#it still displays lack of accountability and how she must never be at fault

[vivithefolle]

I was always confused by Hermiones behavior towards Ron in OOTP. Was she trying to hide her feelings? because she didn't really gave him any signs. Why she was so nasty at him with the teaspoon thing. Was she trying to make him jealous with the letters? What did or didn't she understand from Ron giving her the perfume. Is all this just JKR being stupid because she don't want them together before the very end. Sry for all these questions but I am rly confused can you plz help Vivi?

Once again, I’ll copy one of my Quora essays!

it’s a stereotype to say that girls resort to underhanded tactics when it comes to dating, or like to “test” their partner’s love… but it’s a stereotype for a reason: there are teenage girls who resort to those tactics.

The archetype of the Tsundere exists as an exaggeration of the traits some teenage girls demonstrate when they find themselves in a position of vulnerability such as “having a crush on someone”.

For someone as prideful as Hermione is, having a crush on someone is extremely threatening.

Hermione prides herself in her logic and intelligence. The validation she receives from getting good grades is something she needs, because she’s very insecure deep down. She thinks all she has to offer is her intelligence, and as she goes from a little girl to a young woman, this causes her grief because she doesn’t want to be just “intelligent”. As her body develops and changes, she finds that being the smartest one in the room isn’t enough anymore - she still loves being the smartest in the room, but she wants more than just that, she wants validation for other things. That’s why she was extremely hurt when Ron tactlessly (and Rowling-ly) remarks “you’re a girl” - she wants to be seen as a girl, as a woman, as more than a walking brain. She wants validation that she is a girl, and beautiful, and sexy, and capable of making heads spin. She needs “sexual” validation, for lack of a better term.

Of course she doesn’t really realize those feelings. All she knows is that it hurts when Ron seems to consider her “one of the guys”, or looks at girls that aren’t her. She likes it when he compliments her, but she’s also angry at him because he only ever seems to compliment her intelligence and damn it, she wants him to compliment something else! She wants him to look at her, REALLY look at her! Look at her like he looks at the pretty girls!

Little does she know that Ron does look at her, but he probably thinks he’s a pervert for doing so. Because - because she’s Hermione! She’s not like other girls, she’s not - she’s not the kind of girl you ogle! She’s the kind of girl you gift flowers to - roses, they’re her favourite - the kind of girl you have long, meaningful talks with - not sure if they’re always meaningful, but they sure talk a lot together! - she’s the kind of girl you… the kind of girl you love, not the kind of girl you just look at…

*wistful sigh* Mutual pining, mutual admiration, slow burn, +100k words…

But truth is, many people go around saying that Hermione treating Ron harshly and treating pretty much every boy (with exceptions like Draco Malfoy) more gently is because she actually doesn’t like Ron, and likes anyone but Ron.

When the truth actually is that… Hermione is awful. No, no, seriously, when Hermione is in love, she’s terrible. She can be a nice friend but when she’s in love with you she’s horrible. Especially since she’s a teenager.

Hermione is a prime example of a Tsundere.

The cute, blushy, giggling Hermione who flirts with [insert character here] and cries delicately when she’s rejected? Pure fanfiction. Canon Hermione keeps her love aggressively hidden behind countless iron walls, only letting it peek through when she’s absolutely sure the person she likes isn’t looking.

“How was practice?” asked Hermione rather coolly half an hour later, as Harry and Ron climbed through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room. “It was -” Harry began. “Completely lousy,” said Ron in a hollow voice, sinking into a chair beside Hermione. She looked up at Ron and her frostiness seemed to melt. - Order of the Phoenix

Rare footage of the Hermione Granger, scientific name Selfinsertus Overratedus, displaying interest in specimen of mighty fine hunk

Hermione isn’t sweet and tender and kind with the one she loves. At least, the teenage Hermione isn’t. She’s harsh, she’s disdainful and only gives out breadcrumbs of affection once in a while as part of the complicated mind game she’s playing.

You see, Hermione is never going to make the first move. You must be the one to ask her out, because she sure as hell ain’t going to do it for you.

This is due, I think, to the events of Goblet of Fire. Viktor Krum asks her out because Rowling absolutely wants Hermione to be the ugly duckling who transforms into the beautiful swan, so she brings in Cardboard Cutout With No Personality Aside From Being Famous to woo her self-insert.

Now Hermione has gotten the experience of being asked out, and being a rather socially awkward person who also hates being vulnerable - more on that later - well, now she just assumes that if someone asked her out once, then anyone who does like her can do the same.

Which is why she doesn’t realize that Ron is actually aware he loves her. There’s a big comedy of assumptions going on in Romione’s love story.

Hermione believes that Ron either 1) likes her but is oblivious to his own feelings and so she thinks she has to “give him hints” to make him realize it. Emphasized best by this exchange:

Hermione laughed. “Harry you’re worse than Ron [at understanding girls]… well, no, you’re not, “ she sighed, as Ron himself came stumping into the Hall splattered with mud and looking grumpy.

“I’ve sent him so many signals and yet he doesn’t notice. Woe is me!”

2) doesn’t actually likes her, but sees her just as a good mate or worse, as another sister.

Hermione keeps flip-flopping between her two assumptions throughout the series, all because of her biggest assumption: she thinks that if Ron was interested in her, he would ask her out. Because Viktor Krum was interested in her, and he asked her out, so why wouldn’t Ron do the same? They’re both boys and she’s a girl, after all. Isn’t that how it works?

This is also why Hermione’s “““invitation”““ to the Slug Club isn’t even an invitation - really, it’s worse than Ron’s invite to the Yule Ball, at least he was actually offering her to come:

“We’re allowed to bring guests,” said Hermione, […], “and I was going to ask you to come, but […] I won’t bother.”

“I was going to ask you to come but I won’t bother.”

This is literally what she says. It’s more of a “look Ron! An invite! If you’re good maybe I’ll think about letting you have it!” than anything else.

It’s because this is Hermione’s last resort. The ultimate humiliation. She has to resort to inviting Ron when in her mind, he’s supposed to be the one asking her out. He’s the boy! He’s supposed to do it! (And this is why I laugh at all the fools who claim that Hermione is the pinnacle of feminism. Seriously, the girl is more of a misogynist than any other character in the series.)

Hermione failed to take into account that Ron’s insecurity cripples him worse than she imagines, and that he copes with it differently than she copes with her own insecurities.

And this is the part where I explain about Hermione’s hatred of being vulnerable.

You see, I can relate quite a lot to Hermione - I see a lot of me in her, and a lot of people who hurt me in the past as well.

Bullied because she was an easy target, being the know-it-all and local teacher’s pet? Yep. Bullied for her appearance (I got braces when I was 8 and have been wearing glasses since I was a toddler, she had her bushy hair and buck teeth)? Can relate. Cried easily? Super check. Rule enforcer when the teachers weren’t around? Mega check.

And naturally, when you’re such a water fountain as I was, there’s nothing more humiliating than ending up crying in front of your bullies. You quickly learn that it will bring you nothing but more bullying. More humiliation. More vulnerability.

Hence why you start despising any form of vulnerability you find in yourself.

Obviously, being in love? That’s one of the most terrible things you can find yourself in when you’re afraid of being vulnerable. Because, oh god, your feelings are completely insane around the person. They make or ruin your day. You keep wanting to show them how cool / great / impressive you are, and you try desperately to mask all your little faults so they will hopefully return your feelings.

Given that Hermione is already not the most socially-aware battering ram in the knife drawer, she acts especially nasty to Ron, because she’s overcompensating for the vulnerability he makes her feel. And she most likely isn’t even aware of it! Forget Fanfic Hermione cringing as she realizes how mean she sounds, welcome Canon Hermione who just doubles down on a pointless argument just to drive home how totally in control she is and how Ron has absolutely zero effect on her, no siree!

In short: Hermione overthinks. She overthinks everything. She’s overthinking every of Ron’s actions, she’s assuming he’s either out to get her because she assumes he’s perfectly aware of her crush on him and he’s just toying with her (this is the very insecure, pessimistic Hermione speaking), she’s assuming he’s completely oblivious to her feelings and so she uses the ages-old technique of the “subtle hints” to make her feelings known to him (and fails miserably because she doesn’t want to put herself out there too much in case he rejects her, which would be the ultimate humiliation and the worst possible thing to happen to her, in her teenage girl mind), and she’s assuming he’ll never like her the way she likes him, all the while being woefully oblivious to the fact that Ron does want to be with her but she keeps sending him signals that she sees him as a troublesome child rather than a potential partner.

All in all, a teenage Hermione in love is utter torture. She’s her own worst enemy, and it’s only when she decides to let go of it all - of the mind games, of the distancing, of the passive-aggressive; of the overthinking - and just takes a chance that her efforts bear fruit.

There was a clatter as the basilisk fangs cascaded out of Hermione’s arms. Running at Ron, she flung them around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth. Ron threw away the fangs and broomstick he was holding and responded with such enthusiasm that he lifted Hermione off her feet.

(As much as I’m disillusioned with Romione, this kiss is still one of my favourite parts of the series. They mutually sweep each other off their feet for god’s sake, you wish your ship would.)

#vivi answers #ask #romione #hermione granger #ron weasley #ron weasley defense squad #ron weasley defence squad #hp fandom #hp meta #character analysis #hp analysis #romance #teenagers

[geekgirles]

Chloé’s redemption arc

I know I’m probably late to the party, but I’ve been meaning to do this analysis for a while, as I think there’s still much to be discussed.

When I first watched Miracle Queen, I must admit it was not in the best viewing quality possible. I watched it when it first premiered, in Ukranian (I think? Sorry, since I know nothing about the language I don’t really remember), in clips, and with lots of major events lacking. So that didn’t help improve my opinion on the episode compared to what we were promised (i.e. we were bound to cry), and what we got in Love Eater.

But I got the jest: Chloé is no longer Ladybug’s ally. 

Meaning all the time we spent hoping for her redemption was for naught.

And even so, I must admit that we should have seen it coming. Congratulations, members of the fandom who never believed in Chloé, you were proven right (this isn’t meant as a sarcastic remark, don’t worry).

What I mean to say is, the whole Queen Bee fiasco was foreshadowed during the season! Just like Chloé becoming Queen Bee was foreshadowed during season 2.

In season 2, whenever Chloé was given some focus, we got glimpses of her redeeming qualities, or aspects of her life/personality that were supposed to make us feel more sympathetic about her.

First of all, compared to season 1, Chloé didn’t cause nearly as many akumatisations in season 2, and when she caused them (directly, Malediktator, undirectly, Zombizou), she played an important role in the episode instead of being just their target.

In Despair Bear, thanks to Adrien’s coaxing, she tried to be a better person, and it probably would’ve done much more than just throwing a party, or trying to not be rude to others had Adrien hold her accountable for her actions longer (no Adrien salt, though. Just facts). 

In fact, the first hint on Chloé’s heroic side was shown then, when she actively did her best to help/save Ladybug from Despair Bear.

Then, we have Zombizou. 

True, her actions at the begining of the episode where far, far, far from heroic. Sabotaging Marinette’s present because she’d forgotten to bring one of her own was petty, mean, and childish. But she sacrifised herself for Ladybug and genuinely apologised to Miss Bustier.

In Style Queen she was clever enough to pretend to be on her mother’s side in order to prevent “being fired” by her, but she remained loyal to Ladybug and even tried to help her.

When it comes to Queen Wasp, even if Chloé’s actions were guided by the wrong reasons, in the end she acknowledged her mistakes, and even apologised. Hinting that there might actually be hope for her. Not to mention, she only used the miraculous when she was fed up with her mother belittling her in favor of Marinette, which, let’s face it, would be harsh for anyone.

And finally, we had Malediktator; the episode where Queen Bee became more than just a fantasy. That episode was the most hopeful of them all when it came to Chloé becoming a better person.

We saw Chloé displaying powerful emotions and intentions: sadness, courage, remorse...

She proved she was actually a competent wielder, and a loyal ally to Ladybug.

Heck, she was even nince to Sabrina.

See? Season 2 was meant to make us believe that Chloé’s change was possible. But season 3 threw many hints on the opposite.

In retrospective, the biggest hint would be Stormy Weather 2. 

Chloé’s actions there were inexcusable: she bullied Aurore like she messed with Ivan when he got akumatised, she kept on mistreating Sabrina, and for the first time we saw her desire to be Queen Bee again, no matter the cost. (Which would have been taken more seriously had the episode premiered after Miraculer like it was supposed to...)

And the biggest hint of all: “Once a villain, always a villain.”

Honestly, considering we already knew the synopsis for Miracle Queen then, I don’t know how we didn’t see it coming sooner...

And her interaction with Chat in Bakerix could be taken as one as well. Just like in Startrain, Chloé seemed to be starting to believe that just because she’d been previously entrusted with a miraculous, that she would always be needed. No matter the circumstances. When in truth, 90% of the time Ladybug hands out a miraculous is because she needs some very specific skills that are granted by one specific miraculous. So it’s a given Chloé wouldn’t always get the bee.

And, of course, there’s Animaestro. Besides Stormy Weather, that’s the other episode where she was like her season 1 self the most. Just because she didn’t like Kagami, and because she was jealous of her bond with Adrien, she cooked up a plan to embarrass her and even talked Marinette into helping her. Just like she would do to Marinette during most of the first season.

But because they can’t just hand us a straight up answer about Chloé being redeemable or not, they threw Miraculer and its “Chloé resisted akumatisation” scene at us. But, to be honest, considering the level of entitlement she displayed during the episode, we should have kept our guard up for the finale.

This is something that was most likely foreshadowed in the ending card:

Chloé’s back was turned on us, symbolising her future betrayal. That she would turn her back on Ladybug. The only one smiling was Hawk Moth, meaning he was up to no good. And after Sabrina had been defeated, Chloé got rid of both her picture with Ladybug, and her costume of her, signifying that she no longer looks up to her like she used to.

And, of course, there’s the finale.

Many will say it was Marinette’s fault for entrusting the miraculous to Kagami instead of Chloé, but seriously? I actually believe she made the right choice.

No matter how you look at it, Kagami wasn’t in nearly as much danger as Chloé was. Sure, Hawk Moth knows of their secret identities, but Kagami only revealed hers to her mother (who’d forgotten all about it once she was deakumatised) and Hawk Moth, whose least concern at the moment was the actual akuma battle. 

Chloé, on the other hand, had revealed her identity to all of Paris, including her parents. The ones who were akumatised at the moment. 

One could argue that was all the more reason to give Chloé the miraculous, but considering Love Eater had no qualms in endangering their daughter when she had no powers, I wouldn’t put it past them to do the same if they were to battle. And don’t forget it was them who were at fault for Queen Bee’s akumatisation during Heroes’ Day. That was Hawk Moth using Chloé’s identity against her. 

When it comes to Marinette, her only mistake was not detransforming when visiting Master Fu. Had she done it, and the most Chat and her would have had to face would be an akumatised Chloé. But not Miracle Queen. 

Was Marinette troubled by her own emotions when she picked the miraculous? Of course. But, ultimately, when it comes to her chosen, she made the right choice.

Now Chloé, despite being emotionally vulnerable, could’ve done better. After all, she managed to do so in Miraculer. She also had plenty of reasons to trust Ladybug before Hawk Moth when he was trying to manipulate her. 

I can’t take the fact that she tried resisting him at first from her, but you can’t take away from me the fact that she gave in, either.

When Hawk Moth was trying to convince her to side with him, he gave her reasons to betray Ladybug that were as easy to debunk as Lila’s lies. But just like that particular example, Chloé didn’t do something crucial; she didn’t think clearly.

“What has she ever done for you?”

“Nothing.”

That is the biggest lie I have ever heard! Not even Lila’s are that bad!

Because Ladybug had done so much for Chloé. And so many times! Arguably, Ladybug had done more for Chloé than her parents ever did.

She’s saved her countless times of akumas, many of which she’d caused.

She apologised for her mistakes (Antibug) or any action that might’ve hurt Chloé (Miraculer).

She entrusted her with a miraculous even when she had previously proved she wasn’t the smartest choice.

She listened to her problems and offered valuable advice and support.

Seriously, Ladybug has been more of a role model to Chloé than literally any other character in the show.

But did that mean anything to Chloé? 

No.

In the end, her desire to be exceptional and celebrated outweighed her admiration for Ladybug. 

In the end, the brat beat the hero.

And her immature rant and desperate attempts at the end of Miracle Queen didn’t really help either. She kept blaming Ladybug for not giving her the bee miraculous, which she constantly referred to as ‘hers’; she actually tried to grab the akuma Hawk Moth released after being defeated, she even tried to keep the Miraculous Box to herself!

Hate to say it, but it was kinda pathetic.

And, honestly? Now that she no longer has Ladybug as someone to look up to in her life, and her parents will probably be busier trying to rekindle their relationship than paying attention to her, I can only imagine she will walk down an even darker path. Especially given the debut of a new Bee Miraculous Holder.  

A miraculous holder that looks, suspiciously, a lot like Chloé. But who we know it’s not her, mainly because it’s been confirmed, and she’s been described as “very sweet.”

Now, this is mere speculation, but I believe this might actually be the true introduction of Amber Bourgeois. 

Remember her? She was thought to be Chloé’s sister and the original holder of the bee, a belief very widely spread until  the SDCC2016/17 (?), where Rena Rouge and Queen Bee were first featured.

It would actually explain Lindalee Rose’s statement; “secret siblings.” And this is perfectly plausible if we keep in mind that Félix was supposed to have been deleted when they created Adrien. But, hey! He has an entire episode dedicated to him! Crazy, right?

But back to the point. If Amber were to appear and prove herself to be way more likeable than Chloé, that would surely put her in a foul mood. Especially if she were to receive the Bee Miraculous. And I’m not even saying that Chloé has to know her sister’s her replacement to be mad!

As I see it, it wouldn’t be impossible to believe that, one way or another, Chloé had always been in Amber’s shadow, especially when it comes to Audrey and her affection. Probably, Amber wouldn’t only be nicer and generally more likeable than Chloé, she would probably be more exceptional than her, earning her the attention and approval from Audrey that Chloé so desperately seeks.

Maybe, we’ll see Chloé was so attached to the idea of being a hero because she genuinely thought that was her only chance to be something her sister wasn’t. She might have thought she could only be exceptional if she was Queen Bee.

Which will only be all the more painful when she realises that she truly has no chance to ever wield the miraculous again, not only because she betrayed Ladybug, but because she’s been replaced.

Both scenarios, losing the miraculous to another or having her sister outshine her again, would actually explain her fifth and new akumatisation in season 4.

So is Chloé really capable of redemption?

If you ask me, she is. But she’ll have to earn it as Chloé Bourgeois, not as Queen Bee or through any external help other than the hard truth.

What do I mean with this? Simple; redemptions happen when the character actually faces the consequences of their actions, consequences that are as grave as the mistakes or crimes they committed. So if we want Chloé to be redeemed, she must realise that she messed up, big time, after her actions catch up to her.

It’s for this reason why I personally don’t see a ship such as Luckloé happening. 

People argue Luka could be a good influence on her and they would really complement the other and bla, bla, bla... 

Seriously, though. What could Luka possibly do that shouldn’t have been already achieved by Ladybug or Adrien?

It’s true Luka could call her out on her flaws, and maybe she would try to be better in order to appease him. But just like with Adrien, it’d only be that, an attempt to get in their good graces again, not a genuine attempt to be a better person. Meaning, the moment Luka, or Adrien, or whoever she might want to impress forgive her, she’ll be back to being her usual self.

And don’t try telling me Luka would actually hold her accountable for her actions for more than an episode, because if there’s something that should be learned when watching Miraculous Ladybug that is that feelings can blind us.

For starters, that is literally the reason Hawk Moth even has akumas!

Hawk Moth literally depends on his victims’ hurt feelings to make it easier for him to get under their skin and get them to agree to being turned into his minions. All for the sake of revenge.

Second, although I am going to go on a bit of a tangent here, that is also what happens to those involved in this show’s complicated love story.

Surprisingly enough, Kagami is the best example. 

Despite being the most stoic one of the four teenagers that are romantically involved with each other, she allows her feelings for Adrien to blind her from things she doesn’t take kindly from other people.

For example, there’s the thing with moving on. Out of all the four of them, Kagami is the only one who’s shown no intention of actually letting go of Adrien. Because, even if Marinette and Adrien are certainly very attached to their own crushes, it’s been shown more than once that they have at least considered moving on from Adrien and Ladybug; respectively. And as for Luka, he’s made it very clear ever since Frozen that he would gladly let go of Marinette if it means she’ll be happy. Kagami, on the other hand, has made it very clear that she wholeheartedly believes Adrien and she belong together and that she refuses to let go of him entirely, preferring to wait for him to realise she’s the best choice.

There’s also the fact that Kagami’s stated many times she isn’t one to hesitate, nor does she have a lot of patience for those who do. Even going as far as saying Adrien’s hesitation was hurting her. However, that doesn’t stop her from still going after him, even when it has led her to doubt and don’t think highly of others.

See what I mean?

With this I’m trying to say that even Luka could be too blinded by his feelings for Chloé to actually make her rectify her behaviour if Lukloé were to happen. 

And there’s also the fact that if there’s any relationship she should work to mend and improve first, it should be her friendship with Sabrina.

Summing up, while I believe not all hope is lost, I also think Chloé shouldn't be entrusted with a miraculous again. She should work to be exceptional as Chloé, not as a hero. She should learn to be a better Chloé Bourgeois, not a better Queen Bee.

