the Earl took his tea cup off of the server in the butler’s hands.

. . .

FEBRUARY 3RD, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

You watched the mantle clock slowly tick, the thinnest hand marching around the circumference of the face. It changed the time from 11:59 pm to 12:00 am, evidently signifying the start of a new day. February 3rd. The date that made it officially four years since the conman was murdered. Four years since you killed two men, Pete and James, in defense of your innocence.

You already felt empty like a ghost, and you were merely seconds into the day. Rolling onto your back, you let out a long, dismayed sigh. Sleep wasn’t an option and you knew it from the moment you attempted to close your eyes.

The foyer was one of the best rooms in the entire estate, besides your personal quarters. The fireplace was surrounded by loveseats and cushioned sofas and you preferred the smallest couch that was the furthest away from the door. It was brown and upholstered with leather and the soft cushions paired nicely with the thick blanket that normally hung over the armchair. Sitting there, surrounded by the uncovered windows of the room was the safest option for you and the dark mindset you knew you were headed towards.

February 3rd never treated you well and the best you could do was attempt to make it less terrible.

You took your newest book off the nightstand and headed into the corridor. The foyer wasn’t far from your room, it was down the hall and the main staircase and finally, to the left. The way was rather clear with lanterns and candelabras keeping the entirety of the manor free of darkness, which was likely a silent courtesy to you. Under your feet, the wooden flooring was cold and it whined with each quick step you took, much to your dismay. You had no need to summon Lord Phantomhive out of his quarters. You could see a vague light through his open door, which was unusual for the hour.

In fact, finding the Earl covered in a fleece blanket in the foyer was even more unusual. There was a book open in his lap and a steaming glass in his left hand while his right tugged on the corner of the next page of his book, ready to flip. He seemed to be nursing a glass of hot chocolate- the sweet aroma was as clear as day next to the smell of smoke from the tamed fireplace. You were prepared to light it yourself, but for once, it was you who lingered in the doorway. Normally, Lord Phantomhive required permission to enter from you and although by rank, you were able to do as you pleased, it felt wrong to plop down on the leather sofa and recline without a single turn of phrase.

“It’s rather late to be wandering about, Your Highness,” Lord Phantomhive commented without needing to look up from his book. The fleece blanket was placed over his lap and it was large enough to cover his legs, down to the floor. He was dressed down in another oversized shirt, this one a beige or ecru, rather. It made you more aware of your pink nightgown, this one was puffier than most of them, with a droopy bow in the middle of the neckline, covering your sternum. It covered more than the shift you wore on February 3rd, 1888. If you had worn this opulent pink gown to sleep, you might’ve been warmer before it was pulled off of you.

Your pulse raced. “It’s rather late to be reading, Lord Phantomhive,” you smarted to make up for your mouth running dry. You appreciated the company, even if it was only the Earl Phantomhive, your target- your victim.

“I’ll have Sebastian fix you a glass as well,” the Earl’s gaze was still on the text and he slipped the page over. You took his leisure as a gesture to claim your usual seat, which was next to the tall armchair he picked for himself. “He makes a respectable hot chocolate.”

You pulled the blanket over yourself, finding the fabric significantly warmed by the fire. It felt lovely against your clammy skin and the cold draft that came from the window behind you and the nobleman. “I wouldn’t doubt it,” your eyes followed his hand as he gave a small bell three rings, briefly exchanging it for his hot chocolate. It was the first time he looked away from that book and he validated your response with an occupied ‘mhm’.

Under your blanket, you pulled your legs up on the cushion to cross, the left bending under the right. You opened your book, The Tell-Tale Heart by American author and poet, Edgar Allan Poe. Ironically, it was more gruesome for your taste in literature, but in passing conversation with Lord Phantomhive, you concluded that he had quite a brooding taste in fiction. It matched the readings that Governess Lydia piled on your desk as a child, when you had barely learned to read German, much less English. Apparently, she likes her royal heirs properly dulled out by the time they came of age to matter.

“What are you reading?” you questioned, allotting Lord Phantomhive another quick glance to the side while you allowed yourself to lean comfortably against the sofa’s arm. “It must be fascinating if your conversational skills are so lackluster.” You leaned over, tilting away from the small table where he kept his glass of hot chocolate and the bell he used to summon his butler. A familiar illustration covered the entire left page. It was a tall woman, clad in all white, with two polar bears at either of her sides. There was a tall crown on her head, matching the long, regal scepter in her hand. The Snow Queen.

“I see. Children’s tales,” you commented, stealing the Earl’s previous words to twist at him to suit this particular conversation.

“Your Highness,” Lord Phantomhive turned to look at you, “with all due respect, why don’t you focus on your own book?” The orange hues of the fire that was in front of the both of you lit up his face, strategically hiding a faint flush from your sight. His mouth was settled in his natural frown and the bit of space between his eyebrows was wrinkled. The look. Everytime he regarded you like that, it was a minor cause for amusement that ebbed the pain of your past. Teasing the Earl was a comforting distraction; as were the warm blanket, fireplace and hot chocolate.

Was it selfish to want to live in this luxury for at least a few more days?

No.

It wasn’t.

“Mr. Edgar Allan Poe doesn’t strike my interest at this hour,” you responded, skimming over the line of the page you left off on in your last session of reading. “The Tell-Tale Heart is only about the guilt in sin. The theme is clear and personally, all the extra words are just a bother.”

‘Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief…’

“The words are a bother? It’s meant to be poetic,” Lord Phantomhive protested as he closed his own book to properly judge you. You never would have guessed that he was younger than you, even if the difference was only a slim two years. He had the taste of a seventy year old- a senior of whom you’d normally expect to run a business, head a household and carry out the wishes of the Queen.

“Making the thought process of a murderer poetic,” you mused, flipping the page once more. Your mentality looked nothing like this and you’ve done plenty more than killing an old man and stuffing him under the floorboards. There was no guilt to your conscience because every individual you’ve eradicated deserved it for crimes far worse than the hand of justice. “Ironic, is it not?”

“That’s the point. All the guilt in the universe cannot bring that old man back, much less the excess prose,” the Earl turned back to his book and opened it again, sensing that you were finished with the discussion by your lack of response.

Sebastian soon came with hot chocolate for you, moments after he came to ask why his master summoned him. He was rather slow to come, in comparison to the seconds it took him to appear at any other moment, but rather than questioning this, you simply accepted your hot chocolate with a nod.

Naturally, it wasn’t like the conman’s, but the chocolate was quite sweet and even the heavy cream gathered on your lips. The sugar did nothing to stave off the new, comfortable sensation that had your eyelids heavy and back slouching against the arm of your chair. It was completely silent in the foyer; save for the sound of the Earl turning pages of his book and the soft clink of his glass when he put it back on the table between you. Navigating Edgar Allen Poe’s complex words in this state was a lost cause as you grew more drowsy by the second, until you, albeit reluctantly, finally succumbed to a light slumber.

. . .

“Your Highness,” Lord Phantomhive’s voice coaxed you out of your comfortable sleep. You blinked several times before you could clearly see his face in front of yours, a respectful distance away, but at a peculiar level. The Earl was bent down to properly meet your eyes as opposed to looking down at you. Behind him, the fire was dying- the orange embers hidden within the burned wood. The glow made his dark hair look blue, such as the complexion of a fresh bruise, or of the navy riding dress that you wore on the trail five days ago. “We should be retiring about now. It’s rather late.”

“...What time is it?” You reluctantly sat up, cringing at the new soreness in the side of your neck and your shoulder for napping at such an odd angle. Your head used the plush arm of the chair as a pillow, while the rest of your body curled into a ball on the seat portion of the lovechair. Even your knees protested as you straightened them out, your eyebrows knitting in discomfort.

“A quarter past two,” Lord Phantomhive stood to his full height and waited for you to follow in suit. His book, The Snow Queen sat closed on the table, his cardstock bookmark resting on top of it. He must have finished the book while you slept.

“A quarter past two?” You repeated, taken aback while you stood at your feet. The feeling of your own weight on your feet almost felt foreign- odd, along with the cold, solid floor rug beneath you . “Have you been reading that all night?”

“I finished it early on and proceeded to pick up where you left off in The Tell-Tale Heart. I don’t know how you could fall asleep instead of read it.”

“I explained it to you already, my Lord,” besides, it was in English. Poe’s intermingling sentences managed to confuse you now and then, considering you learned the bulk of the language through listening to others on the streets. Middle-class individuals rarely used so many sentences to portray a single idea. Not to mention, the topic disturbed you. It was as if Poe had killed someone and fully knew of the mental obstacles a murderer faces.

“Shall I show you to your quarters?” Lord Phantomhive opened the door of the foyer open for you, leaving the cozy room a mess for Mey-Rin or Sebastian to tidy in a few hours. The hallway was still properly lit for you, which made the layout of the manor much less foreboding as you could see where the corridor led. Uncertainty was the silent killer, after all.

“Would you?” although you were in a surprisingly good mindset considering the date, you had minimal faith that it would continue. If you coil hold onto some peace for the night by allowing the Earl to accompany you, it was worth trying- whether it came from a place of having someone to speak to or merely distracting yourself.

“...Certainly,” the hesitation in front of Lord Phantomhive’s words expressed that he was merely asking as a formality and didn’t expect you to accept the offer. The brief raise of his eyebrows supported that observation and once he noticed that you were staring, he dropped the expression altogether.

. . .

FEBRUARY 14TH, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

Valentine’s Day- the single most oversold holiday in the world. One that all kinds of companies used to fish money out of men to impress their lovers for the sole purpose of making money. It was a corporate strategy, at most, and yet, the entire world was in love with it. February 14th was the one day out of the whole year where nearly everyone was inexplicably- unbearably, nice.

Naturally, the Phantomhive servants were no excuse. Mey-Rin was somehow, more bubbly than normal- her face was already pink when she woke you that morning and the shade only deepened until you were finally sitting at the breakfast table, where two letters sat on top of your empty place setting.

“These arrived in the postage for you this morning, Your Highness!” Mey-Rin exclaimed, and you couldn’t, for the life of you, figure out what worked her up so much. What could be so special about two letters?

“Alright,” you eyed the woman once again as you took your seat, causing her to giggle. As per usual, Lord Phantomhive was late to breakfast, which left his dense pile of correspondences high. It hadn’t taken you long to recognize that this communal breakfast took time out of his morning and out of pity, you decided to allow him work through all of his letters and notes as he ate with you. The minor convenience significantly lifted the jaded chip that resided on his shoulder, although you knew that there was no way it would vanish completely. The chip on the Earl’s shoulder was as constant as yours.

You opened the letter on top and squinted at the miniscule script in the middle of it, the textbook handwriting reading, ‘Prince Aribert of Anhalt, House of Ascania, an Princess Marie-Louise of Schleswig-Holstein’. There was no address on it, which led you to presume that it went through the Queen, who had it hand-delivered to one of the Phantomhive servants. Marie’s location was only supposed to be disclosed to Lord Phantomhive (and his staff), the Queen, and the royal family. That would explain why the letter under the one you picked up was signed by the Queen.

“It’s from your fiancé- oh, I mean, His Highness! On Valentine’s Day! What could it be?” Mey-Rin’s squealing interrupted your train of thought, causing you to briefly look at her. She was staring at the unopened envelope in your hands with the intent a coroner would inspect a dead body. The analogy was…creepy, but for this purpose, it worked.

Slowly, you tore the seal that kept the envelope closed and pulled out the card. The whole of it was a shade of baby pink, reading ‘Eine Botschaft zum Valentinstag’ (A Valentine’s Day Message) in white block letters under a drawing of two doves, sitting on a barren tree branch. On top of both the doves and the brand was lace, sitting on top of the illustrations to make them stand out against the pink background. The cover also served as an envelope in of itself, the top splitting open to expose a shallow patch, but for the time being, you ignored it. You couldn’t help but wonder how much this specialty valentine cost- and which servant of Prince Aribert’s ordered it.

Inside the card was a small piece of paper and a dried white alstroemeria. It was Marie’s favorite flower- she always had a bouquet of it in her quarters, simply sitting next to a window and thriving in water. She adored the little specks of purple on the petals because they gave an objectively boring plant character. You could recognize an alstroemeria anywhere. The fact that this accurate detail was sent was...unsettling, but even so, you gave the flower a sniff to enjoy it’s remaining scent.

You set the flower aside, allowing Mey-Rin to gaze at it from across the table while you picked up the paper.

“Oh, please read it, Your Highness?” She interrupted once again, clearly not noticing the annoyance on your face each time she spoke.

With a sigh, you obliged. Translating from German to English on the spot wasn’t preferable, but you were more than capable of it. “Sonnet 138: When my love swears that she is made of truth,” your face immediately grew warmer as you read the sonnet, some of the pronunciations causing you to stutter. “Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue: On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed.”

Just as Edgar Allen Poe overstated the mentality of a murderer, William Shakespeare over complicated love with too many words. Poets all seem to be idealists, viewing the word under the same passion-stained lenses that the common public did on February 14th.

You heard Lord Phantomhive coming before he stopped at the threshold like clockwork, since this occurred at the same time each morning. Still, you continued to read, finishing out the sonnet in one strangled breath, even though it was meant to be read slowly. However, you could bring yourself to inhale and pause when the punctuation called for it- graceful sexual innuendos were far beyond your comfort zone. “Therefore I lie with her and she with me, and in our faults by lies we flattered be. Shakespeare, 1590.”

Quickly, you put the paper down, half-tempted to tear it to shreds right in front of Mey-Rin’s adoring gaze. She was acting as if the prince had written it himself when truthfully, the most creativity he showed was picking a sonnet from the famous poet and copying it, word for word. At least there was credit where it was due. From what you remembered, Prince Aribert wasn’t much of a wordsmith as a nine year old.

“What a romantic His Highness is!” Mey-Rin sighed, answering most of Lord Phantomhive’s unsaid questions. As you tipped your fingers into the pocket between the card’s cover and the card’s inner lining, you were met with a small satin pouch. Inside of it was predictably, an expensive pair of dangly earrings. Each earring had a large emerald, carved into a teardrop shape and set in gold. The gem matched your family ring, an attempt to show how much the prince paid attention to Marie.

“Yes. The gesture was rather thoughtful,” you aquised, mostly to encourage Mey-Rin to stop hovering as you returned the earrings to their pouch, since you were already wearing simple pearls in your ears. Their simplicity matched the deep magenta of your gown, complimenting the silver decorations that covered the sides of the outermost petticoat and long sleeves. The pink was appropriate, given the day. Even the Earl’s color palette was altered somewhat; his preference for cold color palettes was replaced with a burgundy vest layered over a white button down shirt. You had never seen him wear any shade of brown until that day, and yet, his tan suit jacket matched the ensemble rather well.

The Earl took his seat at the dining table without your word of acceptance- you had done away with the extra formality at the beginning of the week, finding it pointless. You set each of Aribert’s gifts to the side- the dried flower, the earrings and the copied sonnet- for the favor of opening the letter from Her Majesty.

“Good morning,” Lord Phantomhive sorted through his own mail, which was also placed on his plate. However, he didn’t open any of the letters and instead, started writing on a blank piece of stationery.

You tensed upon reading your name at the top of the paper, rather than Marie’s.

‘Y/n. Was I not clear in expressing that timing is of the essence? Your arrival date was January 17th and today is Valentine’s Day- February 14th. I hope you have a-’

You folded the paper and carelessly shoved it back into the envelope where it came from. The familiar handwriting was enough for you to comprehend that it was from Doña, rather than Queen Victoria. Disguising it as a message from Her Majesty was a keen idea, considering it wouldn’t be suspicious for you to want to read a message from your grandmother in private.

“Good morning,” you ignored the Earl’s stare that followed the abruptness of you folding the letter and violently shoving it into the envelope, causing it to wrinkle Instead, you plucked a warm bread roll out of the basket in front of you. The plum marmalade to your side would pair nicely with cinnamon and the hot chocolate that clouded the thin glass to your right. Sebastian had the table set with breakfast before you entered, which was quite seldom, considering the enjoyment he got out of introducing everything he created.

The butter knife in your hand felt heavier as you cut the roll in half, what with Doña’s reminder. She was an impatient woman and you had guaranteed that Lord Phantomhive would be dead within a week after you arrived. Now, you were three days short of a month at the estate and as much as you hated yourself for it, you felt nothing but refreshed- both physically and mentally. You were supposed to be stronger than this.

While you spread the plum marmalade over each half of the roll, it was entertaining to watch Lord Phantomhive write and rewrite over and over again. He was invested in what he was attempting to articulate to the point that he was ignoring his breakfast, which was also seldom for him to do. His cheeks were growing red as he folded his third paper and tossed it to the slide with the other discarded ones.

“Just what are you so amused by?” Lord Phantomhive gritted at you, his words strained as he stared at the blank paper that sat under its predecessor.

“What are you attempting to write?” You set the butter knife down, fighting considerably against an amused smile. The Earl never struggled this much with business letters or correspondences with the Yard- and it was Valentine’s Day.

“...It’s nothing-,” he mumbled, the lie as clear as day.

“-A valentine for Lady Midford,” you interrupted, causing him to frown at you.

“...Fine, yes, that’s what it is. Sebastian is preparing the rest of her gifts and yet, he refused to complete this part for me,” he admitted ruefully as if the words pained him to say. It made you think about Prince Aribert’s valentine to your dead sister and how he simply copied the words of Shakespeare and it was enough to convince Mey-Rin that he was a good man. At least Sebastian was encouraging his master to put some effort in.

“The rest of her gifts?” You raised an eyebrow, awaiting his response as you took a decent bite out of the half of bread. Before taking another taste, you gave the cinnamon shaker a few good jolts to allow its contents to dust over the plum marmalade.

“Her favorite chocolates from Switzerland and a necklace. Sebastian picked it.”

“There’s a compilation of Shakespeare’s sonnets in your library,” you informed the Earl, allowing him to gauge the sentiment’s relevance on his own- which didn’t take long.

“...Right. Would you excuse me for a moment?” Lord Phantomhive asked, standing from his seat before you could approve. Although he wasn’t any taller than the average male (you tended to forget that he was only seventeen), he still had a few inches on you, even without the heeled boots he tended to wear.

“Yes, go,” you couldn’t help but chuckle at his ineptness. Lord Phantomhive knew less about romance than you did and that was quite a difficult feat.

When the Earl returned, you finished most of the bread roll and half of your hot chocolate. His was practically cold chocolate at this point and you intended to mention that, before he spoke first, reading out of the open book you directed him to.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer’s lease hath all too short a date,” he read slowly, taking his seat at the table once again, leaving the book open as he put it down. “That’s a part of sonnet number eighteen.”

You picked up the book and skimmed the whole of the sonnet for yourself.

‘But thy eternal summer shall not fade, nor lose possession of that fair ow’st.’

