#so far it’s pretty good though - even though I have this nagging feeling that Arthur is gonna die... | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

loveatfirstwriteblog · 3 years

Text

A Complete Analysis of Harry Potter

Like a lot of kids, we probably grew up on Harry potter. We were obsessed and rightly so. The universe created in the world of Harry Potter was, and is, a hugely successful one because of the fact it gave kids a world where magic exists! It seemed to be a great world to live in and it made even better with the fact that it included elements of empowerment, Whether it be showing girls can be just as successful if not more in various pursuits(Hermione), or the fact that even if you have a history of bad events, you can have a good heart(Hagrid), Harry Potter teaches us a lot.

JKR has written a mind-blowing plot in a world of magic, wizards, witches, wands, potions, friendship, love. Our inner-five-year olds--and actually most of our young adult selves too--jumps around excitedly at the beautifully penned words that creates an exit out of this world and into one where magic does exist.

As you get older, though, you begin to think of Harry Potter in a more critical fashion. The thought of “oh my god, it’s magic” no longer completely overrides my mind, but more of “but what are the laws regarding this? Can people just do this whenever they want? Are there no ethics?”

No matter how much we’re going to expose the flaws and plot holes in HP now, we’ll always love the books--we grew up on them! But some things just niggle you as you get older, and that’s what we’re going to be focusing on in this post.

Something I adore about the HP books is that everyone, including the “good guys”, has flaws. Harry has a “save the world alone, do first, think later” complex, a driving force that makes him go save Sirius, Ron is very, very insecure to a point where he ditches Harry twice, probably when Harry needed him the most, Hermione is a judgemental, narrow-minded nag (her thoughts on Luna, divination, Trelawney, basically anything that doesn’t fit her black and white world), Molly Weasley is misogynistic and blatantly favourites her children—probably being one of the main factors behind Ron’s insecurities, Arthur is condescending towards Muggles and makes several comments you cringe at while reading the books as a young adult/adult, Sirius, Snape, and Lupin still haven’t let go of their childhood grudges and hatred, etc etc etc.

These flaws are what make these characters so three-dimensional, so layered, so human. But the problem was, most of these flaws are never intentionally acknowledged. And honestly, that could have been such a good character arc, because the main characters are mostly students. No student is the same through their teenage years—they change, they evolve, they get over their flaws, they try to better themselves. I would have loved to see Ron becoming his own person, Hermione opening her mind up a little, etc.

Neville is not one of my favourites, but I love his growth and development, from someone who was scared of his potions professor to a man who faced down Lord Voldemort. Ginny Weasley could have had character development, from the trauma she went through in second year, but that was never written in. She went through this terrifying ordeal when she was only twelve years old, and jump to a year or two later and she’s absolutely fine, with no transition from her trauma whatsoever.

Some of JKR’s characters are brilliantly written and fleshed out, but some of her others lack the structure and complexity that usually comes with being vital to the plot—Ginny Weasley for one. Her internalised misogyny also plays a huge part in the way her female characters are written. We see this again in the case of how she wrote the character of Ginny.

Ginny Weasley is not a favourite of ours (if you don’t know that by now). She feels a lot like a convenient male daydream—when she waits for Harry to notice her by dating other guys, gets annoyed by Hermione “not knowing quidditch”, etc etc—and fits the “not like other girls” archetype too much, almost like she was made for it (hint hint). She’s portrayed to be strong-willed, spunky, and independent, and I love the idea, but I really don’t see it. To me, she’s a very shallow character, the least fleshed out one.

Just like James Potter wasn’t necessarily redeemed just because JKR said he was, and Ginny isn’t interesting just because JKR writes that she is.

Hermione also fits the archetype, but she’s JKR’s self-insert, so we really can’t say much about that.

To make things worse, Ginny and Hermione are pitted against each other in a very subtle way. Ginny is the sporty, pretty, flirty girl who’s never single from book 4. Hermione is the not-conventionally-attractive, nerdy girl who’s had a few dates here and there but never a relationship. They’re very different characters (the only thing they have in common is the archetype) but they’re against each other in the defence of Harry.

Another place where JKR’s misogyny shows up is the way other girls are written. Lavender Brown is shown as vapid and immature, just because she likes clothes and boys and didn’t know how to handle her first relationship. Cho Chang is perceived as shallow because she’s emotional. Pansy Parkinson is seen to be throwing herself at Draco Malfoy. The Weasleys hated Fleur because she was beautiful and sexy and French, and that was ever really resolved in the end (Molly accepted her, but we never got Ginny’s and Hermione’s opinions again). You see where we’re getting at? The typical “girly girls” are portrayed as insipid, shallow, emotional, and boring, while girls like Hermione and Ginny are seen to be fun and multilayered.

The problems with Harry Potter don’t just stop with non-fleshed out characters. There are plot devices that go unacknowledged, issues like blood purity—which is the basis of Voldemort’s tyranny—are never really resolved, huge Chekhov’s guns that aren’t fired.

A common misconception, which if cleared up could probably expose a load of problems in wizarding society by itself, is that the wizarding world is racist. It’s not racist. Muggles and Muggleborns are not a different race, they’re a different class, at least according to pureblood wizards. Mudblood is a classist insult (a direct reference to nobility blueblood and aristocracy).

Another factor that wasn’t talked about but made the HP world so complex and realistic is the inherent classism in every single pureblooded wizard, including the Weasleys.

The “Light” wizards all operate on the notion “at least I don’t kill or torture Muggles”. The Weasleys refuse to talk about Molly’s squib cousin who’s an accountant, the Longbottoms were so desperate for Neville to not be a squib they nearly killed him trying to force magic out of him, Ron makes fun of Filch for being a squib, thinks house-elves are beneath him, and confounds his driving instructor in his mid-thirties, the ministry workers kept obliviating that muggle at the quidditch World Cup, etc.

This could have been a metaphor for how small prejudices and microaggressions (kind of the wizarding equivalent of white privilege) enable discrimination and murder, if JKR had actually acknowledged it.

The parallel to Nazi Germany is very twisted and definitely shouldn’t be taken too far, but the Nazi ideology grew on the basis of everyday antisemitism, “that’s not that bad” little things. Voldemort’s circle and army grew because the wizard superiority complex festered and blew up in some people, egged on by a deeply classist society.

Ultimately, Harry Potter has very, very shoddy worldbuilding, the kind of worldbuilding that’s obsessed with answering the “what” of the wizarding world, rather than the “how” or the “why”, which is strange, considering that fantasy or dystopian-era novels’ driving plots and conflicts are usually answering the questions the worldbuilding raises--The Hunger Games and The Shadowhunter Chronicles are two of the best examples of brilliantly written YA fantasy and dystopian novels.

In HP, however, the main plot just avoids the questions the worldbuilding brings up like the bubonic plague.

Voldemort’s agenda is built on prejudice towards Muggles and Muggleborns, but the plot just validates the negative perception of them—at the end of the day, being a wizard is what’s special. The Statute of Secrecy is the foundation of the main concept—blood supremacists believe wizards shouldn’t be hidden away—but only vague, barely-there answers are given to why it exists (a Chekhov’s gun that was never fired).

There are love potions that function like date rape drugs (even Harry was given one by a girl who wanted him to ask her out), potions that force people to tell the truth, potions that literally let you disguise yourself as another person, but the ethics are never talked about, and the laws are so lax that three twelve-year-olds broke them and were never caught.

But at the same time, the worldbuilding is so authentic, because it transforms the wizarding world into straight-up fridge horror. The everyday horrors are just accepted and rolled with. A corrupt government, constant obliviation of Muggles, slavery that isn’t even talked about. These things aren’t obvious to us as readers, or to the wizards as characters, because they match up to the real world, which is filled with things that are horrifying if you dig deeper. The multiple, normalised forms of abuse, police brutality, the violence in prisons that nothing is done about, the glaringly obvious cultural problems we have with consent, etc.

The abusive authoritative figures in HP, like Rufus Scrimgeour, Cornelius Fudge, Dumbledore, Umbridge, etc, are so authentic because real-life politicians and people in high places of power behave that way, and their abuse is excused.

The wizarding world is just like the real world. Corrupt, prejudiced, messed up, but if you’re privileged, or at least have certain privileges, you’re probably not going to notice. The ultimate problem is that the plot doesn’t acknowledge a lot of fridge horror things are messed up either, which is why it miserably fails.

157 notes · View notes

shootybangbang · 3 years

Text

[Talking Bird] Ch 16: In which the plot finally makes an appearance

[Ao3 Link]

[Content Warning]: suicidal ideation, mild gore

[Note]: this fic has gone through some serious revisions — mostly expanded scenes/dialogue. The chapters most heavily affected are 1, 2, 3, and 7, but I’ve added a changelog to the end notes of each previous chapter detailing the edits that have been made. To save you some time though, here are the three main things to note:

The reader character does not have the bonds

The reader character refers to Arthur by his last name due to unfamiliarity

The horniness from last chapter has been moved to a future chapter. sorry!

This chapter is also pretty long in comparison to the others. From here on out, the chapters will probably be 2000+ words.

———

You look out into the plains, at the last pale band of light disappearing beneath a horizon of prairie grass and dark, looming buttes. The shadows of the scant trees stretch long and thin, their branches like a thousand spindly fingers grasping, searching. The landscape is dimmed to a tableau of reds and blacks, anything not illuminated by the fire slowly sinking into the featureless canvas of night. All of it blurred and indistinct behind a curtain of rain.

It’s a prettier sight by far than any you’ve had in St Denis. Or San Francisco. Or anywhere else you’ve lived, really.

And yet it hangs like featureless gauze behind the endless reel playing out over and over behind your eyes, spinning round like the printed images on a zoetrope.

The O’Driscoll’s hands wet with blood and mud. His eyes wide and uncomprehending. Trying to put himself back together the way one might a broken toy, sieving his viscera between his fingers and scooping it into the cavity of his chest. That initial, stunned bemusement giving way at last to the dawning horror of his own end.

And accompanying it, the numb realization that what bothered you more was the bare abstraction of the act. The burden of this sin weighing heavy with all the others, its addition tipping some moral scale, and —

“Hey.”

Morgan’s voice, jarringly brusque against the murmurings of your own private judge and jury, is almost mercifully irritating.

“What do you want?” you snap.

“Get up,” he says. “Start strippin’ the wet bark off the firewood.”

“For chrissakes, at least give me a second to catch my breath.”

“Why, so you can keep sittin’ there feeling sorry for yourself?” He leans one hand against the stone wall of the outcrop and drags himself back to his feet. The barest shadow of a grimace flits across his face as he straightens his back. “C’mon. Sooner we get set up proper, the sooner we can get back to ignorin’ each other. Then you can sulk all night in peace.”

The cottonwood branches are covered in cracked, ash brown bark that scrapes rough against your palms and fingers, rasping the skin raw as you hold the wood firm for carving. One of the downsides of living easy for so many years, you suppose — all the protective calluses atrophy to nothing, and what remains becomes susceptible to old and familiar hurts. But habits run deeper than skin, and what the mind forgets the body keeps.

As you work your way through the firewood, Boadicea nickers and paws impatiently at the dirt.

“I’m sorry girl,” you hear Morgan say. “Been a hard day for us both.”

You snort contemptuously. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he unhooks the horse’s bridle and lifts away the saddle, then starts grooming her with a battered looking brush, brushing with quick, circular motions, going against the grain and fluffing up her coat to dry out her fur with a solicitous measure of care that seems wholly unfitting of a man of his temperament and occupation.

Boadicea makes a low, rumbly noise in the back of her throat that sounds almost like a purr. She dips her head down and chomps at the yellowed prairie grass lining the floor of the outcrop, tearing up mouthfuls with a sedate contentedness that makes you sorely wish you could share in her circumstances.

A sense of fatigue more complete than any you’ve ever felt before settles over you like heavy snow. For the moment, you feel blank and washed out, stripped bare of all pretense.

“Morgan,” you admit. “I don’t have the bonds.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “I know.” He unpacks his canvas roll and yanks free from it the saddle blanket of coarse, undyed wool, then unfurls it over the horse’s back, pulling it over her flank and adjusting the fit. “Figured as much before we left Strawberry.”

“Oh.” At this point, you haven’t even the energy to be surprised. “Huh.”

For a long while, the only sound is that of the knife scraping against bark and the intensifying patter of rain, fat droplets coming down hard and fast.

In a small voice, you ask him, “You’re not really gonna sell me to a brothel, are you?”

He scoffs. “What makes y’think that ?”

“Thought you seemed too… too decent to do something like that.”

“Me? Decent?” Morgan lets out a low, disbelieving whistle. “Thought you’d know better by now.”

He turns partway to face you. In the dim light of the fire only half of him is lit bright enough to see, the rest tapering sharp into dark silhouette. For the lapse of a heartbeat it’s as if all the irreverence and bravado has been ripped away like a sheet of paper, and underneath a viciousness, a suppressed violence that you’ve been too blind to see.

This whole time you’ve been treating him like a dog, when the teeth at your throat are those of a wolf.

Your mouth goes dry and your fingers tighten around the knife in your hand. You stare up at him like a deer caught in his sights — blind panic rising up in your chest and throat like cold water. You swallow hard and try to force it down so you can maintain at least a semblance of control.

“Mr. Morgan…?”