#miraculous ladybug #ml #mlb #ml spoilers #ml leaks #ml salt #ml season 3 #ml season 4 #ml analysis #chloé bourgeois #queen bee #Marinette Dupain-cheng #ladybug #Adrien Agreste #Chat Noir #Hawk Moth #Kagami Tsurugi #ryuko #Luka Couffaine #lukloe #audrey bourgeois #andre bourgeois #Amber Bourgeois #bee miraculous #bee miraculous holder #miracle queen #love eater #Miraculer #bakerix #stormy weather 2

[ohnobjyx]

Plum blossoms in the snow (II)

Part 4: April and May (II)

Disclaimer: I try to keep things objective (if I include my personal opinion, it’s in cursive and in brackets), but I’m biased because of the XZ friendly content I’m usually exposed to and by my own views of their situation. Open to discussion, but please make sure you’ve enough information to do so.

(There was a mistake in the last post, that an anon pointed out. I’ve edited the post. Thank you!)

In May, some of the controversy resurfaced, in the topic of how idols and celebrities affect the younger generations, and, even how they affect younger generations by affecting those in charge of their education.

TV documentary

At the beginning of May, a documentary appeared on the news about a mother worried for her high school daughter, who neglected her studies “because she was infatuated with XZ”. Among other things, she’d ask for money to buy XZ’s new song (0’5 by the way) and she’d borrow money from her classmates to buy things he endorses.

Her daughter also appeared on the documentary, saying that her academic performance has nothing to do with XZ, but rather with the pandemic situation, as she’s not used to online classes. It turned out that she had skipped a grade, and entered high school directly from 2nd year of middle school, so she lacked the support of a network of friends and encouragement in her new situation. She said that as soon as she got her motivation back, she’d keep studying.

However, general public sided with her mother, and said that this kind of obsession with an idol was leading the youths astray.

Interview with Economic View

XZ also gave an interview, for the first time since 2/27, for Economic View, alking about many topics, the “XZ fans incident” among them (I found this video with subtitles, and I think the subtitles are quite good).

He said, among other things:

“Everything happened in the climax of the country’s fight against the epidemic. I was deeply troubled and worried while I was quarantined at home. I also felt very if this incident has brought trouble to netizens. If that’s the case, from here, I want to say a sincere ‘I’m sorry’.

Since my debut to now, I’ve never ceased to receive well-meaning criticism and guidance. I went from being a normal person to go on to the stage. From my friends, from seniors… I’m always open to them. But of course, there is malicious criticism, some fake rumours and slander, that I think don’t affect just me, but also my friends and family. I don’t feel wronged. I just don’t understand.

When I was 19-20, and I first used w/ibo, I didn’t realize. That in such a public platform, I made inappropriate comments that have hurt other people. I apologize for the consequences of the inappropriate comments I’ve made in the past.”

He also said that the fans always did public welfare projects in his name, and that he got energy from them.

“I hope fans can live their own lives well, and don’t resort to extreme actions to hurt others or themselves.”

This interview was of course praised for showing responsibility and answering almost all questions. We can all notice that his responses are very carefully worded, that he takes his time thinking about what he’s going to say and how, and that his answers are very calculated. Don’t misunderstand me. He did it very well in this interview, and I don’t think he was insincere, but he needed to be very careful about what he said at the time.

Other idols and their sasaengs

On the 9th of May, WYB posted the following:

“I work very hard, can’t I even nap for a bit in the car? My staff stood in front of your car, and you still dared to drive forward? For a long time, strangers come and knock my hotel room’s door, they install tracking devices in my car, there’s people following me no matter where I go… unbelievable! I really can’t understand you!”

A crazy fan had followed him on her car. When the security had tried to stop her, stepping in front of her car, she still tried to drive forward.

To this, UNIQ OFFICIAL account expressed their support like this:

“Against this kind of vile behaviour, report to the police! Let the law investigate their legal responsibility! To those who go against other people’s security and don’t respect your privacy, zero tolerance!”

The teacher’s incident

On the 10th, XZ posted:

“Please listen to me carefully once more! I wish you to take good care of your studies, careers, personal lives, and to place them before “chasing stars”. Study hard, take your job seriously. Be responsible and assume your obligations, follow the rules of your career and abide by professionalism. I don’t your help.”

This message may seem harsh to some of their fans. So, why did XZ publish such a comment?

A primary school teacher had posted a video of his students cheering for XZ. This angered a lot of netizens, who said that she was using a position of power to “indoctrinate” young children to like this idol. The haters affirmed that she was guiding the children to “chase” stars, and that she’s a bad influence (I actually agree with this one, you really shouldn’t do this in a classroom, but to involve XZ again is going too far).

XZ and the teacher were reported to the authorities. The Ministry of Education answered that the teacher had been suspended from her job and the school’s director had received a formal reprimand. The teacher’s w/ibo account had also been blocked. This is the main reason for XZ’s post.

Talking about unreasonable responses, after this incident with the teacher, the next day the topic “XZ’s supertopic teachers group” went on hot search in w/ibo. A group consisting of more than 1000 teachers, all fans of XZ, had been formed inside the supertopic. This was widely questioned by the netizens and haters.

To be fair, this didn’t happen just to XZ. Around the same time, another video emerged, with a teacher encouraging his kindergarten students to cheer for Wang Junkai. So with this incident, the Ministry of Education started to pay attention to similar content.

On the 14th, XZ forwarded an article by People’s Daily about teachers using their students to cheer for their idols and asking 

“Don’t go beyond the limits of your professionalism. Don’t leave the circle of rationalism. The fan quan can’t circle everything” (”quan” means circle)

Many more teachers were reported, and in response, the XZ’s fans association posted this:

“There are many voices criticizing XZ’s fans right now. We accept the criticism. XZ has told his fans to “pursue the idols” in a civilized and rational way, but some still display unreasonable behaviour. These actions have a great negative impact on him. We apologize to him and to other fans in their name.”  

This even extended to a teacher teaching a course of cyber-violence. She used XZ as an example of cyber violence and haters’ attack. This was brought again to the authorities by the haters, and she was suspended from her job. Luckily, her students and their parents were very supportive and defended her, so she came back to her post.

(This was just ridiculous. Really).  

This is quite a curious thing: even though we can see that objectively, this teacher didn’t do anything wrong, the department deemed her at fault due to the large number of reports.  

(It’s a thinking that goes along the lines of “if a lot of people think she has done something wrong, then she must have done something wrong”.)

So if haters can’t find anything to criticize in XZ, they’ll turn to his fans.

More support...

15th of May. A screenwriter and director posted a comment praising XZ and lamenting about his situation. The next day, he updated saying that he had been attacked in private comments because of his post, so he was very angry by it (he was angry with haters, not with xz).

On that day a photographer that had worked with him also praised him, saying he was humble and polite. He was also attacked by haters and antis, saying he had only praised XZ out of all the idols he had worked with, so he had to have ulterior motives, such as being paid by his studio or insulting the other idols in disguise.

People noticed that if someone defends XZ, no matter who they are, they’ll be attacked. No matter what XZ does, he’ll be criticized by some. If he doesn’t do anything, the haters turn on to his fans. Hater were trying to destroy every effort he made, and they managed it easily at first. After each appearance in public, he faces all kinds of comments. So conspiracy theories surged, about a mastermind behind the haters.

Even the lawyer that was managing XZ’s case was attacked by haters.

(Who in his right state of mind calls a lawyer with their own mobile phone to insult them? This logic and rationale amazes me…)

... and a little disappointment

At the end of May, the photos of him filming a episode of the season 2 of 青春环游记 were leaked on S/na News. He did participate in the recording, but the episode didn’t include him in the end (aired mid-June). A worker said they had been feeling pressure from various fronts, and finally felt that it’d be best not to include him (I suppose they feared the pressure from the antis).

In the midst of disappointment, his fans mostly reacted by keeping a positive attitude: “he posted two selfies lately, he shot a cute video making a drink (the douyin video), he seems in a good mood in all them. With them he was trying to cheer us fans. He has told us not to be used by others, not to get carried away by antis, not believe rumours, and to not be suspicious of his studio. What’s an episode in a variety show? He got paid anyway just for recording it. Let’s not cry over it.”

Truly, in spite of everything that happened at February and March, I think this is the kind of comments he deserves from his fans: people who are a little bit sad because he didn’t make it to the episode in the end, but who are still supporting him, waiting for his next project and listening to what he says.

←Part 4 (I): Plum blossoms in the snow (I) | Part 5 and 6: A snowy summer→

#gg's situation #part 4 of 7 (II) #my post

[odos-bucket]

Next part of this story. There will probably be three or four in all.

It’s a bit less than two months from the first time Jaskier heard the song that he and Geralt meet again. They’re not exactly planning their reunions at this point, so much as they’re making sure to casually mention a few of their intended destinations over the course of the next few weeks or months whenever they part ways, and then happen to run into each other at some point or other. Jaskier’s been a little more deliberate these past few weeks, about being in the right place at the right time, and keeping an ear out for word of a silver haired witcher, and it’s paid off.

He’s greeted warmly. Geralt’s never been overly comfortable with public affection, but he takes a moment when they meet to briefly touch their foreheads together. Jaskier studies him for any indication that he may have heard the farcical songs being sung about him, without having any real idea of how such a thing might manifest.

It’s become routine for them to turn in early on their first nights back together. Not to fool around (well, not just to fool around); it’s easier to be with Geralt when there aren’t a million other people and things going on around them. So they get a room in the small town where they’ve convened, and within seconds of the door closing Jaskier is throwing his arms around the witcher and pulling him close. Geralt presses his face into his neck, and the bard feels his chest rise and fall with deep inhalations.

“I missed you.”

Geralt hums his reciprocation of the sentiment before pulling away to shed off his road worn outer layers. Jaskier makes a noise of protest at the loss of contact, even as he turns to flop onto the bed, where he’s alone for less than a minute. Geralt waits for him to initiate contact- he always does- but once Jaskier kisses him he responds with full enthusiasm. They get to spend a few blissful minutes narrowing their world down until all of the shit is pushed to the outside. But Geralt pulls away too soon.

“I need to tell you something,” he says. It comes out almost like it’s a question.

Jaskier’s essentially on top of him at this point, and he has no intention of changing that (not unless he’s asked to), but he does angle his head so they can look at each other.

“I did something stupid,” says Geralt.

“We do stupid things all the time.”

“I…” Geralt begins again, makes the first sound, or gets out the first syllable of a few words, then hums and falls silent.

He’s frustrated. He doesn’t like it when other people try to force words out of him, but he really hates not being able to pull the words out of himself.

Jaskier has never thought of himself as an especially patient person, but for this he can wait, though the anxieties he had momentarily been able to push away begin to return as he does so.

“I’d rather be the one who you hear about this from.” Geralt takes a long pause. “And seeing as you don’t seem to be the only troubadour chronicling my exploits anymore…”

Jaskier winces, though he had known they would only be able to put off talking about it for so long. It was far too much to ask for Geralt and the song to somehow never cross each other’s paths.

He presses closer at every point where their body’s already touch, and feels Geralt relax under the deep pressure. He nods slightly, just in case any confirmation is needed that he understands.

“I hurt someone.” The witcher's voice is a rough whisper. “Someone who I didn’t need to. Someone who I should have- fuck! How could I have been this stupid?”

Jaskier squeezes his arms.

“What happened?”

“It’s that damn song. It was playing in a tavern… and I had Ciri with me. Normally I wouldn’t have-“ he shakes his head. “But it upset her. She asked the bard if he could play something else.”

He can't help but smile at that. He can practically hear her. There's this special tone of voice she sometimes uses, a very queenly way of sounding polite while making a request that's really a command. Not the best way to pass through places unnoticed perhaps, but he's still finding it very difficult not to feel proud of her.

“I should have been more careful, made sure she was keeping her head down, but… Jaskier, she was so upset. And there are some things I never wanted her to hear.” He says the last part like it’s some kind of shameful secret, and not a feeling that every parent in the world could easily empathize with. “She started to argue with him. I didn’t want to make things worse by making myself known. But then he put his hands on her, and I just…”

“Did you kill him?” Jaskier asks conversationally.

Geralt shakes his head.

“And I'll assume that if Ciri had been hurt in any way I would already know.”

“She’s not hurt.”

“I don’t think I exactly see what the big deal is.”

“I attacked a man who was unarmed! A man who wasn’t a threat to me!”

Jaskier shrugs.

“You must know me well enough to know that the only possible response I could have to that is the son of a bitch deserved it.”

“I should be able to control myself.”

“Seems like a bit of an unreasonably high standard to hold yourself to when you look at the utter lack of self control everyone else seems to display so proudly- Oh!”

Geralt is shaking. And the way they’re sitting he can feel the vibration run through every nerve in his body.

“Sweetheart…”

“…I can’t believe I fucking did that.”

“It’s okay.”

“It was okay for me to hurt someone who’s weaker than I am?”

“Under the circumstances? Yes! You were protecting your family!”

Geralt just keeps shaking his head.

“He couldn’t have hurt her.”

“He was hurting her. And I’m not so sure it’s fair to say that he wasn’t a threat to you either. No don’t give me that look. You have been through hell, and your pain is not a fucking joke! And if I could just get my hands on the bastards who think it is…” His voice wavers partway through, and then cracks, and by the end he’s just barely holding back a sob.

They’re both trembling. Jaskier presses his nose into Geralt’s hair, and Geralt buries his face in Jaskier’s neck. For a while the only noise in the room comes from their erratic breathing, punctuated occasionally by soft and strangled cursing.

Jaskier had spent plenty of time worrying about Geralt hearing the song. He hadn’t thought about Ciri. He feels sick, and furious, and useless.

“I’m sorry,” he breaths out after a while. “I’m so sorry.”

“I have to be better than this.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong. Hell, when I heard that shit for the first time I ambushed the kid who had been playing it in an alleyway.”

“… You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Maybe not,” Jaskier allows. “But I’d probably do it again.” He plays with the witcher’s hair, wraps sections of it around his wrists and fingers. “… Is all of it true?”

It’s hardly a surprise when Geralt doesn’t answer right away. Jaskier wouldn’t fault him for choosing not to answer at all. In fact he is beginning to think that maybe he should apologize for even asking, when Geralt finally speaks.

“Truer than most of your accounts.” He says it without lifting his eyes from the bed.

The attempt at levity ignites something warm in his chest, and feeds into the protective flame that’s been growing for the last several- well since he met the witcher really.

“So… what? Someone’s interviewing people who have hurt you, to write novelty songs? They don’t have anything better to do with their worthless life?”

Geralt shrugs. He’s still looking down, seemingly very focused on something on the floor behind Jaskier’s left elbow. He’s still, except for the the steady working of his jaw. The bard waits. If Geralt’s lost in his own head there’s nothing pressing him for a response will do to help him get out. It’s some time before the witcher speaks.

“So you,” his gaze stays fixed on the floor. “So you know…”

Guilt rips through him as Geralt trails off.

“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have heard any of that. I didn’t mean to-" he swallows and breaths in to level out his voice. “Can you forgive me?”

A part of him knows it’s a ridiculous question even as he asks it, but he can’t shake the feeling that he somehow needs to atone for what he now knows.

It’s the plea for forgiveness that finally bring’s Geralt’s eyes back onto him. Incredulity replaces his previously blank expression as his gaze shifts upward.

“What?”

“I feel like I’ve betrayed your trust,” Jaskier admits.

“By what reasoning have you betrayed my trust?”

“Well if you’d wanted me to know any of that you would have told me yourself.”

Geralt looks him over with an intense expression.

“Witcher’s aren’t taught to broadcast our deficiencies,” he says after a while.

“Deficiencies?��� Jaskier echoes. The word leaves a rotten taste in his mouth. "Other people’s cruelty is not a denouncement on you.”

“… I’m meant to be able to endure.”

“You have endured. More than anyone should have to.”

Jaskier leans forward, but waits for Geralt to close the gap between them. The kiss satisfies his imagined need for forgiveness.

“We’ll fix this. I’m going to figure something out, I swear to you.”

“It isn’t your responsibility.”

“Isn’t it though? Isn’t this the exact kind of thing I’m supposed to be able to protect you from?.” He reclines sideways onto the bed, and pulls the witcher with him. “I don’t care if you think it’s my responsibility or not. I won’t let this stand. You deserve so much better than this shit.”

The skeptical look that Geralt gives him at that makes him want to set the godsdamned world on fire. Jaskier meets his eyes, and speaks as clearly and as calmly as he can.

“You. Don’t. Deserve. This.”

Geralt starts to roll his eyes, then closes them partway through.

“I need you to believe me.” He tries to keep his voice steady, even though he knows by now that there are a million other things letting Geralt know that he’s anything but calm.

The only response he gets is a soft hum, as the witcher shifts forward until his head is resting against the bard’s shoulder.

Jaskier weaves their fingers together, and doesn’t press any further. He doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure what to say, so he waits for Geralt to break the silence.

He falls asleep waiting.

It is not a restful night.

It’s not night at all. It’s dark because he’s inside. Underground? Somewhere the sun can’t get to. Somewhere where it could be day or it could be night and it wouldn’t really matter. And somewhere where it’s hard to breath. There’s a smell? Or the air’s the wrong consistency? Or maybe a problem with his lungs? He doesn’t know. He can’t breath. And there are sounds. Cries. Screams. And there’s blood. And it’s warm. And it’s not his, but it’s all over him. And there’s a child bleeding out right into his lungs. And. And…

Jaskier wakes up screaming. This can’t be happening. He can’t be back here. It isn’t real. He tells himself it isn’t real three more times before he realizes that that might actually be true. And then he repeats it twice more because nothing else seems to be able to fit in his head.

There are arms around him when he comes back to himself. And he cringes because he knows Geralt hates this, knows the sound of screams brings him physical pain, and that when he wakes up to them he wakes up ready to fight.

“You’re okay.”

He makes a pitiful noise.

“Do you know where you are?”

He nods, and pulls the arms around him to tighten.

“You’re safe.”

“Geralt…”

“I’m here.”

“… Those fucking bastards.” Jaskier finds he can’t keep his voice calm. “… Fucking bastards…”

#jaskier #geralt of rivia #the witcher #witcher #geraskier #ignore me #I don't know how to end things #my writing

[hannahmcne]

Lost on the Case - Chapter 2

"Natalie, I need you to schedule a meeting with our representatives in Sweden."

Natalie sighed as she shuffled through the dozens of files strewn on the floor from ten years ago. She was cleaning out all the old papers to make room for next year.

"I'll do that as soon as I'm done refreshing my office," Natalie promised. She crossed off a few items on her check register and tossed some crumbling receipts into the trash. As Gabriel Agreste's heels clicked away, Natalie opened the last filing cabinet, which held financial statements from the bank. She uncapped three different colored highlighters and went to work, only to feel a pang in her chest as she glimpsed the details of certain payments.

$100 worth of Camembert Cheese. $20 withdrawal under the label of 'Nino's Birthday'. 5$ Ladybug Socks.

Though it had been almost ten years, Natalie still felt pained every time she imagined the boy's sunshine hair and sweet smile. It was still hard for her to imagine that he could have been hiding enough sorrow to kill himself underneath his polite, optimistic front.

She balanced the books, noting with a smile the copious requests for Camembert cheese, and remembering how young Adrien had fantasized over Ladybug. There were numbers from Gabriel's accounts mixed in, of course, along with company expenses. Orders for materials and buttons and thread; the whole lot.

Her eyes drifted down. Gabriel's old new phone, check. New and updated Ladybug Action Figures, check. She picked up the next statement and stopped. 40,000 euro withdrawal? When?

She checked Gabriel's statement. There was no mention of forty-thousand euros up and disappearing. She studied the card number beside the transaction and recognized the last four numbers on the card. Adrien. Adrien's card.

Why would Adrien withdraw forty-thousand euros?

What puzzled her more was the lack of a label. Had Adrien forgotten his card somewhere and someone picked it up? Why hadn't this been discovered?

She stood up and turned on her computer to look at the digitalized records for the month after Adrien's desk. All funds and bonds that had existed for the boy in event of something happening had been dissolved back into Gabriel's account upon Adrien's death, but according to her statements, Adrien had only had 300 euros in his separate accounts and in his wallet, which had been left in his workbag.

Natalie pressed her finger on the intercom button on her desk. A red light came on. A few seconds later, Gabriel's voice crackled through the speaker.

"Yes, Natalie?" He asked.

"Sir, were you aware that Adrien withdrew 40,000 euros-" Natalie paused to check the date, "-two weeks before he died?"

There was silence on the other end, and then a rustle of papers. "Forty-thousand euros?" Gabriel asked. He sounded shocked.

"Yes," Natalie confirmed.

"No. No, I was not aware. Where is the money now?"

"Missing. Only three hundred were returned to you." Natalie stated.

"File a claim and notify the police. A sum that large shouldn't be that hard to track down."

"Yes sir," Natalie replied. She took her finger off the intercom button and drummed her fingers on the desk. She glanced at her phone on her desk. Adrien had had friends… very good friends that he might have lent money too. After all, most of his friends had very extensive, expensive hobbies. The Fashion designer, the reporter, the DJ… he could have given it to them as a way of apologizing for not being around much longer. Natalie bit her lip, considering, and then reached for her phone.

Alya piled pens, her phone, and clothes on top of her notebook and lugged her small load down the hall into the bathroom. Nino appeared in the doorway as she started the tub.

"Going for a bath?" Nino asked.

"Yup," Alya confirmed with a frown. She sat down on the closed toilet lid. "Something about Marinette isn't sitting right with me. Someone must have gone rooting through her room because she didn't have those things on her."

