characters who dig themselves out of their graves (whether literal or metaphorical) are at the top of the list. nothing beats a character who should have died but didn't and comes back to haunt their own life and the world around them, benevolent or violent it doesn't matter, it's enthralling either way
41K notes
·
View notes
I fully stood up jumping like a kid on Christmas watching the older versions of the kids as Luz starts wild magic college, getting to see how the Isles is adapting after a few years of reconstruction, HOW EVERYONE AGED AND GOT NEW LOOKS IM A SUCKER FOR CHARACTER DESIGN ASDHFLGLDH!!! All the kids got matching Flapjack tattoos did you see did you see did you see!!!!!! Magic slowly coming back as King grows older, Alador and Darius finding a way to remove the coven marks, Eda starting a wild magic school, Luz being a BAMF and majoring in everything. God all the kids looks were so cool I can’t get over them.
AH AND LUZ’s TITAN FORM!!! SHE SAID DAUGHTER OF THE HUMAN REALM, STUDENT OF THE DEMON REALM, AND WARRIOR OF BEASTS!!!!! SO UNBELIEVABLY COOL!!!!
Edit: ppl are saying she said Warrior of Peace, that sounds more right, my b
ALSO ASIDE FROM THE EPILOGUE STUFF THE WHOLE EPISODE WAS ALSO REALLY GOOD IM JUST PROCESSING IN REVERSE ORDER.
2K notes
·
View notes
[ “SOMEBODY TOLD ME”]:
BREAKING MY BACK JUST TO KNOW YOUR NAME. SEVENTEEN TRACKS AND I’VE HAD IT WITH THIS GAME. A BREAKIN’ MY BACK JUST TO KNOW YOUR NAME—BUT HEAVEN AIN’T CLOSE IN A PLACE LIKE THIS.
— The Killers, Hot Fuss (2004)
Princess Rhaenyra’s insolence is wearing her stepmother’s patience thin. Queen Alicent is not ten years her senior, but even during her own sixteenth year, she cannot recall herself behaving so brazenly. She would never burst into courtly discussions in nothing but gilded armor and the underskirts of her riding leathers, awash in blood. (She would never be spotted in blood that was not her own, anyway. Alicent has never picked up a sword, not one that belonged to her.) Nevermind that Rhaenyra is attending to diplomatic affairs with bared teeth and scales, no—the crux of the matter is just that, her affairs. Rhaenyra is the Realm’s Delight, a beauty incomparable to any fair maiden, Alicent included. She indulges herself with appetite of a spoiled child, the confidence of man, and the pickings befitting only to her royal blood. Criston Cole. Daemon Targaryen. Harwin Strong. Laena Velaryon. She’s full of love, isn’t she? That selfish, foolish girl. What does Rhaenyra Targaryen know of love, of duty? She is a child in so many ways—she thinks killing makes her a man, thinks the throne is hers despite being a woman, thinks she can have her knight and her uncle and her protector and Laena Velaryon in one fail swoop. She’s wrong. She doesn’t know herself half as well as Alicent does. Alicent, who sees her for what she truly is, who wants to see all of her and more of her and none of her. Alicent has been stolen into the Keep by her own father—both of their fathers—but Rhaenyra is the key to this place, is the window to everything barred. Rhaenyra Targaryen has a dragon. Rhaenyra can fly.
That’s what Rhaenyra had promised her once, with her lips pulled back in a grin, exposing the white of her teeth like the violently radiant creature she was. “Perhaps when you grow tired of plotting against me, we shall ride on dragonback together,” she had said. The tease.
Alicent had yanked her into an empty corridor by the silk of her sleeve, ready to chastise her for her ill behavior. Conversing with the lords and ladies of the court at a feast was one thing, but chattering about her bloody encounters in battle over the pudding tureen were another. The lord at her elbow was going green. Alicent’s own face was likely red; her heart raced whenever Rhaenyra got like this. Alicent had never seen the battlefield—only seen battered men in dented armor and the slumps of corpses lined along dirt roads in the aftermath of war—but her own imagination terrified her like nothing else.
(Rhaenyra is better with a sword than half of the knights in Westeros, and more lovely than the lot. Her reign has not yet begun, but already the commoners flock to her—lured in by tales of her beauty and fine hair—and soldiers would follow her into battle. Alicent would not follow, but she would watch and bite her nails down to the quick.