“You ain’t been half as scared of me as you should be,” he says. “holed up with a wanted man, nobody around for miles. Some of the men I’ve run with, they…”

He lets the sentence trail off, the implications clear enough without him saying so. Then he shakes his head, and there is a weariness in him, a kind of cynical exhaustion that ages him far beyond his years. “Girl,” he says. “You keep at this line of work, I guarantee you’ll be dead in a year.”

Morgan slicks his fingers through his wet hair to keep rainwater from dripping into his eyes, and you can see that the hangdog look is back on his face, all his suggested cruelty vanished like smoke. He shifts his attention back to the saddlebags. “No, I ain’t decent,” he continues. He pulls out a tin cup and the individual components of what looks to be a collapsible grill. “But I ain’t so far gone that I’d hurt a woman. Or sell one.”

“But you’d ransom one.”

“Figured it out, did you?” he says. “Thought you might.”

He sits back beside the fire and pieces the grill together, twists its winch tight and positions it over the fire. Then he fills the tin cup with water from the canteen and sets it atop to heat.

“If you don’t hurt women,” you say slowly, your right hand still holding the knife tight as a vise. “Then what’re you going to do to me when you find out I’m not worth ransoming?”

“Doubt that’s gonna be a problem.”

“Why not?”

“Had a brand new Mauser on ya. You know how much those things cost?”

Mentally, you kick yourself. Looks like begging the gunsmith to lend you the best pistol he had in stock has come back to bite you in the ass.

“The gun’s not mine,” you say quickly. “It’s a loan.”

“Those bloomers in your room were real silk. You gonna tell me those were a loan too?”

“You — my bloomers?! Why were you going through my bloomers, you fucking degen—”

Of all the things you’ve accused him of today, somehow this is the one that actually rankles him. “You think I like rummaging through women’s underwear? Had to go through ‘em to get to your billfold.”

You flush hard enough that even the tips of your ears feel hot. “I… I saved up for those bloomers. Not that I’d expect you to understand the importance of—

“That shirt’s custom tailored, ain’t it? Those boots, too. And that’s good leather right there. Far too good for your typical drug mule. Either you come from money, or you got rich friends.”

There’s not much you can rebut here. All you can manage is a lame, “You don’t even know who I am .”

“Got a friend not too far from here who’s plenty familiar with St Denis. He’ll know.” Morgan holds his hand out towards you. “Gimme that knife a second.”

The knife is the only scrap of protection you’ve managed to grab hold of through this entire ordeal. You squeeze its handle tight.

He lets out a short, impatient sigh. “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done it by now. So c’mere and hand it over.”

You’ve known men who take a certain vicious pleasure in abusing women. Merchants with cringing wives. Clients with kind faces who’d leave working girls battered and bruised. There’s usually a certain mien about them that sets you on edge and that Morgan, brusque as he is, thoroughly lacks.

You brush the wood shavings off your lap and approach him. When you reach his place beside the fire, he tilts his head upwards to meet your eyes, the look on his face calm and expectant. A self-assured confidence that you’ve seen many times before, in the guises of many different men. It sends a familiar shiver of resentment down your spine.

You could cut out his eye right now. You could sink the blade into the thick cord of his neck. And he’d shoot you dead just for trying it — oh, you’ve no doubt of that — but it’d be quick and it’d be painless, and here comes that pathetic urge again, that little whisper coaxing you deeper, deeper towards the welcoming dark —

But equally pathetic is the nagging insistence that always stays your hand, that strident, desperate plea born from bodily instinct. The shared fear of all life from the inevitable. Cowardice — that’s what it is. A cowardice you’ve never been able to shake, a resentful, stubborn tether that you’ve bitten and clawed at over the years, but that still stays looped firm around your neck.

( And what about Mei? What about her son? )

You hand him the knife, and he receives it without incident.

The water in the tin cup is boiling. Morgan slips the point of the knife through the cup’s metal handle, and delicately removes it from the grate to cool. As you stand there, wet and cold and resentful, but not sure what else to do, he saws the top off a can of beans and sets it on the grill to warm, then pulls something out of his satchel and tosses it in your direction.

Somehow, you manage to not fumble the catch. It’s a can of peaches.

“Don’t eat ‘em yet,” he says. “I wanna take a look at your arm first. Roll up your sleeve for me.”

You grimace. One of the pros of tailored shirts is having sleeves that actually fit. “It doesn’t roll up that far.”

“Then I’ll cut it off for you,” he says, putting the knife to the shoulder seam.

“Like hell you will. This is my last decent shirt.”

Morgan shrugs. “No way around it, unless you wanna take it off.”

A shirt nice enough to present a veneer of respectability costs at least $4. Your usual tailor’s fee runs about $2, plus tip. That’s $6 total: the equivalent of two week’s worth of food for Mei and her son. Good food — white rice and cabbage, maybe even a bit of pork belly. Not the bits of offal scrounged from the butcher and wilted produce she’d resort to otherwise.

You hold out your hand and say, “Give me something to cover myself with.”

Your time spent reading Ovid in college would have probably been better served learning to dress like him, you think to yourself as you try and try again to wrap Morgan’s blanket around yourself like a toga.

“I said I’d give you a minute to yourself,” he says. “It’s been more than three now. I’m gonna turn around.”

“Just ten more seconds,” you respond, hastily tucking the corner of the blanket into the horizontal swathe pulled taut across your torso.

The sheer amount of irritation he manages to convey in the sigh he lets out is really quite impressive. In it, you can somehow hear him rolling his eyes.

When you finally let him know you’re ready, he takes one look at you and has to stifle a laugh. “You could’ve just wrapped it around your chest. Woulda been more practical.”

“Oh, excuse me for wanting to preserve what’s left of my dignity,” you snap, keeping one arm pressed against your chest to keep the whole improvised garment from falling apart.

“Alright Caesar, c’mere. Let me see.”

The cut looks like an angry red furrow ploughed through the field of your skin. Its edges are ragged and torn, separated like poorly cut cloth. In between, the wound itself gleams red and raw, with particles and fibers mixed in with blood and indeterminate tissue.

Earlier, when you’d gingerly untied the makeshift bandage and taken off your shirt, you’d taken a silent moment to survey the damage, wondering with horrified fascination if it was perhaps your own muscle you were glimpsing, that particular facet of your body surfacing through its dermal barrier for the first time.

“I’m gonna hold your arm,” Morgan says. “That ok with you?”

You nod, a little dumbfounded that he of all people would have the foresight to ask for permission.

He lifts your arm towards the firelight so he can better examine the wound, and in doing so handles you with more care than you can remember any lover ever giving you. You tell yourself that it’s a rebuke of your own terrible taste than an indication of any extraordinary kindness on his part, then forcibly dredge up the memory of his gun at your back for good measure.

“You’re gonna have a hell of a scar after this,” he says, running his thumb along the unbroken skin below the cut. “No inflammation, which is good. I’ll patch you up the best I can, but we’re still gonna want to check on it every couple hours to make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

He gets up to rummage through his saddlebags and returns holding a roll of gauze and a bottle of clear liquid. “You’ll be wanting this,” he says, handing over the latter. “This’ll hurt.”

You take a swig and nearly choke on it. “What the hell is this?”

“Grain alcohol.”

Grimacing, you bring it to your lips again and take in two more mouthfuls of the stuff before handing it back, gulping it down quick to get the burn of it down your throat and off of your tongue.

Morgan hovers his hand over the tin cup to test its temperature. “This needs to cool down first. Gives you some time for that liquor to set in too.”

“I think it’s going to my head already,” you admit.

Heat is spreading from the warm pit of your stomach to your neck and face, branching through your veins as sure as blood. The thud of your heart, previously an imperceptible thing, now asserts itself like a metronome.

He glances over at you and whistles low. “Not much of a drinker, are you?”

“Not usually.” You press your palm against your cheek. “Am I turning red?”

“Gettin’ there.”

It’s strange, settling into this oddly comfortable limbo between cordiality and aggression. Your sustained caution of him is beginning to wane so steadily that you have to consciously remind yourself the only reason he hasn’t shot you dead or at least seriously injured you is due to the fact that you’re worth more intact than otherwise.

“So,” Morgan says. “What’s someone with silk bloomers doin’ all the way out here runnin’ opium to Strawberry?”

“It’s a very long and stupid story.”

“Then give me the short version.”

You stare at the ground as though it’ll offer you some way to condense the sordid affair of your life into a couple easy sentences. He’d asked the question with what sounded like genuine curiosity instead of interrogation, and for once you feel inclined to blurt out the whole of it, like a girl in confession.

You want to tell him about how small the missionaries had seemed when you’d waved at them through the train’s grime-smudged window, not knowing it’d be the last time. The tweed jacket tossed carelessly onto the floor, and the cool, smooth sheen of mahogany against your skin. Feng fishing you out from the dark water lapping at the docks. The money, the opium, the blood.

The sight of the Heartlands for the first time, its blue horizon impossibly vast.

“I owe someone a lot of money,” you say finally, fiddling with a piece of grass between your fingers, tearing into halves and halves and halves. “He said it was either this or the brothel.”

“And you chose this. Runnin’ dope to those poor bastards working the railroads.”

It’s not the first time you’ve heard this particular tone of voice. The kind that implies its speaker’s higher moral ground as it categorically condemns you. But coming from him makes its sting especially hard.

“I don’t force them to buy it,” you say hotly. “It’s not just me that’s at fault here.”

“You ever seen a dope addict? They ain’t got a goddamn choice —”

“Well, d’you know what the average lifespan of a Chinatown whore is?” You don’t bother waiting for a response before plummeting to the answer. “Two years. After that she’s either dead from syphilis or suicide. At least with the opium I’ll die out here in the open and not in some squalid closet of a room that smells like piss and men.”

The liquor is starting to hit hard , and a part of you is fiercely grateful for it. It’s been a long time since you’ve been given an excuse to scream out the inequities of your life to someone, and a man who’s holding you for ransom seems as good a target for your vitriol as any.

“You think that just ‘cause it’d be better for the greater good or some shit, they should get to fuck me over? Is that what you think?”

Morgan seems a little taken aback. “I didn’t say th—”

“I don’t give a shit about the addicts. I don’t give a shit who’s life I’m ruining, as long as it isn’t mine. I don’t… I don’t care about anyone else because I’m a terrible excuse for a human being. That’s what you want to hear me say, right?” At this point, you realize that you’ve transitioned into a hysterical rant, that you don’t properly mean half the things you’re saying, but saying it out loud feels good nonetheless, like sucking venom from a festering wound. “But people like you don’t get to tell me so. Because at least I don’t hold people at fucking gunpoint . I don’t rob banks or kidnap women or beat debtors. I’m not a fucking murderer like you—”

The last statement barely clears the air before the image of the dead O’Driscoll, sprawled across the ground with his belly torn open, flashes through your head. You immediately clap your hand over your mouth, as if doing so will let you swallow back your words.

“No,” Morgan says, “You ain’t a murderer. And that’s why you won’t last long.”

“Good,” you seethe. The hot sting of tears begins prickling again at the corners of your eyes. “I don’t want to.”

He raises his eyebrows and regards you with a vague, detached kind of pity that makes you almost wish he’d just outright condemn you instead, then touches his fingers to the tin cup. “Water’s cool enough now, I think.”

You feel like a petulant child who’s just thrown an ineffectual tantrum. Rendered self-conscious and obedient for the time being, you allow him to secure your elbow with his hand and begin irrigating the wound with warm water.

“Jesus fucking god,” you hiss. You reflexively try and jerk away, but he holds you still and tells you to stop squirming, his grip firm as iron.

It’s the worst pain you’ve felt in years. Like a lick of flame passing over your skin, echoing its progenitor again and again as he washes the cut with a series of short, measured trickles of water, flushing away the combined grime of dried blood, dust, and lint.

“You think this is bad,” he says, unscrewing the bottle of grain alcohol. “Wait’ll I sterilize it.”

If the water was flame, then the alcohol is a streak of molten lava, wet fire soaking through the wound in a rush of white-hot burning pain. You don’t scream — you let out a weak, choking sob so pathetic that you cover your mouth again in an attempt to stifle it.

But you’re a little drunk and your subconscious recognizes this as an excellent excuse to cry, and so it lets flood the tears you’ve kept stoppered up for hours now. You whimper, meet his eyes briefly, then start bawling.

Your crying before hadn’t seemed to bother him, but now he looks almost comically alarmed. He must think it’s the physical pain sending you into hysterics, because he starts trying to comfort you the same way he did Boadicea when he’d led her into the river.

“You’re doin’ good,” he says, cajoling you in a soft, affectionate voice. He sets the bottle of alcohol on the ground and pats you awkwardly on the shoulder. “Just a little more to go, and we’ll be done.”

Another agonizing, scorching splash of fire. He doesn’t chide you this time when you try to pull away.

“Shhhh… I know, I know. Hurts like a bitch, don’t it? I’m gonna give it one more rinse, and — yeah, there we go. You’re alright.”

Morgan wraps the bandage over your arm with deft, practiced fingers, and you wonder briefly how many times he’s had to do this for himself, with no one to soothe him. Though better that than the shoddy job you’d done on him six weeks ago, frantically patching him up with just the barest idea of what you were doing.

