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theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin · 3 years

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ohh i saw your answer about the sequels of star wars. id love to read you tear through the whole trilogy

Well, I’ve avoided this ask long enough. Part of the reason is this is really a huge topic, far too much for one ask, so I’m going to have to do this at a very high level.

In short, the Star Wars Sequel Trilogy is what one gets when you slap together the goal of selling merchandise and making tons of money, being as risk averse as humanly possible, adding a handful of warring directors with incredibly different visions, and having virtually no imagination when it comes to the imagining and writing of characters.

And we get this beautiful, awful, franchise that for reasons beyond me people seem to actually like (though interestingly, no one seems to like all of it, they may actually like one or two of the films, but no one says all three are actually in any realm of good).

With that, let’s begin.

The Force Awakens

For me this is easily the most tolerable of the sequel trilogy: it’s not great, it’s not terrible. It’s thoroughly watchable, you can be taken along for the movie’s journey and not raise your eyebrows too much at the action and leave the theater feeling this maybe wasn’t a complete waste of your time.

There’s a good reason for that. That reason is called the most blatant form of plagiarism I have ever seen in cinema in my life.

“The Force Awakens” is just “A New Hope” wearing a mustache. Only, it’s one of those cheap mustaches you get from a party store that, if you stare at it too long, just looks like the most false and awful thing you’ve ever seen. The mustache actively makes it worse. “The Force Awakens” is “A New Hope”, but worse.

Seriously, every major character, every major plot point, every major scene I can go directly back to “A New Hope”.

Our story begins when the Resistance, at great cost to our valiant heroes including torture at the hands of the Emperor’s second in command, sends a file out into the wilderness to be received by his people. This file contains plans for the Death Star.

The film then focuses on Luke, er Rey, getting involved in the Resistance, boarding the Death Star, and successfully destroying at the same time even at the lost of a beloved mentor that she just met (trading in Obi-Wan for Han Solo).

Our evil empire is run by an evil emperor who is so evil he sits in a chair, is served by very Moth Tarkin-esque human storm troopers, and has a second in command who revels in the Darth Vader get up (for no other reason that it makes him feel cool but we’ll get into this).

It’s “A New Hope”. Rey is Luke, Han Solo is Obi-Wan, Poe is a kind of Han Solo, Kylo Ren is Vader, Snoke is Palpatine, Hux is Tarkin, BB-8 is R2-D2, etc.

“But that’s not terrible,” you say, “I liked A New Hope?”

First, it is terrible, it gives a very bad sign of where the sequel trilogy is headed and is just lazy writing. It means that those who produced this franchise were so terrified of taking risks, of possibly ending up mocked as the prequels were, that they will deliver exactly what the original trilogy was. And what’s that? Uh, evil empires, scrappy desert kids, AND MORE DEATH STARS!

That brings us to point number two, the world of Star Wars after the events of the original trilogy shouldn’t support such things. And, if it does, my god what a bleak existence this place has turned into.

The First Order being able to rise easily from the Empire’s remains means that Luke accomplished nothing. Anakin sacrificed himself and had his moment of redemption for nothing. There was no happy ending to the Original Trilogy, our heroes failed miserably, and there is no indication that our new band of heroes can possibly succeed in their place. (More on this as the movies progress).

We now are in a galaxy where this new Republic is so pathetic that Leia doesn’t even give it the time of day and builds her own private army to battle the Empire. The First Order is able to not only rebuild a massive army by raiding villages on many different worlds and stealing children and do so successfully for at least ten years but is able to build a Death Star bigger than any we’ve ever seen before.

And the movie tries to convince us these are completely new problems, that Luke Skywalker is a hero (remember this is TFA, not TLJ yet), and that somehow these things just sprung up out of nowhere. BUT YEAH, RESISTANCE, WOO!

As for Rey, she’s like... a worse version of Luke. Her only motivation through the entire series is her trauma at being abandoned by her parents. That’s it, there’s nothing else to her, nothing else she ever wants or feels conflicted by. She struggles with the dark side because... the dark side? Genetics? Unclear? She’s absurdly, ridiculously, powerful in a way that’s acknowledged but never that acknowledged (we’ll get into this) and the movies just fail to sell me on her in any way.

Honestly, an easy fix for me would have just been making Rey a much younger character. I could believe a fourteen-year-old having stayed in the desert, scrounging for scraps, believing her parents are coming back every day now. As a twenty-something year old... It starts getting hard to believe she never left. (Also, this gets the benefit of getting rid of Reylo, which is always a plus for me).

