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bl-garbage · 3 years

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to dance is to unshackle

um, okay—how else do i express this buoyant happiness that Gaya sa Pelikula has awoken inside me? i’m in complete and utter awe. i did not expect a drop of what the sixth episode has brought us. more than satisfying, it’s utterly fascinating. this is quite a lengthy post, but if you have the time, please bear with me. and since we’re already here, let’s fucking dissect the shit out of this:

right off the bat, it’s sweet how consistently written Vlad was the entire time of the show. at the start of the episode, for one, he was concerned with Karl’s disposition, saying, “anong iniisip mo (what are you thinking)?” and, later on, as we know, he pops that question again in this episode. what are you thinking? always in limbo. true, it’s considerate, yet more than that, it’s always a sign of waiting for permission. Vlad has been like this since the beginning: observant and willing to reach out, confident on the surface, yes, but always afraid of going overboard.

that is not to say that Karl isn’t. in fact, the whole dynamics of their relationship rest on the fact that they can lean on each other and just be honest. many moments show this: Karl’s desire to shift; Vlad not getting into the film lab and Karl knowing something was up; the entirety of Vlad’s birthday; Karl and Vlad’s reticence to open up to Anna, in contrast with how comfortable they feel with each other. in a nutshell, they’re each other’s homes. more on this later.

the part i was most frightened at with this episode was when Karl finally told his parents his desire to shift. to be honest, personally, i wouldn’t know exactly how that pressure on Karl feels, as i was able to study the degree i wanted. yet, back then, i had already known that my parents, who wholly supported me just the same, would have wanted a degree that leaned on science or engineering. that still sucked to know. Karl’s situation is much more complicated. his desire to shift to another course is to make up for lost time, a sense of hurrying before it really becomes all too late. this was a heavy lot to take in. the disappointment and anger in his father’s face when he dropped the bomb was too much to handle. Karl had expected it, yet its impact still hurled shrapnel that he was not able to dodge, sustaining him with several wounds. it would be curious to see how his parents come to terms with his confession. i am certain that a number of people have connected with Karl here.

which brings me to another point. Gaya sa Pelikula creates these characters with their own agency. it’s touted as a BL series, yes, but our two main characters’ point is actually not to fall in love — but to live, part of which is to fall in love. they have their hopes and dreams and own burdens to carry, and while falling in love takes centerstage here, we see how they can stand alone, on their own two feet. falling in love is central to their growth, but it is evident that love is not the whole point of their existence.

speaking of which: ate judit. ah, yes, where do i even begin to explain the exquisiteness with which ate judit was written? how, after all of five episodes, it was only now did it make sense why judit was overly, unnaturally caring and protective, a mama bear that would not let anything happen to his little Vlad. now we know why: guilt.

imagine that. being told you were the reason why your whole family went into shambles. there is much vindication in Vlad’s line of questioning, “why would you say that to a child?” (god, i’m tearing up even as i write this.) this was a pivotal scene, with a focal point on judit, the likes of whom we cannot entirely fault for not knowing any better. the fact remains that we are still in an era that fails to understand the spectrum of gender identities and the far utopia that we seek, where gender and sex would not be a damning classification anymore. and for true allies, it is in admitting that they “didn’t know then what [they] know now” that their support gains more strength. it is in confessing where they got wrong, how harmful their actions were, and in the commitment to do more, that their promise is made good.

parenthetically, can we talk about Vlad’s mom as well? have you all noticed how her voice broke when she said, “siguraduhin mong hindi ka na itatanggi niyan, ha (just make sure he won’t deny you, okay)?” was that pain, or guilt even? i wonder if we’re ever going to see her. it would be a regret not to. for so long Vlad had thought that he was the reason his father left, and that his mother was mad at his queerness. i wouldn’t want this simple call to be the resolution that the show had for him. at any rate, we have two more episodes to await, so i am not going to strike my gavel on this judgment just yet.

but whereas Vlad found his longtime coming reconciliation with his sister, Karl had no one to turn to. his call to Vlad was a cry for help. it was heartbreaking to see him like this. Karl had always put up a fake smile against any adversity that had come his way. to him, these were trivial matters that would pass, and they did so — until now. after all he was, as we would later come to know, living a script that had been prewritten before he even came to being. that explains his nonchalant demeanor toward life, the seeming discontent behind those dead eyes, and a repeated hinting that he was always yearning for so much more. at the end of the call, Karl instinctively goes to the closet - and his proverbial closet - and sees the skeletons he had hidden inside, drop in a mess.

that it was Karl’s brother who was in the photo shook me. that past was so well thought out. things made so much sense in this episode: why Karl tried to fit in, why everything seemed so fake. why he was so discomforting to watch, even! that made sense now.

and what do you do when everything has become a mess? the once seamless film that had been rolling without any glitches now sprawled on the floor, entangled in a hodgepodge well beyond fixing. when that happens, what do you do? well, you dance.

i have so many things to say about faux masculinity. it is a fact undisputed that in this society, gender roles are still very much pillars that we have yet to dismantle. our genders have been geared toward performativity, and our consolation is the external validation we receive through the acts of fitting in. in the process, we lose sight of what we really want. we blur the lines between what is and what should be, in favor of what society has demanded upon us. Karl took that role and lived by it religiously. yet, those things has gone haywire in this episode. more than his parents, it was to himself that Karl has finally admitted that the act can be dropped now: the fixed posture, those rehearsed lines, that painfully faux masculinity, on guard all the fucking time. all of those things were dropped.

that is not to say that Karl was faking all of it. there is no denying that Karl has been a masculine person most of the time. but the show portrayed before us a discarded femininity that Karl had been trying to bury deep inside him — one that all people who have been and who are still in the closet know by heart. the thing is, all of us have masculine and feminine sides, the expression of which vary at different levels in different situations. sadly, we have been preconditioned to believe that male persons must be masculine, and female persons must be feminine. Gaya sa Pelikula acknowledges this hegemony, and then throws it away all the same. true, Karl may very well be comfortable in his masculine expression, but his femininity must also be allowed to grow. one cannot be complete without embracing the entirety of who they are. many have died — been killed — for simply living who they are. society has long been a vicious environment. but people have also long fought for their fundamental right to perform these things, and through them, we know that things can change. that things are changing.

it is against this context that imprints more meaning, more gravity to when we finally, finally see Karl dance. in every sense, his dance was the show’s climax for me. it is, quite emphatically, freedom incarnate.

when i say i fucking bawled at this scene, you best believe it.

quite important to note: when Karl sees Vlad, he stopped abruptly, only for Vlad to signal to him, in an OK sign, that what he was doing was perfectly fine. that Karl could be effeminate all he wants, and who the hell in this earth should care? this allowance has given Karl all the needed validation he will ever need, at least, for that one night where they could bare it all. it was only the two of them, but the house has never been more crowded, because their feelings have seemingly exploded and have been overflowing in a glorious climax for all of us to witness. in this scene, Karl has unshackled the chains with which he had been bound all that time, and it was Vlad who helped him finally break the last of those chains. in this moment, there was only pure bliss.

(that the song playing here was Ride Home by ben&ben is the perfect giveaway. for non-Filipino readers who have only listened to ben&ben now, check this band out. it’s one of the best bands to have ever come out of the Philippine music industry.)

and, of course, in this waterfall of emotions, it is only perfect to time the moment of their first kiss. they have accepted each other, haven’t they? in a meaningful act (the gravity of which we will only realize in full later when Vlad tells the story of his dad), Karl rumpled Vlad’s hair, but only after Vlad had already consented to it. then, afterward, it was Vlad’s turn to ask, what are you thinking? to which Karl had this—and i know we all expected it, nevertheless—to say: i don’t want to think anymore. then they kissed.

i swear to god. i only watched this for the 92432475781 time.

the denouement was so well put, too: now everything is put back into its own place. Karl’s brother. his death. his parents’ expectations. the substitution. Vlad’s father. his parents’ expectations. the horror of realizing one’s difference. the abandonment. in these stories, it becomes more and more permissible to believe that Karl and Vlad have easily found comfort in each other. to say that they are soulmates (as the creator, juan miguel severo, told on his twitter) is not an exaggeration.

and, make no mistake: Karl and Vlad did not find each other’s embraces out of pity. no. it would be unduly harsh to view them that way. rather, they found solace in each other’s embrace and warmth, but it is still they who will muster the courage to face their own demons. the only difference is, they now have each other to find some sort of release. they are not destructively dependent on each other; instead, they help each other grow into the versions of themselves that they can be proud of.

finally, a couple of small things: look at the way Karl was inviting Vlad to lie in bed with him. that simple gesture harks us back to the early days of their dynamics: Vlad had expressed that it was okay to share a bed, but Karl was adamant that they do not. Karl had once dreamed of Vlad joining him there, and that scared him shitless. in contrast to that, now we have this: Karl himself inviting Vlad, and Vlad accepting for Karl’s wholehearted invitation. the moment this happened, there was a consummation of the expression of their love. if they had their doubts prior to this, those could not have been more obliterated now.

needless to say, i fucking, fucking loved this. as one who has only ever written three fanfics (2gether and History 2!), all of which seemingly related to sleeping (what the fuck, do i have a sleep fetish or something), this ending to episode 6 is just the cherry on top.

their lines by the end particularly strike me. here we have Karl who wishes to create his own stories. on the other hand is Vlad who wishes that he be in charge of the endings, too. how do they do that? who knows? but the certainty that defines their pact is that they shall do it together, unbound and free to dance to the song they have chosen of their own accord. and that simple promise, made in each other’s tight embrace under artificially warm lights amid that early january weather, with no certainty at all of what tomorrow has to bring, has made all the difference.

in 34 minutes, Gaya sa Pelikula has, yet again, done more than we could have ever expected.

i just checked and this reached 2k words. i’m not even gonna attempt to proofread this anymore. anyway, this is all i have to say for now. i just simply cannot let go of the best episode i’ve seen in this show without expressing my own reaction to it.

(also: i’m thinking of writing a fanfic; that is, the morning after. just a one-shot, hopefully a cute one. as usual, an introspection of these characters, and what lies ahead. hope i actually get to write it!)

thank you so much, Gaya sa Pelikula. you are proof that things do change.

#gaya sa pelikula #ian pangilinan #paolo pangilinan #juan miguel severo #fanfic ideas have been brewing inside me #char #bl series #philippines #philippine bl series

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livvywrites · 3 years

Photo

[ ID: the image depicts a knights helm with a pointed face looking to the right. it’s been edited to look like an oil painting, and overlaid with a pale grey-green color. over the image is written ‘a conspicuous lack of dragons’ in a script front, and beneath that, ‘livvy moore’ in a serif font. /end ID. ]

i posted an excerpt of this with the placeholder title “the perils of taking quests from little old ladies who live in the woods.” i’m still rather fond of that title, but it’s a little too long xD

this was written mostly as an exercise to kind of... shake the mental cobwebs off, after seeing a post about accessibility + princesses in towers. i really liked how it came out, so i decided to polish it up and post it :D i meant to have it up sooner, but... life :p

you can also read this on my website :)

a conspicuous lack of dragons

The tower is exactly as the old woman described. White brick, with a deep purple roof, standing on a mountain at the edge of a prosperous kingdom. Only a few windows adorn the top of the tower. The rest is bare, and unadorned. You are… a little relieved. The old woman had said that this tower belonged to a dragon. You weren’t particularly looking forward to fighting it—and though you’re sure you still might have to, at least you have time for a little more reconnaissance.

Save for the base, where there is a plain wooden door.

You… cannot say you were expecting that. You swing off of your mare, and stow your more important belongings with her, keeping with you only your sword, shield, and medicine kit. You examine the door carefully, and find that—at least from this side—it is as plain as it appears.

You open the door, and step inside.

The base of the tower is rather bare. There are a few crates and boxes, covered in a layer of dust and cobwebs. There is a conspicuous lack of traps. You frown, step further in, and wait for the door to slam behind you.

It does not.

Suspicions piqued, you start up the twisting and winding ramp (not stairs!) that lead to the top. You draw your sword as you do, ready to strike if anything—or anyone—pops out at you.

Nothing does.

There are still no traps; no guards; and no hints of magic. The most arduous thing about it is the trip to the top. Another plain, wooden door is there; though it has been painted a pale lilac. There is a small peephole near the top.

You see no strange mechanisms. No glowing runes. No door knockers with faces, ready to entice you into a battle of riddles.

Your frown only deepens. You push the door open, fully expecting to be greeted by the most heinous monster you’ve ever faced.

Instead, you find a young woman. You can only presume that this is the princess. She is seated on a plush couch, reading a rather thick book. She looks up at the creak of the door, and gives you a brief once over.

One brow raised, she asks, “Well? What are you doing here?”

“I’m… here to rescue you?” you say, but it comes out as more of a question. You feel dumb. Also numb. Off-balance. You aren’t sure what’s going on at all. Nothing here is what you expected it to be, and you’re not sure how to take that at all.

“Oh,” the princess says. She looks disinterested again. “Mm. Thank you, but no thank you. I am perfectly content where I am.”

“I… but…” You stop. You’re not really sure where you were going with that.

The princess sighs. She marks her place, and lays the book on a side table. She gestures to one of the chairs. “Let me guess,” she says. “A lovely little old lady hired you. Very sweet, greets everyone with a plate of cookies. She shuffles more than walks and leans on a cane. Very harmless. Very unassuming. She told you a sob story about a poor princess, shut in a tower for… Oh, I can’t imagine what she used this time. Someone was jealous? They were afraid I would be stolen away? I’ve been cursed?”

“Um.” You’ve taken a seat now. “A dragon had taken you and hid you here, to hold you for ransom.”

The princess rolls her eyes. “Ah. We’re stereotyping dragons, now. Lovely.” She rearranges the blanket on her legs. “The truth, then. I am a princess, she did not lie to you about that. However, I am not in this tower because of dragons, curses, jealousy, beauty, or whatever reasons she can dream up. This tower was, in fact, my idea.”

“Why?” you blurt.

The princess smiles. There’s something a little secretive about it, like she’s letting you in on something. “You see,” she says, “I was born a little different from the rest of the world. Not much, mind, but enough to make it hard for me to function in your world. I’ve got a touch of power in me. I can, of course, cast spells. But that is not why I am here. I am here because I also have a touch of the Sight. And that… well. It makes me a little… sensitive.” She drums her fingers on the arm of the sofa. “It is hard to explain, because I can do so many different little tricks, but I will try. Since you came all this way.

“The main one, I think, is being able to sense emotions. This one is not something I can turn off. Being in a crowded room is… overwhelming. I can feel what everyone else is feeling, and they are hardly ever feeling the same things. It is enough to drown my own emotions out, and it is—I am sure you can imagine—unpleasant.

“I can also sense surface thoughts, sometimes. When they are very loud, or when I care to turn an ear to them. When I was younger, I could not control this, and… thus, crowds of people were, once again, very uncomfortable.

“And, of course, I can predict things. With an object—clear or mirrored, preferably—I can see things going on in other places. It takes focus, and practice, and it helps if I’ve been there or have a clear idea of what I am looking for, but it is possible. I can catch glimpses of things that will happen, or could happen.

“I can also see the future of an object, if I touch it. Or look into its past, see where it’s been. This was another thing I could not control as a young one, and made things very, very unpleasant.

“There are other things, too, but these are the three that made me seek solace here. I get visitors. I leave sometimes. But, yes. My being here is very much a choice. I thank you, again, for your concern. But it is not warranted.”

“I…” You bite your lip, and shake your head. “I do not understand why I was sent here, then. If you are not in danger.”

“Ah. Well.” The princess smiles wryly. “The old woman who sent you here is not an old woman at all. That is the disguise she dons, when she sends people to me. I believe because it makes her seem more trustworthy… or perhaps because she thinks its funny. I don’t know.” She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. She sent you here, the same way she did the others, because she wants to use you to get past my wards.” She turns her gaze from you, and looks at the door you came in. “Isn’t that right, Muriel?”

In the doorway stands a woman who is nothing like the little old lady who plied you with cookies and a sob story about a kidnapped princess. She has long golden hair that shines in the window light. She walks with a finely carved staff; a glowing orb at the top. When she gets close, however, you can see her eyes. And those—those are the eyes of the old lady. Warm brown with a touch of humor. She sits in the empty seat.

“You turned the last three away at the door,” Muriel says. “I was beginning to think that you were angry with me.”

The princess hums. “I don’t know why you bother with the pretext,” she says. “You could just have them deliver a letter.”

“I could. But then however would I test their virtue?”

“Virtue?” you ask, before you can stop yourself. You are still so terribly confused. You lost the plot somewhere around when you opened that first door—and you don’t think you’d ever quite caught back up.

Muriel looks at you, as if she was surprised that you were still there. “Well, yes, darling,” she says. “First to see if you were willing to face a dragon to rescue a princess you’d never even met. And then to see if you could get through the doors. They don’t let you in unless you’re pure of intention.”

That doesn’t really clear anything up.

“But why?”

“I presume to keep the princess safe.”

“That’s not what our good knight is asking, and you know it,” the princess chides.

Muriel grins. “Because I’ve need of you, good knight. We’ll get to that. For now…” She looks back the princess. “What do you think, dear? You know I trust your judgment more than anyone else’s.”

“Speak more plainly, Muriel,” the princess says. “I’ve no idea which scheme you’re speaking about now. I can’t possibly keep track of them all.”

Muriel huffs. “The knight, dear.”

The princess gives you another once over. “Depends,” she says. “What is it you’re needing?”

“The gryphon, I think.”

The princess seems to consider that, then sniffs. “No. You’d be better off asking one of the other three.”

You feel indignant.

“I would send this one for the unicorn.”

Less indignant. But only just.

“Oh, truly?” Muriel looks at you again, and there is a new appreciation in her eyes. “Well. You know best, on the subject of unicorns, I suppose.”

“It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the flattery, because I do. However, I really must ask you to drop the pretense. You didn’t come all of this way to ask me that. Speak true, Muriel.”

“Perhaps I just wanted to see you.” Muriel’s tone and expression goes coy, almost coquettish.

A ghost of a smile appears on the princess’s mouth. “If you wish to engage me in courtship, Muriel, there are far less roundabout ways to go about it. Which, mind, I would appreciate far more than the games.”

Muriel flushes, almost imperceptibly. “Ah. Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

The princess inclines her head, and in a gentler tone says, “Your affections would be welcome.”

“Truly?”

“I would not lie to you, dear,” the princess says. “However, once again, I must ask you to speak the truth. Why have you come?”

Muriel sighs. “Your perceptiveness grates, you know?”

“So you have said.”

“Fine. I have come to steal you away again.”

“Ah. Where to?” The princess looks remarkably calm at that comment, though your hackles have raised. Wherever Muriel wishes to go, you do not think the princess should have any part of it. You have a feeling, though, that if you said anything, the princess would—kindly—tell you to mind your own business.

“The Wilds,” Muriel says.

This means nothing to you, but the princess nods.

“Of course,” she murmurs to herself. “Right, well. When do you wish to leave?”

“Once I’ve gotten this one packed off,” Muriel says. She gestures to you.

“Do I get a say?” you ask. Demand.

“Well of course, dear,” Muriel says. “You’ll either take the mission I give you or… go off to do whatever you do when you’re not taking quests from strange women. Either way.”

You huff, but nod.

“Very well,” the princess says. “I am agreeable.”

“Excellent.” Muriel sends her a quick flash of a smile. The glimpse you catch is soft and subtle. The princess’s own lips quirk in response… and then suddenly, both their eyes are on you again.

Muriel is looking at you like she’s a cat and you’re… something small and skittering. You don’t know if she’s going to pounce, or if she just wishes to watch, but either way—you’re more than a little unnerved.

The princess, on the other hand, looks kind and a little amused. “Any questions?” she prompts.

“Why did she—you—need my help to get in the tower? If you two are friends, I mean.”

“Because Muriel practices dark magic,” the princess says plainly.

You start; sitting up right as if a rod has just been plunged through your spine.

The princess laughs. “That does not mean that she is evil. Your knightly virtue is still intact. Dark magic is simply a tool, like any other, and Muriel wields it well.”

“But…”

The princess reaches out, and lays a hand on yours. You can feel the weight of it through your gauntlet, though not much else. “Muriel is something of a trickster, it is true. She lies. Sometimes for a good reason, and sometimes simply for her own amusement. She does not mean any harm when she does it… and so, she will never quite be sorry for it. It is her way. But let this be a lesson to you. If you work with her—or, truly, anyone else—do your research before blindly following what they tell you.” She pats your hand, and withdraws. “Now. Muriel will explain what she wants you to do, if you let her, while I get ready.”

She stands, folds the blanket she had been using, and takes her book off to another room. You are left alone with Muriel, and you eye her warily.

Muriel does not seem to mind your distrust. If anything, it seems to amuse her more. “So,” she says. “Unicorns.”

“I won’t kill one,” you say, immediately.

Muriel laughs. “Nor would I ask that of you,” she says. “I do not wish for you to kill one. Nor maim one, capture one, or any other nasty thing your mind has conjured up.” She reaches into a satchel, and pulls out a small vial. Inside is a beautiful, shimmering liquid. “You are familiar with Eaton’s River, yes?”

You nod. You’d been, once.

“Mm. If you follow the river north, to its source, you’ll come to the mountains. More specifically, to the forest at the base of those mountains. Keep going, and you’ll reach a waterfall—and, of course, a lake. The lake has a dock… and likely, a rowboat. Do not take the rowboat, though you may be tempted. Instead, pour the contents of this vial into the lake.

“When that is done, make camp by the lake. You may drink from it, but do not bathe in it. Go further down the river for that—past the ring of trees surrounding the area. You shouldn’t have to stay for long. No more than three days. Eventually, you will see a unicorn. Do not worry about missing it. Its presence will wake you up.

“Do nothing to it, unless it does something to you, first. If it speaks to you, those words are yours alone. If it lays its head in your lap, that moment is yours to keep. When it leaves, you are free to go as well.

“However, there are things I wish you to keep an eye out for. First, a white deer. Stag or doe, it matters not. Only that is pure white. Do not kill it, but if you see it, I wish to know about it when both you and I have returned.

“Second, the unicorn itself. I wish to know the color of its horn; whether or not it has any markings; and if it is alone or not.

“Lastly, the water. Tell me if there is anything built on the mound in the middle; if there is anything strange about the boat beyond the urge to get in it; whether anything happens when you pour the water in; and most importantly… whether or not you see anyone or anything inside the water during your time there. Even if you believe it is a hallucination.

“Am I clear?”

You blink, but nod.

“Excellent.” She pulls out a piece of paper, and she hands that to you as well. “These are the instructions I have just stated. Now. Tell me, knight. Will you do this?”

“Why?” you ask.

“A vested interest in magical ecology,” Muriel says primly.

The princess emerges, a bag slung over her shoulder. She approaches you both. Whatever she sees on your face has her smiling. “You’ve gone and confused the poor thing, Muriel. Are you allergic to explaining yourself?”

“Yes,” Muriel says. “You can’t see it, but my arms have broken out into terrible hives.”

The princess snorts, and looks at you. “The unicorn needs to be checked on. They’re quite rare, you know, and it’s good to make sure they’re still healthy. I imagine Muriel also wishes to know if it has made any friends, or reproduced.”

Muriel inclined her head.

“The lake has its own creatures within. They’re not friendly, so do not engage with them. They’ll drown you. The potion she’s given you is… highly magical. In this case, it does many things. It will… the closest I can think of is ‘get them drunk.’ They will still overpower you if you get in the water, but they won’t actively pursue you.

“It is also power enough to attract the unicorn, to ensure that you get a look at it. And, it has the added bonus of cleaning the water out a bit.” The princess shrugged. “An ingenious little vial.”

“And the deer?” you ask.

“Attracted to the presence of the unicorn,” the princess says. “Or perhaps caused by the unicorn’s own magic—I’ve never been quite sure. Either way, it means that the land there is responding to the presence of the unicorn. It’s a good thing. A very good thing.”

Muriel said you had a choice in this, but… the way they spoke, it sounded like you already decided to go. Which… you will, of course, because while this is not the quest you had envisioned for yourself, it still sounds important, and befitting of your training. They way they assume is a bit grating, but… Whatever. Your instructor had once told you that, of those who give you quests, magical folk rank just behind nobility in how grating they could be.

“Right then,” Muriel says, at your nod. “Time for the lot of us to be off. We’ve got things to do.”

You stand. “I still don’t quite understand who the two of you are,” you admit. There is more going on here than you understand—context that you’re lacking.

“We’re a Seer and a Witch,” Muriel says, as if this makes things plain. “A trickster and a truth-seer. A commoner and a princess.”

“We are what we are,” the princess says, laying a hand on Muriel’s arm. “And what we are works very well together. That is all that matters.”

“But… I mean… what do you do?”

“What needs doing,” the princess says. “Whether that is relocating unicorns, closing portals to the abyss, or removing curses.” She shrugs. “Don’t worry about it too much. Either it will become clearer to you one day… or it will not.”

“Then you mean to see me again?”

“Well, that depends on you, doesn’t it?” Muriel asks. “Whether you decide to work with me again.”

You suppose that’s true. You give a nod, and this time it is Muriel who smiles at you.

“Off we go, then,” she says.