“It suits her,” you commented, considering the simile that Shakespeare was making from summer to the subject of the sonnet. “But...I think she’d appreciate it more if you went and saw her today,” you thought quickly, this suggestion coming from a residual need to enter and go through Lord Phantomhive’s study. The smooth cover- pretending to care about his relationship with his cousin- was a tactful one. The conman would be proud of you for suggesting it, since it seemed like it would benefit the Earl more than you. He’d focus on his own benefit, being inherently greedy.

“Go see her?” Lord Phantomhive repeated as you gave the book back to him to have him begin writing the sonnet down on a fresh piece of paper. From your perspective, you could see ‘Sonnet Eighteen- Shakespeare’ written in large, swooping letters on top of the rest of the stanza that he was in the midst of rewriting.

“Yes. Go with your gifts and surprise her,” you explained. “Must I spell it out?”

The Earl looked as if he wanted to protest, or pretend like he had the grounds to protest the proper way to a lady’s heart by ignoring the suggestion of one. He thought better of it after a moment and the back of his pen hit the paper, as his grip on it diminished. Wasn’t the point of this to garner her affections, or at least express his own?

“I suppose you do have a point, Your Highness.” Lord Phantomhive admitted, quite begrudgingly, his fair complexion moderately pink.

. . .

As you predicted, Sebastian accompanied his master to Lady Midford’s estate within the heart of the city, leaving you in the care of Mey-Rin, Baldroy and Finny for the rest of the day. Since the servants were busy with tasks from Sebastian (you presumed, since they were all around the perimeter of the property), you entered the Earl’s study and shut the door behind you.

The walls were lined with books and similar to Doña’s office, there was a large bay window behind the desk chair. However, the surface of his desk itself was mostly clear, save for a pile of papers and small bowls of pen ink.

The paper on top of the disheveled pile was a letter, signed by Cooper Finley, a name that you recognized from your moderate ties with the crime world. He was no one worth your time, a business owner that employed grave robbers to steal riches (and bodies) out of graves. Fresh bodies sold at high prices to doctors and medical students who wanted to learn more about the human body and run labs. The Undertaker made plenty of money off of Finley too, taking bribes to turn the other cheek when aided in funerals that buried empty coffins.

The letter that you picked up was wrinkled on either side of the page from being held too hard. The paper was only a pull away before tearing in half, even though the date said that it was only two days old.

‘Lord Phantomhive. I must request another meeting regarding the cost I allow my services to be used at. What with coal for fuel, repair, staffing and other major impediments (pirate infested waters, if I may be so blunt), cause me to request a higher recompense for carrying the Funtom Company’s products across the North Atlantic. Might I remind you of the high profits you make off of the hopeful children of America? I’ll be in London at the end of the week.’

Finley was just another greedy business owner, the same as Keating and Wright. Lord Phantomhive’s affiliation with him should have put him under the same category, although you found yourself disdainfully reluctant to convince yourself of that. Perhaps, there were no other options. The idea of Finley owning every single steamship meant for cargo wasn’t wholly absurd- the entire world of business was composed of monopolists.

With a sigh, you put the letter down and proceeded to look at the papers that were underneath it. These were records of pay, written out with a typewriter and dating back to the April of 1891. The payment started low at one-thousand and eight hundred pounds for fifty boxes of cargo- three pounds per box and an extra charge for the six week voyage, with money to go towards coal. According to this record, it started to increase by one hundred pounds a month shortly after, and grew to an extra five hundred by December of 1891.

The most recent payment was for January, 1892 for two-thousand and three hundred pounds; which led you to understand why the Earl came out of his business meetings in such a foul mood; Cooper Finley was outwardly conning him and there wasn’t anything he could do about it, if he wanted to keep Funtom products on the shelves of America.

You put all of the papers back in their pile and promptly found that each drawer in the desk was locked- and with no key in sight, which ended your little search prematurely.

. . .

Doña wasn’t a woman that scared you. She caked on too much red lipstick and only wore beige- her stature was lithe and thin. You could easily kill her if you wanted to and at least a few times, you have wanted to.

But, when she insisted on having a meeting at a residence in London to talk about how the Earl- Ciel Phantomhive- was still alive when he should have been murdered weeks ago, you were to go. She was your employer, after all. The woman who paid for every dress and jewel you wore to properly play the part of a princess, on top of promising you a hefty sum, by the end of it. On the assumption you could manage to end it.

The moment Mey-Rin shut the door of your room for the night, you sprung out of bed and began to change out of your nightgown, and into one of the riding habits that were packed with you. This number was a stormy grey for the most part, which made your black riding boots the accessory shade. Riding habit was the easiest to put on without the assistance that you were growing so accustomed to.

You had read a letter that you received at breakfast merely moments after the plates of your dinner were whisked away from your room. You requested to eat at your personal desk, since the Earl, as well as Sebastian, were staying at the Midford’s estate for the night. It was a letter of summons from Doña for you to meet her in the city at an address that you didn’t recognize and with Sebastian and Lord Phantomhive away for the night, your best option was to bite the bullet and get it over with.

The night was cold enough to make your gloves useless, which caused your hands to tremble as you held onto the reins of the horse you were already acquainted with, Autumn. With each gallop she made, down the stone pathway that led to the main door of the estate (you had opted for exiting through your quarter’s window), your body tensed. Your nose was red from the biting wind and simply by the heavy air, you suspected that it was going to snow that night. The snow added yet another sense of urgency to this outing.

You were smart to have paid attention to the route that Sebastian drove to the Globe Theater, which was in the heart of the city. The conman liked to say that preemptive moves often separated success and failure.

“Good girl,” you praised Autumn as she skillfully ignored distractions that increased marginally as the forest lightened around you, transforming into the cobblestone streets and cement walkways of London. She handled the surprise of it better than you did, considering this was your first time in London- alone- in a month. You never knew that you could miss the smell of smoke, or the tall streetlights that kept the streets well lit, not that there were many carriages out at this hour. Even the Globe Theater was completely dark and as for the shops, there wasn’t a soul to be found, which was fine. You didn’t need any distractions as you followed the signage to the proper street and the numbers to a small, brick residence that resembled the Calverts’ home in Birmingham. There was a single lamp over the threshold, unlike the other homes that were shoulder to shoulder to it.

Hesitantly, you slid off Autumn’s back and held onto the reins to keep her close while you put the brass knocker on the door to good use. Someone had better answer before you kicked down the barrier by yourself. You were generally impatient, and the longer you had to wait in the cold, the crankier you grew, which unfortunately, reminded you of a certain nobleman’s temperament.

. . .

Tags:

#ciel phantomhive #ciel x reader #black butler #black butler fanfic #strangers to lovers #anime fanfiction #sebastian michaelis #ciel phantomhive x reader #murder #angst #historical fiction #historical romance #victorian era #the indignant pawn #the extent of language

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burningpaths-ffxiv · 3 years

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FFXIV WRITE 2021 // Prompt #9 Friable

🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑

Trigger warning: this prompt includes themes of loss of loved ones, death, implied murder, grief, and depression.

Read at your own discretion.

Not every problem could be solved simply with knowledge.

Nor any amount of strategy.

Or aetheric destruction.

Not fire.

And not love.

Especially not love.

Love was one of the cruelest feelings that solved nothing. You could not defeat love with anger. You could not kill love with loathing. Love continued on, only possibly smothered with time and rage, and it buries itself bone-deep.

Like a cancer of the soul.

Love persists.

At the top of a rising bluff overlooking the Valnard Sea, at the southern edge of the Golmore Jungle, a shape outlined in the fading of the sun on the horizon could be made out standing before a massive fire.

The flames of it swirled and danced twice as tall and wide as the figure clutching a glinting bow in the silhouette. A wet droplet fell from the gathered, darkened clouds looming above them. It landed amongst the short-cropped blonde mop that rustled wildly in the conflicting winds between the ocean bluff and the fire before them. That first drop was followed by a second. Then a third.

Soon a steady fall of rain dampened on closer inspection a blonde, pink streaked head. It ran in thin trails down the bruised and bandage-wrapped tanned skin of his arms, soaking the latter. Both long blonde ears tipped in the same pink as his hair were limp behind his bare shoulders. The loose and blood streaked tank top half tucked into his pants flapped against the thin frame to be set free.

Set opposite of where he stood on the cliff’s edge, the pyre was safely far enough away from where the jungle began should the wind shift directions. Not that he cared in that moment if the whole of that jungle caught aflame and burned down taking everything - and everyone - with it.

Sunset toned, mismatched eyes stared distantly at the crackling white flames engulfing the tiered logs. Those flames highlighted the bloodshot lines in the whites of his eyes and the deeply purpled swelling around one of them. The bandages over his nose and along his jaw were firmly taped down and did not attempt to flee.

The strung metal bow that hung limp in one bandaged hand matched an empty metal and leather quiver at his hip. Brightly colored feathers tied in dyed pink strips of leather dangled from the end of both. It bumped the long, polished metal’s edge as it shifted in the rising zephyr, a tapping reminder that he wore and bore it and it’s true owner did not.

Love was a mistake.

Through the white flames, a carved wooden longsword stuck in the middle of the pyre next to the wrapped figure could still be made out. It had been the first to be lit. Thin lines of flames jutting out from the flat of it’s wooden frame signaled the arrows used to ignite the fuel-soaked weapon.

The rest of the pyre had followed quickly - and intentionally - in its wake. The adult-sized form laid upon it could still be faintly made out but details of it’s dressing, the items laid within the pyre, and the braided leathers that he’d set atop the funeral shroud were lost to the writhing flames and distance that Shear stood at.

But Shear did not need to see them to clearly picture the scene he’d constructed over the course of the morning and afternoon. He knew each of the items intimately.

Love created lapses in judgement and reason.

The bare fist holding the metal bow spasmed open, dropping it at his feet. Both fists then clenched tightly, knuckles white.

“Bastard,” Shear muttered it through a split lip, dry throat cracking with the first word spoken out of his mouth since the morning prior. The last words he’d cried previously had been a repeating apology to a dying, impaled man choking on his own blood as it’d filled his lungs.

I’m sorry, Kolli.

Love was a screen against the truth.

Shear’s head tipped back to the falling rain as he let out a wordless howl that started somewhere near his toes and traveled up him like a wild, raging animal through his body. The raw sound crawled out from between his teeth with jaws dripping its anguish, echoing along the rocks around him and dancing in the air with the snapping sounds of splitting logs in the pyre.

That wail persisted, occasionally broken long enough for the viera to draw breath only to continue the haunted and wretched sound.

He screamed until his throat was ravaged with it.

The palms clenched at his side dripped onto the stone beneath them, the claws of his fingers digging deep.

He kept screaming long after he could taste copper when he drew breath.

He cried until he could no longer.

Love was a disease that ate away the foundations of sense.

The reward for his great love of a man twisted mad by his own hubris and desire for status was being cast abruptly in a state Shear had once described to his murdered mentor as his own worst personal hell:

Ending up completely, and utterly, alone.

#ffxivwrite2021 #Shear Kinestti #ffxiv #new muse #tw: violence #tw: murder #tw: death #tw: blood #tw: loss #prompt 9 #friable

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reynesofcastamere · 4 years

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Broken Shards[β]

(A/N: This fic is for @awryen, who I also asked for prompts/requests and was given the option of a slightly more dark/cynical Ahsoka working with Maul, or him helping her deal with her nightmares. Once again, having no self-control-and a lot of free time-, I chose both. Also, smut was not requested but it wound up in here anyway! XD. Mention of previous Ahsoka/Barriss. Warnings for disturbing imagery, violence, death, depression/intrusive thoughts, blood and possible dub-con.(Potentially triggering sections will be marked with ****) Absolutely Not Safe For Work and unbeta’d as usual.)

****

How could you do it?

The Temple burns, and the Jedi with it. But they do not fall. They stand, mouths gaping open in silent screams, empty eye sockets weeping blood in half a hundred colours. Her Master cuts them to pieces, again and again. He is not alone. Barriss stands beside him, eyes filled with grim conviction, the clone troopers flanking this tableau of horror and carnage like mindless automatons. Ahsoka can only watch, helpless and immobilized as the people she loves are burnt, broken and mutilated by their own comrades. Even the younglings...Her stomach churns.

There is only one body, one face that remains undefiled in all of this. Senator Amidala smiles, serene and welcoming. But she is just as dead as all the rest. Did you kill her too? The woman you loved, the one you trusted with your life: Did you even care, in the end? Anakin Skywalker stops to look back at her, eyes corrupted, turned to sickly, acidic yellow rimmed in old blood. ‘You weren’t here, Ahsoka.’ He pronounces with utter certainty, that her leaving was the one thing that sent him toppling into the Dark. ‘But it’s not too late.’ Black segments crawl, beetle-like, over him and Barriss, transforming them into her waking nightmares. Vader and the Seventh Sister. ‘Join us. And seize your destiny.’

NO!

****

“Ahsoka.” Her lids snap open, breathing stuttered and rapid, heartbeat going into overdrive as she sees another pair of awful, venomous eyes looming over her in the semi-darkness. She lashes out blindly, determined not to go down without a fight. The hands that catch her wrists are bare and callused. Strong. She needs to fight harder, to get out, get away- “Naak, cabur. Gar racin kyr’adiise munit dar. [Peace, guardian. Your pale corpses (are) long gone].” Her eyes well up with unbidden moisture, suddenly overwhelmed. Ahsoka is relieved at hearing a ruthless killer speak Mando’a to her in a hushed, hypnotic tone. Because it is better than the hiss and wheeze of the machines powering the...abomination that her Master has become. She can feel Maul’s hands move to cup her face, the pads of his thumbs brushing the tears that managed to escape. He seems more curious than anything else, head tilted slightly as he examines her. “Have you never seen anyone cry before?” Her voice is weak, despite the attempt at humour. “Not this close. I lost the ability some time ago.” He replies, calm and completely untroubled. As if it were normal, and she is somehow the strange one for not being able to control her body’s response to the terrors plaguing her sleep. Perhaps she is. Her Master has willingly chained himself to a monster that devours galaxies to satiate his hunger for absolute power. Most of her friends and comrades-in-arms are either dead or missing, a fellow Padawan and former lover is hunting down Force-sensitive children for slaughter or brainwashing; Her current lover-enemy-ally is a former Sith assassin at the head of a criminal empire. And Ahsoka....Ahsoka lies, steals, and kills while she bargains with slavers and worse for anything that will help keep the Rebel Alliance alive and undetected just one day longer. What is the point? Even control of the Force eludes her because she cannot find peace. The closest she comes to it these days is the brief oblivion of climax or a few hours of dreamless slumber. The rest is bitterness and pain wrapped in a dull grey haze.Which is why she is here. Maul at least makes her feel something. The sharp bite of anger, the rush of drive and ambition, the raw red strength of clinging to life and refusing to let go. She pulls away then, turning over and presenting herself to him. “Are you certain?” “I’m not in the mood to beg. Now-aaaaaAAAaaah-” Before she can issue an order, he has grasped her hips and is entering her roughly. She is not quite ready. Every shift and thrust hurts, but this is what she wants. To be used hard enough that she aches for days afterwards, just to hold on to some sliver of what keeps him burning so fiercely. Maul presses her down, forcing her to turn her head to avoid being smothered by the pillow, the peaks of her breasts rubbing against the sheets as she is made to lift her backside higher. The change in angle is enough to provoke another long, mangled stream of vowels. “Touch yourself.” He hisses, and oh, it feels as if he could pierce right through her and keep going.Every sharp plunge impacts her cervix, the sound of their bodies meeting only becoming more and more crude as her arousal builds. Ahsoka pants and reaches for herself in a half-dazed state as he growls and fucks her harder. The base of him slides against her fingertips a few times before she finds her nub, circling it with her middle finger as her other digits spread her folds open. “Now. You will tell me what is wrong.” Her stomach sinks even as he makes her moan. “W-what are you talking about?” “Your presence in the Force is practically non-existant, despite the ghosts that cling to your shoulders.” Maul snarls. “You are lost, listless, submissive...Before, you would have made me struggle for the privilege of having you like this.” She is trapped, something he emphasizes by leaning over, lips brushing against her jaw with each word. “You were glorious, Ahsoka Tano. And now you are a ruin, waiting to crumble.” He still hasn’t let up his pace, as if to discipline her for these ‘defects’. Her lips tighten as she buries her face in the pillow. It is none of his damned business why she is different, now. Besides, why should he care? Ahsoka expects him to keep going, and is mildly shocked when he stops, withdrawing from her core with a speed that borders on violent as he turns her over and yanks her upright. “Look at me.” A demand which she blatantly ignores until he manipulates the Dark Side to hold her chin in place, his hands gripping tightly to her upper arms.

There is anger in his sunburst gaze and in the power that roils and snaps around him, but beneath that...Oh. He is afraid...For her? The revelation hits with the force of a sudden blow to the chest, and only grows more solid as their foreheads come to rest together, his stare softening by slow degrees. “I-” Ahsoka swallows a choked sob. “You were right. Anakin- he-he was Sidious’s apprentice all along. I didn’t want to believe it, but Vader-” She can’t bring herself to say the words. “I failed him. If I hadn’t left-” “No.” Maul’s snarl cuts into her self-recrimination. “Your Master failed. And continues to fail every day that he allows Sidious to live.” He releases his grip to trace the outline of her lekku, then up her throat and along her jaw. “They think themselves untouchable, but they forget...The dark is generous, and it is patient, and soon, very soon, their stars will burn out.” His words are silk and poison on the air, and she wants- “Join me.”

“What, no offer to rule the galaxy this time?” She retorts dryly, trying to cover up the fact that she is wavering, kept on the edge of a steep cliff by the barest sliver of rock.

“You have rejected power, revenge, and almost every other shade of temptation placed before you. I can only offer myself.” There is some scrap of cautious hope in his gaze as he answers, the words devastatingly simple. Yet for someone like him, secrets and vulnerabilities so carefully safeguarded, it means everything. If she accepts, if she falls, her life will change irreversibly. There is no guarantee that she will be able to hold onto herself once she takes that final step. Maul has never been a moderating influence. And Rex...She’s not certain what he or anyone else she still calls ‘friend’ would think of this. Perhaps...it is not impossible to find a middle ground. “Show me?” Ahsoka asks, breathless and uncertain, but willing to extend some degree of trust. “Breathe.” His hands sweep downwards to rest lightly at her sides, ribcage expanding and contracting under his fingertips. “Focus on your passions, your fury...And let them out.” Her eyes close as she matches his pattern of breathing, positioning herself on his lap and bracing her hands on his chest. She takes him inside her again. Gradually, gently as the Dark Side seeps in. It is cold at first, almost numbingly so. But after the first adjustment...Ahsoka can feel Maul much more intensely; The difference of being on the same wavelength as opposed to different signals. There is even a dizzying moment where she sees herself through him, sees her eyes open, burning gold with a ring of blue flickering around the pupil like a candle-flame. The surge of wonder-possession-desire-protection from her lover threatens to sweep her away for a moment. “Is...Is this what you feel all the time?” When he’s with her, at least. Considering his default state is prickly at best and downright murderous at worst.