As for Kylo Ren, I legitimately walked out of TFA thinking he was supposed to be comic relief. He’s what happens when someone desperately wants a likable, redeemable, villain and we get... Well, as a reminder his opening scene is one of genocide: he pillages and destroys a town with no regret and brutally tortures a man for information. We’re told he’s like this “because evil evil Snoke” and that may well be but throughout the film (and the series) it becomes clear that Kylo Ren’s main motivation is he deseprately wants to be cool. He wants to be a badass like Vader, he dresses in Vader cosplay (either ignoring or not knowing that Vader only dressed like that because his body was completely destroyed), he has these huge temper tantrums and nobody respects him because he’s a toddler in a Vader suit.

He murders his own father, his parents who (at least in the films themselves) show every willingness to take him back and forgive him what he’s done, so that he can fully embrace his own “evilness”. In other words, he commits patricide to feel cool about himself, then it doesn’t work.

And the movie series really banks on me feeling conflicted about Kylo Ren or at least wanting him to be redeemed. Granted, the wider internet seems to love him, I just can’t.

Oh, before I forget, the other thing I love about Kylo Ren is that the movies insist he’s a) strong in the Force b) is equal to Rey. Rey consistently beats the shit out of him with 0 training. Kylo Ren has been training in the Force for years. Guys, they are not a Dyad, Rey is far far far stronger than he is and for whatever reason the films never want to admit it. Because I guess we like things coming in pairs now.

But yes, “The Force Awakens”, at a distance not great nor terrible, but a rip off of a movie we’ve already seen that left me going “Welp, the next one’s probably The Empire Strikes Back then I guess we’re getting Ewoks”. I was sort of right on that and sort of wrong.

The Last Jedi

So, JJ Abrams clearly had a vision of where he wanted this sequel trilogy to go. He set up these big questions such as what’s up with Finn, who are Rey’s parents and why was she left on this nowhere planet, will Kylo Ren be redeemed and how, who is Snoke, etc.

Now, I’m not saying these aren’t stupid questions. To be frank, they kind of are. Finn being Force Sensitive was the most inconsequential thing I’ve ever heard of, Rey’s parents should not have been used to drive the plot the way it was, as spoken above I’m clearly team gut Kylo Ren, and that Snoke was actually just Palpatine being the world’s largest cockroach is a beautiful but hilarious answer.

That said, what Johnson did was he decided, “You know what, I’m going to take every trope of Star Wars and completely flip it on its head and absolutely doom the sequel to this movie.”

And by god, he did.

We get a weirdly pointless movie in which Poe, SINGLEHANDEDLY, completely obliterates the Resistance. He first obliterates their bombers by failing to follow command, then goes and bitches about how he’s not put in command when he clearly shows no ability to understand how a military works, actively subverts orders which in turn obliterates the entire Resistance fleet until the only survivors can fit on the Millenium Falcon. They have no ships, no weapons, barely any people, and are ultimately doomed doomed doomed.

We have Finn’s weird subplot with a suddenly introduced character Rose in which the pair aid in Poe’s blowing up the resistance (they send sensitive information using the communication equipment of a guy they do not know, who fully admits to being shady and out for his own skin, and are flabergasted when he betrays them).

Rose herself is this weirdly sweet person who seems forced into the plot to a) provide a love triangle for Finn and Rey b) provide this forced sunny outlook that I didn’t really need in the film.

We get Rey never really being trained, going into the Cave of Wonders for a few seconds, falling in love with Kylo Ren over weird Force Skype calls (where I did not need to see him shirtless, thank you film) and being horrifically betrayed when Kylo Ren turns out not to be a great guy. Never saw that coming, Rey.

As for Kylo Ren, well... God, we get Emperor Kylo Ren. Kylo Ren, the Emperor. I’m not even that upset about the anticlimactic murder of Snoke (that was kind of funny, especially in the context of Palpatine going, “Bitch, please, you’re in my chair” immediately in the next film) but just Kylo Ren being emperor. And also that the Resistance only escapes at all because he’s so dumb he made their dumb plans seem smart (i.e. concentrates all his firepower on an illusion for ten minutes while Hux goes, “Emperor, sir, we could actually destroy the Resistance right now.”

Now, you’ll notice I didn’t complain about Luke. A lot of people are upset he became a grumpy, miserable, old hermit who sits around waiting for death. Frankly though, in this universe, that’s exactly where he is. He left “Return of the Jedi” thinking he’d saved the world, he’s resurrected the Jedi Order, and all is well. Only a decade later, his students are all murdered by his nephew, the Empire’s back, and he accomplished nothing. He’s an utter failure as a Jedi (though Luke never realizes he knew jack shit about the Jedi Order and was in way over his head but I guess that’s beyond him). Why shouldn’t he go sit on a rock and wait to die?

Now, did he have to drink that blue dinosaur milk? Well, I guess it was funny, gross but funny so... Sure, I guess he did. But I do like that he gave Rey 0 training, they had one meditation session and then he whined about how Obi-Wan was such a stupid asshole. And then Rey ran off to be with her boyfriend, who then told her that her parents were gutter trash (which again, was funny, but I don’t think that was supposed to be funny).