The three of you exit the tower, and part ways at the door. You retrieve your things where you left them, and look on towards the horizon. It’s a long way from here to the river.

You shoulder your pack, and start walking.

#writeblr #writers of tumblr #writelr #fantasy fiction #my writing #a conspicuous lack of dragons #short fiction

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thebladeblaster · 3 years

Text

Pokémon: the Dark Circuit (aka Vanguard Descends season 2)

Chapter 7 Galar, The Heart of Team Asteroid

Aichi’s current team

Level 81 Wingal (Lycanroc (dusk)) rock

Moves:

Stealth rock

Crunch

Stone edge

Play rough

Level 79 Llew (Golisopod) water/bug

Moves:

Sucker punch

Blizzard

Liquidation

First impression

Level 80 Gancelot (Lucario) fighting/steel

Moves:

Focus blast

Stone edge

Meteor mash

Dragon pulse

Level 86 Soul Saver (Haxorus) dragon

Moves:

Outrage

Iron tail

Dragon dance

Scale shot

Level 100 Alfred (Aegislash) ghost/steel

Moves:

Sacred sword

King’s shield

Iron head

Shadow Claw

Why exactly did his father want him to fight 002f? What exactly was he planning besides having him return to serving him if he lost? Aichi wondered all of this as he ended up following the Quatre Knights to Galar with the others by his side. Christopher was back in his normal form. Strangely his clothes weren’t stretched. Perhaps they were made of some special material or something? Yugi had swapped back with Yami. The atmosphere was tense to say the least. His friends from Kakusa stayed extremely close to him especially since he had to recall his Pokémon, except Alfred who floated by his side while he rode on Overlord’s back with Kai. The silence only further intensified the air around them.

They eventually made it over to the Galar region. The main base of team Asteroid was located in Hammerlock city. The massive daunting black castle could be seen over the horizon altering them to their own proximity to the city. They were currently over the wild area where various Pokémon were roaming about. Team Asteroid members were catching some of the wild Pokémon, but not all of them. Aichi took a deep breath knowing that this would be the first time that he had faced his father in person in a very long time.

“You alright?”, Misaki whispered, on top of Guardian.

“I just feel a bit anxious at the idea of meeting my father again. I’m not sure if I want them to really have Ahmes or be just bluffing.”, Aichi replied.

Misaki wasn’t exactly sure what to say to reassure him. His dad was literally a super villain who brainwashed his own son. Aichi had a right to be anxious.

“Well...we all have your back in case something happens.”, Misaki replied, and Aichi said nothing in response.

It was clear he was still very troubled. He had acted confident before, but in reality he was worried. Especially, with himself starting to become one with 003v again. Aichi couldn’t help but fear that...he might completely revert back to being 003v. The thought of it made him shake.

Flashback

“You will always be 003v. You will come to know that soon.”, Leon replied cryptically.

Flashback end

Aichi sweated nervously remembering what Leon had told them when they met. They finally touched down on the soil of the Galar region within Hammerlock city. The Hammerlock’s castle had a red A emblazoned on it showing that the former gym was now the base of Team Asteroid. The sights of Hammerlock seemed familiar to Aichi. Heck, their whole flight in Galar he was experiencing an extreme sense of deja vu. He felt like he knew every building there and could even navigate the complicated layout of the city with ease. It was probably because he has been here not that he fully remembered though. He had lived here for the first few years of his life.

“Man, the base of Team Asteroid is another gaudy castle! That figures!”, Jonouchi commented, cutting the tension like a knife through butter.

“That ‘gaudy’ castle has an important place in Galar’s history.”, Olivier said, glaring at Jonouchi.

“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! I don’t wanna history lesson about Team Asteroid!”, Jonouchi replied, and Christopher scoffed.

“Actually...Hammerlock’s castle has been around since medieval times. It wasn’t built by Team Asteroid.”, Aichi mumbled, looking over at the scenery.

Jonouchi sweat dropped as the little factoid was dropped on him.

“How do you know so much about Galar, bro?”, Kamui questioned, Aichi was silent for a moment before deciding that he would reveal a little bit about what has been going on with him.

“My memories from before I lived in Kakusa have started to return to me. That’s why I remember Olivier as well. Alfred taught me quite a bit about Galar’s history as well.”, Aichi revealed, causing his friends to gasp in shock and Alfred nodded.

The Quatre Knights eyes widened in surprise. His friends looked rather worried at this revelation. The Kantonians looked a bit confused at this.

“Your memories? Did you lose them?”, Yugi questioned.

“It’s...a long story, but Solgealeo took my memories.”, Aichi replied.

“He did what!?!?!”, Misaki blurted out.

She looked a bit angry like she wanted to strangle Takuto the next time she saw him. Olivier was surprised that Aichi knew his memories were tampered with.

“He didn’t want me to remember my father’s teachings. That’s why when I was taken to Kakusa all those years ago he wiped my memory.”, Aichi explained.

“You know?”, Olivier questioned.

“Yeah...I don’t like the idea that he messed with my memories but...I understand why he did it.”, Aichi replied, thinking of recent events.

“Pfft! If it was me I would never let some glorified Meowth mess with my brain.”, Christopher commented smugly.

He was tempted to sarcastically reply that he was allowing Team Asteroid to mess with his. However, he kept that little thought to himself.

“So, that’s how you ended up like how you are now.”, Yugi replied.

He looked down seeming uncomfortable with the idea of messing with somebody’s memories as well. Even though he understands the intention it just felt...wrong.

A few citizens walking around noticed them especially Aichi and his incredible resemblance to Gin Gaillard.

“Is that him?”, a citizen questioned, their eyes brightened.

“I think it is!”, another said.

“Yeah, bro’s the one who defeated-“, Kamui was cut off as they were crowded.

“He’s finally appeared!” “Our great messiah!” “Now Team Asteroid can finally achieve their goal!”, the citizens cheered.

They sweat dropped except the Quatre Knights and Christopher. Aichi looked completely stunned and very disturbed by how they looked at him. They looked at him like some sort of religious figure.

“W-what! No!”, Kamui yelled.

“These guys really like Aichi don’t they?”, Miwa chuckled nervously.

“Alright! Alright! Back up, we need to get to the base.”, Neve said to the citizens holding his hands out.

“These guys are crazy.”, Honda whispered.

“Yeah, they're like cultists.”, Anzu whispered.

They both also looked rather disturbed by the crowd’s reaction to Aichi. Alfred tensed getting in front of Aichi.

“This is what had become of my kingdom?”, Alfred thought, feeling very disturbed by the citizens' behavior.

He had researched what had happened in his absence, but actually being here was completely different. It’s been hundreds and hundreds of years since he’s been in his home region and to think it’s become like this…

“Hey, Alfred are you okay?”, Aichi asked as Alfred looked down.

Aichi felt a bit guilty knowing his father was behind changing the region that Alfred had cherished.

“I-I’m fine...this is just all strange for me.”, Alfred replied.

Those who weren’t aware of Alfred’s capability for speech were rather surprised to see him talk. Some Team Asteroid members came over to help Neve hold off the crowd to allow them in. Aichi sweated nervously closing his eyes and taking in another breath before opening them and walking forward. His friends stayed close to him. The Kantonians looked around at the base as they walked in. The attention of the Team Asteroid members instantly landed on Aichi. Christopher couldn’t help but scoff at all the attention Aichi had been getting not understanding what made him special.

“Mmm...we should get donuts after this.”, Rati suggested, causing them to sweat drop.

“Rati...you need to get your priorities in order.”, Neve replied.

“That’s why I said after.”, Rati replied, with a smile as Neve face palmed.

Olivier looked over to Aichi. With his friends by his side he couldn’t get very close to him. They eventually arrived in Gin’s throne room. Leon, Triton, Jillian, and Sharlene were there. Sharlene gasped and Jillian’s eyes widened as they saw Aichi.

“Woah! They actually got him!”, Sharlene said.

“Heck no! We decided to come here!”, Kamui yelled.

“Yeah, what he said!”, Jonouchi added.

Aichi didn’t pay too much attention to this while he did briefly look over to Leon, his attention quickly landed on his father sitting on his throne. Honda held Jonouchi back from rushing at Gin. The others minus, Aichi, the Quatre Knights, and Christopher glared at Gin. Some in the room looked between the boy and his father. Seeing the two in the same room Aichi and his father’s resemblance was unmistakable. Aichi felt similar emotions to before swirling in his mind he turned his attention away from his father to dispel them.

“Where’s Ahmes?”, Aichi asked.

“That’s the first thing you say to your beloved father after finally meeting me in person again? Wow, maybe we aren’t that different. I was the same with my old man. Ahem, the Pokémon if you will.”, Gin replied, clapping as Leon revealed a dark ball.

Aichi froze as he laid his eyes on the dark ball. He remembered it from when the rare hunters had used it when they attacked Kakusa to get Celebi and its effects on the mythical. Everyone minus Aichi and Gin flinched as Aichi’s aura completely changed in a split second. A dark murky blue aura surrounded him. They couldn’t help but tremble at the magnitude of Aichi’s anger which they could almost physically feel. They felt like god was in front of them and about to pass judgment into them. His aura felt like it was choking them though in reality it wasn’t causing any physical harm. It just felt like it. Many of those who were a bit weaker willed felt to the ground choking or put their heads to the ground begging for forgiveness. Christopher looked surprised to see the sharp change in his aura. Triton and Leon sweated nervously. Leon was especially nervous since he could actually fully sense Aichi’s power unlike the others besides Christopher who simply felt his aura. Raul had perhaps the strangest reaction, a disturbing smirk. The other Quatre Knights on the other hand looked nervous and concerned. Yami’s eyes widened in surprise.

“What...the fuck?”, Jonouchi questioned, feeling himself shake.

“Is all of this coming from him?”, Honda asked, shaking.

“Yes…”, Kourin replied reluctantly.

“Holy crap, no wonder Team Asteroid is so obsessed with him. He’s not even moving yet he can do this?!”, Honda replied.

“This is…”, Yami trailed off, he looked over to Aichi nervously.

Aichi wasn’t aware of Yami yet since he hadn’t appeared in his spirit form to him. He was behind Yugi who he looked over to with concern.

“Are you alright Yugi?”, Yami asked.

“...His aura might be scarier than the spirit of the ring or even the shadow realm.”, Yugi whispered.

“Yeah...this was the darkness I felt within it...he must really care about this Ahmes.”, Yami replied.

“Aichi calm down.”, Kai said as he put his hand on Aichi shoulder.

He flinched as he touched it the feeling his aura gave off was magnified the moment he touched him. Kai amazingly withstood it and called out for Aichi again.

“Aichi!”, Kai called out.

Aichi blinked regaining himself for a moment as he noticed his auras' affect on the others.

“Ah, sorry guys!”, Aichi apologized, trying to reign in the anger he felt.

“You have to remember about your own aura’s affect on others.”, Alfred reminded.

“Yeah, I know I keep forgetting.”, Aichi replied.

“T-that was unintentional!”, Jonouchi gasped in shock feeling like fainting.

“Hehe. You really don’t know your own strength, son.”, Gin commented.

Well, he wasn’t wrong. Aichi did tend to forget the affects his aura can have on people. He took a breath trying to control his emotions. When his aura fully dissipated those who were choking took a massive breath after falling to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

“So, he is strong. Heh, but he clearly does know how to even control it.”, Christopher thought.

“Kai, are you alright?”, Aichi asked with concern.

“Yeah...I’m fine. Don’t forget you have to see if it’s really Ahmes.”, Kai replied, sweating a bit.

“Right…”, Aichi replied.

Alfred wrapped his hand-like cloth around Aichi’s hand squeezing it tightly.

“I’ve got this. No matter what. Do not freak out.”, Aichi thought to himself.

Leon stood up regaining his composure and throwing the dark ball. Out of the ball came a Gallade though, it’s colors were all weird. The parts that should be green were purple and the parts the should be white, black. It’s eyes glowed a menacing red; it stood there like a statue awaiting orders.

“It’s him…”, Aichi thought.

He recognized his aura though it was all twisted and messed up. However even with the manipulation he could still recognize the aura of his oldest friend. It took all of his self control to keep his aura within him. It desperately wanted to break out and destroy the entire castle. He sweated nervously holding in the intense rage he felt.

“What did you do to Ahmes?”, Aichi asked his tone sounded unamused and you could notice his restrained anger.

“When he was being swept away I caught him in the perfected dark ball. The wave was supposed to bring you to Galar because of the interference I caught him to make you come here. When a Pokémon is caught by a dark ball its power is boosted beyond its normal maximum levels and they become emotionless and completely obedient. The intense energy that goes into a Pokémon under its influence causes a discoloration similar to shinies as long as the energy remains in it..”, Leon explained.

“Emotionless…”, Aichi trailed off, looking at Ahmes.

He had a feeling Leon was leaving out parts so he wouldn’t be as mad. Aichi unconsciously held out his hand to Ahmes.

“Ahmes...do you recognize me?”, Aichi asked.

Ahmes was silent briefly looking at Aichi. Aichi struggled to hold in his emotions, visible tears starting to form. Ahmes hand twitched slightly before he put it down. The part of him still in there desperately wanted to comfort his trainer. He had never liked seeing Aichi cry. However, his own desire was pushed down by the power of the dark ball.

“Please...say something.”, Aichi begged.

Aichi’s friends, the Kantonians, Oliver, Rati, Jillian and Sharlene couldn’t help but look a bit sad at this exchange. You could hear the emotion in Aichi’s voice and exactly how much he really cared about Ahmes. Kourin fidgeted a bit and was tempted to go over to him.

“Aichi…”, Alfred said as he squeezed Aichi’s hand in assurance.

He looked over to Ahmes rather horrified at what Team Asteroid had done to him.

“Relax, it’s just a Pokémon.”, Christopher said, and Leon flinched giving Christopher a look.

Christopher simply looked smug, especially seeing a nervous look on Leon’s normally confident face.

“So am I. I don’t care, he's my friend.”, Aichi replied, his voice extremely quiet, his bangs covered his eyes.

“It’s gonna be alright Aichi. We’ll get him back.”, Misaki assured, putting her hand on Aichi’s shoulder.

“Now, you know it’s really him. You know what you have to do now.”, Gin said, before Aichi nodded.

“I do. I have to win the Circuit and defeat 002f.”, Aichi replied as he looked up determined.

Their gazes met and Leon gave him a determined look back.

“You have one month till the circuit. You should prepare yourself.”, Leon said.

“I will.”, Aichi replied.

“The circuit is a team competition with teams of four. You will need three other people.”, Triton informed.

5 notes · View notes

mariequitecontrarie · 4 years

Text

To Make You Feel My Love

Summary: Rumplestiltskin returns Belle’s heart at the pawnshop. This time, Belle goes after him. Notes: Hey guys, long time, no see! This S4 fix-it has been occupying real estate in my brain for ages. What if Belle had gone after Rumple and we had more than the rushed scene on the pawnshop floor? Thanks to @galactic-pirates for making this a better story! Rating: T Word Count: 7600

On AO3

WILL SCARLET

Will Scarlet is running late, but even though he’d kept Belle waiting at the pawnshop long past supper, his circular thoughts make his steps down Main Street plodding and uncertain.

He wants to resent Rumplestiltskin for ruining his relationship with Belle, but he can’t find fault where there is none. Gold had kept his distance, giving Belle a wide, respectful berth. From what Will had seen, he hadn’t been near the pawnshop, Granny’s, or the library, nor any of Belle’s favorite places.

Hell, he’d been an absolute gentleman.

Until this morning, when Belle had gone to babysit Mary Margaret and David’s Neal Junior. Only then did Rumplestiltskin make his move, cornering Will in the pawnshop. And what Gold told him had changed everything. Learning that Regina was controlling Belle twisted Will’s stomach with disbelief. Is he worried about Belle and what Regina might do next? Certainly. But that isn’t the problem. The blow to his pride is the real sucker punch.

Will pats the precious cargo tucked inside his jacket. His ego doesn’t matter now. He has a job to finish.

Of course, Will cares for Belle. When he met her at Archie Hopper’s birthday party, her sparkling smile and wit had captured his attention right away, and he hadn’t been able to resist asking her to join him for pizza and a pint later that week. They’d chatted long into the evening, and although they didn’t find much common ground, she was fun to talk to. Who wouldn’t enjoy keeping company with a fine lass like Belle? She’s kind, thoughtful, and intelligent. But she’s also more complicated than he anticipated. Too independent, too strong-willed.

Still too in love with her husband.

For the first time in months, Will allows himself to think of Ana. Even though she was often plotting and scheming, being with Ana had been easier somehow. He’d been needed, appreciated. But Belle French Gold didn’t need anything Will Scarlet could offer.

Three weeks into their awkward romance, it’s becoming more obvious by the day that Will is little more than a placeholder.

Like any dating couple, he and Belle spend time together, but always on her terms. Mostly at the pawnshop, sometimes at Granny’s, but always in public and usually with a mountain of chocolate cake between them. It’s Belle’s favorite dessert, and she’s always trying to push a forkful down his gullet. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her he’s allergic to chocolate. She loves her books, stashes them everywhere. There’s even a stack of them at his apartment, although she’s never crossed the threshold. But he’s not much for reading, which is another point against him. Unlike Gold, who clearly shares Belle’s passion for words.

Last week he was searching through the shop drawers for a misplaced ledger when he discovered a book war tally between them, with little notes and quotations scribbled in the margins in two sets of handwriting. He’d quickly buried it in the back of the drawer.

Yeah, the Dark One has more in common with his girlfriend than he does.

Now, as he’s trudging back to the shop with Belle’s heart in a box, he’s still processing the knowledge that without her heart, any emotion or affection she showed him wasn’t real. The worst part is, he didn’t know. He hadn’t seen the difference in a heartless Belle anymore than he would know the difference between Guinness and Beamish when he’s a dozen pints in.

Gold’s visit had blown him out of the water. Concern from someone who really knows her, and for all his sins, truly loves her. Rumplestiltskin wouldn’t have approached him to get Belle’s heart if he hadn’t been desperate.

Much as it irked him to hear the truth from the Dark One, Rumplestiltskin is right; Will doesn’t know Belle as well as he believes. Perhaps he doesn’t know her at all.

So much for boasting about stealing his wife’s affections.

Continuing his plodding pace down Main Street, Will passes the library, then Granny’s. The recent rain has left large cold puddles on the street and his boots make a sloshing sound as he wades through them. The sun is beginning its evening descent, leaving a chill in the dusky air. His wool socks are damp and cold and starting to smell.

Every step brings him closer to his meeting with Rumplestiltskin and the inevitable end of his relationship with Belle. A moment he both dreads and anticipates.

He sidesteps a deep puddle in the middle of Main Street, pausing to take stock of the shop and the box in his hands. The store lights glow from within, casting a message of welcome onto the gloomy, shadowed streets. Through the blinds, he glimpses Belle, standing sentinel over Gold’s domain. Other than its dust-free shelves, everything is as it had been while she and Gold had run the store as husband and wife. If asked she would deny it, but Belle had taken to spending more time puttering around in here than she did at the library with her books.

All along she’d been waiting for Gold to come back. She’d banished him from Storybrooke and then planted herself at the one place to which he would always return. Almost as if daring him to find a way back into town and into her heart.

And today Gold had stormed the shop with a plan to literally win her heart back. It was a fairytale come true, romantic to even the harshest cynic.

Will takes a deep breath and opens the door. As he wipes his sodden boots on the mat inside, Belle greets him with a weary smile. A bag of Granny’s takeout awaits his return on the top of one of the display counters. He tries to croak out a hello, but the box behind his back holding Belle’s heart is slick in his damp palms. He digs his blunt fingernails into the wood, scratching the grain.

May as well get this over with. He shows Belle the box, revealing the crimson heart within. She spreads her hand across her breastbone, her body recognizing its missing heart.

Gold enters the shop through the back door, executing the plan exactly as they had discussed. His power and presence are magnetic, and the lamps seem to flicker in homage. All the energy in the room rushes toward him, ready to obey his every command. Belle’s eyes widen like the saucer that matches her favorite teacup, and Will clamps down on his back teeth. She takes a few steps back, raises a hand in protest, asks Gold why he’s here. The objection is token at best. Even without her heart, Belle’s emotion for Rumplestiltskin is a tangible force.

Will drops back to stand in the shadows, watching, listening, playing his part. Gold commands Belle into Will’s care, his tone laced with resolve and regret.

He’s so stunned by the naked adoration on the Dark One’s face when he returns the heart of the woman he loves, Will barely hears a word.

With Belle’s heart returned to its rightful place, Gold promises not to bother her anymore, but not before another moment passes between them that is so raw and private, Will is embarrassed to have witnessed it.

When he lifts his head, Rumplestiltskin is out the door, and Belle is staring after him like her whole world is gone. Will grasps her hand--a feeble attempt to offer comfort--but she shakes loose of his grip and stares off into the night after Rumplestiltskin, worrying her naked ring finger with her other hand.

Will is resigned; maybe even a little relieved?

There’s nothing left to do but say goodbye.

xoxo

BELLE

What Belle really wants is to feel alive again, to show herself and everyone else in town how capable she is of moving forward, of living a life that doesn’t include Rumple.

Since she banished him from Storybrooke six weeks earlier, advice for nursing her broken heart had come from all sides. Archie prescribed exercise and healthy eating; Granny suggested throwing herself into work; Snow thought she needed to slow down and take more naps.

For a little while, she tried following the suggestions of her friends, but every antidote left her stumbling through her days like a child lost in a fog. Food has no taste, her work at the library seems meaningless, and on the rare nights when she can fall asleep, Rumple follows her into her dreams.

She hasn’t seen him since he came back to Storybrooke, but last night’s dream of standing next to him at the well was so real. When she woke, she felt the warmth of his lips on hers and a peculiar pain in her chest. A royal blue coat she hasn’t worn in ages was draped across the foot of the bed. Odd. She stuffed it into the back of the closet and pulled out the new light pink one.

Eventually, people claimed, it would get easier. Nothing more than a silly platitude, really, but for the last couple of days, she’s struggling to care. She can’t pinpoint when she started to feel this way. All she knows is she would rather sit in the dark with a blanket over her head than face the world.

Will, bless him, is the one bright spot lately. Only he is without judgment; the only person who simply sits quietly at her side without talking, and without offering “101 Ways to Get Over Rumplestiltskin.” Maybe it’s because he loved Anastasia, the Red Queen, who had also made many wrong choices. Maybe it’s because deep down, they’re not expecting anything from each other.

Whatever the reason, he doesn’t demand anything of her, and for that, Belle owes him her gratitude.

xoxo

Granny’s, Last Night Belle sat in a booth opposite Ruby, sipping on her second glass of a new concoction called a Long Island Iced Tea.

Granny promised the combination of cola, liquors, and lemon tasted just like the real thing, so she gave it a try.

Belle doesn’t know why it makes any difference if the fake tea tastes like the original, but Ruby showed up at her house tonight demanding they relax and have a girls’ night. Too tired to argue, she put on the emerald green top and leather skirt Ruby fished out from the back of her closet and here they are.

At least the strange prickling sensation on her tongue and the curious humming in her veins means she’s feeling something. She’s been not quite right for the last few days. Not sick, but not well either. Maybe she should pay a visit to Doctor Whale.

Ruby took a long swig of her drink, a bright red fruity one called a Cosmopolitan. “So, are you still seeing Will?”

It was an odd question, considering she’d had dinner at Granny’s in this exact same booth with Will the night before. Ruby had even been their server.

“We were here together last night,” Belle said. “You swiped some of my curly fries, remember?”

“Oh yeah!”

“Will and I are doing fine,” she said. “Honestly, it’s refreshing to be with someone who’s simple and honest about who they are.”

Ruby giggled around her straw. “A super sweet way of saying he’s boring.”

Belle frowned. Was Ruby trying to confuse her? No one else has questioned her choice in dating Will, and several people have volunteered the viewpoint that both she and the town are better off without Rumplestiltskin in the picture. She hadn’t asked, but since when did that stop anyone?

“You’re always friendly to Will,” she pointed out.

“It’s one thing to be kind to a customer and a member of this town. It’s another to think he’s good for my best friend.” Ruby laughed again, but the shrewd tilt of her head made Belle feel strange and transparent.

She searched for something to say, a way to make Ruby stop giving her that look. “Will is kind. He gave me a rose.” There, that was something.

Ruby snorted. “I’ve read your story in Henry’s book. He’s not the first. Gold-”

Belle held up a hand, cutting her off. “I know who the roses came from.” When they were dating and when they were married, Rumple used to bring her flowers all the time. Often he brought home roses, but sometimes it was peonies and other times wildflowers. They used to enjoy discussing their different meanings. She toyed with the lemon slice floating on top of her drink. Surely she and Will had many things in common, she was just too tired to list them right now. “Will and I both like hiking.”

“Mmmmm. And has Will read any good books lately? If I remember right, you and Gold used to compete to see who could get through the Great Books first.”

“I had no idea you were such a big Rumple fan,” Belle said sarcastically.

She was starting to feel like a contestant on one of those bizarre game shows people watched during the day. Ruby hadn’t objected to her marriage to Rumplestiltskin, but she hadn’t been supportive, either. More like a silent bystander. Suddenly she was jockeying for position as president of his fan club? Belle waved Granny down, hoping to order some chips. Crunchy, salty chips might make her feel better. “So Will’s not a reader, so what?”

