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smidgen-of-hotboy · 15 days

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Out in the Cold Field, pt. iv

I always finish these it seems at 2am. Huh. Now go fetch! @ananxiousgenz @ceaseless-watchers-special-girl @urjover @demonic-panini @one-joe-spoopy @waters-and-the-wilde @the-private-eye

“What do you know about Pandora?”

“Wife to Epimetheus, beautiful, sculpted by the Gods, the perfect lady, had a vase she was told to never shatter, super curious, so she unleashed all the evil in the world… I sense a lesson coming.”

“Pandora did a lot more than just bring evils into the world. Do you know why the Gods made her?”

“Punishment I presume? Everything always harkens back to punishment.”

“She was a punishment from the Gods to man. A God who made humans stole for us fire. They chained him to a rock, and every day a vulture would come and pick at his liver, and every day he would suffer immense pain and regenerate. The Gods made Pandora then to punish humanity.”

“Why would they do that? They knew the culprit, they sorted them out, so why continue and drag it out onto the rest of us? Isn't that some sort of war crime?”

“Today, yes. Back then, there was no such thing.”

“Mmm… I guess that explains a lot of things. Wasn’t there also one good thing left behind? Hope?”

“In some retellings, yes.”

“Mom’s books say there was hope. She circled and underlined it a bunch.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“If the evils were a punishment, and hope was trapped inside the jar with them… the evil things were a message. There is no way to escape, outsmart, outtrick, or outlive the Gods. There is no escape. And hope… can always be there. At the heart of it all. Hope is also a will of the Gods. Just like everything else that was in the vase.”

“Smarter than me, as bright as your mother. Well done, солнышко моё.”

Growing up, Buddy had very few friends her age. The ones she did have were either scared off by Palomine, or scared off by Buddy. It left her an awful lot of time alone. Time that she spent reading and studying. Time that she spent hanging around the countertop of Palomine’s bar, asking the other patrons to share with her one of their stories. And oftentimes he would find her and shoo her upstairs, handing out complimentary drinks as apologies. Occasionally he wouldn't find her and occasionally she got to hear stories beyond her comprehension.

That was how she heard about the Carte Blanche. A regular of her father's came in and sat down at the bar. A younger Buddy Aurinko slid up next to them and talked about Odysseus. She knew the epic as well as the back of her hand but never wrapped her head around it quite right. The regular she sat with however was good conversation and explained it very easily. Their patience for her temper proved something wrong about Palomine.

The regular listened to her like always and laughed in her face when she said that she would have never returned home if she were Odysseus. They asked if she had ever stepped foot on a ship before and offered to show her theirs. Buddy readily agreed.

It was a week-long trek to reach the port they had docked in. And, at the time, the Carte Blanche went by a different name. Its sails were a drab cream color and the bow had a half naked siren strapped to the front. She was hideous. Buddy fell in love instantly.

That regular died suddenly four years later. Their wife found Buddy at the bar and slid to her a will. They wanted you to travel the seas. They hoped that someday you would find your Penelope.

She spent months scraping barnacles off the haul and removing that damn siren from the bow. The sails were the easiest to replace. The days of cream colored past were behind them now. Navy blue sails brought her all around Hellas Basin. The end of an era. The winds were changing and the seasons were rolling into each other as Buddy finished painting her ship's new name, Carte Blanche.

Now she was Captain of her own ship. She left Palomine to take control of her future, to reign in her own destiny, and now here she was. Captain of her own ship, of her own life, her own destiny. Finally out from her father’s reach– except she wasn’t allowed to die. And her life wasn’t hers alone to dictate anymore, not so long as Jet and M’tendere were with her… And Palomine had tried to bargain for his life with hers… And she’s going back to the bar where she left him four months ago.

The voyage to the Cerberus Province was lonely and cold. Buddy had always dreamed of wrangling together a crew of misfits like her and Vespa to sail Hellas Basin with. She dreamed of someday retiring and growing old with Vespa. Getting to sit under their own vine and fig tree. Relaxing in the shade together, at home with the knowledge that they had put their best foot forward. That they had tried to better the lives of people like them, and given their best efforts for someone else’s chance of survival.

On the third night aboard the Blanche, M’tendere sings Buddy and Jet part of a song. They call it their Key.

“It sounds lovely darling.”

“Thank you,” M’tendere strums their guitar a bit more. “If there’s a song you’d like me to play, I will happily play it for you, Captain.”

“Please, call me Buddy.”

“No can do, Captain. Jet and I are guests on your ship. You invited us on board and you’re helping me smuggle fire away from Hadestown. The least I can do is show you a bit of respect.”

