#i understand so so clearly why all the gods of all the mythologies abandoned their creations | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

softyoongiionly · 3 years

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For Whom the Bell Tolls

Just outside the boundaries of your town, deep within the trenches of the forest sits a massive tower made from smoke-stained ivory. Decrepit and ominous, it looms over your town like a warning- like a shadow...

There are opposing rumors as to what resides in the tower.

One of them, the one that just so happens to appeal to you the most, is that there is a deity living in that tower.

The one who knows.

The one who blesses and curses the deserving and offers wisdom that no mortal can.

And now, faced with the imminent demise of your family- you have no choice but to seek answers in the darkness.

What, in god’s name, will you find?

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Genre: demi-god! au, demi-god! Jimin, mythology, slight angst, smut, fantasy

Word count: 8k (THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE PWP)

Warnings: likely inaccurate representations of greek mythology lmao, unprotected sex (wrap it up plz), mentions of violence/death, slightly spooky??? allusions to corruption and murder (non-explicit), JIMIN (cause he’s always a warning), probably a messy plot cause I went feral with this one. parts are unedited oops.

A/N: i have nothing to say. this was supposed to be demon porn and now we have a completely new au. SOMEONE PLEASE STOP ME. okay anyways,,,, i love u.

Corruption.

It ran rampant through your town like the plague, devouring everything in its path. One right after another, you have seen it swallow those who you had come to respect; good town folk, who at one time, moved through the world with a moral compass stronger than the one you felt you possessed, had now fallen ill to the disease.

And you understood...to an extent. The universe was not a benevolent dealer. It randomly assigns cards to its patrons and cares not about the outcome- or the losses. You understood that sometimes people were simply without a winning hand.

But the need to win was still present.

However, your town was spoiled with a type of greed that wafted through the streets and turned everything to mold. Neighbor betraying neighbor, partner betraying partner- even mother’s betraying their children...

All to please one man...

Lord Instinctus was the ruler of your province. Born into nobility, he took over the position after his father passed away and began turning the tides in his favor. Taxes were raised, work hours following suit and, harsh punishments were administered to anyone who dared questioned the new system. He forced your town to pledge their loyalty to him on the day he took over and sent ‘enforcers’ to hide out in the town in search of any signs of rebellion.

However, his cruelty was not unique. Too many men have followed the path paved before them and suckled at the teet of avarice, until they were compelled to out do one another.

To outkill one another...

What made Lord Instinctus unique was the fact that he had never shown his face before. During his initiation into the noble court, the townspeople were given blindfolds and told to face away from their Lord and simply listen. Few people broke the rules but, the ones who did were immediately executed.

You still remember the shudder that ran through your body as you heard the sound of your townspeople hitting the pavement. From that point on, the tone was set. Insubordination means death; the terms were simple.

The lack of knowledge and the possibility of death didn’t stop speculation from blooming. In fact, the appearance of the Lord was essentially the usual topic of conversation at every pub on the main street. After the freeing of spirits, both liquid or otherwise, the rumors begin pouring into the atmosphere.

“He’s probably horribly deformed...”

“Inbreeding is common amongst the nobility; it would make sense...”

“My cousin walked by the villa the other day, he said Lord Invictus had a tail!”

“A tail you say?! So is he some sort of hybrid?!”

“Oh please, that’s preposterous- he's probably just hideous...”

You bite your bottom lip, as you wipe the whiskey from the chestnut countertop, resisting the urge to smirk. Bartending was certainly not a glamorous job but, it paid your taxes and helped put food on the table for you and your family.

Glamorous it was not but, amusing it definitely was.

“I bet you he still beds a new woman every night though...”

“A pretty face ain’t worth more than all that gold he has aye?”

“Maybe he’s cursed...”

“That wouldn’t surprise me either- I hear noble families make deals with the magic folk all the time.”

“If you all want to know so bad, why don’t you just pay the tower a visit?”

With that meager suggestion, the bustle of the pub comes to halt- all eyes now on the man who mentioned a topic that is normally banned from public spaces.

“What? You can’t tell me you haven’t wondered what was up there...”

“We know what’s up there-”

“Or rather- who's up there.”

It’s said to be the home a monster.

The tower was used as a prison for the most dastardly of criminals. For years, just before the establishment of your town, it served as a last resort for the rotten underbelly of society. Countless lives were taken, madness ensued- until the revolution came. The tower was set aflame by revolutionaries but for whatever reason, it did not crumble.

The ivory merely sizzled and turned gray and then over time, it turned black. For years it was abandoned until one day, just after sunset, light emanated from the tower once more. Onlookers who were near the building went inside to see if some vagrant had moved in.

And they never returned...

Several spiritual advisors have visited the town, including religious figures from various faiths, and they have all arrived at the same conclusion: a demon has taken residence in the tower. Despite the efforts to bless the building, the light comes on every evening.

Thus, it is assumed that the demon remains unharmed.

“What about Mrs. Jeon? She left offerings for the beast and her son was cured of the plague the next morning.”

“Or Mr. Kim- he left one as well and found gold in his backyard that very night...”

“You aren’t suggesting there is a benevolent being in that tower, are you? Should I remind you of how many disappearances have occurred?”

There are opposing rumors you suppose.

One of them, the one that just so happens to appeal to you the most, is that there is a deity living in that tower.

The one who knows.

The one who blesses and curses the deserving and offers wisdom that no mortal can.

“Hey here’s a thought- how about Jacob tests his theory eh? Why don’t you go down and find out yourself? Report back to us with your findings...”

The pub erupts with laughter now, the uneasiness slowly melting away from the room.

You elect to keep your thoughts to yourself, as you finish up counting the money you had made from that evening- making sure to leave a portion for the incoming team.

The bite of the winter wind is harsh and untamed as it scraps across your skin, causing you to hurriedly put your coat on. It feels like winter never ends in your town and if it weren’t for the fact that your family stocks up throughout the year, you would be worried where your next meal is coming from.

Walking down the street towards your home, you catch sight of the tower in the distance. The way the windows begin to glow, almost makes you feel like it’s somehow staring back at you- taunting you.

You would be lying if you said it didn’t tempt you.

It always has.

Even as a young girl, you remember being drawn to the infamy, to the danger...

Your mother always told you that being curious was a good thing, that it led the greatest minds of humankind. You kept that with you as you moved through life, trying your best to understand what your purpose was.

But times were hard...

With a malevolent lord hanging over the morale of your town, digging his fingers into the heart and soul of your people and crippling them with eternal debt, it was causing you to look for answers.

And you were beginning to look in some unorthodox places.

Dinner with your family soothes the aching curiosity in your chest as you try and remind yourself of all the things you have to be grateful for. After your meal, you wrestle your little brother into his bed before telling him his favorite bedtime story. Once his eyelids have kissed, you turn out his light and move into the main room to wish sweet dreams upon your parents.

And although the pleasantries are nice, there are a few things throughout the evening that disturbed you.

The limp in your father’s movement.

The blisters on your mother’s hands.

The bags beneath the otherwise unburden gaze of your little brother.

Exhaustion was palpable.

Living beneath the weight of a corrupt leadership will do that to you.

As your head hits the pillow, you can hear your mother murmur in desperation.

“I won’t have enough to pay him this week...what are we going to do?”

“I can work extra hours at the mill- we will figure it out.”

“How could you possibly work any longer-”

You feel your chest twist with guilt as you hear the crack in your mother's voice.

“You’re falling apart my love...if you continue pushing yourself this way, I’m afraid I will lose you and I can’t- I can’t-”

The muffled nature of her cries suggests that your father has pulled her in for a hug, trying to erase the inevitable with his affection.

“We will endure, I promise. Just hang on a little longer.”

With your father’s final words, their conversation begins to die down.

This can’t possibly go on much longer. You might be able to pick up more hours at the pub and, perhaps procure a second job but, the dues will never end.

Your family will never exist for any other reason aside from paying to the noble family.

So you make a decision. Hard work clearly isn’t the answer and revolution would only shed innocent blood. If the practical world had nothing else to offer then, you would seek answers from beyond.

Your parents retired to their rooms shortly after their conversation but, you wait until you’re sure the house has fallen silent before you make your next move. Embarking on this mission would be simple but what lies at your destination is anything but; so, you try to be prepared for the possible outcomes.

Wrapping yourself in the thickest coat you can find, you slip your dagger beneath the onyx material and slowly creep out of your bedroom.

The streets were still bustling with life; your town rarely ever rests and the pubs and shops are open well past midnight.

It might sound like the product of a vibrant town but, it’s mainly due to the ever-present demand for profit.

Limited hours mean limited sales.

Thankfully, no one really notices your presence as you traverse your way down the streets and through the alleyway. The noise echoing from the main street slowly diminishes and makes way for the sound of the wind dancing through the trees. The forest itself does not frighten you. You grew up memorizing it with your father as he taught you the fundamentals or foraging and gardening. The sound of the owls is expected as is the chill that runs up your spine with the increase of the breeze.

However, as you near the tower- fear begins to slither its way into your veins. It’s quite a sickening feeling as it seems to stop you in your tracks but, you push on anyway- determined to finish what you have started.

The wrought iron surrounding the tower is stained with rust, corroded and crackling with age, the creaking of its bars alarms you, stopping you in your tracks and forcing you to look up.

And there it is: the tower.

It stands above you like a menacing giant and although it’s presence should deter you, it doesn’t. Making an effort to be as silent as you can, you slip past the opening in the gate and begin walking up the broken cobblestone pathway.

There is nothing but dirt surrounding the perimeter of the tower and other than the moon, the only light before you is coming from the very top window. It’s glowing but the color isn’t stable- it's as if it were shifting slowly from red to green to blue and then back again. Faced with the wooden French doors, you question the idea of knocking.

If someone truly did live here, it would only be polite...right?

With a shaky hand, you knock three times as loudly as you can. For a moment there is nothing, but just as you ready your hand to knock again, the door groans and begins to slowly creak open.

The already unstable heartbeat in your chest begins to rattle without mercy as you brace yourself for whatever horrible creature might lay on the other side. Instead, however, there is no one.

The door opens entirely to reveal that instead of the simple but filthy interior you expect from an abandoned tower such as this one, there is a rather decadent home. Large marble pillars extend upwards seemingly holding nothing in place while glamorous furniture positions itself through the foray. Everything is cooled tone with greys and shades of blue, black often lining the borders of the funiture. There is no lantern, the moon lighting up the interior of the room just as it led your path up to the door.

The layout doesn’t make sense.

The tower is cylindrical and doesn’t offer enough space for such an open floor plan so, how is it that the inside looks like lavish mansion?

You swallow your fear and newfound confusion as you tentatively look around the expanse of the room.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

You take a deep breath and decide that the likelihood of someone (or something) answering that call is slim, especially given the way you were welcomed into the tower in the first place.

You place your hand inside your pocket, gripping the dagger for good measure before beginning to make your way towards the staircase. The moonlight is sufficient enough at first but for whatever reason, as you begin making your way up the stone staircase, the interior of the tower seems to slowly darken. Your grip on the dagger tightens as you stop walking, frozen in your steps, cursing yourself for embarking on a journey so reckless.

Suddenly, all of the light from the room vanishes, forcing a gasp from your throat. You manage to grip the railing to steady yourself but you have no idea what you are to do next.

And then, someone speaks.

“Well- you’re awfully far from home...aren’t you?”

The sound of the voice rushes through your senses much like the wind did. It’s too sweet for your liking but, it entrances you none the less.

“Who are you?”

As much as you try to steady your breathing, the way your voice cracks, gives you away instantly.

Laughter bounces off the stone walls, sinister and playful all at once before the voice speaks again,

“Don’t you think that’s a question I should be asking you? You are the intruder after all...”

Disembodied or not, the voice makes a valid point. You did walk in unannounced and you most certainly weren’t invited.

“I’m Y/N Y/L/N.” The strength in your voice comes back slightly as you grip the railing a bit tighter, “I came here because- “

“I know why you’re here...” The voice is much closer now, likely positioned at the top of the stairs, “Humans are so predictable; always looking for a handout.”

This offends you greatly and regardless of the amount of danger you might be in, you let the voice know anyway.

“I am not looking for a hand out. My family and I work from sunrise until sunset to make ends meet. I’m here to make an offering- not merely to take whatever miracles that you make.” Stronger and stronger, your voice rises to the occasion, preparing itself to either spar with the beast or scream for help.

“Miracles hm?” Sinister laughter slinks down the staircase, practically teasing the exposed skin of your neck, “Is that what you think I do?”

You swallow the bile that creeps up your throat, “I’ve heard many stories- but I wanted to see for myself. Some of my people claim you’ve blessed them but, the clergy said a demon lived here...”

“Oh?” It rises with inquisition, “And you came anyway? Do I have a heretic in my presence?”

Shaking your head does nothing in the darkness but it’s instinctual, “I don’t believe in demons- at least, not the kind who dwell in abandoned towers.”

“Is there a kind you do believe in then?”

There is something in you that urges you forward, captivated by the sweet sound of the voice above you, desperate to view the owner and desperate to see the moonlight again.

“Hell is nothing but a metaphor and it’s demons all the same. There is plenty of evil here, plenty of suffering- by definition, there is a demon ruling over my town- he is draining us of our resources for his own gain. I couldn’t imagine a more accurate representation.”

Suddenly, you hear the sound of boots clicking slowly and steadily down the stone stairs. You brace yourself, still feeling frozen in your place- wishing to see whoever or whatever is front of you.

“If I did make miracles,” It muses and, now you’re able to discern that it’s only a few steps in front of you, “What exactly would you be offering me in return?”

Taking a deep breath through your nose, you place all your effort into trying to make out whether or not there was an actual owner to this voice. Finally, your eyes adjust enough to see the faint shadow of a figure which appears to be sitting on the second set of stairs.

“Name your terms, I will do my best.”

“Ah ah-” The voice corrects along with a side of twinkling laughter, “That isn’t how this works...”

You’re growing frustrated with the apparent mind games but, you know it’s in your best interest to be patient; you still don’t know what you’re dealing with.

“How does it work then?”

Silence passes through the air for a moment before the voice speaks again, “You must bring me the thing you treasure the most so, that I may know your true intentions- I cannot help you until I can see you properly.”

You snort, “You’d be able to see me if you hadn’t wiped the light from this room...”

Laughter comes again but this time, it’s lower and deepened with suggestion, “I’m not referring to physical sight, human. You might not be able to see in the dark but, I can.”

For whatever reason, its response sounds salacious and riddled with an innuendo that you’re slightly afraid to comment on.

And the reaction it creates within you, only frightens you further.

“I’ve just told you that I barely have enough money to scrape by- I don’t have anything of value to give you.”

“I never asked you to bring me anything of value nor did I ask you to give it away- you’re not listening very well...I don’t know how I’m supposed to help you if you can’t follow instructions.”

It sounds irritated and fond all at once, prompting you to nod immediately, not wanting to upset your only shot at freedom.

“I’m sorry.” You breathe, “I’m just-”

“Don’t lie to me...”

Your gaze strains to try and make out the expression of the figure in front of you but, its futile- the darkness impeding your effort.

“What do you mean?”

“You were going to tell me that you’re scared.” The voice accuses, “But you’re not- even though, you most certainly should be.”

It wasn’t wrong. You should have ran when the door opened on its own, when the lights began to dim, when a voice began speaking to you...

But you didn’t.

You were undeniably intrigued.

“Are you going to hurt me?”

An insidious bought of laughter comes from the figure before it sighs, “Hmmm, maybe a little bit.”

When your lips part with something that resembles shock, the laughter comes again only slowing to a halt for the sound of the figure’s tongue tutting against its teeth.

“You are a curious girl...” It observes, “...promises of harm should not excite you and yet- excitement flows from you anyway. Why?”

It kills you to refrain from denying it but, you have no choice.

“Your voice-” A sigh leaves your lips, “it’s very intriguing.”

Maybe it’s part of the creature's abilities, you think, its voice is the main weapon to lure unsuspecting and vulnerable humans into its clutches. The only question is- what happens once it has you.

“Is it now?” The voice sounds intrigued, “Most humans don’t seem to think so. Are you sure you’re hearing me right, girl? I’ve been told my voice is the thing of nightmares.”

This perplexes you; how could anyone possibly think such a voice was frightening? Despite this creature being anything but human, it sounds very much like a man- a warm and mischievous man who seems hellbent on getting you into bed.

“What does my voice sound like to you?” It asks, a smile in its tone.

You ponder this question for a second, realizing very quickly that you can’t exactly tell this creature that it sounds like it’s trying to seduce you. But still, that does seem to be the only appropriate description.

“Sort of...like a melody.”

Laughter comes again but, this time it’s paired with the moonlight slowly fading back into the tower, covering every surface until it finally reveals the appearance of the figure.

Beautiful.

Not an it but a he...

A man with wings.

On the steps before you, he stands, leaning casually against the railing now. Atop his head is a tousled mop of sapphire hair, just below are his eyes- nearly black and hooded with the same seduction as his voice and cloaking his figure is a black linen ensemble fitted only by the same color corset. His pillowy lips and soft skin would be a masterpiece on their own but coupled with the giant pair of onyx wings protruding proudly from his back- his visuals become simply devastating.

“What do you see?” He smirks, licking over his lips.

Unable to resist, you shake your head in complete awe, all of the sensible words dying before they leave your throat, “You- are you an angel?”

The light allows you to see him now as his head tilts another round of laughter, “Try again...you’re very close.”

Perhaps the clergy was right...

“A demon then...” You resign because despite your previously-held beliefs, if this really was a demon, then you know very well you shouldn’t be dealing with him. “I should go.”

His smirk broadens, “But I thought you didn’t believe in demons?”

“I didn’t but, that’s clearly what you’re alluding to. If a winged man tells me he’s a demon, I think it’s wise that I return home.”

Through your moment of clarity, your desire for him persists- especially now that you see what he looks like. But you know better than to make a deal with a demon, even if you are desperate.

“Do you think the universe is that simple? Angels and demons? Good and evil? You don’t think that maybe- in all of his vastness, there is a chance for the inbetweeners?” He presses and now his black eyes seem to glow, his gaze slightly hypnotic.

Tightening your coat around your body, you stay staring at him for a moment before you respond, “Is that what you are? Something in between?”

He licks his lips, his eyes finally allowing themselves to wander over your figure. There isn’t much of you showing but, he still drinks you up regardless, exposing and exciting you all at once.

“I was sent by the underworld to do business for the gods...” He drops his voice to a near whisper, his gaze burning a hole in you, which now aches to be filled.

You take in a shaky breath through your nose, nodding in understanding, “Did you kill the people who disappeared here? Is that what happens when their judgment goes south?”

He arches his brow, tilting his head with his inquiry- his voice dripping with darkness, “Maybe I did...maybe I didn’t. I don’t see how that’s relevant- especially since you’ve already decided you were leaving. Which of course-” He waves his hand then, the wooden door behind you creaking open, “-you are free to do.”

There is something about him you haven’t touched on but, it’s beginning to eat you up inside. He may be an otherworldly being, possessing the tower like a beautiful virus but, he is starting to look familiar. This of course, is hard to imagine because his beauty is so striking that you don’t see how you could ever forget it. But nonetheless, you feel like you’ve seen him before.

And this is what has kept you frozen.

“Will you not give me any answers?” You border on pleading but, attempt to keep your tone firm.

He chuckles, “You didn’t come to me for answers. You came for help- which I’ve already agreed to give you.”

The supernatural discourse that has transpired, thoroughly distracted you from the reasons for seeking him out in the first place. Your situation had not changed; you were still desperate for money, desperate for justice and desperate for peace.

“You won’t hurt my family...” It’s not a question, and it leaves no room for any other response aside from the one he gives you.

“I won’t.”

Nodding, you glance behind your shoulder towards the door, “I have to go home. I don’t have the item you asked for. I can be back within the hour...”

For the first time, he looks slightly disappointed but as you complete your sentence, he shakes his head, “No. Don't come back tonight.” He insists, “If you wish to do business with me- you must return tomorrow after midnight. I will wait for you at the shoreline.”

This confuses you, “The shoreline? Why can’t we meet here? The water is dangerous after dark.”

The smirk returns to his tender lips, “I know.”

With that, he waves his hand again- causing the door to swing open and slam against the tower walls.

Jumping at the sound, your gaze shoots back behind you before returning to where the creature stood.

But he had vanished.

You have no choice but to heed his requests and rush away from the tower, the curiosity inside you almost too much to bear.

Nothing is out of the ordinary as you walk back home, at least not at first. But when you pass the massive clock tower in the center of town, you realize something strange...

The clock hadn’t moved, not even a second.

You remember very clearly reading the time as you hurried past it on your way to the tower and now, even as you’re staring at it, it stands perfectly still. Until suddenly, without warning, the hands of time begin to move again. The clicking almost startles you, your brain filling with a million questions despite your decision to turn away and return home.

Time had seemingly stood still whilst you were in the tower.

Slipping beneath the covers, you try your hardest to get to sleep despite being bombarded with images of the haunting man you had just encountered.

You know you should be terrified.

You know you should be wary.

But the familiarity of him has possessed you and, you’re determined to understand why.

The next night, with your treasured object tucked securely in your coat, you make your way back to him.

You make sure to check the clock tower before you do, logging the time away for later to see if last night had been more than just a fluke.

12:32am.

The clock tower has never lied but, you’re starting to think it might be influenced by whatever resided in the tower- magic, beast, or otherwise.

As you pass through the many trees, you begin to hear the chaotic crashing of the waves in the distance. The tower may be frightening but, few things could match the malevolent temper of the sea. In fact, you’ve always believed that nothing could. The sea was unrivaled in her cruelty, consuming the world at will, just for the fun of it- you've theorized that she likes the screams. During the day, she simmered- blue and serene, allowing boats to decorate her surface like candles on a birthday cake. At night though, her temper worsens and it’s as if she suddenly remembers all the injustice she has faced. Her waves swell to horrific heights, smashing into the seawalls built around your town, creeping over like a titan looking for vengeance.

You’ve always felt pity for her. It must be hard: being the heart and soul of humanity, being responsible for the very nature of things- only to be forgotten. Only to be mistreated...

Your boots are discarded near the last patch of grass before the sand and, your toes brace themselves icy chill of the sea breeze. You’re especially thankful for the coat now as you suspect that your teeth would have already begun chattering had it not been for the thick fabric protecting you.

The waves haven’t begun their violent dance just yet but, you can sense their temper beneath your feet. They will begin soon.

“The sea-” The voice from the tower is behind you, “it suits you.”

Breathless, you turn to face him and even though you’re more prepared for his beauty than you were last night, it still shocks you.

He’s wearing a black silk gown, that drapes effortlessly off his body, the sleeves made out of French lace and extending well past his fingertips. His wings are shuttered behind him, folded almost modestly against his back.

“Thank you.” It’s the only response you have before you reach into the fold of your coat, “I have the-”

He holds up his hand, his voice commanding but gentle, “Wait. I want you to walk with me first. I don’t like rushing through my business deals.”

Your hand slowly retreats from your coat as you warily look behind you, “You want to walk along the shoreline? I told you, it’s too dangerous- at least for me it is, I don’t exactly have an escape mechanism attached to my back.”

He smirks, his tempting gaze flourishing with fondness you cannot place, “What causes you to mistrust the sea so much? Surely she wouldn’t hurt one of her own...”

Your brow furrows, “What do you mean?”

Extending from the confines of silk, his fingers reach out to you, fluttering with invitation, “I will show you.”

And really, you’d be a fool not to accept.

Interlacing your fingers with his, you feel electricity simmer ever so slightly beneath your skin. You’re assuming it’s from the power that likely resides within him but, you don’t expect it to affect you so much.

The sound of the waves begins to softly roar in the distance but the water isn’t close enough to the shoreline to pose any immediate threat.

Not yet at least...

You begin walking alongside him as he leads you both in the opposite direction of your town border. For quite a few moments, he just gazes at the eternal stretch of sand before you, his soft mouth curved up ever so slightly. He looks pensive and serene all at once and, it confuses you.

“May I tell you a story?”

His request surprises you but, you aren’t really in a position to say no. And if you’re being honest, you really didn’t want to.

“Yes.” You murmur, feeling compelled to keep your volume at a minimum.

He smiles softly to himself, glancing towards the water briefly before beginning.

“The water has many gods...” He speaks softly, letting out a sigh, “Lir, Irish god of the sea, Tefnut, Egyptian goddess of the rain, Amimitl, Aztec god of lakes and fisherman...” His explanation already has you interested. You were taught much of the stories beyond your land but, it had always fascinated you, “The gods of the sea are known for the temperate nature, they often stay away from humans and avoid interfering with the mortal coil. Death by water is merely a request they carry out for the gods of death and destruction and thus, there is goddess who rules over the violence of the sea itself.”