She thinks of the figure Rhaenyra cuts in full armor, the heat in her gaze underneath the slots of her helmet. Alicent remembers the weight of her own hand in Rhaenyra’s—which was gloved—when the princess rode up to the spectators box and grasped it in her own, bringing Alicent’s knuckles to her lips. She thinks of Rhaenyra murdered in the sky, skewered with another man’s sword, plummeting to the ground, torn in half, streaking crimson across the clouds. Alicent would scream, or cry. She might laugh. She would throw herself from the window of her tower. Rhaenyra’s bloody exploits terrified Alicent for reasons she could not identify, and excited her for reasons she refused to.)
“I’d sooner be confined to the castle for the rest of my days than get on the back of that bloody lizard,” Alicent scoffed. Rhaenyra only tucked her hand over Alicent’s, where it was resting on her forearm. She flexed her fingers, moving to release her grip on the dark fabric, but Rhaenyra intertwined their fingers and held them fast.
“You’re confined already. You are already accustomed to such a thing. I know you. But—”
“But you forget yourself. You think you’re invulnerable, Rhaenyra. You don’t know who you are.” Alicent intends for it to be a sneer, but instead it comes out quietly, and too gentle for disdain. She can’t know. Rhaenyra is as trapped as she is, but they’re trapped together. They belong together. She belongs with Alicent.
“I am Rhaenyra Targaryen, Heir to the Iron Throne and all of Westeros. I am a dragonrider. I am—I am your daughter. In a way. Your sister, too. Your enemy. Your sword, your shield.”
“And what am I?” What else is left for me? Alicent wonders.
“My Queen. For now.” Rhaenyra cocks her head, and the gleam in her eyes burns like fire raining down. “When I am Queen, you will be my lady.”
442 notes
·
View notes
One of the most tragic parts of Oliver's story in Saltburn is the way that he started out as just a very lonely, socially awkward person who was, I suspect, genuinely looking forward to Oxford as his chance at a fresh start, a place where he was going to Do Better and Make Friends and Be Normal.
And then the first person to talk to him when he arrives at Oxford - all wide-eyed and dressed up like he's going to an interview instead of starting University - is some random guy who makes fun of his jacket.
And then the only person to talk to him at dinner is some guy who is immediately insistant that he and Oliver are doomed to be friendless loners forever, and Oliver shouldn't even bother trying to make other friends.
(And I think he did try to make other friends - the next thing he does after that first dinner is sit himself down in an empty common room, alone but approachable in a public space, while no one tries to approach him or talk to him.)
And then he discovers that even the professors think he's kind of weird, when his tutorial professor responds with surprise and almost discomfort upon learning that Oliver read the entire summer reading list. Academia was probably one of the few things he could take refuge in and be proud of himself for, if he managed to get a scholarship to Oxford, but now he's at Oxford and even his academic smarts aren't as important as knowing the right people and saying the right things.
Which is a lesson he learns when it turns out the other guy in his tutorial is the same asshole who made fun of his clothes on move-in day, and the professor forgives this guy for being late on Day 1 and takes his side on academic arguements even when this kid hasn't done the reading, because the professor had a crush on said kid's mom back in the day.
We see Oliver get bullied, we see Oliver get treated with awkward dismissiveness, we see Oliver repeatedly told that he'll never be friends with anyone at Oxford but Michael Gavey (by Michael Gavey, who never seems particularly concerned with what Oliver thinks about the matter).
We see that Oliver is unhappy, that he is alone, and that even when he tries to put himself out there in public spaces that he doesn't know how to make himself the kind of person that other people approach or talk to.
Until finally, he takes a more active approach and engineers a "chance meeting" with Felix.
And Felix thinks Oliver is great.
Felix tells Oliver that he's kind; Felix talks to him and touches him and smiles at him without reservation; Felix kisses his bike helmet while telling him he loves him. Felix asks for his name and repeats it over and over like Oliver is a name Felix wants to have in his mouth, and then he even gives Oliver a nickname that same day while riding off to his tutorial on Oliver's bike.
Honestly, it's no wonder Oliver's crush went from intense and maybe a bit creepy to fullblown obsession, when Felix is the first person at Oxford to seem overtly, openly, unreservedly excited and pleased every time Oliver is around.
No wonder he got so desperate to keep that feeling, even as his own happiness around Felix started being consumed by his fear of Felix getting bored of him, his fear of Felix abanding him. He could tell himself that all the stress, all the anxiety, all the lies and compromises to his own selfhood and integrity would be worth it, as long as Felix still looked at him like Oliver Quick was someone worth looking at. As long as Felix still looked at him like he was something special, like he was something good.
227 notes
·
View notes