“So call me crazy, but I want to see my best friend happy. And with someone who’s happy with her. But Will doesn’t look like a doting boyfriend. Every time I see him, he looks like he’s in pain or halfway to the bottom of a keg.”

“He’s had a tough time,” Belle said, still trying to catch Granny’s eye. “Besides, some people aren’t comfortable expressing emotion.”

“Rumplestiltskin could be the coldest bastard alive,” Ruby said. “But when it came to you, there was never any question about his feelings. His love for you was written all over his face.”

Belle wasn’t sure what to say. Normally, such an impassioned speech would have started the tears yet again. A few weeks ago, she’d even cried in front of Hook, and they were hardly best friends. Being reminded of Rumple always made her chase her choices down the rabbit hole, wondering if she’d been too hasty in sending him away.

Now she only felt tired.

“Come on, Belle. You can lie to yourself but you can’t lie to me. Wasn’t it at least a little bit exciting?” Ruby leaned her elbows on the table, her eyes sparkling with secret conspiracy. “Being married to Rumplestiltskin?”

Belle gnawed her lip, trying to decide how to answer. The drink was starting to make her forehead feel numb. Perhaps she was imagining it, but Ruby seemed to be looking at her with an expectation akin to hope.

“I suppose...yes, I guess it was,” she admitted. Rumple had vexed her, confused her, but when she was with him, her nerve endings were always on fire. He’d made her feel alive, and she was transfixed by his darkness as much as she had celebrated the light.

Ruby nodded, shifting further forward in her seat. “You loved the excitement, the idea of rehabilitating a monster. Told me so yourself.” She took a long pull on her drink.

“He’s not a monster!” Belle snapped. The denial was a reflex, charged with an emotion she didn’t feel. A few other patrons in the diner turned to look at her, curious about who was yelling, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

Jumping to Rumple’s defense was a habit. A meaningless habit. She took a deep breath. “But that wasn’t...Rumple is...there’s no excuse for what he did but he’s still not...that.” What had he done, anyway? Belle couldn’t seem to remember.

She pushed her drink back and forth, wanting nothing more than to abandon this ridiculous evening and go home. But her legs were numb and if she left the table, she might not make it to the door before collapsing in a heap.

What was wrong with her? She really did need to call Whale, but then she would have to explain her symptoms. Difficult, considering she doesn’t know what the problem is, and she dare not bring up the word ‘depression.’ She’s not taking any more of those wacky antipsychotics he had her on when she was in the hospital last year.

At the cash register, Belle noticed Regina picking up a to-go order. It was the first time Belle has seen her today or had she been in the shop earlier? Awareness flickered on the edges of Belle’s consciousness but the feeling floated away as quickly as it came.

Across the table, Ruby snapped her fingers. “Belle? Did you hear me?”

Belle blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“I said I didn’t mean what I said about Gold. I’m sorry.” Ruby gave her hand a squeeze. “Are you okay? Maybe I shouldn’t have dragged you out tonight. I just miss you. We haven’t hung out in a while, but you don’t seem to be having much fun.”

“Forget it, I’m fine.” Belle let her eyes drift shut. “Just tired.”

“I know, sweetie,” Ruby soothed. “And I know you miss Gold. No matter what he’s done, you love him. I worry about you now that he’s back in Storybrooke, though. If he comes to find you, you won’t be able to stay away.”

Annoyance flares for a moment. Ruby thinks she’s weak. They all do.

She could stay away from Rumple if she really tried. She has a new boyfriend; Rumplestiltskin was no longer the only man in Belle French’s life.

“It’s over,” Belle said. “Rumple won’t get to me again.” She lifted her chin, daring Ruby to contradict her, but it didn’t matter.

How could she expect anyone else to believe her when she didn’t believe herself?

xoxo

Belle’s heart feels right inside her chest, strong and sure. Her ribs wrap around the familiar organ, holding it safe and snug. And when she holds her breath, she can feel the warmth of Rumple’s fingers on her heart, his fingers cupping her shoulder, strong yet tender.

She takes another lungful of air, holds it close to feel his phantom touch again.

Yesterday’s memories come surging back, and she almost falls to her knees with their force. At Regina’s urging, she had called Rumple to the well. He came, of course, as he always did when she asked. She’d seen his wounded husk of a heart. Then she’d kissed him. Seconds later, she’d ruined the tender moment with nasty words she didn’t mean to say. Words Regina put in her mouth.

The dream she thought she had was real.

It’s tempting to blame Regina for this mess, but she had walked right into this with her offer to help. Still, she is beyond weary of playing the ‘Use Belle to Get to Rumple Game’. Can’t anyone think of a better way to solve problems?

Fingers reach for hers, seeking to comfort, startling her. Will. She’d forgotten he was there.

His hand is warm but wrong, the fingers too short and thick, the palm too square. It doesn’t fit; they don’t fit.

She shakes him off, her full focus on watching her love walk away until he’s swallowed by the night.

How like Rumple to return her heart and then walk out the door with it all over again.

“Belle,” Will says, breaking into her thoughts again. “What can I do?”

This she recognizes--the consuming need to be something other than helpless. It was what drove her to help Regina yesterday. That, and she hadn’t seen Rumple since he’d been back in town. Regina had given her an easy excuse.

“Rumple’s sick,” she answers, staring at the outline of her reflection in the glass front of the shop. “I didn’t understand what he meant about his black heart. Not until he returned mine. Then I remembered. I saw him yesterday in the woods, by the old well.”

She decides it’s better to leave out the details, like how she’d compared their kisses and told Rumple he was lacking. The truth is, the brief pecks she’s shared with Will don’t come anywhere close to what Rumple makes her feel, and there’s no reason to hurt him.

“Figured it was something like that.” He takes a step closer but doesn’t attempt to touch her again. “Gold was the one who told me your heart had been stolen. He asked for my help.”

“Thank you.” She isn’t sure if she is grateful for his part in returning her heart or because he had allied with Rumple to do it. Rumple prided himself on working alone, and it was entirely out of character for him to trust anyone else with what needed doing. More than suspicious, Rumple asking Will for help was downright frightening.

A sign, she fears, of how weak his heart is becoming.

The idea of Rumple hurting and alone makes her dizzy with worry. Outside, droplets from this afternoon’s rain roll down the windows, little pin drops of light in the blackness. In the glass, she sees the bloated reflection of Will’s takeaway dinner from Granny’s sitting on the counter, the turkey melt and fries within long since gone cold.

It’s only been a few minutes since Rumple left the pawnshop, but it feels as though a lifetime has passed.

“What would you do if Anastasia was in trouble?” she asks Will, still facing the dark street. They haven’t talked much about each other’s past loves. Belle only knows that Will left Wonderland heartbroken and came to Storybrooke to heal and find a fresh start. She’s been equally quiet about Rumple.

“If this were Ana, I would give anything to be there for her.” Will sounds wistful. “For all her faults, there’s still good in her. In Rumplestiltskin, too, I’d wager.”

Will is quiet for a long moment, then asks the question. “Do you still love him?”

It’s an out, Belle realizes. He’s setting her free.

A tear runs down her cheek, and she turns to face the man who made her first few weeks without Rumplestiltskin a little easier. Will is a wonderful person, he’s just not the person for her “I do love him,” she whispers.

“Then fight for him. Go.” He nods toward the door.

Belle wastes no more time in hurrying after Rumple. They both know Will won’t be there when she returns.

The cold air hits her face and she squints into the dark, half-expecting Rumple to have vanished into thin air in one of his impressive parlor tricks. He’s nowhere in sight, so she picks a direction on instinct, splashing through frigid puddles as she runs on sheer hope, mindless of her soaked shoes.

It doesn’t take her long to catch him, and she pulls to a stop right outside the library doors.

“Rumple, wait!”

He stops walking away and turns, his forehead wrinkling with worry. “Belle, what are you doing out here in the cold? Are you okay?” He glances at her chest, where he’d replaced her heart mere moments earlier, and Belle looks down at her blouse. She’d run out of the shop without her coat.

“I should be asking you that question.” His face is ashen and his breathing shallow, pale fingers clutching the edges of his overcoat.

His rigid jaw softens at her concern and he looks at her like he's her husband, instead of someone she used to know. The way he looked at her scant minutes ago when he returned her heart. “Yes, well. Poison consuming your heart from the inside out will tend to have that effect.”

“Where are you staying?” She waves back toward the shop where the car is parked around the side. “I’ll drive you.”

“The cabin.” He tries to disguise a shiver.

“With Cruella?” She suddenly remembers hearing from Snow and David that Maleficent and Ursula had also been there with him. His evil dream team.

Taking in the worn sight of him, she tamps down on the urge to remind him that more nefarious plans won’t fix the current mess. To anyone else, he would appear healthy. Only she sees the brokenness behind his proud, well-dressed exterior. In all the years she’s known him, he’s never needed sleep, never felt the bite of winter air. Tonight his eyes are dark shadows, reflecting exhaustion, and he’s shivering in the cold.

“Come on.” She takes his arm, steering him in the direction of the car, and he allows himself to be led down the sidewalk.

He hadn’t asked for her help; then again, he never does. No expectations mean no disappointments.

Belle can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever trust her enough to take what she offers. This, she supposes as they walk arm-in-arm down the block together, is a start. xoxo

RUMPLESTILTSKIN

Rumplestiltskin isn’t sure what he expected when Belle chased him down the street and insisted on driving him somewhere, but coming back to their old home wasn’t on his list of possibilities.

The weakened state of his heart has made him careless and he’d nodded off in the car, his forehead pressed against the passenger side window. He’d woken up to find the car already parked in the driveway as if by magic, then followed Belle into the house as docile as a lamb.

Out of habit, Rumplestiltskin heads for the den and crouches before the hearth to start a fire. Back when life was good, relaxing in front of a good blaze was one of their favorite ways to spend a quiet evening. Belle would read, stopping now and then to laugh or read a passage aloud for his entertainment; he would make tea for her and pour whiskey for himself, then settle in the leather armchair to review paperwork from the shop. Occasionally, he would simply stare into the flames and think.

He hasn’t been here since she banished him from Storybrooke, and he’s surprised to see how little has changed. He expected Belle would have moved into the apartment above the library. But from the piles of books stacked on the floors and the warm, comforting aromas of paper and vanilla in the air, he can tell she’s been living here. Half-burned candles are clustered on the dust-free coffee and end tables, and a throw blanket they bought together is slung over the back of the leather sofa. He wonders if his suits are still hanging in the master bedroom closet.

Belle has been living here where they’d lived as husband and wife. Hope kindles in his spirit like the embers glowing in the grate. Maybe Belle still feels something for him, or perhaps all these creature comforts tell of evenings she’s been spending here with Will.

Will is the better man, that’s certain. Honorable, strong, caring. Rumplestiltskin simply counts himself a lucky bastard for having Belle in his life for as long as he did. How he talked her into marrying him, he has no idea.

In truth, he never expected her to say yes.

Knowing his failings as a husband doesn’t remove the sting of feeling replaced. Will is such a better kisser than you are. Those were the exact words Belle said to him yesterday at the well.

And gods, do they hurt.

He can’t fault Belle when Regina played puppeteer with her heart, forcing her to do and say things she didn’t mean. But what if she had meant it? Wasn’t there a grain of truth in every lie?

He focuses on the fire, punishing the log as he pretends Will Scarlet’s skull is on the other end of the hot poker clenched in his fist. The embers stir to life and before long, he has a strong blaze going. At least he can still do this right.

“Thank you,” Belle says quietly, coming to stand beside him. Her shoes are gone and she’s bundled into the old blue sweater she keeps tucked in the foyer closet. She holds out her hands, letting the fire warm her chilled fingertips. Her hands are always cold; such an odd contrast to her warm, generous heart.

Why she’s brought him here, he has no idea, but he’s helpless to do anything but wait for an explanation. His heart aches with the sort of physical pain he hasn’t felt in two hundred years and he can barely keep his feet. Moreover, he doesn’t have the strength to teleport away even if he wanted to escape.

Belle’s heart now restored, he doubts she is a pawn in another trick. Besides, this is Belle. Guileless, compassionate, beautiful Belle. Not for a moment does he believe she would hurt him of her own volition. Darkness and pain changed a person, though. He knows this better than most. He also knows he exposed her to harsh amounts of both. His wife. The one he’d sworn to love and protect until death. He is unworthy of her, which is why he returned her heart and entrusted her to Will.

So why isn’t she with him now?

“Shouldn’t you...where is Will?” He turns toward her, using the light of the fire to search her expressive face for answers. Is she smiling, frowning, biting her lip? He loves every little sign that tells him what she’s thinking.

She presses her lips together as if measuring her words. “You and I have things to say to each other.”

“But I thought the two of you were getting on.” Gods, he sounds like a village matchmaker. All he wants is for Belle to be happy, even if it’s not with him.

Her forehead crinkles the way it does whenever she’s thinking. “We’ve gone out a couple of times. Our relationship is simple. No complications. With Will, what you see is what you get.”

“And with me?”

Her laughter is tired, but at least she is smiling. “With you, nothing is simple.”

The truth in those words is indisputable, but it’s also one of the reasons she loves him or at least used to love him. He has no idea how she feels about him anymore, and her passionate kiss at the well yesterday has left him even more confused.

“Long ago, you told me love is layered. A mystery to be uncovered.” He smiles a little, remembering that day in his castle with fondness. He presented her a rose with a flourishing bow, and she’d not only accepted it, she’d liked it. And he’d fallen stupidly, hopelessly in love with her.

“And so it is.” She lifts her hands toward him, the arms of her too-large sweater sagging down to brush the top of her ribcage. “May I take your coat?”

She folds his overcoat neatly, the way he likes, and drapes it over the side of the leather armchair in the corner. His old chair. Does she mean for him to sit there? Before he can ask, she moves to the sofa and sits, patting the cushion beside her. Inviting him closer, but not too close.

“You look like you need to sit down,” she says. “Maybe you could tell me about New York?”

“All right.” Gold sinks slowly into the opposite cushion of the sofa, trying to make it look more like a choice than a need. The weakness of his heart is making harsh demands on his body and his legs wobble like a new colt, even when he’s off his feet. He rubs his fingers together, considering where to start his story. He’s not proud of the craven alliances he made with Ursula and Cruella, or of tricking Belle into thinking he was an Oxford linguistics scholar, or of releasing a Chernabog to get back into town. As for his hellish five weeks in the city, he’d rather forget about flatlining in a hospital bed and nearly dying at Zelena’s hand.

But Belle’s face is alive with interest, the way it had been in the Enchanted Forest when he returned from errands in far off kingdoms like Camelot and Arendelle. She would pour tea for both of them, steaming and sweet, and beg him to tell her about his adventures. It dawns on him that he’d promised her a honeymoon; that trip was meant to be the first leg of her long-cherished dream to see the world.

Until he’d stolen her hopes with his deceit.

When he looks at her again, she’s huddled beneath her blanket with her feet tucked under her knees, waiting for him to begin.

Belle relishes nothing more than a good story, and the least he can do is describe a place he’s been to that she longs to see, even if his visit was anything but a vacation. So he reclines against the back of the sofa and begins to talk, describing the flashing lights, bright yellow taxi cabs, and bustling sidewalks. Buildings so tall they chased the stars. Theatres, food trucks, Central Park bursting into bloom. The wonderful, lively madness of New York.

Belle listens with rapt attention, her shoulders hunched toward him in anticipation. And so he digs deeper, into the darker aspects of the city, telling her of roaming the streets without magic, seeking warmth from a fire in a trash can under a bridge, microwaving ramen noodles swathed in a ratty bathrobe, sleeping on a sagging couch in the dank, third-floor flat he shared with Ursula.

He tells her the skies are blacker in New York than in Maine because the bright billboards and digital signs eclipse the starlight. He even admits to collapsing in Neal’s old apartment and almost dying in the hospital, stopping short of telling her how frightened he’d been. How he’d longed to call her like he had the last time he was dying, but he didn’t think she wanted to hear from him. Details about Zelena and the potion that jump-started his heart will have to wait.

“I don’t expect you to understand, Belle,” he says when he finishes his tale. They both know he doesn’t mean his talking tour of New York City.

“But I do understand, Rumple. I do.”

While he’d been speaking, she’d come closer, until she’s almost sitting on his side of the sofa. Now she reaches for him, lightly resting her palm over the back of his hand. “All you really wanted was to come home. And if all those decisions led you here, then I’m grateful.”

So she hadn’t wanted him banished for good. Relief at being welcomed, even in this small way, eases the burden of hurt he’s carried all these weeks.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says. “And for getting my heart back. I didn’t get a chance to say it back at the shop.”

He averts his gaze from the compassion in hers. Those angel eyes saw the good in many devils, him most of all. “I deserve everything that happened to me. That’s why I left you with Will. I-” he stops as his chest hitches with another pain and she squeezes his fingers “-soon my heart will be completely black and there will be no love left inside me. The man you saw good in will be gone. I’m not worth...you shouldn’t bother.” He finishes with a wheeze.

“When it comes to you, you’re fond of telling me what I’m supposed to want and think and feel.” She wags a finger, her frustration a tangled web between them. “Why don’t you let me decide what is and is not worth the bother?”

The boldness of her devotion continues to astound him.

When he held her heart in his hands earlier tonight, he’d felt the strength of it. A heart untouched by dark deeds, young, strong, so full of love. Each heart has a unique life force, an imprint of the one to whom it belongs. He’s used, stolen, and crushed more than his share. Tonight was the first time he’d ever returned one. Restless, he shifts on the sofa, trying to get comfortable. When that fails, he tries to rise. “I really need…” He falls back against the cushion. Damn this infernal weakness! His focus needs to be on getting that wretched Author to rewrite his story, to keep the Dark One from overtaking his soul, but he can’t control his own limbs. Even magic, his oldest, darkest friend, is failing him.

“What you really need is to let me help you,” she says. “Will you?”

His breath is growing short, and he shrinks into the corner of the sofa with a groan. Gods, his chest burns, but he doesn’t want to be an obligation or a heroic duty she feels honor-bound to carry out. “You want to help me for the sake of the town? To protect them from the beast? Or because a hero always helps people?”

She puts her hands on his shoulders, the pressure of her fingers demanding that he look at her. He does, only to find bright blue eyes swimming with tears.

“This isn’t about being a hero,” she says. “I want to help because I care about you. It’s like I told you at the well yesterday and again tonight, I’ve seen your heart and I do understand. Despite everything, I have faith in you.”

She lets go of his shoulders, and he wants to weep with the loss of her touch. Instead, he focuses on her offer of help. “What do you have in mind?”

“Tomorrow, I’ll go with you to see this Author of yours. But first, rest. You’re in no condition to go anywhere tonight, Rumple,” she says. “ Take off your jacket.”

He almost laughs at her order. Despite the cloak of sadness and exhaustion surrounding them, Belle is unflinchingly direct. He attempts to struggle out of the garment, nearly ripping it before she smooths her hands down his arms again, easing him out of the sleeves.

Her hands fall to unbutton his waistcoat and tie, her teeth scraping her lower lip in concentration. “What are you doing?” he asks, though it’s fairly obvious she’s disrobing him here in the den.

“Don’t worry.” Aware of his sense of propriety, she shrugs. “I’m making you more comfortable.”

Again he wonders what Will would think about them being here together. He wants to ask again, but with the new understanding building between them, their intimacy is as fragile as a chipped china cup.

Belle edges to the far end of the sofa, then pats her legs in invitation. “Stretch out.”

Too tired to argue, he unlaces his shoes and removes them, then eases down until his head and shoulders are cradled in her lap. He settles on his side, accepting her comfort, but facing away from her to watch his red striped socks flicker in the firelight.

Their bodies throw shadows on the wallpaper as evening melts into night, enrobing them like a warm blanket. They’re quiet for a long time, and only the rhythmic tick of the grandfather clock and the crackle of the fire enter the silence.

Staring into the fire with the warmth of Belle’s body cradling his head and her faint scent of roses and vanilla, he feels safe for the first time in many months.

Safe enough to ask the question that’s been puzzling him since he came back to town.

He shifts in her lap so he faces the ceiling, turning his head upward to see her face. “Why did you stay here in Storybrooke after I left? You could have traveled, seen the world. You still can. Will and you could-”

“There is no Will and me,” she interrupts, her fingers brushing back the annoying piece of hair that always falls across his forehead. “There never really was.”

He sucks in a breath, a rush of hope making his ruined heart beat triple time. “What do you mean?”

“Will is a good man.” He studies her expression. She smiles fondly when she talks about him, but no excitement lights her features the way it does when she talks about her books or learning something new. “Spending time with him was pleasant, but I think what we were both looking for was an escape from past hurts.”

The reminder that he is the cause of Belle’s pain makes him wince. “I’m sorry, Belle. And I know no number of apologies can make up for what I’ve done.”

He feels the weight of her hurt in her sigh. “I know, Rumple. I’m not angry with you, but I’m not sure I’m ready to forgive, either. After I saw your face again for the first time, with my heart, Will and I both knew it wasn’t right. I knew I could never love him the way…” She trails off, pressing her lips together. “I’m not saying I’m ready to be with you again, I’m not. And I might never be.”

They fall silent again, leaving him plenty of time to think over her words. What she’s given him tonight is enough. Time is the ultimate healer. Someday he might have the chance to earn her love, to become worthy of her. If he can get his heart working properly again.

Her cool fingers stroke his forehead in rhythmic motions, and he lets his eyes drift closed, savoring this stolen moment of peace.

“Can I see it again?” she whispers. “Your heart?”

“You’re the only one I trust with it,” he answers. He sits up to remove it from his chest--ugly, black, and cold--and gives it to her. She curls her fingers around it, cradles it in her palms like a precious object. Tears sting his eyes and he can almost feel her holding it.

With her eyes on his, she lifts the husk to her mouth and places a kiss on the flickering red core. The tender brush of her lips touches his soul. Perhaps he merely conjures the image of his heart glowing brighter with her kiss, but there’s no mistaking the surge of energy he feels. True love is potent magic indeed.

She places his heart back against his chest, and he guides her movements, allowing her to press it home.

“Let me do something for you now; something I should have done long ago,” he says. “Your heart, I want to protect it.”

It had been foolish of him not to have done this years ago. Blinded by the arrogance of power, he assumed he would always be by her side, protecting her. Now he must ensure that no one--not Regina, nor anyone else--will ever be able to control Belle again.

More importantly, he must make Belle feel his love in the only way he can while he still has the strength. Before the darkness consumes him for good, leaving nothing more than a black void, wretched and evil. “But the price. You’re so weak.” She bites her lower lip, no doubt confused by his urgency.

“I’ll pay any price. To me, the cost of you being hurt again is far greater.” Weeks, days, maybe mere hours remain before his heart turns to stone. And the weaker his heart becomes, the more volatile and unstable the darkness inside him will become. If the darkness escapes, not even he knows what will happen next. “Please sweet-” he stops, swallowing the endearment. He has lost the right to speak words of love. “Belle. Allow me to do this.”

A wobbly nod signals her acceptance, and he leads her to stand facing him between the sofa and the fireplace.

“Close your eyes, my love.” He places both hands in the center of her chest, careful not to touch the upper swells of her breasts even through the layers of fabric she wears. The powerful thrum of her heart seems to burn through her clothing, singeing his fingertips. It’s as though her heart has a mind of its own and understands what he must do.

Calling on all the love he feels for her, he channels the purest of magic. No darkness tonight. Soon a shimmer flows from his hands and into her body, and he sees a light so clear and true the den is illuminated as a brilliant summer day. Even the air is warm and sweet.

The force of the magic knocks them both backward and they reach out, catching each other. Together they stagger back to the sofa where he collapses, wrung dry from the exertion of conjuring the spell.

Sweat has beaded on his brow, and he feels Belle wiping it away with the soft hem of her sweater. Arms encircle him, pulling him close against her body.

“I feel warm,” she murmurs into the top of his head. “Safe.”

“The protection spell,” he slurs against her chest, his words thick and drowsy. “Makes you warm. Makes me tired.”

“Sleep now,” she urges, beginning to once more stroke his hair. “I’ll protect you. And tomorrow we’ll see the Author.”

He smiles through his exhaustion--his darling, wonderful, brave Belle--and lets his eyes drift shut.

They are far from whole, but with the truth out in the open, they are better tonight than they’ve been in a long time, maybe ever. Despite his many sins, she chooses to see the best in him. So he honors her choice with one of his own: he chooses to keep fighting, trying to be the good man she sees.

In truth, he’s terrified of tomorrow. He doesn’t want to die. But with Belle’s love on his side, this old husk of a heart will never give up.

###

THE END

#rumbelle fic #rumbelle #rumbelle angst #rumbelle fix #fix-it #belle gold #rumplestiltskin #will scarlet #mqc writes #to make you feel my love

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pamphletstoinspire · 5 years

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The New Primitives

When a man ceases to believe in God, observed G. K. Chesterton, he becomes capable of believing in anything. It looks like we may now have reached the “anything” stage of human history.