Just as he finishes his sentence, the temper of the sea seems to roar to life, the swollen waves crashing aggressively, still not close enough to reach you.

Not yet at least...

“Cymopoleia, is the goddess of violent sea storms. Poseidon, her father, tasked her with overseeing the malignant waters and tending to the causalities. She was not the creator of the storms but she carried the ability.” He moves through the story as if he has told it a 100 times but he seems captivated by it nonetheless, “When it came time for her to bear a child. She conjured up a spirit from within her very core. She crafted them out of the essence of the sea and placed them inside of clamshell in her palace. She was awaiting the full moon when someone snuck into the depths of the ocean and stole them from her.”

The gasp that leaves your lips cannot be helped, you didn’t realize how engrossed you were until suddenly you recognize the port from another town nearby.

You had been walking awhile.

“Why would someone do that?” You press, shaking your head.

He sends a solemn look your way, “Many thoughtless humans believe that if they capture the essence of a god, they will become one themselves. Foolishly, he opened the clam shell and released the spirit into the world. By the time the goddess found him, it was too late- but she delegated his fate anyway. She took his life beneath the depths of a violent storm and placed a curse upon anyone who shared his bloodline. She made it so that any one of his descendants would bear the physical embodiment of his fate.”

“So, they look like they’ve died at sea?”

He can’t help but smirk, a bit of the darkness you saw at the tower, beginning to creep back. “Indeed. They are horribly disfigured and regardless of their efforts, they all meet the same fate. His lineage believes that if they send enough offerings out to sea or if they build high enough walls, that they will somehow escape their deaths. But of course, this if futile- the goddess vowed that she would continue to collect them until her spirit was returned.”

His story ends and it’s like something clicks within you. Without warning, you squeeze his hand, slowing both of you to a stop, just before the light of the upcoming pier hits you.

“Does this have something to do with my town? Is that why you’re telling me this?”

Lord Invictus certainly fit the description for a descendent of this thief and, although it bores no sense of logic- you have no choice but to believe it anyway.

It all fits together too well...

He turns towards you now, his smirk now a small smile, “It has to do with you Y/N.”

Your brow furrows, “Me? What do you mean?”

He nods to your coat, something otherworldly lingering in his eyes, “I’d like to see what you’ve brought with you now.”

Still riddled with confusion, you reach inside your coat and find that the item you had brought with you (a beaded necklace gifted to you at birth by your parents) had turned into something else.

And now, sitting in the palm of your hand- was a clamshell.

“What is this? This isn’t what I brought to you- I-” You begin to panic, confusion and fear starting to take over, “Did you do this? Did you take my necklace?”

Finally, the sinister smirk returns as his wings begin to unfurl from behind his back. Along with his shift in expression, another danger is brewing very close to you- you can feel it.

The sea is growing irritated and whipping the wind and the water up into a frenzy. As you look toward the water, you have no choice but to look on in horror as you see the beginning of something deadly.

A rogue wave.

The grip on your hand tightens as his extraordinary strength keeps you in place.

“I think it’s time I formally introduce myself-” His voice is loaded with bad intentions but it sounds sweet anyway as he burns his gaze into yours, “My name is Jimin. Son of Tartarus, the god of punishment and Nyx, the goddess of the night.”

Your eyes are wide with desperation, not fully registering what he said before he’s yanking you against his chest and turning you to face the sea. Standing behind you, he unleashes a spell of wicked laughter as his wings unfurl from behind is back to wrap around the both of you, so that the only thing you’re able to see is the wall of water coming for you.

“I have to come to send you home Y/N...your mother has been waiting for you a very long time.”

His arms are wrapped around you now, crushing you against his chest as his wings begin flapping- the wind picking up furiously around you.

“Jimin!” You scream, eyes welling up with tears, “You promised you wouldn’t hurt me! You promised! Why are you doing this to me?!”

He laughs at you, and it isn’t necessarily malevolent but merely amused, as if he in on a joke you weren’t part of.

“Shhhh, quiet down my little sea nymph...” He whispers salaciously into your ear, “...your fate will be painless.”

You’re crying now, digging your nails into his skin, attempting to break free as the massive creature that is the ocean rushes towards you without mercy. The crest of the wave arches above you proudly, the swirling darkness of the water mocking the mere audacity of your existence but, as you brace for impact- it never comes.

Only the darkness does...

And it’s the darkness that consumes you.

“Jimin!” A voice breaks into your subconscious, luring you out of what you hope was a nightmare, “You couldn’t have brought her home without scaring her? She was practically driftwood when she arrived here.”

That familiar twinkle of laughter sounds then and, it forces your eyes open.

“I’m sorry your grace- it's just in my nature.” He defends poorly, still chuckling to himself, “I can’t imagine my brothers are doing much better.”

You are somewhere extraordinary, that much is certain. Above your immediate line of sight is an ornate glass ceiling that seems to glow a cerulean blue. All around you are gold furnishings, each decorated with various moldings of sea creatures.

“She’s awake!”

Your vision, still slightly cloudy, now lands upon a being so beautiful- that you have to blink a few times to ensure you’re seeing the right thing. Draped in blue silk and decorated with gold and pearls, is a woman who looks at you with nothing but love in her eyes.

“Oh my- its really you...”

She seems tentative but, you’re suddenly overcome with joy- filled with an almost cosmic sense of peace.

“Mother!” You cry, rushing off of the bed you were laying on and into her arms.

She takes you in her arms immediately, her skin cool against yours like the tepid waters of the bay. She sniffles, tightening her grip on you,

“I knew you’d come home...I knew one day I would find you.”

And it really doesn’t make much sense does it?

How could your life swing so violently from one direction to the next?

Your life on earth seems so insignificant now...now that you’re back with her.

Cymopoleia- queen of violent sea storms and, your mother.

She explains it all to you, gently stroking your hair and fawning over you.

The spirit in the depths was you. Born into a human body, you were fated to one day meet with the demi-god of darkness, who with a bit of trickery- would return you to your rightful place in the cosmos.

Your mother assures you that your mortal family would be relieved of your memory until it was safe for you to visit them, until the gods of fate decide. In addition, Lord Invictus would be the last of the bloodline to pay for what his ancestor had done and, the fog of greed and corruption- which begin the day you were born, would soon be lifted.

The explanation is long and doesn’t leave you completely fulfilled but, your mother assures you that you have all the time in the world to understand the complexity of the universe.

Hours later, after you’ve had a decent feast, your mother instructs Jimin to escort you to your bedroom.

As he leads you down the hallway towards your chambers, you send a playful glare his way, “So- how much of what you told me was a lie?”

He merely smirks, “None of it.”

You scoff, “Even the part of about your voice? And all that nonsense about excitement and me being curious? You knew all along what was to happen- you just tricked me.”

Jimin chuckles darkly, stopping just outside your bedroom door before turning to you, “The part about my voice frightening people wasn’t a lie, Y/N. My father is the god of punishment, any mortal that hears my voice usually cowers in fear...”

“Is that why I felt so drawn to you? Because you were meant to take me home?”

His smirk broadens, “No...you feel drawn me because you want to fuck me.”

Your mouth goes completely dry at his bold statement but, you are unable to deny it- your fingers suddenly twitching at your side.

“Wh-”

“It’s not your fault really...” He murmurs, his body shifting towards you, “...it’s just the way I was made. I am used to people lusting after me- however,” Jimin reaches out then, to brush his thumb over the swell of your cheek, “-I have never known true lust until I had the pleasure of meeting you.”

“You lust for me?” You whisper, completely drawn up with desire- finally allowing your true nature, the nature of a demi-goddess pour out of your soul.

He licks his lips, his gaze upon you timid as he presses his thumb into your face, “I do.”

You turn to the side suddenly, capturing his thumb between your lips, “Show me.”

It's all it takes: that one phrase of consent being enough to unleash all the urges within him.

You’re inside your chamber seconds later, Jimin clawing at the fabric of your robe, his fingers digging into your skin as he does, his lips latching on to every part of you he can reach.

“I knew the moment you walked into my tower-” He grunts, “I knew- there was no way a mortal could be tempting, so dreadfully seductive.”

You sigh hopelessly, raking your hands through the sapphire tendrils on his head, your lips ghosting along the swell of his cheek, the tail of his brow, the shell of his ear...

“In the underworld...” He’s practically growling now, scratching his nails up the newly exposed skin of your back, “We are never taught to refuse our desires. You were my greatest challenge- it took everything in me not to devour you right there.”

You smirk now, positioning your lips at his ear, “I wouldn’t have known what to do with you though- aren't you glad you were patient?”

He grunts again, pressing his hips against yours defiantly, “Patience is for virtuous gods- “ He doesn't answer your question but, you know that he means yes. In spite of his darker nature, Jimin still believes in doing the right thing.... most of the time.

He has you on the bed moments later, his wings spreading proudly. He’s panting, his eyes completely black with lust as he nudges your legs open, determined to finally taste what he’s been craving.

For the demi-god of darkness, denying his desires for even a second is painful. He aches to fufill them over and over again...

You were certainly no exception.

But you want to keep teasing him...

Reaching down, you spread yourself open for him- feeling the visceral substance of your arousal sticking to your inner thighs.

“What are you waiting for then?” You lean up, grasping your hand behind his neck and staring directly into the abyss that is his gaze, “Defile me...”

Jimin growls, sliding into you instantly, his hands quickly bracing themselves on either side of your head. He smirks as your eyes roll back the sheer pleasure of him inside of you causing your nipples to harden.

“Oh look at that-” He chuckles, his own expression unstable with pleasure, “Are you going brain dead already hm? Is this cock that good?”

Your eyes come back into play as you stare up at him, your hands gripping either side of his face as he starts a power rhythm within you.

This wasn’t meant to last long, the carnal desire too much for either one of you to handle...

Perhaps, if your feelings permitted it- you'd make love another time.

Nodding, you moan as he increases the rhythm, pressing your forehead against his own.

“You feel so good.” You whisper, “I didn’t know it could- oh...” A whimper leaves your lips as he hits that spot inside of you, the pleasure completely ruining your ability to speak.

“Of course you didn’t- you’ve only ever let mortals play with your pretty cunt haven’t you?” He laughs, mocking you and cooing all at once, “And now that I’ve gotten ahold of it, you’re never going to want anyone else. I will ruin you ugh-” He finally breaks, his own brow furrowed with the onslaught of his release as you tighten around him, “-ugh fuck yes. I can feel how badly your cunt wants me- it's like you’re begging me to cum.”

“I want you to cum,” You whisper shakily, kissing at his mouth, “Fill me up please, I need it.”

He growls, kissing you back with just as much fervor, his hips moving so fast that the pleasure fucks with your vision.

“I’m going to make a mess of you, they will smell me on you until I can come back-” He promises, smirking ever so slightly, “and then- I'll paint the inside of you all over again won’t I? Such a masterpiece this cunt will be...and you’ll be all mine, cumming only for me.”

And he wasn’t wrong because, mere seconds later- the two of you are cumming all over one another, ruining the silk sheets with your release and clawing desperately at one another.

With the mutual utterance of your names, Jimin collapses beside you and, moments later- when you get your wits about you, he is ushering you onto his chest.

Sweaty, exhausted and satisfied, you lay together in silence for quite a while.

Until finally you speak, “I’m not quite sure what came over me.”

Jimin chuckles but this time, the sound is much warmer than you’re used to, “Immortal lust, it’s a blessing and a curse but, eternal life has to stay interesting somehow.”

You trace patterns on his chest whilst he covers your body with one of his wings, the feathers teasing at your sensitive skin.

“Did you mean it?”

And he doesn’t even bother asking, he knows exactly what you’re referring to.

“I want you.” He affirms, “If you’ll have me- I felt quite possessive of you then but, I won’t insist on anything you aren’t comfortable with.”

You smile, tracing a heart directly over the spot where his heart would beat, “It fits doesn’t it? You and I?”

If the past few days have taught you anything, it is that sometimes- it is appropriate to succumb to fate. Sometimes, believing in the simplicity of destiny works out. Being with Jimin felt right and, for now, this was enough.

“It does.” His statement is simple but his expression says it all: he is elated.

You fall back into comfortable silence once again before one more pressing question leaves your lips, “Did I hear you mention something about your brothers earlier?”

Jimin nods, his eyes half-closed as he cuddles closer to you, “You did. I have six of them.”

“Are they- like you?” You murmur, unable to stop your curiosity.

He nods again, “They are.”

You think one more question will suffice but, his answer will unfortunately bring about a thousand more, “Are they all on missions too?”

Jimin’s trademark smirk shows itself once again as he snickers, “They are-” He repeats before a great sense of pride comes over his expression...

“I was just the first one to return.”

A/N: should this be a series? asking for a friend...

#ficswithluv #bangtansorciere #jimin #park jimin #bts #bts jimin #jimin smut #jimin x reader #bts smut #bts writing #jimin writing #jimin fanfic #bts au

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spaceecoffe · 3 years

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The Owl House x Slavic Mythology, Part 2 (this one will be longer)

Okay, so in this post I will tell you about few things. First of all you need to know something: slavic mythology is hard to uncover. It is not so easy to find true informations about this like about Greek, Roman or Norse mythology. A lot of Slavic beliefs were twisted by christian propaganda (like in last post I told you about Domovoy bringing good luck to you house -> with a time christians started to tell a story about mean house demon Domovoy and that all the good things he did were actually done by Angels, ugh). It is also twisted by patriarchy that with time didn't want people to believe in some powerful female demons or goddesses.

Slavic mythology for sure was kinda like Boiling Isles: most of demons and nature wants to kill you in some strange ways, but there were also some good demons, good characters and good gods/goddesses. And when you search for some informations you need to remember this. I'm writing it here because one of characters in this post suffers from her story being twisted by christians and men. And you can also see influence of patriarchy in first part.

But lets start the main stuff:

1. Witches and Wizards

Oh, yes, first thing you can think of is a second episode of first season "Witches before Wizards" AND I LOVE IT. Why? Because it destroys traditional look on the witches and wizards, of course! But from the beginning.

In slavic beliefs witches were women who signed a pact with the devil and gained from it magic powers. They used it to turn other people lives into hell by hexes and all that stuff. It was hard to recognise them, but people say that normally woman drinks a glass of vodka (or apple blood!) on three times while witches do it in one sip! Also, if you look deep in their eyes you will see head of a goat. But it could be any women in yours surrounding: single one, old one, married, young... You couldn't trust any woman!

And that is the misogynistic view on witches. The truth is that witches were a wise women who helped other. They often were herbalists and healers in their villages. But people didn't understand how they did their "elixirs", they only knew they worked, so the ones that were jealous about their knowledge create this story about "terrible and scary witches".

At the same time there were Wizards. They were the ones that people looked up to. And it's all because Wizards used their magic for a science and not hexing people! Like, you know... The only thing women can do is to be mean to other people and only think about how to make others lives worse, while man think about more important stuff. But, fortunately, wizards had also some bad traits, like being too ambitious.

So when Luz goes to Boiling Isles it appears that it is full of witches. Not only women witches, but also men. And this is kind of amazing because we finally abandon this archetype of only women being witches. At the same time (in second episode) we can hear King saying:

"Wizards are only old people with glitter in their pockets"

Oh, how I love this! Why? Because there always been a discourse in the topic of magic. When magic was used from science (by wizards or by alchemists) it was good, but when it was coming from nature (used by witches or folks) it was satanic and scary. But here? Here everything is opposite. We know now, thanks to Lilith, that magic in Boiling Isles is highly bonded to the nature and it is used from it. That's why everyone there is called witch, regardless of gender.

Why it is so important for me that witches are cool on Boiling Isles and wizards are only having glitter in their pockets? It's because at the same time that witches were burned on piles in Poland (1600s), you could go on Cracovian Academy (now Jagiellonian University) and get education in being Wizard or Alchemist.

So yeah, this episode just destroyed the archetype of good and wise wizards against bad and wild witches which should happen more often. But until Tolkien's books will still be "best fantasy" I doubt we will se more of breaking this stupid rule (and also sexism in fantasy).

Also, fun fact, in this episode we see Radegast in clothes with stars:

and also we hear that he was "looking at the stars" when Luz came. I know that wizards are usually depicted with some star-theme, but he really reminds me of the legend of Pan Twardowski, the most powerful wizard in Polish (some says he was a German actually) history. He signed the pact with the Devil to gain his power but run away from him to the other side of the moon, were some says, he still lives. He also probably was a real person (Jan Twardowski) who worked on Zygmunt August's court as magician and astrologist, sometime between 1530 - 1570, while as I said, witches were burned on piles.

But let's move to the second thing!

2. Eda, The Baba Yaga

Oh, yes! You've seen this coming. And also it was greatly showed in this amazing post, which you have to read! But I will put in my tuppence here.

First of all, who was Baba Yaga? You heard about her for sure, but probably all of this were lies. Surly, she was the most powerful known witch. She could do almost anything with her magic and she also could brew any potion. As you probably know she lived in the house on chicken legs deep in the forest.

As for her look she was small, old with a big nose and a lot of wrinkles:

She doesn't look nice, does she? Isn't that strange that the most powerful witch in our beliefs has to be so "ugly" (ugh, I hate this word but I have to use it here I think)? The truth is that probably she never looked like this. Historians thinks that at the beginning she was one of the most important goddesses in Slavic Mythology. She was in control of life and death, she was the personification of nature and its power. Some people also believe that she was the one responsible for children initiation to adult life. One of the historians, Zygmunt Krzak, said:

"This is about the reviled figure of the ancient goddess, a characterisation created by religious and secular male elites fighting against matriarchal religion."

So now we can see how Eda works as alternative Baba Yaga from Boiling Isles.

First of all, she IS the most powerful witch on the Boiling Isles. She lives deep in the forest and she is great at brewing potions. Everyone is scared of her but at the same time, if someone is in trouble, she will totally help. Also, in episode one of season two we can see how she actually care about animals (and probably all nature).

But, most importantly, she is against Emperor's rules. As I said in subsection 1, being a witch is all about taking your power from nature. And actually what Emperor is doing is fighting with this, just like christianity when it started to appear on slavic lands. Emperor forbids to use wild magic, he tries to cut witches away from nature. He makes them join covens that can control their magic so they are becoming more and more distant from the natural magic. And Eda is this one person on whole Boiling Isles that is against it and that's why Emperor's Coven tries to change her image so people would think of her as a scary and wild witch which should meet her punishment for being that close to nature.

Another thing that reminds me of Baba Yaga is, of course, how she took care of Luz and helped her to became the witch. This is how initiation of children looks like. Yes, Eda did this in her own way but if not for her, Luz would never went do Hexside and problady wouldn't ever found out about glyphs. So yes, Eda was that one witch who helped Luz, the child (or "her kid") to become real witch, and that is probably what real Baba Yaga was doing.

Also...

Yes, I don't have to comment that, you know what I'm showing to you. But I just want to remind you that Kikimores hate chicken so it naturally goes that Kikimora is on the opposite side to Eda, The Baba Yaga.

The last thing I want to add is that Belos clearly do the same thing to witches on Boiling Isles that christians did to slavic folks (and yes, a lot more cultures in the world but here I'm focusing on Slavs). That is why I am almost sure that he is a human, probably Philippe, because this is just what people of middle and west Europe always did to different cultures -> "Veni, Vidi, Vici" as Julius Cesar said.

Part 1

#the owl house #toh #emperor belos #the owl house emperor belos #eda the owl lady #eda clawthorne #luz noceda #the owl house luz #slavic mythology #baba yaga #baba jaga #the owl house x slavic mythology

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lightadept · 4 years

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Character Analysis: Mythological Relationship of Griffith and Guts

Whether intentionally or not, Guts and Griffith’s relationship seems to be heavily rooted in one particular mythological theme, which further colors their attraction and antagonism to one another. I’ll quickly go through the mythos in the first half of the post, and then discuss in the second half how it relates to their relationship and also to Casca. I apologize in advance for all the nonsense that’s going to come out of this. @bthump, here’s the analysis I promised to make a few weeks ago!

Proto-Indo-European mythology, whose traces are visible across cultures in entire Eurasia, shows a recurring conflict between two opposing principles. There’s a devouring chthonic creature on one side, a beast (most commonly, a snake or a wolf), and it’s associated with the lower world of matter. Then on the other side, there’s a hawk, a falcon, or an eagle: aerial, graceful, spiritual, and predatory, suggestive of celestial realms. Slavic mythology, which is an offshoot of Proto-Indo-European mythology, in particular, uses very often beast vs. hawk symbolism. In later dualistic interpretations, the spirit is good, the matter is vile, and the spirit triumphs over the matter. However, in older, naturalistic interpretations where this symbolism originated to begin with, spiritual and chthonic currents are eternally bound together, both necessary, both neutral, both caught in perpetual conflict. It could be that Berserk simply borrowed hawk/wolf dynamic from Ladyhawke (1985), however, Ladyhawke merely uses forms present in this myth, but not their underlying meaning. Berserk, on the other side, delved deep into it, and the driving force behind attraction and conflict of Griffith and Guts seems to have roots in it.

These two opposing mythical sides - hawk which stands for spirit, and beast which stands for matter - have different faces, different hypostases. Sometimes they are represented as archenemies always killing one another, sometimes as lovers always searching for each other, reflecting the idea that they cannot exist separated, yet almost whenever they combine, they inevitably hurt one another. Spirit suffers when it’s brought down to earth from its heights and entrapped in matter, and matter suffers when it is taken into the heights because it loses its roots, its relation to the chthonic earth. There’s always an imminent danger in combining them.

Mythologically, the joining of these two opposing principles is usually depicted as a marriage of sun and moon - which, especially in some later philosophies that were a continuation of the original mythical thought - is often depicted as an eclipse (Ladyhawke uses this theme too). It is a moment when the spiritual is touching upon the physical, and if the union is successful, a third element is produced out of the two, containing both and reconciling them. However, if something goes wrong during the union, the result is a disaster. Old Slavic lore is chock-full of folk tales and legends that describe this event. There’s an attempted marriage of two persons - who are always the respective echoes of the mythical beast and hawk gods, or to be more precise, of their children, who are not enemies like their parents, but instead in love with each other. In the myth, the god, who comes from the realm of the beasts, is traveling from depths to heights (matter is rising to meet the spirit) to meet his to-be-bride. And the goddess, who lives in the heights and comes from the realm of the hawks, is also starting to lower (spirit lowering to meet matter), and they are supposed to meet midway. Yeah, it’s the “I want to be his equal” thing. On her way down, things usually get super dirty. Their attempted wedding is immediately preceded or followed by a disaster, usually a massacre that leaves everyone present dead. This massacre is caused because, suddenly, instead of two lovers, we have three people involved. It’s usually one man torn between two women, one of whom is the bearer of the spiritual and the other of the material principle. Sometimes the person who massacres everyone is the jealous bride herself because she learns that there is “another woman”, and sometimes it’s the third person who doesn’t want to let the other two wed, usually a possessive mother. Metaphysically, what is happening here is that at the moment of conjunction, of spiritual and material realities trying to unite, that third element - which is supposed to be produced through their union - is already present. It’s a triangle now. Spirit, body, and soul are all present at once. Soul, which is always in the middle of the conflict, is being torn between spirit and matter, cleaving to them both, and as a result, someone always ends up being the third wheel. In other words: spirit and soul wed and unite, but they forget the body. Or body and soul unite, leaving the spirit out. This third left out element punishes the other two, having been left out, and everyone inevitably suffers. This legend is a fantastic psychological metaphor for the terrors that psyche undergoes when one of its aspects is suppressed and denied. This love triangle represents the body-soul-spirit dynamic, where the soul is torn between the other two. It’s an allegory on what happens when the soul chooses (or seems to choose) one side over the other, and then as a consequence and a punishment, matter castrates spirit, or spirit castrates matter. There are many variants of this legend across Slavic folklore. All of them always echo the original Proto-Indo-European mythological conflict, involving the spiritual hawk vs. chthonic beast god. Did Miura know about all this? I don’t think so. It seems very unlikely. But he didn’t need to. He maybe knew about beast vs. hawk mythological conflict, or he simply borrowed the symbolism from the Ladyhawke movie. However, this myth merely personifies the human conflict present in almost all religions or philosophies. This theme is everywhere but in some less recognizable forms. Everyone eventually feels that it’s difficult for a soul (or psyche in our modern language) to be grounded in both spiritual and physical matters. It’s either inclined more to the spirit, or more to the physical reality, and if one goes all introspective and muses on this, one will inevitably be caught in this unfortunate love triangle of spirit-soul-body, where something is always being excluded at the expense of something else. I see Guts in this as a soul, torn between Casca and Griffith, between earthly and ethereal. So, Miura probably simply repeated the same tragedy that has been told throughout centuries in all cultures. Not because he knew these myths, but because these myths are imminent conclusions personified. They are just echoes of the age-old humanity’s struggle to understand itself that’s already embedded in the human psyche. Now let’s look at Guts, Griffith, and Casca through the lens of this symbology. Those three are that tragic, messed up triangle of spirit, soul and body. Guts is the soul, which is in a way always the center of the triangle because everything is perceived through it. He has substance, depth, but not a place in the world. At the beginning of manga, Guts is broken to the very core: he is essentially a man without a purpose, roaming and wandering, scattered. He doesn’t feel any higher call, he has no personal agenda, no personal wishes - he just exists and does things without knowing why he does them. Moreover, he is not just spiritually starving but physically as well, scarred by the trauma of what Donovan did to him. So, both his body and spirit have been butchered early on, leaving him with connection to none. But then he meets Griffith. And for the first time, Guts is fixated on something, there’s finally meaning, a purpose. He has something to fight for, something beyond himself. Griffith. Finally, a higher call. Griffith very clearly personifies the spirit principle. He’s all mental, aerial, detached, calculating, not earthed. White-bluish appearance, pretty evocative of aerial heights. He follows a higher call, he is messianic, but like with all spirits, his “dream” is not earthed. It’s detached from matter, from physicality, from ordinary life. He sees none of this, none of it is genuinely important to him, nothing touches him - that is, until he meets Guts. Guts brings him down, he earths him for a moment, and for the first time, through his interaction with another being, he’s an actual human, he is involved. For the first time, he is personally caring about someone. He’s cared about things before, yes: about his fellow men, about the Hawks, but in a detached matter, from far away, from the top, in a way that doesn’t involve him. With Guts, he cares personally. Guts invades him psychically, he reaches him from the inside. This is a violation of spirit by the soul, something completely new and unfamiliar to Griffith, so impactful that he is utterly baffled and ultimately shattered by it. There’s always a danger when it comes to involving a spirit into human affairs. In the aforementioned myth, eagles were used as symbols of spirit not just because they are graceful, but because they are predatory and ferocious - meaning that there is an innate tendency to destroy matter, to kill what crawls on earth, to want to detach from it. Matter is not their territory, it baffles them. When they engage with matter, the impersonal heights are suddenly made intimate and personal. Detachment suddenly becomes attachment. This soul-spirit union, personified by Guts and Griffith’s relationship, where they both invade one another’s psyche, can either result in something beautifully sublime or something utterly disastrous. If Guts only realized that he already was Griffith’s equal, and if only Griffith realized that Guts never truly abandoned him, these two characters would have redeemed one another’s weaknesses. It was Guts who misunderstood it first, or at least first acted it out. Remember how in the legend the mythical characters were supposed to meet midway: one was supposed to climb up and the other to come down. There’s a saying in alchemical philosophy - which, by the way, is philosophically identical to these myths: earthly must be made spiritual, and spiritual must be made earthly, and only then the union can be successful. Curiously, Ladyhawke somehow also ended up using this theme, probably accidentally. So, there’s definitely something going on here. After Guts overhears Griffith’s conversation with Charlotte about what being an equal means to him, Guts starts to think too low of himself, not being worthy of Griffith, not worthy of these sudden spiritual heights. After defeating Griffith in a duel and walking away from him, Guts says how he thinks Griffith is above all this, how this abandonment shouldn’t bother him because it’s just one of the many pebbles on the road.