"Is it possible she sold the purse?" Nino asked with a sigh, repeating his thesis from earlier. His tone betrayed his opinion: Alya was going off on a tangent again when she should be focusing on her work project.

"What about the photo of us?" Alya challenged.

"She could have moved it." Nino rolled his eyes. "Not everything has to be a mystery, Al."

"Where? And what about her diary?" Alya bit her cheek and tapped her knees. "I dunno Nino. It doesn't seem… likely."

"The diary is probably lost in her room." Nino sighed, sitting down on the floor. "Okay, I know I can't stop you, but... have you even opened the Ladybug file yet?"

Alya blinked. "Huh?" She asked.

Nino rolled his eyes. "Oh, you know, the super-important file that only one person in the department gets the opportunity to work on per year and that may or may not hold the secrets to where she and Chat went?"

Alya winced at his sarcasm. "Yeah, yeah, sorry, I just tuned out." She traced a finger on the wall. "No, I haven't opened it yet, it's just- my reporter senses are tingling. There's more to this story. I'm sure of it."

"You said that when Sabrina took a new job working for Nathaniel." Nino protested.

"Yeah, and there was! She was totally into him!" Alya defended herself though her ears turned a little red.

"They were dating, Alya." Nino annunciated very slowly.

"What about Marc?" Alya wrinkled her nose.

"They were taking a break while Marc was in Versailles." Nino sighed, leaning his head back in frustration.

"Yeah, but she left Chloe to work there!" Alya reminded him, waving her hands a little.

"Chloe fired her." Nino deadpanned.

"Exactly!" Alya exploded.

"They had a routine hiring/firing of each other every six months for almost three years." Nino reminded her.

Alya wilted. Nino sighed. "Just, don't go crazy on me." Alya nodded. Nino stood up and walked away.

"Hey, Nino?" Alya called. He paused and turned around. "I love you," Alya hummed.

Nino cracked a smile. "I love you too." Alya smiled and shut the door in between them. She upended an unholy amount of bubble bath into the tub as it continued filling.

Now… to think. She opened her notebook and selected a pen to tap as she thought. The sound of the water helped her focus. She found a blank page and wrote: "Problem:" At the top. Then she paused. What was the problem? Something was unsettling her. What was it?

Marinette's things were missing, but why did that alarm her so much?

Alya took a deep breath. Okay, Marinette's things are gone, so where did they go? Problem: Where are Marinette's missing things?

Okay, now she needed a Pathway to Solutions. Options. What options did she have? Nino was right, the purse or the ring could have been sold. She highly doubted the picture, or Marinette's diary would have been sold, but you never know. Or maybe Marinette had simply thrown them out. But that didn't sound right either. Marinette wouldn't toss out her grandmother's ring or her favorite picture of her best friend. Someone could have taken them. The ring was valuable, and the purse was pretty. But why would anyone take a teenage girl's diary or a cutout photo of two friends? And how would they have gotten up there? They'd have had to come through the trapdoor or evaded Sabine and Tom completely as they stalked up the stairs. But then why not take her computer or sewing machine? It could be they would have had to have snuck back down past the shop owners, but a trip like that didn't seem worth it for only a purse and a ring.

Or maybe… Marinette moved it herself. But even that had faults. That photo had been hanging since they were in Ecole. Why move it then? And that purse wasn't used half as much as Marinette's day-to-day purse. Alya had only ever seen her use it at Christmas or Easter. And Marinette's grandmother's ring was too big for her little fingers. She kept it on the display for a reason – she couldn't wear it. On top of all this, she knew for a fact Marinette hadn't stored her diary in any other place other than the Magic Box since she'd first made the thing and had the incident with Chloe and Sabrina.

Alya scribbled down all of her ideas and stared at them. They all seemed equally useless. Every single one had too many problems. She groaned and shut off the water to the tub. She buried her notebook under a towel for safekeeping and stripped down to climb in.

As she lay in the sea of bubbles, she tried to think up less flimsy options. Her cold toes tingled in the water. She washed her hair, shaved, and grew too restless to sit in the tub anymore. Finally, she toweled off and stood up. She turned on the fan in the bathroom and dragged her things back to the bedroom. Nino looked up at her from his tablet. He chuckled as she tossed her clothes and towel into the laundry hamper and began to angrily run a brush through her hair.

"Nothing?" He asked.

"Nothing!" She snapped back, angrily.

Nino rolled his eyes. "Bring your notebook over here and let's see what you have." Alya groaned and picked it up off the floor where it had landed. She sat down next to Nino and explained all of her thinking to him. Nino nodded as she reasoned with herself. When she was done, he asked: "Would she have these things with her at all?"

Alya thought hard. She imagined Marinette's missing poster. Then, she shook her head. "I don't think so. They would have reported Marinette having a bag on if she'd had one. And a ring, if she'd been wearing it. The diary is too big, and I don't know why she would have randomly taken the photo down."

Nino hmphed, but still scribbled it down as an option they'd tried. Alya drummed her fingers. "I need another lead." She muttered. I'm still missing something. Nothing can be solved from this angle."

A buzzing sound came from the floor. Alya scooted off the sheets and picked her phone up off the floor. An unknown number was calling. She denied the call. It would send the person to her voicemail. If they actually wanted to speak to her, the first thing they'd hear would be "Please call again, and I'll pick up this time."

She tucked the phone in her back pocket. It started to vibrate again. This time, Alya accepted the call.

"Alya Lahiffe speaking." She said.

"Ms. Ces-, I mean Mrs. Lahiffe, this is Natalie Sancour. I believe you may remember me? I'm Gabriel Agreste's personal assistant."

"Natalie Sancour. Yes, I remember. Why are you calling me?" Alya asked. In front of her, Nino scrunched up his eyebrows. Alya made a slashing motion at her throat. He knew Natalie a little better than he liked. She'd helped escort Nino out of Adrien's house several times.

"I'm calling to ask if you or your husband recall Adrien giving you any form of money or a particularly large or expensive gift before he died?" Natalie asked.

Alya raised an eyebrow at the odd request. "No, sorry ma'am. Nino?" She turned her direction towards Nino. "Do you remember Adrien giving you any money or a really big gift before he died?"

Nino looked very sad. He twiddled his thumbs as he thought. Finally, he shook his head no.

"Nino says he didn't get anything either. Why?" Alya asked.

"We recently discovered he took out a large sum of cash before his death, and we're trying to recover the lost money," Natalie explained, sounding a little annoyed and disheartened.

"How much?" Alya asked, picking up her pen and doodling a little scribble onto her notepad.

"Forty-thousand euros," Natalie admitted.

Alya must have gone white because Nino frowned in concern at her. "And that just, went missing?" She asked.

"He withdrew it two weeks before his death in cash with no memo or explanation. I only discovered it looking at old bank statements today." Natalie replied.

"Wow," Alya gasped.

Natalie hummed on the other end of the line. "I wonder if Ms. Dupain-Cheng would have received anything. As I understand it, they had an infatuation?"

Alya wrinkled up her nose. If only, if only. "No, ma'am. She liked Adrien, but he was oblivious in favor of Ladybug." She corrected.

"Pity. I can't imagine what the effect would have been if he'd had a girlfriend." Natalie mourned.

Alya felt all her frustrations egg up inside her. She couldn't imagine that either. On the other hand, Marinette had been kidnapped a few weeks after Adrien's death, so it might not have kept Adrien alive for very long, but the possibilities continued to annoy her.

"Well, I suppose I can't ask her at all," Natalie said. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Lahiffe."

"Wait," Alya said suddenly. She furrowed her brow. "Is there any chance Adrien might have written it down somewhere? In a journal or in his phone?"

The line was silent. For a moment, Alya was sure Natalie had hung up. Then, she heard a door open and heels clicking on a tile floor. "He – did have a journal he wrote in occasionally. And his old phone is kept on his side table. The room hasn't been touched, you see."

Another door opened. Alya listened to Natalie mutter as she examined – Alya assumed – Adrien's room. After several long, quiet minutes of Alya picking at threads in their bedcovers, Natalie spoke up.

"That's odd… it's missing. I can't find his journal anywhere."

Alya almost dropped the phone. She took a few seconds to recover, and then asked: "Where did he keep it?"

"In the bookcase that held all his music disks. He usually never moved it."

Drawers were opened and shut. She heard Natalie humming in thought. "That's so strange… I can't find it."

Alya's mouth ran dry and she fumbled her phone up by her ear. "Natalie, I- would you mind if I dropped by tomorrow to zoom through his room? See, I've been working on another case where a missing diary is the only piece of evidence and I'm wondering…"

"You think they're linked?" Natalie deadpanned. She sounded about as half as skeptical as Nino, so still very, very skeptical.

"I don't know, but I'm going with my gut feeling," Alya replied, though she was wiping her hands on her legs and feeling rather nervous about the sudden random similarity.

"Interesting. What time would work best for you? It's a Saturday tomorrow." Natalie asked. Her heels were clicking on the floor again, so Alya assumed she was returning to her office.

"Can I come over early? Around nine?" Alya asked.

"I'll tell security to expect you. Goodnight Ms. Lahiffe." Natalie bid her.

The phone clicked.

Nino twiddled his thumbs. "So…" he began. "You think these two cases are linked?" He hadn't, of course, heard the full story, but he'd been listening to Alya as she spoke, and it wasn't hard to fill in the blanks.

"No, it doesn't seem likely. I mean, Adrien's dead. A body was recovered and everything. Marinette… unless it was a hit job against two young adults, they couldn't be linked." Alya said as she got up to turn off the lights. Nino flipped on the lamp.

"So… the reason you want to see his room?" Nino plugged in his tablet and put it on the nightstand.

"Honestly, I'm just wondering what information I can glean. And maybe the similar evidence will give me ideas for Marinette's case." Alya climbed into bed next to Nino. He shrugged and nodded, so she assumed he agreed with her level of thinking. The couple said goodnight, flipped off the lights, and fell asleep.

#miraculoustalesofladybugandcatnoir #miraculous ladybug #chat noir #ladynoir #nino x alya #alya cesaire #nino lahiffe #djwifi #carapace #rena rogue #paris #fanfic #mystery-thriller #gabriel agreste #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #natalie sancoeur

[siren-dragon]

FFXV Observation -- Episode Ardyn *Spoilers!*

Hello Everyone!

With the release of Episode Ardyn and the official completion of content for FFXV, I wanted to write my thoughts about the dlc down. And since the episode only came out today, there will be spoilers and everything will be beyond the cut.

Now be warned: this is just my personal thoughts and opinions of the new DLC content. If you don’t agree with it, that is fine; I only ask that you be respectful in your comments. Now then, let’s get started!

First of all, I just want to say that this Episode was beautiful and tragic, and I really loved it. While I didn’t get as much lore as I wanted (and I wanted the dlc to be WAY longer!) I did appreciate what we got. I have to say though, two really big highlights in Episode Ardyn has to be the music and the fact that we get to see a shirtless Ardyn. However, there were a few things with the story I found interesting and that was what I wanted to talk about.

Somnus Lucis Caelum:

Yes, the first thing I wanted to talk about was Ardyn’s “dear” younger brother; but please hear me out. In complete honesty, I really dislike this blatant hatred for Somnus. Don’t get me wrong, he did a lot of bad things- but we also have to look at it from his perspective too. In the Ep. Ardyn, Somnus actually tells Ardyn that he was jealous of him which is quite a feat for a prideful person. Now, as someone who has three siblings, I can kinda understand where Somnus is coming from. Even now, I sometimes feel pouts of jealous from my siblings despite us all being older. I can’t imagine how inferior Somnus felt when his older brother was literally the golden child of a entire nation.

However, this does not excuse his actions in regard to his treatment of Ardyn; what he did was cruel. What I do think is that Somnus did not know the the true burden of being king really meant. I feel like he wanted to have a chance to shine and show his people that he too wanted to protect them, even if it was in an extreme manner (*cough burning people alive *cough). But when Aera said that Ardyn was chosen to be king, I think that was the final push that sent Somnus over the edge. Even though they were meant to rule together (as talked about in the Datalog about the two blades being used together to symbolize their combined rule), Somnus finally had enough.

Yet when he was finally bestowed the Crystal and Ring, Somnus then understood the extent of what the calling of the king was and what Ardyn was meant to truly be. Somnus realized that he was never going to be the “True King” as that calling was for Noctis, and instead he pushed the only family he had left and was left with nothing but the guilt of what he did for 2000 years as his soul resided within the Ring of the Lucii. I’m not saying that Somnus was a good person and that he didn’t do bad things; he even says that he doesn’t expect Ardyn to forgive him as he knows he did terrible things. But let’s not forget that the two were once brothers and that once upon a time, they did not hate each other.

       2. Aera Mils Fleuret:

Now then...let’s talk about Aera. Okay, so here’s the thing: I’m kinda on the fence about her. She is a very cute character and it is sweet that she loved Ardyn, but I don’t think she is as perfect as some make her out to be. To be fair, no one in this game is perfect and everyone has their faults, some bigger than others, but there is some information about Aera that I wanted make known. First of all, Aera is the Oracle- the First Oracle; who was chosen by Bahamut himself to represent the will of the gods on Eos. The actual quote from the Cosmogony is this: “In the distant past, Bahamut, the Draconian, descended to the mortal realm and graced the people of Tenebrae. From among them, he handpicked a pious maiden and bestowed upon her the power of the Stars and his trident. Using these gifts for the good of all, she became the first Oracle—she who joins heaven and earth”

I don’t doubt that Aera loved Ardyn, but that is the key word there. I think that she loved him, which is evident by when she died to save him- but I believe that when Ardyn became recognized as the Adagium, she put her love for him aside. She betrayed Ardyn and told Somnus information that was, for lack of better term, meant to be classified in regards to the prophecy and who was too be king. Granted, she felt guilt for that, but Somnus did not manipulate her into to telling him- she did it of her own free will. Also, we need to take into account Aera’s own calling as well: she is the Oracle and is known to be a pious maiden. What’s interesting there is that pious actually means to not only be “devoutly religious”, but it also means “making a hypocritical display of virtue”, or to be self-righteous. In the more archaic definition, it means to be dutiful or loyal, in this case; Aera’s loyalty to her calling as the Oracle and to the Astrals. She actually forsakes her love for Ardyn and regards him only as the Adagium and that he will never escape his fate. She puts the needs of others before that of the one she loves most in the world, which is brave of her to have done but also a horrid betrayal to Ardyn too.

While I truly wish we got to see more of Aera’s relationship with Ardyn and how they grew to love each other, she is not perfect. She choose her duty over the love of her life and forsook him when he became a “monster”. Now, that is a difficult choice and I commend her for choosing it to do what is right for the world, but I don’t believe Ardyn will ever fully love her again after that (based on that ending where he kills her and Somnus)- her actions put in motion events that had damaged A LOT of people’s lives just as badly as Somnus did. I understand that she was called to be the Oracle, but she still made a choice and has to live with it too.

        3. Bahamut and the Astrals

Firstly, that title I just wrote sounds like a band name and it’s kinda of funny. But for heaven’s sake Bahamut, what the hell man? I admit, the dragon is a kind of a dick in the game, and that Ardyn definitely gets the short end of the stick with this. However, I can see some of where Bahamut is coming from.

They had a unknown illness that was ravaging the entire planet and the Astral’s didn’t know what to do and didn’t have the power to deal with it. And the Astral’s are sworn to defend the star at any cost, even if they must fight each other. So, I can see why they choose mortals to do their bidding for them, because humans are far stronger than we’re given credit for. Yet Bahamut’s folly was in not telling Ardyn that he had been chosen to bear the burden of darkness just as Noctis was meant to bear the burden of light. Ardyn simply wanted to help people, but Bahamut doesn’t explain that by containing the scourge within himself, he will eventually help the entire planet. Instead, he expects Ardyn to just suck it up and deal with what’s happened because that’s just the way it is.

I definitely think Bahamut is being very cold to Ardyn about everything, but you have to understand that what he says is that “so it has been ordained” meaning he too has no control over this. Bahamut even feels some pity for Ardyn too when he calls him a “pitiful creature” and I believe he knew that he was once a good man. But sometimes we have to do things that are unsavory because there is no other option- and Bahamut likely had no other option. It’s true that Ardyn was put through literal hell due to the calling he was given, but the Draconian actually compromises and allows Ardyn not only his revenge upon the royal family, but the reprieve of death too. He even warns Ardyn that if Noctis doesn’t kill him, he will just suffer forever in darkness and shadow; unable to die. If he truly didn’t care, Bahamut would have allowed the royal family to continue their existence and just have Noctis vanquish Ardyn with no consequences.

         4. King Regis and the Crownsguard

So, one bit of information I found interesting in the game was that the royal family actually knew of Ardyn’s existence. Which mean’s he wasn’t entirely forgotten, just locked away like some weird national security secret. The fact that there is a unit of Crownsguard that is entrusted to respond at a moment’s notice if Ardyn should be released from his prison is interesting. Which means that Somnus actually put in safety measures to ensure Ardyn didn’t escape. Also, the fact that Ardyn doesn’t know what “Adagium” means or is when he first awakens probably means his name was replaced with that word and over time it became a legend- like a bedtime story you told misbehaving children. “You better be careful or the Adagium will get you,” seems like a fairy tale that would stay in Lucian history.

Now, I have to say that after the fight with King Regis, I believe that he was one of the strongest kings Lucis ever had. First of all, Regis is able to physically manifest multiple weapons at once from his Armiger, which you don’t even see Noctis do when he activates his Armiger (they’re all spectral weapons). Secondly, Regis was actually brave enough and strong enough to fight off against Ardyn by himself in order to defend his people which was really cool to see. All in all, it was great to see Regis in his prime and engage in full-blown combat (no matter how short lived it was).

          5. Ardyn Lucis Caelum

I still have so many thoughts about this DLC, but I’m going to have to end it early and I saved the best for last. I have to say it was so much fun to play a Final Fantasy game from the villain's perspective. Ardyn is a wonderfully written character and I am going to miss seeing more of him; Darin de Paul did a magnificent job on this and he has truly managed to bring an amazing character to life. Now then, let’s talk about Ardyn’s story.

While I do feel sympathy for Ardyn, a lot of people have to understand that he is the villain and would likely never get a canon happy ending: which I am actually a bit pleased about. Happily, ever after endings are often unrealistic and it wouldn’t really fit with Ardyn’s character to have a happily ever after (that’s not to say one shouldn’t write fanfiction about it ;) After all that Ardyn experienced, it would be incredibly difficult for him to simply let things go and I think that is his main folly. He actually discards his humanity and basically goes “to hell with them” which is why I love him as a villain. Usually it is the hero that fights destiny, so I loved seeing Ardyn fight his fate while Noctis humbly accepts his.

Another thing I enjoyed seeing was the extent of Ardyn’s powers. Granted, we could have used that in the main game (maybe they’ll do a patch update) but it was a lot of fun to see all of his abilities. I honestly believe even Ardyn himself does not know all that he is capable of doing and is constantly evolving and discovering new techniques for him to preform. But it seems like there are abilities that are unique only to him as a Lucis Caelum; such as the way his armiger functions, the way he slows time as he “warps” or “shadow steps”, and even his illusions. Though ultimately, I liked that he was able to showcase all of these abilities without doing some extreme final-form transformation. 

Overall, this DLC has made me love my favorite character even more- even though it does not excuse his actions in the main game. He experienced so many horrors but that does not condone his actions. Despite how he was in the past, Ardyn is a final fantasy villain; and one of the best ones.

I am certainly gonna miss seeing more FFXV content, but all good things do come to an end. Now it’s time to go and write fanfiction about the new content. ^_^

#ffxv #final fantasy xv #episode ardyn #episode ardyn spoilers #ardyn izunia #ardyn lucis caelum #somnus lucis caelum #aera mils fleuret #regis lucis caelum #ffxv bahamut #my thoughts #in my opinion

[maybeformepersonally]

Fic: the poetry of resistance, chapter 1

Title: the poetry of resistance Author: maybeformepersonally Rating: T / Teen Summary: Dark times are brewing, fear and prejudice have been sinking their vicious claws into Dan's world, twisting and poisoning his once quiet, peaceful way of life. He feels like his life is falling apart, and he's scrambling to do something, anything, to keep enough of the pieces together. But even in the darkest of times, even in the midst of the worst atrocities committed, kindness can blossom, and new hope can be born.  Word Count: 4.9k this chapter (the whole fic will be 20k+)  Author’s Note: This fic is my fill for the @phandomreversebang! I need to thank the lovely admins of the PRB for organising this, and the wonderful @dansphlevels for making the art that inspired this story (see it here!). And a very special, very heartfelt thank you to the fabulous @itsmyusualphannie, who was kind enough to fill the position of my beta reader when I found myself without one, and doing an excellent job of it to boot. Any mistakes that remain are solely mine.

[Read on ao3]

Old Conrad Huckabee got up early as usual to start the day, as was expected of bakers, before the sun would rise. After the habitual short routine of morning ablutions that had remained unchanged for years now, he headed downstairs into his bakery accompanied by his dearest wife. She had been as faithful and true to him as a man could hope for, a true companion in life and business, and he likely would have floundered without her support and no-nonsense attitude throughout the years. He thanked the gods every day that he had been so lucky as to find one as her to stand beside him.

They moved as one into their respective positions, a dance they had long perfected for a routine as familiar as breathing and as beloved as the life they’d built together, Conrad at the ovens and his dear Adelaide with her books and supplies, making sure everything was in order for Conrad to get lost in his craft. A mere half-hour before opening time, the Howell boy arrived, perfectly on time. Adelaide quite liked that about him. Responsible lad.