On the fifth night, Jet stands at the helm of the ship. One hand planted on the wheel, the other holding the lamp. The fire inside has been burning now for almost two weeks straight. Possibly longer. M’tendere never answers her when she asks how and when they stole the fire.

Speak of the devil, they’re turning out to be pretty bad at the whole sailing thing. Jet is a natural. M’tendere… would have probably faired better taking a month to skirt around Hellas Basin avoiding the road and tracks to Hadestown than ever stepping foot on the Blanche. For now M’tendere has kept to the lower deck. Much darker and damper, they’re starting to develop a cough. Jet doesn’t seem worried, so until he is neither will Buddy.

Buddy slides up next to Jet, two of M’tendere’s scarves wrapped around her throat.

“Your fingers are white.” She glances at Jet and back down at her hands. “Why haven’t you said anything?”

“Why didn’t you ask me sooner? If you knew this whole time, why hold off? If you care so deeply about my health–”

“I didn’t ask because I was waiting for you to mention it. M’tendere said that you would when you were in enough pain.” He pauses, and if it were locked into other season and Buddy any other person, she might have turned a beautiful shade of pink. “I care for your health, Buddy, because you are alone. You are walking a dark path, one that I have beared witness others walk before, and it never ends the way you or they hope.”

She scoffs, “Oh don’t be ridiculous, I’m not like other people. You don’t know the first thing about me. We hardly know each other.”

Jet nods passing off the lamp to her. Buddy accepts it without a second thought and for a brief moment, she thinks she might have caught hint of a smile.

“You’re right, we don’t.”

A long stretch of silence wraps around them. Eventually the pain in Buddy’s joints makes itself known. She bids Jet a fair night and descends to the lower deck to join M’tendere. They greet her with a cough and refuse to accept the lamp. For the rest of the night Buddy keeps it close to warm her hands.

On the ninth day, the seas are rough tossing the Blanche around. Buddy steers, while Jet stands on the bow keeping an eye out for rocks.

That night it’s calm enough that M’tendere joins them above deck. They play a few songs intermittently asking Buddy questions in between. It strikes her at some point that while it’s a game to her, it’s a dance to them.

“How long have you been sailing?”

“Only a few years. How long have you and Jet been traveling together?”

“We travel separately most of the time. You got found at a very lucky and rare time when we’re stuck together.”

“M’tendere asked me to help them fulfill their dream.”

“Oh really? And what is your dream?”

M’tendere sighs and leans back against the mast. Their head tilts at an awkward angle searching for constellations in the sky. “I wanted to help people. Balance out all the bad things that I’ve done in the name of Hades.”

So you stole fire goes unsaid. Just like Promethus.

“What is your dream, Buddy?” She looks up at Jet, who again has claimed his spot at the helm. Her damn ship that half the time she doesn’t even get to man anymore.

“My dream?” She chuckles, “I wanted to help people. Give back, uplift, and empower. But that time has come to pass now. What’s done is done they say… What is your dream, Jet? Don’t suppose it’s also to help people?”

“How disappointed would you be if I said it is?” This time, she does get to watch him smile. It’s bright and glorious and could fill up a whole room. And when Buddy laughs, M’tendere does too. They break into a coughing fit that lasts longer than usual. Again, Jet does not seem concerned. Despite this, Buddy tries not to either. M’tendere plays a final song that night, Their Key, and heads down to rest.

In the morning there is a thick sheet of ice that formed on the bow. Buddy takes a crack at it using part of an old rusted anchor. She instructed Jet to search for an ice pick in the cargo hold. M’tendere hasn’t moved a muscle. It’s fine. Just four more days. They can rest.

Jet emerges from the belly of the beast. Buddy steps aside to allow him to take over.

The voyage to the Cerberus Province was lonely and cold. Had she not died somehow without Jet or M’tendere’s aid, the return trip back would’ve been no different. It would have been harder. It would have been colder. She might have actually died.

“Jet,” he stops mid-swing to look back at her, ��ask me again. Ask me again why I want to die.”

He turns towards her, rolling his shoulders back, standing at full height. Grimly, she is reminded of depictions of psychopomps in her mother’s old texts. Shadowy figures that slip on billowing robes. Some with animal heads. Others so handsome and flawless that they had to be immortal. But when she blinks the winter sun bathes Jet in cool light. Chasing away the shadows on Jet’s face, bringing into focus his heavy leather winter coat. Scars his hands remind her that he bleeds too.