You’re a soaring spirit, so what the fuck are you doing with a petty soul like me? This scene is not just Guts abandoning Griffith. It’s the soul - stripped of confidence before a soaring spirit - abandoning it because it thinks it cannot catch up to it - although, in a way, it already did. That’s the tragedy. The soul wants so desperately to bond with the spirit, but it thinks it can’t. Guts thinks he will never be Griffith’s equal, at least not in his current condition. And then he abandons him. As a reaction, Griffith, the spirit, loses all ties to the one thing that earthed him, that plunged him into the realm of the personal, and made his spirit more humane: Guts, the soul. It’s really the ultimate irony that Guts never abandoned Griffith, or the heights and the meaning that Griffith came to embody for him. He was bloody loyal to it all along. But Griffith doesn’t know this. All he knows is the sudden sensation that he is being left behind. From his perspective, the spirit just got ditched by the soul, and right before Eclipse, the soul (Guts) chose body (Casca) over spirit (Griffith). That’s what Griffith sees.

Which brings us to Casca: the perfect tragic image of the body, of physicality. When she joins the Band of the Hawks, she abandons her womanhood in a way, she cuts off her hair, goes seemingly insensitive and brute. All these actions and traumas are representative of the terrors of having a body, and one’s responses to it, attempts to deny it because she was born a fragile woman in a cruel man’s world. On a positive side, it is Casca who saves Guts from his own physical trauma, who teaches him the ways of the body he long denied. It is Casca who provides a sense of belonging for a while, who gives him a taste of normal life. However, she only reaches a part of him. The other part responds to spirit only, to Griffith. For Guts, Casca was that fleeting semblance of a normal, earthly life that needs to be protected (I won’t go into whether this was out of genuine romantic love) and Griffith was that higher call, what set him aflame both intellectually and emotionally.

To me, the fact that Casca had to spend chapters and chapters in a mentally vegetative state, being reduced to a body without any substance, is absolutely genial. It’s kind of a sleeping beauty scenario in one of its atypical interpretations, where the protagonist - the principle of the body - sleeps throughout the whole story, while the soul (the prince) is out there fighting the dragons. The body is first to be destroyed, left behind when there’s a conflict of soul-spirit-body. It’s the first to take damage because it is the frailest of all three, because there’s an inherent tendency of spirit to hate the body as the body steals the soul from it. The soul can always dissociate from the body and exist in a somewhat detached state, where it can even bond with the spirit, but the body will always be dead and dormant without the soul. So, metaphysically, the concept of the body is perhaps the most tragic one. It always takes the blame for everything. Spirit is eternal, but the body is what limits the existence in space in time, and thus castrates the spirit.

Griffith’s rape of Casca could in a way be a reflection of this. In Griffith lingers a terrifying, dangerous interplay and clashing of body and spirit. He sold his body for his dream. He prioritizes ethereal over physical, the fate of the collective over fate of the individual. In his scenario, body entraps the infinite spirit in a finite, confined space, suffocating it. After sleeping with Charlotte, he personally experiences this in the dungeon where he was tortured and disfigured, by which his spirit was reduced to a rotting body. His disfiguration is the triumph of the material over spirit in him. Suddenly, he’s no longer a soaring hawk and his wings are cut off. It’s an outright spiritual fall for him, and he takes it terribly. In Greek mythology, mortal encounter with the divine is often represented as rape, madness or dismemberment (gosh, I fucking love Greeks for this) because it shatters the psyche. It terrorizes it. For Griffith, this mythical transition, the descent from ethereal to earthly was disastrous to his state of mind. When Griffith rapes Casca, it’s not just a revenge against Guts - it’s spirit raping the body, getting back at it, while the soul watches and suffers. Just previously in the dungeon, it was body that violated spirit in his case. It’s as if the rape of Casca parallels Griffith’s very own disfiguration, which is also a violation of sorts. By raping Casca, Griffith is essentially saying something like: I no longer need you, now I’m above you. Because he is so traumatized of terrors of losing Guts - meaning, losing soul - and as a consequence, being “reduced” to something earthly and trivial and ordinary (without Guts, nothing makes sense to him anymore), he needs to be free of it. Of both body and soul. He needs to be freed from his attachment to Guts and freed from this earthliness. When he becomes Femto, he’s finally pure of spirit, a god. Man, I hope it bites him in the ass. He needs to be brought down from his godly heights, and forced to experience the terrors of emotions he cut off. The revenge has to be full psychological.

#guts #berserk #griffith #gutsgriff #casca #griffguts #guts x griffith #eclipse #meta #what the fuck did i just write

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rpd-rookie · 4 years

Text

Under Her Extra-Large Umbrella - Chris Redfield x Reader (Final Part)

Summary: Umbrella is about to send Nemesis to hunt and kill the surviving members of the S.T.A.R.S. You must warn Chris before it’s too late.

Author’s note: This is the last chapter. It’s very angsty but I like how it came out. Hope you’ll like it as much as I liked writing it.

Part 1 is available here / Part 2 is here

Warnings: Angst, Death, Violence, Language.

Horror struck you. It froze each and every limb of your body, making you unable to move even an eyelash as a cold eerie sensation crawled down your spine. You couldn’t look away from it and it seemed like it couldn’t look away from you either. That face, deformed and scraggy, barely covered in a thin layer of shredded pale skin, staring at you with a single veiled white eye in which no emotion could be read. It was terrifying. An atrocity. And you had made it. And yet, it seemed that your impression was far from unanimous as every scientist around you was looking at the corpse-like creature caged in a pod of amniotic liquid with a bloodcurdling fascination, their eyes gleaming with joy and admiration.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present you the new generation of Tyrant, the Nemesis T-Type.” Loud applause accompanied by a torrent of compliments instantly made Doctor Rochois smile with pride. “This new Bio Organic Weapon will revolutionize combat in ways our previous Tyrants would have never been able to. Capable of intelligence and self-awareness, the Nemesis T-type is programmed to obey every command and adapt itself as well as his tactics to the conditions surrounding him and he won’t abandon until his task is completed. He is completely infallible and, let’s say it, indestructible.” People started whispering their awe after this latest remark. Certainly were they already imagining the six zeros on their future pay check. It disgusted you. “And as I’m speaking, this specimen that you’re looking at right now is about to be deployed in Raccoon City.”

Your eyes widened in shock and you stared at the creature once again, completely petrified. “Chris.” You whispered as worry tied your stomach in a painful knot. “Ladies and Gentlemen, as you must all know by now, in July our lab in the Arklay Mountains was breached, causing a small viral outbreak in the region of Raccoon City that we managed to control, not to worry. But we cannot allow the secrets that escaped with the virus to be revealed to the public eye. We cannot let the S.T.A.R.S unit compromising our future. As our founder Oswell E. Spencer once said, Umbrella is God! We are gods creating a new world with an advanced race of human beings! Evolution is in our hands. The future of mankind in his our hands and we cannot let the hubris of a stupid unit of police sabotage all this. In Greek mythology, the Gods sent the goddess Nemesis to punish arrogant humans. Now it’s our turn to send our Nemesis to destroy the S.T.A.R.S!” His speech was like a powerful and belligerent war cry, followed by a thunderous applause that rumbled as loudly as his words in the lab and yet that sounded like a mere murmur when Nemesis growled in his pod like an enraged beast, showing his sharp long teeth. “STAAAAAARRRRS!” God, what have you done?

His watch had just stricken 10pm when Chris put down his pen on the desk of his hotel room, reading the letter he had just finished to write. He had hoped he would have found a certain catharsis in writing down his feelings. But apparently there was no way of extricating the pain out of him just yet.

“Dear Jill,

Perhaps it is a bit risky to send you this letter but I don’t know anyone else I could write this to. You’re the only one who’s not afraid to kick my ass and tell me the truth when needed. I screwed up, Jill. Completely fucked up. And I think I lost myself too. I lied to this girl, used her to my own benefits and did things that are so unlike me. Sure my plan worked in the end, just not the way I intended (not so surprising I know). And now that I’m that close to obtain what I wanted, I’m not so sure I want it anymore. At least not like that. And I feel awful. It’s tearing me apart because I know that finishing what I started could bring closure and peace to what happened to us but, at the same time, I would hate myself forever for it. If he were here, I know my father would tell me to do what’s right. But I don’t know what’s right anymore. What should I do, Jill? Tell me, please.

Love,

Chris”

Chris folded the letter and placed it in an envelope addressed to Jill and Jill only. If only he could place all his sorrow in it as well. He was sure his best friend would be able to find a way to get rid of it all instead of letting it grow the way he was letting it grow each time his eyes were laying upon the badge on the table before him, this ridiculous thing that had caused so much pain and an awful betrayal. All this for that? “Fuck!!” He growled as he impulsively grabbed the object to throw it across the room. It slammed against the wall and fell onto the ground, closely followed by a glass of whisky - that exploded in a thousand of tiny pieces the second it touched the wall - and his wooden chair that smashed against the cast iron radiator, almost breaking the gas pipe in the process. Chris always had a temper. Even he couldn’t deny it. It actually had caused him some trouble in his short career especially in the Air Force. “Mind your temper, son.” He had been told him more than once. But that was a piece of advice Chris had never followed. And maybe that’s why his career in the military had been short, why he had resigned. Because yes, Chris knew how to resign. He knew how and when to quit. He knew nothing in the world was worth his integrity and honour. So why hadn’t he be able to stop this manipulation? Had he really sunk that low? Had he truly become what he had always hated?

A loud knock at the door echoed in the room. Chris sighed and went to open it, expecting the manager of the hotel and his permanent sulk to be waiting on the doormat, ready to scold him for making so much noise. As he opened the door, he couldn’t be more wrong or more surprised. “Y/N?” Dressed in your work clothes, you were standing before him trying to keep the composure you had somehow successfully managed to gain on your way here. “Now is a bad time?” You quickly glanced inside the room, spotting all the mess Chris had done. Guess that explained the noises you had heard from the corridor. “No. No. Absolutely not. Come in.” He stepped aside to let you in and you entered his room, rubbing you hands together in discomfort. A gesture Chris noticed immediately but couldn’t blame you for. The situation was indeed more than awkward. “If I knew you would come I would have …” “Clean?” You asked, almost with a mocking smile. “Come on Chris, we both know it’s not your forte.” The man chuckled breathlessly unsure if the rebuke was meant to hurt or to be funny. Maybe both. “I wasn’t expecting you. That’s it.” He rushed to quickly pick up his chair for you to sit on it but as soon as he placed it back next to his desk it crumbled onto the floor like a mere stack of wood. “Yep. That’s definitely broken. Why don’t you sit on the bed?” “I’m not staying.” You announced and a single disappointed ‘oh’ escaped Chris’ lips. Clearly you weren’t here to fix things between the two of you. “I just came here to give you this.”

You opened your handbag and slowly handed him a notebook that Chris immediately recognized. It was your diary, the one he had read in secret, the one that contained all the information about your work and about what was going on in Umbrella’s French lab. And here you were, willingly giving it to him without hesitation or second thought. “Why?” Chris frowned, not understanding what was happening. “Umbrella is planning something bad.” Your words made the young man shiver in fear. He could feel the familiar sensation crawling in his entire body, freezing it, paralysing it as nightmarish memories flashed back in his head, memories from the mansion, memories of his fallen colleagues and friends. Not again. “They’re planning on releasing their new creation in Raccoon City to hunt your friends from the S.T.A.R.S.” “Nemesis?” Chris asked to make sure that the new creation you were talking about was the one he had read about in your notebook. When you nodded, he took a deep breath to keep his heart from exploding in fear and rage in his chest. “And it won’t stop until they’re all dead. That’s what it has been programmed for.” You added and noticed Chris’s grip furiously tighten around your notebook. An understandable reaction you had been expecting since the moment you had decided to come here to tell him all about Umbrella’s latest plans. “When are they going to do that?” He calmly asked through his gritted teeth that showed that the composure he was desperately trying to keep was on the verge of bursting. “I don’t know but very soon and we won’t be able to stop them. But there is something in this diary that might help you or your friends. I gathered every single piece of information about Nemesis in this notebook including his weaknesses. Plus it contains enough evidence to bring Umbrella down. I’m sure you’ll know what to do with it.”

Chris’ eyes widened, shocked yet amazed by your decision. He had never expected you to do this, not for him, not after everything that had happened between the two of you, not after what he had done. But despite the unconditional thankfulness he was feeling right now, he couldn’t help but worry about you as he dared imagine the consequences of your selfless act. “But you …” “I’m ready to take my responsibilities. I always was. Despite what you may think.” The rebuke hurt and Chris was sure that was its purpose. After all, the last time you two had talked he had said terrible things and had accused you of horrors that were not all necessarily true. “ Y/N, I …” He sighed and you briefly looked down, refusing to see a pity you did not deserve veiling his beautiful brown eyes. Things were already hard enough. “No, Chris. You were right.” You admitted. “I created a monster. And I can’t live with myself knowing that what I did might endanger people …or worse. I trust you and I know you’ll do the right thing.” You cupped his cheek, letting go to a surge of affection - probably the last – for this man who, despite his many wrongs and the heartbreak he had caused you, had enchanted your life in ways no other man would have. Chris welcomed your touch, accepting the tender caress as his heart broke. He hadn’t behaved like the most righteous man lately. He had betrayed you, lied to you, abused your trust and still you were here, telling him you were trusting him to do the right thing, giving him a sort of second chance he was certain he didn’t deserve. And yet, only one answer came to his mind. “I will.” He promised.

You had a brief sad smile before pressing your lips of his cheek, right in the corner of his pink lips. This was a goodbye kiss and it lingered on his face as long as it could just to be sure you would remember the taste and the woody perfume of his skin. “Take care of yourself, Chris.” You whispered, still close to him, your hand on his strong jaw. “You too, Y/N.” Chris murmured back, squeezing your hand so tenderly it made you smile. And you managed to let go of him happy to leave knowing there was no resentment between the two of you, but also and mostly relieved. You had done the right thing and that felt so good, like a heavy pain lifted off your chest. You turned around and headed towards the door, feeling Chris’ gaze on you. “Y/N?” He called out and you stopped on your tracks to look at him one last time over your shoulder. He seemed sad, almost guilty and it crushed you. You didn’t want him to be hurt. He was a good man and he had suffered enough. “My feelings for you were real.” He confessed. Was it an attempt to make you stay? An attempt to make you run to his arms and kiss him with all the love you had for him? Or simply a desire to part on something real and true and forget all the lies and the treachery? You didn’t ask. You couldn’t ask just like you couldn’t rush into his arms. You knew you would never leave if you did. “I know.” You put your hand on the knob, ready to leave, mixed feelings of happiness and sadness tightening your stomach. It would soon disappear. At least that’s what you dared to hope.

But all hopes flew away when you suddenly felt the door tremble in its frame. The latch clinked in the deadbolt, again and again you let go of the knob to take a step back. You looked back at Chris who was staring at you in incomprehension but as soon as he saw the fear in your eyes he rushed towards his bed to take the gun he had hidden under the mattress. “Stand back.” He ordered as he pushed you behind him to shield you from whatever was coming. The tremor became louder as if it was getting closer. And it was. It started echoing in the entire room, making the crystal pearls of the chandelier above your head jingle loudly and the walls shake all around you. Whatever was approaching was big and it was coming for him, or maybe for you both. That’s the only thing Chris was sure of and that was enough to make him aim his gun at the door and wait, ready to shoot. “That won’t work.” You declared, knowing full well what was in this hotel right now. “We need to leave or it will kill us.” Chris glanced at you, keeping his guard up. Running away was not in his nature. “What is it?” You didn’t have time to reply as a growl shook the entire room. “STAAAAAARRRRS!” The door broke from its hinges as if it was made of cardboard and it flew over your head, deadly propelled by a monster Chris had never seen before. You both miraculously managed to dodge it and you screamed as you fell down onto the floor, Chris knelt in front of you, still trying to protect you as the door shattered the window behind you in a million of tiny pieces. “Son of a bitch! What the hell is that thing?” Chris harrumphed as he began shooting at the head of the creature. It looked like a tyrant but it was way bigger and definitely way more powerful since the magnum bullets barely made him flinch. “Nemesis!”

The gigantic BOW entered the room slowly but with a heavy self-assured gait that made Chris’ eyes widened in terror. So that’s what was about to be sent in Raccoon City to hunt his friends. Holy shit! Nemesis approached you both, his veiled pale eye fixed upon Chris. “STARS!” He growled as he raised his muscular arm up in the air to punch you both with all the strength it had. The young man pushed you away to protect you, dropping his weapon in the process. You rolled onto the wooden floor and briefly got time to scream when the monster’s fist grazed Chris’ chest. “Chris!” “Run! Get out!” Chris shouted at you as he quickly crawled to pick up his gun, still determined to defend himself against that beast.

You couldn’t run away, nor could you sit here and watch Chris get killed by the monster you had helped creating. You looked around you, panicked-stricken and terrified for the life of the man you loved, searching for something, anything that might help you neutralising Nemesis for a while and give you enough time to run away. But the only idea that came to your head was dangerous, highly dangerous, suicidal even. But there was no time to think about something else. And so you rushed towards Chris who was on the ground to pull him towards you before the Tyrant could crack his head open with a simple punch and helped him stand up. “I told you to run.” Chris screamed, terrified for you as much as you were terrified for him. You glanced at Nemesis whose hand was stuck in the wooden floor “You’re not the only one who’s stubborn, Chris.” And you kissed him, quickly but hard and passionately, not caring for a second about the monster struggling to free himself right beside you. Chris frowned, not understanding why you were doing this until he realised his magnum was not in is hand anymore. Instead he had a small notebook, your notebook and you had his weapon. His eyes widened in alarm as everything finally made sense to him “My feelings were real as well.” You confessed. “No!” He shouted, trying to take his gun back but you pushed him with all the strength you got through the broken window behind him, knowing full well that the fall would not kill him. Chris tumbled over the railing, unable to resist the push and he fell into the void, screaming until his body dived into the trash-filled dumpster under the window. You smiled knowing he would be fine and turned around to see Nemesis going back up on its feet. “Alright. It’s you and I now, you fucker.”

You never held a gun in your life but you knew you didn’t need much training or precision to do what you intended to do. All you needed was to know how to pull a trigger and hope that your sacrifice would not be in vain. “Take that one with you to hell.” You curled your index and instinctively closed your eyes the second you heard the bullet escape the barrel with a loud bang to fly towards the creature.

It’s true what they say about guns. They’re quick, awfully quick, so quick you realise you pulled the trigger only after the bullet lodge itself in your target. But it’s also true what they say about death. You see it coming. You see it coming accompanied by all the moments of your life that led you to your very ending. Death comes in slow motion, even when you shoot a bullet. You weren’t sure how you felt when you saw the small piece of lead hitting the radiator behind Nemesis. Relief? Satisfaction? Pride? Maybe all those emotions tinted with a bit of fear? A fear of what’s waiting for you on the other side (if there’s one)? A fear of what’s going to happen to Chris after you’re gone? But what you were sure of was that you had just done right by him. And so you embraced your death, welcomed it with opened arms as the flames went burning your body, killing you instantly and swiftly. A beautiful painless death. A good death.

Chris woke up days later, alone in a room at the Hôtel-Dieu Hospital, with a nasty headache and his chest tightly wrapped in white bandages. Fuzzy, wondering where he was and what had happened to him, it took him a few seconds to remember it all. The hotel. The beast. How you both had been attacked. “Y/N” He whispered your name and his eyes widened in fear and worry. Where were you? Without thinking, he quickly got up from his bed with a wince of pain and started removing all the electrodes stuck to his chest as well as the needle deeply inserted in his arm. The machines around him started beeping furiously. But he couldn’t care less. He had to find you. He had to see if you were okay. He barely had time to take an unsteady step - his legs too shaky and weak to support his weight - before a nurse, alarmed by the long beep of the electrocardiogram, brutally entered the room. “Oh mon dieu, mais que faites-vous debout?” She screamed in French as she urged Chris to lie back on his bed. “Y/N” He just said and the woman frowned. “I need to find her.” “Find who?” She asked, thinking Chris was maybe rambling because of all the painkillers in his system. “Y/N. The woman who was with me. In the hotel.” The nurse barely listened to him as she was doing all she could to make him sit down. Luckily for her, Chris was still too fragile to resist her. Dizzy, he softly yet reluctantly laid back on his bed and the woman gently grabbed his hands in an attempt to reassure him and calm him down. “Sir, you fell from the second floor. You suffered a serious head injury, not counting your broken ribs. You must rest.” “Not before I find Y/N. She was with me, in the hotel.” He repeated, struggling to leave his bed again. His brain couldn’t focus on anything else but you and the nurse understood she would not be able to keep Chris in the room if he continued writhing on his bed like that. “I need back up in room 126. It’s urgent.” She said through the phone without taking her eyes off Chris. “No, you don’t understand! She’s maybe in danger.” He growled as loud as he could as he seized the handset from the nurse’s hand to place it back on the base unit. “Alright. Alright. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll …” “Where is Y/N?” Chris insisted, desperately begging for an answer. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. I’m afraid you’re the only patient who was brought here after the hotel explosion.” She confessed with a confusion that proved her honestly.

Chris felt a sudden weight crushing his shoulder and chest. “Explosion?” Chris repeated. “What explosion? What are you talking about?” “You don’t remember?” Chris stopped moving. His eyebrows furrowed, he tried to remember an explosion or anything that could have resembled one. But he had no memory of that. All he could remember was the monstrous creature trying to kill him. And so for a second he dared imagine many different scenarios that all came to the same conclusion. If there had been an explosion then Umbrella was behind it. “What explosion?” He asked again through his gritted teeth and the door suddenly slammed open.