As faith in Christianity recedes in the West, a strange thing is happening. Having shaken off belief in God, people are not becoming more rational, they’re becoming more gullible. They believe that babies in the womb aren’t really human beings, that same-sex “marriage” is the equivalent of real marriage, that there are roughly 52 varieties of gender, that boys can become girls, and vice versa. In general, they believe that wishing makes it so.

Rejection of God does not lead to a flowering of civilization, but rather to a primitivization. Many of the ideas that are now current are pre-scientific and even anti-scientific. Science is solidly on the side of those who say that babies are babies, and that boys cannot become girls, yet when science comes into conflict with today’s magical beliefs it is rejected out of hand. For many, the ultimate source of truth is not reason, or science, or God, but feelings.

It was belief in a rational God who created a rational and ordered universe that provided the main impetus for scientific study centuries ago. Christian and Jewish scholars thought it worthwhile to study the nature of things because the nature of things was considered to be rational and discoverable. Thus, the scientific revolution was a product of the Judeo-Christian world.

But suddenly all bets are off. For many, belief in the imperial self has supplanted belief in God and a rational world. The wants and desires of the individual self are paramount. If your 12-year-old daughter decides she’s a boy, you’d better go along with her desires because the reigning doctrine holds that her gender is a matter to be decided solely by her and her doctor.

Of course, the imperial self is not really imperial at all. Now that God is considered dispensable, the state has become the ultimate authority. As a result, the wishes of the individual are only considered legitimate if they coincide with the wishes of the state.

So what we really have is not simply a regression to magical thinking, but a merging of the primitive impulse with the modern totalitarian state. The mumbo jumbo ideology of transgenderism can only survive if it is backed by state power. But the new primitives don’t know enough history to realize that they live in an increasingly unfree society. Moreover, as long as they get their daily dose of sex and “soma” (marijuana, fentanyl, etc.), they don’t really care. However, there still remains a sizable number of Christians, Jews, and other believers in Natural Law who can see that the new normal is actually quite abnormal. Unless they spill the beans, the lies about the facts of life will be made mandatory. Everyone must be forced to believe. And liberal progressive primitives and their allies in the state will move to crush those who don’t comply.

Thus:

Police in the UK are investigating individuals who challenge gender ideology on social media.

A Canadian judge allowed doctors to give hormone treatments to help a girl “transition” to become a boy against her father’s wishes. The same judge later forbade the father from referring to his daughter as a girl.

UK authorities threatened to take an autistic boy from his parents when they objected to sex-change treatments proposed by doctors.

The state not only reserves the right to decide your child’s sex, it now, apparently, thinks it has the authority to decide his religion. A regional court in Schleswig, Germany, imposed a fine on parents who refused to let their son go on a school trip to a mosque. Meanwhile, in neighboring Denmark, state authorities have threatened to take away the eight-year-old foster daughter of foster parents who had raised her from infancy. Their crime? The mother had expressed criticism of Islamic terrorism on her blog. The authorities said this showed poor judgment, and they called into question her ability to parent.

The rapid ascendancy of Islam in recent times is itself evidence of social regression. Though Muslims believe in God, he is not the same God that Christians believe in. Rather, Allah is a willful God who is not bound by the laws of reason. Like an absolute and capricious tyrant, his laws are arbitrary and subject to change. The remarkable lack of scientific progress in the Muslim world is simply the logical consequence of belief in this erratic God.

Because it borrows from Christianity and Judaism, Islam is an advance over most primitive religions, but in comparison to Christianity it is a decidedly primitive faith. It sanctions beheadings, amputations for theft, stoning for adultery, polygamy, subjugation of women, and even sex slavery. One might think that the new primitives would be appalled by Islam — especially because they consider the subjugation of women to be a great evil. But some taboos are more important than others, and one of the supreme taboos of our times is the injunction against judging other cultures. The sins of Islam can be wiped away simply by repeating the incantatory chant “They have a different culture.” The villager may now be a part of a global village, but he still thinks like a villager. The village chiefs and elders have decided that Christianity is a thing of the past, and that Islam is a vital part of the coming multicultural future. The villager nods his assent because he has no other points of reference. He is willing to believe anything the authorities say.

A society that elevates Islam over Christianity is a society that is taking a step back in time, yet that is the direction in which large parts of the West are headed. Churches in Europe are largely empty, but mosques are full. Many cultural observers predict that Islam will be the dominant religion in Europe well before mid-century. The ultimate irony of rejecting the Christian God is that you may end up with the God of Muhammad in his place.

In any event, our society seems to be taking the fork in the road that leads to a dark and superstitious past. For several decades now, educators have claimed to be teaching youngsters to think critically. Increasingly, however, the thought processes of Western citizens resemble the thought processes of their tribal ancestors in the bush and the savannah. More and more, you are encouraged to think of yourself as a member of an identity group — your tribe. You are not expected to think for yourself; you are expected to think as your group thinks.

This tribal thinking is not confined to college students and Democratic politicians. It has also infected the professions. Most professionals, after all, are graduates of group-think universities and doctrinaire graduate schools. So it should come as no surprise that they might have difficulty thinking for themselves, even when it comes to such basics as the differences between the sexes.

There is, for example, hardly any research evidence to support the use of hormones and surgery to help confused youngsters “transition” from one sex to another. And there is certainly no biological evidence. From the biological perspective — that is, from the perspective of factual knowledge — the whole transgender project is an impossible one. Moreover, most of the research that is available shows that the “treatments” used in transitioning carry great risks to the physical and psychological health of children and teenagers.

Yet doctors and therapists continue to plow ahead with the transgender project despite its grave risks. Transgender ideology is the newest and most fashionable ideology. It is what the “best” people in the tribe attest to, so it must not be challenged. If you dare to oppose their agenda, they may well come after you or your child — not with pitchforks and torches, but with a court-issued summons.

The “brave” new doctors who recommend pumping children full of hormone blockers or mutilating their bodies are like the witch doctors of old. They mutter incantations (such as “social construct” and “gender dysphoria”), they wave their hypodermics to ward off skeptical thoughts, and, since they are considered the experts on everything from emotions to ethics, parents feel they have no choice but to let them go ahead with the ritual.

The word “primitive” is not necessarily a pejorative term. When applied to people who lived long ago or to people living today in isolated tribes in remote regions, it is simply a descriptive anthropological term for those who have never developed a civilization. But it’s another matter when civilized people fall back into primitive modes of thought and morality. In that case, the pejorative meaning is well deserved. They are, as Saint Paul said of those whose minds are darkened by sin, “without excuse.”

William Golding’s novel, Lord of the Flies, gives us a picture of a rather rapid descent from civilization to savagery. Marooned on an island, all but a few of a group of English schoolboys are soon painting their bodies, wielding spears, and making offerings to an imaginary beast.

In the conclusion of the 1963 film version of the story, Ralph, the sole holdout for civilized ways, is being pursued by the pack of savage boys. Exhausted, he falls face down in the sand awaiting his fate. But when he looks up, he sees, towering over him, a British naval officer dressed in a dazzling white uniform — the personification of civilization, order, sanity, and security. And because Britain had not yet entered its post-Christian stage at that time, the officer might also be seen as a representative of God — the Christian God of justice and mercy.

Ralph begins to cry — presumably, for what has been lost and found again. So might we all cry over how much has already been lost of our Christian heritage. After we dry our tears, we must set about to regain it. The alternative is a rapid descent into darkness.

BY: WILLIAM KILPATRICK

From: www.pamphletstoinspire.com

#the new primitives

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cherry-valentine · 5 years

Text

Spring 2019 Anime Season

Here’s what I’m watching: Gunjou no Magmel is definitely my favorite new show of the season. It has a fun setup that lends itself well to lots of different stories: a mysterious new continent suddenly appears one day, full of new animal and plant life and inspiring people across the globe to explore it. Of course, the place is incredibly dangerous, which is why many people work as professional “rescuers” hired to go and retrieve those who have been lost or trapped in the new continent. The protagonists of the series are a pair of rescuers: the highly skilled and unflappable Inyou and his tech genius sidekick Zero (who doesn’t physically go to the continent but instead controls a drone). Right away the series provokes a feeling of adventure that reminded me somewhat of One Piece. The new continent, known as Magmel, is beautiful and teeming with life. The series wisely presents it in a neutral light. There are dangerous creatures there, definitely, with some seriously horrific body horror imagery (much of it veering into nightmare fuel territory), but the series is quite clear about the fact that these creatures are just behaving naturally. There’s no malice there. In fact, the only truly malicious and cruel actions are performed by the humans who go to Magmel to take advantage of the creatures there for their own profit. Inyou understands this, and is generally sympathetic to the animal and plant life, while still prioritizing the preservation of human life. It’s an interesting balance. It’s also interesting that a show with the above mentioned body horror and nightmare fuel is presented with bright, cheerful, cartoony art and peppy, upbeat music. This is an adventure series, not horror, and sometimes there’s even a degree of beauty in the terrors seen in the mostly standalone episodes. The two leads, Inyou and Zero, are entertaining and have a fun dynamic between them. They act more like family than anything else, with no romantic tension at all so far (and I hope it stays that way). Currently sitting at the top of my watch list.

Ace of the Diamond Act 2 is the sequel series I’ve been looking forward to. The original series was a favorite of mine, with a fairly realistic portrayal of baseball and a team of fun, quirky characters, including Miyuki, the only character that springs to mind when I think of the term, “husbando”. He’s a fan-favorite and incredibly popular for a reason. He’s sharp-witted, the most skilled player on the team, and also has a rather twisted sense of humor (he’s the kind of guy who, upon realizing a new member of the team doesn’t like him, is totally delighted and thinks of how fun that’s going to be). Miyuki gushing aside, the show has great art that rarely goes off-model and somewhat smooth animation. The music so far is okay, nothing special (the opening and ending themes were hit and miss in the original series as well). Main character Sawamura is still annoying (like Asta in Black Clover, he tends to scream rather than speak) but his underdog status and genuine love of the sport and his team make him endearing enough to overlook his negative traits. My only real gripe with the show is its tendency to recap that last several minutes of the previous episode in each new episode, making you wait quite a while to get to the new content. This would be a much bigger deal in marathon viewing, but on a weekly basis, I can deal with it.

Hitoribocchi no Marumaruseikatsu is a cute series about cute girls doing cute things. This is a genre I’m generally not fond of, mainly because the girls in these types of shows tend to be sexualized in a creepy way and their “cute antics” tend to be banal and annoying. In this show, however, neither of those two problems are present. In fact, if the show had a male love interest, it would feel very shoujo to me. The focus of the story is on a shy girl with severe social anxiety trying to make friends in her new school. She’s a bit awkward but cute and earnest, so watching her attempt to talk to strangers is funny but also heartwarming. The small circle of friends that begins to form around her is made up of equally cute and funny girls, each of whom have distinct personalities and character designs. Surprisingly, considering this is based on a manga aimed at male readers, none of the girls seem specifically designed to appeal to a male audience. They come across as genuine, well developed characters. The art and music are cute, but not very notable. My only complaint is the subplot involving a young teacher who takes one look at the blonde, tanned Nako and immediately judges her as a juvenile delinquent and is thus afraid of her. It’s meant to be funny, I suppose, but I find it annoying that a teacher would be so judgmental, especially considering Nako is a quiet, well-behaved student who gives absolutely no indication that she’s a delinquent. Ah well, it’s a relatively minor subplot so I can overlook it.

Bungo Stray Dogs Season 3 was hotly anticipated after a strong season two and the amazing Dead Apple movie. Following a group of supernaturally “gifted” members of a detective agency and their conflicts with other “gifted” groups (including the ruthless Port Mafia), this show is one of the best series of the past several years. It has a bit of Durarara!!’s cool vibe and style, but with a more straightforward story. This is a series that handles all of its various story elements very well, from the action scenes to the heartfelt moments to the comedy, and looks great doing it. I still prefer the comedy and characterization of season one, but only because they were done SO well. The more serious, plot-driven arcs of late are still fantastic. The music is great too, with my favorite opening theme of the season (and there were some outstanding ones this season, so that’s saying something).

Kimetsu no Yaiba might just be my second favorite new series. Every season has a new show that gets a lot of hype, and in my experience around half of those shows actually live up to that hype. This show is definitely in that good half. With fluid animation, excellent music, and an interesting setup (a young boy’s family is slaughtered by demons, leaving only one sister behind who has become a demon herself, so he trains to become a demon slayer and find a way to turn her back into a human), this series seems primed to become a hit. The protagonist, Tanjirou, is a fairly standard kind-hearted hero training to join a group and accomplish his goal. The series doesn’t tread a lot of new ground in that respect, but it does everything so well that it’s easy to forgive it for not being the most original story. The most interesting aspect is the sister, Nezuko, who instead of being a delicate young flower for him to constantly protect is a demon herself who, in an early scene, literally kicks another demon’s head clean off. She’s a powerful ally in battle, which is refreshing. The other characters haven’t had much screen time yet, but seem fun so far. Overall, it’s a very well-done, if somewhat unoriginal, show. Highly entertaining and high on my watch list.

Midnight Occult Civil Servants is much better than it seems at first glance. Protagonist Arata joins a particular group of civil servants that deal with mythological creatures called “Anothers”. They range from fairies to gods to Japanese-based creatures like Tengu (this mishmash of mythology actually reminds me of Shin Megami Tensei). Arata quickly realizes that he’s the only member of the team who can understand the languages used by the Anothers, and so he becomes a valuable tool when dealing with them. The show presents a variety of creatures with a variety of behaviors. Some Anothers are friendly to humans and mean no harm, while others are outright malicious. Others still are just indifferent. At first, it seems like the show is going to be about Arata clearing up misunderstandings that his fellow team members have about the Anothers, but then the show lets us know that not all Anothers are friendly, and being able to understand their words doesn’t mean Arata can understand their motivations or can do much to stop them from doing bad things. The episodes are often inspired by real life urban legends, and overall has an air of mystery. The art is fine, with interesting, varied character designs but animation that’s just okay. The music is above average though, with my favorite ending theme of the season. It’s not my favorite new show, but it has a secure spot on my watch list.

Attack on Titan Season 3 Part 2 really doesn’t need much of a write-up, since it’s just a continuation of a season that was delayed (and that I already wrote about). I’ll just keep it brief and say it’s still great, is finally getting into one of my favorite arcs from the manga, and has a gorgeous opening theme.

Mobile Suit Gundam Origin is the tv series version of an OVA that details the origins of one of the Gundam franchise’s most popular characters (and one of my all-time favorites): Char Aznable. I never watched the OVA (despite intending to for the longest time) so this is all new content for me. What I find most interesting is the visual style, which looks very much like the classic Gundam art style of the original late 70‘s tv series but with more modern, smooth animation and some CGI mixed in. There’s a strange awkwardness to the art style that feels oddly natural. It was present in the old tv series and it’s present here. It’s kind of hard to explain if you haven’t seen it yourself though. Art aside, the story is definitely interesting. While Char’s basic history had already been revealed years ago, we didn’t really know the details. Char is a complicated character, which explains his popularity several decades after his debut. He was ruthless, cold, and calculating even as a child, but he loved his family very deeply and was surprisingly emotional. There are also badass lady characters to enjoy (who also appeared in the original series - I’ve always found it interesting that a show made in 1979 had more complex, strong, and generally well-written female characters than more modern Gundam series like Wing, Seed/Seed Destiny, and Iron Blooded Orphans). The music is fantastic here, and it’s overall a very solid show. Now I wish they’d remake the original series with this kind of animation (and cut out some of the filler).

Shoumetsu Toshi is, honestly, at the bottom of my list. The animation quality is just okay, with questionable character design choices (for the first few episodes, there were two unrelated female characters with such strikingly similar designs that it was very confusing). The story is a bit of a muddled mess. It mostly follows a young girl who survived a bizarre event where a whole city full of people suddenly vanished (later dubbed “The Lost”), and the young man who has been hired to help her return after she receives a message from her father, who was one of the people that vanished, telling her to come back. The setup is actually very interesting and mysterious. The problem is that the series throws too many concepts and ideas at us way too quickly, and explains none of it. It might be because the show is based on a video game, and the writers assumed people watching the anime would be familiar with the game and its various elements. Already in the show we have time travel, undefined magical powers, totally different powers that allow people to summon the souls of the vanished victims to fight for them like Persona, shadowy organizations doing human experiments, fancy artifacts that grant even more abilities, phantom thieves, idol groups, hackers, detective agencies, and double agents that have infiltrated the police. There’s just way too much going on, and as a result, the core plot that was actually interesting gets crowded out and choked. I’m still watching because the show is still entertaining in a strange way, but it’s a shame that it wasted a lot of its potential.

Carry Over Shows From Previous Seasons: Black Clover

Best of Season: Best New Show: Gunjou no Magmel Best Opening Theme: Bungo Stray Dogs Season 3 Best Ending Theme: Midnight Occult Civil Servants Best New Male Character: Inyou (Gunjou no Magmel) Best New Female Character: Nako (Hitoribocchi no Marumaruseikatsu)

#Anime #Anime Reviews #Seasonal Anime #Anime Recommendations #Text #Spring 2019 Anime

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staytiny-angel · 6 years

Text

Inside/Out - One

Rating: E

Main Pairing: Dean Ambrose/Cassandra Lincoln (OC)

Side Pairing: Seth Rollins/Finn Balor

Warnings: (for entire story) Language, Homophobic slurs, Smut, Violence, nongraphic mentions of Stalking and Domestic Abuse.

Summary: Mechanic Dean Ambrose is about to be released from prison after serving three years for manslaughter after nearly beating Randy Orton, the Mayor's son to death after Orton attacked his ex-girlfriend, the daughter of the town's pastor Cassandra Lincoln. Having fallen in love with Cassandra himself over the last three years, Dean will stop at nothing to protect her from the still lingering threat of Randy Orton and the judgemental views of their small town.

Taglist: @evilangel84 @sugasfatgf @nerdlife0612 @wwevampireamongmen @riverdalehoeeeeeee @roman-hetfield

2 years, 363 days ago.

Dear Mr. Ambrose

I know I'm probably the last person you probably want to hear from but I just wanted to say thank you for helping me and that I'm sorry about what happened to you because you helped me. If it's all right with you I would like to be your friend.

Sincerely,

Cassandra Lincoln

2 years, 360 days ago.

Hey Cassandra,

Don't say sorry for that fucker Orton, wasn't your fault. I did what any good person should have done when I came across what was happening to you. Wouldn't mind the letters doll, can't stop you if you really wanna waste your time on me.

Dean

Present Day

"You will not go near that man when he gets released, Cassandra. He's nothing but trouble, look what happened last time. Your lucky our family's reputation wasn't irreparably tarnished by your selfish behavior."

Cassandra refrained from rolling her eyes at her stepfather's ranting but it was definitely a struggle.

"He saved my life and lost 3 years of his!" Cassandra said for what seemed like the millionth time.

Of course, he was once again lecturing her about Dean Ambrose. The mechanic was about to be released from the state prison after being paroled, only having served 3 years of the 5 he'd been sentenced to for manslaughter after he'd attacked the man who'd been stalking her.

"Why do you continue to tell this lie? Randy Orton is an upstanding member of this community and our church. I still don't understand why you broke up with him. That...hooligin attacked him for no reason and got what he deserved." Her stepfathers' ranting grew louder.

"Randy was cheating on me and he almost killed me because I broke up with him. He stalked me and messed with my car so he could get to me. If Dean hadn't shown up just when he did who knows what could have happened to me."

"Stop lying, Cassandra! Randy would never do those things and I don't know what that....trailer park trash has done to you to make you lie for him so insistently. That....that....man is lucky his younger brother is some kind of big-city lawyer. That's the only reason he didn't get longer. Only 5 years for nearly killing our mayor's son, what a travesty." Her father sneered

"I won't listen to this a moment longer. You don't believe me, you won't ever believe that Randy Orton is a psychopathic creep because Mayor Orton damns near paid for the new church by himself! Some father, some man of God you are!" Cassandra snatched up her purse and flew out of the house she still shared with her parents despite being 23 years old.

Throwing herself in the driver's seat of her car, she calmed down enough to start it and get out of there before her father could come after her.

Reaching for her blue tooth headset she called one of the few people she trusted in the small, judgmental town she was forced to call home, impatiently tapping her fingers on the steering wheel until he picked up

"Seth?" She said quietly when he answered. "Can I come to you and Finn's a few days earlier then we planned? I got into another fight with the Pastor about Dean and I can't be there right now."

"Your pretty much Dean's wife without the certificate that makes you our sister. We would never turn you away." Cassie didn't even want to think about how she would have gotten through the last 3 years of her life without Dean's brothers and Brother in Law.

Seth, Dean's youngest adopted brother was an amazing lawyer and he had tried to get Dean completely acquitted of the charges, citing that it was in defense of my life that he attacked Randy, but the most important piece of evidence in Dean's defense, the dash cam footage from Dean's tow truck had been mysteriously damaged and deemed inadmissible.

"I'll be there in a few. I just want to grab some things from the store."She told him as she headed into town proper.

"Just be careful, Cassie. Dean gets out tomorrow. I really don't need my big brother kicking my ass because something happened to his girl." Seth warned.

"I'll be fine, just a quick in and out at the grocers. I'll be there in less than an hour," she said before hanging up as she pulled into the parking lot of the store.

Walking in she made sure to get a few of Deans favorite snacks for when he got home. She couldn't wait to actually get to kiss and touch him. They had been 'dating' almost the entire time he'd been incarcerated. Ever since she had started sending him letters and been sneaking up to the prison to visit him. He was definitely rough around the edges and getting to know him had been difficult given their situation but she had persevered and now she knew the grumpy, seemingly standoffish man with a heart of gold was the one for her.

She knew her father would never approve of her being with Dean, he was absolutely nothing like the men that her stepfather had tried to guide her towards in the past.

Walking around a corner, her mind elsewhere she bumped into a tall figure "Look who it is." A deep voice said grabbing her arms.

Cassie jumped back at the scarily familiar voice and looked up at the menacingly brown eyes of her ex-boyfriend Randy Orton. "My wayward girlfriend. I heard Ambrose was about done being a prison bitch."

"I'm not your girlfriend anymore Orton. I'm Dean's fiancee. Why can't you just leave me alone? Haven't you and your father done enough to us?" She said quietly, willing her voice not to shake.

"Hey! You are not marrying that prison rat. Our fathers say you're marrying me and that's the way it's going to be." Randy said angrily. "You've had your bit of freedom, now its time to do as your told."

"This isn't the dark ages Randy, I'm not marrying anyone because my stepfather says so especially not an abusive piece of trash like you." She said fiercely.

"Keep thinking you have a choice sweetheart, you'll come to heel eventually" Randy sneered, reaching for her.

"How about you take a hike and leave my sister the hell alone, Orton?" said another deep, but infinitely more welcome voice.

Neither Cassie nor Randy had noticed Seth and Dean's oldest brother Roman walk up to them. The Samoan ex-special forces captain stepped between her and Randy, his huge frame completely blocking her from Randy's sight.

"Go on Orton, get out of here, I don't wanna have to hide your body after my brother kills you for fucking with his woman again," Roman said lowly.

"You and that fag brother of yours can't always be with her, Reigns." Orton sneered "and if Ambrose comes near me, he's going right back in his cage like the bitch he is."

Roman stepped forward to give Orton the ass whipping he was begging for when he felt a tiny hand on his back. "Don't Roman, he's not worth it. I just want him to go away for now." Cassie said quietly "Dean will be home tomorrow and I want everything to perfect, you taking his place in jail is in no way perfect."

"Listen to my woman Reigns. Just walk away." Randy said with a mean laugh as he finally backed up from them. "See you soon, doll"

#shai writes #dean ambrose #dean ambrose imagine #dean ambrose/oc #wwe imagine #wwe fanfiction #wwe smut #roman reigns #seth rollins #finn balor #the shield

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imbicuriousyeah · 5 years

Text

princess bride: chapter three

pairing: Jiyong/reader

genre: angst/drama/fantasy

word count: 11.5k

The great square of Florin city was filled as never before, awaiting the introduction of Prince Seungri’s bride-to-be, Princess Y/N of Meath. The crowd had begun forming some forty hours earlier, but up to twenty-four hours before, there were still fewer than one thousand. But then, as the moment of introduction grew nearer, from across the country the people came. None had ever seen the Princess, but rumors of your beauty were continual and each was less possible than the one before.

At noontime, Prince Seungri appeared at the balcony of his father’s castle and raised his arms. The crowd, which by now was at the danger size, slowly quieted. There were stories that the King was dying, that he was already dead, that he had been dead long since, that he was fine.

“My people, my beloveds, from whom we draw our strength, today is a day of greeting. As you must have heard, my honored father’s health is not what it once was. He is, of course, ninety-seven, so who can ask more. As you also know, Florin needs a male heir.”

The crowd began to stir now—it was to be this lady they had heard so much about.

“In three months, our country celebrates its five hundredth anniversary. To celebrate that celebration, I shall, on that sundown, take for my wife the Princess Y/N of Meath. You do not know her yet. But you will meet her now,” and he made a sweeping gesture and the balcony doors swung open and you moved out beside him on the balcony.

And the crowd, quite literally, gasped.