He ties off the bandage, then picks the can of peaches off the ground, pops open its metal lid with the tip of his knife and proffers it to you like a peace offering. “Here. You’re hungry, right?”

It’s very hard to cry and eat at the same time. You decide to concentrate on the latter.

After tapering your sobs down to a series of quiet, resentful sniffles, you begin gulping down mouthful after messy mouthful of sliced peach. It’s the first morsel of food you’ve had in over ten hours, and you wolf it down so quickly you hardly taste it. Just an impression of cloying sweetness mixed with something faintly aromatic (cinnamon, you think) lingering as an aftertaste.

The old instincts of hunger are hard to shake off. All decorum thoroughly discarded, you raise the can to your lips and drink down what syrup remains, tilting it nearly perpendicular to the ground to get at the last few drops.

“My god,” Morgan says. “I seen dogs with better manners.”

“If you’d fed me earlier, then I— what’re you doing.”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” he asks. He holds his bandolier in one hand. The other is working at his shirtcollar. “I’m gettin’ the hell outta these wet clothes.”

You clutch at the empty can of peaches as his union suit reveals itself in a revelation of blue. A blue which, you admit to yourself with an uncomfortable surge of appreciation, suits the shade of his eyes extremely well. But when he begins unbuckling his belt, you quickly avert your eyes. “Really?” you ask. The scandalization you probably ought to have felt from the very moment he’d begun undressing finally begins to surface. “Your pants, too?”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m keepin’ the union suit on.”

“Are you usually this brazen with the women you kidnap?”

“D’you usually sit around half-naked with the men who kidnap you?” he asks, jabbing his thumb towards your own discarded shirt, which you’d spread out neatly beside the fire to dry.

“That’s different,” you hiss, knowing very well that it isn’t. “I had a medical reason.”

“Yeah, and so do I. I don’t wanna get pneumonia.”

He has a point. You look down at your own sodden trousers, which cling to your skin in a cold, wet embrace, and your internal scale of comfort versus propriety tips decidedly towards the former.

“Turn your back again,” you tell him.

“What for?”

“I’m gonna take my pants off too, and I don’t want you trying to sneak a peek at my bloomers.”

He laughs, then winces and gingerly splays his fingers across his ribs. It’s the first sign of real levity you’ve seen from him. “Oh, that is the last thing on my mind right now, girl.” There’s a tired grin on his face, and were it not for the events of the day, you might have almost found it endearing. “Besides, you ain’t hardly my type.”

“Well that’s good to hear,” you reply, a little offended. “Because I’m not interested in men with terrible taste.”

But he does as he’s told, and when you’re satisfied with the oblique angle of his range of sight, you let the borrowed blanket fall from your shoulders and pull the ribbon securing your braid free. You rake your fingers through your hair until it hangs loose, then gather the ends of it in one hand and twist it tight to wring out the rainwater. Only then do you pull the blanket back over your shoulders and begin to undress.

First, your boots. Then the knee-length woolen socks, which have left their cable-knit weave as an imprint on your skin. After glancing at him one more time to make sure his face is turned discreetly away, you unbuckle your belt and wriggle your way out of your trousers. It takes some maneuvering, and some thoroughly indecent posturing, to finally get them off. You leave your cotton bloomers on, figuring that the warmth of the fire will dry the thin material soon enough.

When you look back at Morgan, you find that he’s since turned back towards you. Not to gawk, but to get a better look at his own wounds in the firelight.

His union suit is half-unbuttoned. Most of his bare chest is visible, and along with it, the bruises from the ricocheted bullet. A mottle of blue and violet, like a spill of ink that radiates from the negative imprint of the flask that took the impact in his place. And right below it, a glimpse of your own handiwork.

When you’d first found him, the cut had spanned diagonal across his torso, trailing shallow from his chest and biting deep near the ridge of his hip. Most of it’s healed over since, but the edges are angry and inflamed still, and you can see the fading marks of your inexpert stitches laid like railroad tracks over the land of his skin.

“Don’t worry, I ain’t looked at you,” Morgan says. He probes gently at an indigo patch and inhales sharply. “Too busy lickin’ my own wounds.”

If you look closer, you can see the remnants of multiple scuffs and scratches. A history of violence storied across his body, told in the pale lettering of scars, many of them recent. An unwelcome pang of guilt settles itself low in your belly. It looks like he’s been on the road for a while, healing sporadically through long stretches of hard journeying. Hard journeying made worse, no doubt, by your theft of his bonds.

“You… uh. You want me to keep carving off wet bark?”

“Nah,” he says distractedly, still trying to determine the depth of the damage left behind. “Should be fine leavin’ the rest of it to dry out by the fire.”

You draw the blanket tighter around your shoulders, then root around your head for something, anything to talk about. Anything to get this burgeoning sympathy for Arthur Morgan out of your head.

“Your friend in St Denis,” you say finally. “He’s not gonna know much about me if he doesn’t speak Chinese.”

Morgan absentmindedly scratches his chin as he begins buttoning his union suit back up. “Wouldn’t put it past him. I know he’s had dealings with ‘em in the past.”

Something clicks in the back of your head. Long overdue recognition like puzzle pieces fitting together. “What’s his name?”

“Josiah,” he says.

“Josiah,” you echo. The spark of some fit of emotion is beginning to rise in your throat. “Josiah… Trelawney?”

His bewildered face is enough to confirm your suspicions. Relief, anger, confusion — all of them flood you at once with such intensity that you have to take a moment to squeeze your eyes shut. When you open them, you take a deep breath and swallow hard. “Josiah Trelawney’s the son of a bitch I sold your bonds to.”

———

Massive thanks to @reddeaddufus for editing not only this chapter, but the entirety of this fic. This whole thing would be a lot more disjointed if it weren't for her.

Definitely give her fic Red Dead Pursuit a look. The main character is extremely compelling, the plot is fast-paced, and the porn is A+. Her writing style is also a delight to read.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #fic #red dead redemption #rdr2 #my work #talking bird

11 notes · View notes

stellarcat52 · 4 years

Text

Timeless Blue chapter four

Okay so here we are. I apologize I have no skills in writing dialogue for extended periods of time. Also hadn’t specified any sort of sleeping arrangements, Krel has his own room, and that’s where a good portion of this chapter takes place.

Krel and Douxie were not on good terms. Krel blamed Douxie for letting Merlin find out about the time travel mess, and Douxie didn’t like how Krel wasn’t helping to repair the timeline. Claire just wants to keep her boyfriend safe and get home and Steve’s newfound obsession with being a knight is honestly not helping the group in any way.

And due to pretty much everything, from Arthur’s distrust in Krel, to Douxie’s and his disagreements, to Claire’s annoyance every time they fought, everyone thought it better that Krel stayed in Camelot for as long as he wasn’t needed.

He almost snuck into the party, but after seeing Douxie knock out his past self and take his place, he knew it would be difficult and not worth it.

So while Douxie, Claire, and Steve were busy trying to fix the relationship between Morgana and Arthur, while also keeping Jim and as many trolls as possible alive, Krel was making sure Hisirdoux wasn’t going to lie in the street all day.

So Hisirdoux Casperan, woke up in the room where the extraterrestrial guardian of Arcadia was staying, to a blue, four armed prince experimenting with previously hidden materials. A book from the Alchemists in the village lay open on the desk in front of him.

“Woah.”

Keel jumped in his seat, turning around to the apprentice. “Great your awake.” Krel’s eyes were rolled and he turned around.

“What’d I do? I’ve only just met you!” Krel froze whatever he was doing, the soft glowing in his hands faded slightly as he stopped focusing on what was in his hands.

“Right. I’ve met your future self, not you.” He set down the materials, turning back at the apprentice, who was very confused. “You but with blue hair.”

“Yeah I know. You’re saying I meet you in the future?” Krel nods, turning back to his curiosity-driven work. “Wow... I must be really lucky. So what are you working on?” Hisirdoux got up to look over Krel’s shoulder.

Keel pushed him away with one arm, continuing his work with the others. “I’m trying to figure out how that gauntlet of yours-Douxie’s,” he looks back quickly to take not of whether or not Hisirdoux also has the gauntlet, “works. If I could figure out what material it was made of I might be able to mimic it.”

“Well, I’m no master wizard, but I don’t think you can make magic with metal.” Hisirdoux grinned and lit a small blue orb of power in his hand, pushing his way forwards so Krel could see it.

“Trust me. If you were a master wizard, you’d be more unbearable in the future.” Krel turned back around, fully this time, to face Hisirdoux. “Why don’t you go back to the wizard tower? The only reason I didn’t put you there myself if because the amount of knights still in the castle scare me. Also I don’t remember where it is.”

“Yeah, took me a little while to get the grounds memorized too.” Hisirdoux settled for sitting cross legged besides Krel, a birds eye view of the Akiridion’s failures and progress. “Magic isn’t something you can create you know.”

Krel pushed the comment aside, continuing to putter with thin metal strips and attempting to draw the magical glyphs only seen briefly before from memory. “Shut up or be helpful. I have broken the laws of physics before. I shall not-“

“If you tell me that story, I’ll show you the glyphs again, you’re writing them all wrong.” Douxie interrupted, holding out his gauntlet in front of Krel’s work.

Krel grabs his hand. “Deal.”

———

Douxie’s memories were changing, he didn’t notice at first, but he realized that he met Krel way before Arcadia. Their conversations entered his mind as they happened, even though he was nowhere near the Akiridion or his past self. What definitely wasn’t helping was that very vivid thought and image. A glowing character, in once unfamiliar alchemical dress, with a sarcastic tone of voice, and his immediate thought, calling the creature beautiful, then handsome, and worrying why he already didn’t like him.

Thankfully, he didn’t need to focus on the changing memories yet, he needed to protect Arthur and repair his and Morgana’s relationship. He had to save te future before he can worry about the weird feeling in his stomach after remembering the arguments the night and morning prior. For once, the constant checking of the time map wasn’t only due to nerves, and Merlin’s nagging was welcomed.

———

Krel and Hisirdoux spoke casually, explaining their culture to the other and complaining about the future Douxie. Hisirdoux wasn’t the best with words, and Krel slipped up his charismatic act because of how different the apprentice was to the other wizards he had met.

Krel’s study in magic didn’t do very well until Hisirdoux had an idea. There were magical materials in Merlin’s tower, and not many people would attempt to stop a wizard’s apprentice from entering the wizard’s tower. So they snuck in, nobody questioned it and nobody tried to stop them.

Immediately Krel tried examining everything. Crystals and books all seemed so interesting, especially if they did hold some magical secrets that he could unlock. However, nothing seems to react to anything he tries. There’s no glowing besides the king-in-waiting’s natural light and Hisirdoux’s spell, no sound beyond the natural, not even a smell that seemed mystical in some way.

It was nearing sunset, and the time the group returned, when the magic stuff was mostly put aside. Krel could consider Hisirdoux a friend, but still disagree with Douxie, right? Hisirdoux was awkward and at some points overly polite, but still try and help Krel figure this out despite believing it impossible. Hisirdoux even showed Krel the beginnings of a song he was working on.

Finally, Douxie, Claire, and Steve return, both Hiridoux and Krel knew to give them time.

Krel didn’t return to the room the team gathered in at all that night. He was given his own room, so it didn’t seem strange that he didn’t. Morgana was dead, Excalibur was gone, Douxie had failed his friends and the future. Keel was the least of his worries. Except the changes in memory weren’t. Even now, memories were coming to light and honestly it wasn’t an unwelcome distraction.

Douxie walking into Krel’s room after trying to speak with Merlin, the exact words didn’t last this long but the whole tone of the occurrence wasn’t as casual and happy as the ones from earlier. Krel was worried, spilling every negative thought about the time traveling incident to the past self of the cafe boy. Krel was crying, something neither Douxie had been previously aware he was capable of in his akiridion form.

Douxie lay alone as his past self listens to Krel’s worries, how much he already misses being home, how he wishes he could help, but also how much he regrets this. Keel starts ranting on what things he could have changed to prevent this all from happening, even going as far back to not opening the door for Douxie the other night.

Douxie starts thinking, what could he have done to prevent this. Maybe if he had fixed Morgana and Arthur’s sibling bond, maybe if he hadn’t opened the portal in time, maybe if he helped Archie find the staff sooner.

He falls asleep wondering if time stopped for Arcadia, or if Merlin and Archie are left to fight the Order in the future with everyone else they left behind, or if they thought that he was dead.