Chris turned around to see a couple of nurses and a white-haired old man entering the room. Judging by his suit and his undeniable charisma, he was certainly no regular police officer or some local inspector. “Mister Redfield? My name is Adam Benford. I work for the US government. I’ll ask you to calm down.” Chris glared at him. Like hell he would, old fool. “Not until you tell me where is Y/N Y/LN.” That probably looked like blackmail but he didn’t care. He wanted answer and he had the feeling that man had them. “Leave us. Mister Redfield and I need to discuss about a classified matter” Benford declared and the nurses left the room.

From his bed, Chris watched the old man standing in the middle of his room, still like marble. “Miss Y/LN is dead.” Chris didn't know if it was the way Benford had dropped that terrible news, so cold and insensitive, or the news itself that muted him and paralysed him to the spot. But Chris could barely believe what he had just heard. You were dead? No. No. You couldn’t. You … A couple of tears escaped his brown eyes and went rolling along his cheeks as he felt his heart shatter in his chest. “How?” He dared ask, fearing it was his fault. “Killed in the hotel explosion four days ago. Gas leak. The heater in your room appeared to have exploded. At least that is the version Umbrella paid the French police to reveal. But you and I both know something else happened. Right, Mr Redfield?” Chris didn’t answer, still trying to process the fact he had lost you, that you had certainly died because of him. And that guilt was too heavy for him to bear. He already had to carry the loss of his fellow S.T.A.R.S. members over his young shoulders. He wasn’t sure he would be able to carry yours as well. “Umbrella sent Nemesis after me. They gave it the order to chase and kill all the S.T.A.R.S members who had survived the mansion incident. It attacked me and Y/N.” And it killed her. “We need to call the RPD and warn them” The fact that Benford didn’t look surprised by the news or even a tiny bit astonished made Chris realise he knew all too well about Nemesis and its task. “ No need. Nemesis was sent after Miss Valentine and Mister Vickers 3 days ago in Raccoon City.” Chris’s heart skipped a beat and forgot how to breathe for a while. “ Are they …?” He couldn’t finish the question and he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear the answer either. He had felt enough death and pain for today. “ Miss Valentine managed to survive. But Mister Vickers didn’t make it.” “ Oh no.” Chris looked down. He could feel guilt growing inside of him and slowly drowning him. “I should have warn then. I should have done something.” And with guilt came anger and rage. “You were unconscious. Plus it would have been impossible for you to reach Raccoon City in time.” Chris frowned, unsure what Benford meant by that and when he saw the man sit by his side he understood something extremely bad had happened. “Raccoon City was destroyed a couple of days ago.” What? “Nuclear strike ordered by the President in order to sanitize the city after a T-virus escaped and contaminated most of the inhabitants.”

Horror and anger struck Chris like thunderbolt and he clenched his fists, digging his short nails in his skin as strongly as he could. The rage he was feeling right now was nothing in comparison to the one he had felt before. He hated Umbrella, now more than ever. He hated that fucking company so much he could a powerful thirst for vendetta eating him up from within. They had taken so much from him. His friends. His city. The woman he loved. They needed to pay. “I know it’s a lot to take in as I know Umbrella is responsible for everything that happened to you, to your colleagues and to Raccoon City. Trust me I’ll make sure they won’t get away with it.” Benford looked convinced and pretty confident but that wasn’t enough to persuade Chris who didn’t know if he could trust the American Government any longer. After all, they had financed Umbrella’s research for years. The T-virus was made to serve their military purposes. “I’m started an Anti-Umbrella unit within the US.STRAT.COM and I’ve been collecting information among the Raccoon City survivors, Miss Valentine included, since the viral outbreak. But I need to know, Mister Redfield. Do you have any sort of information that would help us bring Umbrella to justice?”

But what choice did he have right now if not trusting that man? Chris had no way to fight a giant like Umbrella. He couldn’t do anything against them, not on his own. He was not strong enough. And as he noticed the red notebook on the nightstand beside him, he took a decision. “ Y/N left this notebook to take Umbrella down. I’m willing to give its entire content if, and only if, this notebook remains in my possession.” “You don’t trust me with that notebook, do you?” Benford frowned, trying to hide how vexed he was. Jill Valentine and Leon Kennedy had shown themselves more cooperative. “No, I don’t. But it’s not because you work for the Government. It’s because it’s the only thing I have left from Y/N and I want to keep it.” The old man sighed knowing he would not get anything else from Chris. The things you do for love. “ Well. I guess we have a deal. Mister Redfield. Now tell me. What’s you’re story?”

Y/N Y/LN’s notebook was used as strong evidence in the Raccoon Trials of 1998 that recognized the Umbrella Corporation guilty of all charges led against them. Even today, the notebook is still considered as a major source of information in the fighting against Tyrant-type BOWs. A commemorative plaque in Y/N’s honour can be found in the BSAA Headquarters in America. Chris Redfield puts flowers on it each time he can and he still owns Y/N's diary in his office. When he is asked about Y/N, he says he’ll “always remember as a hero, as a woman I loved, as the girl under her extra-large umbrella”.

#Chris Redfield #chris redfield x reader #resident evil #fan fiction

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teawiththegods · 4 years

Note

Part 1. I really REALLY LOVE the Theoi, but I have hard time trying to separate some ugly aspects of Ancient Greek culture from worship. Like extreme sexsism for example - males are all good and pure and worthy, while females are dirty and should stay inside and be silent. Perhaps this is because most of the information we have comes from Athens? Maybe there were places where situation was a little bit better?

Part 2. It affects my perception of the Gods. I ask myself, where were the Gods when all this injustice took place? Do they support our quest for justice and equality now? Sometimes because of this, I just want to abandon my worship all together.

So I completely understand your dilemma and I know you’re not the only one struggling with this! Here’s something to think about that may help you shift your mindset a bit

You’re essentially blaming the gods for the beliefs, customs, and cultures of an ancient civilization. Yet you’re not giving them any credit for the fact that we aren’t like that Ancient civilization anymore.

Why blame them strictly for the bad and not give credit for any of the good??

If you believe they can negatively influence us enough to make us devalue women why not believe they can influence us to progress past the bad beliefs and support equality and feminism?

Also yeah not all city states were super sexist. One of the reasons I love Sparta so much is because they actually gave women rights and respected them! Spartan women were badasses and Sparta had a lot of pride in them! Sparta is the main place Aphrodite was seen and worshiped as a warrior goddess, so yeah you can’t put blame on the gods because humanity sucks a lot of the times. That’s really not fair to them.

And truthfully it’s also unfair because we can’t ever really know what the gods were doing in Ancient Greece. Who is to say they weren’t trying to change things??? Just because there wasn’t a biblical like event that forced every Ancient Greek to be like “Oh man we better respect women” we immediately resign to the belief that they were totally cool with what was going on???

I mean personally the fact that things did indeed change does prove to me at least that they do support our fight for justice and equality.

Also I think looking at Ancient Greek history, politics, mythology, and philosophy clearly showcase that human beings are not very good at listening to the divine and tend to instead put their own words in the gods mouth (you know like what happens in basically all religions).

So again i don’t think it’s really fair to put the sins of humanity onto the shoulders of the gods.

They can’t hold our hands through everything. We have to take responsibility and accountability for ourselves. What kind of life would it be if the gods gave us everything and we fought for nothing? We would never grow. We would never evolve. We would never improve. We would never actually live.

I hope my rambles helped a little bit.

#Anonymous

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diepower · 4 years

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THE MEGA RP PLOTTING SHEET / MEME.

First and foremost, recall that no one is perfect, we all had witnessed some plotting once which did not went too well, be it because of us or our partner. So here have this, which may help for future plotting. It’s a lot! Yes, but perhaps give your partners some insight? Anyway BOLD what fully applies, italicize if only somewhat.

MUN NAME: Kaiman AGE: 27 CONTACT: IM, ask, discord

CHARACTER(S): Meninas McAllon, Orihime Inoue, Retsu Unohana, Mashiro Kuna, Tier Harribel, Charlotte Chuuhlhourne

CURRENT FANDOM(S): That I write in? It’s gonna be Bleach, OVW (super selectively im just here for one person), ASOIAF (barely- literally when the mood strikes and that one is private also). I have a lot of current interests in general though.

BLEACH FANDOM(S) YOU HAVE AN AU FOR: While I don’t have anything fully established... I’ve been working with an ASOIAF au (for Harribel & Unohana specifically, though I’m considering it with other characters too), A Dorohedoro AU (for Unohana and Orihime), as well as a Persona AU (more specifically 2&3) for Orihime. I’ve also got a number of post-canon AUs or continuities for all my characters as well!

MY LANGUAGE(S): English, super basic Spanish, barest ASL, fairly good French

THEMES I’M INTERESTED IN FOR RP: FANTASY / SCIENCE FICTION / HORROR / WESTERN / ROMANCE / THRILLER / MYSTERY / DYSTOPIA / ADVENTURE / MODERN / EROTIC / CRIME / MYTHOLOGY / CLASSIC / HISTORY / RENAISSANCE / MEDIEVAL / ANCIENT / WAR / FAMILY / POLITICS / RELIGION / SCHOOL / ADULTHOOD / CHILDHOOD / APOCALYPTIC / GODS / SPORT / MUSIC / SCIENCE / FIGHTS / ANGST / SMUT / DRAMA

PREFERRED THREAD LENGTH: ONE-LINER / 1 PARA / 2 PARA / 3+ / NOVELLA (2para is a sweet spot but it really doesn’t matter to me)

ASKS CAN BE SEND BY: MUTUALS / NON-MUTUALS / PERSONALS / ANONS.

CAN ASKS BE CONTINUED?: YES / NO ONLY BY MUTUALS?: YES / NO

PREFERRED THREAD TYPE: CRACK / CASUAL NOTHING TOO DEEP / SERIOUS / DEEP AS HECK.

IS REALISM / RESEARCH IMPORTANT FOR YOU IN CERTAIN THEMES?: YES / NO.

ARE YOU ATM OPEN FOR NEW PLOTS?: YES / NO / DEPENDS.

DO YOU HANDLE YOUR DRAFT / ASK - COUNT WELL?: YES / NO / SOMEWHAT. (i let them build up too often but some of yall are too quick to reply jkglfjdgsd)

HOW LONG DO YOU USUALLY TAKE TO REPLY?: 24H / 1 WEEK / 2 WEEKS / 3+ / MONTHS / YEARS / DEPENDS ON MOOD AND INSPIRATION, AND IF I’M BUSY

I’M OKAY WITH INTERACTING: ORIGINAL CHARACTERS / A RELATIVE OF MY CHARACTER (AN OC) / DUPLICATES / MY FANDOM / CROSSOVERS / MULTI-MUSES / SELF-INSERTS / PEOPLE WITH NO AU VERSE FOR MY FANDOM / CANON-DIVERGENT PORTRAYALS / AU-VERSIONS (italicized are okay, but under really specific circumstances)

DO YOU POST MORE IC OR OOC?: IC / OOC.

ARE YOU SELECTIVE WITH FOLLOWING OTHERS?: YES / NO / DEPENDS

BEST WAYS TO APPROACH YOU FOR RP/PLOTTING: I’m pretty anal about plotting in that I often refuse to RP unless it’s been plotted or I liked a starter call. And in the case of the latter, I’ll still hop into DMs to plot further depending on where the thread takes us. That said, the best way to reach me is through IMs or Discord (available on request). The only time I turn down plots is if I feel like it would put my character in an OOC situation, and I especially dislike my character being one-sidedly used as a tool to further another character’s development without anything being reciprocated (this happens often especially wrt my healer characters)

WHAT EXPECTATIONS DO YOU HOLD TOWARDS YOUR PLOTTING PARTNER: Communication is really important to me, especially with regards to comfort regarding certain plot elements, and approaching other in-character situations that might have multiple different solutions. I think it’s important that both characters involved get the same amount of development out of writing a thread, and I really hate the idea of being imbalanced as far as that goes (more on that below). That said, I’m always perfectly down to spitball plot ideas and tweak/refine other concepts because I really do enjoy plotting, it’s just super important to me that things are communicated clearly. I get extremely distressed and frustrated IRL if people just kinda throw stuff at me, and it often kills my muse.

WHEN YOU NOTICE THE PLOTTING IS RATHER ONE-SIDED, WHAT DO YOU DO?: I make an active effort to come up with plots that are engaging and beneficial fairly equally to both parties. I mentioned this above, but especially in the case of writing my healer characters, I have a huge disdain for characters being used as tools to further development while getting nothing substantial in return. That said, I try to be very aware of this in terms of a potential writing partner being on the receiving end. IMO it feels like shit, but I definitely don’t want to make someone else feel that way either. That said, so long as stuff is plotted out clearly and me and the writer are both okay with it, then it’s fine. COMMUNICATION IS KEY, BASICALLY.

HOW DO YOU USUALLY PLOT WITH OTHERS, DO YOU GIVE INPUT OR LEAVE MOST WORK TOWARDS YOUR PARTNER?: I kinda just like to throw spaghetti at the wall and whatever sticks, I’m down to fly with. I have a lot of ideas, but again, I like to give my partners the option of doing whatever they’re comfortable with, and h aving equal contribution opportunities.

WHEN A PARTNER DROPS THE THREAD, DO YOU WISH TO KNOW?: YES / NO / DEPENDS.

- AND WHY?: Everyone has their own circumstances, I really don’t mind. If it’s one I’ve been especially looking forward to, I might be bummed, but it’s no skin off my nose really.

WHAT COULD POSSIBLY LEAD YOU TO DROP A THREAD?: I don’t typically drop threads or abandon them during their writing. The only thing that would make me do so is offensive content, or huge plot elements being introduced that makes my character ooc and wasn’t previously discussed during plotting.

WILL YOU TELL YOUR PARTNER?: YES / NO / DEPENDS.

IS COMMUNICATION IN THE RPC IMPORTANT TO YOU? YES / NO.

-AND WHY?: I already feel like I need to take a lot of extra steps to understand others and be understood, and that isn’t something often reciprocated. In my experience, just honest communication is the quickest solution to issues that crop up during writing. For those who HAVE actually had me reach out to them in this way, I really do try to be polite and respectful while being straightforward so the situation can be resolved without any hurt feelings.

ARE YOU OKAY WITH ABSOLUTE HONESTY, EVEN IF IT MAY MEANS HEARING SOMETHING NEGATIVE ABOUT YOU AND/OR PORTRAYAL?: As long as it’s constructive, and not merely negativity, I welcome it. After all, I can’t fix a huge flaw in my writing without having an alternative solution. I’m open to accepting feedback and critique, especially wrt Meninas since my portrayal is quite a large departure from popular fanon perception (from those who choose to pay attention to her, lol), but I also thrive on suggested remedies and solutions to issues in my writing.

DO YOU THINK YOU CAN HANDLE SUCH SITUATION IN A MATURE WAY? YES / NO.

WHY DO YOU RP AGAIN, IS THERE A GOAL?: I like to tell stories, and I like to tell narratives that take root in emotional expression and how those feelings can act as a vehicle to the storytelling. I want to move people through feeling, because it can be a powerful experience. I use a lot of inspiration from themes in my other favorite series, as well as inspiration from my own personal experiences as well. I tend to pick characters who have one or two traits in common with myself, whether those be negative or positive. I’m very excited to share all the things I have planned for Meninas, as she’s certainly my most ambitious project to date.

WISHLIST, BE IT PLOTS OR SCENARIOS: For Meninas specifically, I want to interact with Squad 11 and Squad 9 during the CFYOW verse I have planned. Hisagi specifically would be interesting because of the clash of ideals, in addition to being the only other living person to be able to relate to the horror of being under Pepe’s thrall. I’d also like to steal Ikkaku’s bankai, and have more fight scenes. Lastly, Meninas doesn’t do much of anything in CFYOW, so more interactions with Mayuri and Squad 12 would be cool.

THEMES I WON’T EVER RP / EXPLORE: I don’t mind briefly referencing darker themes in my writing, especially wrt my own personal experiences, but I want to be very clear that I refuse to write at length or romanticize these themes. I refuse to write anything involving rape, homophobia, transphobia, racism, pedophilia, etc, with this in mind.

WHAT TYPE OF STARTERS DO YOU PREFER / DISLIKE, CAN’T WORK WITH?: Unless previously discussed, I struggle with starters that have a character pushing mine away. If the situation is super OOC for my character to be in, or frankly too mundane. In Meninas’ case, most domestic stuff is a snoozefest for me (but I LOVE this for other characters).

WHAT TYPE OF CHARACTERS CATCH YOUR INTEREST THE MOST?: *saoirse ronan voice* Women. UHHH but no, for real... I like fleshing out female characters quite a bit. Personality types are varied, but I like characters who have some level of nuance to their emotional expression whether it’s an internal or external struggle. I like powerful women too, and the exploration of “strength” as a theme (esp at the intersection of the theme of “femininity” and its expressions) whether this is external strength or internal fortitude. I think I play a wide variety of characters who have vastly different thoughts, beliefs, and forms of expression, but I try to find something in common with who I portray to act as a touch stone. I also like characters who have themes of “justice” and nuanced morality.

WHAT TYPE OF CHARACTERS CATCH YOUR INTEREST THE LEAST?: 99% of male characters. And I also hate tsunderes gjklsdjfd

WHAT ARE YOUR STRONG ASPECTS AS RP PARTNER?: I really like my writing style especially wrt using emotion to set a cinematic scene and overall tone. I think I’m really strong with conveying emotion, especially with things that are often unspoken. I try to communicate with partners clearly and establish rapports. I love writing headcanons and have a TON of plot ideas as well.

WHAT ARE YOUR WEAK ASPECTS AS RP PARTNER?: Oh I’m the slowest replier on the planet and I’m apparently intimidating lol

DO YOU RP SMUT?: YES / NO / DEPENDS.

DO YOU PREFER TO GO INTO DETAIL?: YES / NO / DEPENDS (i prefer to go into detail about sensations, rather than the actual acts as it comes off stifled and weirdly technical)

ARE YOU OKAY WITH BLACK CURTAIN?: YES / NO

- WHEN DO YOU RP SMUT? MORE OUT OF FUN OR CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT?: Honestly I just do what Meninas tells me.

- ANYTHING YOU WOULD NOT WANT TO RP THERE?: Kink stuff is weird territory for me, absolutely gotta be discussed in private and comfort levels clearly established.

ARE SHIPS IMPORTANT TO YOU?: YES / NO. Relationships in general rule, and while I do have a romantic ship that plays a large part in Meninas’ plot, the romance comes secondary to the plot itself. I really enjoy writing and developing romances, but more than that I like establishing connections. I love the relationships I’ve got planned with Giselle, Candice, Liltotto, and Bambietta because there are going to be a LOT of drastically different things that inform my portrayal of Meninas coming from these relationships (both positive and negative, but ultimately places of growth).

WOULD YOU SAY YOUR BLOG IS SHIP-FOCUSED?: YES / NO. Like I said, plot comes first. And especially in the case of Meninas, she has a lot of self exploration and reflection to do before she can engage in a healthy relationship or address any feelings of romance. I do place a large focus on the formation of her relationships and how they shape the way she relates to other people and grows as a person, but I am extremely sensitive to making sure I’m not writing a female character who’s entire development is dependent on a romance with a male character- perish the thought lol.

DO YOU USE READ MORE?: YES / NO / SOMETIMES WHEN I WRITE LONG STUFF.

ARE YOU: MULTI-SHIP / SINGLE-SHIP / DUAL-SHIP — MULTIVERSE / Singleverse.

WHAT DO YOU LOVE TO EXPLORE THE MOST IN YOUR SHIPS?: For Meninas, it’s a matter of her acknowledging, understanding, and accepting that she can be worth more than how useful she is to others. She had a series of traumatizing and character defining experiences regarding love, romance, and personal worth that strongly shaped the way she perceives her relationships to others and her emotional expression. Trust is another huge factor for me, Meninas needs to be around someone she believes in. Strength is another aspect. She likes someone who challenges her, keeps her on her toes, and is sturdy like physically. Because she’ll break you. THAT SAID- Meninas tends to be open wrt her body, but closed off when it comes to her heart. Hate to see it, love to write it.

ARE YOU OKAY WITH PRE-ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIPS?: YES / NO. As long as the premise makes sense. I like relationships to have some matter of significance and planning, especially because of how I’ve written the way Meninas picks and chooses who to get close to in Silbern depending on what suits her interests. Genuine friendship is a weird thing for Meninas, as most of her relationships are formed out of convenience. If you aren’t useful to Meninas’ schemeing, then she has no interest in dealing with you beyond platitudes and keeping up appearances and will interact with you as such.

► SECTION ABOUT YOUR MUSE.

- WHAT COULD POSSIBLY MAKE YOUR MUSE INTERESTING TOWARDS OTHERS, WHY SHOULD THEY RP WITH THIS PARTICULAR CHARACTER OF YOURS NOW, WHAT POSSIBLE PLOTS DO THEY OFFER?: WE LOVE DUPLICITOUS WOMEN! No, but at the core of my Meninas characterization, the sentiment is “Everything is not as it appears” even down to the relationships she has with others. Meninas’ entire personality is constructed as a survival tactic from an early age (in addition to being a way to make herself more useful as a tool to others, and thus seen as having more worth in general), and as a result, she hasn’t really allowed herself to live life as a fully realized person. Her plots generally offer silent rebellion, playing a role in regards to her self presentation, chaotic mean girl level bullshit, and cool fights/training. Also you get to interact with a big buff lady. That said about her personality, it depends on the verse. CFYOW Meninas will be more unhinged, while post-CFYOW Meninas will be more honest and rowdy.

- WITH WHAT TYPE OF MUSES DO YOU USUALLY STRUGGLE TO RP WITH?: Muses who are standoffish or disengage right at the start. Meninas doesn’t interact with people without a certain purpose, so if they aren’t interested, she’s not going to be either.

- WHAT DO THEY DESIRE, IS THEIR GOAL?: Revenge, strength, redefining what “power” means in terms of how the world works. She wants to see the Shinigami dead for their role in her parents deaths, and feels the same about Yhwach.

- WHAT CATCHES THEIR INTEREST FIRST WHEN MEETING SOMEONE NEW?: Ability, potential threat, perceived strength, where loyalty lies; how potentially useful you can be to her.

- WHAT DO THEY VALUE IN A PERSON?: Strength both in a physical sense, but also in belief and convictions. Honesty, and understanding the flaws of the world they live in.

- WHAT THEMES DO THEY LIKE TALKING ABOUT?: Fighting, beauty, freedom, abolishing Quincy classism based on blood purity, music, fashion, blacksmithing.

- WHICH THEMES BORE THEM?: Blind loyalty to Yhwach, talking about the horrors of war as if it doesn’t concern them, Bambietta, Quincy supremacy,

- DID THEY EVER WENT THROUGH SOMETHING TRAUMATIC?: Her parents were killed in the first Quincy war and she was left abandoned and grew up literally fighting for her life and living on the streets. She often likens fighting pits to the bowels of Hell (and I often play with the ironic theme of crawling out of hell to appear as an angel or something divine). She is consumed by a quest for revenge, and strongly believes her ends will justify the means taken to fulfill her ideal. As a direct result of these experiences, her emotional health and maturity is severely affected, and she doesn’t view herself as a person worthy or capable of feeling as much as a tool who, in the right hands, can be utilized to bring about the revenge she craves.

- WHAT COULD LEAD TO AN INSTANT KILL?: (1) Men who feel non-consensually entitled to her body. That said, she’s done a fairly excellent job at maintaining control and an unassuming threatening nature despite the widely known understanding of her Schrift ability and how it augments. (2) Someone touching her Quincy cross, as it’s her most precious and private item. (3) Anyone who dares get in the way of her plans that can’t be manipulated in some other useful aspect.

- IS THERE SOMEONE /-THING THEY HATE?: Meninas hates Yhwach, and the Shinigami most predominately, but she also harbors disgust for Hollows as an instinct. That said, her young life was spent detached from Quincy culture (in addition to being a Gemischt and the inherent isolation that comes with that status), so despite her early induction into the Wandenreich ranks, Meninas does not harbor the same Quincy nationalism and loyalty that others of her race do. They’re a means to an end, and just happen to help her become stronger.

IS YOUR MUSE EASY TO APPROACH?: YES / NO. - Best ways to approach them?: She comes off as easy to approach, but if you want genuine Meninas I’m sorry the number you’re trying to reach has been disconnected. Goodbye!

SOMETHING YOU MAY STILL WANT TO POINT OUT ABOUT YOUR MUSE?: Everything I’ve written about her is based in headcanon! I’ve got both a lengthy biography as well as headcanons gathered in the sidebar links on my blog.

CONGRATS!!! You managed it, now tag your mutuals! ♥

TAGGED BY: @bazzardburner TAGGING: i think this has made its rounds so steal it!