The twenty-one-year-old Princess far surpassed the eighteen-year-old mourner. Your figure faults were gone, the too bony elbow having fleshed out nicely; the opposite pudgy wrist could not have been trimmer. Your hair, which was once the color of autumn, was still the color of autumn, except that before, you had tended it yourself, whereas now you had five full-time hairdressers who managed things for you. (This was long after hairdressers; in truth, ever since there have been women, there have been hairdressers, Adam being the first, though the King James scholars do their very best to muddy this point.) Your skin was still wintry cream, but now, with two handmaidens assigned to each appendage and four for the rest of you, it actually, in certain lights, seemed to provide you with a gentle, continually shimmering as you moved, glow.

Prince Seungri took your hand and held it high and the crowd cheered. “That’s enough, mustn’t risk overexposure,” the Prince said, and he started back in toward the castle.

“They have waited, some of them, so long,” you answered. “I would like to walk among them.”

“We do not walk among commoners unless it is unavoidable,” the Prince said.

“I have known more than a few commoners in my time,” you told him. “They will not, I think, harm me.”

And with that you left the balcony, reappeared a moment later on the great steps of the castle and, quite alone, walked open-armed down into the crowd.

Wherever you went, the people parted. You crossed and recrossed the Great Square and always, ahead of you, the people swept apart to let you pass. You continued, moving slowly and smiling, alone, like some land messiah.

Most of the people there would never forget that day. None of them, of course, had ever been so close to perfection, and the great majority adored you instantly. There were, to be sure, some who, while admitting you were pleasing enough, were withholding judgment as to your quality as a queen. And, of course, there were some more who were frankly jealous. Very few of them hated you.

And only three of them were planning to murder you.

You, naturally, knew none of this. You were smiling, and when people wanted to touch your gown, well, let them, and when they wanted to brush their skin against yours, well, let them do that too. You had studied hard to do things royally, and you wanted very much to succeed, so you kept your posture erect and your smile gentle, and that your death was so close would have only made you laugh, if someone had told you. But—

—in the farthest corner of the Great Square—

—in the highest building in the land—

—deep in the deepest shadow—

—the man in black stood waiting.

His boots were black and leather. His pants were black and his shirt. His mask was black, blacker than raven. But blackest of all were his flashing eyes.

Flashing and cruel and deadly…

You were more than a little weary after your triumph. The touching of the crowds had exhausted you, so you rested a bit, and then, toward midafternoon, you changed into your riding clothes and went to fetch Horse. This was the one aspect of your life that had not changed in the years preceding. You still loved to ride, and every afternoon, weather permitting or not, you rode alone for several hours in the wild land beyond the castle.

You did your best thinking then.

Not that your best thinking ever expanded horizons. Still, you told yourself, you were not a dummy either, so as long as you kept your thoughts to yourself, well, where was the harm?

As you rode through woods and streams and heather, your brain was awhirl. The walk through the crowds had moved you, and in a way most strange. For even though you had done nothing for three years now but train to be a princess and a queen, today was the first day you actually understood that it was all soon to be a reality.

And I just don’t like Seungri, you thought. It’s not that I hate him or anything. I just never see him; he’s always off someplace or playing in the Zoo of Death.

To your way of thinking, there were two main problems: (1) was it wrong to marry without like, and (2) if it was, was it too late to do anything about it.

The answers, to your way of thinking, as you rode along, were: (1) no and (2) yes.

It wasn’t wrong to marry someone you didn’t like, it just wasn’t right either. If the whole world did it, that wouldn’t be so great, what with everybody kind of grunting at everybody else as the years went by. But, of course, not everybody did it; so forget about that. The answer to (2) was even easier: you had given your word you would marry; that would have to be enough. True, he had told you quite honestly that if you said “no” he would have to have you disposed of, in order to keep respect for the Crown at its proper level; still, you could have, had you so chosen, said “no.”

Everyone had told you, since you became a princess-in-training, that you was very likely the most beautiful woman in the world. Now you were going to be the richest and most powerful as well.

Don’t expect too much from life, you told herself as you rode along. Learn to be satisfied with what you have.

Dusk was closing in when you crested the hill. You were perhaps half an hour from the castle, and your daily ride was three-quarters done. Suddenly you reined Horse, for standing in the dimness beyond was the strangest trio you had ever seen.

The man in front was dark, Sicilian perhaps, with the gentlest face, almost angelic. He moved forward toward you with surprising speed and nimbleness. The other two remained rooted. The second, also dark, probably from Busan, was as erect and slender as the blade of steel that was attached to his side. The third man, mustachioed, perhaps a Turk, was easily the biggest human being you had ever ever seen.

“A word?” the Sicilian said, raising his arms. His smile was more angelic than his face.

You halted. “Speak.”

“We are but poor circus performers,” the Sicilian explained. “It is dark and we are lost. We were told there was a village nearby that might enjoy our skills.”

“You were misinformed,” you told him. “There is no one, not for many miles.”

“Then there will be no one to hear you scream,” the Sicilian said, and he jumped with frightening agility toward your face.

That was all that you remembered. Perhaps you did scream, but if you did it was more from terror than anything else, because certainly there was no pain. His hands expertly touched places on your neck, and unconsciousness came.

You awoke to the lapping of water.

You were wrapped in a blanket and the giant Turk was putting you in the bottom of a boat. For a moment you were about to talk, but then when they began talking, you thought it better to listen. And after you had listened for a moment, it got harder and harder to hear. Because of the terrible pounding of your heart.

“I think you should kill her now,” the Turk said.

“The less you think, the happier I’ll be,” the Sicilian answered.

There was the sound of ripping cloth.

“What is that?” the Korean asked.

“The same as I attached to her saddle,” the Sicilian replied. “Fabric from the uniform of an officer of Guilder.”

“I still think—” the Turk began.

“She must be found dead on the Guilder frontier or we will not be paid the remainder of our fee. Is that clear enough for you?”

“I just feel better when I know what’s going on, that’s all,” the Turk mumbled. “People are always thinking I’m so stupid because I’m big and strong and sometimes drool a little when I get excited.”

“The reason people think you’re so stupid,” the Sicilian said, “is because you are so stupid. It has nothing to do with your drooling.”

There came the sound of a flapping of sail. “Watch your heads,” the Korean cautioned, and then the boat was moving. “The people of Florin will not take her death well, I shouldn’t think. She has become beloved.”

“There will be war,” the Sicilian agreed. “We have been paid to start it. It’s a fine line of work to be expert in. If we do this perfectly, there will be a continual demand for our services.”

“Well I don’t like it all that much,” the Korean said. “Frankly, I wish you had refused.”

“The offer was too high.”

“I don’t like killing a girl,” the Korean said.

“God does it all the time; if it doesn’t bother Him, don’t let it worry you.”

Through all this, you had not moved.

The Korean said, “Let’s just tell her we’re taking her away for ransom.”

The Turk agreed. “She’s so beautiful and she’d go all crazy if she knew.”

“She knows already,” the Sicilian said. “She’s been awake for every word of this.”

You lay under the blanket, not moving. How could he have known that, you wondered.

“How can you be sure?” the Korean asked.

“The Sicilian senses all,” the Sicilian said.

Conceited, you thought.

“Yes, very conceited,” the Sicilian said.

He must be a mind reader, you thought.

“Are you giving it full sail?” the Sicilian said.

“As much as is safe,” the Korean answered from the tiller.

“We have an hour on them, so no risks yet. It will take her horse perhaps twenty-seven minutes to reach the castle, a few minutes more for them to figure out what happened and, since we left an obvious trail, they should be after us within an hour. We should reach the Cliffs in fifteen minutes more and, with any luck at all, the Guilder frontier at dawn, when she dies. Her body should be quite warm when the Prince reaches her mutilated form. I only wish we could stay for his grief—it should be Homeric.”

Why does he let me know his plans, you wondered.

“You are going back to sleep now, my lady,” the Korean said, and his fingers suddenly were touching your temple, your shoulder, your neck, and you were unconscious again…

You did not know how long you were out, but they were still in the boat when you blinked, the blanket shielding you. And this time, without daring to think—the Sicilian would have known it somehow—you threw the blanket aside and dove deep into Florin Channel.

You stayed under for as long as you dared and then surfaced, starting to swim across the moonless water with every ounce of strength remaining to you. Behind you in the darkness there were cries.

“Go in, go in!” from the Sicilian.

“I only dog paddle,” from the Turk.

“You’re better than I am,” from the Korean.

You continued to leave them behind you. Your arms ached from effort but you gave them no rest. Your legs kicked and your heart pounded.

“I can hear her kicking,” the Sicilian said. “Veer left.”

You went into your breast stroke, silently swimming away.

“Where is she?” shrieked the Sicilian.

“The sharks will get her, don’t worry,” cautioned the Korean.

Oh dear, I wish you hadn’t mentioned that, you thought.

“Princess,” the Sicilian called, “do you know what happens to sharks when they smell blood in the water? They go mad. There is no controlling their wildness. They rip and shred and chew and devour, and I’m in a boat, Princess, and there isn’t any blood in the water now, so we’re both quite safe, but there is a knife in my hand, my lady, and if you don’t come back I’ll cut my arms and I’ll cut my legs and I’ll catch the blood in a cup and I’ll fling it as far as I can and sharks can smell blood in the water for miles and you won’t be beautiful for long.”

You hesitated, silently treading water. Around you now, although it was surely your imagination, you seemed to be hearing the swish of giant tails.

“Come back and come back now. There will be no other warning.”

You thought, If I come back, they’ll kill me anyway, so what’s the difference?

“The difference is—”

There he goes doing that again, you thought. He really is a mind reader.

“—if you come back now,” the Sicilian went on, “I give you my word as a gentleman and assassin that you will die totally without pain. I assure you, you will get no such promise from the sharks.”

The fish sounds in the night were closer now.

You began to tremble with fear. You were terribly ashamed of herself but there it was. You only wished you could see for a minute if there really were sharks and if he really would cut himself.

The Sicilian winced out loud.

“He just cut his arm, lady,” the Turk called out. “He’s catching the blood in a cup now. There must be a half-inch of blood on the bottom.”

The Sicilian winced again.

“He cut his leg this time,” the Turk went on. “The cup’s getting full.”

I don’t believe them, you thought. There are no sharks in the water and there is no blood in his cup.

“My arm is back to throw,” the Sicilian said. “Call out your location or not, the choice is yours.”

I’m not making a peep, you decided.

“Farewell,” from the Sicilian.

There was the splashing sound of liquid landing on liquid.

Then there came a pause.

Then the sharks went mad. All around you, you could hear them beeping and screaming and thrashing their mighty tails. Nothing can save me, you realized. I’m a dead cookie.

Fortunately for all concerned save the sharks, it was around this time that the moon came out.

“There she is,” shouted the Sicilian, and like lightning the Korean turned the boat and as the boat drew close the Turk reached out a giant arm and then you were back in the safety of your murderers while all around them the sharks bumped each other in wild frustration.

“Keep her warm,” the Korean said from the tiller, tossing his cloak to the Turk.

“Don’t catch cold,” the Turk said, wrapping you into the cloak’s folds.

“It doesn’t seem to matter all that much,” you answered, “seeing you’re killing me at dawn.”

“He’ll do the actual work,” the Turk said, indicating the Sicilian, who was wrapping cloth around his cuts. “We’ll just hold you.”

“Hold your stupid tongue,” the Sicilian commanded.

The Turk immediately hushed.

“I don’t think he’s so stupid,” you said. “And I don’t think you’re so smart either, with all your throwing blood in the water. That’s not what I would call grade-A thinking.”

“It worked, didn’t it? You’re back, aren’t you?” The Sicilian crossed toward her. “Once women are sufficiently frightened, they scream.”

“But I didn’t scream; the moon came out,” answered Y/N somewhat triumphantly.

The Sicilian struck her.

“Enough of that,” the Turk said then.

The Sicilian looked dead at the giant. “Do you want to fight me? I don’t think you do.”

“No, sir,” the Turk mumbled. “No. But don’t use force. Please. Force is mine. Strike me if you feel the need. I won’t care.”

The Sicilian returned to the other side of the boat. “She would have screamed,” he said. “She was about to cry out. My plan was ideal as all my plans are ideal. It was the moon’s ill timing that robbed me of perfection.” He scowled unforgivingly at the yellow wedge above them. Then he stared ahead. “There!” The Sicilian pointed. “The Cliffs of Insanity.”

And there they were. Rising straight and sheer from the water, a thousand feet into the night. They provided the most direct route between Florin and Guilder, but no one ever used them, sailing instead the long way, many miles around. Not that the Cliffs were impossible to scale; two men were known to have climbed them in the last century alone.

“Sail straight for the steepest part,” the Sicilian commanded.

The Korean said, “I was.”

You did not understand. Going up the Cliffs could hardly be done, you thought; and no one had ever mentioned secret passages through them. Yet here they were, sailing closer and closer to the mighty rocks, now surely less than a quarter-mile away.

For the first time the Sicilian allowed himself a smile. “All is well. I was afraid your little jaunt in the water was going to cost me too much time. I had allowed an hour of safety. There must still be fifty minutes of it left. We are miles ahead of anybody and safe, safe, safe.”

“No one could be following us yet?” the Korean asked.

“No one,” the Sicilian assured him. “It would be inconceivable.”

“Absolutely inconceivable?”

“Absolutely, totally, and, in all other ways, inconceivable,” the Sicilian reassured him. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” the Korean replied. “It’s only that I just happened to look back and something’s there.”

They all whirled.

Something was indeed there. Less than a mile behind them across the moonlight was another sailing boat, small, painted what looked like black, with a giant sail that billowed black in the night, and a single man at the tiller. A man in black.

The Korean looked at the Sicilian. “It must just be some local fisherman out for a pleasure cruise alone at night through shark-infested waters.”

“There is probably a more logical explanation,” the Sicilian said. “But since no one in Guilder could know yet what we’ve done, and no one in Florin could have gotten here so quickly, he is definitely not, however much it may look like it, following us. It is coincidence and nothing more.”

“He’s gaining on us,” the Turk said.

“That is also inconceivable,” the Sicilian said. “Before I stole this boat we’re in, I made many inquiries as to what was the fastest ship on all of Florin Channel and everyone agreed it was this one.”

“You’re right,” the Turk agreed, staring back. “He isn’t gaining on us. He’s just getting closer, that’s all.”

“It is the angle we’re looking from and nothing more,” said the Sicilian.

You could not take your eyes from the great black sail. Surely the three men you were with frightened her. But somehow, for reasons you could never begin to explain, the man in black frightened you more.

“All right, look sharp,” the Sicilian said then, just a drop of edginess in his voice.

The Cliffs of Insanity were very close now.

The Korean maneuvered the craft expertly, which was not easy, and the waves were rolling in toward the rocks now and the spray was blinding. You shielded your eyes and put your head straight back, staring up into the darkness toward the top, which seemed shrouded and out of reach.

Then the Sicilian bounded forward, and as the ship reached the cliff face, he jumped up and suddenly there was a rope in his hand.

You stared in silent astonishment. The rope, thick and strong, seemed to travel all the way up the Cliffs. As you watched, the Sicilian pulled at the rope again and again and it held firm. It was attached to something at the top—a giant rock, a towY/Ng tree, something.

“Fast now,” the Sicilian ordered. “If he is following us, which of course is not within the realm of human experience, but if he is, we’ve got to reach the top and cut the rope off before he can climb up after us.”

“Climb?” You said. “I would never be able to—”

“Hush!” the Sicilian ordered you. “Get ready!” he ordered the Korean. “Sink it,” he ordered the Turk.

And then everyone got busy. The Korean took a rope, tied your hands and feet. The Turk raised a great leg and stomped down at the center of the boat, which gave way immediately and began to sink. Then the Turk went to the rope and took it in his hands.

“Load me,” the Turk said.

The Korean lifted you and draped your body around the Turk’s shoulders. Then he tied himself to the Turk’s waist. Then the Sicilian hopped, clung to the Turk’s neck.

“All aboard,” the Sicilian said. (This was before trains, but the expression comes originally from carpenters loading lumber, and this was well after carpenters.)

With that the Turk began to climb. It was at least a thousand feet and he was carrying the three, but he was not worried. When it came to power, nothing worried him. When it came to reading, he got knots in the middle of his stomach, and when it came to writing, he broke out in a cold sweat, and when addition was mentioned or, worse, long division, he always changed the subject right away.

But strength had never been his enemy. He could take the kick of a horse on his chest and not fall backward. He could take a hundred-pound flour sack between his legs and scissor it open without thinking. He had once held an elephant aloft using only the muscles in his back.

But his real might lay in his arms. There had never, not in a thousand years, been arms to match Jungkook’s. (For that was his name.) The arms were not only gargantuan and totally obedient and surprisingly quick, but they were also, and this is why he never worried, tireless. If you gave him an ax and told him to chop down a forest, his legs might give out from having to support so much weight for so long, or the ax might shatter from the punishment of killing so many trees, but Jungkook’s arms would be as fresh tomorrow as today.

And so, even with the Sicilian on his neck and the Princess around his shoulders and the Korean at his waist, Jungkook did not feel in the least bit put upon. He was actually quite happy, because it was only when he was requested to use his might that he felt he wasn’t a bother to everybody.

Up he climbed, arm over arm, arm over arm, two hundred feet now above the water, eight hundred feet now to go.

More than any of them, the Sicilian was afraid of heights. All of his nightmares, and they were never far from him when he slept, dealt with falling. So this terrifying ascension was most difficult for him, perched as he was on the neck of the giant. Or should have been most difficult.

But he would not allow it.

From the beginning, when as a child he realized his body would never conquer worlds, he relied on his mind. He trained it, fought it, brought it to heel. So now, three hundred feet in the night and rising higher, while he should have been trembling, he was not.

Instead he was thinking of the man in black.

There was no way anyone could have been quick enough to follow them. And yet from some devil’s world that billowing black sail had appeared. How? How? The Sicilian flogged his mind to find an answer, but he found only failure. In wild frustration he took a deep breath and, in spite of his terrible fears, he looked back down toward the dark water.

The man in black was still there, sailing like lightning toward the Cliffs. He could not have been more than a quarter-mile from them now.

“Faster!” the Sicilian commanded.

“I’m sorry,” the Turk answered meekly. “I thought I was going faster.”

“Lazy, lazy,” spurred the Sicilian.

“I’ll never improve,” the Turk answered, but his arms began to move faster than before. “I cannot see too well because your feet are locked around my face,” he went on, “so could you tell me please if we’re halfway yet?”

“A little over, I should think,” said the Korean from his position around the giant’s waist. “You’re doing wonderfully, Jungkook.”

“Thank you,” said the giant.

“And he’s closing on the Cliffs,” added the Korean.

No one had to ask who “he” was.

Six hundred feet now. The arms continued to pull, over and over. Six hundred and twenty feet. Six hundred and fifty. Now faster than ever. Seven hundred.

“He’s left his boat behind,” the Korean said. “He’s jumped onto our rope. He’s starting up after us.”

“I can feel him,” Jungkook said. “His body weight on the rope.”

“He’ll never catch up!” the Sicilian cried. “Inconceivable!”

“You keep using that word!” the Korean snapped. “I don’t think it means what you think it does.”

“How fast is he at climbing?” Jungkook said.

“I’m frightened,” was the Korean’s reply.

The Sicilian gathered his courage again and looked down.

The man in black seemed almost to be flying. Already he had cut their lead a hundred feet. Perhaps more.

“I thought you were supposed to be so strong!” the Sicilian shouted. “I thought you were this great mighty thing and yet he gains.”

“I’m carrying three people,” Jungkook explained. “He has only himself and—”

“Excuses are the refuge of cowards,” the Sicilian interrupted. He looked down again. The man in black had gained another hundred feet. He looked up now. The cliff tops were beginning to come into view. Perhaps a hundred and fifty feet more and they were safe.

Tied hand and foot, sick with fear, you weren’t sure what you wanted to happen. Except this much you knew: you didn’t want to go through anything like it again.

“Fly, Jungkook!” the Sicilian screamed. “A hundred feet to go.”

Jungkook flew. He cleared his mind of everything but ropes and arms and fingers, and his arms pulled and his fingers gripped and the rope held taut and-

“He’s over halfway,” the Korean said.

“Halfway to doom is where he is,” the Sicilian said. “We’re fifty feet from safety, and once we’re there and I untie the rope…” He allowed himself to laugh.

Forty feet.

Jungkook pulled.

Twenty.

Ten.

It was over. Jungkook had done it. They had reached the top of the Cliffs, and first the Sicilian jumped off and then the Turk removed the Princess, and as the Korean untied himself, he looked back over the Cliffs.

The man in black was no more than three hundred feet away.

“It seems a shame,” the Turk said, looking down alongside the Korean. “Such a climber deserves better than—” He stopped talking then.

The Sicilian had untied the rope from its knots around an oak. The rope seemed almost alive, the greatest of all water serpents heading at last for home. It whipped across the cliff tops, spiraled into the moonlit Channel.

The Sicilian was roaring now, and he kept at it until the Korean said, “He did it.”

“Did what?” The Sicilian came scurrying to the cliff edge.

“Released the rope in time,” the Korean said. “See?” He pointed down.

The man in black was hanging in space, clinging to the sheer rock face, seven hundred feet above the water.

The Sicilian watched, fascinated. “You know,” he said, “since I’ve made a study of death and dying and am a great expert, it might interest you to know that he will be dead long before he hits the water. The fall will do it, not the crash.”

The man in black dangled helpless in space, clinging to the Cliffs with both hands.

“Oh, how rude we’re being,” the Sicilian said then, turning to you. “I’m sure you’d like to watch.” He went to you and brought you, still tied hand and foot, so that you could watch the final pathetic struggle of the man in black three hundred feet below.

You closed your eyes, turned away.

“Shouldn’t we be going?” the Korean asked. “I thought you were telling us how important time was.”

“It is, it is,” the Sicilian nodded. “But I just can’t miss a death like this. If I could stage one of these every week and sell tickets, I could get out of the assassination business entirely. Look at him—do you think his life is passing before his eyes? That’s what the books say.”

“He has very strong arms,” Jungkook commented. “To hold on so long.”

“He can’t hold on much longer,” the Sicilian said. “He has to fall soon.”

It was at that moment that the man in black began to climb. Not quickly, of course. And not without great effort. But still, there was no doubt that he was, in spite of the sheerness of the Cliffs, heading in an upward direction.

“Inconceivable!” the Sicilian cried.

The Korean whirled on him. “Stop saying that word. It was inconceivable that anyone could follow us, but when we looked behind, there was the man in black. It was inconceivable that anyone could sail as fast as we could sail, and yet he gained on us. Now this too is inconceivable, but look—look—” and the Korean pointed down through the night. “See how he rises.”

The man in black was, indeed, rising. Somehow, in some almost miraculous way, his fingers were finding holds in the crevices, and he was now perhaps fifteen feet closer to the top, farther from death.

The Sicilian advanced on the Korean now, his wild eyes glittY/Ng at the insubordination. “I have the keenest mind that has ever been turned to unlawful pursuits,” he began, “so when I tell you something, it is not guesswork; it is fact! And the fact is that the man in black is not following us. A more logical explanation would be that he is simply an ordinary sailor who dabbles in mountain climbing as a hobby who happens to have the same general final destination as we do. That certainly satisfies me and I hope it satisfies you. In any case, we cannot take the risk of his seeing us with the Princess, and therefore one of you must kill him.”

“Shall I do it?” the Turk wondered.

The Sicilian shook his head. “No, Jungkook,” he said finally. “I need your strength to carry the girl. Pick her up now and let us hurry along.” He turned to the Korean. “We’ll be heading directly for the frontier of Guilder. Catch up as quickly as you can once he’s dead.”

The Korean nodded.

The Sicilian hobbled away.

The Turk hoisted the Princess, began following their leader. Just before he lost sight of the Korean he turned and hollered, “Catch up quickly.”

“Don’t I always?” The Korean waved. “Farewell, Jungkook.”

“Farewell, Jimin,” the Turk replied. And then he was gone, and the Korean was alone.

Jimin moved to the cliff edge and knelt with his customary quick grace. Two hundred and fifty feet below him now, the man in black continued his painful climb. Jimin lay flat, staring down, trying to pierce the moonlight and find the climber’s secret. For a long while, Jimin did not move. He was a good learner, but not a particularly fast one, so he had to study. Finally, he realized that somehow, by some mystery, the man in black was making fists and jamming them into the rocks, and using them for support. Then he would reach up with his other hand, until he found a high split in the rock, and make another fist and jam it in. Whenever he could find support for his feet, he would use it, but mostly it was the jammed fists that made the climbing possible.

Jimin marveled. What a truly extraordinary adventurer this man in black must be. He was close enough now for Jimin to realize that the man was masked, a black hood covering all but his features. Another outlaw? Perhaps. Then why should they have to fight and for what? Jimin shook his head. It was a shame that such a fellow must die, but he had his orders, so there it was. Sometimes he did not like the Sicilian’s commands, but what could he do? Without the brains of the Sicilian, he, Jimin, would never be able to command jobs of this caliber. The Sicilian was a master planner. Jimin was a creature of the moment. The Sicilian said “kill him,” so why waste sympathy on the man in black. Someday someone would kill Jimin, and the world would not stop to mourn.