Part Three, five

#douxie x krel #timeless blue fic #krel x douxie #drel #krelxie #douxel #krel trying to figure out how magic works will not be a one chapter thing #also no I didn’t proofread this

32 notes · View notes

deadwatcrs · 3 years

Photo

⟨ tom holland , non-binary demiboy , he/they , 22 ⟩ there goes ARTHUR ‘ARTIE’ HART after the opposing team’s flag , the child of APHRODITE who was claimed to CABIN TEN eleven years ago . wielding their SPEAR , and their inherited TELEPORTATION at the ready , they’re sure to lead their team to victory . after all , it was their demigod prowess that proved to be vital during the arduous and decisive JOURNEY TO FIND DAEDALUS AND THE MAP OF THE LABYRINTH ( demigod 18 ) they ventured on in the past . don't let their feat fool you though , it was during this quest that they were challenged by their FEAR OF ABANDONMENT AND LONELINESS . perhaps that is the reason they've chosen to side with the titan army .

hello hello !!! so excited to be here with everyone :-) !!! i’m mira, i’m 20, i use she/her pronouns nd i live in the gmt+8 zone, so u can expect me awake when no one else is KJEHHSEJK i’ve been a fan of pjo since like,,,, i was 12 nd was literally convinced i was a demigod so u can imagine !!!! that when i saw this rp i was like !!!! [screams]

anyways !! this is arthur ‘artie’ hart nd they are New so i’m still working out a lot of their story, but im v excited to see where they’ll go :-) i have a few connections regarding his story nd also just ,, slapped som stuff down from the app into here HEKJHESJK

PART ONE. THE BASICS.

name: arthur ‘artie’ hart. prefers to go by artie, as arthur is what his aunt calls him. age: twenty-two. zodiac: born on july 21st, 1999, making him a cancer sun, scorpio moon and leo rising. gender & pronouns: nonbinary demiboy. uses he/him and they/them pronouns. romantic orientation: bisexual.

PART TWO. THE HIDDEN DEPTHS, THE SCRATCHED LAYER.

positive traits: compassionate / perceptive / mild-mannered. negative traits: pessimistic / evasive / easily jealous. mbti: ENFJ - the protagonist. moral alignment: chaotic good. what is their motivation?: artie is motivated, primarily, by the desire to never find themselves abandoned and alone. growing up with an absent goddess of a mother, a mother deep in her memories of a lover she’ll never see again and an aunt who tried to give them a foundation to grow from meant that their life was more or less marred by the concept of loneliness, of abandonment.

artie wants, more than anything else, for no future demigods to feel the same way they did — and if that means tearing down olympus and getting rid of the gods, then they were willing to turn the other cheek, to contribute bare bones to take on the least amount of blood and ichor. aphrodite had never made a move to acknowledge him other than the obligatory favor of claiming him as her child, and the knowledge that she too had abandoned him pushed him to the side of the titans.

the choice to do the bare minimum is rooted in the fact that they are still very much attached to camp half-blood and everyone within it, as they had been there for half their life. it is a decision rooted in wanting the best for the camp and its campers even if the decision is a difficult one. after all, what have the gods ever done for the hundreds of children they’ve brought into the world?

what was growing up like?: for starters, artie appreciates that his aunt tried. their mother was far too wrapped up in memories of a lover long gone, and aphrodite had never once made an effort beyond dropping them off at their mother’s doorstep and then claiming them as her child eleven years later. growing up was difficult. like any demigod child, there were instances that could never be explained, like the time artie was in his room one minute and the living room the next without ever having touched his closed door and the time his backpack was torn to shreds while he was still wearing it. still, they had to push through childhood, often seeking comfort in the arms of their aunt when the monsters got too close. at eleven, a satyr brought artie to camp half-blood after discovering their teleportation ability (it was a stupid incident, and one artie is reluctant to tell again, but it ends with falling asleep while their foot was in a toilet bowl while walking to class).

camp half-blood was a haven for artie as their heritage was unraveled. aphrodite claimed him a week after he arrived at camp, and he was immediately drawn to the change in lifestyle. it was a relief for all the pieces to fall into place, for artie to realize that they weren’t different. at thirteen, they became a year rounder camper after their aunt had encouraged them to stay, knowing their mother couldn’t keep them safe. their time at camp was divided into learning how to fight with a spear (a weapon that quickly became their go-to, the one weapon they were actually proficient with) and learning how to manage their ability. however, worry constantly nagged at them, as they realized they were only putting off a life alone. artie may not have been different, but there were very few people who lived like they did.

PART THREE. THE EXTRAS, THE CONNECTIONS.

ambrosia tastes like the cranberry-walnut cookies their aunt used to make for them.

they have a little mp3 player because they absolutely cannot live without listening to music. it’s not connected to wifi or data, just a little device that hosts illegally downloaded music.

interchangeably uses he and they pronouns. gender identity was something artie struggled with growing up, as they never felt totally connected to their assigned gender at birth but didn’t feel totally disconnected from it either. it took a lot of google searches, long late night talks with the nymphs and his aunt and encouragement from their fellow siblings before they realized they were non-binary, and furthermore, a demi-boy. they do have a preference for people to refer to them with ‘he/him’ pronouns, while they tend to use ‘they/them’. of course, they don’t really mind what people use as long as it’s either he or them, and ultimately, artie is just happy he’s got this part of himself figured out.

handy with a spear. they tend to spin the weapon around their hand as part of their signature move, and yes, it is just to show off how good he is at spinning it.

pinterest here.

i. this house burned down and we’ll take the memories with it.

this would be the person who artie is closest to and considers family. they would’ve been there for his every milestone, the person who had his back more often than not and vice versa. however, after artie is revealed to be part of luke’s army, betrayal strains their relationship. i can see this connection (in current times) focusing heavily on the fact that they’re both on directly opposing sides but want the other to be by their side, but being unable to switch sides themselves. this connection is also one heavily steeped in years and years of friendship, as artie has been at camp since he was eleven, and then switched to being a year-rounder at thirteen.

ii. and where have the gods gone? taken by rainier gang.

artie didn’t want to switch to the titan’s side at first. he was convinced over a long period of time, and this connection focuses on the dynamic between artie and whoever took the time to convince him to switch sides. seeing as one of artie’s deepest fears is ending up alone and abandoned, maybe this dynamic focused on that aspect! honestly, i’m open to however this connection develops since it’s a pretty open-ended one.

iii. for these are shared wounds. taken by emri kyung, salem poe.

in short, they have been artie’s sparring partner since he was a new camper. as a child of aphrodite, there was always that expectation that he’d be useless in a battlefield and this person took a chance on him, showing him everything he now knows about how to fight. they aren’t close by any means but there is comfort in intimately knowing what they’re like on a battlefield. how this dynamic develops depends on which side (or none, if they’re neutral!) the other person is on.

other wanted connections:

literally anything my brain is tiny LOL

#titanomachyintro #UHHH HERE WE GO VROOM VROOM

7 notes · View notes

modreduscycle · 4 years

Text

Arthur’s Childhood Pt. 4

“Father!”

Ector stopped chopping wood to look at his youngest son— Arthur. It was hard not to consider the boy his son after so long, but he had to catch himself at least a little. Slipping up around Uther would not go over well, and the man was infamously protective of his family. He once tortured and beheaded a man who called Igraine a whore. To be fair, Ector would’ve decked the man, probably broken his nose, and made him apologize, but Uther went too far. He felt a chill run down his spine as he looked at Arthur. The boy was beginning to resemble Uther more and more, which was not going to do him any favors when he grew up unless he decided to turn into a tyrant too.

“Father?” Arthur frowned and tugged on Ector’s tunic, staring up at him with wide green eyes.

Ector snapped out of his worrying and smiled. “Yes, Arthur?”

“Can I get a snack?” Arthur asked.

“What do you say?”

“Please?”

“Sure, come on, I’ll fix you something simple.” Ector set down his ax and led Arthur by the hand inside.

He watched Arthur eat the cheese and bread he had pulled out of the cabinet, looking very happy with his little meal. Arthur was a pretty well-behaved child overall. Not to mention he never let the fact that he was a prince, and next in line for the throne, get to his head even though he knew his foster father was only low-nobility at best. Although, it was questionable how much a four-year-old really understood about power and class structure.

The door burst open and Kay stormed in, his eyes shining. “Arthur! Want to help me practice my swordsmanship?”

The prince’s eyes lit up. He shoved the last of the bread in his mouth and ran up to Kay, bouncing. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!”

“Don’t be too rough with him,” Ector warned for the millionth time. Kay rolled his eyes dramatically.

“Yes, Father,” he drawled. He looked back at Arthur, stars in his eyes. “Come on! You can be my squire for today!”

“Can I be your squire for forever?” Arthur begged, employing puppy eyes.

“When I become a knight, sure!” Kay exclaimed.

Ector smiled sadly as his sons ran outside to mock-fight with sticks, then sighed. As much as he wanted to support his kids, he hoped they’d change their childhood dreams soon. Arthur, obviously, couldn’t be Kay’s squire, not for long anyway. As for Kay… Ector would train him as much and however long it took, but he could tell Kay didn’t have any kind of natural talent. The boy was smart, he was insanely clever, he was even more organized than Ector himself and he was not scatterbrained by any means. However, Kay was not a skilled swordsman. Ector hoped he’d get a natural feel for it as he grew up, but he wasn’t holding his breath. Kay was awfully determined, though, and no matter what anyone said, Ector knew it was going to end up being his own decision whether to give up and cut his losses or keep thick-headedly pushing on. As for Arthur, he wasn’t sure whether he hoped Arthur would be really good at swordplay or really bad at it. On one hand, he would be the high king one day and it would serve him well to be able to fight well. On the other, it could remind people of his father as well as enable him to become a warmonger just like his old man. Ector didn’t believe he would but… it was hard to get rid of that nagging doubt.

He heard hoofbeats outside and peered out the window, hand going to his sword as usual. He relaxed as he saw it was just Igraine and the high king again. He really wished they could give him a warning before they visited. With a sigh, he opened the door and called, “Arthur! Your parents are coming!”

“Really?” Arthur dropped his stick and ran over. “Where? Where? Where?”

“Just wait a second,” Ector said with a laugh.

The three went out front and watched the horses approaching. Arthur waved his arms at the approaching riders and Igraine spurred her horse into a gallop. She brought it to a quick stop a few paces away from them and leapt off, running to her son and picking him up in her arms. “Arthur! Oh, you’ve grown so much!”

“Mother!” Arthur hugged back and giggled as she spun around.

“How have you been, my little angel?” Igraine whispered, stopping her spinning and bouncing him up and down.

“Kay and I practiced sword fighting today!” Arthur exclaimed.

“With sticks,” Ector interjected. Igraine grinned at him and set Arthur down when he started squirming.

“How’s he been doing?” she asked.

Ector smiled and ruffled Arthur’s hair. “Pretty well, he’s a good kid. He and Kay play outside most days, but I’ve been teaching him to read too. He’s been learning fast.”

Uther finally arrived and jumped off his horse. “Arthur!”

“Other father!”

It took literally everything Ector had in him not to burst out laughing. It felt like his lower right rib had snapped in half from the effort. There was about a fifty percent chance Uther would slit his throat anyway, though, so if the man went for his sword he was just going to let loose.

Uther looked like he had been slapped in the face, but Arthur’s wide, innocent eyes stopped him from reacting at all. “Oh… um… how have you been?”

Arthur started rambling about stick-fighting with Kay, all while Uther took turns between paying attention to his son and glaring at Ector, to which Ector mostly just shrugged. Look at who was raising the kid, jackass, of course he was father number one.

Igraine glanced over at him, hiding her smile. “You’ve been doing alright out here on your own?”

Ector nodded. “We manage.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Igraine corrected. “How are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a single parent, raising two boys on your own. Uther runs a kingdom and he certainly does less work than you.” Igraine lowered her voice on the last sentence.

“I’m sure if you count all the murder, he does more,” Ector muttered.

Igraine slipped her hand in his and squeezed gently. “I just want to make sure you’re not overtaxing yourself.”

“I’m fine, I’ve gotten used to it,” he assured her, then chuckled. “There’s no time for us to play anymore, Igraine. We’re not that young anymore.”

“Funny, you could’ve fooled me,” she teased. Ector idly noticed the lines under her eyes. She was only thirty, but the stress and hardship of her life had clearly taken its toll. Even so, she was still radiant. He wished desperately things could have been different. He wished Arthur, Kay, Morgause, and Morgana could still be theirs, but without anyone else interfering, especially Uther or any of his enemies. He could wish until the trees around them withered and died, but he knew it wouldn’t change anything. He looked back at Arthur happily word-vomiting at his father, and sighed.

#arthuriana #Arthurian #king arthur #Arthur Pendragon #Arthurian legend #arthur's childhood #sir ector #igraine #uther #sir kay

16 notes · View notes

pi-cat000 · 5 years

Text

MSA: Take Two (part 9)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

Part 10: here

It is Vivi’s voice which eventually drags him back from the silence and inertia. Far off, barely a whisper, it lures him out of the void in gentle waves.

“Arthur? If you can hear me? It would be super amazing if you’d come out and talk. Please.”

Until now, Arthur has made a deliberate effort to disregard all of Mystery’s urgings and nagging. Nothing Mystery can say is motivating enough to break his disinterest. Stubbornly, he has ignored reality to remained cocooned in peaceful silence. He can’t ignore Vivi. Not when she sounds so hopeful.

Arthur steels himself, disentangles his being from the void space around him and follows Vivi’s voice into the light. First comes that crackling itch of static accompanied by the buzz of an energy surge, like he’s a battery charging up. Then comes the emotional sledgehammer, and he remembers exactly why he was so reluctant to manifest. The gang’s all here: regret, followed closely by that deep melancholy, sprinkled with embarrassment. What’s the last thing he remembers? He had been talking to Lewis…then…nothing. He must have evaporated right in front of everyone. That’s just perfect. Nice to know he can’t even speak to Lewis without having the ghost version of an emotional meltdown.

There’s no time to worry about that though, because, when he finally takes a solid shape, Vivi is RIGHT THERE! She is leaning in, putting her nose inches from his face. She is WAY TO CLOSE. In a panic, he throws himself back. What he electrocutes her! He’ll accidentally hurt her. Just like he accidentally hurt Lewis.