“Buddy Aurinko.” She takes a deep breath. The voyage was to the Cerberus Province was cold and lonely… “What happened to make you want to die?”

They say it took Odysseus 20 years to journey home. 10 years fighting the Trojans, and 10 years lost at sea. When he returned home, he returned in disguise to win his wife’s hand in marriage and scare off the competition. He accomplished a little more than that, but he had his wife. He got back his Penelope.

The voyage to the Cerberus Province was cold because it shouldn’t have been made alone. Odysseus fought and won the war. Odysseus got to go home to be with the one he loved. Buddy Aurinko, wouldn’t even get so much as a final goodbye.

“I lost someone. I lost– I lost Vespa. I lost her and my dream and I can’t bear a life without her.” She wipes the stinging tears from here eyes. She turns her back and walks away. Not once did she let Palomine see her cry, Vespa only saw her cry in joy, and she wasn’t about to start sobbing a second time in front of Jet.

Buddy plants herself at the helm and watches Jet resume chipping away at the ice. Just four more days. Just four more days.

That night she sits with M’tendere on the lowest deck. The scarves they loaned to her are rolled up tight to support their neck. They wheeze with each breath. In the relative quiet, she tries to think back to what Vespa would do. What Vespa would say.

“Goddess hands, guide me.” She mutters under her breath as she clasps M’tendere’s thin wrist to count their heartbeat. There has to be something. Anything. If Vespa were here she would know what to do and how to treat them. She would probably say something like… like…

Vespa’s voice is slipping from her mind. Goddess forgive her. What would go next? Her face? Her touch? Rough lips on soft skin. Green has never been her color but it always belonged to Vespa.

"Captain," Buddy does not flinch as M'tendere's body seizes into a coughing fit. The end is near. Death approaches. She has always hated goodbyes, and loathed letting go. How could she when all the people she lets herself love die in the end? She refuses to believe it, wants to object like Jet did. You can’t be dying yet, we have four more days until we dock.

She swallows a lump forming in her throat and nods. "Keep your strength. I'll fetch Jet." She pats M'tendere's cheek and heads up to the main deck of the Carte Blanche. They have at most four more days until they can dock at the harbor. And another week maybe before a doctor can come. Just four more. Four more and one week… They don't have a week though. Or four more days.

"Jet," Buddy finds him again chipping ice off the bow. He looks up. It's hard to read his expression buried underneath all his layers. "It's M’tendere." He nods and goes to her office to retrieve M'tendere's precious instrument.

When he makes it to their bedside, Buddy has them propped up by every linen blanket and wool stuffed pillow they have on board. Jet offers the instrument but they shake their head. M'tendere has never refused to play them a song. They promised they always would. I’ll happily play it for you, Captain. Nothing would make her happier now than to hear their strong voice.

"I have one last one for the road." They suppress a cough and wipe blood from the corner of their mouth. "My Key."

Once upon a time M'tendere's voice used to lull Buddy to sleep. The voice of an angel. And now, wrecked by disease, it's little more than a frogs croak. She surprises herself still able to recall what that sounds like.

M'tendere sings and hums a quiet peaceful tune. Tears roll freely down Buddy's cheeks. She never allowed her father to see her cry. She would move mountains though to allow M'tendere to see her cry another day.

A second voice picks up the tune. Quieter, deeper. She glances at Jet and finds him plucking the strings of M'tendere's guitar. Finding the right chords. They point and smile when he gets it right.

Four days later, Jet and Buddy Aurinko dock on the other side of Hellas Basin. A snowstorm picks up keeping them cooped on board the Carte Blanche for another week with a decaying corpse. Neither of them speaks much, not even a whistled tune.

The town they docked in is on the outskirts of Hyperion City. A couple of days worth of travel through the snow and they’ll reach Palomine’s bar soon enough. For now, Buddy takes down her navy blue sails and sells them for a quick cred. With that money, she rents them a small room on land to stay in. The whole time she keeps M’tendere’s little fire clutched close to her chest. Humming their key.