Conrad opened the door for him and ushered him to the back, to where his wife was sorting that week’s stock and making sure everything was running smoothly. Adelaide had truly been a godsend. He’d married for love, but no one would suspect it from the way his father’s little bakery had flourished under their joint care once Conrad had inherited it not long after their nuptials. He knew, everyone knew really, that the success had been in great part due to his young wife’s sharpness of mind and her skill in trade. Oh, she would never stiff or cheat a merchant, such behaviours would only lead to mistrust and ruin, if not imprisonment. No, she was fair to a fault, just, well, brilliant.

He spared a glance to the young merchant greeting his wife with a warm smile and a respectful tilt of the head. It had been over a decade now since the boy had started trading with them directly, first as proxy for his parents and later as a trader in his own right, but despite his young age, he had never treated Adelaide with anything but the respect she rightfully deserved, which was saying something when half the village still persisted in viewing women as somehow… inferior. Conrad huffed at the thought. Old fools, he thought, and nevermind that he was old enough now to fit that description himself. Oh, but he was no fool. They were so set in their ways that they would stare reality in the face and refuse its length and shape, and for what? Everyone knew women were especially good at trade, this he had learnt as a little tyke at his grandfather’s knee back before he was even tall enough to reach the baker’s ovens. Women were better at maths, and accounting, they excelled at keeping books, could run where the men would limp and stumble.

This particular trader, young enough to be their own son, seemed to have learnt this as well, for he had never disrespected his dear Adelaide, and had never tried to dupe her with bad quality wares or too steep prices. A fair and honest trader was hard to come by, sadly, which he supposed was why those two had always liked each other, he mused as a chuckle reached his ears. His wife was in good spirits today, he thought with a little smile of his own, and whispered a quick prayer to her favoured gods in thanks. He was ever grateful, after so many years, that the gods had so blessed him in both business and love.

As he continued arranging the day’s work in preparation for opening time, he reflected that it was a pity the young Howell boy had not found a wife of his own to share his efforts and secure the line of his house. But then again, that was hardly surprising.

Some small eccentricities would hardly matter to any smart young woman or discerning head of house, not with a profitable line of trade and a face as fair as that, but to live past the borders of the forest… oh, yes. That would give any young woman or her parents pause. Even with the efforts of the special guard, one could never be perfectly sure that no creatures lurked, not outside the heart of the village, not when nothing but earth and trees and wild animals surrounded you and the terrain may allow those awful, wicked creatures passage into your very home.

The boy, well, man now, had some small grasp on the magicks that kept such dangers at bay; he must, or he would have perished by now. And Conrad did not doubt that he was dutiful, and ever careful not to shirk his duties. His very survival attested to that. But he had been born in the forest, had grown up there, with his parents moving there as soon as they were married. They had inherited the land, and it was a good business decision to farm it, but still, most of the village had half expected them to perish out there, cut off from the comforts of immediate trade and the community. It took days to get to the village from their land on foot, and the lad had built his own house a whole day’s walk deeper into the forest than even his parents’ lodgings, or so the tales said. Tales that he was rather disposed to believe, as it wasn’t just the young fools who had nothing better to do than tell tales to pass the time that were saying so. Old Burnaby himself swore to it, and Conrad had lost count of the respectable storekeepers who had hinted or even outright said as much.

Still, the young Howell couple must have been better prepared than the village had given them credit for, and more favoured by the gods, to be blessed with the tools to survive alone all the way out there. And young Daniel only knew that life, and the ever-present vigilance and jealous warding of his lands must be second nature to him.

A pity, but understandable, that he hadn’t found a partner willing to follow him into the dark heart of the forest. Oh well, plenty of travellers and foreigners were used to such conditions. Perhaps that was all it would take; a traveller that crossed their village, or a merchant looking for trade. He hoped so, for the kind young man’s sake.

He heard him say his goodbyes to Adelaide, muffled by the partition that led behind his shop, and watched him appear from behind it a few seconds later. He seemed pleased enough with their trade, and Conrad was once again reminded of the confession he’d got out of the young man years ago about how their family was one of his favourites to deal with in the whole village, as they were more welcoming than most, and less driven to endless haggling. His dear Adelaide knew the worth of the young lad’s wares and she was willing enough to pay a fair price for them, which put them several steps above most of the village.

“Good exchange?” he prompted; they had enough time before he had to open the shop to indulge in a little small talk.

“Quite good, for both our houses,” Daniel answered with a pleasant smile. His eyes caught on the display to their left, however, and Conrad stifled an amused chuckle at the young man’s predictability. “Are those qurabiya?” Daniel asked, not even trying to hide his childlike delight.

“Indeed, they are! Straight from the oven. I could be persuaded to sell you some before the first customers may get their hands on the bargain, if you make a good enough offer for me to consider it...” he was teasing, of course. He was always happy to sell his products to Daniel when he was around, even if the bakery hadn’t technically opened its doors yet when he came round for business. Daniel knew it, too. He was giving him a wide dimpled grin, and the old baker found himself thinking again about how unfortunate it was that such a kind and striking young man should be single still.

Daniel asked for four qurabiya to go, two for his parents and two for himself, as usual, and as Conrad wrapped them up for him, he broached the subject once again, much to the well-taken exasperation of the young man before him, who’d been subject to this particular talk at the hands of the well-meaning baker many, many times before (and more often as of late, as he grew older).

 “No news to speak of on my love life, no,” he said with a badly hidden roll of his eyes. “I can’t imagine why the topic matters so much to you, I swear. More nosy than most of the matchmakers in the village put together, you are. You needn’t concern yourself with my love life, Conrad. I promise I can handle the trade for myself, with the occasional help from my parents, if need be. Your supply line shall not suffer from my regrettable lack of a wife.”

“Of course, of course,” he said placatingly. “But trade is only part of the reason to seek a marriage. You can’t be content to spend all that time alone out there in the woods. A companion would surely make the days shorter and sweeter, and a young man as yourself should be thinking about children soon…”

Daniel shook his head to himself, amused at the baker’s persistence. “I appreciate your concern, but as you know, my way of life wouldn’t suit most villagers, much less the young women who grew up in a village as big and bustling with activity as this one. Regardless, I am quite content as is, much as I know it perplexes you.” He smiled then. As annoying as it could be to be grilled about his love life and to be offered pointed advice about the young unmarried women in town, Dan knew it came from a good place. “Most of us aren’t so lucky as to find our perfect match, much less to find her so early in life, you know.” The man was a hopeless romantic, and as such had become something like the unofficial matchmaker of the town. It was sweet.

“Ah, that is very true. But that doesn’t mean you should give up, young lad! I hear a caravan of travellers has announced their intention to stop here soon. They must be on the lookout for new trade, or perhaps even a place to settle on. I hear there is a pair of hunters coming in to aid the special guard, but perhaps there are a few ladies as well? Perhaps a young lady accustomed to the life of a traveller might be more open to a life on the outskirts of town…?”

Dan swallowed any outward indication of his skin crawling at the mention of ‘hunters’ coming in to ‘aid the special guard’. The casual mention had activated his fight or flight response, but he couldn’t let his expression slip, even with well-meaning old villagers like Conrad.

Thankfully, Dan had years of practice in the concealing of emotions, and so he chuckled at the man’s insistence, determined to grill the more forthcoming storekeepers who might actually have the kind of information he needed about the hunters coming his way. He knew the old baker well enough by now to know that any details he might pry out of him would be geared more towards getting him wed rather than anything useful to him.

“We might see,” he told Conrad with a carefree glint of mischief. “Don’t get your hopes up, old friend, you know I will not settle for usefulness.”

“As you shan’t! I quite agree!” He had perked up at Dan’s seeming acquiescence. “Why settle for an advantageous union when one can strive for a lasting, true love?” He was nodding along as he presented the package of sweets to him, carefully sealed to withstand Dan’s travels. Dan paid for the pastries and bade him farewell, reminding him once more not to try to pair him up with any young lady he thought might make a good match, even though he knew Conrad would endeavour to tell any unmarried woman arriving in that caravan that looked the slightest bit interested all about Dan’s virtues.

Can’t ask the deer to change its hooves, Dan thought ruefully. He hoped the man didn’t get any poor woman’s hopes up with his efforts. The last thing Dan needed was to contend with the complications that would come from taking a human wife.

*

Dan took the long way back to his home deep into the forest, taking a few detours to reassure himself that everything was okay, that no disaster or evil had befallen his beautiful land in his brief absence, that no tree or animal or creature had been disturbed.

You couldn’t be too careful these days.

The leisurely trek soothed ruffled nerves, but he couldn’t stop turning the latest news in his mind as he walked deftly over uneven terrain and smooth plains alike. The air sprites surfaced from the heights of the tallest trees to signal the lack of new developments as he gave them their prearranged call; the family of ungulate kelpies living in the depths of his forest looked up at him when he approached and gave him a distinct nod to indicate no problems had met them either; and so on.

He didn’t take the small detour behind the old oak tree he used to play in as a child to check the mounds that the aes sídhe used to claim as their home. And he didn’t take a left there down the path that led to the natural pond that had formed several centuries ago, where the will-o'-the-wisps used to dance ethereally over the calm water, dipping occasionally to play hide-and-seek in the reeds and water lilies.

There was no point. There was no one there anymore.

The sun was high in the sky by the time his circuit led him to the last stop before home. There couldn’t be more than an hour or so of sunlight left.

Dan finally slowed down as he approached the jagged rock formation that led to the cenote that was his final check-in of the day. He left his pack resting on one of the concave shapes eroded into the stone, secured against any strong winds by one of the stray rocks lying around, before heading for the mouth of the cave. It really did look like a mouth, rough spikes growing up out of the base of the opening and coiling all around it like monstrously deformed, too-sharp teeth. It wasn’t the easiest squeeze, especially for someone his size, but he could manoeuvre it without too much trouble, his hands and feet familiar with the grooves and sharp edges. It was for the best anyway, he thought. Wouldn’t do to have an unwary traveller enter the sacred caves by mistake.

He didn’t come here often. But the day’s news was worrying enough to warrant it, he’d decided after ruminating on it all day. He’d worried about it in the back of his head for the entirety of his trip.

He navigated the sharp mouth of the cave and crossed into the cooler air inside, careful to stay his grip into the stone wall before steadily climbing down. There was a stretch of open sky that illuminated a patch of the deep blue waters which covered most of the vast interconnected caves, but jumping directly into the waters would be nothing short of suicidal, even for a not-unwelcome-guest such as himself. He’d never trespass on another’s domain like that, nor would he want to abuse his welcome. He knew how rare the courtesy extended to him was, and how precious for it.

The rays of sunlight reaching into the deceptively calm water made it sparkle attractively, and Dan took the time to appreciate the beautiful play of flecks of light and shadows that adorned the cave walls as clouds shifted all the way up in the sky. He’d always enjoyed the view, from the first time he was allowed entry here as a child, and he’d always marvelled that he would be given such an unlikely gift. The habitants of the cenotes were infamous for distrusting outsiders.

To those who even knew there was such a thing, anyway.

As he was reaching the ground - he’d headed for the small patch of limestone filled with tiny rocks to the left of the cave entrance as was the custom - he lowered his bare feet into the narrow riverbank and announced his presence with a distinct whistle. They would have already noticed him, of course, but the rituals must be observed. He waited a full minute, counting in his head and watching the little shadows of movement in the water, taking in the seldom-seen beauty of the caves, then, once the minute was over, he moved ahead, carefully, deliberately, to the edge of the river. He could only advance three wide steps before the stream bed plunged to unknown depths, and so he stopped at the third step, the soles of his feet firmly rooted into the rock, and he waited.

He wasn’t made to wait long. He saw the figures approach, thin and sinewy and too fast to be any kind of human, too fast in the water to be anything but what they were, and he let his feet and calves harden and expand lightly, gripping into the rock he was standing on more securely and providing a more reliable proof of his own identity than anything else he could have done or presented them with. He was in their domain, anyway. One, alone, where hundreds of them swam leisurely around, and where hundreds more could be called if a threat dared show up. If they wanted him dead he didn’t stand a chance. Just as they liked it.

He couldn’t really blame them.

They surfaced a few meters away, and he was relieved to recognise their leader. She hadn’t always been available for his impromptu visits, and the others were much more distrustful of him. Klavdiya was there the first time Dan had visited as a kid, however. She remembered his Papa too, and that also helped.

“Lady Klavdiya,” Dan addressed her, twining his arms close to his chest, and inclined his torso slightly while keeping eye contact with her. She bared her too-long, too-sharp teeth in a grimace Dan had learnt was a gesture not unlike a smile for humans. The two rusalki flanking her sides allowed themselves to stoop lower into the water, vigilant as ever but mollified by the show of respect. Dan only recognised one of them from his previous visits, though she’d never offered a name.

“Daniel, forest child. You come unannounced.”

“I do. I’ve received news that you deserve to hear.” The rusalki appreciated candour as much as Dan did, so he didn’t waste their time with small talk. It would be an insult to them both.

“Speak,” Klavdiya prompted, not unkindly.

“There is a party coming to the village. No more than a dozen humans, but among them, there is a pair of hunters. Rumours are they’re quite skilled in certain magicks, and they’ve sent word that they’re canvassing the kingdom, catching and disposing of any non-humans they can and making note of others they may not have the resources to slay. I don’t know how accurate the assessment of their skills is, but I’ve ascertained that there is a pair of hunters travelling this way, and they’ve apparently caused quite the stir in the neighbouring lands, so I doubt they’ll be easy pickings.”

Klavdiya swirled her tail close to the surface in a dangerous motion that Dan knew could drain the life of a human in a single blow.

She was worried.

Dan hated it.

“Canvassing…” she sounded the word out, picking at it as she asked for more information.

“I doubt they’ll venture this deep into the forest. If they do, I may well have to take them out myself before they ever reach the caves.”

Klavdiya’s fins flickered in sympathy. She knew he wouldn’t enjoy it if it came to that.

Dan understood the significance of the gesture, a notable display of insight and compassion from a creature who would delight in slaying her enemies, as brutally and mercilessly as she felt they deserved. He saw the respect in her eyes, in her posture, in every word she said to him. She knew he would do it if necessary.

“You may need help,” she declared.

“I hope not,” he hedged.

“You may need help,” she repeated, softly but with a core of strength intrinsic to her people and her character.

“I do not wish to involve you. I have come to warn you because I may not be able to come once they’re in the vicinity. I would not want to lead them here. And I don’t know how long they’ll stay.”

“You may need help,” she repeated herself a third time, and much as he didn’t want to acknowledge the implicit offer, it would border on a snub to dismiss it a third time. Dan gave her a pleading look. She didn’t flinch.

“...I may. But if it comes to that, it may be too late for me anyway.”

“If you lead them to the opening at the top, you need only push them in. If they fall into the water, my brethren will make short work of them, magick or no magick.”

The hunters’ magic could cost her brethren several lives, maybe dozens if they were as powerful as advertised. He didn’t say this. She knew. A threat to his forest implied a threat to her caves, to her river, to the sea her river flowed into. A canvassing entourage might even be planning that far ahead. Dan rather hoped not.

He let out a heavy breath, reluctant acquiescence. “I promise I shall only consider it as the very last resort,” he vowed.

Klavdiya inclined into an awkward bow, respect shown for respect due. “You need not vow so, our offer was freely made. But it is appreciated.” She would not have offered so to someone else. She would not have offered if she didn’t know he’d never ask it of them. That is why she offered. That, and her people. Their domain. Their home. They would rather all die defending it than surrender one lone inch of it. They’d already lost so many. Humans had always been particularly brutal to her kind, and it had only got so much worse in the last decade...

“My respects to you and yours. May our alliance endure the hurdles to come, and may no threat disturb the peace and quiet of our lands and rivers.” The formal words closed the formal encounter, and he waited to see what Klavdiya would do next.

“Our respects, forest child. Should you need our power, we shall be here.”

Dan did another ‘rusalka bow’, as he’d come to call them when he’d first learnt them as a child, arms entwined and pressed to his chest, a show of respect and trust to the people whose domain he had been allowed to step into. He remembered his Papa explaining the significance of the tangled arms - a deliberate blunting of one of their best weapons; the position of their feet - as deep as they could go into the water without endangering or maiming themselves - and the revealing of their nature by calling forth the forest to reshape their lower limbs into their inhuman form - proof of identity, of membership, of allegiance. He had tried to copy the delicate movements that flowed so effortlessly from his Papa, but he’d only managed a clumsy imitation that first time. They’d practised later, back at home, at little Dan’s insistence. He’d been five then.

Now, the movements were well-practised, his limbs folding gracefully and his stance never wavering. Klavdiya rose from her own bow and made a swirly movement with her arms to dismiss her companions. They’d stay close, keep an eye on them, he knew, but they didn’t argue; just submerged themselves into the water and disappeared from view.

Klavdiya swam close, movements careful so as to display her goodwill. A rusalka swimming at natural speeds would read to any creature as a threat on an instinctual level, no matter how firm an ally they knew them to be. Dan flexed his feet, one after the other, smoothing rough bark back into soft pale flesh, and took three steps back so that he could sit on the edge of the water, letting his human-looking feet rest comfortably in the shallows.

“Did you find anything else?” Klavdiya asked once she was within reach. Not that they’d reach out to touch each other. Neither one particularly cared to, and if they did there’d be angry and protective rusalki to answer to.

Dan shook his head, allowing his expression to display his worry fully. He’d only heard rumours, some snippets of conversations overheard and some freely offered. But he’d heard tales of less fortunate lands, heard enough - too much, really - of the horrors perpetrated by more zealous bands of humans in the plains to the east, the scope of the bloodshed in the mountain villages of the south, the atrocities committed in the name of ‘humanity’. He’d never been an optimist, but the current political climate was beyond anything he could have feared. It made surviving a burden, sometimes.

He missed his Papa like a cracked rib, the pain sharp and present with every breath he took, and he sometimes thought that if it wasn’t for the chance to help others, to help even a few of the poor lost souls that were being mercilessly hunted as far and wide as he managed to get news from, then he might have given up long ago. The future felt so bleak. And he was so tired.

But he was the last bastion between the misguided and cruel and the haven that was his forest, strategically tucked away into its roots, emboldened and favoured by Her, her child, and he couldn’t abandon Her any more than he could abandon those in need that were desperate enough to venture inside into her welcoming folds, and there had been quite a few of those in recent years. These were desperate times, after all.

Some, however, like the rusalki, hadn’t ventured in looking for an escape, but rather they were a part of it from times immemorial.

Well, the rusalki were neighbours to it, technically. They had their own domain in the pools of the caves entrenched within the forest, and in the river that flowed through them, connecting them to the deeper, wider sea. But they belonged there, they had been there for millennia, and for all their danger they felt to Dan like a respite, a comfort, a steady bulwark that refused to be moved, refused to be challenged, refused to be cowed.

So many peoples had folded, some in fear, some in indifference, a few in a strategic bid that meant to win them the realm in the long run. But not the rusalki, steadfast and unyielding as ever, and not Dan either. Unlike them, he lacked the strength of numbers, however. He only had the forest. The forest and his human parents, who had no command of magick, his human parents who couldn’t fight, and who still now carried the bleeding wound of the forced separation with their hearts’ partner, patched up but still raw, still tearing at them, still ravaging their will and their courage. Dan sometimes thought that they suffered his Papa’s absence even more keenly than him.

His talk with Klavdiya was short, as their chats usually were, but he was pleased to see her bare her teeth once again when he showed her the token he’d brought for her. He knew to be careful with gifts, but rocks from his forest, imbued with the moon’s energy and the earth’s vitality, were quite straightforward as presents from one ally to another, and useful enough not to raise any hackles from the more suspicious of her brethren.

The sun was getting low, however, and soon they had no more information to exchange, not even of the personal leisurely sort, so he bid his goodbyes and left with the promise to visit again once the danger was past them. He’d keep to his next scheduled visit if the hunters were gone by then, and only make another surprise visit if he felt like he must, if circumstances changed.

Hopefully, that wouldn’t be necessary.

By the time he’d climbed back to the surface and out through the tricky mouth of the cave, the sky was a deep orange. He could walk through the forest deaf and blind if he had to, of course, so navigating it by night under the watchful light of the stars would be no hardship for him.

But he was getting hungry and he hadn’t forgotten the qurabiya nestled carefully inside his pack. He’d make a simple dinner and enjoy one for dessert. It shouldn’t take long for him to get to his cottage.

He’d make in an early night. He had plans early the next day.

#phanfic #am i writing now #phandom reverse bang #phan #phan au #fantasy au

[lady-plantagenet]

A Bygone Era - Chapter 1

A fictionalised account of Isabel Neville’s life from the point of view of her and those close to her.

So far told through the points of view of: Anne Beauchamp 16th Countess of Warwick.

5th September 1451

As each gust of wind veered and swooped around the pointed turrets of Warwick castle, it would not surrender its strength before first claiming a tawny leaf from the hazel trees. The emerald blush of the castle grounds: the summer green that made the tableaux of the landscape ever more poignant just a few months ago, was now fading into a browner more lifeless hue.

Having seen twenty-five summers, the countess was hardly a young lass at the cusp of womanhood. Her half-sister Margaret was six years younger than she when she bore her first child, Elizabeth even more so. Labour was harder for those years past their first flowering. The pain in her back and hips seemed to sting her everytime she drew breath, her head felt uneasy on her shoulders as the exertion of the birth seemed to have pushed all the air out of her. However, there were none to pity her or lay at her feet praising her for the beautiful daughter she had just provided - the Earl of Warwick needed a son.