“Whoa, hey. It’s okay,” Vivi also panics, raising her hands. Mystery is here as well, standing at the ready by Vivi’s feet. The dog’s eyes are glowing red. WARNING. DANGER! Arthur should avoid that, the erratic ghost side of his brain unhelpfully informs him while his logical side struggles to processes all the stuff suddenly around him. Arthur lurches back and smacks into something jutting out from the wall. Frantically, he scans his surroundings for an escape route. Soft pastels. Stacks of books piled haphazardly on the floor. Mounds of paper. Scribbled upon sticky notes decorating every surface. He is no longer in the van. This is Vivi’s room. He has backed up into her desk, scattering paper and knocking over a lamp.

/ Did I not say to step back. /

“Quiet you,” Vivi scolds Mystery, attention still on Arthur, “Arthur. Please. It’s okay. I’m sorry for freaking you out. I didn’t think you would come out that quickly.”

“What are you doing? This is dangerous. In case you haven’t noticed. I’m made of electricity which I can’t control,” Arthur snaps, managing to catch himself in the middle of eyeing Vivi’s partially open window. They are on the second story, but Arthur’s pretty sure he’d be able to make the jump. He doesn’t jump, squashing the urge, but it’s a near thing.

“I shouldn’t be near you guys when I’m charged up like this.” Arthur pauses, taking a second to note the district lack of Lewis in the room. It’s just Vivi and Mystery.

“You’re not dangerous. You saved Lewis, and you helped Arthur. That was a pretty intense situation, and no one was electrocuted then,” Vivi objects. She does, however, take a step back to give him more room.

“That was different.”

When he’d done all that stuff, he’d been mostly numb, barely aware of what he was. Now, the emotions are stronger, triggered by familiar surroundings. He can’t risk it. As if to emphasise his point the light bulb above flickers and busts into a shower of sparks. Now the room is lit only by the daylight coming in through the window.

He points up at the roof and the bulb.

“See.”

“If you were fine then, then you’ll be fine now,” Vivi asserts. She holds out a hand, “If you’re Arthur. Future, ghost, or otherwise, then I trust you.”

Mystery makes a noise of objection and receives a glare. Arthur glances between them. Mystery’s eyes are still glowing, and Arthur hopes he’ll intervene should Vivi become endangered because the temptation to take Vivi’s hand is just too strong to resist.

Torn, Arthur stares at the hand for several seconds.

Slowly, he floats forward and reaches out. Vivi’s room isn’t huge, but at that moment, the journey between them is endless. She wiggles her fingers in encouragement when he gets within touching distance. A golden spark jumps between them, but Vivi doesn’t react.

He takes her hand.

It is warm, soft, and alive. Arthur is surprised. So far, he hadn’t really tried interacting with anything, being more than content to float around. He had half expected his sense of touch to be dulled, making everything dead and cold, kind of like his mechanical arm.

Quickly, he glances up to check Vivi’s expression. A bright smile. Warm. Vivi is fine. The electricity doesn’t hurt her. She’s fine. He pulls back, unwilling to try his luck.

“I knew it,” Vivi declares.

All the uncontrollable, haphazard flickering his form has been doing, calms, stabilising. Mystery’s fur settles along his back and his eyes dim to black. The dog lets out a very human sigh.

Vivi, still smiling, turns to Mystery, remarking, “There you go. Now go keep Lewis company. He’s probably lonely out in the corridor, all by himself.”

Mystery seems thoughtful, but it’s hard to read dog expressions. /Very well, I concede to your judgement. /

Arthur rushes to disagree, “I would rather Mystery stay…you know….just in case?” He hesitates. Mystery makes him a little uneasy, but he trusts the dog to protect Vivi should anything go wrong. Vivi is more important than his comfort.

Mystery, eye searching, definitely surprised by the admission, scans Arthur. Arthur watches nervously. Mystery’s brows crease, coming to some conclusion that Arthur isn’t privy to, /I will be just beyond this door should you need my assistance. I will not go far. /

Vivi nods in agreement, opening the door for Mystery, who slips out into the hallway. Instead of shutting it again, Vivi leaves it ajar. Arthur loosens, focusing on Vivi and backing up a bit, so they’re on opposite sides of the room again.

“You don’t have to do that, you know. I already said I trust you.”

Arthur folds his arms in defiance, “I have no idea why. You know, just because I’m an Arthur doesn’t mean that I’m you’re Arthur. You shouldn’t trust strange supernatural creatures just because they look familiar.”

Vivi snorts, “I’ll have you know I’ve been researching the hell out of ghosts this last week. Mystery’s been giving me the crash course. This lightning? Not really lightning. It’s made of plasma, controlled by a ghost’s subconscious thoughts and emotions. Logically, I’d be fine because Arthur would never hurt me.”

Wow…Where does that trust come from? Vivi trusts him more than he trusts himself. Arthur lets his posture relax ever so lightly.

“He also mentioned that, uh, new ghosts are easily overwhelmed and vulnerable to intense mood swings …” Vivi pauses, looking more annoyed now, “I don’t know what Mystery was thinking, introducing us all at once. He should have done it one at a time, you know, to reduce the stress. A calm, comfortable environment would have gone a long way as well. Don’t get me wrong, the van is great, but it’s cramped and stuffy…no offence.”

“None taken?”

“…and who wants to have a serious, life-changing, conversation in a hospital car park? No one thought that through properly.”

Vivi takes a long breath but ploughs on despite a growing restlessness.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that it’s cool if you want to take your time getting used to the whole ghost thing. I mean, I really want to know how you got here? Maybe, why you’re here? If Arthur’s in any danger at all, then I’d like to know.”

"But, you are Arthur, and you’d tell us something important like that…sooo yeah. Thanks for coming out to talk with me…I just wanted to check to see if you were okay… If you want, you can go back to hibernating.”

Vivi finishes with a loud exhale and resolute nod.

Arthur, trying to work through the rush of sentences, comments weakly, “Isn’t introducing things one at a time a strategy used to familiars dogs or something.” Yeah, he remembers Vivi’s brief stint working for the animal shelter when she was going through that stage where she had a new job every month.

Vivi grins again, losing some of her stiffness, “It was an inspiration.”

Arthur takes a moment to appreciate the flutter of amusement, which momentarily drowns out the regret and other more negative emotions. He doesn’t know why he’d thought Vivi wouldn’t care. Just because he wasn’t her Arthur.

“Arthur is not in any danger. Well, he’s not in danger of dying like I did,” He says. There was no way Lewis would hurt his friends. Not without spending two years isolated in a cave thinking he’d been murdered. Arthur would die again before he let that happen.

A relieved exhale, “That’s good. Thank you for telling me.”

Weirdly, she’s not specifically asking about his death or the circumstances surrounding it even though she so obviously wants to. Vivi’s not exactly subtle when she’s curious. But, then, he doesn’t know how much time has passed since he last manifested, so she’s probably had time to plan this encounter. Arthur’s grateful. He didn’t think a ghost could be tense, having no muscles and all, but he definitely feels himself relax.

Part 10: here

#MSA #mystery skulls animated #fanfiction #fanfic #arthur kingsmen #Vivi Yukino #Mystery the dog #mystery #ghost arthur #angst #arthur finally catches a break #talking about stuff

96 notes · View notes

bi-bi-richie · 6 years

Note

buddy holly-weezer, stanverly, getting into a street fight

I’m so sorry this is so long!! I really didn’t mean to go off on Stan’s sexuality but he’s such an interesting character to explore! But thank you for the prompt I had a lot of fun writing it!

Playlist, prompt list, send me an ask!

Derry isn’t exactly well known for good places to eat, but they do have the Tozier Diner. Now, part of the reason any of the losers go there is that Richie’s parents own the place, the other reason is the complete judgment-free safe zone the whole diner is. Every loser has taken their dates there, starting with Bill and Mike, going to Richie and Eddie, Bill, Mike, and Ben.

Richie once told the losers that the diner is the trick to making relationships last forever, now it hasn’t been proven since every couple is still living their relationship, but Richie is engaged to Eddie now so who knows?

With Richie’s, possibly true, proclamation, it was a big step to take your date with you to the diner. So, naturally, Stan is nervous as fuck as he walks towards the door hand in hand with Beverly.

His relationship with Bev, in short, was the least expected out of all the losers. Everyone knows that Bill had a thing for her a few years back, but then Mike stole his heart. Ben was crushing big time on her at the same time, but both Bill and Mike ended up getting all the boy’s love. So, when Stan had a crush on her, everyone expected the same outcome. He wasn’t exactly sure why he liked Bev, he always told himself it was just because she was pretty. After all, that’s what Bill and Ben thought, right? Well, his feelings ran way further than looks.

He would watch her jump off the cliff at the quarry, admiring her fearless, thoughtless action every time she went over. He watched her challenge Richie to a game of wits every time he opened his trash mouth, he admired how she beat him time and time again. She could take care of herself, and Stan didn’t dare get in her way when she was mad. Once again, he admired it, she had guts he feared he’d never muster up.

He thought the crush would pass, honestly, he thought he was being ridiculous. Not to mention his sexuality was all over the floor like a bunch of papers spilled from his homework binder. He had just gotten over his crush on Mike! He was gay right? But now he’s here admiring Bev.

Crushing be damned, he thought, I don’t need this shit. Of course, crushing is like a virus. Once it’s there, it’s hard to remove. So every day for a year he walked around with Bev in the back of his head as well as his nagging sexuality questions.

Eventually, he cracked.

He went to Richie, not the best option but he wasn’t Mike, who he used to like, he wasn’t Ben or Bill, who used to like Bev as well, he wasn’t Eddie, who was probably the gayest kid in Derry, and he wasn’t Bev. He went to Richie because he had multiple not-so-secret crushes on tons of girls, but in the end, he started dating Eddie.

“You want… my help?” Richie asked, mid-bite on his sandwich. They were alone at the quarry waiting for the rest of the losers to arrive, but Stan had asked Richie to show up an hour earlier in advance, he also promised a sandwich.

“Don’t act surprised, it makes this worse.” Stan mumbles. He isn’t ashamed of asking Richie for help, he knows the boy is smart as hell, there’s no doubt about that. It’s just that Stan is usually the person to shut Richie’s stupid jokes down before they can go too far.

“Don’t be embarrassed Staniel!” Richie exclaimed as he threw an arm around Stan. “You know I like helping people! I’d love to play therapist!”

“Richie, please. This is seriously embarrassing for me.”

“Formal as always.” Richie sighed, he tucked his arm back to his side and plopped himself down onto a log. “I’m all ears.”

Stan looked down at the dirt. Nerves welled up in his stomach like a swarm of bees. If he was to go any further with this conversation, he would finally find an answer, even if the answer wasn’t something he’s ready for.

“I like Bev… but I know I like boys.”

Naturally, there was an emotional conversation that followed. In the end, though, Stan learned that he was bisexual, which is Richie’s sexuality as well.

“I guess the only thing left now is either getting over or getting under Bev, eh?” that earned Richie a slap to the head.

But he was right. Either Stan would have to spend another year trying to get over her, or he can man up and just ask her out. But, there’s no way Bev could ever like him.

…

Bev rolled her eyes when Stan told her that he was scared she wouldn’t like him. How blind could this guy really be? Somehow he didn’t notice her longing stares in classes they had together, or lasting touches to his skin when they went swimming.

“Honestly Stan, why else would I reject both Bill and Ben? They’re great guys and awesome friends, but I always had my eyes on someone else.”

“I always thought it was because you just didn’t like them… maybe you didn’t like guys at all…”

“Funny enough, I swing both ways.”

Following Stan’s confession, they did end up going on a date to the Aladdin. One date turned into another, then that turned into another, and another, and another.

Fast forward three years and you’ve got a nervous Stan standing outside the Tozier Diner hand in hand with Beverly. Now, Stan never takes what Richie says seriously, after all, there’s no real proof that the diner can ensure a lasting relationship. But, as mentioned before, Richie and Eddie are engaged, so who knows?

“Y’know everything Richie says is bullshit, right?” Bev whispers. She comfortingly squeezes his hand. Stan looks into her eyes and smiles.

“It’s okay, I think I’d be okay if he wasn’t wrong about this.”

Bev smiles at him with her eyes full of love. He’s seen that look so many times in the past three years but it never fails to make his heartthrob. Stan wonders if she feels the same when he watches her, does she understand how he feels for her?

Then they walk in.

…

Needless to say, the dinner was pretty fun. Richie took on the role of being their waiter for the night, and he took it very seriously.

“Can I take your order, strangers I’ve never met before?”

“Richie, it’s us.”

“Ah! Read the name tag, did you? Two can play at that game. You look like a Lisa, and you look like an Arthur!”

“I expect nothing, yet I’m still let down.”

Surprisingly enough, Richie paid for half their food. He paid for Stan’s meal, claiming that it should be Stan who pays for Bev because it’s classy. But little did Richie know that Bev already planned to pay for her own meal as part of a mutual agreement the two of them have.

When they go to leave the diner, Richie grabs both of their arms with a warm smile. He pulls Bev into a hug and presses a kiss against her cheek.

“Take care of him, Okay?” He whispers. Bev nods.Then he leans over and does the same to Stan.