#ask to be tagged or removed #i am sleeby #BUT ALSO THIS MEANS IM FREE TO GO BACK AND WRITE MORE OUR ANGEL OF BRAHMA #but also also this means i gotta write and publish the VesBud portion of the Hadestown prequel sighhhh #well. i feel like i got smth done at least #the penumbra podcast #the penumbra fanfic #private eye's keys go jingle jangle #a hotboy's writing #out in the cold field #unedited. just finished it and went straight to posting #NIGHTY

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transprincecaspian · 1 year

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Mahanon Tabris Meta Post

This is going to be a long one, boys. Read more under the cut. tw: brief discussion of SA

Gender and Gendered Violence

For Mahanon Tabris, the journey he undertakes in Dragon Age: Origins is one that is centered around his gender, and gendered violence. Despite the Andrastian faith being the prevailing religion across Ferelden (and Thedas as a whole), we’re still treated to the typical misogyny in-world as we can come to expect from any pseudo-medieval fantasy game released in 2009. Ranging from snide comments made about the capabilities of a fem Warden or what can be extrapolated as parallels from real-world allegory as headcanons (click here to read my headcanons about Ghilan’nain), the world of Thedas is not so different from our own in regards to subtle if enforced ideas about gender roles and norms.

Enter the City Elf origin. Regardless of whether you first played it with a masc or fem Tabris, it leaves a sick feeling in your stomach about the underbelly of nobility of Thedas and their treatment of their lessers–elves, servants, and, well, women.

Mahanon Tabris lived most of his life in Denerim performing as a gender-conforming woman because that is what was asked of him. Although his mother Adaia indulged him in many things; the art of weaponry, whispers of a life beyond the Alienage walls, and the gift of a new name for her son once he asked for it, the narrative demands that Adaia dies. The wife dies, the mother dies, the woman dies to further the story. That is the very first thing that Mahanon Tabris learns; the woman will die.

His father, Cyrion, asks him to put aside the notions of masculinity that his mother had humored. Not for a lack of love; in fact, it is an outpouring of Cyrion’s love, concern, and fear that drives him to make that request. Mahanon, who has learned that deviation from the norm equals death, acquiesced to the request. From there he continued to stifle everything that made him “Mahanon”--that which is now intrinsically tied to his mother, and by virtue, her death. (These themes relate to how Mahanon interacts with his Andrastian faith. I’ll discuss that in another post).

I decided not to start Mahanon’s story (Born Again in Blood) with the wedding day, and the horror that it was. Instead I started his story in the immediate wake of it; being led out of Denerim by Duncan, after he had silently witnessed his life trade hands three times. From his own, to Valendrian, to the Arl’s men, and then finally to Duncan and the Grey Wardens. Truthfully, it was hearing that Duncan had once wanted to recruit Adaia that fostered trust once they were far enough away from Denerim that he was willing to speak.

Duncan gave him that chance; let him announce his new name. On the way to Ostagar, Mahanon cut his hair. There is also an instance in which he speaks with the armorer and it appears this stranger recognizes his plight.

His lips twitched downward at the thought, but his chest bloomed with new breath. He could give any name that he wanted. He could weave any lie, any tale, any story to make it palatable on the tongue. If he was a Grey Warden now–at the least, a recruit–his life would never be the same. He remembered the name his mother gave him when his father wasn’t listening, her hands soft and warm on his cheeks. The name they shared in whispers together as she taught him how to wield a sword to defend himself. The same name Shianni muttered as he lifted her up off of the floor. “Mahanon,” he said. “My name is Mahanon Tabris.”

Fingers closed around the cold hilt and he brought it up to his neck without much of a second thought. He cut through the wet tresses just where they brushed against his collar; it would have been easier, he realized, were his hair dry, but he had already begun to cut it away now. He braced his feet in the mud and stood there, cutting, until he felt a weight fall free from his head and he could breathe freely. Left in his hands were the twenty years of his life. He would let the river take them, too.

“I think I have something that will fit you,” he said. “Put this on underneath. Those bandages don’t do shit beneath the plate.” Mahanon looked down to see something reminiscent of a corset in his hands, though the leather strands could be more tightly bound, and it did not go as far down the torso. Confused, he looked back up at Gareth.

The smith didn’t bluster as he collected pieces of a plate set. “My daughter went off to become one of them Templars. I still see her at the Chantry sometimes. But she has a similar issue. Things can’t get in the way; I get it.” (paraphrased).

These are three experiences on the way to Ostagar alone that Mahanon is allowed to express himself the way he would prefer. There is an acknowledgment from Duncan that everything in Denerim is dead and left behind, and so he gives Mahanon that space to let it go and embrace a new life, which he eagerly grabs onto. That being said, Mahanon has just walked away from the most horrifying instance of gendered violence that one can articulate within the Dragon Age series. Reeling from that trauma, it changes how he interacts with the world.