#MEME / ANSWERED #HANDS OF THE DIVINE ; A SELF MADE CREATION / HEADCANON #ok take 2 dont delete all my bolded shit pls

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bouvillea · 4 years

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a dense G24 Part 2 Essay

Here is my Part 1 Essay. Like before, I would like to talk about some parts of G24 Part 2 that I found interesting first. Feel free to skip ahead to around the fourth paragraph my discussion of the plot. Spoilers ahead.

The atmosphere is very similar to G20. I don't know about how others felt when they played through G20, but the uncertainty about who you could trust (Talvish...) was emphasized to the point where I, the player, couldn't make a sound decision either. G24 Part 2 revolved a lot around the fact that the Milletian and those that help the Milletian couldn't parse why and what was happening in Erinn. There was just a constant stream of dread and bitterness and an uncertainty about the Milletian themselves; the replies we were allowed to choose reflects that. Is the Milletian really good for the sake of Erinn's future? More on this later.

Part 2 opens with Hunter being, for once, very vulnerable to the Aces and the Milletian. He reveals to us his nightmares about his past and Fodla's past. We continue to see these bonding moments between the Aces, the Expeditionary Force, and the Milletian.* Starlet plays a bigger role now as a counterpoint to Fodla. One moves minds and hearts with persuasion and charisma, the other directly manipulates memories and emotions. The Aces clearly serve as the opposing undercurrent to Vayne's prediction at the end of Part 1. The Milletian will always have friends and supporters that cherishes them. Whether or not that is enough to stop the Milletian from spiraling into angst is another story.

*The Milletian really needs some after care...no one asks how the Milletian is feeling after all of this...

Ultimately, a lot of loose ends and story plots were tied up in Part 2, most of them very bittersweet and only vaguely hopeful at best. These back stories served to make us sympathize with the antagonists and make their motives understandable.

For that reason, I cannot come to hate Fodla. She had a very contrived method of protecting Hunter--her little brother. In a pact she made with Hymerark, Hunter's memories of her and his past were mostly sealed away. To make up for the fact that her little sister, Eriu, was sacrificed and succumbed to the curse, Fodla took in Deirbhile. She was a substitute that Fodla loved, but even in her last moments, Fodla wanted her real sibling. Deirbhile is truly a tragic character. She is a personality made and shaped by Fodla. Whoever she was before is probably buried deep in the recesses of her mind. Judging by the last scenes, Deirbhile cannot exist or function normally without Fodla.

Speaking of which, did Deirbhile make an oath with Hymerark, too? What for? We won't know unless we knew who she was before she met Fodla...

Thanks to Merlin, we now know that a Geas is a pact with a god, a pact that cannot be broken easily. If, in Part 1, the Milletian seeks out Vayne in Bangor and speaks to him wearing one of the Geas armors, he speaks about the dangers of being bound under a Geas: "You become bathed in the absolute authority of his will, which grants tremendous gifts and metes out terrible punishments".* Going against the orders of Hymerark will invoke a punishment. And so Vayne insinuates that he still needs to pay for abandoning his duties on the first night to hang out with the Milletian, and the Incubus King does his best to subvert the Geas in order to help.

*Thank you to Mita on twitter for supplying me with the extra dialogue I missed.

Speaking of which, the Incubus King really went full on angst and drama when he had to separate from his wife and Eiren, huh? He gave away his powers, haphazardly made a deal with Hymerark so he could have a dark, gloomy sarcophagus to dream about his time with his wife and child. Even Eiren made an off-handed remark about how lame it all was. It feels like the developers and writers realized that his motivations were very tropey so they decided to make fun of it. And then Eiren followed up with "he sort of...melted away into the darkness like summer snow". Oh. Okay. Goodbye, papa.

I'm going to continue off-tangent here and talk about Manannan, too. He comes back, all salty that the Milletian is busting into his temple uninvited (he does say another uninvited visitor, so was there someone before the Milletian?). But Manannan is so Cat Mom to the Far Darrigs that he can't maintain his pompous god-like demeanor in front of them and the Milletian. He can't bear to frighten the squishy Far Darrigs. It's nice to see that the Far Darrig's love and trust of Manannan isn't misplaced and is reciprocated. I don't think the Far Darrigs were there when Manannan met Scathach, so did he pick them up when he was heartbroken over her? Pure speculation, but that would be really something... Manannan tries to exit the conversation with the Milletian gracefully but then the Far Darrigs ruin it by letting us know that he's going to play with them. Hah. Glad to see his character getting fleshed out like this.

The Far Darrigs also "uwu" at me so there was that. Okay, back to critical analysis.

Human* greed and corruption is a repeating theme for the gods. Manannan said it in regards to the Fairy Queen's reason for leaving, and Vayne, a former Evil God, said the same to the Milletian during their fight. Even Morrighan and Talvish accused the Milletian of claiming powers out of greed and selfishness. The Milletian is a god-like being with human needs and motivations. They see the world in a much smaller frame than the gods do, but possess powers to rival the lowest gods. Make a mistake as a Milletian, and you might as well make a mistake for the whole world. And yet, the Milletian is not recognized as a deity by the gods, and not as a human by the mortals. They're an outsider.

*I will be using human synonymously for "mortal" since there are multiple races in Erinn

And being an outsider is a vexation for the Milletian brought to the front of the mind during this arc. They are always reminded that they are not one of them, that they are a special existence. Vayne's words wheedle into the mind every time they help someone out of kindness. Admiration will turn to fear, fear will turn to hate. The elves and giants forgetting the Milletian and blaming them, albeit artificially stimulated, was a taste of that. Fodla's nightmarish illusion also put the Milletian in the state of being a stranger. They stand at a distance, listening in on a conversation they aren't a part of. And when they are noticed, there is nothing they can do to deter the hate, or prevent the blood on their hands. The worst part was that the Milletian's friends do zero damage to them. It was a cruel, one-sided fight.

But maybe this is all a trial for the Milletian, too. To steel their heart and understand who are really their friends and what role they play in Erinn. Piran said that Hymerark's trials for the people of Erinn have gotten more out of hand since Hymerark recognized the Milletian's existence. Then, perhaps, the Milletian isn't an outsider anymore. The trials are meant to be completed with the Milletian's help accounted for. These trials will unify the people of Erinn against the Order of the Black Moon.

Which, when you think about it, is not very dissimilar to Talvish's idea to unify the people against a common cause. You'll also have to admit that Vayne's/Hymerark's plan is a lot better than Talvish's. Piran also mentioned that Aton Cimeni and Talvish both condone chaos, so it explains why Talvish hasn't popped out to help the Milletian yet, or to defend them from a very persistent Vayne. He tried helping a little in G22 and then again during G23 but it seems like he got told off and instead sent Merlin to protect Erinn and protect the Milletian. Talvish is definitely on the Milletian's side though, and is probably hoping that they stay true to themselves and continue to help others.

If the goal of Hymerark was to make the Milletian to feel as helpless as possible and then chase them out of Erinn, he wouldn't need to go through such lengths. He could simply pop the Milletian into the Soul Stream and get rid of them there. Cichol did it, I don't see why one of the Three Gods couldn't. Or perhaps Hymerark's original plan was to get rid of the Milletian, but Vayne's oath with him prevented that. Vayne would want trials for the Milletian to overcome so they would become strong enough to defeat him. On the same note, since the trials are getting more intense due to the Milletian (different, I would say, than the trials are happening because of the Milletian), is the Milletian really good for the future of Erinn? I imagine the turmoil the Milletian is going through has something to do with this. Would the trials have been easier if the Milletian wasn't there? Would less people have died and gotten hurt if they did not step into Erinn?

Very briefly, on Cethlenn and Marleid. I had an inkling for a while that they knew each other (thank you, KR Twitter) but due to circumstances, they had forgotten one another. Marleid took on his name, and Cethlenn isn't his real name. So...did he pick "Cethlenn" or did someone name him that? Or did he just switch names with "Marleid"? If Vayne named him Cethlenn...well then. That's the name of Mythological Figure Balor's wife so...writers what are you thinking? (Or, more likely, Fodla named him to change him and meeting his childhood friend with his old name was the biggest trigger to disrupt her abilities.)

Anyway, things aren't looking good for Cethlenn. Or Tani. Tani's last letter to the Milletian had Morse code that vaguely translated to "please letmeout".* Upsetting, especially now that it's implied that Hymerark will use her body to descend to the mortal world. I'm just waiting for Aton Cimeni to pop into the Milletian's body to tell everyone to stop it and shut up.

*Other interesting implications regarding how Milletians work. They can sleep, but do not dream. Nao remembers every Milletian and they can chose to leave whenever or never return.

After all that has happened in G24, I hope we can get some good closure. And I hope the Milletian gets a nice break.

#mabinogi #mabinogi g24 #mabinogi g24 part 2 #long post #bouvillea speaks #spoilers

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ultimaa · 5 years

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Analyzing and theorizing about Shingeki no Kyojin

I can not avoid comparing the happenings of Shingeki no Kyojin with historical events, from the Roman Empire to World War II. In addition, the mythological content of the work also leads to a comparison with the beliefs of Classical Antiquity. At this point, I would like to talk about Ymir Fritz; However, before that... I need to tell you about the Roman Empire, specifically about its founding myth and what really happened.

Who has not heard of Romulus and Remus. The two brothers who started it all. The myth considers them children of Mars (the Greek Ares), god of war, who engendered them in Rhea Silvia. She was the daughter of Numitor, king of Alba Longa who had been overthrown by his brother Amulius. The mother had to abandon them, but the children were saved by Luperca, a wolf who suckled them. Then they were found and raised by a couple of pastors. The brothers discovered the nobility of their lineage and went to return Alba Longa to his grandfather Numitor.

They succeeded, but both wanted a city of their own. Then they had their differences. Romulus wished to build the city on the Palatine Hill, while Remus preferred the Aventine Hill. The only solution was to count vultures: Remo saw six, while Romulus saw twelve. The winner traced the limits of his city and assured that he would kill anyone who crossed them. Guess what? Remus was emboldened, entered the territory of his brother and Romulo fulfilled his word, becoming a fratricide.

That is the founding myth of Rome. Therefore, it does not correspond to reality. However, in Shingeki it could be. I explain. Each side has an idea about Ymir Fritz; The Marleyans considered that she agreed with the Devil, Eren Krueger believed that Ymir came into contact with the genesis of the matter and Onyankopon suggested that perhaps Ymir received his power from a divinity. Well, now think about everything I've told you, in Rome too: AND IF YMIR FRITZ DID NOT DEAL WITH THE DEMON, NEITHER ENTERED INTO CONTACT WITH THE ORIGIN OF EVERYTHING? What if everyone is wrong ... except Onyankopon? Ymir may have been the daughter of a god, like Romulus and Remus, becoming the first ruler of the House Fritz and the first ever titan shifter, in the same way that Romulus became the first king of Rome and the father of all Romans.

And if we mix myth with reality? Okay, let's say that Ymir has a divine origin, being a descendant of a deity. Well, what do we do with her people, the Erdians? The true origin of Rome is not found in a fraternal discussion; although it still is not clear, everything points to this glorious civilization was the result of the union of different peoples, Latins, Sabines, Etruscans (being these the most advanced), etc, which were fighting each other. Romulus, as the first king, promulgated common laws and customs. Roman laws and customs. Maybe Ymir Fritz saw himself in the same situation: a potpourrí of people who did not understand each other, who were enemies or who had been enemies, but who were under the charge of the same person. At this point, Ymir would do the same as Romulo and create a common culture with characteristics of each nation.

The Romans contributed much to architecture, art, politics and all areas of life. They built bridges, forums, basilicas, circuses, etc. They were practical people who sought the public utility of their buildings. Does not this remind you of what Grisha Jaeger said about Ymir and her people? Grisha was convinced that Ymir built bridges, sowed the fields, etc; in general, Jaeger believed that Ymir Fritz made mankind prosper, just as the Romans did.

I think frankly that Ymir brought a lot of progress and a time of splendor ...

... but I also believe that Erdia had to fight many wars.

I mentioned the Etruscans before. These allied with other peoples to fight against Rome, but were defeated and absorbed by the Romans. The same thing happened to Marley; they had nothing to do with a power like Ancient Erdia. However, when civil wars struck the Erdian Empire, they took advantage of and took control of the continent. They had defeated the infamous Erdians, who had done them so much harm! I do not doubt that the Erdians behaved brutally with the Marleyans, but we all know that no nation has conquered another with kisses and roses. The Marleyans could only see the pain of their homeland, but NOT the great advances that Ymir had promoted. They were blind with hatred and resentment (something that is understandable, because no one wants to be conquered) and they gave their truth to the world: YMIR HAD COVENANTED WITH THE DEMON AND SUMMARED THE WORLD IN A DARK AGE.

We can not blame them. After all, the god of the enemy is our enemy, our devil.

But Marleyans are not saints either. The old wars DO NOT justify confining the Erdians in ghettos and using them as cannon fodder. Because those Erdians are innocent. If someone in the fandom is able to justify Erdian segregation, that person has a problem. Think, for example, of the Germans. Yes, the Nazis did a lot of damage and ended up with millions of people, BUT THAT DOES NOT WANT TO SAY THAT THE CURRENT GERMANS MUST PAY FOR THEIR CRIMES. That's why the Nuremberg trials were held.

There are no guilty or villains or a dark side in SNK: only revenge, resentment and ambition. The past is just an excuse, the veracity of the facts is not important. Marleyans and Erdians need a reason to hate each other and have the best. As I see it, there are only three solutions to this millennial conflict.

a. Peace. Each side should recognize their mistakes, leave their weapons and dialogue.

b. May the best win. The problems between Erdia and Marley are irreconcilable and the war will end when one country destroys the other.

c. The bilateral catastrophe. Both nations are destroyed by a third country or by an alliance.

I am inclined to the last two options. I think Erdia will beat Marley, but ... that's just the tip of the iceberg. After Eren attacked Liberio, where an international summit was held with ambassadors from all over the globe, the whole world is against Erdia. Okay, maybe Eren will finish Marley. Certainly, it seems that the Marleyans are betting everything in the invasion of the current arc of the manga. They need to put an end to the Erdians of the walls and, above all, they need the power of the TITAN FOUNDER to preserve the military hegemony. I think of the Ardennes Counteroffensive, Hitler's last attack on the allies, which failed. However, both the Nazis and the Allies suffered a large number of casualties: Germany suffered 83,000 casualties among the dead and wounded, and the Allies suffered a total of 102,576 casualties. The Allies lost much more because the German Army was superior and, despite this, they won. I think the Erdians will win thanks to the power of the Titans, thanks to the RUMBLING, because the Marleyan troops are clearly superior.

Recently it was revealed an audio that contained the end of the work. The din of a battle ... the battle against the world? This is very ironic and twisted on the part of the Master Isayama. The fall of the walls has always been a symbol of freedom and union. The fall of the Berlin Wall was a big step towards the end of the Cold War. Nevertheless, the fall of Maria, Rose and Sina would suppose the liberation of the colossal titans, that is to say, the activation of the rumble of the earth. Here we come to the man who will decide the destiny of humanity: Eren Jaeger.

We still do not know what happens in the head of our suicidal bastard (in fact, his vital state is also doubtful), but I dare say he will do the following:

-To end with the era of the titans and, therefore, with the possibility of Erdian supremacy. For this we must liquidate the colossal locked in the walls, but how the hell are you going to get rid of thousands and thousands of colossal, if only one of them killed almost the entire Legion and calcined Armin? Well, Eren can control them and maybe he can get rid of them. If this happened, Eren would fulfill what he said as a child: "I'm going to kill the titans." However, he would no longer do it for revenge or hatred, but for the common good. That would be a way to redeem the character.

How would Eren get rid of the colossal? Well, it's simple ... THE OCEAN. It is well known that the titans do not approach the water and the ocean could be a good tomb for the giants of fifty meters. In our world, the deepest part of the ocean is in the Mariana Trench, 10,000 meters deep. Imagine our Eren commanding those moles towards the unfathomable depths. The sea symbolizes life because everything started in the water, but it also refers to death in a more poetic sense (in the work of Antonio Machado it is very frequent) because all the rivers (the lives) flow into the sea (the death). In addition, the importance of the ocean in Shingeki no Kyojin is already made clear in the first chapters, when Armin dreams of reaching it.

Does this mean that Eren supports Zeke's plan? No, I do not think Eren intends to sterilize his people. I never believed it, especially when the supposed final panel of the manga was unveiled. I believe without doubt that the baby is Erdian; Son of a protagonist? I don’t know, but I do Erdian. And the dialogue, that "you are free", would mean that the coming generations are free of the legacy of Ymir, of the titans, of the terrible past ... and of the titan shifters.

Things as they are: as long as there are titan shifters, there will be war to control them. How do we get rid of them without any baby inheriting it? Well, I'll leave that to Isayama 😊

Suppose that the Titans are truly exterminated, then how will Paradis defend itself from its numerous enemies? Even if Hizuru helped them, the Erdians would lose. They would have two options: peace or destruction. This would be a good time for Armin. After all, Eren himself said that Armin would save humanity, and not him.

This is all. I apologize for possible spelling or grammatical errors: English is not my language.

#snk #snk thoughts #snk theory #snk 119 #erenjaeger #armin arlert #levi ackerman #mikasa ackerman #snk s3

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cloudy-coyote · 5 years

Text

Necessity

(A/N: found this gif on google! HI IT’S BEEN A MINUTE YA’LL. Sorry lol I was very busy what can I say. But prepare for some writing spam 👅please let me know what you guys think I really hope you guys enjoy! 😊 )

Ch. 5: Beleive it or Not it’s Eva!

"Dean, this is pointless," Sam sighs.

Papers upon books, upon papers spread out over their beds and the table. They had their Police Scanner set up on the floor. Sam balances his laptop on his lap, with hundreds of tabs open. And Dean stands over the counter, preparing some coffee.

They've searched from everything to the lore of cursed objects---to the things that do the cursing, like Witches, Ancient spirits, and they can't find anything that matches up.

Their first thought the moment they heard about an animal attack was Werewolf, easy. Except the heart wasn't taken, and it seemed it wasn't even aiming for the chest. Like this thing just went ham on her body, for almost no reason.

So, because it didn't take anything, they thought they were dealing with something vengeful. Something that tried to kill her for a reason. Maybe a spirit, or some creature that felt wronged by her.

But, everything seemed to become more confusing once they talked to her. It wasn't simple, there wasn't a clear pattern. It was scattered, random events. Somehow all connected to her--- but done by God knows what.

Time-travel? That's a new one.

Cursed necklace? Well... they've dealt with that one before.

A cursed necklace, that has an invisible attacker and causes almost immediate death, including possible time-travel?

Not a fucking chance.

Sam couldn't help but feel like he was in some type of book--- like an episode of the X-Files. The utter absurdity with what they're dealing with is off the charts. The power this thing has is mortifying. Even when hunting a spirit, they can be in some serious danger. But with this? Something so lethal, how are they supposed to protect themselves from something they don't even understand?

He shuts his computer. Shoving it to the side with a groan. Dean eyes his brother, watching him succumb to his frustrations. He can't blame him, this case is seemingly hopeless.

They've been hunting together since they were kids. In some ways, Dean can see his Sam as he once was, just a little kid--just his baby brother.

No matter how many times Sam could wrong him, like abandoning him for Standford, he'll always protect him. He knows that. Because when he looks at him, he can't see evil. Even if the world is telling him he's the psychic visions mean he's some type of devil spawn...all he sees is a chubby-faced little kid.

Dean takes a sip of the crappy motel coffee, tasting like burnt water. He looks up from the papers to face his brother.

"You're right, this thing is strong," Dean agrees, "But if we figure this out? We might have an advantage."

Sam looks up from his hands, 'an advantage'?

"What do you mean?"

Dean sighs, moving Sam's laptop off the couch and plopping down next to him.

"That Demon that Dad's chasin', it's strong too. If we can figure out how to kill this thing, we can definitely kill that bastard."

"Kill a Demon? That's impossible," Sam retorts.

"There's always a way, Sammy. Dad taught us that."

He shakes his head.

Something just not sitting right with him. He couldn't comprehend how something as powerful as this entity or curse can't be found anywhere. Creatures not nearly as strong as this one have Ancient stories from all over the world. Vampires have myths from every ancient civilization, but this invisible killer? Nothing. That's the constant, isn't it?

Every time there's been an attack, it's practically deserted. It's like this thing is a void of desolation. No people, no sounds, no face, no evidence-- no Mythology, it makes sense in that light. But, it's too vague to develop anything further. That begs the question, what if it really is something like that-- like this creature is some sort of spirit of emptiness, erasure. That would mean, they really are defenseless in this situation.

Because you can't kill nothing.

"Killing a Demon is actually seeming more realistic than trying to kill this thing right now,"

Sam lays back into the couch, his head laying toward the ceiling, "Dean, this thing doesn't bleed, doesn't have a body, doesn't make sound, I don't get it---how can we kill something if it's not even a thing?"

"Well then we don't kill it, we just try and...stop it, I guess," Dean shrugs.

He shakes the confusion. He's been on a thousand wild hunts, with crazy, wack-job monsters, and if he would've let the fear get to his head then--- he wouldn't have come out alive.

Albeit, he's not the best at calming people down or consoling them. But, if he can keep his head screwed on straight, maybe it will help Sam relax.

With all the things going on with his brother, he doesn't need another thing to drive his mind in circles. He knows that if they have any chance with this thing, they have to be calm, they have to think clearly, and most importantly, they have to think realistically.

They might not be able to kill it, purge it, or do whatever the Hell to it-- but they can do their best to survive. He has to tell himself that he'll figure it out. Because truly, saying those things more times than once can help him believe them. And he can't have doubt at a time like this.

"So we're in the vicinity of 'Cursed Objects', right?" Sam asks.

Dean snaps back from his thoughts, nodding, "It's the only one that fits."

"But the curse isn't death by touching it, otherwise Eva would've died at her Baptism when they put it on her."

"No, no," Dean collects his thoughts, "When she got attacked, the necklace fell."

Sam nods along, "And at the diner, the necklace wasn't on her either."

"...But she was wearing it when we got there, when we sat down, don't you remember?" Sam continues. Dean remains silent as Sam starts to piece together the memory.

"-When we sat down Marlene complimented her necklace. And after that, when she was going through the details of her story, and she told us about it falling, I looked straight at the necklace, I remember it, Dean."

Sam can't help but wonder, what exactly made the necklace fall off. Both times it dropped off her body right before she was attacked, it was like the initiating factor.

"That waitress complimented her necklace? Huh, didn't hear that."

"You were too busy staring at her ass to hear her."

Dean laughs, a playful smirk tugging at his lips, "And what an ass that was."

"Dean, c'mon! " Sam shoves his brother.

"Why didn't I go home with her, again?" He asks, a cheeky grin still on his face.

"Because I stopped you. Honestly, can't you keep it in your pants, man? We're working on a case, and..." Sam pauses,

"Wait a minute... "

"What?"

"...She also disappeared."

"Well everyone did, pretty suddenly too," Dean says.

"No, but it was right after she showed Eva to the bathroom," His eyes meeting his brother's.

"Shit," They say in unison.

Eva walks along the sidewalk, just a few blocks from the hospital.

The night sky seemed to have clouded up. She couldn't see very many stars nor the illumination of the moon, it was murky and dark. Downtown Willow wasn't that busy it seemed. It also wasn't that much...different.

In fact, it wasn't different at all, give or take the old cars; stores that would be replaced in the near future; odd advertisements. But besides all that, it was still her home town. It made her stomach twist at the strange familiarity because it wasn't quite right. Like in a dream where it resembles your home but... it's all wrong.

It only makes her wonder, is her house still there? Is some other family living in it? God, she couldn't bear to see that. Or, what if it's torn down? What if it's some apartment complex? She shivers at the thoughts. The last thing she wants is to have a breakdown in the middle of the street.

She was feeling something in between fury and exhaustion. She was pissed at the boys for ditching her--how the hell was she supposed to find them on her own? They left her nothing, absolutely nothing. But, on some level, she was so damn tired, she didn't even have the energy to get that angry. There was something else she couldn't quite put her finger on. She felt, well, weird. She wasn't really sure what it was.

She looks down the street to see a 24-hour Convenience store. The 'Open' sign glowing blue and red, standing out in the dark street. She doesn't have money, but she does need help. Doesn't matter if it's from a corner store. She shakes her thoughts of home away. Putting her legs in motion towards the end of the street.

Still in her nurse scrubs, she enters the store. The little bell rings when it opens. The small shop wasn't very busy. She saw maybe only one or two people in there, buying beers or cigarettes.

She went to the back of the store, mindlessly wandering the isles. She needed to distract herself. Sure, she wanted help, but she wasn't just going to ask anybody. She was planning to wait until someone who looks trustworthy comes in, not just a late-night drunk.