“Cherish her, promise?”

“Promise.”

…

Stan feels light as air as he walks out of the diner. He’s in the same position that he was in two hours ago, but now he feels better. More in love than ever before. He looks over at Bev and looks into her eyes. He can see the love that shines behind them clearer than ever, something beautifully comforting about the way she watches him.

He forgets the backlash of their relationship. How people used to tell him that Bev was only using him for sex. He lets go of how angry it made him when people assumed he was only with Bev to hit it and quit it. All of that seems so far away because right now, all he can see is her. All he wants his her eyes on him forever, and in return, he’ll never look away from them.

Who knew the fiery girl inside could be my only warmth?

“Beverly?” He whispers as he gets slowly closer to her face.

“Stan?” She responds leaning into him.

“I love you.” He can feel her warm breath huff out of her mouth in a small chuckle.

“I love you too-”

“When are you gonna give it up!?” A strange voice calls from across the street.

The couple breaks apart immediately in shock. It’s not the first time someone has rudely interrupted them before, but the voice is certainly alarming. Stan strains his eyes trying to identify the figure in the dark. It’s not hard to recognize the voice though. Everyone knows that signature, disgusting voice.

It’s Henry Bowers, and he’s slowly walking up to them.

Stan immediately puts himself in between the approaching man and his girlfriend. Of course, Stan knows Bev can hold her own, in fact, the only reason he’s doing this is so she doesn’t go getting herself hurt in three seconds. But, this does only give Bowers bait.

“Oh, I see, too afraid to let the slut see the other options in town huh?” Henry sneers.

“Still hung up on a little someone you couldn’t get, Bowers?” Bev spits at him, and then literally spits at his feet. Henry whistles low.

“Feisty, but all cheap whores are, aren’t they? It’s one thing that makes them all the fucking same.”

“How would you know?” Stan retorts at the taller man. “Even a prostitute would turn you down, no matter how much money you give them.”

Henry doesn’t even spare a glance to Stan, his eyes are locked on the girl behind him who looks ready to jump the first chance she gets.

“Ah, I see. How much money is he paying to keep your piece of ass around, huh?”

“Say it again motherfucker.” Bev threatens.

“Or what? You won’t fuck me when this is said and done?”

Then there’s a loud smack. Skin on skin, sure to bruise, bone to bone, smack. But it’s not a smack, it’s a punch. Someone threw a punch, and it wasn’t Bev. It was Stan. Stan had Henry on the ground, cradling his jaw and looking up in confusion. But his confusion quickly turned to pure, red rage.

“You’re gonna regret that.”

And with that, he stands back up and starts throwing punches at Stan. The thing about this fight is the people involved. Stan is a few inches smaller than Henry, he’s also not as broad or built. In short, Stan isn’t as physically put together as Henry is, this fight is like suicide to the poor boy.

It feels like hell when it really starts going. Stan can hold his own, kicking Henry in the gut or groin, but Henry still gets back up and keeps going. Henry inflicts more damage on Stan though, his punches are harder and he’s quicker. In short, this fight is over for Stan.

But it’s just beginning for Bev. She leans in and grabs Henry’s hair, yanking his head back as hard as she can. He shouts in pain but his mouth is quickly shut by Bev’s knee colliding with it. He drops onto the floor in pain, for good measure, Bev stomps on his stomach once. When he doesn’t get up she grabs Stan’s hand and pulls him up from the floor. He’s leaking blood from his nose and cuts on his cheeks and lips. His eye is already starting to swell, making it a bit harder for him to see clearly.

“Oh, Stan.” She sighs quietly. “Come on babe, gotta clean you up.”

…

When the swell of Stan’s eye goes down he can clearly see that he’s laying in Bev’s bed. She carried him home it seems. He notices how bad his face really hurts, once fiery cuts and bruises have dulled down into a fierce aching pain. He can’t see Bev though, but her bathroom door is open and light is leaking out of it. As if on queue, she walks out with a couple of cotton balls and hydrogen peroxide.

“You know, you really are a dumbass, babe.” She remarks as she makes her way over to Stan.

“Thanks. Is that for me?” He asks pointing at the bottle in her hands.

“I’m applying it to you, okay? You won’t do it right without a mirror.”

“I can stand up and walk.” He grumbles.

“Oh please, you couldn’t even stand up to get here.” The bed dips with Bev’s weight as she crawls on next to her boyfriend. Stan sighs, of course on the one night he wanted to be romantic, he’s gotta go and get into a fight. He never fights. Why now?

“Stan. I love you babe, but why would you run off and fight Henry like that? You know I can hold my own.” Her gentle hands are running a soaked cotton ball across his injuries, but Stan knows she can easily add a new cut if she wanted too. Of course, he knew Bev could fight for herself, but he couldn’t stand by and just let her get catcalled like that.

“I know. But I’m not gonna stay silent about it. You know I’m yours, and I know you’re mine.”

“Well, you got that right.” Bev hums in agreement. When she’s done, she leans down to press a soft kiss against his lips.

“I love you, hero.”

“I love you too.”

#stanverly #stan uris #beverly marsh #it 2017 #it 2019 #the losers club

44 notes · View notes

thegreatnyehehe · 6 years

Text

A Winter Veil Carol: Part 5

And with the unfestive fiend’s descent into hell, we can assume that this fiend has finally received his long-awaited comeuppance! One of those open-ended endings, I suppose? Surely, it is a true cautionary tale for those whom are wicked and miserly! Sad, of course, but a wonderful lesson! Well, that’s the end, of it, then. Hope you enjoyed it, children!

...

Oh? Oh!

Hoho! Looks like the last few pages were stuck together! Perhaps this The Great Nyehehe fellow may be redeemed after all! Let’s take one last peek into Chrrgglls Drrrkggnss’s “A Winter Veil Carol!” Hope you enjoy it, children!

The flames of the deepest pits of the fire region of the elemental plane consumed The Great Nyehehe, burning every fleck of flesh upon him to ash, reducing his bones to brittle. A horrible, raging fire took him, and the old fool had perished from the universe forever. The inferno was the final end for the legendary fable of the madman, The Great Nyehehe.

And then he woke up.

“Bah!!”

The Great Nyehehe jumped up with a start, terrified but immensely relieved that he was, in fact, not dead, but back in his own ‘Evil Lair’, relatively safe and sound. “Oh, by the Light!!” he cheered to himself, uncharacteristically religiously.

“The spirits!! They were true, and they were real!! Oh, Maldy!! Oh, spirits!! Nyehehe!!” yelled The Great Nyehehe ecstatically. He was alive after all!

But then, a thought came to him, and he popped out from behind his dirty nook in the Cathedral Square of which he resided in, peering around. His eyes found a hulking, shambling abomination standing beside a lone Death Knight, whom was very distracted checking his mail eagerly for a Winter Veil party invitation. Nyeh called out to it, “You there!! Boy!!”

“Wot, me?” moaned the undead golem of flesh and formerly living souls as he stomped closer, having failed to realize he had just been mistaken for an average human child.

“Nyes!! You!! What day is it, good child?” Nyeh yelled out to it.

“Why, eet’s Weenter Veil!” blubbered out the abomination, having no real sense of time or appropriate knowledge of something as complex as a calendar, but it recognized all the pretty lights and Winter Veil trees well enough.

"How incredibly dastardly!! Er... How nice!! The Great Nyehehe hasn’t missed Winter Veil!! The spirits did it all in one night!! Nyes, they can do anything they please!! Nyehehe!!” cackled Nyeh as he pranced around gleefully.

“Mmmhmmm...” mumbled the abomination dumbly, its sight steering elsewhere out of slight boredom and a very low attention span.

“Oh!! Nyes!! Do you know the Cratchcrank household of 12710 Swindle Street on the isle of Kezan?”

The abomination took its attention back to Nyeh, “Nope.”

“Perfect!! Go there, and fetch some medicine for Tiny Tib!!” Nyeh exclaimed, far too consumed by joy, rather than by fire as he had believed not two minutes ago, to realize what the abomination had answered with.

“What medicine?” wondered the brely sentient wall of flesh.

“All of it!! Obviously!! Now, off with you to Tiny Tib to deliver the medicine!!” demanded Nyeh before bursting into another joyous jig, “And take The Great Nyehehe’s spare sack from last year’s evil scheme of stealing Winter Veil!! The Great Nyehehe shan’t be committing any further wicked acts such as that anymore, so it shan’t be of any use to him!!”

‘D’okay!” the abomination burped as it ran off to blindly follow the old madman’s order, stumbling and bumbling on the way with Nyeh’s empty red sack in one of his stubby hands.

Having finished checking his mail, as well as sorrowfully accepting the fact that he’d likely never get that invite to the big upcoming Winter Veil party due to his current condition as a corpse, the abomination’s Death Knight master had been looking around for his near-mindless servant. When the abomination had totally ignored his order, “Stop!”, the Death Knight had began to run off behind him, in a futile attempt to catch it. Despite its immense size, the abomination sure was swift!

“Light guide you, small child!! And merry WInter Veil!!” called out Nyeh after them. “Now, to make things right with all those The Great Nyehehe had wronged!!” he vowed to himself as he donned his old Father Winter’s hat he had stitched together the previous year.

And then, The Great Nyehehe began his not-crooked crusade for redemption. He put his very soul into each festive song he sang with the Winter Veil carolers he had intimidated away just yesterday, though admittedly he was comparatively very dissonant with the rest of the group, his singing voice was admittedly quite wretched.

Furthermore, he gave plenty of gold to charity,...

He gifted toys and presents to orphans...

He gave a present even to the officers of the Stormwind City Guard, of whom they had both shared a rather heated past. Truly, he had changed for the better.

And to further support his redemption, The Great Nyehehe had turned to religion, becoming a devout and faithful believer in the Light! No longer did he claim to be superior to the Light, nor any deity, or truly to be better than anyone else. He was fully forgiven of his sins by Brother Arthur, whom had taken over Bishop Farthing’s duties after the good bishop had mysteriously disappeared during his inconspicuous trip to the Tirisfal Glades.

The Great Nyehehe had vowed to redeem himself, and he was better than his word. He had seen the error of his ways. He became a generous, humble, kindly, and loving man for the rest of his days. He became as good a friend. as good a priest, and as good a man as the good old city of Stormwind ever had!

And it was always said of him that The Great Nyehehe knew how to keep Winter Veil spirit well and alive throughout the whole year!

...

Or... that WOULD have been what they had said, had the following event not occurred, which it unfortunately and undoubtedly did.

“Nai-hee-hee!” cheered the Draenei sincerely, “It is so good to see that you have turned over a new leaf! I am so proud of you, Nai-hee-hee!” The Draenei then made a tragic mistake, and gave Nyeh a congratulatory slap on the back.

Though the Draenei had considered it to have been a rather light and playful gesture, The Great Nyehehe reacted comparatively dramatically and fell right over. Whether it was due to the Draenei indeliberately using a surplus amount of strength he was unaware he had, The Great Nyehehe’s ironic and immense frailty despite his earlier view of himself as an unstoppable deity, or a mixture of both, the slap left The Great Nyehehe tumbling down the stairs and his head colliding harshly with the hard, white pavement of the Cathedral.

When he had came to, it had seemed that the ensuing concussion had left The Great Nyehehe feeling nauseous, discombobulated, and, once again, seeing things.Most importantly, it had left him with a vastly different view of the world: the exact same one he had not just yesterday, on The Great Nyehehe had seen the error of his ways! Again!

Raving and rambling, Nyeh had thought aloud to himself “The proper way of celebrating Winter Veil isn’t being kind or generous or festive, obviously!! It is to be even more villainous and wicked to combat the season’s tidings of goodwill with evil schemes, dastardly deeds, and acts of hate!! Oh, how wrong The Great Nyehehe was to ever think that being a goody two-shoes would ever aid him in the slightest!! Drat those spirits!! Drat them all!!”

And The Great Nyehehe went against his earlier word, and went to make wrong again all the wrongs he had literally just righted.

He stole from charity...

He had took back the toys and presentshe had given to orphans...

He had even forcibly taken back the present he had propounded to the officers of the Stormwind City Guard, of whom they shared a now even more heated and less friendly relationship than before...

And to further renounce his redemption, he cursed the Light, dratted the church, and imprecated all forms of goodness, heroism, and love on Azeroth and within the universe. “Curse you, you lousy Light and your clueless clergy and cretinous crusaders!! Bah!!” Nyeh swore at the Church building itself with a hateful shake of his fist.

There was one, almost heroic deed that The Great Nyehehe could not make wrong again, however, was when he had ordered a Death Knight’s abomination servant to deliver medicine to Tiny Tib of the Cratchcrank household at 12710 Swindle Street on the isle of Kezan, The abomination had no idea what medicine it was the sickly goblin child had needed, so the hellish simpleton had ransacked the homes, laboratories, and bathrooms of various alchemists, apothecaries, priests, and engineers, leaving dozens of years of work between them all down the drain. Luckily, he had unwittingly found an antidote after storming through the hut of a Gurubashi Witchdoctor who never quite got over the death of Soulflayer Hakkar. Still, his presence was not immediately met with welcome by the Cratchcrank family.

“Stay behind me, kids!” directed Ms. Cratchcrank, all three of them, as well as her husband Bozo, immediately following suit fretfully.