Behind his gleaming amber eyes, Mahanon’s mind went blank. He wasn’t sure where Kallian ended and he began anymore, but all he knew is that he was a liar again; a liar wearing a beaded wedding gown. It was green once, he remembered that. Then it was red. Red, red red, and dripping with the lifesblood of men who had tried to take his own. Her own. Took Shianni’s. Took Nelaros’s. So he took theirs. Everyone whose hands had touched and stolen and dirtied. All of them. Like dogs. “I killed an arl’s son for raping my friend,” Mahanon snapped, and he took a step forward.

Finding the first of the recruits, Daveth, was a simple but stupid affair. Mahanon had stumbled upon the man harassing one of the women in King Cailan’s army. It took Mahanon planting himself firmly between them and introducing himself to give the woman a chance to run off. Not that he blamed her. Daveth introduced himself as a thief from Denerim. Not that Mahanon couldn’t tell. The accent gave away where he was from. His attitude gave away the fact that he thought he was entitled to take what he wanted even if it didn’t belong to him.

Mahanon did not sleep soundly that night. In his tent, which he erected far from the others, he remained tense. Rest did not come for him, and he did not close his eyes. Instead he curled his body around his sheathed sword, his bleary gaze locked upon the flap of his tent. A camp full of strangers. Stronger than him, faster than him, deadlier with a blade. He would be a fool to think that he could rest soundly and safely when surrounded by them.

“Come on,” the man said, forcing a smile to his face. He clapped a hand on Mahanon’s shoulder. Alistair withdrew his touch when Mahanon flinched away from the wall and his hand, scowling. Alistair’s smile turned apologetic as the pale light of the sun began to rise.

“I am sorry,” he said to Mahanon. “I was told what occurred in Denerim. It should not have happened to your friend.” There was pity in Loghain’s gaze. Mahanon loathed pity. With that, he swept away into the tent, and Mahanon was left breathless. Reeling, he felt like the only eyes left to pull him apart were his own, as if he could step out of his own body and watched as he forgot how to breathe. He watched himself stand there as the world drowned out with the roar of blood in his ears. He didn’t need pity. Apologies. He needed them to understand. He had been the one to cradle Nelaros’s bloody corpse to his chest. He had been the one to carry Shianni out of the arl’s home as she sobbed silently into his torn sleeve.

Duncan found him later in the kennel with the ailing Mabari. It took him a while. The sun was up. He could only assume that he was tough to find, or maybe Duncan wanted to give him space enough to collect his composure. The dog had begun to perk up, the kennel master had told him when he had come by. Food and water had been partaken of, and so Mahanon had plopped down inside and let the dog rest her slobbery head on his lap. He wasn’t sure what brought him here of all places. Maybe it was the fact that the Mabari brought a rare feminine touch to a place where he had only been pitted against men who, unfortunately, were surpassed by dogs where tact was concerned.

“Do you know who removed them?” Mahanon asked. He put a hand out towards Alistair’s chest to deter him from saying anything else. Jory was quaking at the sight of the woman, but Daveth’s face had smoothed into a steely regard, and there was a dark glint in his eyes that sat ill with Mahanon. Like a knife that caught moonlight through a dirty window.

That’s a lot of examples, but I wanted to lend significant insight into how Mahanon views the world around him in the wake of his trauma. He may be a man, but he does not trust other men. He has spent too long and too wary to make the mistake of doing so, even if they do not treat him with the same regard as they would if he were still presenting as a woman. At the core of Mahanon’s masculinity, he carries with him his own violence that comes with existing as a woman–and the inherited gendered violence that he carries from his mother, and his grandmother, and so on and so forth all the way back. (Andraste ties into this as well. We will readdress this in the religious meta post).

Mahanon’s masculinity is centered around his femininity, and his outward masculine expression is another way to protect that part of him. Yes, he is trans, and has been a man from the very first breath, but he will not abandon that girlhood of his, he will not sell it out and lie abed with the men who tug and tear at women like his mother until there is nothing of them left.

Mahanon saw the Grey Wardens as such:

Death to his old life.

A chance to live his new life.

But the Joining was a baptism of blood, and inherently feminine. You must consume tainted blood, let it pass through you, to become Greater? It is baptism, it is birth, and it is life. It is everything that a mother does,and it is his mother who remains the straight arrow in his mind that guides him. Mahanon’s themes and the way he grapples with his own gender is the idea of death, life, and rebirth, and everything that he has to live with. He cannot any longer deny any part of himself.

He looked down at the chalice in his hands; blood, tainted. He looked up at the statue of Andraste that peered down upon them all. He thought of her when she died a martyr. He thought of his mother, lifesblood, the breath she gave for him at birth. He thought of himself, a child, blood-red and slick from between his thighs. He parted his lips and drank deeply.

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