He stood now, quickly jumping to his feet, his blade-thin body ready. For action. Only, the man in black was still many feet away.

There was nothing to do but wait for him. Jimin hated waiting. So to make the time more pleasant, he pulled from the scabbard his great, his only, love:

The six-fingered sword.

How it danced in the moonlight. How glorious and true. Jimin brought it to his lips and with all the fervor in his great Korean heart kissed the metal…

Almost twenty years earlier

At the base of the mountains of Korea, set high in the hills, was the city of Busan. It was very small and the air was always clear. That was all you could say that was good about Busan: terrific air—you could see for miles.

But there was no work, the dogs overran the streets and there was never enough food. The air, clear enough, was also too hot in daylight, freezing at night. As to Jimin’s personal life, he was always just a trifle hungry, he had no brothers or sisters, and his mother had died in childbirth.

He was fantastically happy.

Because of his father. Park Youngbae was funny-looking and crotchety and impatient and absent-minded and never smiled.

Jimin loved him. Totally. Don’t ask why. There really wasn’t any one reason you could put your finger on. Oh, probably Youngbae loved him back, but love is many things, none of them logical.

Park Youngbae made swords. If you wanted a fabulous sword, did you go to Park Youngbae? If you wanted a great balanced piece of work, did you go to the mountains behind Toledo? If you wanted a masterpiece, a sword for the ages, was it Busan that your footsteps led you to?

Nope.

You went to Seoul; because Seoul was where lived the famous Yeste, and if you had the money and he had the time, you got your weapon. Yeste was fat and jovial and one of the richest and most honored men in the city. And he should have been. He made wonderful swords, and noblemen bragged to each other when they owned an original Yeste.

But sometimes—not often, mind you, maybe once a year, maybe less—a request would come in for a weapon that was more than even Yeste could make. When that happened, did Yeste say, “Alas, I am sorry, I cannot do it”?

Nope.

What he said was, “Of course, I’d be delighted, fifty per cent down payment please, the rest before delivery, come back in a year, thank you very much.”

The next day he would set out for the hills behind Toledo.

“So, Youngbae,” Yeste would call out when he reached Jimin’s father’s hut.

“So, Yeste,” Park Youngbae would return from the hut doorway.

Then the two men would embrace and Jimin would come running up and Yeste would rumple his hair and then Jimin would make tea while the two men talked.

“I need you,” Yeste would always begin.

Youngbae would grunt.

“This very week I have accepted a commission to make a sword for a member of the Italian nobility. It is to be jewel encrusted at the handle and the jewels are to spell out the name of his present mistress and—”

“No.”

That single word and that alone. But it was enough. When Park Youngbae said “no” it meant nothing else but.

Jimin, busy with the tea, knew what would happen now: Yeste would use his charm.

“No.”

Yeste would use his wealth.

“No.”

His wit, his wonderful gift for persuasion.

“No.”

He would beg, entreat, promise, pledge.

“No.”

Insults. Threats.

“No.”

Finally, genuine tears.

“No. More tea, Yeste?”

“Perhaps another cup, thank you—” Then, big: “WHY WON’T YOU?”

Jimin hurried to refill their cups so as never to miss a word. He knew they had been brought up together, had known each other sixty years, had never not loved one another deeply, and it thrilled him when he could hear them arguing. That was the strange thing: arguing was all they ever did.

“Why? My fat friend asks me why? He sits there on his world-class ass and has the nerve to ask me why? Yeste. Come to me sometime with a challenge. Once, just once, ride up and say, ‘Youngbae, I need a sword for an eighty-year-old man to fight a duel,’ and I would embrace you and cry ‘Yes!’ Because to make a sword for an eighty-year-old man to survive a duel, that would be something. Because the sword would have to be strong enough to win, yet light enough not to tire his weary arm. I would have to use my all to perhaps find an unknown metal, strong but very light, or devise a different formula for a known one, mix some bronze with some iron and some air in a way ignored for a thousand years. I would kiss your smelly feet for an opportunity like that, fat Yeste. But to make a stupid sword with stupid jewels in the form of stupid initials so some stupid Italian can thrill his stupid mistress, no. That, I will not do.”

“For the last time I ask you. Please.”

“For the last time I tell you, I am sorry. No.”

“I gave my word the sword would be made,” Yeste said. “I cannot make it. In all the world no one can but you, and you say no. Which means I have gone back on a commitment. Which means I have lost my honor. Which means that since honor is the only thing in the world I care about, and since I cannot live without it, I must die. And since you are my dearest friend, I may as well die now, with you, basking in the warmth of your affection.” And here Yeste would pull out a knife. It was a magnificent thing, a gift from Youngbae on Yeste’s wedding day.

“Good-by, little Jimin,” Yeste would say then. “God grant you your quota of smiles.”

It was forbidden for Jimin to interrupt.

“Good-by, little Youngbae,” Yeste would say then. “Although I die in your hut, and although it is your own stubborn fault that causes my ceasing, in other words, even though you are killing me, don’t think twice about it. I love you as I always have and God forbid your conscience should give you any trouble.” He pulled open his coat, brought the knife closer, closer. “The pain is worse than I imagined!” Yeste cried.

“How can it hurt when the point of the weapon is still an inch away from your belly?” Youngbae asked.

“I’m anticipating, don’t bother me, let me die unpestered.” He brought the point to his skin, pushed.

Youngbae grabbed the knife away. “Someday I won’t stop you,” he said. “Jimin, set an extra place for supper.”

“I was all set to kill myself, truly.”

“Enough dramatics.”

“What is on the menu for the evening?”

“The usual gruel.”

“Jimin, go check and see if there’s anything by chance in my carriage outside.”

There was always a feast waiting in the carriage.

And after the food and the stories would come the departure, and always, before the departure, would come the request. “We would be partners,” Yeste would say. “In Seoul. My name before yours on the sign, of course, but equal partners in all things.”

“No.”

“All right. Your name before mine. You are the greatest sword maker, you deserve to come first.”

“Have a good trip back.”

“WHY WON’T YOU?”

“Because, my friend Yeste, you are very famous and very rich, and so you should be, because you make wonderful weapons. But you must also make them for any fool who happens along. I am poor, and no one knows me in all the world except you and Jimin, but I do not have to suffer fools.”

“You are an artist,” Yeste said.

“No. Not yet. A craftsman only. But I dream to be an artist. I pray that someday, if I work with enough care, if I am very very lucky, I will make a weapon that is a work of art. Call me an artist then, and I will answer.”

Yeste entered his carriage. Youngbae approached the window, whispered; “I remind you only of this: when you get this jeweled initialed sword, claim it as your own. Tell no one of my involvement.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

Embraces and waves. The carriage would leave. And that was the way of life before the six-fingered sword.

Jimin remembered exactly the moment it began. He was making lunch for them—his father always, from the time he was six, let him do the cooking—when a heavy knocking came on the hut door. “Inside there,” a voice boomed. “Be quick about it.”

Jimin’s father opened the door. “Your servant,” he said.

“You are a sword maker,” came the booming voice. “Of distinction. I have heard that this is true.”

“If only it were,” Youngbae replied. “But I have no great skills. Mostly I do repair work. Perhaps if you had a dagger blade that was dulling, I might be able to please you. But anything more is beyond me.”

Jimin crept up behind his father and peeked out. The booming voice belonged to a powerful man with dark hair and broad shoulders who sat upon an elegant brown horse. A nobleman clearly, but Jimin could not tell the country.

“I desire to have made for me the greatest sword since Excalibur.”

“I hope your wishes are granted,” Youngbae said. “And now, if you please, our lunch is almost ready and—”

“I do not give you permission to move. You stay right exactly where you are or risk my wrath, which, I must tell you in advance, is considerable. My temper is murderous. Now, what were you saying about your lunch?”

“I was saying that it will be hours before it is ready; I have nothing to do and would not dream of budging.”

“There are rumors,” the nobleman said, “that deep in the hills behind Toledo lives a genius. The greatest sword maker in all the world.”

“He visits here sometimes—that must be your mistake. But his name is Yeste and he lives in Seoul.”

“I will pay five hundred pieces of gold for my desires,” said the big-shouldered noble.

“That is more money than all the men in all this village will earn in all their lives,” said Youngbae. “Truly, I would love to accept your offer. But I am not the man you seek.”

“These rumors lead me to believe that Park Youngbae would solve my problem.”

“What is your problem?”

“I am a great swordsman. But I cannot find a weapon to match my peculiarities, and therefore I am deprived of reaching my highest skills. If I had a weapon to match my peculiarities, there would be no one in all the world to equal me.”

“What are these peculiarities you speak of?”

The noble held up his right hand.

Youngbae began to grow excited.

The man had six fingers.

“You see?” the noble began.

“Of course,” Youngbae interrupted, “the balance of the sword is wrong for you because every balance has been conceived of for five. The grip of every handle cramps you, because it has been built for five. For an ordinary swordsman it would not matter, but a great swordsman, a master, would have eventual discomfort. And the greatest swordsman in the world must always be at ease. The grip of his weapon must be as natural as the blink of his eye, and cause him no more thought.”

“Clearly, you understand the difficulties—” the nobleman began again.

But Youngbae had traveled where others’ words could never reach him. Jimin had never seen his father so frenzied. “The measurements… of course… each finger and the circumference of the wrist, and the distance from the sixth nail to the index pad… so many measurements… and your preferences… Do you prefer to slash or cut? If you slash, do you prefer the right-to-left movement or perhaps the parallel?…When you cut, do you enjoy an upward thrust, and how much power do you wish to come from the shoulder, how much from the wrist?…And do you wish your point coated so as to enter more easily or do you enjoy seeing the opponent’s wince?…So much to be done, so much to be done…” and on and on he went until the noble dismounted and had to almost take him by the shoulders to quiet him.

“You are the man of the rumors.”

Youngbae nodded.

“And you will make me the greatest sword since Excalibur.”

“I will beat my body into ruins for you. Perhaps I will fail. But no one will try harder.”

“And payment?”

“When you get the sword, then payment. Now let me get to work measuring. Jimin—my instruments.”

Jimin scurried into the darkest corner of the hut.

“I insist on leaving something on account.”

“It is not necessary; I may fail.”

“I insist.”

“All right. One goldpiece. Leave that. But do not bother me with money when there is work that needs beginning.”

The noble took out one piece of gold.

Youngbae put it in a drawer and left it, without even a glance. “Feel your fingers now,” he commanded. “Rub your hands hard, shake your fingers—you will be excited when you duel and this handle must match your hand in that excitement; if I measured when you were relaxed, there would be a difference, as much as a thousandth of an inch and that would rob us of perfection. And that is what I seek. Perfection. I will not rest for less.”

The nobleman had to smile. “And how long will it take to reach it?”

“Come back in a year,” Youngbae said, and with that he set to work.

Such a year.

Youngbae slept only when he dropped from exhaustion. He ate only when Jimin would force him to. He studied, fretted, complained. He never should have taken the job; it was impossible. The next day he would be flying: he never should have taken the job; it was too simple to be worth his labors. Joy to despair, joy to despair, day to day, hour to hour. Sometimes Jimin would wake to find him weeping: “What is it, Father?” “It is that I cannot do it. I cannot make the sword. I cannot make my hands obey me. I would kill myself except what would you do then?” “Go to sleep, Father.” “No, I don’t need sleep. Failures don’t need sleep. Anyway, I slept yesterday.” “Please, Father, a little nap.” “All right; a few minutes; to keep you from nagging.”

Some nights Jimin would awake to see him dancing. “What is it, Father?” “It is that I have found my mistakes, corrected my misjudgments.” “Then it will be done soon, Father?” “It will be done tomorrow and it will be a miracle.” “You are wonderful, Father.” “I’m more wonderful than wonderful, how dare you insult me.”

But the next night, more tears. “What is it now, Father?” “The sword, the sword, I cannot make the sword.” “But last night, Father, you said you had found your mistakes.” “I was mistaken; tonight I found new ones, worse ones. I am the most wretched of creatures. Say you wouldn’t mind it if I killed myself so I could end this existence.” “But I would mind, Father. I love you and I would die if you stopped breathing.” “You don’t really love me; you’re only speaking pity.” “Who could pity the greatest sword maker in the history of the world?” “Thank you, Jimin.” “You’re welcome, Father.” “I love you back, Jimin.” “Sleep, Father.” “Yes. Sleep.”

A whole year of that. A year of the handle being right but the balance being wrong, of the balance being right, but the cutting edge too dull, of the cutting edge sharpened, but that threw the balance off again, of the balance returning, but now the point was fat, of the point regaining sharpness, only now the entire blade was too short and it all had to go, all had to be thrown out, all had to be done again. Again. Again. Youngbae’s health began to leave him. He was fevered always now, but he forced his frail shell on, because this had to be the finest since Excalibur. Youngbae was battling legend, and it was destroying him.

Such a year.

One night Jimin woke to find his father seated. Staring. Calm. Jimin followed the stare.

The six-fingered sword was done.

Even in the hut’s darkness, it glistened.

“At last,” Youngbae whispered. He could not take his eyes from the glory of the sword. “After a lifetime, Jimin. Jimin. I am an artist.”

The big-shouldered nobleman did not agree. When he returned to purchase the sword, he merely looked at it a moment. “Not worth waiting for,” he said.

Jimin stood in the corner of the hut, watching, holding his breath.

“You are disappointed?” Youngbae could scarcely get the words spoken.

“I’m not saying it’s trash, you understand,” the nobleman went on. “But it’s certainly not worth five hundred pieces of gold. I’ll give you ten; it’s probably worth that.”

“Wrong!” Youngbae cried. “It is not worth ten. It is not worth even one. Here.” And he threw open the drawer where the one goldpiece had lain untouched the year. “The gold is yours. All of it. You have lost nothing.” He took back the sword and turned away.

“I’ll take the sword,” the nobleman said. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t take it. I only said I would pay what it was worth.”

Youngbae whirled back, eyes bright. “You quibbled. You haggled. Art was involved and you saw only money. Beauty was here for the taking and you saw only your fat purse. You have lost nothing; there is no more reason for your remaining here. Please go.”

“The sword,” the noble said.

“The sword belongs to my son,” Youngbae said. “I give it to him now. It is forever his. Good-by.”

“You’re a peasant and a fool and I want my sword.”

“You’re an enemy of art and I pity your ignorance,” Youngbae said.

They were the last words he ever uttered.

The noble killed him then, with no warning; a flash of the nobleman’s sword and Youngbae’s heart was torn to pieces.

Jimin screamed. He could not believe it; it had not happened. He screamed again. His father was fine; soon they would have tea. He could not stop screaming.

The village heard. Twenty men were at the door. The nobleman pushed his way through them. “That man attacked me. See? He holds a sword. He attacked me and I defended myself. Now move from my way.”

It was lies, of course, and everyone knew it. But he was a noble so what was there to do? They parted, and the nobleman mounted his horse.

“Coward!”

The nobleman whirled.

“Pig!”

Again the crowd parted.

Jimin stood there, holding the six-fingered sword, repeating his words: “Coward. Pig. Killer.”

“Someone tend the babe before he oversteps himself,” the noble said to the crowd.

Jimin ran forward then, standing in front of the nobleman’s horse, blocking the nobleman’s path. He raised the six-fingered sword with both his hands and cried, “I, Park Jimin, do challenge you, coward, pig, killer, ass, fool, to battle.”

“Get him out of my way. Move the infant.”

“The infant is ten and he stays,” Jimin said.

“Enough of your family is dead for one day; be content,” said the noble.

“When you beg me for your breath, then I shall be contented. Now dismount!”

The nobleman dismounted.

“Draw your sword.”

The nobleman unsheathed his killing weapon.

“I dedicate your death to my father,” Jimin said. “Begin.”

They began.

It was no match, of course. Jimin was disarmed in less than a minute. But for the first fifteen seconds or so, the noble was uneasy. During those fifteen seconds, strange thoughts crossed his mind. For even at the age of ten, Jimin’s genius was there.

Disarmed, Jimin stood very straight. He said not a word, begged nothing.

“I’m not going to kill you,” the nobleman said. “Because you have talent and you’re brave. But you’re also lacking in manners, and that’s going to get you in trouble if you’re not careful. So I shall help you as you go through life, by leaving you with a reminder that bad manners are to be avoided.” And with that his blade flashed. Two times.

And Jimin’s face began to bleed. Two rivers of blood poured from his forehead to his chin, one crossing each cheek. Everyone watching knew it then: the boy was scarred for life.

Jimin would not fall. The world went white behind his eyes but he would not go to ground. The blood continued to pour. The nobleman replaced his sword, remounted, rode on.

It was only then that Jimin allowed the darkness to claim him.

He awoke to Yeste’s face.

“I was beaten,” Jimin whispered. “I failed him.”

Yeste could only say, “Sleep.”

Jimin slept. The bleeding stopped after a day and the pain stopped after a week. They buried Youngbae, and for the first and last time Jimin left Busan. His face bandaged, he rode in Yeste’s carriage to Seoul, where he lived in Yeste’s house, obeyed Yeste’s commands. After a month, the bandages were removed, but the scars were still deep red. Eventually, they softened some, but they always remained the chief features of Jimin’s face: the giant parallel scars running one on each side, from temple to chin. For two years, Yeste cared for him.

Then one morning, Jimin was gone. In his place were three words: “I must learn” on a note pinned to his pillow.

Learn? Learn what? What existed beyond Seoul that the child had to commit to memory? Yeste shrugged and sighed. It was beyond him. There was no understanding children any more. Everything was changing too fast and the young were different. Beyond him, beyond him, life was beyond him, the world was beyond him, you name it, it was beyond him. He was a fat man who made swords. That much he knew.

So he made more swords and he grew fatter and the years went by. As his figure spread, so did his fame. From all across the world they came, begging him for weapons, so he doubled his prices because he didn’t want to work too hard any more, he was getting old, but when he doubled his prices, when the news spread from duke to prince to king, they only wanted him the more desperately. Now the wait was two years for a sword and the line-up of royalty was unending and Yeste was growing tired, so he doubled his prices again, and when that didn’t stop them, he decided to triple his already doubled and redoubled prices and besides that, all work had to be paid for in jewels in advance and the wait was up to three years, but nothing would stop them. They had to have swords by Yeste or nothing, and even though the work on the finest was nowhere what it once was (Youngbae, after all, no longer could save him) the silly rich men didn’t notice. All they wanted was his weapons and they fell over each other with jewels for him.

Yeste grew very rich.

And very heavy.

Every part of his body sagged. He had the only fat thumbs in Seoul. Dressing took an hour, breakfast the same, everything went slowly.

But he could still make swords. And people still craved them. “I’m sorry,” he said to the young Korean who entered his shop one particular morning. “The wait is up to four years and even I am embarrassed to mention the price. Have your weapon made by another.”

“I have my weapon,” the Korean said.

And he threw the six-fingered sword across Yeste’s workbench.

Such embraces.

“Never leave again,” Yeste said. “I eat too much when I’m lonely.”

“I cannot stay,” Jimin told him. “I’m only here to ask you one question. As you know, I have spent the last ten years learning. Now I have come for you to tell me if I’m ready.”

“Ready? For what? What in the world have you been learning?”

“The sword.”

“Madness,” said Yeste. “You have spent ten entire years just learning to fence?”

“No, not just learning to fence,” Jimin answered. “I did many other things as well.”

“Tell me.”

“Well,” Jimin began, “ten years is what? About thirty-six hundred days. And that’s about—I figured this out once, so I remember pretty well—about eighty-six thousand hours. Well, I always made it a point to get four hours sleep per night. That’s fourteen thousand hours right there, leaving me perhaps seventy-two thousand hours to account for.”

“You slept. I’m with you. What else?”

“Well, I squeezed rocks.”

“I’m sorry, my hearing sometimes fails me; it sounded like you said you squeezed rocks.”

“To make my wrists strong. So I could control the sword. Rocks like apples. That size. I would squeeze them in each hand for perhaps two hours a day. And I would spend another two hours a day in skipping and dodging and moving quickly, so that my feet would be able to get me into position to deliver properly the thrust of the sword. That’s another fourteen thousand hours. I’m down to fifty-eight thousand now. Well, I always sprinted two hours each day as fast as I could, so my legs, as well as being quick, would also be strong. And that gets me down to about fifty thousand hours.”

Yeste examined the young man before him. Blade thin, six feet in height, straight as a sapling, bright eyed, taut; even motionless he seemed whippet quick. “And these last fifty thousand hours? These have been spent studying the sword?”

Jimin nodded.

“Where?”

“Wherever I could find a master. Venice, Bruges, Budapest.”

“I could have taught you here?”

“True. But you care for me. You would not have been ruthless. You would have said, ‘Excellent parry, Jimin, now that’s enough for one day; let’s have supper.’”

“That does sound like me,” Yeste admitted. “But why was it so important? Why was it worth so much of your life?”

“Because I could not fail him again.”

“Fail who?”

“My father. I have spent all these years preparing to find the six-fingered man and kill him in a duel. But he is a master, Yeste. He said as much and I saw the way his sword flew at Youngbae. I must not lose that duel when I find him, so now I have come to you. You know swords and swordsmen. You must not lie. Am I ready? If you say I am, I will seek him through the world. If you say no, I will spend another ten years and another ten after that, if that is needed.”

So they went to Yeste’s courtyard. It was late morning. Hot. Yeste put his body in a chair and the chair in the shade. Jimin stood waiting in the sunshine. “We need not test desire and we know you have sufficient motive to deliver the death blow,” Yeste said.

“Therefore we need only probe your knowledge and speed and stamina. We need no enemy for this. The enemy is always in the mind. Visualize him.”

Jimin drew his sword.

“The six-fingered man taunts you,” Yeste called. “Do what you can.”

Jimin began to leap around the courtyard, the great blade flashing.

“He uses the Agrippa defense,” Yeste shouted.

Immediately, Jimin shifted position, increased the speed of his sword.

“Now he surprises you with Bonetti’s attack.”

But Jimin was not surprised for long. Again his feet shifted; he moved his body a different way. Perspiration was pouring down his thin frame now and the great blade was blinding. Yeste continued to shout. Jimin continued to shift. The blade never stopped.

At three in the afternoon, Yeste said, “Enough. I am exhausted from the watching.”

Jimin sheathed the six-fingered sword and waited.

“You wish to know if I feel you are ready to duel to the death a man ruthless enough to kill your father, rich enough to buy protection, older and more experienced, an acknowledged master.”

Jimin nodded.

“I’ll tell you the truth, and it’s up to you to live with it. First, there has never been a master as young as you. Thirty years at least before that rank has yet been reached, and you are barely twenty-two. Well, the truth is you are an impetuous boy driven by madness and you are not now and you will never be a master.”

“Thank you for your honesty,” Jimin said. “I must tell you I had hoped for better news. I find it very hard to speak just now, so if you’ll please excuse me, I’ll be on my—”

“I had not finished,” Yeste said.

“What else is there to say?”

“I loved your father very dearly, that you know, but this you did not know: when we were very young, not yet twenty, we saw, with our own eyes, an exhibition by the Corsican Wizard, Bastia.”

“I know of no wizards.”

“It is the rank beyond master in swordsmanship,” Yeste said. “Bastia was the last man so designated. Long before your birth, he died at sea. There have been no wizards since, and you would never in this world have beaten him. But I tell you this: he would never in this world have beaten you.”

Jimin stood silent for a long time. “I am ready then.”

“I would not enjoy being the six-fingered man,” was all Yeste replied.

The next morning, Jimin began the track-down. He had it all carefully prepared in his mind. He would find the six-fingered man. He would go up to him. He would say simply, “Hello, my name is Park Jimin, you killed my father, prepare to die,” and then, oh then, the duel.

It was a lovely plan really. Simple, direct. No frills. In the beginning, Jimin had all kinds of wild vengeance notions, but gradually, simplicity had seemed the better way. Originally, he had all kinds of little plays worked out in his mind—the enemy would weep and beg, the enemy would cringe and cry, the enemy would bribe and slobber and act in every way unmanly. But eventually, these too gave way in his mind to simplicity: the enemy would simply say, “Oh, yes, I remember killing him; I’ll be only too delighted to kill you too.”

Jimin had only one problem: he could not find the enemy.

It never occurred to him there would be the least difficulty. After all, how many noblemen were there with six fingers on their right hands? Surely, it would be the talk of whatever his vicinity happened to be. A few questions: “Pardon, I’m not crazy, but have you seen any six-fingered noblemen lately?” and surely, sooner or later, there would be an answering “yes.”

But it didn’t come sooner.

And later wasn’t the kind of thing you wanted to hold your breath for either.

The first month wasn’t all that discouraging. Jimin criss-crossed Spain and Portugal. The second month he moved to France and spent the rest of the year there. The year following that was his Italian year, and then came Germany and the whole of Switzerland.

It was only after five solid years of failure that he began to worry. By then he had seen all of the Balkans and most of Scandinavia and had visited the Florinese and the natives of Guilder and into Mother Russia and down step by step around the entire Mediterranean.

By then he knew what had happened: ten years learning was ten years too long; too much had been allowed to happen. The six-fingered man was probably crusading in Asia. Or getting rich in America. Or a hermit in the East Indies. Or… or…

Dead?