“Mama, I’m scared!” peeped one of Bozo’s daughters, the other screeching in agreement.

“G-Get ‘em, dear!’ whimpered Bozo.

“Stop” uselessly demanded the Death Knight to his abomination, having been running just behind after his near-mindless servant in atttempt to catch it, the wall of flesh being just out of reach each time. As mentioned earlier, despite its immense size, the abomination sure was swift!

“Shush, honey! Now, you monstrous brute, what are you doing knocking down OUR door on Winter Veil of all-” scolded Ms. Cratchcrank as though she was nagging a boy that had been playing too carelessly around her garden rather than a half-sentient wall of flesh and souls, before she was interrupted.

“Medicine for Tiny Tib.” the abomination burped, indifferent to the family’s fear.

Popping out from behind his mother and willing to try and anything, Tiny Tib, WHO DID NOT DIE, piped up “Oh? Why didn’t you just say so, then?” Tiny Tib chugged down the antidote after the abomination had handed it to him. He then did a wonderful little diddy of a dance with his now working legs cheerily to celebrate, his parents and sisters awestruck.

Tiny Tib was now perfectly healthy, and the very next week Bozo was promoted from a mid-level accountant to mid-high level accountant, which despite being only a single level above mid-level accountant paid far more handsomely. The Cratchcranks lived happily forever after, never even knowing the name of The Great Nyehehe.

“Drat, drat, and double drat!!” the old fool roared into the air, his stolen goods hoarded in his Evil Lair, “The Great Nyehehe drats all those spirits a nyehehillion times over!! How dare they try to trick The Great Nyehehe into becoming a goodie two-shoes!! And now he can’t even intercept that blasted child from delivering that moronic medicine!! Curses!!”

Far above Nyeh’s head, upon the yellow-tinted roofs of the Cathedral District, the spirits looked down upon their wayward student whom had refused their teaching so strongly with great disappointment.

“Well, the testing session for Operation didn’t seem to work. If we can’t even persuade our one, some foolish old madman to become good, how could we ever trick the faction leaders into trying to call for peace with the Legion?” sighed the first spirit.

“Guess we’ll have teh call off the real thing. Why even botheh tryin’ et on Sylvanas er Anduin at this point.” muttered the second spirit bitterly.

“In that case, can we take off these stupid disguises? These weights are killin’ my shoulders!” complained Maldy, rattling his chains.

The third spirit nodded in agreement.

“Ach, fine. Don’t matter much now anyhow.”

*POOF!*

“Ah, we feel so much better now that we don’t have to look like some prude elf!” admitted the succubus as her illusion faded.

“Well, now tha’ tha’s all done, yeh guys wanna go terrorize some Orphans?” suggested the hulking felguard to his fel fellows, failing to realize he was still speaking in the Dwarvish accent of his illusion.

“Ah, wait, guys, one more thing...” interjected the Imp, whom had not a moment ago been the nonliving phantom of the former Tradeprince Maldy.

“Merry Winter Veil, everyone!!”

“...”

“What was that fer?” thought the second spirit aloud.

“I... I have no idea... I just had the urge to say that... as though that was the only way this all could end...” shuddered the Imp.

~The End.~

I’m utterly amazed, children. What a book! That was, undoubtedly...

The worst book I have ever read! Ugh... remind me to re-gift this for next Winter Veil, children. I probably should have just read ‘T’was the Night before Winter Veil’, anyway... Anyone care for some hot cocoa?

#winter veil carol #winter veil #5/5 #holiday

28 notes · View notes

omegangrins · 4 years

Text

[Kingsmen 3: The Golden Service] Harry Hart turns "villain"

TL;DR: The Lepidopterist is the *perfect* name for a "colorfull" megalomaniac who's trying to save the world via villainy.

I've allways had a nagging feeling that Colin Firth's Harry Hart is destined to become a villain. Like Valentine and Poppy, our Hart will break.

Why do I think this? Let's start simple:

1) "I always felt that the old Bond films were only as good as the villain. As a child, I rather fancied a future as a colorful megalomaniac."

youtube

Now you could take it as face value veiled metaphor in their cat and mouse game. A game recognize game moment. Though when you look at it from a character angle, it is rather apparent that Galahad is not lying here. Look at the giddy nature in which they both talk about the subject. Almost lost in a moment of childhood nostalgia. Neither man is lying. So if Valentine tried to save the world like his younger self wanted, then it stands to reason that Harry has that childhood dream himself.

Harry even has a flair for the dramatic already. "Manners maketh man" is all about him causing a dignified scene to teach a lesson to all watching. In the Freebird church scene, you can see it BEFORE he starts fighting because of Valentine's machine.

Feels like a simple "I'm going to the bathroom" or "I'm hot and need to breath outside for moment" would have sufficed and gotten him out of there without hassle from the crazy Baptist and he KNEW that but didn't care. Arthur implies this subversiveness in their conversations about choosing candidates. Then there's the *way* in which he kills everyone there. Not just defense or trying to kill quickly but lots of slow, painful, and fucked up deaths. The killing is Valentine but the style is ALL Harry. It's part of the reasons he's disgusted. Not the enjoyment, but the ease with which he turned so gleefully. That slow motion fade in smile in the middle is proof of this. Harry *wanted* to punish those people the same way Valentine did. That's proven by what he says at the start. (Don't blame him either, just character commenting. Fuck those people.) Part of me thinks the Freebird is playing in *HIS* head. He's a bird freed by blood.

2) The Lepidopterist

I know the clip is from Venture Bros but it's meant to show how two "good guys" became bad. Kinda the perfect coincidence. But I digress... it was a shameless plug to #SavetheVentureBros. 😎😙😍

youtube

The hobbyist collecting of insects, fauna/flora, and what-have-yous has looooong been a trope of "colorful megalomaniacs".

Then there's the added bonus that The Lepidopterist sounds like the *perfect* name for a Bond villain.

Butterflies even symbolize death and rebirth and the violence inherent in transforming something for the better.

Is Harry's butterflies a set-up foreshadowing to his coming transformation from "hero" to "villain"?

"I doubt whether I'd work for anyone who drowns their employees. I want to go home. I want my butterfly collection. I want to see Mother."

3) As we know, all the best villains are ones we sympathize with and understand WHY they do what they do. Valentine was trying to solve over-population and save what he could of the species so it wouldn't happen again. Poppy wanted drugs to be legal, partially for vanity reasons but mainly for anger at global government hypocrisies (the same governments which had their heads blown up for trying to kill humanity for their own gain). Wouldn't it fit perfectly for Harry Hart to have seen the horrors inflicted by the world governments and the corruption of not only Statesmen, but his beloved Kingsmen themselves, and say "No more." What's he gonna feel when he finds out Arthur sold the Kingsmen's soul and got him killed? How long has the "shoot the dog" exercise been in practice? Why is trying to drown someone thought of as a reasonable way to help them? Does the rot go to the core? All things any reasonable person would ask after being shot for an organization that was just blown up by a drug dealer.

"When I was shot, can you guess what the last thing was that flashed through my mind? It was absolutely nothing. I had no ties. No bittersweet memories. I was leaving nothing behind. Never experienced companionship, never been in love. And in that moment, all I felt was loneliness and regret."

Who's to say what he would do or the methods he would take, but villains are merely people casting shadows in the way of the light.

4) I put this last because it's more pun than the others and because I only realized it while writing their names out loud. Valentine. Poppy. Hart. A valentine is love, poppies symbolize death, and a heart combines both (a Hart is also the name for an adult male deer over the age of five but I'm not British enough to understand what the fuck that has to do with anything.) There's also Richmond Valentine/Rich Man Love (Rich dude saving the world). Poppy Adams/ Poppy of the Earth (Death of the World). And finally Harry Hart/Harry Heart. An attacking heart. Yeah, that's the old definition of "harry". To harass. (Or Power Ruler of the Five Year Old Male Deer. This isn't an exact science 🙃 ). Honestly, as I write these out, the puns become the hardest piece of proof for me. Brits love a good wordplay foreshadowing.

"... this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."

AND what else do they have in common? They're all things associated with the color red. And what's red?

BLOOD.

Sorry, couldn't resist the touch of drama. 🤣

P.S. I know it's not really related but I also subscribe to the Poppy is a former Statesmen theory as well.

Making this an even more thematic connection. Good guys gone villain because of shitty situations.

Edits

5) HE'S WEARING AN EYEPATCH!!! How autistic am I that I missed that in my explanation. Eyepatches just seem that normal to me but they're like the ultimate villain accessory. Unless you're a pirate.

6) /u/Bespoke3 pointed out how the one thing keeping this from happening is Eggsy and Harry's relationship, and I contended that it was true. While making an interesting movie, you need a sufficient reason for those two to be on opposite ends of each other. And in rambling through comments, I found it. This is why you write shit outloud:

It's Princess Tilde!

The first movie showed that world leaders would gladly sell their souls to save themselves, Princess Tilde being one of the few exceptions. The second showed that even after those figureheads exploded (see what I did there 🤣), there was still terrible people left in charge making even worse decisions.

What if Harry's plan is to attack all of the "leaders" of the world as a way to show people they have the power to govern themselves. This would put Princess Tilde, and moreso her family, directly in the line of fire and force Eggsy's hand to intervene and choose.

Save the girl or save the world.

7) As /u/baddestmofointhe209 pointed out, Harry *was* shot in the head. That kind of thing does tend to mess with people after the fact. Maybe turning villain isn't such a stretch. Not evil, but morally grey.

8) My wife was telling me about how Colin Firth has allways wanted to play the villain too.

"Whenever you take on playing a villain, he has to cease to be a villain to you. If you judge this man by his time, he's doing very little wrong."

“I’d never rule out a part in Doctor Who or Torchwood – especially Doctor Who, I’d also love to play a villain like Moriarty in Sherlock Holmes."

9) Thanks to some pushback from /u/The-Reddit-Giraffe, I decided to Google Kingsmen 3 rumors and stumbled on this little nugget about it, and specifically the Harry/Eggsy relationship:

"I'm really not allowed to say anything, but there is a script. It's a really neat idea."

Outside of it telling the finale of Eggsy and Harry Hart's story, we don't know all that much about the plot for the third movie.

"People will either freak out in a good way, or freak out in a bad way, but they will freak out," Vaughn teased. "We're literally finishing the script off as I speak – but they go on a journey that, if anyone sees it coming, then I'll give up."

To which I would like to thank YOU. This is why I love being shown how I could be wrong. I can't help but feel like this is EXACTLY what they're talking about. You don't have a script finished that fast if you didn't already know where you were going with the first two.

It HAS to end like this. Now I can't see any other way. Maybe The Rock is the Big Bad they have to team up to stop at the end but I will say with 99% confidence that Harry Hart will turn rogue for the first 2/3 of the movie.

10) This wouldn't be the first time I was right about something like this either.

0 notes

funnythingshere0-blog · 6 years

Text

Nick Cave at the Abbey: A funny, strange and beautiful evening

New Post has been published on https://funnythingshere.xyz/nick-cave-at-the-abbey-a-funny-strange-and-beautiful-evening/

Nick Cave at the Abbey: A funny, strange and beautiful evening

After a stirring recording of his poem Steve McQueen plays, the lights come up in the Abbey Theatre and Nick Cave is seated at a grand piano playing Sad Waters from 1986’s Your Funeral My Trial.

The stage is laid out to look like a bar, with an artificial counter and a high stool and some people sitting around tables. The rest of the audience observes from either side.

The song finished, Cave hops up and explains that recently he’s been experiencing something “intimate” and “communal” at his concerts. Doing a show in which audience members ask questions felt like the next step. He frowns. “It seemed like a great idea a few months ago but now seems really terrifying.”

The risks are evidenced by the first questioner who launches into a sweetly heartfelt expression of love for Cave. “A question mark at the end would be good,” Cave says, when it’s time for the next question. “Even an upward inflection at the end of the sentence would be helpful.”

And then, with his answer to the next question, Cave goes straight to the heart of the matter and talks about how, since the death of his 15-year-old son Arthur in 2015, performing has “literally been lifesaving.”

He discusses Andrew Dominik’s incredibly raw documentary film One More Time with Feeling, made in the aftermath of Arthur’s death, and how at the time he had “no idea of the effect that film had on other people. [There were] so many people in a similar situation… We are all connected in some way by our sense of suffering.”

This is the subtext of the night and several audience members preface their contributions by telling Cave how his work has helped them process grief. Not that the evening isn’t also riddled with joyful silliness. An early discussion of his song-writing relationship with Warren Ellis comes to an abrupt end when Cave points into the audience and says, “Hey, it’s the guy from Peaky Blinders!” Cillian Murphy, who probably just wants a quiet night out, looks quite embarrassed.

Stripped-down Cave songs emerge organically from the blizzard of questions. One comes out of a query about Cave’s ideal musical collaborator. The answer is the late folk musician Karen Dalton, but then he declares that he’ll sing a song about someone else he collaborated with. “It didn’t end well,” he says, before playing a pleasantly aggressive, staccato version of West Country Girl, a song written about onetime girlfriend PJ Harvey.

The roving mics come out again and Cave is back on his feet. “Come here to me,” says a bearded Dub, who’s curious if Cave has any stories about Shane MacGowan in the old days. “It didn’t matter how disgraceful he was, people just love him,” says Cave of his friend.