Plus, she wanted to gather herself a bit first. She didn't want to break down in tears in front of some stranger. Crying combined with the scrubs...they might assume she escaped from a psych ward. That would be a nightmare.

The shelves were packed with endless amounts of chips, pretzels, sodas, candy--- all the junk food, essentially.

Eva feels her stomach growl. But, she hasn't got a single dollar. She stares at all the foods stacked upon the shelves, her desire growing--- like that point when you get so hungry, your stomach starts to hurt.

"You lost, baby?"

The voice was deep, gurgly sounding. Just hearing him sent shivers down her spine. Detest gorging her mind. 'Not this,' she shuts her eyes. She thought having a breakdown was the last thing she wanted but, oh boy, she's changed her mind. The dear to God last thing she wants is to deal with is some desperate pervert.

When she opens them to reluctantly identify the man standing next to her, she regrets it. Making eye contact with him only made him smile. In some ridiculous irrationality that made him think, he's struck gold.

"No, but thank you, sir," She says.

She grits her teeth so hard, trying her best not to cuss at him, trying to remain polite. But, honestly, when has that ever worked?

He mistakes her niceness as a sign of flirtation. She sees it straight away in his eyes when he doesn't move away, doesn't blink, only becomes more engaged.

He's well over his 50's, and as he got closer his breath smelled like cheap booze and unbrushed teeth. She stepped away from him, turning around very dramatically, hoping he'd leave her alone. The smell of disgusting, bad hygiene stinging her nose.

Then again, did she really expect that to work?

She groans when he follows her, "You want me to buy you some drinks? Cause I can do that, sweetheart. I can show you a real good time," He calls desperately to her.

When she keeps trying to ignore his words and walk away, his grimy, sweaty hand latches on to her arm.

"Seems like somebody's got an attitude problem. Can't even turn around and say a 'thank you'?"

She turns. Her body rotating like a rusted screw. Her neck moving so eerily stiff, so slowly, that when she met his face, his smile dropped. She narrows her eyes, clenching her jaw hard enough to fracture it.

"I said, no thank you," She repeats through gritted teeth, "Touch me again, I call the damn police." She shoves his nasty hand off of her and turns back around.

"Bitch," He calls out, before walking away.

Her body was pulsing, both with anger and pain. She just escaped a damn hospital and now she had to put up with this sicko? At this point, she really began to feel the rage for being abandoned. Sure, the voice in the back of her mind suggests that they may have been in danger or that they were trying to keep her safe--but, she shuts that little voice up.

There's nothing she despises more than being left alone. She's without safety, without family. She has to defend herself against a gross drunk. She had to break out of the hospital by herself.

And the thought crosses her mind for a second, why even go back to those dicks? But--she can't just go anywhere, it's not safe. Besides, they're her only chance of getting back home. All of a sudden, she feels the fatigue hitting her a little stronger than before.

She hurries through a few aisles, before realizing she doesn't have anybody around her, literally. She makes her way to the register, approaching it.

Behind the desk stands a relatively friendly-looking man. He seemed to be in his mid-twenties, nothing creepy about his smile or his gaze. Just a cashier doing his job.

"Excuse me?" She asks. He looks up from whatever he writing down.

"Oh," His eyes soften, "Is that man still bothering you, I can kick him out if you want."

She smiles at his offer, a breath of fresh air. Based on his nice demeanor, she prays he'll help her out.

"Thank you, but actually I was wondering about something else."

"Sure," He answers, "What is it?"

"I don't have any money with me, and I need to call my--er, brothers, would you let me use your phone?"

"Yeah, no problem," He pulls out his silver flip-phone from his back pocket and extends it over to her.

"One more thing, sorry to ask, do you have a phone book?"

He nods his head, bending down beneath the counter and pulling the yellow-paged book out. He places it in front of her.

She flips it open, searching for Motels,--this 'Lotus Motel' on Semple.

Little Bed & Breakfast

Loaf and Tin Inn

Lot 48

Louis Trackman Hotel

Lotus Motel

"Finally," She whispers. She carefully drags her finger across the dotted line toward the number. She flips open the phone, looking at the time: 2:00 am. She quickly clicks the number into the phone's keypad.

She places it up to her ear as it rings. It rings again, again--- again.

"-Hello, Lotus Motel! Would you like to book a room?" The voice answers.

"Uh-No, actually, I'm looking for my uh- brothers," She rolls eyes at the stuttering, trying to pull herself together, "They checked into a room, and I can't remember the number. They're both tall, Sam is the taller one with longer hair and Dean is shorter with short hair, please- if you could tell me."

"Sure, ma'am just give me a second," He pauses, placing the phone down. She taps her fingers nervously, wanting to reach for her lost necklace.

"-Okay, it says here they're staying in room 29. Will that be all?"

"Yes sir, thank you," She ends the call. Eva hands the phone back to the owner who was only standing about a foot away from her.

"Get what you need?" He asks.

"Sort of, now I need a ride. Don't really wanna be walking the streets by myself this late."

She looks back to the window, seeing the darkness, the danger. That man in the store was just the beginning of it. Once you're outside at night, alone, female-- they don't care if you scream or yell, they'll attack you regardless.

"Here, take some bus fare," He opens the register, pulling out 2 bucks. He hands it to her.

"You really don't have to," She feels bad, not wanting to take his money. She needs it of course, but this man was already nice to her, now helping her even more.

"No, take it, you need it."

She looks up to his face. His eyes were sincere, he knew what was out there, and most of all she was only 18. He could see she was just a kid.

She takes it, gratefully smiling to him, "Thank you so much, sir. I'll pay you back for this."

And with that, she hops on a bus, straight to Semple street. In approximately 40 minutes, she'll be whooping some Winchester ass.

"That's exactly what I've been saying, Dean," Sam shakes his head, "There's a reason this thing is hunting her, she has to have been marked in some way."

"What if it has to do with her blood? Her parents maybe," Sam suggests.

"No, no," Dean, gets up from his seat, "Then this thing would've been after them, attacked Mom or Dad, not her."

"Then it has to do with that necklace, that has to be the target."

Dean nods, "This thing must be connected to it, maybe some Ancient Spell."

"Wait," Sam stands up, walking over to his laptop and flinging it open, "Like the Hope Diamond...?"

"Hm," Dean tilts his head, "Whenever you lose possession of it, you die,"

"It's just weird...why did she hear footsteps that night? It doesn't match up with the lore."

"Yeah, and neither does the time-travel, Sammy,"

"We're missing something," Sam sighs, putting his head in his hands. He looks to his watch, reading: 2:40 am.

"Okay, let's start over," Dean suggests, "Her friend goes missing."

"Could be anything, ghost, Demon," He snorts, mumbling, "Hell, a Wendigo."

"Well if it was connected to Eva's necklace, to her attack, what options does that leave us?"

Sam tilts his head, intrigued by the thought. They both think in scribbles, trying to make some sort of relationship between the attacks.

"We know that the necklace dropped from her body that night-- like it triggered the attack. We know that when she lost it at the diner, she was attacked again."

"But that time we didn't hear any footsteps," Dean replies.

"Well, what if that night someone was trying to save her?"

This idea causes both of them to turn silent. Their brains soaring up into a frenzy of thoughts. They were thinking about how realistic that was. And if somebody actually was trying to help her, who the hell was it? That would explain why she heard footsteps running after her. Was that the reason she ended up in 2005---did this person send her here to save her life?

"What would even have the power to do that?" Sam whispers.

"I'm not so sure that this case is just about a cursed object anymore. We've got something bigger on our hands."

"If any of this is true, whoever was protecting her before isn't here now. I mean, she nearly died, Dean."

"Wait a minute," Dean sits up, his eyes alarmed, "If we know Marlene must've swiped the necklace at the diner, Eva's bound to get attacked again,"

There's a knock on their door that startles the both of them.

Dean's hunter instincts kick in. Both of their bodies freeze. They know pretty damn well it's not housekeeping.

Having been hunters their entire life, they know it's always something bad. They've learned to expect the worst. John Winchester, unfortunately, made many enemies. They grab their pistols, holding them up. Dean slowly inches toward the door, keeping the gun pointed.

There's a loud knock again.

"Who is it?" He demands.

His voice low, his arms still as a statue. He was prepared for anything. Demon, ghoul, skin-walker, you name it.

"It's Eva! Now open the damn door!" She yells.

Sam and Dean look at each other, 'Eva? How did she get here?' The voice was certainly recognizable, but they couldn't trust that. There are about a dozen things that can not only mimic voices but also take on her appearance. Besides, she should be in the hospital.

"Should I open it?" Sam whispers to Dean.

He nods, gesturing his pistol, for him to move forward.

Sam unlocks the door. His mammoth hand slowly pulling it open to reveal a girl. A girl who looked exactly like Eva. Sam tilts his head, his posture relaxing for a moment as he recognizes her. But, his face is washed with confusion.

"Eva?" He asks.

Dean doesn't lower his gun, "Sam, Holy Water,"

"C'mon it's clearly h-"

"-Holy Water Now!" He says raising his voice.

Sam rummages through his pockets, pulling out a little black flask. He unscrews the top,

"Did you guys seriously just leave me at a--" A splash of water hits her face.

"--What the Hell was that for?" She shrieks. Her hands, shaking with anger, come up to harshly wipe her face.

Dean lowers his gun, seeing no black eyes and no smoke. He opens his mouth to speak- but she stops him.

"--You two give me one good reason why I should still trust you after abandoning me like that!"

"Uh- well, Dean and I had to--"

"--Had to what? Do research? You couldn't do that with me in the room? Are you serious?"

"It was Dean's idea!" Sam adverts the blame.

Immediately, her face twitches, and she turns to the elder Winchester. Her eyes boring right through his wide ones.

"Look, I'm sorry okay? But, we had to figure out what this thing was, and that Doctor from before could've seen us and we would've been busted, kid!"

"Yeah, well imagine what would've happened if he saw me. I'd be locked up in an Asylum!"

"Probably Prison, considering it looks like you impersonated a Nurse," Dean eyes her up and down.

"Ugh! You don't know how close I was to getting caught! It was terrifying," She exclaims.

"Why did you come here if you're so pissed at us?"

"Dean," Sam shoves him.

"What? I can't ask a question?" Besides, it's what we're all thinking, he thinks to himself.

"Where else do I have to go? You guys told me you were going to help me find my family again, and that you'd keep me safe," Her voice falling to a whisper, "I trusted you guys."

"We're so sorry, Eva." Sam steps closer to her.

He gently ushers her inside and softly closes the door.

"This case is getting to our heads, we've never had such a confusing one," Dean admits, "Even after hours of research, we barely have anything."

"I know, it's scaring me too."

She moves some of the papers sprawled out on the bed and sits down. She sighs heavily, thinking about how her fear got the best of her. She didn't want to freak out on them, she felt bad about yelling. All she wanted was a sense of security.

She needed to know that she was going to find her family again and that her life isn't hopeless. But, the longer she thinks on it---in this completely different world--- she feels she might not ever be able to see them again.

"We'll figure this out, kid. Even if we can't gank this psycho, we can do our best to keep you safe," Dean places a hand on her shoulder. She places her fragile one on top of it.

"Jeez, your hands are freezing," He comments.

"Well yeah, it's like 30 out there, and I'm wearing scrubs."

"Speaking of that, do you have your real clothes?" Sam asks.

"Nope. They weren't in my room, and I had to get out of there before someone saw me."

"So...you're not wearing any underwear?"

"Seriously, Dean?" Sam groans.

"It's a joke, Sammy!" He grins, but his brother continues to glare, "Relax, 's just tryna lighten the mood a little."

She wants to laugh, but she can't really conjure up enough energy. She thought that if she found the boys, she'd finally feel safe enough to lie down. But, her brain won't stop the constant ache of sorrow. Her body feels incredibly raw, pushed to its limits. She remains tense, sitting stiffly on the mattress.

"Where'd you get the money to buy a pack of cigs?" Dean asks.

His eyes falling to her right hand, clutching the life-saving gift to her chest.

"I didn't. A stranger gave them to me. It's the only thing that saved me from being caught."

They notice the sad look in her eye. With their job, it's important to be observant. They need to be able to find the smallest clues, indications in order to track down creatures. Though, it's not something they can really turn off. All they can feel is pity. They really did leave her to fend for herself.

Eva's fingers start to unbearably cramp. She lowers both arms to her lap, gently cradling them. She can feel the rawness of the flesh, her bones and muscles were not yet healed. Throwing away those splints was vital, but now she really wishes she had them.

"Got any ice?"

Sam and Dean's eyes immediately fly to her arms. They were red and tender.

"What happened to your bandages?" Sam asks. She was covered in them when they were at the diner, and he's sure after the second attack she'd have even more.

"I had to take them off."

"Well you're dedicated, I'll give you that," Dean comments.

She only hums in agreement, her head still facing her lap.

Dean turns to his little brother, "I got the bandages, you get the ice."

They both stand up and scurry around the cluttered room. Eva tries to focus on something other than her hysteric mind. She can only hear the sounds of the boys moving around the room, stepping awkwardly to avoid the scattered papers and books.

She could hear faintly through the walls to the other rooms. A muffled television program, a few car engines, some murmuring voices down the hall-- it wasn't much, but it was something.

She gets sucked into her own head, wondering why she must feel so weird. It's probably because of walking through Willow while being in the past, that's weird, right? She feels her stomach twist, knowing deep down that something else was a little off. Must be that damn necklace.

Sam softly treads back to the bed she's sitting on. He holds a sock filled with ice, a thick knot at the end of it to prevent spilling.

"Here," He places the ice gently down onto her arms, "Sorry, it's all we had."

She exhales sharply when the cold object touches her tender skin.

"Thanks," She shudders.

Sam sees her hunching over in pain, and probably exhaustion too. She's sitting at the foot of the bed, due to the fact that it's the only clear space. He moves behind her. His large hands gathering all the loose papers and books and shoving them to the side. He makes a clear space for her by the pillows.

He props a few of them up against the headboard, fluffing them.

"Here," He nudges her.

She turns slowly, not wanting to strain anything. When she notices the empty space, presumably prepared for her, she smiles.

At this close proximity, she could smell the scent of his cologne. It was subtle and light, not like those overpowering ones people drown themselves in at the club. It was soft and smelled like something clean and woodsy.

He pulls back some of the covers before patting down the pillow one more time. She then pauses for a moment--trying to calculate how exactly she's going to get over there. Her body feels like it's going to shatter if she moves even in the slightest.

Though, she's embarrassed to ask for his help again. He sees her hesitation and before he can offer her some assistance, Dean pops back up.

He's holding quite a lot more than bandages. She sees a first aid box, some booze, a couple used slings.

"Before you left, did the doctors tell you what your injuries were?"

"I need to know what I'm stitching up," He adds.

She straightens her back, that's right, "They actually said I was...okay."

Dean and Sam both cock their heads at her. Their eyes nearly about to pop out of their sockets. What the hell was she talking about? She was practically dead the last time they saw her.

"You're...okay?" Sam gawks at her, "You're not serious, are you?"

"You were dead as a doornail, kid. No way you're fine."

"Really? I mean, I still have all my broken bones and stitches from before, but--"

"Nothing from the diner?" Sam interrupts.

"No...actually."

Both of the boys look to each other. This didn't add up.

"God...this thing, whatever the hell it is, just keeps getting more and more confusing," Sam groans.

All of a sudden they hear a voice. But not from a person outside the room. It was a radio voice--- the Police Scanner.

"Uh- we've got a 10-35."

"10-20?"

" 16 Mason and Carter."

Another voice responds, "10-101?"

"10-106. We're gonna need the Medical Examiner"

"10-4"

"What was that?" Eva asks.

"Major crime alert, a homicide," Dean answers.

Sam goes over to the radio, about to turn it off--

"Victim...Marlene Woods."

HOPE YOU ENJOYED! Let me know what you guys think xoxo 💋

#Sam Winchester #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural imagine #dean winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #sam winchester fanfiction #dean winchester imagine #sam winchester imagine #eventual smut

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hexiva · 4 years

Text

Book Reviews

I’m getting back into reading fantasy, getting a bunch of random books out of the library if they look good. I thought I’d post my thoughts on them.

The Tiger at Midnight, by Swati Teerdhala Inspired by the culture of ancient India and Hindu mythology, The Tiger at Midnight by Swati Teerdhala features a cat-and-mouse game of deception and thrills between a rebel assassin and the reluctant young soldier tasked to bring her to justice.

Just finished this one. There were definitely times when I thought I was just going to stop and take it back to the library unread. It’s by no means a terrible book, but in many ways it feels too much like every other YA book I’ve read. I really like the concept of the central romance: it’s an enemy romance, which I love, the characters have a pretty equal power dynamic, and there’s no gross abuse stuff to put me off. It also felt like a gender-reversal of the typical YA dynamics - Esha is like the dark, handsome, conflicted romance hero, and Kunal is like the sweet, repressed heroine. I liked that, and I really liked Esha as a character. Kunal was by no means unsympathetic either. But the relationship between the two of them, which was central to the book, felt really under developed. The narrative informs us that they feel something for each other very early on, when they’ve barely spoken, and continues informing us of their feelings, but I kept wondering . . . why? There were a couple of points where there was a line like “It’s strange that I feel so strongly for him given we barely know each other!” and I feel like, when you find yourself writing a line like that, you should sit back and think a bit about why you felt the need to point this out. It felt like there were opportunities for them to be pushed together and bond, and the book didn’t really capitalize on them - or, rather, acted as if they’d already been pushed together. It felt like it was missing a key moment early on in the book where they bond. There’s a reveal halfway through the book (pg 300 out of 500) that they knew each other as children, but it’s too little too late.

5/10. I’m thinking of picking up her next book because I feel like there’s a lot of potential here and I’d like to read a more polished version of this book.

Akata Warrior, by Nnedi Okorafor A year ago, Sunny Nwazue, an American-born girl Nigerian girl, was inducted into the secret Leopard Society. As she began to develop her magical powers, Sunny learned that she had been chosen to lead a dangerous mission to avert an apocalypse, brought about by the terrifying masquerade, Ekwensu. Now, stronger, feistier, and a bit older, Sunny is studying with her mentor Sugar Cream and struggling to unlock the secrets in her strange Nsibidi book.

Awhile back, I was at SDCC, and I walked by a publisher’s booth, and they handed me the first book in this series, for free! They just gave me a whole book for free! I’ve had this happen before at cons, but it’s usually self-published stuff, or spin-off books of dubious quality. But this is a book that’s perfectly relevant to my interests, a YA fantasy novel with an exciting new setting, and they just gave it to me! What a wonderful thing to have happen.

Anyway, I was hooked, and I got the next book in the series out of the library. I loved it. The woman at the publisher’s booth told me this was “Nigerian Harry Potter,” and I definitely got Harry Potter vibes from it. It honestly took me back to my days reading the original HP books in a way none of JK Rowling’s subsequent books (or the movies) have been able to do. That’s not to say it’s a copy, or anything - this series is way more eager to dig into the big, magical mythical stuff that HP mostly only hinted at, and is conversely much more willing to spend time in the real world and discuss real-world issues. It’s . . . really really good.

Also, as a personal bonus for me, there are multiple cool magical creatures which are arthropods - mythical spiders, cool magic wasps, I just love it.

9/10. My mom stopped reading it halfway through saying “As I get older, I’ve had less patience for books that aren’t very good.” But then again, she never liked Harry Potter as much as I did either, so maybe she just doesn’t get our generation.

Click more for reviews of We Hunt the Flame, Bloodwitch, and The Throne of the Crescent Moon

We Hunt the Flame, by Hafsah Faizal Zafira is the Hunter, disguising herself as a man when she braves the cursed forest of the Arz to feed her people. Nasir is the Prince of Death, assassinating those foolish enough to defy his autocratic father, the king. If Zafira was exposed as a girl, all of her achievements would be rejected; if Nasir displayed his compassion, his father would punish him in the most brutal of ways.

I really wanted to like this book. I’ve been reading a lot of Middle-Eastern history and the thought of a fantasy inspired by that is 100% my jam. But this book is just . . . not that good. It’s not offensively bad, it just feels like the first draft of another, better book. I actually did not finish this book. I gave up and took it back to the library.

The main romance feels very predictable, and honestly, it was giving me big Reylo fanfic vibes. The exposition, of which there is massive amounts, is clumsily delivered. It feels like it ought to be the second book in a series, because there are so many past events being explained all the time.

The one thing I kinda liked was the bits of Arabic in the book, and the choice to not exposit the Arabic bits on top of the fantasy bits. And I learned a new Arabic word from this book! That’s a positive.

3/10. Wish they’d spent more time on the editing.

Bloodwitch, by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes (and its sequel, Bloodkin) Vance Ehecatl was raised with every luxury he could imagine in a beautiful greenhouse within the powerful empire of Midnight. Vampires are the only guardians Vance has ever known since he was abandoned by his shapeshifter family as a baby quetzal, and he is grateful to them for generously providing for all of his needs. When an act of violence forces Vance from his sheltered home, he is startled to meet Malachi Obsidian, a fellow shapeshifter with conflicting ideas about Midnight and its leader, Mistress Jeshickah.

This is a new book from an author I loved as a child. Atwater-Rhodes published her first book at 14, when I was four, and I came across her books when I was 11ish and first learning to write. Her book Hawksong was the first romance story I really enjoyed, and its sequel Wolfcry was one of the first times I ever encountered a queer romance in a fantasy novel, at a time I was starting to wonder whether I was queer.

This book still caught the same interest I had in her books all those years ago. Bloodwitch is set in the same world as Hawksong, but centuries later. Personally, I would have preferred a book set in the same timeline, but it was still great to return to this world and its conflicts and magic.

With that said, it wasn’t perfect, and this wasn’t one of those times where I returned to an old favorite author and was like “Oh my god, I never appreciated what a genius she was when I was a stupid kid!” I was particularly struck by Vance’s character arc in the first book, which felt uneven. Vance is raised by the villains, and believes they’re the good guys initially. And then, early in the book, one of them kills his friend in cold blood, shouts at him, tries to kill him, and chases him out of their stronghold. And then . . . he goes back to them, and there’s ANOTHER, separate moment where he suddenly realizes they don’t care about him and turns on them. I really didn’t understand why that first moment didn’t shake his loyalty, but the second one did.

I was also kind of disappointed by the lack of queer characters. A lot of my favorite straight authors, when I checked back in on their work in 2019, have included queer representation, and because I knew that Atwater-Rhodes is herself queer, I was really hoping for some of That Gay Shit.

7/10. Give me that gay shit, Atwater-Rhodes, I know you’re holding out on me.

The Throne of the Crescent Moon, by Saladin Ahmed The Crescent Moon Kingdoms, home to djenn and ghuls, holy warriors and heretics, are at the boiling point of a power struggle between the iron-fisted Khalif and the mysterious master thief known as the Falcon Prince. In the midst of this brewing rebellion a series of brutal supernatural murders strikes at the heart of the Kingdoms. It is up to a handful of heroes to learn the truth behind these killings.

This, this was the book I wanted when I picked up We Hunt the Flame. This is the quality content I want in my fantasy novel. I fell in love with the main character, Adoulla, almost immediately, and I was terrified he was going to die. I just love this prissy, hedonistic, idealistic, middle-aged, fat hero so much, and I will RIOT if Ahmed kills him off.

I liked the other older characters in this book a lot too. Ahmed clearly has a knack for making cool characters. Dawoud and Litaz are cranky old ex-adventurers. Adoulla’s love interest is a middle-aged sex worker who really wants him to commit and marry her or fuck off, and I am so rooting for them, I want them to live happily ever after, they deserve that.

The treatment of sex work and sex worker characters in this book is also a major plus. There’s a lot of moral ambiguity in this book, where I’m not sure which character we’re supposed to believe, but the one issue the book takes a firm stance on is DON’T BE AN ASSHOLE TO SEX WORKERS, THEY ARE PEOPLE TOO. This book is written by a man and is not the kind of feminist fantasy I read a lot of (like We Hunt the Flame and The Tiger at Midnight are) so I was pleasantly surprised by this strong pro-sex worker’s rights message.

On the downside, I did feel like the younger characters were less interesting than the older characters. They still felt like colorful, detailed characters drawn with a skillful hand, but they also felt much closer to the kind of characters you usually see front and center in a fantasy novel. What I loved about Adoulla and company is that you don’t often see fantasy heroes who are fat and old and tired. The romance between the two younger heroes is competently drawn and believable but I did find myself wishing the camera would pan away from them and go back to the cool characters.

Other notes:

I found out that Saladin Ahmed is a Marvel Comics writer and is writing a comic about my favorite superhero, Ms Marvel, and I couldn’t be happier with that news.

I was certain, reading this book, that Ahmed plays D&D and that this book was inspired by D&D, and HA, CALLED IT. My nerd-dar is ON POINT.

9/10. Adoulla is my dad now, no take-backsies.