Even my wretched ladies seem less eager to attend to me. Especially Martha. She thinks herself above me now, for the whelp she bore her minor knight of a husband was a boy.

‘Jesus wept’ snapped Anne ‘may I not be washed and given a morsel of food or even the child?’

A tremble hit Martha and Agnes before they bound down the castle stairs, one with a washbasin nestled under an arm and the other clutching at a gilded platter. Not since she was a little girl had Anne raised her voice beyond a ladylike drone. Those two did not know that, hence the agitation.

‘Begging your pardon milady’ said a breathless Agnes while handing her some bread and salt and Isabel, rosy and clean from the nursemaid’s scrubbing.

Anne tilted her head letting her long auburn tresses fall over into the silver washbowl that Martha brought. While the labour of childbirth was scrubbed off her, she looked at the babe before her. Isabel slowly opened her eyes with a lack of enthusiasm so uncommon to a newborn babe. They were the phantasmagorical green of the turbulent sea.

A beauty that would rally the men of the field to pick up swords and fight god himself it was not.

Though not even an hour unto this world, Isabel’s fair face had no suggestion of roundness, but was a slender oval. The small mouth had a suggestion of full lips and the thin tuft of hair on her head appeared flaxen - though Anne knew it would darken to Richard’s chestnut brown in little time.

A beauty of ice instead maybe. A Despenser, Montacute, Beauchamp and Neville fit for a king or at least a duke who would be immensely drawn to those features, so like those of a statue. Let the golden haired, sky-eyed buxom jezebels catch the eyes of peasant boys and mercenaries. My Isabel shall rouse the very rose of Plantagenet with a face that only generations of careful breeding since the age of the conquest could produce. Because with these she shows herself a daughter of Warwick - and what man would not rally behind that?

At first Anne thought she could hear the pitter-patter of raindrops, but the sound grew sharper resembling a thundercloud heralding a Warwickshire late summer storm.

As the sound of the bailey’s gravel amplified the countess’ entire body shot up so fast that she could feel a surging pain through her spine. The kingmaker had arrived.

The years have proven that the lack of a heir did nothing to dull the earl’s affections for his wife. As he leaped from his horse in one refined movement and took Anne into his arms, she once more felt like a newly wed bride greeting her betrothed outside Bisham Abbey.

She winced as he roughly pulled her into a arduous kiss marvelling at how deliciously crude this gesture was in contrast to his previous elegant one. He may be an earl but he is also a soldier, and above that a man quenching his thirst after months on dry land. And how could he not? At just a couple of inches below his height and still lithe and thin after just moments of childbirth, Anne had the elegance of a water nymph. As Richard was stroking her cheeks he could not help but gaze in awe at the bonny eyes whose colour so much resembled the burnished emerald of her ancestral land.

‘My son how fare he?’ He asked with impatient excitement ‘A strong lad is he not?’

Anne’s chest tightened as if the gusts of wind from a few hours ago were filling her lungs like saltwater would a drowning sailor’s. It is my entire fault. I should never have told him I knew I was carrying a son. All mothers share the same musings about their firstborn, they can not all be right.

‘My Lord husband’ she began adopting a more formal tone ‘It is a girl and I have decided to call her Isabel after mother’

To her relief his smile reappeared. ‘How fitting. The second Lady Isabel Neville’

Anne looked noticeably confused.

‘Ah you do not know then? Isabel de Neville was the daughter and sole heiress of the Norman Geoffrey de Neville and wife of Robert Ritzmaldred a son of the Earls of Northumbria and Etheldred II’ he grinned ‘By the time Lionheart was crowned and fighting his wars in the foreign lands of the east, no one could then gainsay the Plantagenet dynasty so Geoffrey took the Neville name as his own to sit at the high tables of the Norman nobility’

Her husband was so taken up with his tales of Saxon princes and Gospatric of Northumbria that she had to lead him through the great hall and up the winding staircase like a mother hen guiding a sleep-heavy child to its bed. I have done this before she started to remember I was nine and he seven, and we were right here on those stairs. If truth be told my mother had invited Lady Alice to introduce her son as my betrothed in guise of a St Crispin’s day luncheon invitation. By then I have perfected my curtsey and broke the nasty habit of handling my skirts, so I was finally considered worthy of social presentation. They bid me go show him all around the castle grounds and I played hostess thinking I had merely gained another playmate - though he might not have been so easily duped. To think where we are now.

In her apartments Isabel lay satisfied in her cot having just received her milk and with Margaret and the nursemaid hovering over her dotingly.

‘Ah dear wife’ proclaimed Richard ‘it seems her and Margaret would make splendid companions - she had always wanted a sister’. With one small step he picks her up and kisses her on the forehead. The little girl giggled at that, her wide smile squeezing her cornflower blue eyes in satisfied lines.

Ah yes the bastard daughter. Richard’s little indiscretion. The newborn girl that greeted me at Middleham where we first appeared as man and wife, before all our sisters, John and dear Henry- could it really have been eight years past? It feels like just yesterday I buried my dear brother.

Anne became a stone statue as Agnes was at work binding her straight auburn strands into a china blue crespine whose cauls were covered in wide copper netting to complement her Burgundian gown. The dress’ saffron skirts were piercing beams of summer against the burnished autumn hue of the kirtle that latched tightly against her pert chest. The image of his darling wife rushing past the stony keep and into the courtyard seeming more woman than countess with her hair tumbling about her, must have made the earl’s heart wrench with delight for this sun goddess of a woman that he now possessed. I chose his favourite dress, but for that remark I shall choose the most matronly headdress - the one he hates. I shall take it off when he begs my pardon for all this inappropriate cooing over the bastard.

With the classic lack of concern customary of a pre-occupied magnate, Richard did not notice his wife’s minuscule act of defiance. Ever since the death of little Anne two years past, one of England’s greatest earldoms had burdened her husband with its great expectations. Ever since parliament declared her sole heiress over her half-sisters, Richard’s mind was constantly operating in tandem between the world before him and the world next morrow.

Thankfully he eventually sensed the tension surrounding him soon enough to act swiftly and pick up Isabel. The baby’s eyes that only moments ago seemed to lay frozen in her face, lit up with an excitement spreading throughout her whole expression, culminating in a joyful squirm as her father cradled her. Anne started to worry that the disappointment surrounding her sex had started to be rescepted by Isabel. She was now relieved to see the prevention of that.

‘Dear god Anne’ said Richard not tearing his eyes off Isabel ‘What a jewel you have given me’

The heartfelt display thawed the ice that previously had a hold over Anne’s heart as she let out a smiling sigh of relief that after months enraptured in the gripping power plays and intrigues of a royal court, Isabel did not disappoint.

‘As beautiful as her lady mother’ he continued before flashing a knight’s dazzling smile. A smile devoid of vulgarity and void of mummery. A smile so chivalrous that it belonged in Camelot.

He knows to appeal to my vanity the wicked man. Shame on him and his courtier’s tricks.

Before she could damn him further he gently tugged at the hem of her sleeves, bringing her close enough to folder her in his arms with Isabel. She made her peace. ‘Remind me, my sweet, what is the meaning of her Christian name?’ He asked

‘Pledged to God’ Anne smiled ‘As we all are’

‘As we all must be. The war against France has weakened our king. That shrew of a maid of Orleans has marked the demise of any chance we may ever have to hold true power in France’ he started complaining vociferously. And now he recommences. I find it passing incredible how nearly everything I say he takes as a prompt to indulge himself into one of his soliloquies. Today he bemoans England’s fortunes in “the useless war.” ‘... with any luck our recapturing of Bordeaux would at least render this war not a complete loss.’

‘I hear Talbot shall be leading the command. If Gascony were taken back that would bring glory to-’

‘The glory of the Lancastrian rose is of no concern to me Anne’ Richard interrupted suddenly ‘I need this wasteful war to cease so that my father may regain his men and deal with Percy once and for all.’

‘For shame my Lord husband! You mean to tell me you’re heart does not yearn for the chivalry of defeating the lily of France?’ teased Anne playfully ‘Does your heart not beat red for Lancaster and the quest of justice to fulfill their ancestral claims?’

Any other day Richard would respond to Anne’s coyness the way she liked. It was one of their oldest customs. A couple of japes would be passed back and forth always leading to him jokingly proclaiming her a disobedient woman while slowly lifting her skirts and punishing her as if she were an unruly wench eagerly accepting what punishment her lord sees fit. Today something was different and Anne admittedly felt a little more than hurt.

‘Nay wife. Red for the bear and ragged staff. The only cause I believe in. My father was right; this simpleton of a King is incapable of responding to our petitions. We are of royal blood and wardenship of the West March does make us far more capable of keeping Percy tenants in good support. If the Lancastrians of Westminster choose to preoccupy themselves with the lost cause which is the French crown I see no reason to continue blindly serving this line of usurpers.’

Anne froze. Though far from an emotional man, Richard usually delighted in being the cause of his own flights of fury. She would sit on the ledge by the solar windowpanes attentively as he would in his lectures damn half a dozen men and complain endlessly about anything between Beaufort’s incompetence and the treacherous Percys. The series after the Scottish wars was the most heartfelt.

Today’s sermon was delivered in a frigid manner devoid of any of the four humours nor spite. It was the discourse of a man already deep in planning

Choleric or not, Richard was ravenous, downing one slice of capon dipped in melted spiced butter after the other. His return was especially rejoiced by Cook Royce whose pregnant mistress’ cravings for the mundane poussin and squab had left him with no opportunity for great culinary creative expression.

The Goyart tapestries on the soot grey walls of the great hall have been changed for the richer and more sombre Flemish tapestries. Her favourite depicted a fair haired maiden lying sombrely on the juniper grass guarded by maned lions. She pointed her mirror towards the unicorn as if to reveal to him his own magic, though his horn did not reflect in the mirror like the rest of his comely face. Ah the scintillating nature of magic. God reveals himself in ways that elude most. She thought back to all the miracles she thought she had witnessed in her girlhood. Blue roses appearing in winter, the butterfly with transparent wings, even the draft and light from the glass window working in conjunction, turning her to the appropriate page and shining blue light upon the bible passage so her governess would not realise she was not attentive...

‘Ah yes, do you like them Anne? They were part of the Dowager Duchess of Bedford’s dowry, given to the crown in part payment for the dishonour that was her illicit marriage’ Richard said after finally lifting his head from the plate

‘The lady Jacquetta led quite a scandal’ started Anne ‘How is she fareing shacked up with her squire?’

‘Last I heard he was made Baron Rivers’

‘A fanciful title’

‘Still not one a mere country squire merits. I highly doubt it will ever bring in the income to sufficiently maintain the widow of Prince John in the luxury to which she grew accustomed.’

‘The luxury she grew accustomed to as the daughter of Peter of Luxembourg would prove to be the more insurmountable standard for Woodville to reach.’

‘What are you trying to say my lady?’ Richard began teasing ‘Do our English comforts no longer satisfy yours or the Duchess’ lofty needs?’

‘I only say, husband, that just as the Italian duchies are rife with classical art, bards singing dulcet tones and those technologies - whatever they would be, Duke Philip has his own cohort of artists and inventors. The ‘Burgundian School’ is so accomplished our very own John Dunstaple has joined their ranks...’ Richard’s fatigue was waning his attention until his wife stood up from the oak long table and spun around. The flashes of the yellow silk at the skirts extending out with each movement and encircling the amber coloured kirtle as if she were the sun itself come down from the heavens to grace and bring calm to her particularly agitated earl. ‘...and this.’ Anne finished referring to the Burgundian fashions. For dramatic effect she pointed her elbows high to present the same pomegranate pattern adornishing the trimmings of the long jagged sleeves - and as he later noticed - the lining of the deep v-neckline of the dress.

‘Jesus wept’ Richard exclaimed ‘What could have possibly possessed me and drawn me away from noticing the beauty of your gown, for so long?’

By then all the food was dispensed with and the hall was clear of servants. In the privacy of the ancient great hall and enraptured with the smell of fresh rushes the Earl of Warwick drew his wife onto his lap. Anne happily obliged as eagerly as a moth to a flame and threw her arms around his neck tangling her long fingers in his shoulder-length woodland brown hair as she kissed him. Improper public displays like this were a rarity and almost never passed between the Earl and Countess of Warwick, but betwixt the lengthy separation, a wife’s adoration and splendid supper neither could help themselves.

I see Isabel’s birth has not made him wroth at me. Perchance he will one day grow to love her as much as I do.

As if capable of reading her mind Richard drew her in even closer for a longer more ardent kiss. Not the polite type a knight would give his elusive ladylove.

‘No verbalisation of mine could ever express my gratitude for your birthing of such a perfect babe, I shall love Isabel as dearly as others love their sons’

‘God will give us a son soon my love, I promise you that....’ Anne started

‘Even if he does not, lest we forget the running tradition of female heiresses in both our lines’ Richard gently said while his fingers traced the hem marking the end of Anne’s kirtle and the tender skin above her breasts. It was no secret that her vast inheritance served as a point of pride for her husband; few knew it was also an aphrodisiac. ‘The finest men in the kingdom will vie for her hand in marriage’.

Anne nestled her weary head in the crook of his neck adjusting so the sharp corners of her caul do not dig into his neck before saying ‘She is too young to even contemplate such a thing.’ She was playing the doting mother. I would not admit to anyone that just hours after her birth I had been lining up a list of names in my head. Most women would think that only shrews and wicked mothers work in that way. But these women were not born to be heiresses like I was and Isabel is. Her and I are of a different breed.

‘Margaret of Anjou is taking very young girls into her service nowadays. Jacquetta Rivers’ eldest Elizabeth had been appointed lady-in-Waiting since she was just ten and three’

‘It never ceases to amaze me how many lives those Woodvilles have’ Anne chortled ‘not even the biggest scandal of Christendom could bar them from the court or king’s favour.’

‘For all of Lady Rivers’ ambitions this is the highest her or any of her brats could ever rise to. For all her fabled beauty, last I heard Elizabeth is pre-contracted to marry a modest Leicester knight like her father. Now just imagine the great marriages Isabel will have to choose from, when the time comes for her to be brought to court’ said Richard

‘Just imagine’ replied Anne wistfully ‘the greatest lady of the land - second only to the Rose of Anjou herself.’

Read the other 4 Chapters here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22268239/chapters/53175664

#isabel neville #george duke of clarence #wars of the roses #the white queen #the kingmaker #anne beauchamp #fanfic #richard neville earl of warwick #anne neville #fanfiction #house of york #please r and r :)

[moonlitgleek]

Stupid question, probably you won't even reply. Why do you think that story of the good and gracious princess is not romanticised. Elia is remembered as someone who was witty and clever and called a fair maid. No one has anything wrong to say about her except for cersei and Jon con and that too is just about her physical appearance.

It’s not a stupid question. One of the problems of the Dead Ladies Club is that it works in extremes; these women are either heavily romanticized or heavily vilified with romanticization being the most prominent reaction. We don’t know them. We don’t have a sense of their personality or beliefs or living experience to define who they are. Our knowledge of them comes from secondhand accounts that often did not know the characters all that well and are colored by character bias. And that’s how the dead ladies become idealized concepts with their textual importance defined by their absence and their personhood defined by their desirability and beauty, frozen in time on their pedestals.

However, you assessment of how Elia is regarded is not accurate and it’s that that contradicts the idea that Elia is romanticized. While we do have Barristan’s description of Elia as a good and gracious with a gentle heart and sweet wit which might be somewhat idealized, that description does not stand on its own. Besides two lines from Barristan, almost everyone (outside of the Martells) who thinks of Elia does it in a condemning tone, whether implicitly or explicitly. It might be argued that these characters’ denunciation isn’t centered on Elia’s personality, whereas Barristan’s praise is, but honestly, even Barristan’s words does not build a personality. Courtesy and wit are things that noble ladies, especially born princesses, are expected to display in their daily lives, much less in any ceremony. That does little and less in telling us who Elia was as a person. She was good, but what does it mean that she was good?

But again, even that bit of positive recollection is undercut with how Elia is viewed by the rest of the characters. Most people actually only think about Elia in the context of her murder, but those who do think about her life pile up on her. She is seen as lacking, as unworthy of Rhaegar, as the reason Rhaegar needed Lyanna in the first place. I wouldn’t discount knocks on her appearance as shallow and irrelevant to how she is remembered, partly because that is a clear indication of the racism and ableism that is driving negative reflections of Elia, and partly because it’s exactly that that’s been used to argue Elia’s unworthiness and blame her for Rhaegar’s actions. I’ve argued before that common racism and ableism makes it far easier to scapegoat Elia and blame her for what Rhaegar has done than to hold Rhaegar accountable for his own actions. God forbid someone blames the sad handsome white boy for his own blunders, no it’s his brown wife that is surely to blame. And lo and behold, that’s exactly what happens. In the same scene where Barristan speaks of Elia’s graciousness, the dialogue is about how she supposedly drove Rhaegar to his folly.

“Princess Elia was there, his wife, and yet my brother gave the crown to the Stark girl, and later stole her away from her betrothed. How could he do that? Did the Dornish woman treat him so ill?”

“It is not for such as me to say what might have been in your brother’s heart, Your Grace. The Princess Elia was a good and gracious lady, though her health was ever delicate.”

Dany pulled the lion pelt tighter about her shoulders. “Viserys said once that it was my fault, for being born too late.” She had denied it hotly, she remembered, going so far as to tell Viserys that it was his fault for not being born a girl. He beat her cruelly for that insolence. “If I had been born more timely, he said, Rhaegar would have married me instead of Elia, and it would all have come out different. If Rhaegar had been happy in his wife, he would not have needed the Stark girl.“  

Dany automatically assumes that it was something that Elia had done that caused Rhaegar to humiliate her and abscond with Lyanna. Viserys concludes that Rhaegar’s actions were because he wasn’t happy in his wife, again assuming the fault lies with her. Barristan needlessly brings up Elia’s health unprompted emphasizing that she was “flawed” and almost giving a substitute motivation for Rhaegar - the problem isn’t in how Elia behaved, it’s in how Elia was. Barristan also doesn’t quite disagree with the idea that things would have been different if Rhaegar had married someone else. In another part, he gracelessly refers to Elia as a “kitchen drab” while comparing her unfavorably to Ashara Dayne.

In a situation where she was a blameless victim, Elia still gets the blame, even from the guy who spoke for herpositive qualities, while Rhaegar gets the sympathetic treatment. (Dany later describes his death as him dying for the woman he loves, and exactly no one ever thinks of how he sacrificed his innocent wife for that so-called love.)

Kevan Lannister displays the same belief of putting Rhaegar’s actions (and the rebellion by association) on Elia. If only Rhaegar had married Cersei….

 If Aerys had agreed to marry [Cersei] to Rhaegar, how many deaths might have been avoided? Cersei could have given the prince the sons he wanted, lions with purple eyes and silver manes … and with such a wife, Rhaegar might never have looked twice at Lyanna Stark. 

Note the words Kevan use. The sons, purple eyes and silver manes. If that’s not a knock on the Dornish-looking Rhaenys, I don’t know what is. Also, that subtle dig at Elia.

Jon Connington is on another level of awfulness.

Jon Connington remembered Prince Rhaegar’s wedding all too well. Elia was never worthy of him. She was frail and sickly from the first, and childbirth only left her weaker. After the birth of Princess Rhaenys, her mother had been bedridden for half a year, and Prince Aegon’s birth had almost been the death of her. She would bear no more children, the maesters told Prince Rhaegar afterward.  

The man is talking about how Elia almost died to give Rhaegar an heir, but his take somehow is still that Elia was unworthy of Rhaegar. She gave Rhaegar two children but Connington’s feathers are ruffled because she couldn’t have more. Please remember that he still has the audacity to turn to Elia’s kinsmen to help him in a war that he is waging to make himself feel better.

(Screw you, Jon)

Then there is Cersei, the Light of the West herself.

It had to have been the madness that led Aerys to refuse Lord Tywin’s daughter and take his son instead, whilst marrying his own son to a feeble Dornish princess with black eyes and a flat chest.

The thing is that comments about physical appearance aren’t just about physical appearance. They are about Elia’s race that inherently branded her inadequate in their eyes (oh those black eyes that she passed on to her daughter). They are about Elia’s health that must have affected how she looked (she was not long out of her sickbed from Rhaenys’ birth at Harrenhal, and she was likely already pregnant with Aegon at the time). They are about her perceived inability to provide Rhaegar with something he needed: more heirs, a beautiful wife (she was not enough to hold his interest, not “a rising sun” like Cersei), happiness (how did she treat him? Did she “mend his hurt”?), etc. Even the words used to describe Elia’s beauty is the same that’s been used to describe her health implying fragility, weakness and inferiority. It comes down to the same implication: Elia is deficient. Which makes her a convenient scapegoat for every douchebag with an agenda, like Yandel.

It is not known who murdered Princess Rhaenys in her bed, or smashed the infant Prince Aegon’s head against a wall.Some whisper it was done at Aerys’s own command when he learned that Lord Lannister had taken up Robert’s cause, while others suggest that Elia did it herself for fear of what would happen to her children in the hands of her dead husband’s enemies.

Yeah, he just perpetuated rumors that she killed her own children. Can’t bring up Tywin’s name. Nope. So let Elia take the fall for another white guy.

So Elia’s reputation really comes down to two positive lines about her cleverness and grace, and an onslaught of people implying she is to blame for the rebellion and the deaths that followed. Even the warmth in Oberyn and Doran’s narrative is too little to counter that, especially with how it is overshadowed by the justice and revenge narrative of the Dornish plot, and how neither Oberyn or Doran are PoV characters. And the ones who are PoV just don’t remember Elia, so we only get bits and pieces. I don’t think that sells a romanticized narrative of Elia at all. Compare that to how someone like Rhaegar is talked about, or Arthur Dayne, or even other Dead Ladies like Lyanna, Joanna or Ashara, and you’ll see the difference.