“The intensity is the same, yes.” His head lowers to let his mouth pay homage to her breasts as they move together. This feels...right. A slow build-up of pleasure as emotions, thoughts, and sensations twist and weave together. There are words lurking within his head that have her dragging her nails over his torso. He really...Wants that, with her? Strangely, the idea isn’t repulsive. At the very least, it means that he desires an equal partner, not a subordinate. "Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde. [We are one when together, we are one when parted, we share all, we will raise warriors.]" Their voices merge in ancient oath, parting only when something else speaks through them.

“There is no Light-” “-without the Dark.” “Through passion, I gain focus.” “Through knowledge, I gain power.”

“Through serenity, I gain strength.”

“Through victory, I gain harmony.”

“There is only the Force.”

There are no words to describe what is happening to them right now. No defined point where she ends and he begins. Their awareness is scattered across galaxies, caught in the endless cycles of birth, death, and renewal before everything is once again narrowed to a single point and they cannot handle it... It feels as though years have passed when Ahsoka opens her eyes again.The Light practically hums without her even needing to reach for it, but the Dark is there too, vibrating in harmony. She is not...free from her burdens or her ghosts, but she has another purpose, now. And perhaps more than that. “I can feel your ambition, my Lady.” Maul’s voice is a teasing rumble next to one of her montrails. “Whatever are you planning?” “To lure Vader into a trap. He can either fall in line...Or get out of the way.” If she cannot persuade her former Master to topple Sidious, she will have to kill him. There is no other option. Of course, she will need to plan carefully to have any hope of success. But if the risk pays off...She kisses him one last time, brief but passionately, his grin full of visceral pleasure as they part. “I may have some...suggestions to that effect.” “Mm, I’m not surprised. But first, my Lord, I think we’re due another round of celebrating.” (A/N: Whoo! Okay, so going in order. Barriss Offee is the Seventh Sister in this fic and her and Ahsoka were previously involved because I’m a sucker for tragedy. The ‘dark is patient’ line is taken and bastardized from Matthew Stover. Yes, Ahsoka and Maul are married by Mandalorian custom in this fic and they’re speaking the version of the Gray Jedi code that I like best because it flows well. *insert ‘That’s not how the Force works!’ joke here* Also Ahsoka’s eye colour is back to normal after they ‘finish’;). Hopefully this works as a suitable compromise between the tropes that I wanted to incorporate. Cheers!)

#maulsoka #this took a bit longer than I expected but hopefully you're happy with the result #despite technical issues bcuz tumblr's app is shitty #NS.FW

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twistedtummies2 · 4 years

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31 Days of Disney Villainy - Number 13

The 31 Days of Disney Villainy Continues! I’m counting down my Top 31 Favorite Villains from Walt Disney Animation Studios’ film output. You’d better Be Prepared for today’s villain! Number 13 is…Scar, from The Lion King.

I imagine that not putting Scar in the Top 10 is going to ruffle a few feathers. After all, “The Lion King” is arguably the most popular Disney film of all time, and Scar has not only reached the Top 10 but often the number one spot for many other people out there. Again, several of them are people I know personally, so I would guess that seeing this big bad so low is surprising at least. (And, for those of you on Tumblr who know who my favorite character from a certain game is, this will be EVEN MORE surprising, I suspect.) I have nothing against Scar, in particular, I guess I just like the other villains still to come better for personal reasons. There are certainly many merits to Scar. First of all, there’s Jeremy Irons’ deliciously devilish performance. Chances are good that if you mention the name “Jeremy Irons” to ANYBODY (and…you know…they know who that is), Scar will be the first character that comes to mind. Heck, I’ve known people who have credited Jeremy Irons as one of the greatest celebrity voice actors out there…which is ironic because, really, Scar, in this movie, is the only major claim to fame to voicework that Irons has. I’m not begrudging his work, mind you, I’m just pointing out that his work is so impressive it seems to cross boundaries there; it’s hard to separate the actor and the character, and that’s always a good sign. Second of all, there’s Scar’s personality. Like many great Disney Villains – especially those of his time period – he’s a perfect blend of both humor and horror. He’s a highly entertaining character, with a lot of sass and snark, always look gloriously slimy, but he’s also arguably one of the most ruthless and deplorable dastardly-deed-doers that Disney has dished out. It’s hard to point out Scar’s merits WITHOUT bringing up the fact that he kills Mufasa; as much as I gave credit to Shan-Yu earlier in the countdown, when you really think about it, that’s a big achievement, and one that hasn’t really been fully topped. However, it’s not really so much WHAT Scar does there, really, but HOW he does it that makes that such a standout scene. Seriously, think about it: with Shan-Yu, we never saw the murder of Shang’s father happen, nor did we see any bodies from the wholesale slaughter of the Chinese army and the village they were protecting. Even with the infamous death of Bambi’s mom, we never see Man’s true face, and when the shot rings out, the death happens offscreen. (In fact, originally Disney WAS going to do that onscreen, but decided that was going too far.) Most times, if a character IS killed by a Disney Villain, it’s a minor one, and when it is a major one, either the death happens without us seeing it, or it doesn’t even turn out to be permanent: when the Evil Queen gives Snow White the Poisoned Apple, or Maleficent has Aurora prick her finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel, we know that true love’s kiss will save the day. Now, the question is just a matter of when and how. There’s no such saving graces with Scar’s assassination of Mufasa. We don’t see the guy get trampled, but we see him fall from the cliff…and, furthermore, we see the body after the fact. It’s not a super gory sight or anything, but it’s still a heavy moment that really hasn’t been topped. Disney WOULD attempt moments that were somewhat similar in future films, but none have ever perfectly matched up to the way it was executed here. It’s also a big part of why I think Scar impacts us; up to that point, as evil as he is, we kind of like the guy…but once he carries out his evil deed, and in the way he does, we find ourselves more repulsed and horrified than entertained, and his personality really doesn’t change. Scar still has funny moments after this heinous crime, but I usually don’t hear people quoting them as often as his funny moments in the earlier parts of the film. It was a game-changing moment in the annals of Disney Villainy…and when you top that off with the existence of “Be Prepared,” I think it’s pretty clear why so many people love this character. I adore Scar, too…just, again, I guess I like others slightly more. Please keep your torches and pitchforks to yourselves till the countdown ends. :P Tomorrow, the countdown continues with my 12th Favorite Disney Villain! HINT: She’s a Different Kind of Sea Monster.

#31 days of disney villainy #halloween advent calendar #halloween #october #disney villains #scar #lion king #original lion king #the remake is awful

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eclecticanalyst · 3 years

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Studying “A Study in Emerald”: Fourth Post

Part 5: The Skin and the Pit

We return to “Emerald’s” main trajectory of mirroring A Study in Scarlet’s plot beats with the detective, the narrator, and Lestrade lying in wait for the culprit(s) at Baker Street. In the original story, Holmes does intend to capture the murderer by having him come to Baker Street under false pretenses, but the police presence there is a coincidence. Here, the police have been deliberately called for. We finally learn what counts for high treason in this world—challenging the Old Ones (of whom the assorted royals like the prince are the descendants), which from our perspective is a decidedly good thing, thereby causing us to side with the so-called criminals and against the so-called heroes of this story.

While the three men wait, the detective summarizes his findings and conclusions about the case, which are references to Holmes’s own deductions in A Study in Scarlet—his determination of one of the culprits’ height by assuming he wrote on the wall at his (the culprit’s) eye level and the other’s height by his stride, his identification of the smoking substance of choice for (one of) the murderer(s), as well as his observation that the culprit and the victim walked into the room together (in this case, of course, there was a third person already in the room). We also get the true significance of “Rache” here. In the original story, the culprit writes “Rache” merely to confuse the police, being inspired by a previous crime in which “Rache” was written above the victim and the newspapers subsequently speculated the German word to be an indication of insidious secret societies (specifically, ones that supported socialism) at work. “Rache” is apparently also a word used to refer to a hunting dog, and that is the significance in the “Emerald” version of this story. The “rache” revelation also serves as yet another example of how well-crafted and intricate the Holmes tributes are in this story. While the word was written on the wall on a whim in A Study in Scarlet, revenge really was the motivation for the man to kill his two victims—so Holmes’s initial factoid about the literal German translation of the word was actually quite apropos. In “Emerald,” although Holmes’s self-identification with a creature on the hunt is the reason he writes the word on the wall, the fact that he is a Restorationist means that a secret society trying to upend the established socioeconomic structure is actually at play here—exactly like those feared to be at the root of the original “rache” crime in Scarlet.

Just as in the original story, Wiggins enters the Baker Street apartment to announce the presence of the culprit(s), but instead of bringing the murderer(s) himself, he has only a note from the man. Apparently in this world Wiggins and the others who would have formed the Baker Street Irregulars are free agents, not associated with the detective of Baker Street. There is the possibility that they are under Holmes’s employ and hiding it, but if Wiggins really is being truthful then he just happened to be a convenient messenger.

We haven’t had a blatant Moriarty reference yet in this story—the previous hints have been more subtle and/or require more analysis—but here we finally have our “Emerald” detective incontrovertibly linked to the canon Napoleon of crime with the note’s mention that the detective was the author of The Dynamics of an Asteroid. This particular reference comes from The Valley of Fear, which was written several years after “The Final Problem” but ostensibly takes place before it...which causes problems for the canon in an odd way that I won’t get into. Amusingly, in canon The Dynamics of an Asteroid is so analytically sound that “no man in the scientific press [was] capable of criticising it,” but in this story it is apparently not quite as perfect—Rache points out that there were some theoretical anomalies, furthering the theme that things in this world aren’t as they are supposed to be, that everything is just a little bit off. The “theoretical anomalies” could also be because Old Ones propaganda has warped scientific theory and therefore Moriarty doesn’t have as precise a grasp of physics as he would otherwise, as seen by his dismissal of the mass-energy-light relationship posed by Holmes. By noticing the detective’s imperfections in his astrodynamics paper, Rache/Holmes shows that despite being the criminal in this world, he still has a slight edge over Moriarty in terms of abilities. In canon, Moriarty makes some unspecified minor mistake in his operations that allows Holmes to finally take down his organization, and Holmes later just barely manages to escape Moriarty’s fate of death-by-cliff-fall via special martial arts. Holmes being just a hair more capable than Moriarty is present in “Emerald” as well—Holmes can match Moriarty’s deductions (correctly concluding that Moran is ex-military late from Afghanistan) and also one-ups him by giving him some pointers as to where he erred (didn’t do his research for the “theater agent” part he was playing, didn’t pay enough attention to the cabbie). And, of course, in canon Holmes succeeds in the “capture the culprit at Baker Street” gambit, while Moriarty in “Emerald” does not.

Speaking of cabbies, we have a reference to Moriarty’s debut story “The Final Problem” with Rache pointing out that one should not take the first cab that comes along when attempting to escape someone—Holmes instructs Watson not to take the first or second cab when he sets out to join him on their Moriarty-evading trip to the continent. A suspect cabbie is also the crux of A Study in Scarlet.

The pieces continue to fall into place as the note goes on—Rache confirms that his doctor friend wrote the plays at the theater, and says he “has some crowd-pleasing skills.” Our narrator told us he was not a very good writer from the jump—“not a literary man,” in his exact words, and yet another hint that he was not who we thought he was—but Watson, of course, is quite a capable writer, and the fact that his writing is popular among everyday citizens is acknowledged in the canon (often by Holmes complaining about how he writes for the masses instead of just recording the cases as scientific treatises). Watson is later identified by the police as a former military surgeon, although they are not quite certain of his first name—a gag that is a reference to the fact that Watson gives his first name as “John” in A Study in Scarlet but his wife refers to him as “James” in “The Man with the Twisted Lip.” Rache apparently wrote under the pseudonym of “Sigerson” when corresponding with Moriarty about asteroids, the very same pseudonym canon Holmes used in his travels post-Reichenbach.

The bit where Moriarty speculates where Rache is, reasoning that “If our positions were reversed, it is what I would do” is doubly significant. First, it’s a reference to how Holmes discusses Moriarty’s probable actions in “The Final Problem”—especially when he and Watson are attempting to escape Moriarty by train and Holmes correctly assumes that Moriarty will do what Holmes would do in his place, and acts accordingly to avoid Moriarty catching them. Secondly, of course, Holmes and Moriarty’s traditional positions as detective and criminal are literally reversed in this pastiche.

Despite usurpers having taken their place of first meeting, their residence, their occupation (in the case of one of them), and their police friends, Holmes and Watson are still the heroes we know them to be. They may be on the wrong side of the law, but we see how they are working to rid the world of evil just as they do in their original incarnations (albeit in a more brutal fashion), as Rache describes just what the Prince of Bohemia had in mind before he was killed, and how the rest of the royals are much the same—which is why he and his doctor friend are dedicated to putting an end to their rule.

Meanwhile, Moran (who does not quite reveal his name at the end, and is interestingly only a major here, not a colonel), having written up an account of this case, plans to tuck it and Rache’s note away in a strongbox at the bank, much as canon Watson keeps his papers in a dispatch-box in the bank of Cox and Co. He also seems to have a sort of sixth sense regarding the intertwined fates of his friend and Rache, intoning that “it will not be over until one of them has killed the other”—evoking our knowledge as readers of the fall at Reichenbach.

You might notice that Moran resolves that no one else will see the papers until “long after anyone now living is dead.” As this story is formatted as pages from a newspaper, we can assume that Moran’s prediction of events in Russia bringing on worldwide catastrophe came to fruition, which is why this tale can now be published. June 28, 1914, the specific date of the newspaper, is the date of Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s assassination—the event which sparked the outbreak of World War I. We can only imagine how World War I plays out in this Lovecraftian world. The reference to World War I is one last nod to the Holmes canon as well—although ACD continued publishing Holmes stories well after WWI, the events of those stories take place before the war. Chronologically within their universe, Holmes and Watson have their last canon adventure in 1914, just as war is breaking out. So just as the beginning of this story matched the very first story of Holmes and Watson, the (implied) ending of this story corresponds with their epilogue.

#sherlock holmes #a study in emerald #a study in scarlet #neil gaiman #analysis #in depth

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scrumptiouscloudterrorist · 4 years

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(2)Lives To Take - Kol Mikaelson

This is version 2 of Lives to take. not a second part. the first one is posted right before this. Version 1 is here

Summary: Samantha Whitter lived with the Mikaelsons for a long time but when she got turned into a vampire, she couldn’t control herself which led to mental health problems, and she ended up taking her own life.

Warnings: Pure angst, Character death, heartbreak

she had been struggling for so long. It seemed that she could never do anything correctly. She tried to control herself but everywhere she went, dead bodies piled up. She couldn't get free of the pain and regret that followed each of the bodies. Even though each of the Mikaelson siblings tried to help her and teach her different methods of self control. Her sanity was slipping just as fast as her self control. Oh, how she hated herself. It was incredible how she managed to survive as long as she did. Heightened emotions didn't help her guilt and sadness.

Samantha really tried her best to not get to the point she had been dreading for a long time, but her best efforts were no match for her emotions. Everyone had tried to help her in their own ways, but each time the youngest Mikaelson tried, it only got worse. It hurt her to see him because she knew that he would never love her as she loved him. He could ever love a monster like her. She was a murderer and a maniac. She couldn't stop it. she couldn't.

Samantha sat by herself in the alley while hugging her knees and crying her eyes out. There was rain pouring on her and it made the situation feel even worse. The bodies of three men were scattered around in the alley. This scene was far too familiar for her liking, but that didn't stop it from hurting every time. She grabbed her phone with her shaky hands and dialled the one number that she could remember in her moment of panic. Once the person on the other end picked up she immediately said "It happened again. Kol please come." She began to feel a new wave of tears falling down her already wet cheeks.

"Oh god, where are you? I'll be right there." Kol's voice rand through the speaker and she let out a breath and said, "In the alley behind the small diner we ate at 3 days ago." She then heard him hanging up on her.

She continued to cry for a minute when she felt a warm hand on her shoulder. She looked up and saw Kol's worried face. She began to sob as he wrapped his arms around her. "Why can't I stop? Why? I just want it to be over." she cried weakly. Her voice was so quiet that he could barely hear it.

"It's okay Darling. We'll just start working harder. You'll get it under control at some point. You just have to keep trying." He said in an attempt to comfort her and it took a while but eventually, she calmed down and they went back to their home and Kol made her go to sleep in hopes that she'll feel better in the morning and he himself went back to the alley to get rid of the bodies.

-----------------------------

The next morning, Samantha woke up feeling numb. She was sick of living like this. She got ready for the day and walked downstairs to where Klaus and Elijah were sitting quietly and reading books. They both looked at her when they heard her approaching. The two had the familiar look of pity in their eyes and she decided that she was sick of that look. She wanted the looks to end.

She smiled cheerily even if she felt like tearing out her own heart.

"How did you sleep?" Elijah asked her with a small smile of his own while he watched her sit down.

"I slept all right." She responded even though she had had nightmares of her victims.

Kol walked down the stairs and he immediately headed for Samantha and he embraced her. "How are you feeling Darling?" He asked softly and she sighed.

"I'm okay. I'll just have to try harder." She said with a weak smile and she could see Klaus and Elijah looking uncomfortable at the subject of conversation. They had never been good at dealing with emotions.

--------------------------

Throughout the day, Samantha began to notice even more things that she hated. She just wanted it all to go away. So she sat in her room and wrote a letter to Kol and she sneaked into his room while he wasn't there and she left it on his nightstand.

She left the compound and walked to her favourite place.

------------------------------

Kol walked into his room after going out to feed and he frowned in confusion as he smelt Samantha's scent in his room. He noticed a piece of paper on his nightstand and he rushed over and opened it.

Dear Kol,

I know you'll find this letter confusing and you're wondering why I wrote a letter and didn't come to talk to you face to face.

Well, this is something I've been too scared to tell you for a long time.

I, Samantha Whitter, am in love with you.

I have been for a long time, but I knew you wouldn't ever see me the same way I wish you would.

You must be wondering, 'Why now?'

I just didn't want to leave without telling you that I love you.

Have a good life without me.

From Samantha

Terror began to run through his mind as he read the last words. She was going to kill herself. The woman he had loved since she smacked him for flirting with her, was going to kill herself.

He began running through the compound and trying to find her. When he couldn't find her he ran to where he had found her the previous night. Oh God, He was going to be late, was all that was running through his head as he tried to outrun time and get to her favourite cliff in time and he could only beg fate that she was there and he was on time.

He arrived there just in time to see her pushing a stake into her own heart. He screamed her name and she turned to look at him with a sad smile on her face and she whispered, "I love you, I'm sorry." Her face began to turn grey slowly and Kol ran to her and tears fell from his eyes.