#throne of the crescent moon #saladin ahmed #akata witch #nnedi okorafor #book reviews #hmu if ur a fan of Throne of the Crescent Moon too #@mr ahmed I NEED THE NEXT BOOK #I kno ur busy writing Ms Marvel but PLS

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justjensenanddean · 6 years

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When I worked on Dark Angel I created a character, one of Max's missing siblings, who as a child was the mythmaker of the group. He kept them from losing faith in themselves by telling stories in the darkness of the dormitory, stories with heroes and spirits and demons, and now that Max is all grown up and the group is scattered and in hiding, she finds that people are being murdered according to the mythological details of those childhood stories. Her beloved storyteller has grown into a serial killer. This was a tough role to cast. You needed someone you could believe was a genetically engineered human; who could, when necessary, radiate both intelligence and menace; who could be scary one minute, and who could give you a lump in the throat the next from his sheer vulnerability when he admits to Max that he's broken and begs her to kill him. I sat in casting as actor after actor came in. It was one of those evenings when you listen to the words of the script and wonder how they can sound this horrifyingly bad -- dear god, am I truly that wretched a writer? Then Mr. Ackles walked in. The first scene involved his character sitting handcuffed as he tries to convince Max to let him go. It was tonally challenging, because although he's cuffed, you have to have the impression he's extremely dangerous -- that in fact just listening to him is dangerous because he'll screw with you psychologically. "Mind if I sit on the floor?" he asked calmly, in the voice of one who's worked it all out ahead of time. He put his arms behind his back, did that scene, and wow. Young Hannibal Lecter, hello! Then he did the death scene, made my eyes tear up, walked calmly out, and we looked at each other. This was exactly the character I'd envisioned. It was clear to me that if anybody else got this role, I would have to commit ritual suicide. Fortunately everyone else wanted him -- except one highly placed producer. Now, although Hollywood as an entity has issues with women, my personal experience on writing staffs has been almost uniformly positive. This producer happened to be an extremely rare exception -- and it's not that he was in any way meanspirited; he was a perfectly nice guy, kind and gentle, but sometimes your head snapped back just listening to him. He was upset by the fact that the people in casting that night had been mostly women; that we all liked Jensen Ackles; and that he was a good-looking actor. Because, clearly, that must be what was influencing us. "Something very disturbing was going on in that room," he insisted. Leaving his opinion of our emotionality aside, I asked what his issues were with Ackles -- hadn't that been a terrific reading? He admitted the reading was fine, but -- "He doesn't have muscles." "What?" "He doesn't have muscles, he doesn't look like a soldier. If he was genetically designed to be a soldier, wouldn't they make him strong?" My head spun for a moment. I said, "Our heroine is Jessica Alba." And yes, she'd worked out pretty hard for this role, but she was still a slender-looking, gorgeous young woman, who was usually shorter and much lighter than the men we regularly showed her throwing around with such abandon. I said, "Clearly whatever genetic manipulation was going on involves strength that's not determined by the sheer volume of the muscle." I'd reached this conclusion the moment I saw the pilot, and thought it was unarguable, given what we'd been portraying on screen for the past season. But he had a reply to that: "She's a girl," he said -- clearly bewildered that I would even bring this up. Sigh. But the angels smiled for a moment, Jensen Ackles got the role, and though my script was rewritten it did still retain a certain amount of what I'd been going for. The direction was tight, the acting full-throttle, and the episode was so well-received that the series was sold for a second year on the idea of "more like this!" I, however, had moved on to Smallville the following year. There, we discussed casting for one of the early guest roles. "Jensen Ackles!" I said. The executive producers went away, returned, and I was told with compassion, "I'm sorry, Doris. He's just been booked for the year." "Really? Where?" "Dark Angel." Yes. The producer who'd been so opposed to him? After seeing his work in that episode, he hired Jensen as a regular. And apparently he also made him bulk up -- because boys need muscle. I said, "But we killed him!" "He's back as a clone." Damn you, science fiction, and your wicked genre ways! Someday, Jensen Ackles, I muttered. Time passed and I found myself on the second season of Tru Calling. We had a character, a medical student, whom we first meet as a sort of golden boy -- a nice guy, funny, the sort who tries to do the right thing. Brilliant, but with some self-esteem issues that have kept him from his full potential. Tru and he become friends, and as time passes, they start to become more deeply involved. Then, partway through the season, he dies; and Tru, who's had enough of death, resolves to stay awake until someone somewhere asks for help and her day rewinds -- thereby allowing her to save Jensen as well. (Yes, shockingly, he ended up with the name Jensen. I think it was my sheer repetition doing subconscious work.) I'm going to quote here from an earlier post: ============== But Jensen's soul is already committed -- it can't return, but his body, memories, and the habits of his personality continue after the time he "died." The idea was that over the course of the arc we would gradually see anomalies of character develop -- unsettling moments, as the imprint of Jensen's personality disintegrates, at the same time it becomes fascinated with death, in an almost wistful way. This would be pretty damned creepy, coming as it does alongside Tru's growing physical intimacy with him. Jane Espenson wrote a beautifully disturbing scene that I'm sorry you'll never get a chance to see -- on one level, it's just Tru and Jensen talking on the sofa during a movie, and on another level, oooooh. As the arc plays out, we hear the jarring comments he'll occasionally make, the way the things that used to mean something to him -- like his need for his father's respect -- are just no longer vulnerabilities. We see scenes that suggest a growing involvement with violence, in an unsettling but ambiguous way, so Tru can't be sure it's there or not. Till one morning Tru wakes in bed with Jensen and goes about her day, which rewinds over the murder of Jensen's father. Just before the rewind she learns that not only did Jensen do it, he's been behind a string of recent killings (born of his fascination with learning about the thing he's apparently been barred from -- i.e., death). She rewinds -- and wakes up in bed next to him, knowing now that he's a monster. And that she created him. This was once a young man who won her with his generosity and understanding, his good humor and sweetness. He's still bright, he's still clever, there's no evidence against him. And he'll be creating a lot more victims, starting on this rewind day with his father -- unless she takes the responsibility for putting an end to him. So she finally turns to the person with experience in ending people's lives: Jack. =============== Now, obviously this was going to be the kind of role where you can't count on a pretty face to pull you through. (And sometimes there's pressure to go with a pretty face, even when the necessary screen power is not behind it. This doesn't make sense, because it means the audience will never spark to that role the way they should, but sometimes executives think the fact they can promote the show using a particular actor's name makes up for that. The unfortunate truth that you can get people to watch once, just long enough to drive them away permanently if the goods aren't there, doesn't always sway the decisionmakers.) We needed someone who could say long words as though they know what those words mean -- and I'm not being sarcastic here; that's harder than you think. But someone who could also be funny. And sweet. And boy-next-door. Oh, and also turn on a dime and scare the beejeezus out of you. "Jensen Ackles!" I said, pretty much every time the subject of casting came up. But the process ground on a bit slower than we anticipated, and one day I was informed -- again, with compassion -- "We're too late; he's booked elsewhere." I asked where. "Smallville," they said.Smallville? Those bastards, how dare they listen to me? Who told them to respect my opinion? This was clearly my fate -- to make so much noise about Jensen Ackles at any show I'm on that they'll grab him first chance they get, which will inevitably be when I'm at my next show trying to get him. One of the writers, hearing this news, turned to me and asked, "Are you solely responsible for this guy's career?" The answer to that would be no. Clearly he doesn't need my help, but you have to admit that the aura of Ackles doom I bring to each production is amusing, at least. At the time I said to myself, sour-grapes fashion, "Well, I hope that Smallville role is as interesting and layered as this one will be," and went on with life. As it turned out, we were fortunate at Tru. Eric Christian Olsen took on the role, and it was clear from the very first look at his reel that we were in safe hands. (In fact, when I first saw his work I had that sense of awe I always feel in the presence of good acting, because it is so very much something I cannot do. Really, I have no idea what button actors push to suddenly convey, "This is real," but I know it when I see it, the way Robert Graves says you know a true poem when you hear one. Recently I was talking with a medical consultant and mentioned that I'd just come out of a read-through of a script. "It's always cool to hear the script at a read-through," I said. "Why?" he asked. I was surprised at the question. "Because they do that magic actor thing," I said. Why else?) In any case, I'm sorry you never got to see the character's turnaround, because I have no doubt he would have been compelling. And as it turns out, since the show was cancelled mid-season, maybe Smallville was the better bet after all. And now I'm at House, and surrounded by such talent that it would be the height of ungraciousness to do more than note that Mr. Ackles has a show of his own this coming season. And while it's not mine, I'm forced to admit that that might not stop it from being, well... good.

[ Doris Egan, Posted on 2005.08.18 ]

#Jensen Ackles #Dark Angel #X5 493 #Pollo Loco #Jensen's Acting #Jensen Love #Ben #*#this is really nice #<3

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pass-the-bechdel · 6 years

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Marvel Cinematic Universe: Thor (2011)

Does it pass the Bechdel Test?

Yes, three times.

How many female characters (with names and lines) are there?

Three (21.42% of cast).

How many male characters (with names and lines) are there?

Eleven.

Positive Content Rating:

Three.

General Film Quality:

The fun:boring ratio tilts considerably depending on audience mood and/or desire for originality; the majority of the story is generic in the extreme and can be tedious as a result, however those elements which are more unusual and intriguing arguably save the overall product.

MORE INFO (and potential spoilers) UNDER THE CUT:

Passing the Bechdel:

Darcy asks Jane if she can turn on the radio. Jane tells Darcy to drive into the anomaly. Jane tells Darcy to stop talking about her iPod.

Female characters:

Jane Foster.

Darcy Lewis.

Sif.

Male characters:

Eric Selvig.

Odin.

Loki.

Thor.

Fandral.

Hogun.

Volstagg.

Heimdall.

Laufey.

Phil Coulson.

Clint Barton.

OTHER NOTES:

“But I supported you, Sif.” Good to know that Thor supports non-traditional gender roles, despite being such a macho cliche.

I’m really very concerned by Jane’s driving. Someone revoke her licence.

“Son of Coul.”

Heimdall does not get enough credit for being the MVP of Asgard.

Loki’s suggestion that maybe he’ll pay Jane a visit himself is clearly intended to goad Thor into fighting him and as such need not be taken seriously, but it’s still totally uncool. Of all the goading methods he could have used, we really didn’t need to go for the implied rape threat.

I thought they might manage a Bechdel pass between someone other than Jane and Darcy for a moment there at the end of the movie, but Frigga doesn’t actually get referred to by name in this movie, and she and Sif only talk about Thor anyway. Disappoint on both counts. I kinda also thought Jane and Darcy might do some more/better passing in general; it’s better than nothing, but the three passes they got were pretty freakin’ weak.

When it comes to uninspired, generic origin stories, this movie kinda makes Iron Man look like an innovative goldmine by comparison. ‘Arrogant man takes a humble, learns to value his power and earns it back through selflessness’, it’s...been done. A lot. And while Chris Hemsworth’s Thor is watchable and not without charm, he’s not an especially charismatic actor and the predictable arc of his character doesn’t offer much scope to impress, while the typically-excellent Natalie Portman suffers a similarly bland fate with prescription-love-interest Jane Foster. The chemistry between the two is pretty nonexistent, and frankly it’s easier to believe that Jane is a slightly-amoral scientist essentially using Thor for her own gain, rather than buying that she’s becoming genuinely enamoured. If the film had leaned into the idea of Jane Foster: Amoral Scientist a little stronger, they could have built a more interesting (though less comfortable) narrative and perhaps even a more believable romance as the two bond over their shared moral learning curve. But, that would require Jane’s character to be more of a priority beyond finding excuses for her to be in Thor’s presence and develop ~feelings~, so. Not shocked they failed to deliver there.

Pretty much every person who has ever seen this movie (and probably some who’ve only read about it) agrees that Tom Hiddleston’s Loki is where the fire’s at, both as an individual character and in terms of the plot he facilitates and inhabits. It’s not hard to understand why: while Thor has his dull human journey in the desert on Earth (the majority of which is spent just going places and talking to Jane and occasionally having a comedic ‘not from around here’ moment), Loki is a trickster God with magic powers living in the mythological land of Asgard and playing out a long con to win both the throne, and his adoptive father’s approval. Anything about the film that is clever or different or interesting, visually engaging, or emotionally poignant, it’s going on in Asgard, in the part of the plot where Thor is absent for the bulk of the film. Unfortunately, Thor’s absence from that thread means that we don’t get to spend nearly as much time enjoying it, and that’s why even the film’s best qualities can’t necessarily save it from the generic trash-pile. It’s easy to reach the end of the film in frustration, wondering how the Hell the strongest elements of the story (Shakespearean tragedy on alien worlds!) wound up as background noise to an unconvincing snooze-fest romance in Nowheresville, USA.

Broken into its component parts, Loki’s story isn’t that unfamiliar either; ‘jealous younger brother vies for older brother’s birthright’ has been done a fair bit (The Lion King being the most well-known example, let’s not kid ourselves), as has the juxtaposition of entitled brat vs scrappy underdog, as has ‘driven mad by envy’ and ‘power corrupts’ and pretty much any other trope being invoked in Loki’s lane. However, it works through 1. Hiddleston’s dynamic performance, 2. any and all majesty/intrigue/gravitas supplied by the setting, and 3. the additional factor of Loki discovering his adoption and true Frost Giant heritage. While it should not be ignored that Loki’s machinations for the throne predate that revelation and therefore it is neither an influence on his overarching ploy nor an excuse for him devising that ploy, Loki’s struggle with learning that his life as he’s known it was built on falsity and the way that complicates his desire to prove himself provides him some all-important nuance and pathos that gives the audience something to latch onto and identify with, even if only as empathetic understanding (one hopes that no one is going so far as to identify with the attempted genocide or the successful patricide; most of us can identify with betrayal/abandonment/daddy issues to some extent or another). Even if his ultimate decisions are plainly reprehensible, Loki’s journey to that point is littered with appreciable miseries, and that makes it an obvious emotional narrative standout compared to Thor’s paint-by-numbers excursion.

The villain narrative being the highlight of a story isn’t entirely unusual (though films in which this is unintentionally so tend also to be poorly conceived), but what’s really unfortunate is that Thor’s character motivations are not second in complexity to Loki’s; the criminally underused Heimdall is actually the next-most nuanced character around (and look at that, he’s also on Asgard and not bore-ing it up on Earth). The thing about Thor’s arc is that it’s not just predictable, it’s not just generic: it’s also barely there. We perceive the arc because we’re so familiar with the trope, but we don’t actually watch Thor learn anything, we don’t see practical signs of the degradation of his arrogance and his transformation into a wise warrior who understands restraint. Beyond causing a ruckus when he first arrives on Earth, Thor really doesn’t display any aggressive entitlement, he settles into pleasantly-strange-fish-out-of-water mode pretty much immediately, and he seems to ‘learn his lesson’ spontaneously after being told that his father is dead. He appears to mourn the implications of his inability to lift Mjolnir more than he is bothered by being told of Odin’s demise and that he can never go home; those latter revelations instead trigger his instantaneous reformation (insofar as he says the words “my father was trying to teach me something only I was too stupid to see it”) and that’s it. Confronting the destroyer and being ‘killed’ by it prompts the return of his Godhood, but refusing to shrink from a fight isn’t a change of pace for the character we saw at the beginning of the film; all in all, there’s no actual clear-cut learning in this process, there’s just a complication-free acceptance of his apparent new state of being, and that means he’s worthy of kingship now? Were they too afraid of making him dislikeable by playing out an excess of arrogance on Earth, so they softened him up immediately and in doing so, downgraded his character arc to just the concept of one rather than an actual presence? If there were more of a distinct process to his experiences on Earth, they’d be less damn boring, because we’d be following an actual story instead of just waiting for them to hit each predictable beat, and maybe they’d also generate some real characterisation of any of the Earth characters while they’re at it (instead, we have completely-useless-to-the-plot-comic-relief Darcy, and surrogate-dad-exposition-master Selvig, comprising the whole of Jane’s illustrious company). Thor’s clutch of friends back home may be a one-dimensional quartet defined almost entirely by their most obvious single descriptors (the female, the Asian, the fat guy, and...Sir Didymus), but at least they have a clear trajectory of plot-relevant motivation, even if they do become inconsequential by the end of it. Yeah, this isn’t a very good movie.

I said at the top that audience mood may be a deciding factor in the success or failure of the film, and I mean that in the sense that this is a movie that may prompt vastly different responses in the same person over different viewings; speaking for myself, I have watched it and been basically entertained and appreciative of the visuals and at least some of the characters and story elements, but I’ve also watched it and been overwhelmingly bored by the trite predictability and the flat characterisation of most of the players, and unimpressed by the soft-focus CGI of Asgard. Caught in the right mood, Thor’s inexplicable laid-back Earth persona can hit just the right note for casual comfort viewing. Caught in the wrong mood, Loki’s Asgard shenanigans feel over-hyped and not engaging enough to save the movie. Is Jane too bland, or full of shades of untapped character potential? Is Darcy funny, or painfully annoying? Is Heimdall intriguing, or too nebulous to matter? It all comes off very conditional, little of it anchored solidly or fleshed out strongly enough in-text to be considered an absolute. The plot floats, dependent on the aura of various cliches rather than categorically declaring itself in any unequivocal ways. It’s not particularly messy, so at least it has that going for it, but even that is a conditional statement. The film is rarely subtle enough to develop any depth, and the shallow invocations of the idea of a narrative arc lack the conviction necessary to make simplicity a virtue. The end result? I guess the best word for it is ‘forgettable’.

#Thor #MCU #Marvel Cinematic Universe #Bechdel Test #female representation

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pamphletstoinspire · 6 years

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A LANDSCAPE WITH DRAGONS - The Battle for Your Child’s Mind - Part 2

A story written by: Michael D. O’Brien

________

Chapter II

The Shape of Reality — Seeing the True Form

Just a Fairy Story?

Shortly after our children’s exposure to dinosaurs, I began to read fairy tales aloud to them. As they listened over the years, they each heard the story on different levels. Interestingly, sometimes a five-year-old could grasp a subtle point an older sibling had missed, yet it was clear that they were all tapping into the mysterious power of Story. I rummaged through attics, library sales, and used-book stores in search of as much old literature as I could find. I even began to plunder the attics and box-rooms of my own imagination, inventing bedtime stories for them. This strained my imagination somewhat, and some of the stories were better than others, but a little goes a long way in a family. The children began to compose their own as well, and there were nights when bedtime became rather an elaborate affair. Telling “pretend” stories naturally stimulated a flow of accounts of real happenings. The children began to regard the day-to-day events of their fives as the material of their stories. Conversation grew; communication expanded. As we developed into a full-blown storytelling family, I noticed something interesting happening in our children’s play. First of all, they began to find playing more exciting. Also, they acted out the fundamental dramas of the cosmic struggle between good and evil, embellishing and revising them with startling ingenuity. I gradually came to understand the universal love among all peoples for “fairy stories”.

In his masterful essay “On Fairy Stories”,1 J. R. R. Tolkien describes the vital role played by these tales in the cultures of the world. They contain rich spiritual knowledge. The sun may be green and the fish may fly through the air, but however fantastical the imagined world, there is retained in it a faithfulness to the moral order of the actual universe. The metaphors found in the literary characters are not so much random chimeras as they are reflections of our own invisible world, the supernatural. Whether in dreams or conscious imagination, the powers of the mind (and one must see here the powers of the human spirit) are engaged in what Tolkien calls “sub-creation”. By this he means that man, reflecting his divine Creator, is endowed with gifts to incarnate invisible realities in forms that make them understandable.

For example, magic has been used traditionally in fairy stories to give a visible form to the invisible spiritual powers. But a crucial distinction must be made between the use of “good magic” and “bad magic” as they appear in fairy stories, because for us in the real world, there is no such thing as good magic, only prayer, the gifts of the Holy Spirit, and abandonment to divine providence. “Good magic” in traditional fairy stories represents these very realities, symbolizing the intervention of God in the lives of good men put to the test. It is actually a metaphor for grace and miracle, the suspension of natural law through an act of spiritual authority, culminating in a reinforced moral order.

Bad magic in traditional stories represents the evil power that the wicked use in order to grasp at what does not rightly belong to hem — whether worldly power, wealth, or even love. It is also a metaphor for the intervention of the enemies of God, the evil spirits, in the lives of wicked men. As Saint Paul says, “For we are not contending against flesh and blood, but against the principalities, against the powers, against the world rulers of this present darkness, against the spiritual host of wickedness in the heavenly places” (Ephesians 6:12).

Good magic and bad magic in truthful stories correspond to true religion and false religion in our real world. True religion is the search of the soul for God in order to surrender itself to him, the search for his will in order to fulfill it, the search for truth in order to conform to it. False religion is the inverse. It makes a god out of oneself; it makes one’s own will supreme; it attempts to reshape reality to fit one’s own desires. True religion is about surrender, while false religion is about control. Most of us do not learn about the nature of reality through theology, philosophy, or higher mathematics. But all of us readily grasp the language of a parable drawn from the universal human story. The forms may be dressed in elaborate costumes and enact impossible dramas, but they enable the lover of tales to step outside of himself for a brief time to gaze upon his own disguised world. What is the value of this temporary detachment? It is an imaginative withdrawal from the tyranny of the immediate, the flood of words and sensory images that often overwhelm (and just as often limit) our understanding of the real world. A rare objectivity and insight can be imparted regarding this world’s struggle for spiritual integrity. In the land of Faerie, the reader may see his small battles writ large in the wars of titans or elves and understand for the first time his own worth. He is involved, not in a false or spurious world, but in the sub-creation of a more real world (though obviously not a literal one). I say more real because a good author clears away the rampant undergrowth of details that make up the texture of everyday life, that crowd our minds and blur our vision. He artfully selects and focuses so that we see clearly the hidden shape of reality.

Dragons in Myth, Legend, and Faerie

The term “fairy tale” is used rather loosely, for many of these stories are not about fairies as such but deal with a variety of supernatural beings and imaginative happenings. Ancient hero tales, nursery stories, riddle-songs, legends, myths — all have their place in what is really a very broad field of literature. There are countless tales from hundreds of races and language groups, many dating back thousands of years. With very few exceptions, they display a surprising uniformity in their depiction of good and evil: good is good, and evil is evil.

A rich treasure trove of such fiction grew with the passing of centuries. A pattern of symbols emerged that signified real presences in the invisible world. Beautiful winged persons represented unseen guardians and messenger spirits. At the opposite end of the spectrum, dragons (and a host of other monsters) represented the fiendishly clever spirits that sought mans destruction. These symbols were common to so many races and cultures that they were practically universal. But they were also well suited to the spiritual insights of Christian civilization. The shape of these symbols told the reader in a flash some essential information regarding the invisible realm — a realm that long predated Judeo-Christian civilization and was, even then, a spiritual battleground.

Dragons, for example, appear spontaneously in much of the literature of the ancient world, long before paleontology gave us knowledge of the dinosaurs. Egyptian, Chaldean, Greek, Roman, Aztec, and some Oriental mythologies are full of gargantuan reptiles, and their nature is almost always depicted as malicious and sly. They are frequently associated with “the gods”. In the Egyptian religion, Apophis was the great serpent of the realm of darkness, vanquished by the sun god Ra. In Chaldea the goddess Tiamat, symbol of primeval chaos, took the form of a dragon. A close relation exists especially between dragon myths and the mother goddess cults, which explains in part the persistence of human sacrifice in such religions. The dragon god devours human blood and is placated, which is a diabolical reverse image of Christ’s sacrifice.

The symbol is not perfectly universal: In some Asian cultures dragons are considered good luck, or at worst a mixture of good and evil. Even Greek and Roman mythology, though it bequeathed ample warnings about the terrifying brood of Medusa, the Gorgons, Hydra, Chimaera, and so forth, did at times regard the dragon serpent as a clever dweller of the inner earth, a knower of secrets, an oracle. This ambiguity is due to the blurred distinctions between good and evil in dualistic Eastern religions and in those early Western cultures influenced to a degree by the East. But in Western civilization, founded on the clearer vision of Judaism and flowering in the fuller revelation of the New Testament, the symbol of the dragon sharpened into focus, assuming its definitive identity. Thus, in the literature of the West dragons Have been regarded as powerful agents of evil, guardians of stolen treasure hoards, destroyers of the good and the weak (children, maidens, small idyllic kingdoms), and, on the spiritual level, a personification of Satan prowling through the world seeking the ruin of souls.

Some modern mythologists lamely attempt to explain dragons as an inheritance from the age of dinosaurs, a kind of fossil-memory lingering on in the subconscious. But this theory does not explain why the image of the dragon is so universal when, say, that of the mastodon is not—surely, the prehistoric mammoth would just as deeply impress itself on the mind of primitive man. Neither does the theory explain why there exists alongside the mytho-poetic legends another body of writings that discuss dragon encounters in the factual language of a news report. There are, for example, some forty medieval accounts of encounters with dragons in England. Several of them describe Catholic bishops and missionaries overcoming the dragons by spiritual authority. More frequently the sword is used.