Jimin, at the age of twenty-seven, began having a few extra glasses of wine at night, to help him get to sleep. At twenty-eight, he was having a few extra glasses to help him digest his lunch. At twenty-nine, the wine was essential to wake him in the morning. His world was collapsing around him. Not only was he living in daily failure, something almost as dreadful was beginning to happen:

Fencing was beginning to bore him.

He was simply too good. He would make his living during his travels by finding the local champion wherever he happened to be, and they would duel, and Jimin would disarm him and accept whatever they happened to bet. And with his winnings he would pay for his food and his lodging and his wine.

But the local champions were nothing. Even in the big cities, the local experts were nothing. Even in the capital cities, the local masters were nothing. There was no competition, nothing to help him keep an edge. His life began to seem pointless, his quest pointless, everything, everything, without reason.

At thirty he gave up the ghost. He stopped his search, forgot to eat, slept only on occasion. He had his wine for company and that was enough.

He was a shell. The greatest fencing machine since the Corsican Wizard was barely even practicing the sword.

He was in that condition when the Sicilian found him.

At first the little Sicilian only supplied him with stronger wine. But then, through a combination of praise and nudging, the Sicilian began to get him off the bottle. Because the Sicilian had a dream: with his guile plus the Turk’s strength plus the Korean’s sword, they might become the most effective criminal organization in the civilized world.

Which is precisely what they became.

In dark places, their names whipped sharper than fear; everyone had needs that were hard to fulfill. The Sicilian Crowd (two was company, three a crowd, even then) became more and more famous and more and more rich. Nothing was beyond or beneath them. Jimin’s blade was flashing again, more than ever like lightning. The Turk’s strength grew more prodigious with the months.

But the Sicilian was the leader. There was never doubt. Without him, Jimin knew where he would be: on his back begging wine in some alley entrance. The Sicilian’s word was not just law, it was gospel.

So when he said, “Kill the man in black,” all other possibilities ceased to exist. The man in black had to die…

masterpost

#kwritersworldnet #jiyong fic #jiyong fanfic #kwon jiyong #bigbang fic #bts fic #park jimin #lee seunghyun #jiyong princess bride #jiyong westley #sylvanwriting #gdragon fic #long post #idk what to tag thisssss #introducing my weird versions of jimin and kook since they seemed to fit fezzik and inigo the best

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berezina · 3 years

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THE FOLLOWING DAY, SATURDAY, JANUARY 12th, I also didn't tweet, and my iCal reminds me why. I had an invite to a glammish Manhattan party. Cocktails at 7pm before guests moved on to dinner. That's the kind of true but implausible detail you cut from a novel.

Not that I'd been invited, exactly. I'd scored a plus-one from the college friend I've called 'Sarah.' For those new around here, Sarah is a type-A daylight creature of the tech-finance woods. Which isn't my main problem with her, though it makes small-talking around our periodic hostilities hard. She's short, blonde, and works out enough to be fit without becoming slender, a frustration she'll only reference in passing because direct conversation about it would make her feel like the wrong sort of woman. She lives on the Williamsburg waterfront in one of those glassy towers that are easy to despise until you're inside a high-floor apartment. The East River Ferry cuts its engine and glides into the dock below… a glass-muted helicopter beats by at eye-level between you and the Midtown skyline. In her apartment I question my life choices, decide it's too late, then think, Is it, though?

It was true that not having Sarah in my life was unthinkable, and also that we were overdue for a breakup. Our friendship endured because a break would be awkward for the mutual friends we both actually liked. She'd done the same math, I was sure. For girls we're both good at math.

The other thing keeping us together I doubt she noticed: her epic drive to avenge her sub-Alice status in college by proving that I was sub-Sarah, now. Which I was on her scale, and sometimes on mine. When I remember that I'm a vocational wreck I want to be Sarah and can imagine doing her job. At a party of strangers, never mind: no Sarah. The plus-one was another demonstration.

So I couldn't tweet that day, obviously. Too busy in the long mirror negging my mild Sarah-friendly dress and shoes and hair, working up the courage to piss Sarah off by putting on a slut show. I did this while preparing answers for Sarah's colleagues, who think it's only polite to ask someone like me, 'What do you do?'

'FBI.'

'FBI in training.'

'Influencer.'

'Like…nothing? I'm just rich.'

*Russian accent* 'I am model.'

(I did the Russian with Sarah in earshot once and she bombed in with 'Alice is an amazing writer,' which flattered me until I realized she just didn't want anyone to think she had a dunce loser friend.)

I remember thinking—maybe it was that day or the next, on the other side of the party—that the root trouble with us is we'd each scripted ourselves into a different buddy comedy. Mine was absurdist in not-good way: two women, neither of whom understand a word the other says, pretending they do so the other won't think she's off the up and up.

Sarah's, like most buddy comedies, had a moral. I'm the amusing flighty spontaneous looks-obsessed one, whose job is to teach my sober hard-working friend to take it easy, bae, have a drink, worry not about her boss's true opinion…because other minds or truth at all are never knowable. (In her movie I'm a philosopher, too.)

In return, Sarah schools me in the happiness that comes from hard work and adult restraint.

Of Sarah's four examples of my looks obsession, three were hookups, not boyfriends, but fine, there was truth to it. The untruthful part, which she must have recognized, was her pretense that our hook-up styles reflect deliberate choices only, not in any way different (however temporary) meat-market values. Sarah, as she'll tell you, is 'buttony' cute. But that's a risky play when you're five-foot-one with a firm thickness everywhere that, sorry, you do kind of deserve for listening to doctors and your Westchester mom, and exercising an hour each day like she does, while ignoring my advice to stop eating like her.

The party was not my worst. As a reward for dressing with cowardly 'taste,' I harvested a bushel of corporate male regard, including the older-male regard I sometimes crave because Daddy blah blah. Wise Sarah would have told me the good news: the harvest meant I could be choosy. I could go on a proper date with the most promising one. But I don't know: the dialectic of desire I inherited was busted, waiting for a spare part that never arrived. When most men at a party or on a scene don't pay court I become indignant and drive off the noble exceptions. Where I'm popular I become less choosy, likelier to run off somewhere to disinhibit with the room's most persistent Regarder. Sarah loves to replay the times my unchoosiness persisted even after the Regarder had showed his hand as a player, mild psycho, or (not defending it) married.

That night Sarah kept me under surveillance. If I wasn't willing to start with a proper date, I would need to submit any potential hookup to the Sarah Test: is this a dude I could remotely imagine dating sometime in the near future, when we were done with our sad business? The answers in this case were nooooooo. Also, the leading contestants were friends, which is gross, somehow. I was pretty sure I said no.

The next morning I woke hungover, confused by a strange bed, and thought, Uh oh. But it was too comfortable to be a man's. I found Sarah in her apartment's kitchen district, in sports spandex. She'd finished in her building's gym, or the micro gym she belonged to as well because it had the better whatever and her employer paid half. One of her little hands dawdled on the island's marble top, enjoying some downtime, while she thumb-scrolled her phone with the other. She made a gesture of 'finishing up' before the needling arrived.

'She wakes! She rises!'

Something like that. I'm not going to pretend I remember exact words in this scene. The point is that my habit of sleeping late fit with my caricature from her movie.

'I smell Venture Capital coffee,' I said.

She poured me a mug's worth, and it was fucken amazing until she ruined it with, 'Did we like the bed?'

'Your sheets are intense.'

'Pillow-wise?'

'I'm not just saying this. You run like the best boutique hotel.' Which was true.

'I'm putting the customer first,' she said.

'It's true.'

It was Sarah's turn to rejoin but she put on a transitional smile instead. 'Remember when you said that to me?'

Yeah, yeah. As I explained at the time, which was college, I was being self-deprecating, not condescending to her business aspirations. 'I could never be good at business' was set up. 'To me, the customer's always wrong.' Pow!

Her memory had done light renovations, updating the quip from a play on the classically servile 'customer's always right' to the equally servile but more Obama-era proactive, 'putting the customer first.' When I pointed out her mistake she said, 'I can't believe you remember that.'

Classic: suggesting I was obsessed with an ancient incident I never would have recalled if she hadn't two seconds ago brought it up.

A cease-fire held as we walked our coffees over to her living room district. We shared the instinct to grab winter sun from her wall of noise-cancelling glass. Even in communion, I thought, we were so different. Her she was caffeinated and high on exercise, her spandex with the sour damp smell of achievement. She took the sun, checking it off her daily list of things to do in January, for Vitamin D. I was dry-mouthed and skullachey in undies and a v-neck, scrounging sun for the same reason I overflirt. I need handfuls of anti-depressant.

We weren't done.

Sarah reminded me that (in college) I'd been defensive at first, accusing her of paranoia before retreating to like, 'I totally get how you'd hear it as condescending, but honestly…'

My college apology had expired. Was I aware that my old tone of condescension persisted? Toward her and, yes, others? She brought a lightly embellished example from the party I couldn't believe she'd overheard. It was with one of the Regarders and she was misunderstanding ironic banter. We'd had that conversation before, too. Anything I say in an old-movie-star voice, as a rule, I told her, is not serious. But no one hears anything. I re-apologized.

'I'm not saying be a different person inside,' Sarah said, in her wise-one conclusion-voice. 'It would be too weird if you weren't arrogant. Seriously, you'd be unrecognizable. [laugh laugh laugh] But you're getting too old to like, radiate arrogance.'

'While living in Queens, you mean.'

'I mean anywhere.'

'Arrogance is not a great look for a nobody is what you're saying.'

'No for anyone.'

Yeah, right.

Having lost my will to exist outside Sarah's judgments, I spent the rest of that Sunday with her and her parents. They showed up at her place exactly at noon, which led me to picture them inside their car in a parking garage, killing time listening to WNYC. Her mother, Jill, greeted me with began sincerely warm on its way to suspiciously long. Sniffing for alcohol? Infusing me with 'support.' Jill used to act testy and competitive toward me in sympathy with her daughter but since the post-college status-reversal I was a poor thing having a rough time and what a pity to throw such a promising life away, a fate pretty much sealed and we could stop discussing now that she's age almost-26. Sarah's kindly, invisible father came over with WNYC still in his ears like the perfume of another woman and told us to sit, sit, while his wife took over the kitchen, to poison us with bagels and cake.

'I will need an update,' Jill warned me, as if she had any intention of giving me time to prepare. 'What's the grad school story?'

'I'mmmm still deciding. Pretty sure I'll apply.'

'Great!' She pointed a cake knife at me. 'But do it this time. Really do it. Yeah?'

'That's always the idea, except—'

'Great.'

It was at a rent-the-back-room dinner she'd treated Sarah and ten of her friends to during our college-graduation week, that I'd told Jill my grad school plans. She'd said, 'Don't waste your time in the Ivory Tower. It's much ado about nothing.' Now I was a good fit.

When Jill wasn't looking, I yanked a strip of lox out from between the overfull bagel buttocks, and ate it like a piece of sashimi. I thought about stuffing the toxic bread product into my bag like after I stayed overnight at their Chappaqua place but decided it would be more fun to feed Jill's condescending concern by leaving them my carb refuse right there on the island. This way she could whisper to Sarah when I stepped into the bathroom, 'Is she eating? She doesn't look great,' and Sarah would tell me the next day, 'My mom asked if you were eating and I told her it was none of her business. But just between us, I hope you're eating.'

~Alice from Queens [source]

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eisforeidolon · 6 years

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Episode: The Thing

Again, mixed feelings on this one. I think Davy Perez can't plot for shit (unless by plot you mean stringing random coincidences and the pointed missing of obvious clues together haphazardly) and has only the most surface-level familiarity with characterization. That said, I think this one still came out a decently enjoyable episode.

I liked the creepy intro with the ritual where Sandy gets taken over. It was a nice way to set the stage for the story. I even liked the eventual backstory of the grandfather who just lost it and decided to invite in some new gods to wipe out everything. Although why the others went along with it ... It's a pretty ridiculous premise, but when your story centers around tentacle monsters from another world, sometimes you should just embrace the absurdity full on. Which is why I wasn't even bothered that that the effects of the tentacle monsters were kinda ridiculous-looking, it fit the general tone.

I saw a complaint Dean pranking Sam didn't really fit tonally, but I thought it was a fairly decent segue from our last episode. We haven't seen that kind of sustained childish enthusiasm from Dean in several years, so I think this sort of lingering playfulness fits fine in that context. I liked that we spent some actual time with the Winchesters again, and I enjoyed pretty much all of their scenes together. I was expecting worse things from the research montage considering past Perez and a few posts I'd seen, but while Dean is perfectly capable of doing in-depth research, he's never really been an enthusiastic fan and what we got was in line with that. If Sam got knocked out again, at least it wasn't another head trauma - and it lead not only to the exposition part of the plot, but actually getting to do the rescuing in the nick of time. On the other side of the Winchester coin, I really liked the fight scene in the diner and Dean immediately going into 'rescue Sam' mode. If at one point I thought that perhaps Davy Perez maybe read too much fanfic before writing this episode, I did still find Dean's interactions with not!Sandy and perverse amusement with the “hallmark movie with tentacles” that put him “3 seconds away from an inter-dimensional booty call” entertaining.

There was some stuff with Asmodeus and Ketch and bullshit-not-dead-Gabriel … which … ZZZ.

I can forgive that the dude in 1925 got his hands on archangel grace, I guess, because that's no worse than any of the rest of the crap the MoL have materialized out of their asses. I'm also fine with the folder of the information Sam wanted just being laid out convenient-like on one of the first shelves he checks, since it may be left out from its use in the ritual we saw or from the descendants searching for a way to banish not!Sandy. I'm even okay with Sandy not attacking until the descendants keeping her chained up show up at the diner, she could have needed to eat a bunch of people and definitely would have wanted to make sure they wouldn't be around to try and chain her up again.

The part where Sam doesn't seem surprised by finding mention of other American MoL chapter houses that have never come up before any of the previous times they've been desperately seeking additional sources of lore is less forgivable. Likewise that Sam and Dean don't remotely question why the place is fucking deserted aside from this one woman who Dean recognizes from a very old picture. All the shit they've seen and been surprised by and they just figure, what the hell, thing that looks like a woman chained up in an abandoned bunker of occultists has to be harmless! Seriously? Even throwing in that they tested her with the usual doesn't cut it when they know there's shit the standard tests don't work on - without even going to different worlds! After that dubious judgment call, they take her to a diner which just happens to be where one of the MoL descendants works? I mean, unless this town is so damn small they have a descendant ready to drug and attack people on a moment's notice in every building, the coincidence of running into one immediately in the Overwritten Bit Parts Diner is fairly absurd.

As to splitting up at end and sending Dean to Apocaworld with Ketch – eh. How I feel about it is going to depend on the following episodes. Last season, Dean busted up his leg so he couldn't be part of the raid on the BmoL compound (though they did give him the dumb validate Mary thing disguised as an un-brainwashing). It took place after several episodes throughout the season where he randomly disappeared or got knocked out for the main action of episodes. This season that's been Sam. Is it really that far beyond our current writers to actually write the brothers both with something significant to do in a conflict? Do they think that if the two of them aren't conflicting with each other they have to separate them to add the tension of them worrying about each other in its place? I mean, don't get me wrong, I like it when they worry about each other, but this happened with the confrontation with Amara, too. Considering the spoilers about Jensen playing another character, I would assume Sam will have some part to play other than arbitrarily chosen thumb twiddler if Dean’s out of the picture, but we’ll see.

I've seen it bandied about that it makes sense because Dean was worried about Sam being kidnapped just previously, but honestly, it was so brief and honestly kind of average Tuesday shenanigans on the Winchester scale at this point. I don't buy the suddenness of his conviction to go alone, though I'm willing to give some leeway for it being a good point that having a plan B for backup with that small of a window to operate is a good idea. Even more so considering how they've been harping about how it's so important they do this rescue (even though I still don't buy them actually caring enough about Mary to risk the world).

Ultimately, if Sam actually ends up finding out something useful from Gabriel back at the bunker and has some other action go down or has to run a rescue op into Apocaworld, fine. If this ends up being some kind of malarkey like Good Intentions where there's essentially nothing doing … I'll just have to continue to wonder if it's really impossible to find even halfway competent writers.

#spn spoilers #spn season 13 #spn 13x17

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iishipallthethings · 6 years

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The Wager Chapter 6

Story Summary: Another Day of the Dead is finally here. La Muerte goes to the land of the living and is shocked to see Maria, the jewel of the town, unsatisfied with her marriage with Manolo. Another wager is struck and La Muerte finds herself falling hard for a human. 1 year after movie! Main ship: Maria X La Muerte (kind of slow burn) but there is another :)

Chapter title: I can’t get you out of my mind

Kofi?

How long will this take? La Muerte thought to herself as she sat sank deeper into her plush chair. She was watching the Sanchez family perform various dangerous acts in a bullfight. All around her, the residents of the Land of the Remembered cheered out as Carlos sidestepped a skeletal bull, the whiplash causing his clothes to flap about his body. He bowed to La Muerte as the bull tried to regain its footing. She gave a polite nod and watched with detached interest as the dance of death resumed.

It had been a week since she last visited Maria. She tried to keep herself busy by attending several fiestas but no matter how grand the party was, she found herself wishing to be back in the Land of the Living. As a last ditch effort to keep her mind from slipping to San Angel, she asked the Sanchezes to put together a bullfight for everyone to watch. If anything, the bullfight only made the goddess wish more than ever that she could escape her own realm.

Almost as if the mere thought conjured an antidote to her boredom, La Muerte felt a peculiar pulling on her consciousness. She frowned and tried to ignore it, redoubling her halfhearted effort to watch Carlos as he evaded the bull's horns again and again. The pulling persisted and grew the more she ignored it until it felt as if someone was tugging on her hair to get her attention.

Finally, with a soft growl under her breath, she began to pay attention to the strange sensation. The goddess almost started when she realized that she was being summoned. She glanced down at the bull ring and huffed in annoyance, there was no way she could escape without calling attention to herself.

La Muerte forced herself to relax against the chair as the tugging resumed, this time almost painfully. After ten minutes, Carlos and the bull bowed deeply to the applauding audience. She leaned forward into her chair as all the Sanchez bullfighters and the two twins, who managed to hold the goddess's attention longest with their amazing fireworks display, took a collected bow. La Muerte clapped along with everyone else.

Once the people of the Land of the Remembered began to file out of the stands, La Muerte snapped her fingers before anyone could notice her. Marigold petals flew around her and just as suddenly as they appeared, they were gone without a trace.

Mary Beth walked out of the shadows of an extravagant tombstone. She glanced back at the coral marble, skimming her fingers across the smooth surface and igniting the unlit candles that surrounded the grave with a flick of her fingers.

A strange bark brought Mary's attention to her right. Chuy sat with a rather disgruntled expression on his face staring up at her. Mary patted his head and after a moment of hesitation, the pig stood up to press his face against the hand, encouraging the woman to scratch behind his ears. "I'm sorry that I made you wait, Chuy."

Chuy only gave a feeble grunt of annoyance.

Mary stopped scratching the pig's ears, much to Chuy's dissatisfaction, to look around. Nobody seemed to be in the cemetery she was summoned at, which relieved Mary. She knew that it would be quite difficult to explain how she appeared out of a tombstone that a pig was barking at a second before.

"Did Maria call for me, Chuy?" Mary asked.

Chuy gave an enthusiastic nod and promptly turned to point his snout east of where the cemetery was. He started to trot away, glancing behind his shoulder with a meaningful look in his eyes.

Mary nodded, realizing that she was meant to follow Chuy, and hurried after him. They walked for about thirty minutes before Chuy barked happily and ran up to a door to a beautiful mansion. She slowed down to a stop as the pig waited for her at the door's entrance patiently. The mansion looked extremely … familiar.

The house was undoubtedly one of the biggest and most expensive homes in San Angel, the handsome white marble making the mansion stand out of its wooden neighbors. But that was not caught Mary's attention. There was a balcony on one side of the house that overlooked the entire small town. Mary was looking at it as her brain hummed that she knew she saw it before, she just needed to recall where.

Mary gave a small sigh as she remembered why the balcony looked so familiar. It was the same balcony in which Manolo serenaded Maria. A sudden rush of feeling attacked Mary and she gasped at the intensity of it. She shook her head as she felt something bite into her heart but as quickly as the emotion came, it left with only a dull ache.

Before she could ponder what she felt and why, Chuy gave a low bark and pawed the door. She looked at the pig with a sheepish smile, knowing that Chuy knew that she was lost in her own thoughts. She walked over and knocked politely on the old door.

Chuy gave another low bark and pawed the door. Mary looked down with a shake of her head. "We can't just barge in, that would be entirely too rude."

Chuy stared at Mary as his leg rose and he tapped it against the wood once. He continued to stare expectantly at the woman until Mary gave a small exasperated sigh. "Okay, fine but if I get in trouble, I'm telling Maria that it was your fault."

Mary opened the door and took a cautious glance inside, making sure that none of the residents were just now turning a corner to let them in. She could have sworn that Chuy heaved his own sigh before running inside the mansion. He got to the center of the foyer before turning around, his eyes rolling when he saw that Mary was still technically outside.

Mary gave the outdoors one last longing glance before walking into the mansion. She looked around, very impressed with what she saw. Everything from the table situated in the middle of the room to the bare walls spoke of cleanliness and luxury. There was a glass door that led to an area in the back, undoubtedly used for banquets. She could see several tables piled behind the glass, each covered with a white sheet. There were two hallways on either side of the foyer, leading to different parts of the house. There a staircase to the right of the foyer carpeted with something that looked like red wool.

She walked deeper into the room as she eyed the two portraits hung beside the door she just entered. One was of General Posada and the other of Joaquin's father. The man looked more of a thug than hero in Mary's opinion but she will withhold her judgments if San Angel saw him as a person to be honored.

She heard a soft bay behind her, calling her attention back on to Chuy. He was currently sniffing the air with vigor, obviously trying to find something. He gave an excited bark as he trotted out of the right hallway of the room.

Sensing that she had no choice, Mary followed the pig. As they strolled down the seemingly endless hallway, she looked at the portraits of Maria's and Manolo's ancestors. She frowned when she noticed that the entire mansion seemed a little … empty. She shook away the feeling as Chuy stopped in front of old looking double doors.

Mary opened one of them and Chuy scurried past her with a grateful bark. She took a peek inside and saw that Chuy had led her to a giant library. There must be a thousand books sitting on shelves that surrounded the walls. She walked into the room and saw that there were several couches in the middle of the room, and resting on one was Maria.

Maria did not seem to notice that she had guests; she was far too absorbed in her book. Mary grinned when she saw that it was the book she had given the younger woman a week prior. She coughed under the breath and chuckled when Maria gave a yelp of surprise.

"M-Mary, what are doing here?"

"Didn't you call for me?" Mary asked, still grinning.

Maria nodded and carefully placed the book next to her. "Yes, but I wasn't expecting you until the afternoon."

"It is afternoon," Mary said gently.

The younger woman's eyes widened as a light blush covered her cheeks. She gave an embarrassed laugh as she smoothed down imaginary creases in her dress, "Oh, I'm sorry! I was reading and I guess I lost track of time."

The older woman simply waved away the apology. "I would be concerned if you didn't lose yourself in that book. It's very good," she said.

"Thank you again for it," Maria said, relieved that Mary did not think ill of her for not realizing what time it was. She stood up and Mary noticed that the blush did not soften and she took a deep breath. "I called you because I wanted to know if you like bullfights and if you would like to go with me to see one today?"

It took Mary a moment to figure out what Maria asked as the younger woman spoke so quickly as if the words would become extinct if she did not voice them in one second. "Actually, I never have -" she saw the disappointment growing in Maria's face, "been to a bullfight before," she hastily said. Another little white lie but it was for a good cause.

The disappointment on Maria's face changed to one of hopefulness in a heartbeat. She grinned and stood up, causing Chuy to bark happily. Maria gave the book the older woman had gifted her one final glance, her fingertips brushing the cover like it was made of the finest silk. She walked over to Mary and held out an arm, still grinning widely. "You're going to love it," she said.

The excitement was contagious. Mary found herself smiling as she accepted Maria's arm. She was unsure why she was so happy, a moment ago she would have given everything to escape a bullfight. The two walked out of the library with Chuy trotting alongside them. Maria glanced down at the pig as they reached the door that led outside of the mansion and went to grab a blue leash. Chuy seemed a little disgruntled as Maria clipped it on but he smiled a second later.

They left the mansion and strolled over to the town's arena. Mary noticed that many of the town's residents were also heading in that direction. Most of them glanced at the three and whispered excitedly to each other. Mary caught words like "marriage" and "trouble." It seemed that she was not the only one who sensed the struggles in Maria's and Manolo's relationship.

Maria did not spare any of the gossipers any notice, although Chuy gave a low growl. She tightened her arm around Mary's, not enough to hurt the older woman, and lifted her chin as she walked briskly away. Mary gave Maria a concerned glance and whispered low enough so only the other woman can hear. "Do you want to head back? We can read instead of going to the bullfight."

Maria shook her head with a soft smile. "No, they can say whatever they want about me, I don't really care. Besides, Joaquin is dying to meet you."