"I love you too." He cried with his voice breaking under the weight of his pain.

Her eyes widened and she began to cry as well. "I guess I made my decision too fast." She said and laughed sadly as he grabbed her face and kissed her and she kissed back softly. He pulled away and she smiled at him and fell to the ground. He pulled the stake from her chest and threw it in the woods near by in anger, then reality settled.

Kol sobbed brokenly as the light of his life seemed to go out when her body went limp. He sobbed for a long time, he didn't know how long, it could have been an hour or 12 hours, he didn't know anymore, he didn't care.

He carried her body to the compound while tears were still pouring from his eyes.

When he walked in he was faced with Rebekah who was smiling brightly until she noticed the body in his arms and she began to tear up. She walked closer and when she saw her best friends face, she began to sob uncontrollably, which got the attention of the rest of the Mikaelson siblings.

They were all heartbroken. They had lost something precious. It seemed as if none of them could manage to smile for weeks. They were all in pain, but Kol had it the worst and all his siblings had to keep him calm so he wouldn't kill anyone in a rage or try to follow after his love.

Ultimately none of them would ever be the same.

#kol x reader #kol mikaelson #kol #the mikaelsons #the originals #the vampire diaries #angst #x reader #tvd

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captainkippen · 4 years

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RECKLESS • A PUNK! TYRUS AU

Summary:

RATED TEEN for smoking and swearing.

TJ never expected to fall in love with a guy who hung out in the library for fun. Cyrus never expected to kiss a guy in the middle of a mosh pit. Once in a while, life surprises everybody.

Chapter One: Respect The Tub

"Shut up. I'm having a mid-life crisis."

"You're twenty-one."

"Fine, an almost-quarter-life crisis or something, whatever."

"You know, I've seen you overreact before, but this time really takes the cake. Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Pfft. It's a great idea. The best idea I've ever had."

"You literally just said yourself that you're having a crisis."

TJ let out a long suffering sigh and glared at Marty. Andi snickered from where she was perched on the edge of the tub behind him. She had two gloved hands covered in bright red sludge buried deep in TJ's hair.

"Don't worry, Marts," she said. "I used to help Bex do her hair all the time when she got bored. Well… one time. If it goes wrong, we can just cut it off. Hair grows back usually."

"Usually?!" TJ spluttered, attempting to turn and face her only to be held in place by her firm grip.

Marty snorted. "Still sure about this?"

"Shut up, Marty. Jeez. You're worse than my mom."

"Hey, your shut your mouth about your mom. That woman is a saint. How she put up with your annoying all these years without committing murder, I’ll never know."

That earned him the bird and he snorted again, blowing smoke into T.J's face. The bathroom of their crappy apartment didn't have a smoke detector, which was probably the only reason Marty was even sat in the room with them.

"Gross," Andi said with an appreciative smile. She might have stolen the cigarette for herself had her hands not been busy. TJ wrinkled his nose at the two of them. He wouldn't say anything, it hadn't worked the first thousand times and it wouldn't work now, but he had learned that if he made enough disgusted faces Marty would eventually put the cigarettes away.

"Whatever," he rolled his eyes at TJ's face and stubbed it out in the sink. "I'm meant to be quitting anyway. I promised Buffy."

"You made that promise like three months ago."

"Well I gotta have at least one flaw, otherwise it wouldn't be fair to you mere mortals, would it now?" Marty grinned and stood up, stretching his arms up until his back gave a satisfying click.

"Careful bro," TJ said. "If your head gets any bigger you won't be able to get out of the door."

It was Marty's turn to cheerfully flip him off. As he wandered out of the bathroom he called over his shoulder asking if they wanted any snacks, even though TJ was pretty sure he knew they only had ketchup and coffee left in the kitchen.

"So, this mid-life crisis of yours," Andi said, slipping some more dye on to TJ's head. It slid against his scalp cold and unpleasant, dripping down his neck in a wet mess. "You think Epic Death Red is gonna fix it?"

He considered this for a moment. The brand name was splashed bright and obvious on the bottle, and it glared at him from the sink. It had made them laugh at the time, but now it was in his hair it felt a little daunting. "Nah, probably not. But it'll make me feel better about it, feels productive."

"Turning in your assignments would probably feel more productive."

"Hey, I thought we banned school talk from the tub. The tub rules are sacred. Respect the tub."

"I'm just saying-"

"Did you finish your figure drawing assignment yet?"

"...touché."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence. After a few minutes, Marty loped back in holding a paper plate with an unwrapped Twinkie carefully cut into three pieces on it. Andi let him shove a piece unceremoniously into her mouth without a word.

It had become a sort of tradition. Well... not a tradition. TJ didn't know what you would call it. A habit maybe? Anyways, it had become usual for the three of them to hang out in the bathroom. Sometimes they'd be joined by friends and roommates. Two or three of them cramped in the tub, maybe splitting a bottle of cheap wine between them all, with someone else balanced on the toilet seat and another sprawled across the floor. But today, everyone else was out at work or class or living their life in some tub-free environment.

It was only TJ and Marty that lived in the apartment of the three of them. They had two other roommates, Walker and Jonah, who were pretty decent guys. Walker was an art major like Andi and Jonah had awesome taste in music. Sometimes he and TJ would walk to campus together, they were both based in the music department, but other than that and a shared interest in sports and skateboards they didn't really have anything in common. Buffy, Marty's girlfriend and (by apparent coincidence) Andi's childhood best friend with whom she was now reconnecting, would sometimes swing by to join them too. However, her disgust at just how useless four boys could be at keeping their apartment in order mostly kept her at bay. Old take-out containers were not part of her ‘aesthetic’ or whatever. TJ was never sure if he was glad about that or not, the two of them spent most of the time squabbling, but she did make Marty happy and it was hard not to be cheerful when Marty was.

"So I had this dream right," TJ said.

"Oh God."

"No, it's good right. Because it made me, like, realise I should be doing something."

Andi and Marty exchanged amused looks. They were used to it, TJ's various whims and impulses and Important Decisions About The Future That Usually Turned Out To Be Not So Important. They found it funny. TJ might be offended if it weren't for the fact he had listened to them spout of conspiracy theories more times than he could count.

"Go on," Andi prompted.

"Okay, so like... I'm standing on this cliff, right? Like on the very very edge of it. And I'm staring out to sea all dramatic and shit, and then suddenly it gives way underneath me, right? And I'm falling and falling, and I look down and there's just like... nothing there."

Another pause. "...and that's it?"

"That's it. That's the dream."

"Okay, lay it out for me. How did you go from falling off a cliff to dyeing your hair red? Give me the logic. I wanna follow your train of thought here."

He takes a deep breath, trying to shake away the lightheadedness the mingling scents of cigarettes and ammonia is bringing on, then twists around to face her.

"When you're falling to your death you're supposed to reminisce about, like, all the good shit you did in your life before you fall to your death right? And for me it was a total blank. Like nothing. Like I haven't lived."

Marty groaned. "Not this again."

"What?"

"You have this same crisis like every other month. Last time you wanted to 'live your life' we got arrested for trespassing on private property."

"Well, if you had run faster-"

"Fuck you! I run faster than you, asshole. It's not my fault there were literal guard dogs-"

"Guys!" Andi interrupted before they could really get going. They both muttered half hearted apologies with a huff. Marty sighed and leaned back, stretching his legs up to rest on the edge of the bath.

"The point is," TJ resumed, knocking Marty’s foot away from his face. "The point is that I've done, like, zero important things in my life. And we're adults now, y'know? I can't just bum around doing nothing forever. I wanna do something that matters."

Andi rolled her eyes. "'Adult' is a strong word for a guy who just this week learned what fabric softener is."

"I never claimed to be Martha Stewart."

Marty laughed. "You're criminal enough to be."

"Okay but," Andi said, before another bickering match could spark up. "The real point is... we're only in our twenties. Pretty sure we're not meant to have everything figured out yet, right? I mean, we haven't even graduated yet."

TJ and Marty both hissed.

"The G word is also banned, remember?"

Andi made a face, but didn't press the point. She hated thinking about the future just as much as the guys did. None of them knew what they wanted to do. They spent all their time in sleazy bars moshing to terrible local bands, getting drunk in a moulding tub and watching Andi paint in the student studios. TJ couldn't imagine any of them with nine-to-five jobs, commuting or working for some big evil corporation. He said as much.

"It's two thousand and five," Marty complained in response. "We should totally have robots to do all the boring jobs by now."

TJ agreed. How could humanity not yet be at the point where they had hover boards and flying cars? They had the internet for crying out loud. The possibilities were endless.

"So what're you gonna do?" Andi asked. “How are you, TJ Kippen, going to change the world?

TJ pondered this for a moment.

"I'm gonna start a band."

Sometimes Cyrus seriously hated his friends.

Not in an actual 'I wish I didn't know you' way but in an 'oh man, you suck so hard right now' kind of way. Tonight was one of those times. He would never say that to them, of course, he had no desire to hurt anybody’s feelings, but a little mental cursing never hurt anyone.

He shivered and pulled his jacket tighter around himself. Rain smattered down on the concrete around him. Water seeped through the canvas of his sneakers, soaking his socks and mood both at once. He was cold, wet and fed up. Buffy had asked him to meet her here, outside some dingy rock club filled with scary kids wearing studs and too much makeup, but she was nowhere to be found. She had answered her phone when he called, but the line mostly crackled and all he got was a muffled "-inside" from here.

Whatever. It was fine. It was totally cool that he was stuck out here being eyed by suspicious punks in leather jackets and scary scene kids with scary scene hair. It was great. He could totally cope with the fact that the bouncer wouldn't let him in because he forgot his I.D. and apparently he looked like he was twelve years old. Totally, totally fine. Really, it couldn’t get any worse.

It was as if the universe had heard this very thought and decided to have the last laugh. A large truck roared down the street, sending a fresh wave of freezing water over his legs and shoes.

Screw this. He was going home.

He hadn't even wanted to come out in the first place. He should be back in his nice cosy dorm room, preferably doing the lit assignment he had due in on Monday, maybe wrapped in a blanket. Two blankets, even. Yeah, his dorm sounded pretty great right now, even if he did have the roommate from hell. Fate had other plans, though. Right as he made the decision to head back, he heard his name being called. Turning, he saw Buffy waving frantically from the door. Huffing to himself, he turned back again and headed to meet her.

"He's with me," Buffy said with a smile to the bouncer. The guy looked doubtful as Cyrus slipped passed, but he didn't question it again.

"The reception is really bad in here," Buffy said apologetically, pulling him into a sideways hug. "But you found the place okay, right? I mean you're here, so that's good. I didn't think you'd come. I’m glad you did.”

She seemed unusually antsy, and he suspected she was a little nervous about introducing him to her friends. He would be nervous too if he was her, he knew he wasn’t much, especially to a group of cool and interesting people. He decided it was best not to tell her that he almost didn't come. He had been perfectly ready to stay in his dorm all night, even though it was a Friday night and he had little to no social life at the current moment in time with all the work his professors had been throwing at him. Except, Roommate-From-Hell-Reed had come banging into the room, all but yelling into his cellphone to some girl. Cyrus had been able to stand it for about ten minutes, and then he got tired of hearing the word "baby". A night at some dive being shoved around by sweaty drunks wasn't much of an improvement, but at least he didn't have to listen to Reed's obnoxious flirting.

"It's good you came," Buffy continued. "You don’t get out enough. I think you'll like the band too, and they're friends with Andi and Marty. They’re pretty good - I mean, TJ is a little obnoxious, but they’ve already got a big following on MySpace, and they’re close to getting a deal with Cranked...” Cyrus let her pull him through the crowd, nodding in all the right places but struggling to keep up. Who was TJ? Cranked? What was that? He felt like she was speaking another language. “

They've even got some songs recorded now... did you know Gus- you know Gus Knight? He works at the dining hall. Apparently he’s local and has this whole studio set up in his mom’s basement. He has all the equipment and everything. It's crazy.”

"Crazy," Cyrus agreed, narrowly avoiding getting elbowed by a teary girl gesturing wildly at a boy that looked too out of it to be taking in what she said. The whole arena smelled like puked. He prayed that none got on him. "So when are these Cranked guys meant to go on?"

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Cranked is a record label, Cy. The band’s called Conduit For Gods.”

The problem was not that Cyrus wasn’t into music. He liked music. He thought it was fun, especially if you could sing bad karaoke to it, and who didn't like to listen to their iPod on the bus? But Buffy's friends' world seemed to revolve around music, more specifically punk music, and the whole scene that came with it. He had accepted a few of their invitations to hang out just to be polite, but most of them involved parties and shows. Parties and shows meant drinking and coming home with wild stories. Cyrus wasn’t a wild stories kind of guy.

As a kid, he had really wanted to be a wild stories kind of guy. He’d longed to be one of the popular kids who knew how to make friends with everybody, who was never bored on a Friday night and wasn’t totally invisible. He had never succeeded in becoming that kind of guy. Even at college, where he'd figured it would be easy. All the television shows and magazines had made it seem like that was what you were meant to do in college - party and drink. Become your own person. Become interesting.

What he'd learned from actually being in college? He didn't like to party and drink. He had no problem with other people doing it, obviously, but he'd rather he was far away from them while they did. Drunk people had a habit of throwing up on him, and in crowds like this Cyrus had lost his shoe more than once. They might be drenched in grimy rainwater, but tonight he felt like keeping his shoes firmly on his feet. Preferably not covered in somebody's dinner. The other thing he’d learned was that he didn’t really vibe with the whole alternative music scene... or it didn’t vibe with him. He liked things neat and non-violent. In his experience, college-aged punks liked things sweaty and aggressive. Sometimes with a hint of insane thrown in. It’s not like it scared him or anything, he just didn’t want to die in a mosh pit.

“They’re on at ten. You want me to grab you a drink? I got us a table - I know you don’t like being in the crowd.”

He gave her a grateful smile, forgiving and forgetting the last half an hour in one fell swoop. Buffy was a really good friend not just sometimes, but all the time, even if she did make him hang out with scary people that wore studs and eyeliner. She always respected his boundaries.

As she disappeared towards the bar, he meandered his way over to the table she’d pointed out to him. There were a couple of bags and jackets strewn across the booth’s seats, but no people present. Scanning the crowd, he managed to spot Marty and Andi stood off to the side with a couple of other people. Andi caught his eye and waved him over, but he shook his head. She rolled her eyes, but smiled and sent him a thumbs up anyway. He smiled back.

Andi was a nice girl. A cool girl. She wore her hair cropped short and spiky, had a leather jacket with her name painted artfully across the back and her skin was constantly smudged with paint or coal or glue from her art projects. She’d known Buffy forever, and Cyrus was still surprised someone as cool as her was willing to hang out with a loser like him. It was the same with Buffy, honestly. He was always one step behind the laughter and she was the one making people laugh. Once, he’d made the mistake of voicing these thoughts out loud and Buffy had smacked him over the head with a copy of Rolling Stone, telling him he was being stupid and that he was cool. He knew she was lying, but he appreciated the lie anyway.

A figure loomed over him and he turned.

“That was quick,” he started to say, but the words died on his lips. It wasn’t Buffy.

“Um, hi,” Said the most beautiful boy in the history of all existence.

Bright red hair. Green eyes ringed in black. Torn up denim jacket over plaid over faded t-shirt. Cyrus mentally catalogued all of these things and tried to unstick his tongue from where it seemed to be stuck to the roof of his mouth. He wasn’t sure what to do. How did English work again? What were words?

In the end, he stuck one awkward hand out before he could stop himself and stuttered out a greeted. The guy took it with a warm smile and shook.

“I’m Cyrus,” Cyrus finally managed to say.

Understanding dawned on the guy’s face. “Oh, you’re Buffy’s friend. That’s cool. I’m TJ, Marty’s roommate,” he jerked a thumb back towards the crowd. Much to Cyrus’ horror, he realised Andi and Marty were watching them with interest. He dropped TJ’s hand quickly. “I was just grabbing the keys to the van, could you pass me that bag?”

Cyrus did as asked, expecting TJ to take it and flee from the obviously crazy person who had just shaken his hand like they were at some sort of business meeting instead of a nightclub, but he didn’t move from where he was standing. Instead, he rummaged through the bag for a second and then withdraw a set of car keys and dumped it back on the table. Turning, he signalled to one of the guys in the crowd and launched the keys through the crowd.

“So are you sticking around after the show?” TJ said, turning back to Cyrus with a curious smile.

No. Cyrus was going to go home and shower at least twice then snuggle up in bed and get a good night’s sleep where nobody could accidentally spill a suspicious substance on his nice clean pants.

“Yeah, I think so,” is what came out of Cyrus’ mouth.

“Awesome,” TJ grinned, the thousand-watt smile disarming Cyrus once again. “Well, I gotta scoot, ‘cause it’s my band…”

“Oh! You’re in Condu-whatsit?”

“Conduit For Gods,” he laughed. “Yeah, I’m the singer.”

Oh great, a cute guy in a band. Just what Cyrus needed to make this interaction less intimidating.

“Break a leg?” He offered.

He didn’t know if he was imagining it or not (probably) but TJ looked a little reluctant to go, but after a moment he flashed him another smile and departed. Cyrus resisted the urge to bang his head on the table and berated himself for not being able to hold a conversation like a normal person. Oh man, he had made himself look like a total idiot. Luckily, Buffy returned not long after, and he drowned his sorrows in his drink.

“Okay, not to be dramatic but we have to play the best show we’ve ever played tonight,” TJ said, speeding over to Jonah behind the stage.

Jonah looked up from tuning his guitar in surprise. “I thought the label weren’t seeing us ‘til next week?”

“It’s not a rep,” he shook his head and sighed as dramatically as he could manage. “I just met the most amazing guy I’ve ever seen and I’m pretty sure we’re soulmates, so we have to impress him, okay?”

“Soulmates, huh?” Jonah grinned. “Do you even know this guy’s name?”

“Cyrus.”

“Cyrus? As in Buffy’s Cyrus?”

“That’s the one.”

“Okay, man. If you say so.”

The stage fright seemed twice as intense as usual as TJ clicked the microphone on. Through the glare of the lights and the packed room he could barely make out the table tucked away in the corner where Cyrus was sat. The crowd roared back as he greeted them, and it felt like the entire room exploded into life as the boys launched into the first song. For the first time ever, TJ worried less about cracking a rib as he surfed across the top of the crowd and more about how exactly he was going to ask Cyrus for his number without sounding weird.

But by the time the show was over and TJ was drenched in his own sweat while blood dripped down from his nose from where someone had accidentally hit him in the face during the last song, Cyrus was nowhere to be found, and the question of the phone number became obsolete.