#asoiaf #asoiaf meta #elia martell #barristan selmy #jon connington #cersei lannister #daenerys targaryen #rhaegar targaryen #the dead ladies club #scapegoating #ask box #Anon asks #ableism in westeros

[ratherhavetheblues]

ANDREI TARKOVSKY’S ‘STALKER’ “Prisoner? I’m imprisoned everywhere…”

© 2021 by James Clark

Our protagonist, early on in this mammoth undertaking, and en route to a client, protests to an imaginary companion, “My dear, the world is so utterly boring. There’s no telepathy, no ghosts, no flying saucers… They can’t exist. The world is ruled by cast-iron laws. These laws are not broken. They just can’t be broken…” On reaching his customer, there is also a woman, in furs and with a cool sports car. He continues his rant, now addressing her. “Don’t hope for flying saucers. That would be too interesting…”She retorts, “But what about the Bermuda Triangle?” This annoys him. “You’re not going to contradict…” And she quickly declares, “Yes, I am.”/ “There is no Bermuda Triangle,” he insists. “There is Triangle ABC which equals Triangle A prime, B prime, C prime.” She yawns, “It’s all so tedious, so very tedious.” She might have added that it’s all very pedantic. It’s all very pushy, in a thrust that doesn’t yield power. Pedantic, to the point of desperation. Shifting back to his whimsy, he tells her, “In the Middle Ages, life was interesting. Every house had its goblin, each Church a God. People were young. Now every fourth person is old…” The client had placed his hat on her car; and, in the woman’s resenting the protagonist being so adamant, she races away from them, leaving his hat on the roof. That dogmatic display had been mitigated in several ways. Surrealism had landed with the hat. The triad of the Bermuda Triangle was also a breath of fresh air, a visit from a source to be seen soon. Telepathy, ghosts, flying saucers, all in the mix, somehow.

Beginning as we did, there requires now a more complete sense of the crisis. His career of being known as a “Stalker”—a term implying harsh measures—focuses down to his being a sort of pilgrimage tour guide. Whereas such a calling could be lucrative, one look toward our protagonist’s home makes very clear that money is scarce there. His bedroom and kitchen have been reinforced by a living room operating as a public bar. Could that polyglot become a manifestation of the passionate innovator himself? Whereas those typically doing pilgrimages rush to prove how old-fashioned they are, our Stalker finds a market (obviously not numerous) for those with a hankering of the rebellious. The saga of the missing hat would be a case of a lady’s man, a popular, wealthy writer purveying the chic and solid classical rational thought from many centuries ago. That he’s fond of “risk” is one thing; that he’s bought into the ways of the Stalker is a very different thing. The first visitor seen at that surrealist bar is the other client of the adventure, a scientist. Curiosity being smiled upon in that realm, where standard curiosity does not have a hope. Not about smidgens, but a new cosmos. Both would be proud to call themselves skeptics. Both would be impostors.

  Insofar as being that, in my view, the core of this elusive film is concerned with a planet of impostors, we will attempt things in the most incisive and compelling way, that being left for the crisis and what to make of it, while beginning with an idiosyncratic triumph which does, in fact, form the ending.

“You came back,” says the Stalker’s wife in a needling way, and in the bar. Where did the dog come from? (He was feeding the dog.) “It tagged along. Don’t chase it away…” Though unimpressed by the new family member, she is concerned that he join her on a walk to carry her crippled daughter, Monkey, needing the elements. “Monkey’s waiting.” (The elements being contaminated by a striking, unabating force.) Mom smoking, pacing the floor of the bar. The two tourists being morose. The smoker asks, “Does anybody want a dog?” The Writer responds, “I’ve got five already…” The dog goes to the girl. Mom says, to the barman, with no enthusiasm, “So you like dogs.”/ “That’s a good one.” The Stalker gets around to, “Alright, let’s go.” The Family Man raises the girl to his shoulders. The Professor/ Scientist and the Writer watch nonplussed. The daughter and her crocheted shawl seem to be a haven. Their arresting and dashing procession, along a shoreline, frees the gala to its simple and graceful height. A ringing sound is heard. Cut to a wooden bowl being filled with milk.

   In great contrast to the playfulness, back home the marching man complains to his wife, “If you knew how tired I am… Only God knows… They still call themselves the intelligentsia. Writers! Scientists!”/ His wife says, “Calm down…”/ He insists, “They don’t believe in anything. Their capacity for faith has atrophied.”/ “Calm yourself,” she tells him, in the action of his being overrun by the lack of focused emotional force. Surprisingly, one more room shows up—an impressive library./ “Stop it. Calm down. Don’t worry…”/ By now, he’s lying on the floor. She tells him, “It’s dark. You can’t stay here.” She helps him up. “Take it off,” she says./ Toward the bed, a surreal cave wall, rippled, primeval but also vaguely chic./ She helps him take off his pants. He lies down in their only bed. She touches his forehead. She sits on the bed. She adjusts the pillow. “Calm down. It isn’t their fault. They should be pitied, not abused. Their eyes are blank.” She gives him a sleeping pill./ He perseveres, “Their thinking how not to sell themselves cheap. How to get paid for every breath they take. They knew they were born “to be someone,” to be an elite!”/ She touches his temple./ He says, of them, “You live only once… How can such people believe in anything at all?” (Ambiguity here must be embraced.)/ “Relax, now,” she urges. “Try to get some sleep…” She sponges his face and forehead. “Go to sleep…”/ He argues, “Nobody believes. Not only those two. Nobody” [Tarkovsky, we must account for, could be using “belief” in a rare way]. Then he delivers a prayer. “Who shall I take there, O Lord… The most troubling is that nobody needs The Room [the great delivery of his product]. And all my efforts are in vain.”/ She argues, “Why do you say that? Don’t…”/ He pitying himself, “I’ll never go there again with anyone.”/ “If you want,” she says, “I’ll go with you. Do you want that?”/ “No, you mustn’t.”/ “Why?”/ “What if you fail, too?”

She sits down and has a smoke. She speaks to the void. Their void. Our void. “You know, Mama was very opposed to it. You’ve probably already guessed that he’s one of God’s fools…” (The footprints of Bergman’s theatrical dialogue; and the heavy woolens on her presence, in lieu of heating. As with Bergman’s films, dialogue is crucial in a film like this. Tarkovsky’s pictorial genius does not invite your guesses as to what he might be thinking. The depths of dialogue deliver exactly what he is thinking—a thinking not to be imagined as normal, nor a quick grab. The métier of the business of film-entertainment might as well be tricked up by Shakespearean garb, inasmuch as nothing has essentially changed in essence since more than two thousand years. Bergman and Tarkovsky [along with a few ignored figures hoping to make a change] know of another way, an emotive key having been in a form of long imprisonment. Here we have questionable nonsense; and overrated smarts. Closely following the dialogue is not a choice.) “Everyone around her used to laugh at him. He was such a wretched muddler. Mama used to say, ‘He’s a stalker, a marked man, an eternal jailbird… Remember, the kind of children stalkers have…’”/ “I didn’t even argue. I knew all about it—that he was a marked man, a jailbird, mocked by children. Only, what could I do? I was sure I’d be happy with him. I knew there’d be a lot of sorrow. But I’d rather know bittersweet happiness [pathos, a Bergman specialty] than a grey, uneventful life. (Moreover, far beyond personal distinction, the lift is an uncanny “zone.”) Perhaps I invented this later. But when he came up to me and said, “Come with me,” I went. And I’ve never regretted it.” (At the film’s beginning, she becomes hysterical about his stealing her watch for the current job… You gave me your word. I believed you…) There was a lot of grief and fear and pain. But I never regretted it nor envied anyone. It’s just fate… It’s life. It’s us. And if there were no sorrow in our lives, it wouldn’t be better. It would be worse. Because then there would be no happiness either. And there’d be no hope. So… (a little smile).

   Cut to the daughter, reading at a table. (At first sight it seems a Bible. But on closer inspection it’s far from a Bible.) A freight train goes past their window. Flecks of light show up. Monkey’s voice-over, surveying her prospects.) “I love those eyes of yours, my friend. Their sparkling, flashing, fiery wonder./ Where suddenly those lids descend/ Then lightning rips the sky asunder/ You swiftly glance, and there’s an end… (Panning down, she in profile.)/ There’s greater charm, though, to admire/ When lovely are those eyes divine./ In moments kissed by passion’s fire;/ Where though the downcast lashes shine/ The smoldering embers of desire…” (She looks out the window. A pink color in the sky.)

On the table are three glass vessels: her medicine; a tropical  fish; and an empty vase. A dialectical site, not as sterile as you might think. The pulsation from a train moves the medicine bottle toward the edge of the table. But the ensuing pause outside allows the bottle to stay in play. A second glass, containing the fish, also stays in play. (She places two fingers toward the window and the pink sky.) She places her head at one side of the table. The third and empty glass, devoid of substance, plunges to the floor. Is it a case of one’s frailty, or a case of one’s dead history? “Then lightning rips the sky asunder…” Is there a way for her to elicit that  “greater charm?”A ringing bell. The table shakes, the glasses shake. The train shakes the table. “In moments kissed by passion’s fire…”

   Stalker is far from the graces of Monkey. He and his two adventurers show us most graphically that being alive can be already dead. The figure of the Scientist, aka, the Professor, the early-bird, the typical go-getter, gives us a whack of big-reality in the form a Nobel Prize winner. “Was it a meteorite or a visitation from outer space? Whatever it was, in our small country there appeared a miracle—The Zone; imagined to be a singularity. Stalker went to work upon a mystique of that meltdown.

Right from the terminology of Zone, you know embarrassment awaits. In fact, the entire enterprise of that safari is one long episode of the concerns of Theatre of the Absurd. (That being a tonality very useful to the films of Ingmar Bergman, and now dawning upon Tarkovsky. Also, Bergman was not slow to see  that Hollywood melodrama had unwittingly taken up an early version of the tendency of bathetic overkill, in many entertainments. The pathos of that moment of Monkey’s day, introduces something very unique.) Whereas the alarm of Theatre of the Absurd would be heavily involved by way of rational (and irrational) analysis, the Stalker’s approach derives from the possibility that, given enough woe, a frenzy of physical action can break through to serious truth. (He being far from coherent, his other notion becomes that when the magic field is found, the hero is given all the joy anyone would need.)

Rounding off the take-off, our two bold candidates declare statements of concern. The Writer admits, “I dig for the truth, but, while I do, something happens to it. The truth changes into a pile of… I won’t say what… I seldom think. It’s bad for me. The Scientist posits: “I’ve lost my inspiration. I’m going to beg for some.

In the course of stealing a side-car to access what is seen to be a magical place, they invade the large railway complex nearby in the Scientist’s jeep. The pollution count provides the making of film noire, but the actions in the railway yard are so hare-brained as to become a parody, a very young children’s entertainment. What does, though, amidst the jeep-hopping tracks and the Keystone Cops, is the intensity of physical motion, driven to crazy ends by the enthusiast, ends with potential, but light-years away. The atrocious dramaturgy opens the door to the realization that the clientele here—and everywhere—are dead in the water. (In the lull of the race, one of them blurts out, “If I don’t come back, tell my wife…” And, “Hurry, for God’s sake! Keep your eyes open!”) Finding this pitch to be only a specialty of the guide, the Scientist tells them, “What I said about going there… It’s all a lie. I don’t give a damn about inspiration… But how can I put a name to what I want or really don’t want. These are intangibles where the moment you name them, their meaning evaporates, like jelly fish in the sun. You’ve seen them around. My consciousness wants the triumph of vegetarianism. My subconsciousness longs for a juicy steak. So what do I want? I want world supremacy, at the very least.”

   Having outrun the ruined land, they come upon a vital valley and fresh streams. Stalker feels like flexing the muscles of his arms. “Here we are, home at last!” The Writer adds, “It’s so still.” Stalker proudly declares, “It’s the quietest place on earth. You’ll see yourself. It’s so beautiful. There is no one here. The protagonist quips, “Three men can’t foul it up in one day.” The Writer contradicts, “Why can’t we? Sure we can… It stinks like a swamp…” The guide tells of an earlier client who trampled all the flowers there. As such, here is the point of leaving off the study as an adventure per se, and instead an exposure of the perversity of educated people finding their heavy preparations to be, in the final analysis, a farce. The bizarre and conflicting meanderings have been allowed to run amok in order to illuminate a quicksand having become supreme. Some mad duress by the leader forces the experience to freeze until twilight. In the hiatus, the protagonist going for a walk that becomes a sleep, the Professor ridicules the so-called businessman. “He was in prison several times. His daughter is a mutant, a so-called Zone-victim. They say she has no legs…” There is a cut to Stalker, body and face plunged into thick grasses. Consulting the elements. The Professor had a friend who had an idea the meteorite was a message to mankind… or a gift.

Making a trek into damaged military ruins of a distant war, the invasion had been forced to proceed in single file, as if that war were still in force. Along with the recent attacks of advantage, there was the protagonist, happy to be pushing around a notable physicist and a best-selling novelist, living in a big villa. “I’ll point out the path.” The advertised athletic force is nowhere to be seen, due to keeping up with big-mouths. “I said, don’t touch it! What, are you crazy? I said this wasn’t a place for a stroll… The Zone demands respect, otherwise it’ll punish you… Don’t try anything like that again!” / “Why can’t we go in a straight line. It’s right under our noses.”/ “I’m fed up with you nuts…”/ “Forget it. I’m going my way…”

   This skirmish being the opposite of attempting to deliver disinterestedness by way disciplined, dynamic toil. The three of them settling into that what looks like The Three Stooges. Hollywood melodrama early; and Hollywood comedy late. “Keep the last pole in sight. You go first, Professor…”/ “No, you…” / “We’ll go roundabout.”/ “Why?”/ “Here the straight path isn’t shortest. The more indirect, the less risk there is.”/ “Is it fatal to go straight ahead.”/ “I told you. It’s Dangerous.”/ “Is the detour less dangerous?”/ It’s not, but nobody goes straight…”/ “You and you’re detours.…”/ “How about if I just go straight.”/ “Listen you…”/ “It’s risky here, risky there. What the hell… Forget it. I’m going this way…”

Being duped about a childish magic, the buyers recoup what they can. An assault from science: “You’re a fine one, Mr. Shakespeare. Afraid to advance, afraid to retreat…” A response from literature: “It might seem capricious. But at each moment, it’s as if we construct it accordingly to our own state of mind—the states of mind here overlook honest concentration, and therefore we have just another “fabulous” entertainment. The Stalker also finds a statement transcending Stooges. “All of them are death traps. I don’t know what happens here when humans aren’t around. But as soon as humans appear, everything begins to change. Former strengths disappear, new ones appear. Safe ways become impossible. The way becomes more easy, now confused beyond words.”

Making the best, after making the worst, the protagonist also grasps the sense of the  capricious. “But at each moment it’s as if we construct it according to our state of mind. I won’t hide the fact that some people turned back half-way. Some perished on the threshold of the Room. But everything that happens here depends on us.” So far the sobriety holds. And now it doesn’t. It loses its purchase upon one’s readiness to embrace the kinetic. “So the Zone lets the good through, and kills the evil.” Stalker is somewhat amenable to revise that position. “I don’t know. I don’t believe that. I think it lets through those who’ve lost all hope. Not the good or the bad, but the unhappy. But even the most unhappy will perish if they don’t know how to behave here.” Pedantry gone wild.

The semi-anarchy holds to the point where more disclosure of the captains of wow can fall down a hole. The fantasy of the Zone allows the two customers some diversion. But it is the poverty of The Scientist and The Writer resuming their feud that matters. The man of science and technology addresses the writer, “You bedraggled hack, you home-grown psychologist, fit only to scribble graffiti in lavatories.”/ The Writer has his own way to portray the enemy’s being needing to be terminated. The ways of history. The Writer laughs, “That’s feeble stuff. Call that an insult?” (Before more childishness occurs, a dog runs their way. It sits with The Stalker. It easily steals the show. But the sensationalists all but ignorance it.) They’ll soon stumble upon, while in their supposed destination, a striking formation of undulating snow-white domain, in the cave being a supposed heaven. They haven’t a moment to appreciate the strange beauty there.) The Writer’s Response: “What are you after?”/ “All right. So I’m after a Nobel Prize. What are you after? Want to bestow on mankind the pearls of your bought inspiration?”/ “I spit on mankind. In all of your mankind, only one man interests me. And that’s me… Coming to the conclusion that his life is “shit,” the popular sweetheart comes to, “Know something, Einstein, I don’t want to argue with you.” This prompts the image-of-steel, to a militant overrun—the only like of, being religion. He concocts, lyrically, the heavens creating the mountains. “And from the wrath of the Lamb who shall be able to stand…. Truth is born in arguments, dammit! Happiness, but what kind of happiness?” The Stalker’s reverie: “And lo, there was a great earthquake…and the sun became black as sackcloth, and the moon became as blood… And the stars of heaven fell into the earth… And they said to the mountains and rocks, ‘Fall on us and hide us from the face of him that sits on the throne’…And it came to pass that Jesus himself drew near and walked with them, but they didn’t recognize him.” Dribs and drabs: “Mankind exists in order to create works of art. At least that’s unselfish compared with other human activities.”/ “You’re unable to think in abstract terms. Why don’t you teach me the meaning of life…”/ “You may be a professor, but you’re ignorant…”

   The Stalker will back into something perhaps a little less hopeless. “Now, take music. It’s connected least of all with reality. Or, if connected, then it’s without ideas. It’s surely empty sound without associations. Nevertheless, music miraculous presents your very soul.” (An agency of force. What chord in us responds to its harmonics? Why is this necessary? )

The “climax,” of course,  isn’t. The Writer pulls out a gun; and then throws it into a body of water. The Scientist pulls out of his rucksack a bomb. Much Three Stooges. A large, beautiful hawk comes by where they’ve buried themselves in the cave of nothing. The Writer blurts out, “They devour the film in your soul… What kind of writer am I, if I detest writing? I wanted to change them, but they changed me to fit their own image. The Scientist phones his office to divulge, crazy-heroically, that he had taken from the institute his brainwave. The speaker on the line exclaims, “You realize this finishes you as a scientist.”/ Now, having burned his bridges, he brazens, “Go on, do your dirty work…”/ From the zone of the “true,” the former colleague has a familiar good-bye: “I can see you hanging from your belt over a prison latrine.” The gunman could resume his effete vexation. The bomber, however, seems to have taken on a remarkable problem. Desperate ways. His last words to the messenger—”And not for money or inspiration, but to remake the world!—may still be wrongheaded and wrong hearted.

We’ll call it a day, with Algot, the hunchback-sexton in Bergman’s Winter Light (1962), when Tarkovsky was a young, eager learner. Here he saw some real innovative excitement, excitement like what was in store with Monkey. Algot’s discovery was, “that the Bible’s real sense pertains to one sensibility, Jesus, whose sensual virtuosity was never grasped by anyone as realizing that the spirit driving it all has nothing to do with human immortality.”

#andrei tarkovsky

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On Places

By Dani 

     I live in Orléans, the “Largest metropolis outside of Paris,” but notably smaller than its illustrious neighbor. A train departing from Gare d’Austerlitz will carry you around 133 kilometers slightly southwest of the City of Lights; it’s a pleasant ride, albeit the somewhat fogged-over and grimy windows ever present on the passenger cars. This is a minor shame because the ride has pretty views, probably less sparkling to me now than they would have seemed when I was freshly expatriated, but pretty nonetheless. As swathes of landscape pass by, I’m sometimes reminded of sitting in the backseat of the car en route to my grandparents’ in the countryside of Kentucky. On these occasions I might close my eyes, imagine the views on a certain stretch of Dixie Beeline Highway-- an unremarked constant in my youth and childhood--  and open them again to see if the resemblance is truly there. I think it is. 

     Orléans qualifies as a ville in French but treads somewhere between a town and a city in my anglophone mind, not quite landing on one or the other. By all other accounts it is a city; it’s the capital of the Centre Val-de-Loire region and has a population nearing 115,000. Joan of Arc once saved Orléans from English siege, and I once dressed up as Joan of Arc for a 6th-grade project on “Distinguished women.” Funny, things like that. Apparently the qualifiers for “Cities” and “Towns” aren’t so defined, at least not on the internet, but I do think that Orléans is the “smallest” place I’ve ever lived. In terms of population, this is by a long shot. I went to school in Chicago. I spent four years in Paris. I come from Nashville, which was pointedly unexceptional to me growing up but the longer I’m away, the more Nashville grows and changes, and the more my metropolitan Southern upbringing feels personally significant; like something to be protected. In any case, you achieve some perspective when the precocious 11-year-old girl you once babysat laments to you that she’s “just a Parisian,” or when a passerby on the dance floor asks you where you’re from and, upon hearing your response, widens his eyes and exclaims “You’re from the real America!” 