Mary nodded, smiling as well. The rest of the trek was in silence and soon the massive arena loomed in front of them. Mary made a start to go into the stands but Maria gave her arm a small tug. The younger woman pointed at the balcony seating, "We'll get a better view there. And, look, Joaquin is already here!"

Indeed, San Angel's hero was seated in the wooden balcony. He looked apprehensive, his fingers never stop stroking his mustache or playing with his various medals. Mary was a little confused by the behavior but quickly put it out of her mind as Maria lead her to the door to the balcony.

Joaquin stood up as the door behind him opened and Maria and Mary entered. He gave the younger woman a smile and nod; however both were a little shaky. "Hola Maria," he said, taking off his sombrero. He held out his hand for Mary to shake. "And who might you be?" he asked, giving her a crooked smile.

Mary took his hand, noting how the man's was a little clammy, and shook it. "Hola, I'm Mary Beth. Maria was so gracious to invite me to see Manolo's bullfight."

At the mention of Maria's husband's name, Joaquin's eyes darted to Maria, who suddenly became very interested in the arena's bullring. His eyes returned to Mary and nodded. "I see," he said, "well Maria is quite the generous woman."

Maria snorted at that. "Come on Joaquin, it's just one bullfight, and Mary's a friend of mine." She looked down at the arena and sat up straighter in her chair, "Speaking of which, it looks like it's about to start." It did not go amiss to Mary that there was a great amount of relief in Maria's voice.

Mary sat down next to Maria and Joaquin took back his seat. She glanced at the man and saw that his eyes were glued on the bullring and he was chewing his bottom lip with nervous vigor.

Manolo walked out into the middle of the bullring, waving at the audience with the hand that was not carrying the red cape. When he saw the balcony and those in it, he gave a deep bow. "I dedicate this bullfight to my lovely wife!" The crowd, even those who were whispering behind Maria's back, all nodded with approve at Manolo's declare.

It might have been Mary's imagination, but she could have sworn that Maria grimaced but for a second and Joaquin glance away shamefully.

Before she could ponder it, she heard loud banging coming from the bullring. She looked back and saw that it also caught the attention of Manolo. He turned so he faced the door that held the bull, which was causing the banging noise as he tried to get out. Manolo laughed at the noise and spoke up so he could be heard above the crowd, "Let this bullfight begin!"

As the last word left his mouth, the door burst open and the bull rushed out into the arena, giving a mighty roar as it charged Manolo. Once again Manolo laughed and sidestepped away from the horns of the bull. The bull roared and tried again to find purchase in the man who swung the red cape as if it were a flag. And it charged again. And again. And again. Each time it got too close to Manolo, the matador would step away and lead the bull into an ever tighter circle.

Soon, Manolo had the bull stumbling from dizziness and by the time it could stand without threat of falling over, Manolo had walked to the other side of the bullring. The beast shook its mighty head and tensed its body. It sprang at the bullfighter with all of its might, roaring its battle cry. The entire crowd was silent and on the edge of their seats, following the bull's charge with fearful eyes. Joaquin even let out a little gasp and clenched his sombrero in his grip so hard that his knuckles turned white.

Manolo waited until the last possible second before jumping out of the way to the right. The bull, however, expected the move and swerved his head to the side. The tip of its horn found purchase in the matador's side, and everyone leapt to their feet in horror as the sound of ripping clothes and flesh filled the air. The bull stood over the kneeling Manolo as if it did not understand why there was now blood decorating the sand. Joaquin had his twin swords out in a flash and jumped out of the balcony, racing down the steps and leaping over the barrier that separated him from the bull. He charged at the bull, giving a battle cry of his own, his swords raised high to be brought down.

Before he could reach the bull however, strong hands pulled him to the side. He whirled around to punch whoever dare stopped him from attacking the bull. Manolo kept his grip on Joaquin's shoulders even when one of the blades was brandished in his face.

"Stop Joaquin!" Manolo cried as he wrestled a sword from the hero's grip. "It was my fault, I was supposed to jump to the left!" He moved so he was in between Joaquin and the bull.

The bull did not take this opportunity to finish Manolo off. Instead, it pawed the ground and sniffed at the spots of blood on the sand. It let out a low whine and lifted its head to sniff at the wound it gave the matador. It eyed the sword Manolo was carrying and once again let out a low whine before taking a few steps away, his head lowered so that the horns scraped the sand.

Manolo glanced back and slowly patted the bull's snout. "It is okay my friend," he said kindly. He dropped the sword in the sand and faced the bull. He held up his hands to show he meant no harm.

Joaquin slowly lowered his own blade and watched the bull's every shift. If it made any sudden movements, he would make sure that it would be its last.

The matador looked around at the still quiet crowd. He raised his hands higher and gave the people a wave. "It is okay everyone, I am completely fine!"

The effect was immediate. The crowd cheered their relief in a standing ovation with Mary and Maria leading it. Joaquin sheathed his two blades, having scooped up the one on the ground, and clapped, still eyeing the bull apprehensively. Even the bull seemed relieved at the news. It lifted its head to look fully at the matador, stamping its hooves in the sand as a way of celebrating.

Manolo, with one hand on the bull's side and the other covering his wound, bowed deeply. Mary saw that the matador clenched his side as he and the bull walked out of the arena. She glanced over to Maria and saw her sitting down and fanning herself with her hand. "So Mary," the younger woman said weakly, "how did you like your first bullfight?"

Mary shook her head and sat down as well. "That was very," she shook her head with a small chuckle, "exciting." She swallowed through the lump in her throat. "Is it always like this?"

"No," Maria replied, still fanning herself, "there have been close calls before but the bull never managed to get him like this." She nodded towards the arena where Joaquin was only now leaving. "I'm surprised Joaquin acted so quickly though."

"Has he ever done this before?" Mary asked.

Maria shook her head, "No but he's always worried about the bullfights. Joaquin even once told me that he wishes he still has the Medal of Everlasting Life so he could give it to Manolo." She gave a genuine laugh, "You should have seen Manolo's face. He started a huge lecture on how that medal caused all this misfortune and how he should never wish for that medal to come into their hands ever again, or anyone's for that matter." She nudged Mary's side and stood up. "Come on, there's a party and I don't want to go alone."

Mary nodded and followed Maria and Chuy out of the balcony. They lost one another in the crowd but Mary need not worry that she would get lost, it seemed that everyone was heading to the same party.

It turned out that the party was back at Maria's mansion. She walked inside and saw the entire place changed. Festive banners were hung from the ceiling and the tables she spotted from the back side of the house earlier were moved so they covered most of the floor. The mariachi brothers were playing a merry tune as couples danced in an open space next to them. On the other side of the room was a long table filled with all kinds of food. She spotted Chuy helping himself to the party's small sandwiches, much to the disapproval of the nuns standing near him.

Mary looked for Maria and saw that the younger woman was talking to Manolo. The matador seemed perfectly fine, save for the white bandage covering his lower left side. He laughed at something Maria had said and patted his side with a slight wince. Joaquin walked over to the couple with a plate filled to the brim with different fruits. Manolo took some grapes off of Joaquin's plate. Joaquin did not seem to mind, he offered some food to Maria as well.

Maria shook her head and spotted the older woman on the other side of the room. She gestured for her to join them with a smile. Mary strolled over and nodded towards Manolo's bandage. "How do you feel?" she asked.

Manolo glanced at his wound with a shrug. "I'm just grateful that it isn't that deep, it could have been a lot worse," he added with a glare when Joaquin scoffed. The hero of the town looked down at his food with a grimace. Manolo only sighed and threw an arm around his friend's shoulders. Joaquin jumped at the sudden contact and glanced worryingly at the bandage. The matador stole more grapes from Joaquin's plate, "It's a party brother, enjoy it."

Mary thought that she saw a light blush spreading across Joaquin's cheeks. Before she could look closer, she felt a tap on her shoulder. Maria pointed her thumb at the buffet with a grin. Mary glanced back at the two men, who were somehow now in a heated debate whether bulls were safe or not, before nodding at Maria. They walked over to the buffet and Mary grabbed one of the ready glasses of wine. Maria shooed Chuy away from the food before grabbing a glass herself.

After half of her wine was gone, Mary looked over at party. "Do you have parties this big all the time?"

Maria shrugged. "Not always, but everyone wants to see how the Hero of the Ring is."

"It's kind of loud," Mary commented, "and crowded."

"I couldn't agree more," Maria said with a laugh. She slipped her hand into Mary's easily. "Come on, let's go to the library."

Mary glanced down at their joined hands before nodding with a grin. She allowed Maria to lead her through the room with such ease that it was obvious that Maria had plenty of practice of weaving in and out of a crowd.

Soon, the voices of the party softened until only the mariachi brothers could be heard. The two women went into the library, leaving the door opened only long enough so Chuy, who had followed them, could slip through.

Maria took the spot Mary had saw her earlier that day, her fingertips running across the cover of Moby Dick. Mary sat down in the loveseat right in front of Maria. Chuy hopped up next to the younger woman, resting his head on her lap.

Mary took a sip of her glass as she studied the woman in front of her. Maria met the gaze with a slight smirk as she patted Chuy's head. "Why are you staring at me?" Maria asked as she finished her glass.

The older woman shrugged, noticing how there was a slight slur to Maria's voice. "How many glasses have you had?" she asked.

Maria simply grinned mischievously. "I don't know," she admitted. "I guess I needed one after today," the grin grew as she added, "or a few."

Mary rolled her eyes with an exasperated sigh but her eyes were alight with humor. "Today was a very exciting day." She swirled the wine in her glass before taking a sip of it, sighing as the alcohol left a soothing burn down her throat.

Maria gave a noncommittal hum, glancing down to the book. Mary saw that the younger woman's cheeks were flushed but supposed it must have been from all the alcohol she consumed.

It seemed as if Maria had gotten her thoughts in order because she looked back up. "Although it could have been better."

"Manolo says that the cut isn't deep so he'll be all right," Mary assured Maria, thinking that the younger woman was talking about her husband.

Maria shook her head. "I know but I'm not talking about Manolo. The door finally fell over today at the orphanage." Maria looked down at the empty glass sadly. "It's hurricane season next month and if the orphanage floods, I'm not sure what we're going to do."

Mary thought for a moment before suggesting, "What if we donate money to the nuns so they can hire someone to fix the building?"

"I can't. No matter how many times I try, they won't accept a single peso from me!" Maria said a little angrily. Mary quickly leaned over and plucked the glass from Maria's hands before the younger woman dropped it in her anger. Maria looked down at her empty hands, confused as to where her glass had gone for a second before continuing. "It's all that gato grasa's fault!" Mary's face must have shown her confusion because Maria said bitterly, "The orphanage used to be owned by corrupt people. A rich family would pretend to volunteer as teachers and give 'donations' to the staff. In reality, the family was paying them off so they could borrow the children to work on their farms." Maria's face twisted in disgust, "It's said that the children came back to the orphanage covered in cuts and bruises but not a single staff member did anything about it. Eventually, it became public what the orphanage and that family were doing. Both got run out of town." Chuy gave an approving snort. "After that, the orphanage went to the nuns and it became policy that none of the volunteers are allowed to give any money."

"That's terrible," Mary whispered.

Maria nodded in agreement. The younger woman looked very drowsy after her rant, her head resting against the couch as the hand petting Chuy stilled. Mary grinned as Maria's eyes fluttered close for a second before her breathing evened out and her head loll back against the seat. Chuy glanced back up before yawning and moving into a more comfortable position.

Mary got up from her seat and strolled over to the two. She snapped her fingers and La Muerte stood in the middle of the library. Chuy only raised his head sleepily, his eyes blinking slowly, trying to comprehend why the goddess was standing in front of him instead of Mary. La Muerte grinned down at him and twirled her hand once, a blanket appearing out of thin air and floating slowly down to cover Maria and Chuy. The pig grunted thanks and buried his body under the blanket to get warm.

La Muerte glanced at Maria who was now smiling softly in her sleep. The younger woman murmured something under her breath, something that sounded suspiciously like "Mary." La Muerte shook her head with a smile as she disappeared in a cloud of marigold petals. She appeared in her castle, the small smile still on her face. She sat down in her throne and twirled her hand, summoning a gold goblet filled with wine from the air. She took a sip from the goblet and tapped out the same tune the mariachi brothers were playing at the party. "Tomorrow is going to be so much fun," she said to herself.

#book of life #maria posada #la muerte #joaquin desantos #Manolo Sanchez #thewager

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spaceorphan18 · 6 years

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Finding Kurt Hummel: Previously Unaired Christmas

Masterpost

5x08: Previously Unaired Christmas

Look - it’s no secret that I am not a fan of this episode. It still makes my stomach twist a little for reasons that I can’t entirely articulate (and I suspect are far more personal than any real issue the episode presents). I know people are split on either loving this episode or hating this episode - maybe doing this will help me figure out what’s really going on.

I, personally, have two issues with the whole thing. (The second one I’ll explain within the narrative of the episode.) The first is that it does kind of feel like an FU to pretty much everyone. I don’t necessarily think it’s to the fans explicitly (though the stuff with Kurt kinda feels like that), but in general, I’m guessing they were forced into a holiday episode that they didn’t really want to do by the network. Because more so, the nastiness towards Christmas feels like that.

I also have to wonder if Cory’s passing plays a small part. I mean - this is cracky Glee - it’s been cracky Glee for a while now. We just had an episode about puppets, twerking, and dressing up in bizarre Lady Gaga outfits. The show has been kind of off the rails for most of season 5, and this episode almost feels like the climax of that (after the break - things feel a little more...normal?)

Anyway - I don’t know exactly how we ended up here - but I kind of wish that Glee didn’t end it’s Christmas run on a, well, whatever this note is.

Oh! And one last thing. At this point - season six was not shortened. I wonder if they had another, more heartfelt, Christmas episode idea for their final one. Hmmm.

What If

We open with Jane Lynch talking about how this was a secret hidden away episode. And I’m bringing it up because this whole set up seemed to confuse everyone. No - this was most definitely not a lost episode, nor do I think it’s any more or less controversial than anything else they did on the show. (I do think the writers didn’t give a flying fuck - and were warning about that...)

However, this whole intro does seem to make things confusing. Yes - it’s set in season 4. Yes - I’ll bet they did, at some point, come up with the Rough Trade Santa thing the previous year, and just discarded it until now. However, shout out to @ckerouac for bringing up the point that -- if Glee wanted to go cracky, they could have gone so much further. I mean if you’re going to go AU - why not do something entirely wacky. They kind of did in Glee, Actually with Artie’s fantasy. So, I’m kind of in agreement. Why bring it back to season 4 (other than you have newbies you have to deal with). Why not shoot it into the future, or just switch everyone’s bodies again. Glee can go that extra mile, why not? Who knows.

Meanwhile - I need to state that this did not happen in the main timeline. It could have (sort of - there are so many continuity errors that it hurts my head). But it did not. This is completely AU. And really, I could skip it if I really wanted to. I’m going through it just the same because a) for completeness sake - it’d bother me if I didn’t, b) there are some interesting Kurt-meta points that I think are worth bringing up.

That long winded, probably unnecessary preamble aside - here we go.

Grandma Moses

So. We open on the New York side with Santana crashing at the loft, buying Kurt weird doll heads and tickets to Dildo island. (Are we being edgy yet - the writers ask? Just you wait ;)) Okay, so this scene kind of sets up what the whole New York act is supposed to be about. It seems they want to address two specific things about Kurt (that I have at least seen in criticisms, and I’m pretty sure the writers did, too) -- a) That he didn’t have enough of a “normal teenage reaction” to his break up with Blaine and b) that Kurt is an old grandma, desexualized gay.

Well. Glee being in its FU mode is going to rectify that - just not in the way that’s going to satisfy anyone (I shouldn’t generalize - I know there are people who love this episode, my regards).

And - in a FWIW thought, Kurt is an old grandma. He always has been. That’s just part of the make up of the character.

The point, however, of Santana’s little monologue of exposition here is to set the stage for what’s going to happen in the rest of the episode. It reminds me of the Tattooo Guy in The End of Twerk - telling Kurt that if he’s going to go nuts, he has to go all out.

[2 asides - 1. Santana is also getting rewritten break up stuff (I’m guessing in response to criticism), as they seem to retcon a ton about the Brittana break up. 2. This whole story seems to be a commentary about Kurt specifically, and not really about Blaine? Blaine seems to be fine this entire episode - though he’s barely shown because he’s off screen with some weird yule log obsession ;)]

Meanwhile - Rachel has gotten them all jobs as elves at the mall. Which - I suppose makes sense. Oh! And weirdly enough - there’s no discussion from Rachel about her own break up with Finn (which makes sense because of Cory), or about Brody, or Cassie, or any of the stuff that happened to Rachel in season 4. Weird, right? Nah, she’s just a backdrop to the Kurt and Santana stuff. I will say - Rachel saying that she’ll be the best Jewish Elf ever made me laugh.

Bad Santa

Ah, the one highlight of the episode - Chris Kurt in that elf costume. It was like he was born to play an elf. Lol

Anyway - they get to the mall, and Santa’s late, and drunk. (Not really here for bad santa - but his line about them in an ‘equity card’ mindset had me laughing.) So, of course Rachel takes charge and they try to calm the audience with Here Comes Santa Claus. It’s -- perfectly fine. In general, I find the music of the episode, with the exception of Love Child, somewhat uninspired. Oh, right, this is a musical show, we have to have music. Here’s a Christmas song.

Of course, at the end, the kids aren’t charmed - they throw crap at them. Yeah - we totally didn’t see this happen in season 2.

I have read some meta about how Kurt, Rachel, and Santana are stand-ins for the writers here -- that whatever they do, it’s gonna get crap thrown at them. (The thought is echoed at the end, too) Oh! I have lots of thoughts on this, but I should probably save it for another post, cause it’s not really about Kurt.

So -- the next day? Later that day? Santana goes and takes a bath...in the loft? I have no idea what the time line is. I haven’t watched the Lima side of this episode since it aired. Anyway, Kurt and Rachel call her up and beg her to help them. Santana gives another obligatory joke about Kurt being an old grandma - born to play Mrs. Claus. (Um, Santana - I think we’ve established that Kurt was born to be that Elf.)

Oh - this still says so much....

Santana arrives as Mrs. Claus and proceeds to be a bitch to little people under ten. Kurt and Rachel rightfully look horrified. Sorry. I don’t like this sequence. It’s mean spirited and awful. I don’t think it’s funny when adults are mean to innocent kids. Moving on...

And....then we have the arrival of “Sexy Santa” Cody. (Dude - this guy is totally skeevy to me -- who arrives at a mall without a shirt? But whatever) And the rest of this plot line gets played out like half baked smutty fanfiction.

I will say this -- I do think all of this is completely in character for Kurt. Remember Ricky Martin in season 3? This is essentially the same reaction from Kurt. Kurt finds lots of guys attractive -- and he is allowed to react to it. (And we’re in cracky mode - this is totally played up for laughs, in the same way it was when Ricky Martin guest starred.)

This is also not one of my issues with the episode.

Anyway - Cody wants to “get to know” his elves before he helps them. Ew. Kurt those abs are clouding your judgment, buddy.

That Godawful Chipmunk Song

Santana once again reminds Kurt that he’s a stick in the mud and convinces him to spike his own eggnog. And then Cody arrives. Again. Shirtless. **rolls eyes** And obviously scoping out the place so he can rob it. Maybe that’s part of the reason I can’t really get on board with Kurt hooking up with him. Cause it’s obvious that this guy is gross and going to be bad. Yuck.

Anyway, we all know what a light weight Kurt is - and within a few sips of cooking sherry and eggnog, he’s all flirty mcdrunk pants.

So - this whole Chipmunk thing - in bulletted form because my brain is currently working better that way...

I, personally, think this song is dumb. Sorry.

It creates this super weird adult/kid vibe between Cody and the loftmates, which I find uncomfortable.

Cody is obviously playing this all up because he’s going to rob them - which makes his actions later really awful.

Trashed Kurt with anyone else (especially Blaine, but anyone really) would have been hilarious in just about any other context.

Chris, obviously, had a lot of fun filming this - so I’ll let him have that.

The point where SO goes on her diatribe - so feel free to skip

Oh, where to start.

1. Cody is taking advantage of a incredibly drunk, barely legal teenager in order steal from him. I don’t think the writers put a whole lot of thought into it -- other than saying ‘hey, we can make Kurt a sexual creature’, but I do think it was kind of in bad taste.

2. I wasn’t personally offended by it - but there were a lot of people who were (especially when it gets to the being tied up, and Kurt telling Cody no), and a lot of people telling them to get over it because it was cracky glee. The whole hoopla over that in fandom has always left a bad taste in my mouth.

3. Gross Cody stuff aside, no I don’t think this is out of character for Kurt. Kurt’s in a bad place about breaking up with Blaine -- and after being pushed by Santana hard enough, having enough alcohol in him, and being presented with the opportunity, Kurt’s trying to get out of his shell a bit and enjoy himself. He’s perfectly right to do so, and I do think it makes sense that someone going through a hardship like a rough break up with a first love would try something new -- especially being a first time college student with no limitations.

4. What about “you matter” and baby penguin Kurt? Well - first of all, I don’t think Kurt has ever been a baby penguin, and I’m going to spend a lot of the second half of season 5 talking about Kurt being very much a sexual being. I also think that Kurt does and will always be particular about sex -- again, the writers had to get Kurt incredibly drunk and in a very specific situation for this to even present itself. I don’t think it’s that Kurt can’t (or won’t) have casual sex, but more so that it means more to him when it’s with someone he loves. Had this not been a throwaway episode intent on being offensive and cracky, that thought might have been explored.

5. It cracks me up that they kind of even half-assed Kurt being a sexual being. Sure, Cody’s half naked in-between Kurt’s legs. It’s more of a slight of hand, though. The kissing is a) cut away from very quickly, and b) barely kissing (the first part when Santana and Rachel come in isn’t really even kissing - it’s like stage kissing, where you kiss their cheek, it looks like making out, but it’s not). The whole thing looks way more provocative than it really is.

6. I do think it’s unfortunate that they didn’t let Kurt be this provocative and flirty (and handsy) with anyone else on the show. I do think Kurt has hotter moments (with Blaine - in various episodes, I can name them for you if you like). But the whole being overtly sexual and gay and somewhat naked is limited throughout the show (this goes for Brittana, too, for that matter, and even the Quinn/Santana hook up - they were mostly covered and a good four feet from each other on that bed).

6B. As an aside, though -- Glee doesn’t do overtly sexual very often, and nearly every time they do it’s for comedy. It makes me wonder if there was some kind of limitations in general. I mean, Finchel never got a mostly naked sex scene either - though Blaine and Brittany did -- for comedy.

7. I do think there’s an interesting story about season 4 Kurt dealing with his break up -- which would have included more intimate moments with Adam, and/or other people. But that wasn’t the story they chose.

7B. I do think, ultimately, this was the writers saying - well we could have written that story - but we prefer the one we are doing. I think it’s in part of the whole FU thing they were going for. I mean, even for people who wanted to see Kurt get more action -- he’s going to get punished for it in a sec, so even that feels like a bit of an FU.

Moving on... the next morning Santana and Rachel wake up to find that they’ve been robbed and Kurt is tied up.

Kurt does say that when he said no to a sexual thing - Cody got aggressive and tied him up. That is leaning on sexual assault there, show. Again - I’m not personally offended, but I also don’t think it’s funny either.

Oh, as an aside I want to mention the whole thrown in joke there about Kurt being sexy to kiss because it’s like he has no kiss (geez, is it just me or is there a blow job joke in there somewhere?) it is a comment on Chris’s physical attributes. So, calm down people when we get to Santana’s rant in season six. Every character gets pot shots about their looks. It’s part of being an actor in general.

Go Feel Shame

It’s...the next day? And Kurt’s talking to Santana (seeming much more Kurt like than the rest of the episode) about how he just wanted to let loose and feel better. (Well, alcohol rarely helps with that kiddo - but it’s a lesson nonetheless.) It’s interesting that he says he feels ashamed (he shouldn’t - but I can see why he would). And he also doesn’t want Blaine to know, ever. (An odd comment for something that is an AU)

I do understand some people’s thoughts that they wished Kurt had had a better experience about letting loose a little (and in some ways he did -- I mean that was what The End of Twerk was about). And I agree in that not every poor decision in your life needs to be met with shame and being robbed.

But I do think it’s also Glee’s way of saying - hey, we did hear you - and we’re going to continue to tell the story our way.

They all look really lovely in this scene. Rachel has a new gig for them - singing behind a wall of glass.

It’s the fourth wall -- Kurt, Santana, and Rachel are the writers again. It’s probably better that they stay there for their own safety. But also - this episode is what happens when that wall is broken down between creators and fandom - a weird mess of....whatever this is.

Oh! One last final side thought -- no, there’s no Klaine duet. That doesn’t bother me within the context of this story - it wouldn’t have made sense anywhere. That said, I’m sorry they didn’t get a final duet. I think Winter Wonderland would have been a nice conclusion for them. Let’s take a moment and lament that there was no season six Christmas episode to end on a high note with.

Time to move on to the regular story at hand.

#finding kh #kurt hummel #well -- that was theraputic #hopefully I can put this episode behind me now that I've said what I wanted to say #and I feel like I tried to be diplomatic about it

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