#tyrus #andi mack #i don't know where this is going okay

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vincered · 4 years

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❛ IF YOU WANT TO HAVE IT ALL , TAKE IT ALL 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 , 𝟕𝟐𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 , 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐬

[ PARK CHAEWON, CIS FEMALE, SHE / HER. ] introducing nero waterway, VICTOR of the 72nd hunger games, representing district two. my sources say that they are twenty years old & that they’re pretty handy with manipulating opponents and allies alike. wonder if that did them any good in the arena ? anyways, caesar says you can’t miss them, because they remind everyone of a battle cry echoing sending shockwaves through ankle deep water, an unsatisfied hum falling from carefully painted lips to preserve a pristine reputation, the sound of short staves hitting a dummy in the dead of night – raw hands interrupted by an unwelcome visitor & happily sipping on hard-earned wine , hiding the bitter taste of blood behind a victorious grin.

NOT ME literally seeing this rp & screaming becos i was JUST thinkin about the hunger games . i was actually gonna bring nero in as a tribute but i remembered i love nero so i couldn’t but some day one day maybe , i don’t know . n e ways , i’m cc , i can’t spell & i prefer feminine , she / her pronouns . NERO is much like her namesake , the horrifying roman emperor , very ... bad ! in short , she don’t giv a fucc but i hope she ... grows . BUT this is super long , i’m sorry . if u wanna plot PLS like this & i’ll hope on over (: also pls click HERE for a mobile version of this since ik it might b hard to read on my theme .

❛ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖓𝖊 ╱ 𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

FULL NAME nero atlas waterway NICKNAME(S) empress ( by the capitol , obviously ) , snake , traitor . AGE twenty GENDER / PRONOUNS cis gendered female / she / her ORIENTATION pansexual , demiromantic HOMETOWN district two , inner city near the wealth FACE CLAIM park chaewon ( go won of loona )

aesthetic : a battle cry echoing ; sending shockwaves through ankle deep water , an unsatisfied hum falling from carefully painted lips to preserve a pristine reputation , fingers taped with bloodying bandages after hours of training past her point , raised by wolves she learns to bare her teeth – but not before she learns to hide her claws , bloodthirsty eyes while holding an opponent underwater – her LAUGH is still used as a soundbite , the sound of short staves hitting a dummy in the dead of night – raw hands interrupted by an unwelcome visitor , attending parties with regret laced in the way she stands properly ( was victory her best option for infamy ? ) & hiding the bitter taste of blood behind a victorious grin .

LABEL the potentate , the truculent , the amoral MORAL ALIGNMENTS neutral evil / chaotic neutral ( + ) POSITIVES strategic , potent , adroit , tactical ( - ) NEGATIVES barbaric , nefarious , blasphemous , fustian HOGWARTS HOUSE slytherin first , ravenclaw second MYTHOLOGICAL PARENT athena + mars DEADLY SIN wrath + pride

❛ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖜𝖔 ╱ 𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐥𝐞

trigger warning : death , murder , drowning

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢. nero , a name synonymous with evil & barbaric acts – blessed is the baby girl born into the waterway family . her brother , augustus is primed to be a victor ; tall , lethal with the personality to match . she can still remember being held face down in the bathtub by a boy three years her senior , body flailing as she struggles for air – nero can remember her brother burning her arm over an open flame , can recall every cut their parents had to pay thousands to prevent a scar . nero got the name synonymous with evil , but it should’ve been given to the boy who tried to throw her into the quarries when she was five . their parents , politicians in their own right – an ambassador to the capitol , married to the deputy mayor – are eager to produce a victor , to throw augustus into the spotlight with a laurel wreath onto his dark hair . they look to nero & hope for the same thing – two victors are better than one – & once they finish wiping bathwater from her mouth , finish healing a burn & picking up a broken body from the rock tops , they put her in augustus’s path . the perfect opponent , the perfect rival , the best partner in school .

so the academy accepts both waterway children & they climb the ranks faster than no other . once nero learns how to wield a weapon , how to hold her own – payback is dished out faster than augustus can blink & through the attempted murder the siblings enact , respect is earned . it’s rocky , but there are new nights they spend taping each other up & walking each other home . teen years are spent together , ruling the career academies with their sheer ego & skill . augustus , rocks the spear like a gladiator while nero adopts short staves . they both excel in everything , including the bloodlust & the craving to kill . waterways in their true form , they’re in talks to volunteer & only the stupid would oppose their will . but , at nineteen augustus is found dead in the quarries – feet away from where nero laid at five , feeling the life slip from her fingers . nero , who’s never shed a tear in public cried for the next week , red rimmed eyes glaring at everyone who looked her way at a sniffle . it’s deemed an accident , but augustus – so close to victory , would’ve never accidentally fallen to his death .

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐢. the plan is to enter the games at twenty - three ; an age near the middle of the pack , not too young , not too old . but the games are supposed to be hers – they’re supposed to be augustus’s , so she volunteers at eighteen . her sheer potency shirks her competition & she strides to the stage with a smirk curled on her lips . the capitol takes an instant liking to her – just the name nero strikes their hearts with admiration ; mixed with the baby face , the clear bloodlust in crimson lips as she boasts with pride about the games . she loves the games , she loves the capitol , she’s a victor wrapped up in the cloth of a princess . it becomes clear that manipulation is her forte – she’s good with words , she leaves everyone’s head spinning & she walks away with a training score of ten before interviews . when she meets the stage clad in a a ruffly dress , she makes the crowd love her ( ❛ oh , it’s an honor . ❜ , ❛ i hope i can make you guys proud of me . ❜ , ❛ my brother would’ve been so happy that you guys have given me a proud welcome . ❜ ) – she earns her fair share of sponsors the night before her games & goes into the game knowing she’ll win .

her games are much like her , barbaric down to the bone . a seemingly never ending fjord , surrounded by climbable walls of rock – it almost reminds her of home . the bloodbath starts on rocky shores , the cornucopia is the mouth of a cave halfway underwater & nero claims her first kills in the water . the girl from eleven , held underwater the way her brother held her ; the boy from three , head bashed in with a rock ; the pair from five , spear through the pair like kebob . her allies look to her for instructions , the career pack waits for an eighteen year old empress to give orders to her soldiers . the careers run the game , it’s almost un-fun to watch if not for nero & her sheer entertainment . her laughs , the quips she sends to allies & non allies alike , still used as soundbites & promotions to this day . she starts wars with her words before ending it herself with crimson stained hands . she turns her allies against each other just to take them down herself in the woods , promises safety to the non careers only to betray them in the cruelest of ways . her final showdown – the girl from three ; she survived to kill the girl that killed her partner , for love , or something – the thing nero’s never searched for . they survive a fall from a cliff into icy waters & after nearly dying from electrocution , blood is spilt in fjord water & nero claims the crown with her knee on the back of the tribute , hands drenched like the hair clutched in her fingers . she can still remember her brother trying to drown her , he’s with her when she wins .

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐢𝐢. a willing tribute , an ecstatic victor . she’s chased the crown for as long as she’s lived & to hold it in her hands is enough to make her smile for a lifetime . eager to shake hands with president snow , nero has an easier life as a tribute than most – she has NO regrets , she’s the perfect tribute , the perfect victor & quickly rises to almost it - girl status . her face is everywhere , the face of multiple brands & products , life size advertisements are all around the capitol & her game goes down in history ( top three on the most ruthless , cruelest victors in history ) . because of her willingness & her eagerness , she gets an easy life – parties with the rich , nights spent with fans willingly . snow keeps a loose leash on his newest , favorite victor ; lets her wield her words in whichever way she wants & nero gets everything she wants . she watches with her head held high as others suffer , losing no sleep , sleeping with whoever she wants , gaining whatever she wants – empress nero is branded on her skin in invisible ink , but she wears the title with pride .

and yet , she feels a little suffocated by the time the 74th games come around . she’s known now , a capitol lap dog , a willing victor , a willing tribute – nero waterway is not only lethal , she’s ruthless ; but , there’s a part of her that realizes snow is tightening her leash . he demands secrets from the people she beds , the lives of her parents hangs over her heads & for the first time in her life , nero FALTERS underneath the watchful gaze of the capitol . she doesn’t live up to her namesake for the few months leading up to the games , shirks from the limelight she’s grown to love as she reevaluates her decisions . regret’s started to seep into her bones , but nero is an empress , she doesn’t know how to surrender .

❛ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖊 ╱ 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

exterior , known to be both potent & untrustworthy – nero’s still managed to wrap the capitol around her little finger . she makes heads spin with harmless words , pulls strings while she bakes cakes for her favorite game makers . outwardly , people know she’s NOT to be underestimated – that though she’s terrifyingly tiny , she’s much more lethal than most people will ever be in their entire lives . nero , like her namesake , synonymous with evil & savagery , will start wars without lifting a finger & laugh while her fingers get stained with blood .

& while the capitol craves it , it may rub other victors the wrong way . a bit too proud of her achievements , nero has absolutely no regrets about her life . she’s trained for it her entire life , she grasps her laurel wreath in between crimson hands & she boasts her pride . she rolls in the fame & the glory , not understanding the nightmares & the remorse felt by other winners clad in gold . young & naive , she’s almost childlike with her pure glee – if not for the bloodthirsty barbarian hiding inside of her . outrageously pretentious , borderline evil , everything she says has a meaning behind it – usually negative .

interior , nero is lonely . a victorious socialite of all things now , she trains the potential tributes back home , attends lavish parties & mingles with high status citizens but she’s lonely at the top . a stranger to romance , she’s never sought after it as much as she seeks sexual interactions – she more craves friendship , companionship in the way she used to have an older brother .

but she hides it well , takes pictures by her advertisements , watches the games with glee , laughs with game makers & other ruthless victors . she masks her loneliness & her suspicion with charm & her preceding reputation , unaware that her isolation is exactly what president snow wants . her loneliness is what he counts on , but as smart as nero is strategically , she stupid .

midway , her psyche’s been a bit twisted & contorted because of her upbringing – what , with the attempted murder & the glorification of the annual murder games . she’s been an unfortunate victim of the capitol’s brainwashing , viewing the games as an extravagant event & winning to be the greatest honor . she’s flourished as a victor as well , willingly playing into everything the capitol wants her to become as a side effect of being so terribly naive about everything .

there’s a part of her that’s starting to suspect something is wrong – whispers of traitors & to keep a close watch on all the victors , but it’s not like nero has many actual friends . not many people actually want to befriend someone that’d gladly go into the games again , but she’s sat back & observed while snow tightens her leash , restricting her from her daily life . early signs of regret are starting to seep into her bones as snow starts demanding more & more , but she’s been idolizing the capitol & everything all her life – it’ll take a lifetime to wipe her slate clean .

❛ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖋𝖔𝖚𝖗 ╱ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

in conclusion : nero’s evil , very bad , very annoying . & don’t look at me , i know this is long & THIS is why i couldn’t take up two muses cos then i’d be stupid for BOTH & i’m simply so fuckin stupid please love me anyway if u wanna plot .... jus like this & i’ll slide in .

#oddsintro

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kaen-ace-of-diamonds · 4 years

Text

Ookami

Written for the @myyoukaiparade zine / [AO3 Link]

Word Count: 2000+ (oneshot)

Genre: Supernatural/Family

Characters: Todoroki Enji, Todoroki Shouto, Todoroki Touya/Dabi, Todoroki Fuyumi

Summary: Medieval Fantasy AU. In the wake of his eldest son Touya's mysterious death, renowned samurai and war hero Todoroki Enji makes a nighttime journey through the forest. But he is far from alone there, and the spirits who dwell there know his sins and intend to pay him back for them...

Warnings for implied child abuse/murder and animal death.

~0~

His daughter runs from the other side of the house to warn him not to travel alone after dark. The forest between their estate and the city isn’t home to men. No youkai cares about his rank, she says, and all she cares about is him returning in one piece!

His daughter is a frantic little fool, just like her madwoman mother, just like every other woman he’s ever met.

He is Todoroki Enji, second favored warrior of the emperor, with the blood of thousands on his spear. He’s left clouds of ash behind him on countless battlefields. A man like him is not afraid of the dark, he snarls at Fuyumi as he mounts his horse.

“Father, please! After what happened to Touya-nii — !”

“Silence! How dare you compare me to that weakling!”

He’d ridden off into the sunset then, like any good hero, and it is long after midnight now. Enji has traveled this path by daylight enough times to know it by heart, even in the weak moonlight. The only sounds are the humming insects in the bushes and the soft clop of his horse’s hooves. Shakunetsu sees no reason to spook, and neither does he. He has faced assassins before, and none of them drew a drop of blood from him before they were killed.

Almost none, the tiny part of him that speaks the truth reminds him, and the scar on his chest itches.

He shakes his head again. He is Todoroki Enji, glorious, fearless, and invincible. He’s not moved by a ghost story of all —

Something rustles in the bushes just behind him.

Enji stiffens. His eyes flick back and forth in the dark, searching for spots of light or movement. Humans are clumsy and fallible...but his eyes don’t land on a human.

His brain tells him that he should breathe a sigh of relief. It’s only a wolf following behind him, just out of reach of Shakunetsu’s skull-shattering kick. A dumb-looking thing, too, with a slavering mouth and bulbous white eyes. A mere animal, especially one without the support of its pack, should be nothing at all to worry about.

And yet there is an instinctive chill running deep down his spine, telling him to flee with his tail between his legs, that he must suppress. For gods’ sake, it’s one lone wolf —

No. Not one. Now there’s two, alike enough to be twins, one on each side.

Enji jolts, and twists around in the saddle to make sure he isn’t seeing double. Once his gaze is focused, it’s clear that he isn’t: there are four wolves trailing behind him, all with identical black coats, misty white eyes, and knife-sharp teeth. His eyes widen, and he hastily kicks Shakunetsu into a brisk canter. They really must be dumb animals, he tells himself, to mistake a predator like himself for prey. No matter; he knows how these things hunt. The mountain pass at the other side of the forest is not far off now, and they will not follow him past there, even in an attempt to outrun a seasoned war horse.

He hears scrabbling in the dirt behind him, but it’s a few minutes before he looks back and sees the hunger in the wolves’ eyes gleaming even brighter as they keep pace easily with Shakunetsu. It isn’t that that finally breaks Enji’s nerve. It’s the fact that every single eye is fixed directly on his own neck.

His breath catches, and he gives Shakunetsu a sharp kick. The horse lets out a shrill whine, and charges off down the path in a frantic gallop. Sweat runs down his forehead and the trees rush by in a dark blur, and he hears the barks and howls of the wolves start up behind him as they lope forward to not only match his pace, but overtake it.

They don’t seem to think of Shakunetsu as anything more than an overlarge elk as they surround him, biting at his legs and leaping up to tear at his rear and flanks. The many claws rend their well-wrought armor as if it were paper. Strips of flesh and steel are flying into the dirt before his eyes. Enji doesn’t waste another second before hefting himself up and jumping clear of his steed, pushing off hard from Shakunetsu’s saddle.

One last betrayed shriek tears itself from the horse’s throat as it goes down under a torrent of claws and teeth. Enji does not hear it. Blood pounds in his ears as he hits the ground and charges for the soaring cliff at the end of the path. They will follow him up that part, he sees that now, so he leaps to grab the narrow ledges and crags beside it, hauling himself up the steep face. Adrenaline surges and spurs him on, and before he knows it he’s made his way very nearly to the top. He climbs up atop a wide rock, to catch his breath and look back to check for his pursuers, and startles when he sees them scrabbling in a great mass at the cliff base.

Their baying turns his blood cold; like mist and water, they climb and flow over each other and rise up the cliff face. Fur and blood fly and their blank white eyes bulge, and Enji is frozen with shock as they get closer, and closer, and...

Just as quickly, he bursts into wild laughter. They’re clawing the rock barely a meter from his boots, but they just can’t reach. There must be a thousand of them, but they aren’t enough.

“Ha! You thought you could destroy me?! Todoroki Enji?! Foolish animals, I’ll wear your pelts on my back for the rest of my life!”

He draws his dao sword with a flourish, but looks down to see a streak of blackness and sparking blue fire rushing up to meet him. He roars and slashes at its eyes, but his blade swings harmlessly through the head as if through smoke. Slavering jaws snap open wider than his head, and there’s a puff of icy breath on Enji’s neck before daggerish fangs sink into them. The two of them tumble down the cliff face, grappling and struggling, until Enji hits the ground spine-first, with a sickening crack.

Suddenly he cannot move anymore, despite his best attempts. All he can do is stare through spinning vision as the huge shape — the great wolf — stalks towards him, its pack circling around. Its body and face are twisted by scars, lips pulled back in a snarl, and eyes burn with the purest hatred Enji has ever seen —

No. No, that’s not right, Enji realizes, remembering the eyes of that damned boy, the traitor who had stolen his own sword and turned it on him with a broken howl. But he had burned that boy to ashes, erased him from this world!

The wolves all rush him at once, and those blue eyes are the last thing Enji sees before he’s torn to shreds by twenty thousand claws.

~0~

Shouto would like to think that he knows better than his late father.

For instance, while Fuyumi and Natsuo are quarreling over which of them should go fulfill Enji’s final task in his place, Shouto simply slips out and sets off himself. The sword he takes is older and less easily missed. He leaves through the fire-damaged part of the house, right through the hole that was once a bedroom. Nobody likes to go around there at the best of times. With everyone distracted by the winding-down of his father’s funeral, it’s deserted enough for him to leave entirely unnoticed.

He cannot, however, leave on horseback, or well enough before sunset to avoid traveling by dark. The full golden moon lights Shouto’s way as he walks down the beaten forest path, and he tries to ignore the fact that he’s following in his father’s footsteps. Fortunately, there are more important things grabbing his attention.

Namely, the distinct sound of padded footsteps right behind him.

Shouto takes another deep breath. He is an avid student of spirituality, a way of clinging to the old stories of their country that his mother used to tell him. If it were mortal wolves stalking behind him, he would have been chased down by now, and the icy feeling of intelligent eyes on his neck would not be there.

These were youkai in Wolf’s shape, and while he didn’t know what they wanted with him — perhaps only a bite to eat — he knew that he must not provoke them to attack. One did not try to fight or insult a youkai, that was just common sense. Not even the fiercest animal would come nearby now. But if he had read his mother’s scrolls right, it was imperative that he keep his footing at all costs. Should he allow the darkness, the weight of the sack on his back, or the daunting path to trip him up even once, the pack will surely fall on him to devour him alive.

Because it is a pack, if his ears do not deceive him. The stirring of dirt and occasional clicking of claws on stone and root increase fourfold every moment. He keeps his ears pricked, his eyes on the uneven ground, and his face its usual mask of perfect calm. He must act as if nothing is there at all.

Shouto’s heart pounds a drumbeat in his chest, a frost of fear running over his skin. He is hyperaware of every move he makes, every rustle in the grass. When he passes the river, he dares not glance at however many reflections might be following his own. He trusts in the moon, illuminating the path and the cliff ledge where it ends, to guide him to safety as they both pass through the night.