     I’ve officially lived here for 9 months now, which is incredible to me, and yet I can’t say that I’m an expert or a bonafide Orléanaise, and if I were I wouldn’t know it. I’m not exactly sure of what getting to know a new locale is supposed to entail, despite having done it several times, but I’m not the type to run out and join clubs, leagues, associations or anything of the like. For most of this year I’ve kept to myself, and my experience of the city has largely been that of errands and commutes. Orléans does have a certain conviviality, and Rue de Bourgogne (just a street away from me) is lined with bars, making for lively Saturday nights in the city center. I’ve enjoyed the occasional drink or coffee with a colleague, and one will inevitably run into one’s students. I went to college in the big city, so in a way it’s nice to finally experience what feels like the French version of a “University Town,” and it’s the polar opposite of Paris anonymity. On the whole, though, I mainly enjoy the comforts of my agreeably-decorated and immaculately-kept studio apartment. It even has a view of the la Cathédrale Saint-Croix, which, in my personal opinion, beats Notre Dame in a gothic beauty pageant (even before the tragic fire). Sometimes at night, bats fly in circles between my third-floor (American third-floor) window and the rooftops on the opposite side of the street. Bats used to fly outside of my earliest childhood home. We named one of them “Shadow.” 

     I didn’t choose to move to Orléans. Not really. I applied for a job here when it seemed I was out of options in Paris. I’ve always preferred big cities. The first two months that I lived here, I think I took a train back nearly every weekend. Once I met up with an old friend who introduced me to her chic Italian-American pal who had just moved from Rome to Paris for a job at Versace. Over a glass of wine in a café next to la Trocadéro she posited that you had to live in Paris-- or at least in a major big city--- when you were young. Youth was lost on anything smaller. I thought about that on the train ride home. My life was no more exciting in Paris than it is now; maybe a little, but the margin is narrow. I went through about a 6-month stint of raucous partying in various nightclubs and bars, but that lifestyle wore thin fast and was never really me being me. I was having fun but I’m not so sure it was my own idea of fun. I also didn’t run out to join any clubs, leagues, or associations in Paris either. Why does everyone tell you to do this in a new city? Maybe my unwillingness to “immerse” myself is a lack of motivation on my part, but I think it’s just who I am. Or perhaps my definition of immersion is  just different from how it’s largely understood.  I’ve never been a site-seeing fiend when I travel either; sometimes I wonder if I waste time in undiscovered territory by sitting in parks and restaurants or aimlessly walking about. When I do take an interest in a museum or historical site, it’s a no thank you from me to any kind of organized tour.  Did you know that John Stamos narrates the self-guided audio tour of Graceland? At least, he did when I was there. That’s where I first learned the hard lesson about such a thing’s capability of ruining a real experience. As compensation for lugging a tablet and headphones throughout the grounds, Stamos will let you in on exclusive information such as the fact that Elvis enjoyed playing the pianos in his own home. I would have much preferred to take in the tacky but touching décor of Elvis’ home on my own, with my own thoughts.  I digress. A compliment was once given to me (or so I think it was a compliment, and if it was, it’s my favorite) by a friend of my parents’ who, in mid-conversation with them, turned to me and said, “She’s not saying anything, but she’s listening, alright. Not one thing is getting past her.” I think that’s always how I’ve interfaced with life. Many of us are mainly observers. I’ve only recently begun to feel validated in my choices of experiencing the world.

     I won’t lie and say that I haven’t wondered if my existence isn’t just a little boring, and if it isn’t sort of, maybe, my fault. Sometimes that Thoreau quote that everyone loves so much about men leading lives of quiet desperation gives me uncomfortable pause. This past Thursday I had a somewhat lengthy list of banal and administrative errands to run; I had to complete my tax form, mail it in (How French), shop for groceries, and purchase some office supplies at the local bookstore. It was a day, not unusual for me, spent in the company of my internal monologue and with no spectacular plot developments. But the sun had shone, I had completed my errands, and I had enjoyed an unadventurous but quietly serene mood; the kind that comes with knowing exactly where you are and feeling no impending stress about anything in particular. The wait in line for the print shop felt only slightly long and when I left the place I was minutiously thrilled at putting my stack of warm government documents into my ready-to-mail envelope; the same one that gave me an equal thrill when I slipped it into the post box. I went into the bookstore looking only for a folder but found myself perusing the displays as if it were some kind of hobby of mine; sort of how I imagine birdwatchers to feel when bird-watching. I got my folder along with several unnecessary indulgences. The lady at the cash register was nice. I stopped by the corner grocery near my place where all three of the cashiers know me in a neighborly way. The fact that they recognize me used to make me slightly anxious, but these days it’s comforting. 

      I went back home, walking up main street with the Cathedral in my view, purchases in tow, missions accomplished, not regarding the monument in awe as I had that first time-- overlooking it, even-- but I feel that its mere presence must have done something good for my state of mind even without my knowing it. I feel like I must have, by an undetectable increment, come to know a little better the place where I live. I had understood what that Italian-American friend of a friend had meant when she talked about youth and big cities. It was an innocuous comment, and true in its own right. Still, it fed a strange notion I’ve held onto about happiness coming from location; as if people belong in a certain place, at a certain time. I won’t lie and say that I haven’t pretentiously entertained the thought that I’m more adventurous than the peers I grew up with; that their lives in the same city they’ve always been in and with the same pool of people they’ve always known must be dull. Such a thought is consoling for a moment, but sometimes those peers make me wonder what I’ve sacrificed to be here. I feel envious when friends go to visit their parents who live only an hour away. I’m cognisant of the privilege that let me choose to live abroad.  I’ve never had to move out of necessity. And yet I lamented having left Paris, all the while  living only an hour away and still in one of the most beautiful countries in the world. I’ve always known and appreciated these things of course, but sometimes you lose touch. I’ve lived in astounding places yet still astound myself with my penchant for feeling unfulfilled. The problem has undoubtedly been me, and that’s a dreadful realization to face. 

     Geographical location has been a strange and constant metric by which I have evaluated my life. Coming to France was searching for adventure and running away at the same time. When  location, however, didn’t necessarily bring with it the adventure, the ragtag band of lifelong friends or the passionate love affair that I hoped I’d find, I felt a bit lost and unsure of my direction in life. I sometimes continue to feel this way. After all, when Jane Birkin came to France in 1968, she immediately landed a leading role in Slogan, became Serge Gainsbourg’s muse and lover, went down in fame and infamy and effectively wove herself into the very fabric of French pop culture. Of course, I didn’t have the same head start that comes with marrying John Barry (of James Bond fame) and appearing nude in Blowup. Don’t get me wrong. I have no regrets. Learning a new language and living internationally, I’m convinced, is the only way I managed to overcome almost crippling timidity. I’m better for it. I feel, however, that I’ve asked too much of the places I have lived; I’m not Jane Birkin, and Paris was never going to do for me what it did for her. You have to look for your life--or so I’ve heard in a certain Robert Wise movie-- and it’s a notion that I adore but one that I wonder if I’ve taken too literally. I’m not saying that I’m done looking; next year I’ll leave Orléans and go somewhere else; hopefully somewhere bigger, but the “Looking” will be a different kind of looking. It’s the age-old knowledge that happiness comes from within, not from without, but we all learn this lesson in different ways. I moved across the Atlantic ocean to learn it. Growing up, in my experience, has been moments of finally just “Getting” wisdom that you’ve heard a thousand times over, throughout your whole life. I know that I’ll feel a bittersweet pang when I close my apartment door in Orléans for the last time, so I want to enjoy where I am and who I am at this very moment. Orléans is the first place I’ve stopped expecting anything from, and because of that, I can appreciate it for what it is. When I was handed the keys to my little studio here in the center of town, the agent  told me reassuringly,  “Tu seras bien ici.” I think I am good here. I certainly won’t be returning to Paris.

[darkspace7]

Mutualism

"Two lonely souls in an empty room strike up a conversation to reminisce about the days gone by and eventually come to an understanding." [Part 2 of "Elpis"]

Words: 5,700+

Rating: T

A/N: This piece is a continuance set in the same verse as my prior fic "What Lay Within" of which is set in an alternate bad-end future ten years post canon and explores the dynamic between Shinichi Kudo and his teenaged apprentice Mitsuhiko Tsuburaya as the two attempt to navigate their lives after the fall of the Black Organization.

Contains some mentions of past/implied character death, (established) Hakuba/Aoko and Ayumi/Genta going on in the background, and our boys just generally having a bad time.

I dedicate this fic to my old laptop computer who managed to carry both me and my writing along for the greater half of eight years before it finally beeped it's last boop. My old friend, what with your cracked screen, half-broken spacebar, and semi-functioning usb ports will never be forgotten.

Detective Conan/Magic Kaito (c) Gosho Aoyama

The chatter of the crowded reception hall faded to the background as the teen shifted his awareness inward. 'Alright, I recall them mentioning they would be around here somewhere...' He stared out at the sea of unfamiliar faces that swam in and out of his vision from his little bubble amongst the crowd. 'So where...'

"Mitsuhiko-kun!"

His head swiveled to face the direction from where the call emanated and not a moment later he caught sight of the beaming pair that had flagged him over. With a smile he wove his way through the throng of well-dressed bodies to reach the massive spanse of window. "Forgive me if I made you two wait for too long but I kind of ran into a bit of trouble attempting to locate you through well-" He gestured out to the sprawl before them, "-all this. But I must say, the view from this spot is rather exquisite." The teen gave an appreciative glance to the manicured garden that lay just beyond the panes of glass.

"Oh don't trouble yourself too much about it. The fact that you were even able to come at all is what really matters. Isn't that right Genta?" A somewhat pointed look was leveled at the larger teen who nodded in response.

"Yeah. Took your sweet damn time too. Thought you'd never get your ass over here." The snorted comment made around a forkful of cake earned a sharp retort from his partner.

"And whose fault would that be? If a certain somebody had stayed over where he had promised to wait instead of getting distracted by some slices of raspberry-lemon cake then maybe he wouldn't have had to come looking for us."

Another bite disappeared into his maw as he shrugged, "They were gonna run out if I didn't 'Yumi. Totally worth it if you ask me." He gestured to the stocky teen with his utensil. "'Sides not like he cares, right?"

Ayumi's response to this was nothing more than an utterly flat look aimed at the teen. "Genta-"

Having sensed the ominous turn in the conversation, the freckled teen cut off the soon to be diatribe with a shake of the head. "No, no! Don't worry, like Kojima-kun said, it isn't that big of a deal. Really." Mitsuhiko tacked on at the sight of her dubious stare. "Anyway..." Quickly, he sought to drag the conversation's flow into somewhat different waters with the hope that it would distract his friend from her ire with the crass teen.

"I've been meaning to ask, are you entirely certain it is alright for me to be here with you guys?" A touch of hesitance flavoured his tone as he cast a slightly nervous glance around the room. "I mean it isn't as if I received an official invitation after all."

"Dude, chill. Back when we were still bringing stuff in I went and asked Aoko-san if my girlfriend could tag along and she seemed cool with it then so she probably wouldn't mind if another gatecrasher got tossed in the mix." The rotund teenager shrugged, "And if anyone does say anything –not that they're gonna– we could always just vouch for you." He made to spear another bit of confectionery with his fork only to have it return sans cake. At the noticeable lack of dessert on his plate he pulled a face and went on, "Besides don't you know the groom or whatever?"

"Huh? What? O-Of course!" He shook his head slightly, flustered. "Ah well...sort of? Not exactly, I know of him but I don't know him. N-Not to say I don't want to know him someday because I do. Very much." The teen froze a beat before heavily palming his heated face with a grimace, "Wait, no, that sounds…urgh." He held up a hand, "Just…give me a second."

One slow breath in –hold it– then release. Alright then, let's try this again. "Most of the information I've gathered concerning Hakuba-san is from prior case files as well as a few accounts of those who actually have had a chance to work with him. But I, myself, have never had any interactions with the man, yet. Does…Does that make any sense? So not necessarily a no but more of a… kind of?" He finished lamely, dark eyes drifting to the carpet as a dusting of red tinted his cheeks. How embarrassing.

(Though perhaps it was a good thing that, having long been party to his somewhat spastic displays, neither teen so much as batted an eyelash at this behaviour and simply moved on with a nonchalant half-shrug and a muttered "close enough".)

"Say Genta..." The girl turned to her partner, presumably to ask him a question or something of that nature before suddenly; she stopped and narrowed her eyes, head tilting to the side ever just so.

"…What?" He shied away a bit, somewhat startled (and mildly unnerved) by the set of blues now focused so intently upon him.

"Ah…You have a little bit of something…Hold on, let me get it for you." She began to rifle through her bag in complete disregard to the other's protests.

Previous embarrassment willfully forgotten in favour of this new bit of intrigue, the long familiar urge to just sit back and watch how things unfolded welled forth unbidden. And he allowed it; having settled back against the glass to tune in for the latest episode of his favourite show.

"Hey h-hold on just a minute! Ugh, here we go again." The teen groaned in mock exasperation, "Just because there's an itty-bitty mess every now and again doesn't make it so you have to go all forensics on us 'Yumi. Seriously, there's really no need to go digging through that thing." He said as he eyed the handbag with the same level of wariness as one would give a particularly vicious wild animal that was keyed to go off if one even dared to breathe wrong in their general direction. Which, knowing some of Ayumi's more experimental trinkets... wasn't an incorrect assumption.

"Oh, you sure about that?" She drawled, having finally located and tugged free her handkerchief (an older pastel number that seemed to have been worn soft from use) from where it had lay and went to work. "I mean, what with how you're always such a huge mess around those sweet treats." A teasing lilt played at painted lips as she tapped the solitary remnant of his sugary dessert. "Dear."

"Come on." He sputtered. A vibrant streak of red lit up tanned features as he seemed steadfastly determined to look anywhere but young woman before him. "That's just unfair." Genta grumbled with a slight whine.

"All's fair in love and war Genta, all's fair." She hummed a bit. And then frowned, "Oh for the love of...would you just hold still?" Her cheeks puffed out a bit in a pout. Tenderly, she swiped the cloth against the spot in order to collect that errant crumb. "Honestly, putting up such a fuss over a tiny piece of frosting. And...There!" She smiled triumphantly. "All gone." With a giggle she leaned up and pressed a quick peck to the tanned cheek. "Now was that so bad?" She stepped back and watched as he sputtered then proceeded to flush an even deeper shade of red.

Mitsuhiko ducked his head and turned away, valiantly attempting to fend away the smile that had threatened to form. It was always nice to see his two closest friends happy together and genuinely just enjoying the company of one another. But even so, he could not help as the smallest twinge of something settled deep within his heart. That feeling –despite its briefness– had successfully run its course, sapping away at the happiness until it was nothing but a ghost of its former self. Quickly, he fought to stave off any inkling of this from bleeding into his features lest anyone catch sight and ask him what was wrong. After all, no one wanted to be that guy at a wedding.

Exhaling slowly, he allowed himself to fall back into that familiar detached calm that had served him well in his tenure as detective. A practised eye trailed over the forms of his friends, absorbing the information present and storing it in the back of his mind for a later date. 'It's almost second nature by now,' he mused, 'to look upon something and be able to piece together a functioning narrative from every seemingly inconsequential bit and bobble scattered about.'

Even now he couldn't help but observe. Small things, such as how Ayumi's outfit appeared to be some sort of variant of a halter-neck tulle dress that meshed quite well with the black bejeweled clip pinning back her hair, or how the tiny price tag that clung stubbornly to that bag of untold horrors marked it as being from that small family-owned boutique that was less than fifteen minutes away from their current location, or even the fact that Genta had somehow managed to sneak in those fashionable sunset toned sneakers along with formal outfit that that his partner had no doubt coerced him into wearing; all of this and more was crystal clear to his inquisitive gaze.

...As was the fact that the young couple had apparently become so enamored with one another they seemed to have forgotten his presence entirely. Great. 'Nothing like seeing your two best friends making out with one another to further cement your status as the awkward third-wheel...And, yep. They're still going at it. Well, this is uncomfortable...' The youth let his attention drift out towards the reception hall in the hopes of finding something –anything– to distract himself. And not a second later it appeared as though he managed to find it in the familiar form of something –or rather– someone.

'Huh? Isn't that...Sensei?'

And indeed it was. The great detective had stationed himself between a set of secondary entryways and looked to be about as comfortable with everything in the crowded room as Mitsuhiko himself felt at the moment. He took note on how the other's gaze remained fixated upon something off in the distance, although as for what exactly was unclear. What was clear, however, was how the elder man seemed –for lack of a better word– distracted. No, not distracted. Troubled. But why?

Carefully, the teen traced the line of sight to its end which appeared to be a small table ensconced away in semi-private niche toward the front of the room that was now populated by both the new bride and groom. The man, who he knew to be Habuka-san smiled brightly at the woman in white (who could only be none other than Miss Aoko) as they carried on what appeared to be a rather engaging conversation. Every now and again a mustachioed man (presumably the father of the bride) would interject and earn a smile or a round of laughter from the table's other residents.

'Maybe something to do with them perhaps?' The brunette contemplated this as they carried on for a bit. Curiosity peaked when he saw the older man get up from the table after exchanging a few more words with the groom then a reassuring smile aimed at the pair as he took his leave, presumably to take care of something.

'Could something have happened?' He wondered, before quickly dismissing the notion. Neither party appeared to be overly concerned judging by the gentle looks of love the newlyweds sent one another and the genuine laughter of their peers so it was unlikely that there was something out of the ordinary there. 'So something else then?'

Confused, he turned back again just in time to catch sight of the bride as she put her hand to her mouth to muffle a snort, the gentle movement shifting the veil away from her luminous face and...oh.

Oh.

It was as though the air had been knocked from his lungs as a pool of something ice cold sat heavily in his stomach. Dark eyes quickly shifted back to their original target and he hissed through his teeth when flicker of something pained and familiar and unspeakably private flitted through those darkened blue eyes. And then just like that he was gone, having slipped back through the door without a trace.

And then suddenly, Mitsuhiko was moving.

He wove through scores of guests, transfixed on the spot where he had seen the other disappear. So focused to the point was he that it almost brought about a collision with another partygoer which only a quick-timed twist did he narrowly manage to avoid. "Sorry!" He tossed back as he caught a fleeting glimpse of dark hair and surprised garnet eyes. All of which were quickly dismissed and allowed to slip to the back of his mind.

(And while normally he would not be so rude as to do a thing like straight up crash into people and speed off without so much as a by-your-leave his civilities had, for the moment, been set aside in favour of more pressing matters. He would, however, in time find himself recalling this fateful moment and the cascading series of events that were to follow. But that was another story for different time and different place.)

Having reached the entry he stopped in his tracks. The lobby was, for the most part, empty. Understandable seeing as the majority of guests present were either inside enjoying the festivities or traipsing about the garden. This vacancy should have made it relatively easy to spot the wayward detective but as it stood he couldn't see hide nor hair of the man. The teen glanced about a moment before he lit upon a group of bridesmaids chatting off to the side. Perhaps they could provide some manner of clue to Sensei's whereabouts?

"Ah excuse me." The group's chatter petered out as they turned to regard his approach. "Sorry to interrupt but by chance have any of you happened to see a man come through here just now?" Exchanging a glance, they shook their heads.

"Sorry. We just came from the restroom where we were fixing our makeup. So even if there had been someone we couldn't tell." One of them spoke, a small frown on her face.

"Ah wait!" Another piped in. "But wasn't Momoi waiting for us out here though?" She and the others turned to the bespectacled woman expectantly. "Right?"

"Aah w-well..." She stuttered, feeling somewhat awkward about suddenly being thrust into the spotlight. "Um actually...I think there was a guy that came out through that door right there. Just a few minutes before you did."

"Did you see where he went?"

She thought for a second then nodded. "Mhm. I think I saw him headed towards the stairs."

"Thank you." Mitsuhiko tipped his head appreciatively before setting off once again. 'Wait for me Shinichi-san.'

                                                     (DCMK)

While the teen could not exactly be called unfit (thanks to many an hour spent idly pitching baseballs around after school) the run up had still managed to knock the wind from him so he leaned back against the doorway and took a moment to catch his breath. As it slowly steadied he allowed his gaze to wander.

Like its sibling below, the room with which he was now faced had been built to a mirrored scale with an identical colour scheme and general overall design, but it was there where their similarities came to an end. For while the former had been grandiose and richly festooned for momentous occasions –such as the one currently being held– this place carried itself with a somewhat more muted and almost lounge-like air. To the teenaged detective it was almost as if someone had pulled back the curtain on a set that had been half-built so there was nothing else, save for the empty stage in which they now stood.

Which made sense, he supposed, seeing as this room wasn't actually supposed to be in use right now. Although, if the shadowy figure parked firmly over by the bank of glass or even his own presence were any indication this little bit was to be ignored, if only or the moment.

'Though if this is to be the stage would that make us the actors, then?' He mused. 'Shame I haven't a clue as to my lines.'

"Took you long enough."

"You knew." It wasn't so much of a question but rather a flat statement. Wryly shaking his head, he pushed up and away from the doorframe and made his way over to the man's side. He smiled, "I should have figured. So what was it that tipped you off? The reflection in the window-" A tip of the head toward the glass and the faint twinkling of city lights beyond it. "Or was it the echoes in the stairwell?" He hadn't exactly been quiet.

"Neither." He shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets. "At the reception hall I felt you watching me from across the room. You weren't exactly being subtle." He gave him a dry look.

Ah, that was right he had almost forgotten. The man had always seemed to be able to sense whenever he was under the object of scrutiny without fail. And while it made sense, all things considered, for the other to posses such a trait, that did not make it any less eerie.

"Ah, sorry." He flushed slightly. "I just didn't expect to see you here. To be honest, if it weren't for those two I wouldn't even be here myself."

"I considered it, seeing as I wasn't able to make it on time for the wedding." At Mitsuhiko's inquiring glance he elaborated, "Case at the station platform. Guy was stabbed in the back and had it made to look like robbery gone wrong, killer turned out to be the guy's flatmate who was pissed at him for sleeping with his lover behind his back."