With the rise of Christendom, the slaying of dragons became the crowning achievement of heroes such as Siegmund, Beowulf, Arthur and even Lancelot, the great ideal of medieval chivalry. Beowulf was the earliest English epic poem written in the Anglo-Saxon tongue, sometime between the ninth and tenth centuries. It offers a stirring depiction of the battleground and can be read to children once they develop a taste for the heroic style. Through such tales, universal truths entered the world of literary culture and were passed down. If they functioned in some respects like ancient mythology, they were myths with a crucial difference. Actual dragons may or may not have existed, but that is not our main concern here. What is important is that the Christian “myth” of the dragon refers to a being who actually exists and who becomes very much more dangerous to us the less we believe he exists.

Perhaps the worst of the demythologizing in recent literature is the message that the basic stories of the Christian faith, especially the Paschal Mystery, are merely our variation on universal myths. It is suggested that many cultures have tales about a hero who is killed and then returns to life. G. K. Chesterton pointed out, however, that the demythologizer’s position really adds up to this: Since a truth has impressed itself deeply in the imagination of a vast number of people of varying times and cultures, therefore it simply cannot be true. The demythologizer does not consider the possibility that people of all times and places may have been informed at a deep, intuitive level of an actual event that would one day take place in history, that would be, in fact, the most important event ever to occur.

The dragon has a vested interest in having us dismiss the account of the battle as make-believe. It is not to his benefit that we imitating our Lord the King, should take up arms against him. He thinks it better that we do not consider him dangerous. Of course, the well-nourished imagination knows that dragons are not frightening because of fangs, scales, and smoke pouring from nostrils. The imagination fed on truth knows that the serpent is a symbol of hatred and deceit, of evil knowledge and power without conscience. If dragons do exist, it is not in the form of green steam engines or painted Chinese masks or overgrown lizards. The dragon that takes no form is the worst kind, and I would rather it not prowl around the neighborhood I call home. Most of all I do not want it infesting my children’s minds. I do not want them befriending it, either, nor do I want it calming their instinctive good fears and perhaps in the process taking possession of their very selves.

At this point I may sound somewhat contradictory. It seems that I do not want dragons in my children’s minds, I say, and yet at the same time I want them to read plenty of stories in which there are dragons that act like dragons and meet a dragon’s end. In fact there is no contradiction here. It is the real dragon against which I want my children armed. Their interior life has need of the tales that inform them of their danger and instruct them at deep levels about the tactics of their enemy. It is good that our children fear dragons, for in the fearing, they can learn to overcome fear with courage. Dragons cannot be tamed, and it is fatal to enter into dialogue with them. The old stories have taught our children this. There have actually been suicides brought about through the “Dungeons and Dragons” cult among adolescents. But it is very important to note that this tragedy is not the result of overheating the young imagination with too much make-believe. On the contrary, it is the result of not believing in dragons until it is too late, of thinking it “just a game”. It is the logical consequence of our ignorance of this principle: The imagination must be fed good food, or it will become the haunt of monsters.

I do not want our children to grow up believing in the actual presence of dragons. But the child who learns fairy stories knows that flying horses and fire-breathing serpents are not to be confused with the cows in our neighbor’s field. Some writers suggest that children do not grasp the meanings in symbol and allegory. This is simply untrue. They may not be able to articulate it in adult terminology, but the young, even the very young, are able to reach across the gap between the real and the sub-created world and find the truths within the mysterious events that are the cosmic drama. They have a natural sense that something mysterious, wonderful, and useful is hidden within the tale, not so much like those trick pictures in which they must find how many bunnies are hidden in the bushes. More like stepping into a marvelous new kingdom where they stand in awe before the fact that angels and dragons are there. The child then asks himself, “Why are they there? And why is it like that?”

Answering the Critics of Fairy Stories

Modern critics of the fairy story have sometimes objected that the world it presents is too simplistic. They maintain that beautiful heroes and heroines are too much aligned with good, and the physically ugly characters are used too much to represent evil. Such an argument is obviously the result of too cursory a glance at fairy tales. There are many stories in which bad characters have, a beautiful appearance. There are some in which ugly creatures have noble princes and princesses hidden inside of them. Generally, however, it is true that the exterior forms that many traditional authors give to the morally or spiritually ugly character tend to be ugly forms. Likewise, beautiful forms tend to express a beautiful interior life. This is a literary device that works well to reinforce the child’s budding awareness of interior ugliness and beauty. Children are not so colossally naive as to think nice-looking people are always nice or that unattractive-looking people are bad. My children know from infancy onward that their grandmother (bad teeth, liverspots, and a big tummy) is the most beautiful person in their life. She loves. She is kind. She listens to them. Also, in their short lives they have met more than one beautiful-looking person who is manipulative, sarcastic, and abuser, of others. They instinctively dislike such people, for their image is not consistent with their substance. Children know this is how the real world works.

We seem to have lost sight of a keystone that was firmly in place in the culture of classical civilization, one that has been crumbling in the West for a long time and at an accelerated rate since the industrial and the technological revolutions. We have lost our sense of the holiness of beauty, our intuition that at some level it reflects back to him who is perfect Beauty. If a bad character betrays that beauty by sin, this in no way negates the authenticity of beauty. By the same token, when exterior beauty is in harmony with a character’s interior beauty, then the sign value of the tale or the character is greatly enhanced. Similarly, when worship of God is done poorly, it is not necessarily invalid if the intention of the worshiper is sincere. But when it is done well, it is a greater sign of the coming glory when all things will be restored in Christ. Clearly God is better glorified by a humble hunchback mumbling badly phrased prayers in a ditch than by a proud aesthete singing hymns perfectly, solely as an art form. Yes, give us that poor, godly hunchback over the vain successful man, rich in his religiosity! But what if the beautiful heart of that hunchback were to dwell in the developed art of the aesthete? Would not a greater glory be rendered to God by the restoration to harmony of both substance and form? In literature we have a medium in which it is possible to express this and, more than that, in which it is possible to show our children that it is possible to live this.

Some modern critics have accused the traditional fairy story of being too fixated on punishment of evil characters. They maintain that children are being conditioned to want revenge, that violent instincts are being incorporated into their personalities, and that they will grow up lacking compassion. Such anxieties stem from the modern preoccupation with peace at all costs, from exaggerated fears about conflict, and from the mistaken belief that sin can be educated out of fallen human nature. Such people believe that children (especially male children) will grow up to be happy nonviolent adults if they are prevented from playing with toy weapons. This is naive. Little boys deprived of toy swords and guns will simply make their own out of anything that comes to hand (such as Lego, sticks, and even pieces of toast). I draw the line at buying plastic machine guns or bazookas for my children, but I do not consider it unhealthy to spend an hour in the woods with my son finding just the right willow sapling to bend into a bow for him. The principle at stake in this issue is not so much our laudable desires to raise compassionate children. The real question is: What approach will best raise compassionate and courageous children? Normal childhood play, riddled with joys and conflicts as it always has been, “educates” at a profound level. The secret is not to deprive a child of his sword but to make the sword with him and teach him a code of honor. In other words, chivalry. Responsibility. Character. Justice. It is a distinctly modern prejudice that holds that a boy with a sword will probably run it through his little sister. The truth of the matter is, most boys, unless they are mentally disturbed, quickly learn that it is far more heroic, exciting, and rewarding to protect a little sister with that very sword by chasing off dragons and bullies.

Unlike the sword or bow and arrow, the mystique of the gun is something of a different problem in the modern era, because it means different things to different people. The word stimulates immediate emotional response in everyone. For those who live in rural areas, where a gun is used for protecting livestock from predators or providing food for one’s family, it is like any other useful but dangerous tool. Is it reasonable to propose that we can create a safer world by eliminating references to guns? Can we clean up humanity by sanitizing literature? If so, should we also drop all references to cooking because sometimes an irate housewife will throw a rolling pin at her husband, or banish references to chain saws because sometimes people have accidents with them when cutting firewood, weed out every reference to automobiles because many people use them badly and even kill others with them? After all, a far greater number of people die violently as victims of car crashes than die at the wrong end of a gun, or a sword, or a bow and arrow. For the urbanite, however, guns conjure up images of Belfast, Bosnia, gang wars, and high school murders. But this, I believe, has more to do with the power of television than the influence of fairy stories—I suspect that terrorists and drug lords have read very few.

It has been suggested that fairy stories would be much improved if they were rewritten without references to weapons, violence, and punishment. Perhaps a few of the Grimm brothers’ tales would benefit a little from this, but to apply such “cultural cleansing” to the entire field of children’s literature is really a symptom of naïveté about human nature and about the role of literature. The point we must keep in mind is that the fairy story is a literary heritage, containing the imperfections that fallen human creators bring to their art. If we were to try to cleanse every work of traces of original sin, we would have to burn a great deal of the literature of the world, and a fair portion of the Bible as well. In the Gospels, for example, Judas does not end well. Neither does Herod, nor a host of odious characters in the Old Testament. “Where is compassion in those texts?” we might ask ourselves, “Where is mercy?” I think the answer, at least in literature, is that stories teach us, and this passing on of the truth is their chief act of mercy. Part of their task is to warn us, to posit the possibility of damnation. Furthermore, a literary figure is not in fact a suffering person but an image in the mind. And the dire image of a witch’s death may suggest in the mind of a child that witchcraft is so absolutely a violation of their souls, of their personhood, that a dire punishment is warranted. Even very young children realize that no one is going to make a witch dance herself to death in red-hot shoes (a cruel and unusual punishment if there ever was one). No, the modern witch will be left very much to do as she pleases—perhaps have an interview on a morning talk show, write a best-selling book, or gather a group of devotees about herself. At worst, she may have to suffer some insensitive comments from her critics.

The fairy story is not an incitement to violence; it is an incitement to reflection on the truth. It does not really propose violence against the sinner (the witch); it reminds us to do violence against the sin (in this case, witchcraft), but more importantly against our own sins, just as the Scriptures command us to do—“If your eye causes you to sin, pluck it out!” The merit of a bad end to a bad fictional character is that it imparts a warning about the act. There are worse things than turning into a donkey or dancing to death in red-hot shoes, eternal damnation and diabolical possession being two of them.

The concept of justice is not always easy to grasp, especially in a culture that has been conditioned to exalt rights at the expense of responsibilities, that suffers from the impression that punishment is always a cruel thing. One of law’s important functions is to instruct and to deter on an objective level those whose inhumanity (and they will always be with us) impels them toward the ruthless use of other human beings. There is great need for a return to objective warning signs strong enough to prevail over the massive subjectivization of the modern mind — a mind, by the way, that has abandoned the stern messages of right and wrong that one finds in traditional fairy stories; a mind that is instead pumped full of images that glamorize the diabolical. Without dear deterrents, the imagination will soon be influenced by, and eventually infested by, many demons. If that process is not reversed, the malformed mind, pacified by neutered concepts of justice and mercy will find itself without defenses; it may even in the end come to believe that evil is good, and good is evil.

The purpose of dragons in literature, and of the fascination children have for them, is to arm the soul with an ever-developing, discernment of spirits. The purpose of the fairy tale is not to breed superstition but rather to defend the mind against superstition. As I write this I am gazing out the window at an epic being enacted on our hillside. The children are galloping over a yellow carpet of birch leaves on this sunny afternoon, running through the woods with swords they have cut from branches and silver shields they have borrowed from the tops of our trash cans. They are stalking the shadows lurking in the forests and caves. They are armed with homemade bows and arrows, willow rods bent to the breaking point by twine, and wobbly shafts outfitted with chicken feathers and armed with arrowheads they have chipped from stone. Are we training them to be aggressive little militarists? Not at all. They seem rather kind and gentle children, until roused by a real enemy — dragons, for instance.

They do seem to be developing a great deal of character, and it might be important to note here that violent people, on the whole, tend to be lacking in character. The children’s play is filled with an implicit moral consciousness of natural and supernatural law, even when, on occasion, they break that law. The point is, they know the law — and the spirit of it.

It is encouraging for us to see how their friends are drawn magnetically to the fantasy life of our young tale-bearers. A community of questers is born on an ordinary Saturday afternoon. For a brief, burning moment they know that nothing is ordinary, least of all themselves. When the moral order of the universe is reinforced, as it is for these children, man begins to know who he is, where he is, and what he is for. When the moral order of the universe is corrupted, his perception of reality itself collapses. The collapse may be slow or rapid, but the end result is a mass submersion into a swamp, in which creation is radically devalued, life becomes meaningless, and man, no longer able to know himself, is driven to desperate escape measures.

________

1 The essay can be found in J. R. R. Tolkien, Tree and Leaf (London: Unwin Paperbacks, 1988).

#a landscape with dragons

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vankoya · 7 years

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A God’s Blood.

✗ Part of the Across the Multiverse series!

Genre | Greek Mythology AU.

Pairing | Kim Taehyung / Feminine Reader.

Words | 2,501 words.

Conspectus | Not even a God can save her. But oh, does he try his best.

Warnings | Death as a result of illness. Angst with a hopeful ending.

Not much thought goes into the abandoned, neighbouring house on the hill.

Well, until the day Taehyung peers out of his kitchen window and sees the driveway that lays forty-five metres from his own, hosting a shabby car packed to the rafters. Clothing and household items and two women of the same genetics spill out of its doors.

A scowl molds his weary features. The lone cloud that is lazily passing by the sun—smothering its shine—startles and scurries across the early morning stretch of robin’s egg blue, allowing the giant star to douse the scene in its luminous rays. Light swathes the hill in a diaphanous sheet of gold. Now, Taehyung sees clearly that it is certainly a mother and daughter who lift and load, tug and pass, in perfect tandem. Two birds filling their new nest.

It is quite a sight, really, for it is barely eight o’clock and they are both so utterly vivacious. On the other hand, Taehyung is bone tired, and it is most surely showing in the way that the sun lazily ascends, as though it perhaps has something else much better to do. Like staying in bed for another four hours.

Nonetheless, the candescent brilliance glowers at him through the crystalline pane, overlooking the sight of the first sign of human life that he has encountered in about a decade. Give or take.

You should go help them.

Taehyung agrees that it seems the polite thing to do. But before he has had the chance to have his taste buds graced by the heat of his freshly brewed cup of coffee? It could be a bad idea, especially since he is still frowning.

Though another god must be listening in on him, for the younger of the pair suddenly trips on her own feet and sends the contents of the cardboard box she carries flying across the gravel. Some items smash and splinter in a mess of china and glass, while others bounce against the ground and roll this way and that.

Taehyung is already bursting out of the front door, loping down the slope, praying that nobody had noticed the minuscule flare of the sun when the panic struck him like a bullet.

What he does not expect as he nears is for the girl to be coughing, doubled-over, palms pressed to her lips to smother the worst of it. Highly unlike the way that people will loudly expel tight air from their lungs to dislodge whatever infinitesimal particle is stuck to the back of their throat. Rather, she holds it in like she is hiding a secret; something that was never supposed to make itself known to the light of day. She swallows the sound as though she cannot bear for her mother, oblivious to the crash and the outcome inside of the house, to hear it.

Taehyung only understands when the girl calms down, straightens her spine, and her hands come away from her mouth smattered with scarlet.

“Are you alright?” he tentatively calls, five feet away, and she is damn near startled out of her wits, yanking her head around to face him.

The whiplash of how gorgeous she is, all bright eyes and radiant skin, gets him nearly as fierce as her surprised reaction of a shriek.

“Christ!” the girl yelps, licking her red lips and pulling the sleeves of her sweater over her knuckles, concealing the evidence. “What– Where did you come from? Who are you?!”

Taehyung, despite the fact that his heart knocks against his chest, grits his teeth. He should have had that coffee. “I’m your neighbour. That’s my house–” He helpfully gestures up the hill where his home resides, as if they are not the only two buildings within an eight kilometre radius– “Up there. I saw you trip over from my kitchen window and thought I’d come down to help you, but, uh, I guess I saw...”

With the tapering of his sentence, Taehyung’s gaze softens and drifts to her hidden away hands. He flicks his eyes back up to her expression, watching her sigh. Caught red-handed, quite literally.

Suddenly, he feels intrusive. Horribly rude, like he should have never stepped outside of his house in the first place and let his words run so bluntly across the space that separates them. Though such tar black feelings are quick to dissolve when the corners of her mouth curve with a hint of mirth.

“Oh. Well. I apologise,” she speaks gently, something high and beautiful and terrible like the blood stained on her hands. “But I suppose you know why we’re here now. I’m ___, by the way.”

“To spit blood on the hill’s face?” Taehyung, mentally slapping himself, thinks to trap his voice in a box for the remainder of eternity. He deserves Hell for the fact that his first human interaction in years stumps down to him joking about the disease that seeks home within this girl.

Yet her laugh, honey sweet, speaks forgiveness.

“For the fresher air, the warm sunlight.” The girl is radiant, in her words, her tone, absolutely everything. Blood still sticks to the left corner of her lips, yet she is so winsome that it hurts. “To breathe easy and live as content as can be.”

Then, her eyes flick worriedly towards the house; the open door where a mother is about to appear and question who the handsome stranger standing on her brand new front yard happens to be. “Just. Please, let’s keep this little mess between the both of us? My mother knows it’s bad, but she doesn’t know it’s become even worse. Promise?”

Measuredly, Taehyung slides his eyes from the doorway to the girl, staring at her honest, humble face like she is the prettiest possession of a museum. There is a tickle that dances across his lips, something of a smile, and he cannot help but notice the way her eyes widen a fraction. A string of panic is quick to tug at his chest when she does so, hoping to the heavens that he is not accidentally emitting luminesce from his pores. (It would not be the first time.)

“I understand,” he avows, mouth curving upwards as he scratches the back of his head and inclines his chin towards the almost forgotten mess. “My name is Taehyung. Shall we clean this up, ___?”

When she grins in full force at him before turning to the littered items, Taehyung cannot help but think that perhaps, whatever sun he has known and reigned over for the last millennium has been counterfeit. For the real one resides stolen in her smile.

Spring has not seen such extraordinary sunlight in years. Taehyung pulls it from every corner of his side of the world like summertime. They have not heard from the clouds in weeks, and he could not care less about the rotten complaints that the other sky deities spit at his feet.

This won’t last forever, comes the warning he expects. But Taehyung is ignorant; completely blinded by the devotion that spreads in poison ivy throughout his ribcage. All he can think about is the way that she had said the warm sunlight and how those simple words ignited a flame of brilliant determination within him.

Most days, they laze together in the luscious garden that circles Taehyung’s house in a barricade of ambrosia. They bathe in golden light, surrounded by soft pink peonies, blushing carnations, violet anemones; the score to the scenery being the gentle buzzing of bees and her occasional coughing. She never questions him on why he lives up here, how he survives so alone, nor how he can even afford it when he appears to be the same age as herself and has no apparent job to his name.

Instead, the girl stretches out across the neat, green grass. Instead, she pretends she does not notice the way her thin summer dress has hitched up her thighs and has his throat running dry. Instead, she tells Taehyung about the dreams she has when she slumbers forty-five metres from his own bed, and asks him questions that she deems important.

“Would you rather an extra nose, or an extra mouth?”

“If you could name a star, what would you call it?”

“Say I asked you to kiss me right now, would you?”

Four months pass, and the sunlight always stays. Brighter, if anything. Lasting later into the evening, now that summer has made way. She tells Taehyung it is the best she has breathed in years. That the clear, warm air tastes undeniably sweet in her lungs.

When he finally kisses her, he expects sugar and syrup and warmth. Not the taste of iron and salt and a guillotine just waiting to drop.

Taehyung has never wanted, nor needed to save somebody. All he has ever been required to do is bring the illumination to his side of the world. To fill the tenebrosity with handfuls of gold; to tuck light wherever it may fit.

But he has abused his rights, and that is perhaps why the gods are unforgiving at the moment he needs them most.

Her mother is in the town when the world falls to pieces like petals peeling from the receptacle of a withering bloom. Taehyung is the one to bear witness, to have his heart deteriorate alongside her lungs.

A rush, and the clouds flood the sky in a blanket of grey, almost as if they have been waiting for this dent of vulnerability to finally blow. They stream into the soft blue like depraved beasts to watch an end come to the girl who barred them for so long.

“Don’t,” she manages in a rasp, fingers weightless on his wrist, drawing the phone from his ear. “Please, Tae. This– It’s time...”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Taehyung is a wreck, his insides are shattered and his heart is pouring into his lap where he cradles her wheezing frame, utterly helpless. “You still– You can have more time–”

“I don’t–” She coughs, a harsh sound, flecks of crimson spraying onto his throat and collarbones. The tears roll fatter, faster down his cheeks. A sob is lodged in his chest. “I don’t w-want more time. I’m happy... For this t-to be it, Taehyung.”

All he can do is stare, blink furiously to be rid of the tears that smear his vision of her placid features. It had happened much like the day they met, with him observing through the kitchen window. Though this time, love was touching his eyes as he watched her add to the pile of blooms laying severed from their stems, next to where she had knelt in his garden. Above, the sun had watched and protected with its kindly, golden palms resting upon her bare shoulders, gliding its fingers through the flyaway hairs that curl at the nape of her neck.

She had started coughing. Taehyung had thought it would pass, that her feeble lungs would gradually relent as they always do, and he had went to fetch a handkerchief to clean up the aftermath. It was not until he had stepped out onto the grass and found her completely collapsed over the culled flowers that he had realised he never once thought they would give up entirely.

“Tell m-my mother... I’m sorry. That I love her.” Her eyes are glassy, her bones becoming dead weight against his arms. But the faint, tragic smile stained with her own blood remains. “I love you, Tae. So much.”

Something cracks inside of him, the salt waterfalls gush at a greater ferocity. Yet Taehyung is firm and sure when he stares into the eyes he fell so head over heels for and says, “I love you, ___. I will never stop loving you,” and she smiles at him like she is not resting on her deathbed.

“Make the sun shine...” her voice is barely above a whisper, exhaling thickly, lungs full of the scarlet that belongs to her veins and arteries, pumping through her slowing heart, “... one last time?”

The words ground him, tug his bearings back into sense and have his eyes staring widely into her own like the answer to her question hides somewhere within the shards of her iris. A ghost of her smile still draws at her ruby-stained lips. A truth unspoken. An acknowledgment that she made long, long ago, though never felt the desire to pry. Just like she ceased to do with the personal questions that she could have pulled from his bone marrow with her very own teeth if she tried.

Instead, she let him be, and loved him and the sun all the same.

Taehyung cannot bear to peel his eyes from her face, yet he must. Facing the sky, he focuses on the spot of brightness that is barely apparent through the coverage of thick grey.

I will take her. I will keep her safe. It is all that I can do.

Taehyung knows, and he accepts.

Before he squeezes his eyes closed and presses his lips to her forehead, Taehyung takes in her equable expression one last time. His trembling fingertips tuck her hair behind her ear in a gesture so heartbreakingly familiar that a tear gathers at the corner of her eye, passing down her cheek. With a careful lean, his mouth connects to her skin and she sighs, an utterance like relief, acceptance. The last sound that passes from her tender mouth.

In all of its glorious might, the sunlight suddenly bursts through the overcast in a radiance so effulgent, stories of its intense flare on this day carry through to the next millennium. Taehyung takes his lips from her skin to watch as her shining soul lifts from where her heart lays still. At first, it carefully treads, gradually climbing through the air.

Then, the sun gingerly reaches down to collect her.

It is not until months later, once he believes he has been wrung dry of all emotion, that Taehyung notices something different.

It comes the day after a mother has packed the items she and a daughter had unloaded into their nest, little over a year ago, to chug the shabby old car out of the driveway for the final time. Returning alone to the city that they had left together. Taehyung wakes early, drags his feet to the kitchen, and fills the stovetop kettle with water. Placing it over the glowing element, he pads towards the window, just as he does every single day. A routine to keep him sane.

But here, on this particular morning, he is met with a sight that nearly stops his heart.

The slowly ascending sun resembles her soul more than it ever has.

The voice is quick to follow, completely unlike he has ever known it. Yet holding a familiarity that has him grinning through the tears.

If you were able to name a star, would it be after my smile?

Prompt | Nurse Me: I’ll write a drabble about my character healing yours.

Series | Across The Multiverse is a collection of drabbles based around the prompts from this list, each taking place in a different universe. The updates will occur whenever I am inspired by a prompt to write a small piece, most generally done as a warm-up.

#taehyung x reader #bts drabbles #taehyung angst #bts x reader #bangtan bookclub #kim taehyung #bts scenarios #atm #across the multiverse #gukvory #I titled this 'sun prism' in my head for junip #alt title: 'let's kill junip'#tae is apollo btw #and the oc has tuberculosis #/ mcd

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