Still, he’s never wanted to grab his sword so badly in his life, even knowing that respect is his key to survival. He knows his father must have tried to fight off whatever had reduced him to bloodied bone splinters and shreds of armor. He will not meet the same fate.

He steps out of the trees as the sky begins to pale, taking extra care in ascending the steep mountain path. When he reaches the ledge, and can see the town below the opposite slope, he pauses for a moment to let out his breath. Only then does he turn around, and his heart almost stops.

They’re like a lake reflecting a starry sky: myriad white eyes shining from a mass of deep, rippling darkness. Identical, save for their leader, who stands twice their height and whose body is seared with scars. Shouto thinks for a moment that there’s something familiar in those shimmering blue eyes, in the way he seems to be smiling at Shouto. But no: he must be only looking for something.

As such, Shouto bows deeply to the pack, and addresses them loud and clear. “Thank you very much for seeing me off! You have been very kind!”

He turns on his heel and marches towards town, out of sight in an instant. He does not see how the lead wolf’s prideful eyes linger on the space where he had been, until his second breaks ranks to come and lick his muzzle.

Come, Dabi, it says without words. You have a new pack now.

Dabi’s long-tongued smile lingers. Their father is gone; his mother and siblings are free and safe. He can leave them with no regrets.

So he turns around and runs, and his thousand wolves disappear alongside him into the dawn.

~0~

People bow their heads to Shouto and offer their condolences for his losses as he passes through the city. His family tomb is at the back, so he gives countless people thanks before he reaches its silence.

His brother’s death was recent enough that his ink portrait is still there, joined now by their father’s, which he ignores. No one has lit incense or offered prayers for his brother since he died, burned to death in his own room, and Shouto gets the feeling that he is finally bringing him some kind of peace with his journey now.

“Touya-nii, you’ll never believe what happened on my way here.” He smiles as he lights the incense, imagining the elder warrior’s shining eyes and smile. “You always loved the tales of youkai? Now I have one to tell you...”

#kaen's fics #boku no hero academia #todoroki shouto #todoroki enji #todoroki touya #dabi

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chroniclesofamber · 5 years

Text

THE CHRONICLES OF AMBER & History Lessons II

The first two books of Roger Zelazny’s Chronicles of Amber — Nine Princes in Amber and The Guns of Avalon — were written between 1967 and the early 1970s. The Vietnam War cast a long shadow from the 1960s into the first years of the next decade. In Nine Princes in Amber, for example, one of the most memorable episodes of action and conflict occurs in the seventh chapter:

“The sheets of light and heat flapped a steady, welling thunder as we ran, and the waves of warmth beat upon us, washed over us. Soon they were right there alongside us, and the trees blackened and the leaves flaked down, and some of the smaller trees began to sway. For as far ahead as we could see, our way was an alley of fires… We made it to the fork, though, beating out flames on our smoldering clothing, wiping ashes from our eyes… We ran through burning grasses… The interlocked branches of the trees overhead had become as the beams in a cathedral of fire…”

The Vietnam War was part of the nightly news back then. Stories and images of napalm and agent orange falling upon the jungles of Southeast Asia were current at the time and the quote above would have resonated in the American consciousness. But it was not just the horrors of war haunting America. There was also civil unrest and a rebellious younger generation ready to take up arms against the old guard who had nourished the conflicts and tensions leading to the strife stretching from the ’60s into the ’70s.

After the baptism of fire experienced by narrator and main character Corwin — which concludes with the provident arrival of riflemen trained and led by him to defend Amber and position him as the kingdom’s effective ruler — he finds himself at the top of a society struggling with an uneasy and temporary peace. Powerful foes have been unleashed upon the immortal city, and it looks like it may have been an inside job. In fact, it may even be that Corwin himself has provided unintended assistance to the enemy. This self-reflective attitude of examining one’s own role in the evils plaguing the world belonged very much to the troubling era which began with the assassination of President Kennedy and ended with the resignation of President Nixon.

SIGN OF THE UNICORN (1975)

History: The longest gap between the publication of any of the books of The Chronicles of Amber: three years. An air of defeat hangs over America, as well as over places beyond. The Club of Rome puts out its report “The Limits to Growth” and in 1974 the world population reaches four billion. The Apollo 13 failure of 1970 has left its mark, followed by a decline in support for the program dooming the final three missions to cancellation. Apollo 17 therefore sees the last men on the Moon in December of 1972, when one of the most popular photographs ever is taken — the iconic “Blue Marble” image of a nearly full Earth — and soon becomes an emblem of the environmental movement. In contrast to the “Blue Marble,” in the summer of ’72 the Pulitzer Prize-winning “Napalm girl” photograph makes headlines, and less than a year later the last U.S. soldier leaves Vietnam subsequent to the Paris Peace Accords. The war is over and the U.S. did not win it.

The war may be over, but deep problems remain — a description of the years during which Zelazny wrote Sign of the Unicorn, but also a description of the contents of the book itself. “The Troubles” — as the conflict in Northern Ireland comes to be called — of the United Kingdom undergo a rapid escalation: the British Army shoots dead 14 unarmed marchers on terrible Bloody Sunday; the British embassy in Dublin is burned down during rioting all over Ireland; bombs detonate in Whitehall and the Old Bailey; car bombs set by the Ulster Volunteer Force in Dublin and Monaghan kill 33 civilians and injure 300 others.

Meanwhile, a story just as big unfolds on the other side of the Atlantic: Five White House operatives are arrested for the burglary of the Democratic National Committee offices at the Watergate Hotel. Nixon orders special prosecutor Archibald Cox to be fired over his subpoena of recordings of incriminating White House conversations, but is eventually compelled by the Supreme Court to release the tapes. Impeachment proceedings underway, the public and even members of the Republican Party against him, Nixon resigns in August of 1974 and the unelected Vice President, Gerald Ford, becomes President. Likewise, Eric falls and Corwin steps in as the interim regent of an Amber reeling from war and internal strife, a state of affairs closely matching the condition of America as offered in Nixon’s resignation speech.

Lesson: Corwin finds himself the target of an attempt to frame him for the murder of Caine, his brother Gérard pummels him in a fight and dangles him over a cliff, he is nearly stabbed to death in his suite only hours after Brand is knifed in similar fashion, in the misty city of ghosts known as Tir-na Nog’th he is attacked and comes perilously close to plummeting to his death. In this context, the cautions of his sister Fiona regarding the dangers of wearing for too long the ultimate artifact of power, the Jewel of Judgment, take on new meaning. She warns it can kill him. The information possibly saves his life, as it persuades him to remove the Jewel when at the brink of death. The lesson is bigger than that, however. Corwin learns that power without knowledge or wisdom is dangerous and can be fatal, something which his brother Eric, as king, did not discover in time.

Journey: It all begins with Corwin’s discovery of a crime and a corpse, which leads straight to his learning of Random’s attempt to rescue Brand from his tower. And it ends with Corwin and Random, along with Ganelon, looking down upon the damaged Pattern (also the result of a crime, though they do not know that yet), just a day after Corwin’s meeting with a freshly rescued and recovered Brand. Crimes call out for investigation and from the first pages of the first book Corwin has played the detective. In the opening scene, Corwin has questions for Random and in the final scene he finally has some answers. Now he knows from his interview with Brand that there was a conspiracy by the red-haired faction to seize Amber’s throne, that Dara is descended from Chaos and intended for that throne, that a game has been in progress where he has been but a useful knight and where the broken Pattern before him is the board upon which it has been played.

Watergate, Painful Endings...

...and Perhaps Resurrections — the Mid-’70s

“The sun was that great orb of molten gold we had seen earlier. The sky was a deeper blue than that of Amber, and there were no clouds in it. That sea was a matching blue, unspecked by sail or island. I saw no birds, and I heard no sounds other than our own. An enormous silence lay upon this place, this day. In the bowl of my suddenly clear vision, the Pattern at last achieved its disposition upon the surface below. I thought at first that it was inscribed in the rock, but as we drew nearer I saw that it was contained within it—gold-pink swirls, like veining in an exotic marble, natural-seeming despite the obvious purpose to the design… A dark, rough-edged smudge had obliterated an area of the section immediately beneath us, running from its outer rim to the center.”

Dark times are depicted in Sign of the Unicorn amidst the darkest days of the Seventies. OPEC launches its oil embargo, soon doubling the price of crude, all just after the dollar has been devalued 10%. A recession affecting most of the world ensues, and the oil crisis does not wind down until 1974. Cults, destructive to themselves and often to others, appear in newspapers and on television. The Manson Family is sentenced, the Symbionese Liberation Army abducts and brainwashes heiress Patty Hearst, the Heaven’s Gate UFO cult is founded near San Diego.

Violent groups on the radical left, however, are increasingly foiled and contained: the Baader-Meinhof Red Army Faction is arrested; the Japanese Red Army, in decline after the Lod Airport attack, is defunct as an independent organization within a year of the attack; the Angry Brigade ends its run in a British courtroom.

At the same time, the political left makes gains: Labour’s Harold Wilson returns as Prime Minister of the United Kingdom; Helmut Schmidt of the Social Democratic Party becomes Chancellor of West Germany after a spy scandal brings down his predecessor; centrist Valéry Giscard d’Estaing succeeds Pompidou as President of France; the Carnation Revolution overthrows Portugal’s dictatorship and restores democracy; the Democratic Party logs historic victories in the House, Senate and state Governorships. The Old Bailey sees the first woman serve as a judge, the U.S. Congress sends the ERA to the states for ratification, women are finally admitted to Dartmouth College, the FBI hires women as agents for the first time, equal pay for women is mandated in Australia — liberal politics enjoys a resurgence during this period.

Whether intentional or not, the revolutionary red-haired cabal of Amber mirrors the restless idealists of the times, violent and otherwise, hoping to institute change. The overreach by forces on the right, responsible for the deaths of the Kennedys and Martin Luther King Jr., at last seems to come full circle with the resignation of Nixon and a national rejection of the authoritarian wielding of autocratic power. As already suggested, the hubris Eric demonstrates (like Nixon) in crowning himself king and regularly resorting to the most dramatic powers of the Jewel of Judgment brings him to his death on the slopes of Kolvir.

Eric has died, yet while Corwin and Brand both tread recklessly close to death they instead return bearing valuable new information — and, in one case, an enchanted mechanical arm — introducing the theme of resurrection and restoration. The Vietnam War at last is over, the crisis of the Nixon presidency has ended; the world is nowhere near out of the woods, but these events provide scope for respite and relief, and perhaps…hope? Vietnam and Watergate have together represented a perpetual storm cloud over America, a weight upon the world. The oil crisis has been harrowing, but soon leads directly to alternative energy R&D and long-needed improvements in automobiles. The world is still beset with sweeping, deep-seated problems, and the clouds have not truly cleared, but rays of hope are breaking through to shine on both beautiful inspirations and stark realities, much as the brilliant sun of the real Amber illuminates the broken Pattern in the final scene of Sign of the Unicorn.

“‘Then—looking for congruence—that would be about where our own Pattern lies,’ [Random said as we regarded the oval area of smooth, level rock].

‘Yes,’ I said again.

‘And that blotted area is to the south, from whence comes the black road.’

I nodded slowly as the understanding arrived and forged itself into a certainty.

‘What does it mean?’ he asked. ‘It seems to correspond to the true state of affairs, but beyond that I do not understand its significance. Why have we been brought here and shown this thing?’

‘It does not correspond to the true state of affairs,’ I said. ‘It is the true state of affairs.’”

[...to be continued in a future post...]

#chronicles of amber #roger zelazny #sign of the unicorn #the chronicles of amber #the seventies

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ashtray-girl · 5 years

Text

By Grand Central Station I Sat Down And Wept and its role in Morrissey’s lyricism

PLOT This is a short prose poetry novel in which author Elizabeth Smart recounts her love affair with married poet George Barker (even though she began writing it years before they met). Said affair lasted 18 years and she bore 4 of his 15 children, whom he had from several different women.

The novel is divided in 10 parts, so I’ll proceed by summing up each one of them while also highlighting the parts which I think are relevant to the Morrissey discourse.

DISCLAIMER: even though there isn’t much of a plot to spoil (the focus is placed almost entirely on the narrator’s feelings and in the way they’re expressed), I am gonna quote extensively from every chapter so keep that in mind if you intend to read the book for yourself.

PART I The protagonist is waiting at the bust station for the man she loves to collect her (she never names him btw) but when he finally comes he’s with his wife and it’s her that the protagonist sees first.

“But then it is her eyes that come forward out of the vulgar disembarkers to reassure me that the bus has not disgorged disaster: her madonna eyes, soft as the newly-born, trusting as the untempted. And, for a moment, at that gaze, I am happy to forego my future, and postpone indefinitely the miracle hanging fire. […] Behind her he for whom I have waited for so long, who has stalked so unbearably through my nightly dreams.”

It’s interesting to note the way she talks about her. Even though she’s wildly in love with this man, she never badmouths her. On the contrary, throughout the story she seems to have a good opinion of her.

“I see she can walk across the leering world and suffer injury only from the ones she loves. But I love her and her silence is propaganda for sainthood.”

You know what all of this reminds me of? The time Angie collected Morrissey at the station to take him to Johnny’s house, a few days after Johnny had knocked on Morrissey’s door and they’d talked about forming a band. Did he expect it would be Johnny who’d come and pick him up? Did he know he had a girlfriend?

“So we drive along the Californian coast singing together, and I entirely renounce him for only her peace of mind.”

I don’t know if the narrator shares Morrissey’s fascination with cars (I don’t even think the two things are necessarily related), but it’s worth pointing out how some of the most important and dramatic scenes of the book happen in a car.

“Why do I not jump off this cliff where I lie sickened by the moon? I know these days are offering me only murder for my future. It is not just the creeping fingers of the cold that dissuade me from action, and allow me to accept the hypocritical hope that there may be some solution. Like Macbeth, I keep remembering that I am their host. So it’s tomorrow’s breakfast rather than the future’s blood that dictates fatal forbearance. Nature, perpetual whore, distracts with the immediate.”

Look at this entire paragraph and tell me it isn’t the most Morrissey thing you’ve ever read. Also, does any part of it sound familiar? Well, let’s look at the lyrics for Shakespeare’s Sister:

Young bones groan, and the rocks below say “Throw your skinny body down, son"

But I'm going to meet the one I love So please don't stand in my way Because I'm going to meet the one I love No, mama, let me go

Young bones groan and the rocks below say "Throw your white body down"

But I'm going to meet the one I love At last, at last, at last! I'm going to meet the one I love

Then the protagonist gets to the couple’s house and her sudden proximity to the man she loves brings the feelings she’s been trying to repress right back to the surface:

“The Beginning lurks uncomfortably on the outskirts of the circle, like an unpopular person whom ignoring can keep away. The very silence, the very avoiding of any intimacy between us, when he, when he was only a word, was able to cause me sleepless nights and shivers of intimation, is the more dangerous. Our seeming detachment gathers strength. I sit back impersonally and say, I see human vanity, or feel myself full of gladness because there is a gentleness between him and her, or even feel irritation because he lets her do too much of the work, sits lolling whilst she chops wood for the stove.”

There’s an unmistakable feeling of impeding doom, as if she knows that even though nothing physical has happened between them yet, she’s sealed her own deal just by being there with him and it’s only a matter of time before the inevitable strikes.

“While we drive along the road in the evening, talking as impersonally as a radio discussion, he tells me: ‘A boy with green eyes and long lashes, whom I had never seen before, took me into the back of a printshop and made love to me, and for two weeks I went around remembering the numbers on bus conductors’ hats.’ ‘One should love beings whatever their sex’, I reply, but withdraw into the dark with my obstreperous shape of shame, offended with my own flesh which cannot metamorphose into a printshop boy with armpits like chalices.”

So there you have it: Meaningful Car Scene n°1. He confesses he had a homosexual experience (and he enjoyed it, or so it seems) and she’s jealous but not outraged or disgusted, which is quite a big deal if you think this book was first published in 1945. (It’s also worth noting that, in her later years, Elizabeth Smart had affairs with both men and women). Another thing I noticed as I was writing this is that sentence, “remembering the numbers on bus conductors’ hats”, which reminded me of that line in Phoney:

Who can make Hitler Seem like a bus conductor? You do, oh Phoney you do

It’s probably just a coincidence, but I found it funny nonetheless.

“He kissed my forehead driving along the coast in the evening, and now, wherever I go, like the sword of Damocles, that greater never-to-be-given kiss hangs above my doomed head. He took my hand between the two shabby front seats of the Ford, and it was dark, and I was looking the other way, but now that hand casts everywhere an octopus shadow from which I can never escape. The tremendous gentleness of that moment smothers me under; […] I stand on the edge of the cliff, but the future is already done.”

Meaningful Car Scene n°2. There’s a first attempt at physical contact and by now he seems to have realised she has feelings for him, so he’s trying to see how far he can push himself with her.

Now, I’m just gonna go ahead and say it: I feel like something very similar to this may have happened between Johnny and Morrissey. The reason why I decided to write this analysis is because, once I read the book, I fully realised the pervasiveness of its influence in many of the lyrics Morrissey wrote while he was in The Smiths (especially during the Meat Is Murder era) and in the first years of his solo career but, as much as people talked about it, I feel like they never went deep enough. The way I see it, Morrissey had every reason to relate to the protagonist, even though she’s a woman. Someone who falls deeply in love with a married man (with bisexual tendencies, it seems) and is quite concerned with the ethics of what she’s doing but at the same time is very certain of her feelings for him. The man, on the other hand, seems to have a much more ambiguous attitude, accepting her love but also wanting to keep a respectable façade by staying with his wife. If we assume that Morrissey did harbour romantic feelings for Johnny, it’s easy to see why he would choose this book as a way to sublimate them, especially if we consider how the queer factor would’ve made them even less acceptable in the eyes of society.

But going back to the book… what about the man’s wife?

“By day she obeys the voice of love as the stricken obey their god, and she walks with the light step of hope which only the naive and the saints know. […] He also is bent towards her in an attitude of solicitude. Can he hear his own heart while he listens for the tenderness of her sensibilities? Is there a way at all to avoid offending the lamb of god?”

As I said before, she doesn’t seem to be especially jealous of his wife, but that may be because at the moment she’s high on the secret attentions her husband is giving her, so it’s easy for her to feel sorry for this other woman who’s being cheated on right under her own roof.

I can’t help but think about how Morrissey and Angie had their own relationship and seemed to be quite close. I mean, that must have been a bit of a weird dynamic (for Moz at least), and I wonder how they worked it out.

“I never was in love with death before, nor felt grateful because the rocks below could promise certain death. But now the idea of dying violently becomes an act wrapped in attractive melancholy, and displayed with every blandishment. For there is no beauty in denying love, except perhaps by death, and towards love what way is there? To deny love, and deceive it meanly by pretending that what is unconsummated remains eternal, or that love sublimated reaches highest to heavenly love, is repulsive, as the hypocrite’s face is repulsive when placed too near the truth. […] I might be better fooled, but can I see the light of a match while burning in the arms of the sun?”