“How does it feel to know there have been a lot of children conceived to your music?” another man asks.

“It’s a beautiful thing,” says Cave. “What song was it?”

“Love Letter.”

“How many minutes did you make it through the song?”

“Let’s just say we had it on repeat,” he says, a little boastfully. “And it’s a long song.”

“Respect,” says Cave.

A more highbrow type asks about the importance of his increasingly more abstract lyrics. Abstraction, says Cave, allows the listener “to add their own imagination to the cauldron of the whole thing.”

Someone asks what his favourite song on No More Shall We Part is. “I’ll play it,” he says, and renders a lovely version of the title track. “You like that one?” he asks Cillian Murphy when he finishes.

A woman asks about religion and whether “God is in the house?”. “It’s increasingly difficult to talk about,” he says, before referencing religious conflict and the women forced into Magdalene laundries. But he goes on to say that while God and spirituality might be “happy delusions” they are nonetheless necessary concepts for him when he’s writing.

“They’ve been leaking out of the cracks and into my normal life. Spirits and ghost and magic and absurdity seem to be having more of an impact on me than I’d like to admit.”

Then he plays God is in the House, lifting his arms in Pentecostal style for some briefly piano-less acclamations towards the end.

The subject of grief is never far away. A bereaved man asks how long it took before Cave wasn’t too numb to write. “I never found [grief] numb,” says Cave. “It was too much to feel. A deeply physical situation. I was unable to do anything. I was so full of this thing.”

More recently, he says, “I’ve been able to leap across this nagging absence in my life to something really beautiful and transcendental… I’ve discovered a way to write about other things without turning my back on what happened… I hope you get to that place.”

Cave rejects the idea of a cultural boycott of Israel, because that would mean punishing dissident Israelis

A man asks if rumours he might be leaving Brighton for LA are true. Cave talks about how much he loves Brighton, but he adds that being there means regularly having to pass where Arthur died (he fell from a cliff after experimenting with LSD). “It’s very difficult to live there. I have an urge to leave but an urge to stay as well.”

Such deep moments are leavened by good-humoured daftness. A man gives him a tea towel. Someone asks what’s in Cave’s cup (“Throat tea, if you must know”).

A man presents him with Stuart Bailie’s book Music and Conflict in Northern Ireland. A woman asks for marriage advice. Someone in the front row keeps shouting up questions randomly without an assigned microphone. “You must be terrible to watch TV with,” says Cave. He sits at the piano and plays a softened version of Papa Won’t Leave You Henry.

The lights come up and a woman asks if the politics of Berlin had an influence on his music when he lived there in the late eighties. “I wish I could answer this question better. The truth is my time in Berlin is kind of foggy. I was immersed in my own sordid little world.”

He recalls how when recording The Good Son his bandmate Blixa Bargeld interrupted a vocal take to say, “The wall is coming down.” Cave responded with, “Fuck off, I’m trying to sing.”

A brave soul asks about Cave’s decision to play Israel last year and whether he’d do so again given recent atrocities. “Don’t answer him, Nick!” says an angry voice, but Cave answers everything. He would play Israel again, he says. He talks about the “grotesque” behaviour of Israel but also the “grotesque” behaviour of Hamas.

He talks about the Israelis who are protesting their own government and he coolly rejects the idea of a cultural boycott as advocated by Brian Eno, because that would mean punishing those Israelis. It’s the most uncomfortable moment of the night.

The woman in the front row says. “I’ve finally got a microphone” “Oh,” says Nick. “You.”

She asks about his first novel And the Ass Saw the Angel. He affectionately disparages his youthful writing before taking to the piano to play a mournful version of The Mercy Seat, a song he wrote contemporaneously with that novel.

A man asks him about addiction. “I haven’t taken drugs or a drink for twenty odd years,” he says. “It’s not something I need to work on on a daily basis … It’s pretty easy really.” Though he adds, “It took me a long time to work that out.”

A young woman tells him her favourite song is The Ship Song. “What’s yours?” she asks.

“It’s The Ship Song,” says Cave. “I’ll play it for you if you like?” He plays it for her and its beautiful.

Someone asks if Cave’s always dapper Bad Seeds have a dress code. Not officially, says Cave, but they slowly adapt nonetheless. Cave recalls that when the nowadays besuited Warren Ellis first played with them he was wearing a cropped ACDC T-shirt and a pair of shorts made from a flour sack. “Not only ugly but obscene,” he says of the shorts.

He plays Love Letter, the song to which an audience member’s child was conceived. A woman asks how he feels about the piano as an instrument.

“It provides a song-writing service,” he says. He differentiates himself from his bandmates who, he says, are obsessed with their instruments. “They can talk about [guitar pedals] for fucking hours… It’s mass pedal-philia on the bus. There’s your headline.”

Towards the end of the night, the man who gave him the book about Northern Ireland puts his hand up again, not to ask a question, but because he’s realised he left his tickets to the following night’s gig tucked into the book. He retrieves the tickets and gets a hug from Cave.

After two and a half hours, Cave plays the ominously comic Weeping Song and the beautifully forlorn Skeleton Tree. Then he says “Thank you” to a standing ovation and leaves the stage, the distance between the mythic performer and audience having collapsed completely. The best myths, after all, are deeply human. It’s been a funny, strange and beautiful evening.

0 notes

mikeyd1986 · 7 years

Text

MIKEY’S PERSONAL BLOG 50, April 2017

On Monday morning, I started my Healthy Cooking on a Budget short course at Balla Balla Community Centre in Cranbourne East. Being the first week, I was naturally a little nervous and socially awkward meeting new people in the group. But I think most people were hesitant in the kitchen as we’re all learning basic cooking techniques at the same level. Our teacher Jodie started the class by running through some food hygiene rules and the importance of washing your hands thoroughly before preparing meals.

We then split up into groups of 3 and cooked a variety of different dishes involving eggs including scrambled eggs, omelettes, pancakes and zucchini fritters. It was really surprising to learn how few ingredients you need to cook each of these recipes and how far you can spread them out if you’re really tight with money. It was slightly intimidating at first but eventually I was gaining confidence and stepped up to a few of the tasks. I really enjoy learning new skills and discovering different meals that I can cook for myself. http://www.ballaballa.com.au/progra...

On Monday night, my parents and I attended a drinks and members night at the Aspire Information Center. I was actually feeling quite nervous walking into the room as socially I was out of my comfort zone here. I got instantly recognised by Steve and Tina who were running the event as I used to serve them at Coles Casey Central a few years back. We each got a couple of drinks vouchers to use plus a personalised name badge and entry for a door prize.

Sitting down on the plush green sofa, I felt even more anxious and uncomfortable introducing myself to some of the other guests clambering around me. I just remained polite and kept on smiling. The two beers I had did little to settle my nerves. In fact, I wanted to doze off and sink into the cushions to escape this social function. Steve did his little sales speech about the benefits of their Classic Holidays timeshare program and I basically tuned out. Thankfully he didn’t pressure us into making an appointment and signing up to it.

On Anzac Day morning, we got up early and attended a breakfast gathering at the Aqua Cafe in the Nepean Country Club. It was a buffet style meal with lots of pancakes, fruit, tea, coffee and juice. It was a little crowded but the food was worth it. Later in the afternoon, we drove down to Arthurs Seat again and visited the Seawinds Gardens. The rain and wind was picking up so I spent the walk holding an umbrella. The gardens were really beautiful though with the trees revealing the many colours of autumn. There were also several lookouts, a duck pond and a nursery nearby. http://www.discovermorningtonpeninsula.com.au/...

On Anzac Day night, I had the my session of the Group Strength Training program at Breakaway Fitness in Narre Warren. Sadly, I was Luke Davey’s only client tonight despite pushing the promotion really hard in the weeks leading up to it. I’m a very caring and empathetic person so I want other people in my life to succeed and I hope that in the coming weeks, there will be a bit more interest and a few more clients in the group.

I spent the session telling Luke all about my weekend down in Rye. I feel like I’m coming out of my shell a little more each time I see him and I’m learning that I can trust him now when I’m struggling. Of course, there’s still moments of silence and sometimes I have thoughts like “What should I ask him now? How can I break the ice?” but I’m learning to be more gentle with myself and not feel pressured to speak up if I have nothing to say. https://www.facebook.com/breakawayf...

WARM-UP...Tonight’s warm-up exercises consisted of three 90-second squat holds, a 3 minute butterfly sit with 10kg on each thigh and three rounds of 12 weighted glute bridges. I’m pretty used to these particular exercises from my one-on-one sessions but I was still feeling very tight and sore in my glutes and thighs.

DEVELOPMENT...For the development, I did three round of 5 weighted back squats. Tonight I managed to do 60kg squats which is my heaviest weight so far. I was a little shaky with some of my reps but I did my best to correct my posture and tried to be mindful of keeping my heels firmed grounded during the movement. It’s all practice but I think I’ve improved heaps since I started doing them.

WORK-OUT...For tonight’s workout, I had to do 40-30-20-10 reps of the following exercises: squats on the bench and butterfly sit ups. I gave myself a goal of 10 minutes and I soon realised that it was going to be a tough one to reach. The first two rounds were probably the hardest, particularly doing the butterfly sit ups. I was struggling to keep up the pace and fatigue was hitting me hard. I was also sliding around a bit and I had to keep correcting my position on the mat.

Thankfully I made it up in the last two rounds, smashing out the squats really quickly and trying to be more consistent with my sit ups. The fire was definitely unleashed during the final 10 reps. I was determined to get under 10 minutes or at least try to. I got 9 minutes and 29 seconds. I honestly couldn’t believe it but somehow I found the energy to finish the workout really fast.

On Thursday morning, my parents and I picked up our cat Prudence aka Bubbie from the Catshack in Narre Warren North. The owner Simon was quite concerned with her health as she hadn’t touched her food in 24 hours and was noticeably weak. We decided to take her straight to Pound Road Veterinary Clinic for a check up. In the car, I was monitoring her closely in the back seat, checking for any vital signs. She was still breathing and moving slightly in her carry cage. So I was feeling optimistic that she was going to pull through this.

Arriving at the veterinary clinic, Bubbie was rushed into the emergency surgery room after the receptionist noticed how cold she was. They placed her on a thermal mat to attempt to raise her body temperature. I was pretty much like an episode of RPA with the nurses running around the table trying desperately to revive our cat. Unfortunately, she didn’t make it. Her probable cause of death was heart and kidney failure with old age.

I spent some time holding her with a towel wrapped around her lifeless body. I almost couldn’t handle it as it was really confronting for me. Her mouth was gaping wide open and I kept expecting her to miraculously wake up even though I knew it wouldn’t happen. One of the hardest stages of grief for me is acceptance. Not only acknowledging that she’s died but being okay with that fact. It’s going to take me a while to get over it.

She lived to the ripe old age of 18 and despite having numerous health issues in her last year, she didn’t stop fighting until the end. It really broke my mum the most. She was absolutely devastated as Bubbie was very much a part of our family. It was really tough seeing mum so upset like that. I was feeling quite shaken and emotional as I really didn’t expect it to happen so suddenly. It’s going to be really tough accepting that she won’t be running around the house nagging for food or lounging around on the mats anymore.

On Friday night, I attended a Yoga class at YMCA Casey ARC in Narre Warren. This class was actually held inside the Creche rather than the Group Fitness room. It seemed quite weird at first but the space was certainly large enough for it. It was my second class with yoga instructor Dr. Vijaya Patil and sadly she was officially retiring after tonight’s class. It was really good to experience yoga from a more traditional perspective. https://www.fitnessfirst.com.au/fin...

We covered many different areas including Joint Therapy, Sun Salutations (Standing forward bend, plank, cobra, child’s pose, downward facing dog), Standing Postures (Side stretches), Balancing, Seated Postures (Side leg raises, camel pose, fish pose) and Meditation (Chanting, Full body scan). Vijaya is very informative, explaining the health benefits for each of the different poses we were doing. After such a tough and emotional day, I felt so much better after finishing this class. https://www.betterhealth.vic.gov.au/...

On Saturday night, I attended the Rope Climbs to Everest charity event at UFT PLAYgrounds in Berwick. Unfortunately, I had to work all day and so by the time I got there, I missed out on all the rope climbing action. Still I have no regrets about making an appearance to show my support for the vent. It was good catching up with all the other trainers despite being dog tired and socially awkward. It’s always been difficult for me to insert myself into conversations. I also get bored easily and know where my limits are when it comes to social interaction.

The cause itself is to raise $20,000 and climb 20,000 meters. The money raised goes toward providing support and treatment towards people suffering from anxiety, depression and suicide. It really is such an important cause seeing as I suffer from mental illness myself and so I wanted to get myself involved. Hopefully next year I’ll be strong and fit enough to participate as an actual climber and spend more time at the event. If you’d like to donate, you can do so here: https://www.gofundme.com/ropeclimbs...

“Recognize. Synchronize. Harmonize. What’s inside. Become the one, become the one, you know you are. We’ve got life. We’ve got love.” Goldfrapp - Become The One (2017)

“Just a little light flickering, out on the horizon. Just a little light there, what do I. Should I know. I should’ve known that. They’ll be coming right back, through the ripples of black” Goldfrapp - Zodiac Black (2017)

0 notes