"Ah."

"Yeah." He sighed, "But even after all of that I thought I might as well go ahead to drop off their gift as opposed to spending any more hours on the train. Besides, I had already traveled all this way and I figured I owed that to them at least. Wasn't like this night was going to get any worse right?" A snort of derision escaped him and he let his gaze fall to the side. "Honestly, I might have been better off staying at home." And although the other couldn't see it, he could hear it the softening of his tone.

Mitsuhiko shuffled awkwardly on the balls of his feet, unsure as to what he could possibly contribute without the high probability it backfiring spectacularly. Thankfully he was spared of chance when the other startled him from his reverie with a bout of nasty coughs. "Hey, are you okay?"

"H-Hold..." Shinichi wheezed out between sputters. "G-Give... me a-" He held up a hand, grimaced, and tried again."...Yeah...I'm fine..." Once the fit had subsided for the most part he managed a wan smile. "I'm fine." He repeated, stronger this time. "...Hah...Sorry I've just been a bit under the weather, nothing serious mind you but just a bit of holdover from before. It's been making me kind of irritable lately. Don't worry about it."

The teen's expression showed exactly what he thought about that little statement. As a fellow detective -no- as his friend there was no way he was going to let him play this off. Any of it. "Are you really though?"

"Huh? Yeah like I said it's nothing, probably just another cold-"

"That's not what I was talking about." The other zeroed on him with that razor focus, a touch miffed at being cut off. The scene from earlier flickered in his mind's eye and yet again he found himself faced with those haunted blues. He shook his head to rid himself of the image. "Back there, in the reception hall..." Though he began slowly –hesitant– his voice gradually gained traction as he went, "You had this look about you. As if... As if you had seen a ghost or something right before you just straight up and bolted. That doesn't exactly scream 'everything's alright' now does it?" Dark brows knitted together in concern as he finally lifted his head to meet the other's stare head on. "Shinichi-san, can you tell me what's wrong?"

Shinichi regarded him for a number, that knife-like gaze which made a score of weaker men crumble bored into the very fabric of his being; sorting through his thoughts and actions until nothing but the truth remained. Yet where suspicion and mistrust were expected there was only the honest worry of a kid who wished to know if he was alright. "Unbelievable..." He muttered.

With a resigned air he scrubbed a hand over his weary features. The lines of tension in the teen's frame and quiet set of his jaw was not unfamiliar sight for the older man and he knew then and there that the other simply wasn't going to drop it until he had come to an answer. It was a trait that he found both honourable and vexing in equal measure and ultimately what caused him to sigh.

"It's just-" The words seemed hard-pressed to leave his lips, as if it physically pained him to do so and for a moment Mitsuhiko felt a twinge of regret. Perhaps it would've been better if he just had let sleeping detectives lie but before he could voice this the elder had managed to work through the knot and spoke, "Just...when I saw the two of them together –saw her– I just...I couldn't help it. I didn't think that..." He stopped, a noise of frustration left his lips as a hand raked through once tidy hair. "She looked just like she did back then. Before..."

Mitsuhiko winced. "...I'm sorry." And he truly meant it. "How long would it have been now?" He asked softly.

"Two years this May."

"It isn't easy is it?" Taking the silence as a note to continue he went on. "Dealing with the ache and sorrow and all those other things that you don't even have a name for yet can't help feeling; of every little thing reminding you about them to the point it becomes downright maddening..." Fists clenched at his side, little crescent moons dug into the soft flesh of his palms. "O-Or even just the knowledge that you will simply never be able to see them again." Dimmed eyes sat upon the horizon as the rueful ghost of a smile flit into place. "The whole lot of it just...sucks."

"B-But." He swallowed. (When had his throat become so dry?) "But then...you find that no matter how terrible it all gets and how unfair everything seems the world just... marches on." No, seriously, what the hell was he even saying at this point? He just kept going off the top of his head but for some inexplicable reason he just...couldn't seem to stop. So he didn't.

"All the days and months and years just keep on ticking by and then all that s-stuff starts to get covered up by other stuff and then you s-start to n-notice that-" And there came the crash. Dark eyes clamped shut as he stalled with an inaudible hiss.

('Easy now Mitsuhiko, easy. One slow breath in –hold it– then release...There isn't anyone else here right now. It's okay. You're okay. Breath, just breathe.')

So he did. One right after another, over and over again; just breathing. And the impossibly tight coil that had progressively wove itself around his airway seemed to constrict for moment before it suddenly reversed and the tension that had laced his frame had little by little begun to bleed away with every passing breath.

"Y-You notice..." He began again once he had sufficiently calmed, "That while that pain and sadness isn't exactly gone and probably never will be it..." The teen let out a shaky chuckle as he reopened his eyes, "It doesn't hurt as much as it did before. You know?"

A light of comprehension dawned in Shinichi's eyes and a look of pitied understanding ghosted briefly across his features. "Ah...that's right. Your mother, didn't she...?"

Mitsuhiko nodded with a vague noise of confirmation. It had been over a decade prior, yet he thought back to that time he could recall it with the utmost clarity. Back to that damned phone call and whirlwind flight that followed, to when his father had finalized the decision to pack up and head overseas with him and his sister in tow without so much as a by-your-leave, of finally learning why: that his mother had been caught in a accident when visiting extended family abroad and that the doctor's prognosis was grim. The months of waiting and waiting and hoping that she would get better and be able to come back home with them. How one day she just simply...wasn't there anymore. And how everything just sort of...went completely downhill after that.

He had been only a child at the time but that didn't mean that he didn't remember. And he said as much.

"...Back when we first moved those two would call me all hours of the day, you know?" He shifted, folding his arms across his chest. "And you want to hear something? They liked to talk about you guys all the time."

"That so?" The other perked up, seemingly intrigued by this admission.

"Mnh always used to sound so happy over the phone when they did too. Spouting things like 'Shinichi-niichan came over today while we were at the Professor's and how cool it was that he showed us how to solve this locked-room trick' and ' you know how Ran-neechan knows karate and stuff? Well I asked her to show me some of her moves and we wound up totally flipping this one creep...' That sort of thing." A fond smile graced his lips. "I must've cost my dad a fortune in international calls."

"Oh! Don't even get me started about when Kojima-kun started with his cooking lessons." He groaned in faux-anguish. "All he messaged me for months were pictures of the food and stuff that he tried to make." He shook his head.

"I remember that." The elder detective chuckled reminiscently. "He honestly was quite terrible. Eel should have never been prepared that way..." He intoned with a faint shudder. Although the teen really had came a long way since then the fact that whenever the boy went to cook something the only things that ever seemed to come out right were pastries and sweets continued to baffle him to this day.

"Yeah. But you know back then...being able to listen to their stories, to hear about how you, Ran-neesan, Haibara-san, and everybody else were doing...It was nice. It helped...quite a bit, actually." A short beat. "Even if you guys did get in way too much trouble. Really, the amount of cases the Shonen Tantei had back then simply by just hanging around you bordered on the realms of ludicrous-"

"Oi."

"-and while I'll admit that I don't put much stock in superstition I can sort of see where that whole 'shinigami' rumour circulating around Division One came from and honestly if it weren't for that 'curse' I don't suppose any of us would have learned proper crime scene etiquette." He continued to mutter. "Or how to handle a dead body for that matter."

The teen glanced up to find an indescribably flat look aimed his way. That lasted a few seconds before a more contemplative one slid into its place and once more he was faced with the detective's unnerving stare. "So you really were the one who went through my stuff." He stated apropos of nothing.

Mitsuhiko started. Because –seriously– what the hell? Apparently this reaction was confirmation enough because the other just shrugged with a disarming nonchalance that had alarm bells going off immediately in the teen's mind.

"I mean-" He casually went on, "-seeing as if an outside source had ever decided to attempt to enter my study without my knowledge I would know and that two out of the three people that currently do have access to my home would have the neither the inclination nor opportunity to do so and since the time frame seemed to sync up it only serves to further paint you as the culprit..." He shrugged once more with that faux indifference. "Plus you just pretty much gave yourself away."

And oh wow was he upset wasn't he? The taught lines of tension that faintly coursed through his frame, belying the calm air he put upon himself. The teen could almost feel the other's silent accusation at the perceived betrayal and damn if that didn't sting. Well it wasn't as if he hadn't seen this coming. After all, it had only been a matter of time before the hammer fell and he had brought it down upon himself with that thrice-damned curiosity of his so by rights he was going to have to own up to this mess. (And if he had to drop down to his hands and knees to grovel for the other's forgiveness then so be it.)

"I'm so sorry. I was just trying to pick things up a bit when you got sick that one time but one of the files got knocked to the floor. I really wasn't trying to snoop but..."

"But you're a detective and curiosity got the better of you." He suddenly sounded so tired it made Mitsuhiko want to cringe and shrivel up inside himself just a bit.

"I'm sorry." He repeated faintly, feeling absolutely awful about the whole deal. Short of massive head trauma, there was nothing he could do that would be able to take back what he had seen in there and the knowledge that came with it and they both knew it. And it was with this thought weighing heavily on their minds they fell into an uneasy silence.

"..."

"..."

"...So."

Mitsuhiko shifted slightly. "So?"

"You probably have...questions, right?"

"...I'd be lying if I said that I didn't." The admission seemed to make the man sink a bit but it wasn't unexpected. "But!" He ploughed on ahead, "You know? I'm not going to ask." This seemed to draw Shinichi up short as he shot him a sharp glance.

"...Why?"

'Why indeed.' No, he knew why. It was because...

"Because..." His arms dropped down to hang at his side. "Because even though you may be my mentor you are first and foremost my friend Shinichi-san." And between friends there must be at least some measure of trust or else the relationship will crumble. Even he knew that. "You have your own very good reasons for not wanting to talk about any of that. And I'm not going to force you to. But-" Dark eyes met startled blues. "-just so you know, if you ever do need to talk to someone, well...don't forget that there are others willing to shoulder those burdens along with you okay?" They held one another's gaze, each party searching for something unspoken in the other and after a moment it seemed that they found it.

"...Thanks, Mitsuhiko-kun." A tentative smile.

"Don't mention it. I won't." Lips quirked up in a shy but earnest grin. "I mean, what kind of detective would I be if I didn't know how to keep an open mind and at least a modicum of plausible deniability?"

"A pretty damn terrible one. That's for sure."

"...You know," Mitsuhiko started, drawing the man's attention back once again. "I heard they just opened up a new branch of that café we liked. This one's supposed to have extended hours and a bunch of new location-specific desserts on their secret menu. So...You don't think they'll mind a few particularly well-dressed patrons, do you? What do you say?"

Truce?

"I say we better hurry before those two lovebirds finally notice you're missing." He cracked a mischievous smirk back, "Besides, it's your turn to pay this time."

Truce.

#DS7's Log #-Carefully adds to The Archive- #DCMK Fanfic #[ Elpis ] #Mitsuhiko Tsuburaya #Shinichi Kudo #D: Swearing #D: Character Death (Mentioned) #There are a few other characters here but they aren't really the focus...

[disinfandous]

Light Reading

Pairing: Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler

1,939 words - fluff, trashy romance novels, the eighth doctor ;), “disturbing the peace”, crack?

[[I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED THE ORIGINAL POST BC IM A HUUUUUGE KLUTZ SO I’M REPOSTING IT I’M SO SORRY]]

Rose Tyler (much to her surprise, delight, and horror) finds a rather… interesting… romance novel starring none other than the Doctor himself! Try as she might to read it in peace, the Doctor just has to know what’s going on. Why is she laughing so hard?

AO3 

Ever since she began travelling with the Doctor, Rose generally avoided romance novels.

The reason why was simple, really. Every time Rose read a romance novel she just kept thinking of him, of that maddening alien she now lived with. Her mind would wander, unbidden, to dangerous territory, lingering on the eternity in his eyes, the perfect fit of his hand in hers, the warmth spreading in her chest at the sight of his smile…

She couldn’t read a single limerent word from even the trashiest of bodice-rippers without her mind wandering. Romances were, for lack of a better word, hazardous. They did a impressive number on her sanity and she swore to stay away from them for the sake of her health.

Generally, she kept that promise well. She avoided suspicious sections of not only the TARDIS library, but of other libraries or bookstores they happened to visit on their adventures as well. She did her part and stayed away, but Rose didn’t take into account the books not staying away from her, and she certainly didn’t take into account the books actually being about the Doctor.

Suddenly, it wasn’t so much an issue of her mind wandering but rather of whether or not her imagination would be up to par.

Looking back at it, she would certainly claim that it wasn’t her fault. Not really. What were the odds of her finding something like that in this particular library in this particular town on this particular planet? Or anywhere in the universe at all, rather? Slim, she bet. Probably as slim as he was in that suit of his, that’s how unlikely.

Yet there it was. Just sitting there, wedged in between two other seemingly innocuous volumes. It was misshelved, clearly, by the way it was surrounded by cookbooks. She just wanted a glimpse at freaky alien food, not freaky alien Doctor fantasies.

Still, Rose quickly grabbed the book and ducked around the shelves to take a peek anyway. Ever the paradigm of restraint, she decided regret was for the future. She would burn that bridge when she got to it.

A customary glance at the cover nearly left her a giggling mess. It was so cheesy, almost exactly like those cheap paperbacks sitting around in convenience stores. The man emblazoned on the cover passionately embracing a swooning purple-skinned damsel was clearly meant to be the Doctor, even though he looked considerably different. He was painted with a velvet coat and luscious brown curls, dressed perfectly for a position in some sort of Jane Austen novel or something. In the background, partially concealed by gratuitous amounts of blossoming flowers, stood the TARDIS in all of its blue boxy glory.

The title was printed in curvilinear alien script and appropriately translated to the closest English equivalent of its meaning. It read, much to Rose’s amusement: Doctor Sexy. It sounded like some sort of quirky medical drama.

The tagline was just as bad: Fate, passion, desire… He can save the planet, but can he love?

What a loaded question.

Rose remembered the Doctor telling her as soon as they arrived that he recalled visiting this planet multiple times in the past and saving them from a new threat every time. He mentioned, offhandedly, how he figured that the locals must technically consider him some sort of hero or legend by now based upon how well he had been received before. There was no way he could have expected this.

Oh, they thought him a hero alright. Definitely.

She hadn’t even opened the thing yet and it was already too much for her. Her hands were shaking with barely concealed laughter as she flipped between random pages in the book, not really looking to actively immerse herself in it yet desperate for a juicy paragraph or two.

And God. She was not disappointed:

“Oh, Doctor,” sighed Anahi, melting into his embrace, “You came for me!”

“I could never leave you, my poignant weeping blossom,” he professed. “You have captured not only both of my wandering hearts, but my body and my soul as well. My love, I am yours.”

The Doctor placed kisses along the fleshy ridges of her neck, making Anahi squirm like a nurseling in pleasure. His strong, velvet-clad arms held her flush against him yet she still craved more. Anahi tugged at the curls concealing the undoubtedly gorgeous expanse of his bare scalp and groaned in need, the vibrations reverberating onto his lips from their position upon her throat.

“I thought you would never return,” she gasped. “I thought… After the uprising… No, after Drewan…”

“Drewan matters not. He is unworthy of you,” he growled. “He shall never have you. No one shall ever take you from me.”

“Oh, Doctor!”

“My love!”

Rose couldn’t hold it in anymore. She burst out laughing right then and there, burying her face in the pages of the book, guffaws violently jarring the serenity of the library. Blimey, this was too much. She wasn’t built for this kind of relentless assault.

She had to keep reading.

“Rose?” called a familiar voice.

Or not.

Rose quickly shut the book, shoving it behind her as she twisted around. She backed up against the shelf behind her and plastered on an innocent smile. She hoped, no, prayed, that her cheeks weren’t as flushed as she felt them to be.

The Doctor’s inquiring expression greeted her. “You were pretty loud,” he began, stepping toward her. “What’s so funny?”

“Uhh… Well,” she struggled for an explanation, “S’nothing, really. Jus’… Just this really silly—” she glanced around her, recalling precisely what section of the library she was in—“cookbook I found.”

His face contorted into further confusion.

“Yeah. Uh, more of a joke, really. 1000 recipes not to feed your… your nurseling.” Rose cringed. “Funnier than it sounds.”

“Can I see?” he asked, his confusion melting into that of skeptical acceptance and mild interest. He moved to peer behind her, but she deftly turned and pressed herself even further against the bookshelf so as to block his view. She could feel the wood digging into her arms.

“Nope. It’s not anything you’d like to see. Really. Trust me,” she said, biting her lip to suppress a chuckle at the memory of what she just read.

“Rose, if it made you laugh so unabashedly in a place like this, it’s definitely something I’d like to see.”

“No. Honest. I swear—”

It was at that moment a book fell from its perch behind her. Rose jumped in surprise and quickly bent to retrieve it, startled by the loud thump it created upon meeting the floor. It was one of the books opened for display and she must have dislodged it as she backed up.

The Doctor wasn’t one to waste an opportunity, however, and he snatched the novel from her unassuming hands the moment she shifted from her position of defense. She let out a yelp of protest and dashed to pry it away from him before he could properly witness the cover.

Too late.

She watched in mounting horror as his eyes drifted over the illustration and read the title.

“D… Doctor… Sexy…? ” he whispered, eyes wide. Rose groaned. Here we go. “This is what you were reading?”

She nodded.

“B-but—this doesn’t make sense—why would something like this… Why… What?”

Rose coughed, “Apparently, Doctor, some people think you’re um, well—” she gestured in the book’s general direction—“sexy.”

“That’s…”

“You’ve got a history here, yeah? Hero and whatnot. That’s pretty hot.”

He furrowed his brows and leafed through the pages of the novel, his face reddening as he advanced through it. His increasing embarrassment lessened the strength of her own embarrassment and by the time he looked up Rose felt the beginning of a smile gracing her lips. God, this was so surreal.

“This isn’t even anything like me!” The Doctor cried, incredulous. “I would never—I certainly wouldn’t—I would never do any of this stuff!”

She snickered, “Oh, I don’t know. Seems pretty in character to me.”

“Rose,” he whined. She grinned at him shamelessly. “You know this isn’t accurate. It’s ridiculous! Fantasy fodder. Entirely fictitious!”

“Fiction stems from reality, Doctor.”

“No, no, no, no, no. Not in this case it doesn’t.”

Rose tilted her head inquiringly, “So you honestly think you’d never say a single word of this? All those passionate declarations of love and devotion and stuff?”

“They’re the single most cliché, contrived declarations I have ever had the misfortune of discovering—”

“Oi, that’s a bit harsh, innit?”

“Harsh?”

“They’re not all that bad.”

“Rose, you can’t be defending this? That’s supposed to be me on those pages. This is slander; I am personally victimized.”

“I’m not on about that, Doctor. I agree with you there. Can’t take that book seriously, honestly,” she rolled her eyes. “I’m jus’ saying that those words are the kinda thing people love to hear. Passionate and adoring. Yeah, it’s kinda cheesy, but that’s what stuff like this is for. It’s all self-indulgent. Love for the hopeless romantic.”

He regarded her wearily, but the indignance in his gaze seemed to wane.

“When was the last time you visited? Must’ve been a long while ago judging by your appearance. You said it yourself: you’re like a legend to them. Something distant yet wonderful. Something they can pile their desires onto without much trouble. It makes them happy.”

“How do you know so much about this?”

“S’common sense,” Rose shrugged, tongue peeking out through her teasing smile.

“Don’t think so,” he said, “because then I’d be an expert on this.” The Doctor glanced back down at the book in his hands and eyed it with distaste. “Something I most certainly am not.”

Rose sighed, “Oh, tell me about it.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

It was then that a librarian glided up to them, a stern expression on her face. Turns out they have been rather disruptive for the past few minutes, dropping books and speaking absurdly loudly, and she figured it was time to insist upon their dismissal for the sake of her peace-loving patrons. They could come back, she told them, once they decided to abide by library policy.

In other words, they were kicked out.

The walk to the TARDIS had them improperly amused in the end, the Doctor’s previous dissatisfaction forgotten in the wake of other more important matters like going home. Lamenting on the fact that they never seemed to be able to go anywhere without being given the boot, they walked hand-in-hand, smiling like the trouble-makers they were.

“Tell me what you will, but I honestly don’t think you could ever catch me saying anything out of that book,” the Doctor told her upon reaching the TARDIS doors. He no longer bore his earlier offended tone, but he clearly must have felt the need to clarify.

“Really?” Rose asked. “Never call anyone your poignant weeping blossom?”

The Doctor made a face. “Never.”

She just laughed, following him up the ramp inside. Rose didn’t doubt him; he probably really would never say anything so honestly and aggressively romantic. It was an aspect exclusively reserved for the man he never could be, trapped in between the pages of that silly book, only found stemming from the minds of people who honestly weren’t all that different from Rose herself.

She might not have been so tawdry in her own musings, but she couldn’t deny how some things appealed to her immensely. She recalled a sentence from the book that stood out to her almost painfully.

My love, I am yours.

Yeah. It would be nice to hear, wouldn’t it?

#ficandchips #tenth doctor x rose tyler #ten x rose #dwfic #tenth doctor #rose tyler #doctor who #IT WASNT EVEN A GLITCH #I CANT EVEN BLAME TUMBLR #I LITERALLY JUST CLICKED DELETE AND CONFIRMED IT AND I DIDNT REALIZE UNTIL IT WAS TOO LATE #IT HAPPENED SO QUICK #fanfics #im lucky i managed to save the html code so i wouldnt have to reformat it omfg