There’s another reference to dying by throwing herself off a cliff, but the really interesting part is what comes after. The narrator rejects the idea that spiritual love is the highest form of love, which is achieved by embracing its physical side instead. It’s not enough for her to have a platonic bond with the man she loves because she wants him in mind, body and soul.

While reading this, I couldn’t help but draw some parallels:

- “Dying violently becomes an act wrapped in attractive melancholy.” → “To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.” - “Can I see the light of a match while burning in the arms of the sun?” → “There is a light and it never goes out.”

And then, opening the penultimate paragraph of this first chapter:

“I have learned to smoke because I need something to hold on to. I dare not be without a cigarette in my hand.”

This is one of the most obvious one. If we look at the lyrics for What She Said (which is based almost entirely on this book), it’s pretty self-explanatory:

What she said: ‘I smoke ‘cause I’m hoping for a nearly death And I need to cling to something.’

PART II This part is mainly about the remorse the protagonist is feeling towards the man’s wife, who has now realised something happened between the two of them.

“Her eyes pierced all the veils that protected my imagination against ruinous knowledge. […] Is there no other channel of my deliverance except by her martyrdom?”

It’s quite interesting to note how the chapter opens with:

“God, come down […] and tell me who will drown in so much blood.”

And then, on the next page:

“I am blind, but blood, not love, blinded my eye. Love lifted the weapon but guided my crime.”

Both of these lines reminded me of the lyrics for Yes, I Am Blind:

Yes, I am blind No, I can't see The good things Just the bad things, oh...

Yes, I am blind No, I can't see There must be something Horribly wrong with me?

God, come down If you're really there Well, you're the one who claims to care

It then goes on:

“… she whom I have injured, and whose agony it is my penalty to watch, lies gasping, but still living, on the land.”

- “Gasping, but still living.” → “Gasping, but somehow still alive.” (Well I Wonder)

PART III The narrator spends most of this chapter gushing about how in love she is with this man, who in the meantime has followed her back home to spend some time with her (though it’s not clear whether he has left his wife for her or not.)

“Even the precise geometry of his hand, when I gaze at it, dissolves me into water and I flow away in a flood of love.”

(I have nothing to say about this line except that I like it and that I can’t help but imagine Morrissey staring at Johnny’s hands as he picks the chords of his guitar, thinking these exact same thoughts.)

“When the Ford rattles up to the door, five minutes (five years) late, and he walks across the lawn under the pepper-trees, I stand behind the gauze curtains, unable to move to meet him, or to speak, as I turn to liquid to invade his every orifice when he opens the door.”

Yet another reference to his car. Also yeah, you’re wet for him, we get it.

“And there is so much for me, I am suddenly so rich, and I have done nothing to deserve it, to be so overloaded. All after such a desert. All after I had learnt to say, I am nothing, and I deserve nothing. […] It has happened, the miracle has arrived, everything begins today, […] all the paraphernalia of existence, all my sad companions of these last twenty years, […] all the world solicits me with joy, leaps at me electrically, claiming its birth at last.”

I can’t help but think about how similarly Morrissey must have felt after Johnny knocked on his door, after having spent his last twenty years in much the same way the narrator had, feeling lonely and isolated.

I mean, he even said so himself:

“He appeared at a time when I was deeper than the depths, if you like. And he provided me with this massive energy boost. I could feel Johnny’s energy just seething inside of me.”

“I was there, dying, and he rescued me.”

The chapter ends with this sentence:

“Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm, for love is strong as death.”

Which kinda reminds me of that part in Rusholme Ruffians:

So scratch my name on your arm with a fountain pen (This means you really love me)

PART IV This is, in my opinion, the book’s most interesting chapter. What happens is, they get stopped as they’re crossing the Arizona border and once the cops realise they’re together but not married to each other, the take them to the police station, interrogate them for several hours about the nature of their relationship and then make them leave separately.

Once again, one of the most dramatic scenes takes place in a car.

I fully believe that Morrissey wrote both The Boy With The Thorn In His Side and later Late Night, Maudlin Street with this entire part in mind.

“They are taking me away in a police car […] They are prosecuting me for silence and for love […] They drove me away in a police car. […] For too much love, only for too much love. […] Are you not convinced, inspector? Do you not believe in love?”→ “They took you away in a police car / Inspector – don’t you know? Don’t you care? Don’t you know – about love?” (Late Night, Maudlin Street)

“They intercepted our love because of what was in our eyes. […] Did they see such flagrant proof and still not believe?” → “How can they see the love in our eyes and still they don’t believe us?” (The Boy With The Thorn In His Side)

I wonder who “they” were, though. I mean, we know that in the book, when she says: “They are prosecuting me for silence and for love” she clearly means the authorities, but what did Morrissey mean? Were “they” those same “people who are weaker/uglier than you and I” and those “evil people (who) prosper over the likes of you and me always”? And did he have some specific names in mind, or did he just mean society in general? As in: “They (the general public / the media / the music industry) can’t (don’t want to?) see we love each other because they’re not ready to accept that idea yet, but they’re more than happy to profit from us and our art, which is only made possible BECAUSE of that love.”

The penultimate paragraph before the end of the chapter feels especially relevant:

“All our wishes were private, we desired no more scope than ourselves. Could we corrupt the young by gazing into each other’s eyes? Would they leave their offices? Would big business suffer?”

PART V The protagonist comes back home feeling sorry for herself. Her family doesn’t approve of her relationship with a married man, but she refuses to apologise and spends most of her time contemplating nature and reminiscing about what happened.

Another quote which Morrissey probably used as inspiration for Late Night…

“Every yellow or scarlet leaf hangs like a flag waving me on.” → “Every hag waves me on / Secretly wishing me gone.”

PART VI The protagonist has an argument with her father, who’s worried about her state. Her mother doesn’t want to have anything to do with her anymore and even her brother is sceptical about the whole situation. She then reminisces about leaving Ottawa with him (she’s Canadian) and she talks at length about how they’re meant to be together no matter what. She also finds out she’s pregnant.

At the start, she mentions neighbours who warn her to stay away from him:

“The well-meaning matrons who, from their insulated living say, ‘My dear, I think you would would regret it afterwards if you broke up a marriage,’ ‘When you felt it about to happen the right thing would have been to have gone away at once.”

I wonder how many people around The Smiths were aware of Morrissey being in love with Johnny (because at this point, no one can convince me he wasn’t) and, if they were, how much did they know? Did they ever talked to him about it? Did they warn him about being cautious, about not revealing too much of his own feelings in his songs? And did they mention how bad it would look for him if he broke up a couple?

“The policeman grows fatter each day and rivals the new tanks. He blots out the doorway of the little café. A couple seeing him spills the milk at the counter, remembering what they did under the bridge last night. But the policeman is blind. He strikes only when he hears a loud noise. There are others, though, who have eyes like shifty hawks, and they prowl the streets searching for a face whereon an illegal kiss might be forming. No, there is no defence for love, and tears will only increase the crime.”

Here she’s talking about how, while in the midst of a war (the book is set in the 40s), the police (and society in general) seem to be concerned with futile things like arresting people who are doing nothing but love each other and it reminds me of a quote from Morrissey’s Autobiography:

“Men were draped with medals for killing other men yet imprisoned for loving one another.”

Later on, she makes a point of proclaiming herself ready to take their relationship as it is, without expecting much of a future.

“Though this is all there is […] I accept it without tomorrows and without any lilies of promise. It is enough, the now, and though it comes without anything, it gives me everything. […] But as long as the accessories are such now as to make me over-armed with weapons to combat the antagonistic world, even if a thousand programs go wrong, I won’t lament that past I was when I could see no future.”

She then tries to dissipate any doubts he might have about their relationship (because it looks as if he’s already starting to second-guess himself) by repeatedly reassuring him that she’s the one for him and that, as much as he tries, he can’t escape that fact.

“Remember I am not temptation to you, but everything is which inclines you away. Nor are you to me, but my entire goal. Sometimes you see this as clearly as I do now, for you say, ‘Do you think if I didn’t I could have…?’”.

I wonder… if Johnny hadn’t already been with Angie when he knocked on Morrissey’s door, would things have panned out differently for them? Would they have dared to take their relationship to the next level in spite of society’s backlash?

“Do you see me then as the too-successful one, like a colossus whose smug thighs rise obliviously out of sorrow? Or as the detestable all-female, who grabs and devours, invulnerable with greed? Alas, these are your sins, your garments of shame, and not the blond-sapling boys with blue eye-shadow leaning amorously towards you in the printshop.”

Leaving aside the fact that this man is garbage, she’s obviously anxious to reassure him that it’s not his bisexuality that saddens her, but the fact that he sees her as a threat.

Also that line, “grabs and devours”, will then be used by Morrissey in The Headmaster Ritual:

He grabs and devours He kicks me in the showers Kicks me in the showers And he grabs and devours

By the end of the chapter though, her words of comfort are starting to sound ominous:

“Only remember: I am not the ease, but the end. I am not to blind you but to find you. What you think is the sirens singing to lure you to your doom is only the voice of the inevitable, welcoming you after so long a wait. I was made only for you.”

PART VII The man has a breakdown and he’s interned in a psych facility. She tries to go and see him, but his wife is already there. He’d previously written her a letter, asking her to take him back. The protagonist leaves and when she comes back a few days later they leave together, but when she tries to confront him about the letter he refuses to listen to her. They have a fight and she ends up capitulating because he’s still ill and she wants to believe him when he tells her she’s the only one.

“My love, why did you leave me on Lexington Avenue in the Ford that had no breaks?” This line reminds me a bit of Break Up The Family, when Morrissey says:

Hailstones, driven home In a car – no breaks? I don’t mind

Which coincidentally is what’s happening in this chapter: the honeymoon phase is clearly over, he’s having troubles with his guilty conscience and he deals with them by distancing himself from her, even though she’s expecting his child.

PART VIII He and his wife move to London where the war is raging and, after a while, the protagonist follows them. She stays in a dingy hotel and he occasionally visits her to have sex with her, but by now it’s clear that he has no intention of leaving his wife for her, so they often fight and every day she’s getting more and more desperate and isolated.

The chapter opens with the line:

“His brother and his mother and his grandmother lie abandoned in death on the stones of the London Underground.”

This vaguely reminds me once again of Late Night…

You gran died And you mother died On Maudlin Street In pain and ashamed With never time to say Those special things

“Bombs are bigger, but the human brains they burst remain the same. It is the faces we once kissed that are being smashed in the English coastal towns, the hand we shook that are swept up with the debris […] and love still uproots the heart better than an imagined landmine.”

This paragraph makes me think of Ask:

Because if it’s not love Then it’s the bomb, the bomb, the bomb, the bomb The bomb, the bomb That will bring us together

In the meantime, their relationship is going sour and the protagonist feels they’re reaching a breaking point.

“When the ship cracks in the typhoon, we cover our heads and tell ourselves that all will resolve back to normal. But we are unbelieving. This time may not be like the other times that with time grew into cheerful anecdotes. […] O where does he stalk like a horse in pastures very far afield? I cannot hear him, and silence writes more terrible things than he can ever deny. Is there a suspicion the battle is lost? Certainly he killed me fourteen nights in succession.”

I can’t help but think about how Morrissey must have felt when Johnny told him he wanted to leave The Smiths. People around him (Stephen Street, Grant Showbiz) thought he was going to kill himself and the fact that Johnny then went on holiday and never made contact with him must have alarmed him even more. He’d first thought the situation could be repaired, but by then he must’ve realised the end was upon them.

“He did the one sin which Love will not allow. […] He did sin against Love, and though he says it was in Pity’s name, and that Pity was only fighting a losing battle with Love, he was useless to Pity, and in wavering, injured Love, which was, after all, what he staked all for, all he had, ungamblable.”

From what I gather, he went back to his wife because he felt sorry for her and the protagonist can’t accept that because in her eyes their love was everything that mattered and everything they had.

Now: as I said before, I think Morrissey was inspired by this book because he saw himself in it. I think he must’ve found many similarities between the protagonist’s situation and his own, both of them in love with a married man who doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. Johnny and Angie split for a brief period in 1983, when The Smiths went on their first USA tour, and I’ve seen a few people speculate that if something physical happened between Morrissey and Johnny, it may very well have happened then. Morrissey may have taken advantage of the fact that Johnny was free and overcame his fears by making the first move. Or maybe, Johnny was the one who, once aware of Morrissey’s feelings for him, decided to take the bull by its horns. I don’t know. Nobody does. What I wonder is… once Johnny went back to Angie, how did Morrissey feel? Because I don’t think he was all that thrilled. Did he think he did it out of pity, like the protagonist of the book did? If something had happened between them on that tour, did he feel used? Did he feel mildly outraged? Did he resign himself to consider it a one-night stand and nothing more, even though his feelings for Johnny clearly went deeper than that? It’s also worth noticing how the references to this book start to spring up in his lyrics from Meat Is Murder onwards, that is, after that tour in 1983.

“How can I put love up to my hopes so suicidal and wild-eyed when the matter is too simple and too plain: it is her tears he feels trickling over his breast each night; it is for her he feels the concern; and the pity, after all, not the love, fills his twenty-four hours. Perhaps I am his hope. But then she is his present. And if then she is his present, I am not his present. Therefore, I am not, and I wonder why no one has noticed I am dead and taken the trouble to bury me. […] For even if he loves me, he is in her arms. O the fact, the unalterable fact: it is she he is with: he is with her: he is not with me because he is sleeping with her.”

For me, this might be the most heartbreaking part of the book. The protagonist knows that no matter what she tells herself, when he’s done with her he comes home to his wife while she’s stuck in a hotel room in a country which is not her own.

That line, “I wonder why no one has noticed I am dead and taken the trouble to bury me”, also crops up right at the beginning of What She Said:

What she said: “How come someone hasn’t noticed that I’m dead And decided to bury me? God knows, I’m ready!”

Which makes me think Morrissey must have somehow related to this part. “He loves me, but he’s still with her.” “He has martyred me, but for no cause, nor has he any idea of the size and consequence of my wounds. Perhaps he will never know, for to say, You killed me daily and O most especially nightly, would imply blame. I do not blame, nor even say, You might have done this or this rather than that. I even say, You must do that, you have to do it, there is no alternative, urging my own murder. […] If ever again he lets those nights happen, or dallies with remorse for past sins to others while sinning most dangerously against me, I shall be unrevivable. I shall, whether I want to or not, be struck dead with the fact. And he may clothe it in all humanity’s most melting colours, and pity, and sympathy, and call on love to be kind, and I too shall pray, Let me be kind, but it will be no good.”

This entire thing reinforces my first thought, which is: Morrissey and Johnny at one point had a one-night stand (“It was a good lay, good lay...”), except for Morrissey there were much stronger feelings attached to it.

As hurt as she is, the protagonist doesn’t blame the man for going back to his wife and she even encourages him, because she recognises that, at the end of the day, it’s the best course of action for everyone involved. What she wishes wouldn’t happen again are those nights, coupled with him badmouthing her to others out of remorse for his own actions.

If we once again consider the queer factor in the relationship between Morrissey and Johnny, it wouldn’t surprise me if Morrissey followed the same reasoning when Johnny went back to Angie because, as much as Morrissey loved him, he wouldn’t be able to give him the stability of a straight relationship. (That isn’t to say Johnny didn’t love Angie, btw. I’m sure he loved her deeply and he still does, but I also think at the time some internal conflict was present because, on some level, he reciprocated Morrissey’s feelings.)

That last line, “… and call on love to be kind, and I too shall pray, Let me be kind” reminds me of I Know It’s Over:

It takes strength to be gentle and kind

This can be applied to many situations, but I feel like it becomes especially relevant in the context of the love of your life leaving you for someone else, who you also care about.

PART IX The protagonist goes back home to Canada and has to face the invasive questioning of neighbours who see her with a big belly but no wedding ring. After a while though, she realises she must see the man she loves and so she leaves to meet him once again.

“I am lonely. I cannot be a female saint. I want the one I want. He is the one I picked out from the world. I picked him out in cold deliberation. But the passion was not cold. It kindled me. It kindled the world. Love, love, give my heart ease, put your arms round me, give my heart ease. Feel the little bastard.”

- “I want the one I want.” → “I want the one I can’t have.” - “Put your arms round me.” → “All I ask of you is one thing that you never do / Would you put your arms around me? (I won’t tell anyone).” (Tomorrow)

PART X The final chapter opens with the line that gave the book its title: “By Grand Central Station I sat down and wept.” He didn’t come to collect her, so she has a breakdown right in the middle of the station. The ending is kind of confusing. It looks as if she resigns herself to go back to him just to have sex with him, and she tries to convince herself everything is fine, but it clearly isn’t.

Elizabeth Smart went back to George Barker time and time again, even though their relationship was dysfunctional to say the least and they were both very damaged, egotistical individuals. He cheated on her repeatedly but she loved him nonetheless, so I guess it would make sense for the book to end like this as well.

“They obey the glint in the middle of my glazed eye, for it is the fierce last stand of all I have.” → “Gasping - but somehow still alive / This is the fierce last stand of all I am.” (Well I Wonder)

“I wanted only one thing. I gave you the full instructions. The name, I spelt it out in letters as long as a continent, even the address, the address that makes waterfalls of my blood because it is also her address. I said quite plainly and loudly: This is what I want. I want this, and I don’t want any bonus. Just give me this and I’ll pay any price you ask. I made no reservations. You took advantage of this. I never grudged. But, Sir, so what I plead is just – what are you stalling for? There is no more to give.”

This entire paragraph reminds me of Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want.

“He hangs, damp with his impotent tears, nailed by one hand to Love and by the other one to Pity.”

This man is split between love and duty and can’t seem to be able to make a decision, with everyone suffering as a consequence, including him. That’s what the protagonist sees. What I see is a man who likes to have his ego stroked and doesn’t mind a bit of drama. It’s not that he’s unable to make a decision, he just doesn’t want to.

“Is it possible he cannot hear me when he lies so close, so lightly asleep? […] My dear, my darling, do you hear me when you sleep?”

These parts were clearly used by Morrissey as inspiration for the lyrics of Well I Wonder (which, like What She Said, was based almost entirely on this book – I even think they were written back to back.)

Well I wonder Do you hear me when you sleep?

“This is the very room he chose instead of Love. Let it be quiet and full of healing. […] It is the cursed comfort he preferred to my breast. The one who shares it weeps silently in corners, is tender unnoticed, and makes his necessary tea. ‘Have you seen my notebook, dear?’ ‘It is under the desk, my sweet.’ Give it to him, O my gentle usurper, whom I also have usurped, my enemy whom I have both killed and been killed by. […] He also is drowning in the blood of too much sacrifice. Lay aside the weapons, love, for all battles are lost.”

At last he’s made his choice and if we’ve learned something from history it’s that a man’s comfort will always be more important than a woman’s safety and peace of mind.

FINAL COMMENTS As I said before, one of the reasons I think Morrissey was inspired by this book is that he found its story to be relatable, but it’s not just that. The language, as you may have noticed by reading some of its quotes, is quite poetic, abstract and melodramatic, with a major focus on introspection and an underlying sense of pervasive melancholy. This is an artistic quality that both Morrissey and Johnny had in common, even though they expressed it differently: one through his lyrics, the other through his sound. Ultimately, I think Morrissey found By Grand Central Station… very useful creatively and personally. Creatively because it gave him the inspiration to write some of his best songs (also, here’s a reminder that both Moz and Johnny declared Well I Wonder as one of their favourite Smiths’ songs at some point), and personally because it provided him with an outlet to confront his feelings for Johnny, which I think must have been quite tumultuous. With a shortage of LGBT media which was even more prevalent in the 80s, queer people often had to read between the lines of straight stories to find something to relate to, and I feel like that’s what Morrissey did. Personally, after reading it I found myself surprised by the superficiality with which most people (biographers, reviewers etc.) talked about its role in Morrissey’s lyrics, because clearly there’s so much more to it than stealing a line here and there. It’s also about him feeling invested in a story because it spoke to him and it represented him, at least partially, in an era when anyone who didn’t fit in with society’s standards of what it meant to be a man or a woman might as well not have existed at all.

#the smiths #morrissey #johnny marr #marrissey #by grand central station i sat down and wept #elizabeth smart

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ceruleanchillin · 5 years

Text

I Missed You/I’ll Miss You

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader

Warnings: “light” smut, slight spoilers of chapter 2

A03

There was true irony in the fact that you’d dramatically flitted about the camp comparing it to a prison prior to getting a horse, but you’d spent the last three days in camp doing less than you had before. It didn’t take the best of learned men to figure out what your problem was. However, only the women had the gall to call you on it.

Arthur had been gone for three weeks, and while bounty hunting was rarely a quick job, you were still worried. You were sure everyone was worried in their own way, but the the simple fact that it was their way of life, softened the edge of said worry. You understood that yourself, it was your way of life too. However, you had something new and fragile with Arthur, so it wasn’t quite the same as it was before. You hadn’t expected that either. The bounties had been particularly nasty, and thus worth a decent penny, the only way Arthur would consider taking them. He was a capable man, that you knew, but you were a well traveled woman. You’d seen enough to learn, even for yourself, that no one was a god.

Miss Grimshaw tried to busy you with chores, “What’s a wandering mind ever been good for besides trouble? That boy’s too stubborn to die. Now, clean laundry is a different story and I got a wagon fulla potential”.

Karen had suggested going into town to play the ‘Chaos Game’, something you and she had invented on a whim to drive the men in camp crazy when they had to “save” you. It was especially fun when it was John and Arthur. Start a major saloon fight here, plant an idea in a girl’s head about her fella to start a screaming match there, sloppily pick pocket and pin it on someone else, steal a horse, etc.

Of course, how much fun could that be when the best part of the game, for you, was being ‘punished’, and you didn’t think it appropriate to ask John to fill Arthur’s shoes.

Abigail told you it was downhill from there. Now that you and Arthur had fallen into something resembling being together, you should expect the aches of disappointment more often. “They fuck you so good you think the next time might be different, but nope. That’s about the highlight of their use.” And no, she wasn’t “bitter” she’d quickly informed you at your side glance of her.

Mary-Beth had tried to get you to see it as something romantic and adventurous. “Just imagine when he rides up like a knight, and sweeps you off your feet.” she sighed, a wistful smile playing on her lips. “Then you’ll be able to make some more of that pretty soap with the flowers in it that you make. We’re running low.” Ah, thanks for caring.

The men had been the ones to pussyfoot around the topic. They just wanted to entertain you in the moment, never mentioning or hinting at what was wrong. John suggested you take him spearfishing, “For your benefit of course.”.

Dutch sat audience while you sang a duet with Uncle, and was kind enough not to comment when you kept falling out conversation with the two men. Uncle wasn’t.

Tilly was the one to really snap you out of it though. You two were playing poker for candy with Karen, and where you normally walked away with a store’s stock full, that game wouldn’t make the books as one of your best.

“If you ask me, Arthur wouldn’t even recognize this mopey piece of furniture. I mean what happened to the girl who jumped off the top of a cliff into a lake for fun?” Karen reclined in her chair in time to her unapologetically sharp statement.

Tilly snorted. “Poor Arthur, may as well have climbed into a coffin his damn self as close to death as you took him that day.”

“You two could make sitting on the pot a headline. I’ve just been taking things easy for the past few days. I’m still me.” you knew what she meant, but she’d essentially called you boring. For you, that was worse than the ugliest of vulgar insults that could be hurled at you.

“Girl you better stop lying like an old rug,” Tilly crossed her legs in a matter-of-fact way. “You miss your man, and that’s ok, but you can’t get down everytime things look dark for him. You’ll kill your spirit and not even realize it!”

You heard, rather than saw, her kick Karen under the table for attempting to peek at her cards.

“And I swear if you kill that crazy spirit of yours, and make laundry some horseshit chore again, I’ll murder you myself.”

“Hey!” Karen nearly lowered her cards out of indignation, recoiling at the last second. “I make laundry fun too. I make all the chores more fun.”

“You make us have to do them all over again the same day. The second time being set to Grimshaw’s fussing.”

“Fun!” Karen rocked the table with her boisterous laughter.

Tilly’s response was lost to you, because you were starting to focus more on what she’d said before. You didn’t think it had been that serious. You were fine with him accepting the job, just when it started to approach a month since having last seen or heard from him, it hit you in a way you hadn’t been expecting. You’d been fine when you two were just friends who flirted a little too much.

It was far past that now. Arthur was the first time you weren’t flirting and fucking for fun. The new territory excited you, and you’d went in head first, but this wasn’t a part you’d been informed of.

That being said, you had to admit Tilly’s statement struck you because there was some truth to it. It was a matter of when, not if, Arthur would get into another harrowing situation. You couldn’t lay around in bed, or half ass your way through the day, every time that happened. It wasn’t you, and replaying the last three days to yourself turned your stomach.

“Well Tilly, you went and broke her.” Karen snapped her fingers in your direction.

“Opposite actually.” you shook your head with a grin. “I fold.”

“Look at that hand!” Karen gestured to the cards you’d placed down. “You definitely broke her. Oh well, can’t be helped. Whaddya got?”

“Fold.” Tilly rolled her eyes.

Karen hooped loudly as she pulled all of the candy that made up the pot to her side of the table. “Thank you kindly ladies, I do so hope we do this again soon.”

“Yes ma’am, I intend to get my title back. Enjoy it for now.”

“So that means you’re back?” Tilly swatted at Karen’s teasing pokes and jeers of ‘loser!’.

“I told you I never left. Now I’m going to make a kite, who’s in?”

Both women exchanged looks of pure puzzlement, before turning those looks to you. Unlike most people you were comfortable with being looked at funny. It occured to you, that no one had looked at you that way in days without there being an air of sympathy behind it.

“How adventurous.” Karen replied sarcastically. “I think I’ll retire for the evening and enjoy my winnings instead.”

She not-so-quietly made her way back to her tent with an armful of sweets. Stopping every so often to inform a camp member she had beaten you at Poker.

“Don’t worry, when she’s drunk I’ll steal it all back.”

“It’s Karen, so by morning then?” you grinned while Tilly snickered into her palm.

“She’s right though. A kite? For you that’s pretty tame...unless you’re planning on jumping off the cliff here with it.” her widened eyes indicated she wasn’t joking about thinking you capable of that. “Tell me you’re not planning on jumpin off the cliff with it.”

“Of course not,” You said, though the thought was a fascinating one. “It’s only tame because you haven’t seen where I’m getting the material.”

----------

In a testament to your revelation the previous night, you were up before the camp even began to stir. You’d been up for most of the night with Tilly working on a complicated kite. You’d learned how in a caravan comprised mainly of Chinese men and women, and regaled Tilly with tales of their beautiful culture. The longer the conversation went on, the more the tense anxiety that’d filled your being lessened it’s grip. You were still worried, incredibly so in fact, but you weren’t going to let it take you out of character another minute.

You scribbled a quick note for Miss Grimshaw, knowing she’d be among the first to wake soon, and set out a little ways from camp. Finding a spot where the forest danced along the edges of plains, you tried recalling everything you’d been taught about catching the wind.

Such a seemingly simple activity could demand so much of your attention, that you might miss the sound of a horse’s light trot behind you. You might miss the softening gaze of a rugged cowboy once he spots you. You might even miss him dismounting and hitching his horse in favor of sitting back against the base of a tree to watch you.

“Beginning to think I’m never gonna come back to find you doing something normal. Like baking a cake...or cleaning a rifle. Anything else I suppose.”

You froze, your grip tightening on the fishing line you were using for a kite line. You turned carefully, mindful to not bring your hard work crashing to the ground. Arthur gave you a lopsided grin, and though you couldn’t see his eyes beneath his hat, you were sure his smile reached them. He didn’t look worse for wear that you could see, but you couldn’t be sure until he undressed. Just to look him over of course….

“Then you’re beginning to realize who you hitched your wagon to.” you finally found your voice, though it cracked under the pressure of euphoria. “Arthur Morgan I would both hug and slap you, if my magnum opus wasn’t at risk.”

He laughed, from deep in his chest. “My hats in the ring for first one.”

A quiet moment blossomed between the two of you as you readjusted to being in each other’s presence. It was beautiful to you, and better than any fantasy scene a novel could propose. You wondered if it was putting him at ease to be back around you the way it was for you.

“It wasn’t my intention to worry you my lady, things got crazy out there. Did my best to get back at a reasonable time.”

“Well I figured that, I wasn’t that worried.” you fingered the fishing line gently. You were suddenly embarrassed to tell him you’d moped, and defaulted to lying.

“You’re lucky you’re so damn beautiful, even when you lie.” he chuckled. His smugness let you know the camp had already told him everything.

“Ok, I missed you and I was worried. If you make fun, I’m leaving you on your own horse. She likes me better anyways.”

“Fair enough I think. I’d have to keep the winnings from the bet though.”

You knew immediately what he was talking about. You, unintentionally, provided many opportunities for the gang to make quick money off of your antics. You didn’t mind the audience, it amused you.

“What’s the bet this time?”

“Whether you can fly that thing or not.” he nodded up at the kite, that while lower than when he first got there, was still still sailing through the air. “I reckon some of them are gonna have to learn about betting against you the hard way. Like I did.”

You grinned, and ducked you head at the slight compliment. Arthur had a way of empowering you that you were sure he wasn’t even aware of most times. He swore he wasn’t a romantic, and to some degree he wasn’t, but in his own way he was better. Genuine.

“Well, you won. How are you gonna prove it?”

The sound of rustling caused you to turn halfway to face him again. He slid his camera out of his satchel and patted its top.

“I’ll be ok giving up the winnings to you if I can keep the picture.”

That was how Arthur Mogan obtained a photo of his sweetheart after he’d redenered her a bashful mess. Every other photo of you he had, drawn or otherwise, you were confident and radiant. This one felt different, and perhaps why it would go on to become his favorite.

“Now,” he carefully packed the camera back in his satchel. “You gonna keep putting that before your own feller? For shame Miss (L/N).”

“Jealous of a child’s plaything? That’s a new low Mister Morgan.”

Arthur made a noise of mock surprise. “Child’s plaything? Well what are you doing with it then? The things you’re capable of certainly are not childlike.”

Hard work be damned, you turned on your heel, yanking the kite down after you. In a swift, and for you, unsurprisingly graceful movement, you’d tackled the man to the ground. You laughed at his hearty grunt, eyes following the bouncing movement of his now dislodged hat. The kite came crashing down near you, but neither of you were too focused on it.

“Someone should shut you up Arthur Morgan.”

He shifted to allow you to fall into a more comfortable position on top of him. “If anyone’s gonna try I’d rather it be you.”

Up close, hat gone, you could see evidence of his journey. You gently ran the pad of your thumb over the bruise under his right eye. He closed his eyes, cheeks reddening under your loving gaze. Unspoken words traveled through touch instead. Your soft examination admitting you were worried, his gentle lean into you a form of apology.

You pressed your forehead to his own, and let your lips collide. Soft hands slid up his neck, over his stubble, and into his light locks. You shivered when you felt the combination of warmth and rough texture, that was his hands, grip your waist under your shirt. You felt him standing at attention, straining against the fabric of his pants. You gripped his shoulders to fight the urge to grind down on him.

He broke the kiss, and your lungs greedily took the opportunity for air. His lips roamed your neck with no particular destination in mind, simply trying to soak up the feel of your skin. Distracted by his mouth, you jumped feeling his hands travel beneath your skirt to grip your thighs. A dizzy laugh left you when he roughly lifted you up to remove your panties.

A mewl escaped you when his thumb carded through your folds. The tiny pricks of pain his stubble caused, juxtaposed against the soft touches to your heat, made you see in tunnel vision. You needed him.

“Ar-..Arthur…” you voice was a husky, broken whisper that indicated you were having trouble gathering your words.

Arthur understood. “Drawn out?”

He broke the kiss breathing harshly against your cheek. Your hips jumped after a particularly swift swipe over you.

“No,” you shook your head. “Been such a good girl since you’ve been gone. I won’t last long.”

His deep chuckle against your collarbone drew another moan from you because of the sound alone. “I have not been that well behaved, I must admit.” his lips split into a sheepish smile. “But it’s about the same for me too.”

His dirty admission drew a laugh from you. You began covering his face in kisses while you released him from the confines of his pants. “It’s fine.”

His hands captured your hips and carefully lined you up. You inhaled sharply once he was inside, overloaded by too many feelings. Arthur’s hands trembled, and you imagined it was the same for him too. He waited patiently, painfully, for a sign from you to move.

You rolled your hips once, and he went from there. The two of you worked out a rhythm and fell into it rather quickly. Your hands found purchase at the base of neck and held on tightly. Every night you two had been apart, the frustration of not knowing if he’d come back, the sheer loneliness neither of you could fix without the other. It all came out in the shared act.

You’d both been correct when you admitted you wouldn’t last long. You lost it first, having been more tightly wound, and you weren’t quiet about it. Your raw moans spurred Arthur on, and he drove you through the blinding heat coursing through your being. You cradled his head and whispered loving words of encouragement to push him to his own release. He dropped his forehead to your shoulder and bit down, as a fierce shudder ripped through his form. You rubbed his back and guided him through it.

A final kiss was shared between you two, one that spoke of a love growing between you two. It said there was plenty of space for it to fill, and that was something you both wanted. He cupped your face, about to speak, when something caught his eye.

“Did you use one of Dutch’s silk shirts for your kite?”

---------------

The two of you walked rather than rode back to camp, and it was filled with effortless conversation and teasing. You came so close to blurting out that you loved him, but bit it down every time. You’d never had anyone in your life to say that to, and weren’t sure if it was too soon. You weren’t too sure about Arthur, but it terrified you to think about sending the words out there only to have them hang alone.

“We should go to the lake.” you commented as the camp came into view.

“To bathe.” you emphasized when you saw his wolfish grin.

“I’ll meet you there, Miss Grimshaw wanted to see me. Sounded pretty important, but I wanted to see you first.”

“Flattery may change your luck.” you winked at him and headed for your tent to grab your bathing kit.

Arthur never met you at the lake, and you went forward with bathing, figuring he’d fallen asleep. Possibly one of the cold souls you now called family had roped him into an errand. Either way, he was making it up to you later.

The first thing you heard when you got back to camp was the distinct sound of an annoyed Miss Grimshaw, and a firm toned Dutch, coming from the direction of Arthur’s tent.

“Let the boy make his own decisions Miss Grimshaw.”

“Boy is exactly right!” Grimshaw’s hands shot up as if to ask ‘why her’. “Only a boy could make such a foolish decision. You don’t line up for a second helping of disrespect with a side of humiliation Arthur. It ain’t right….she ain’t-”

The others in the camp pretended to be busy, but kept a decent distance away. You frowned and sped up your pace.

“A man has to learn on his own,” Dutch shook his head in Grimshaw’s direction. “You can’t make this choice for him. Accept that.”

Arthur, meanwhile, hadn’t said anything. He simply continued his task which, as you got closer, you discovered to be packing.

“What’s going on?” you walked past Dutch and Grimshaw, straight for Arthur himself.

You felt the heat of numerous gazes on your back, but you stayed focused on the only one you needed to see at that moment. Arthur hands slowed, enough to see the tremble, but not enough to stop his task.

“Where are you going?” you asked, your tone carrying more edge than you wished had escaped.

“I gotta go into Valentine on some business. I’ll be back in a day or so.” he still hadn’t met your gaze which started to upset you.

“Tell her where you’re going Arthur. The girl deserves that much. She’s so sweet on you she nearly rotted thinking something bad had happened to you.” Miss Grimshaw crossed her arms, eyes locked on Arthur’s tense form.

“Grimshaw!” Dutch barked taking her by the arm to lead her away. “Leave.It.Alone.”

Whatever she said in protest was lost to you. Everything else may as well have fallen off the face of the earth for all you cared at the moment. Every perceptive instinct you’d honed in your nomadic life was screaming so many possibilities at you, that you almost shook Arthur to demand an answer simply to make them stop.

Instead, you reached for his hand and grasped it. “What’s wrong? You know you can tell me.”

Arthur pulled away from your touch, still refusing to meet your gaze. “I believe I did tell you, business.”

“I’ve robbed coaches with you, setup hold ups, spied for information. What kind of business can’t you say all of a sudden?”

“The kind I don’t have time to get into right now. I’ll explain when I get back.” he placed a few small supplies into his satchel, carefully fitting his journal in after them.

“So you were just gonna...just gonna leave and not tell me? What the hell is that Arthur Morgan?” you snapped, stubbornly blocking him from going for his clothes chest by sitting on it.

“I wouldn’t have done that to you.” he lifted you from the chest with ease, ignoring your cry of indignation.

He got a few articles of clothing while you cycled through what to say. You had so many questions and he was moving so quickly. By the time you figured out what you wanted to say, he was already moving towards his horse.

“I’ll go with you,” you jogged to keep up with his pace.

You expected him to snap at you, with how tightly he was wound up, but you didn’t care. You weren’t afraid of him, he couldn’t brush aside your concerns so easily.

He stopped in his tracks and turned to you. “(Y/N). I’ll be back, I promise. I’ll tell you everything then, just let me handle this on my own.”

One hand cupped your neck, while the other gently grasped your cheek. You leaned into his touch and nodded. You would trust him, and pray he didn’t give you a reason not to.

#RDR 2 #Arthur Morgan x Reader #RDR 2 x Reader #red dead redemption 2 #Arthur Morgan #reader insert

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