Of the characters introduced in the movie, the only one I really liked was the hacker, and it was for the actor/the beautiful way in which he gracefully exited stage left with zero shame going, “You all knew I was going to betray you!” You beautiful man, you.

Rise of the Skywalker

First, when something is called “Rise of the Skywalker” you know you’re in for a rough time.

But anyways, TLJ was filled with a controversy Disney didn’t want (half their audience hated it, half loved it, but at least they sold those penguin dolls) so they desperately get Abrams back. Only, what he clearly wanted from his series has been shot to hell, and now he’s left with Emperor Kylo Ren, a completely obliterated Resistance, a dead Luke, a love interest he never planned to introduce for Finn, Rey’s parental crisis being solved with trash people, Snoke just suddenly dead, Hux planning revenge, and then some.

And so, Abrams goes the brave and hilarious route of shouting “PRETEND THAT LAST MOVIE NEVER HAPPENED”

We open to a fully functioning Resistance (their bomber fleet is back, their fleet period is back, they have all their fully trained personnel). We have Rey getting the Jedi training she needed this time from Leia, who is now a Jedi, because yay feminism rammed down my throat to make the audience feel better. Rose says “It’s cool guys, I don’t want to join the adventure this film, I’m going to stay here and work on robots” so that she can gracefully exit the entire plot. Kylo Ren is demoted from Emperor in two seconds when we discover that a) Snoke was apparently Palpatine b) for unexplained reasons Palpatine’s alive (and I am now convinced that man will never die). Kylo Ren tells Rey at the first opportunity that he lied about her trash parents AND REALLY SHE’S A PALPATINE! THIS WHOLE TIME, REY! THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT. I’M SUPER SERIAL THIS TIME, REY.

Basically, in the course of an overly long movie, Abrams desperately shoves in everything he was trying to get out of the series, while sobbing, and sobbing even harder when things like Finn being Force Sensitive or Lando having a secret daughter get caught. I actually agree with the Producers on this, by the way, the Finn trying to tell Rey something scenes were weird and indicative of a love triangle but him being Force Sensitive instead... It says a lot that the movies did not change when it was removed, at all. And Lando was just this strange cameo who was in the film to make us feel nostalgic.

And this isn’t even getting to the ridiculous 24 hour time limit (which made me think there should have been some video game style clock in the corner letting us know when Dawn of the Third Day is coming), Palpatine’s other secret army on a secret Sith planet that can be easily taken down by taking out one navigation tower, Rey’s hilarious struggle with the dark side in which she has a vision of herself in a cape hissing, Kylo Ren’s hilarious redemption in which the movie in the form of Leia and Han Solo says, “Alright, Ben, it’s time to stop being evil” and he says “okay”, the fight with Palpatine in which I’m supposed to believe he dies for reals because... I have no idea why I’m supposed to believe he’s dead. The Reylo, god the Reylo, and Kylo Ren’s tragic, hilarious, death.

And then, of course, the ending where Rey decides she’s a Skywalker now.

I actually did laugh all the way through “Rise of the Skywalker”, you can’t not, I mean it’s a hilariously awful movie. The only thing that might have made it more hilarious was if we actually did get those Ewoks.

TL;DR

They’re all bad movies, if you want more specifics than this, you’re just going to have to ask me questions.

#ask #anon #anti star wars sequels #anti rey #anti kylo ren #anti reylo #ah what beautiful awful movies #i look foward to the characters being shocked and appalled when yet another evil empire arises in five years #i look forward to them being even more shocked when palpatine's still not dead #that man will never die

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hornyhimbofaggot · 3 years

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Wow, uh? I have never done this before and I have no idea what to do, lmao...

ANYWAYS!!!

I really want to start writing this story idea I've had since 8th grade, and when I started doing it with OCs, it was shit. So?

The premise: the year is 3026, and the U.S. government had officially eradicated 2/3 of human life a decade ago because of the awful amount of overpopulation. They wanted it to be quick and painless, but they had only managed to test the death-drug on rats before the crisis got too out-of-hand to keep putting it off. That being said, human and rat/rodent DNA are NOTHING alike, and no one knew what was happening because the death-drug was put into 2/3 of America's dispensed flu shots. So, because of the ultimate clusterfuck of governmental/medical malpractice, instead of dying quickly and without any pain, the society members that were infected with the "flu shot" became zombies, and began mindlessly wreaking havoc on the rest of the "healthy" population by brutally attacking, killing, and eating them. So, a big Dome was soon built around a small area of what used to be Arizona and California to protect those safe.

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

Now, a decade has gone by, and resources inside The Dome are getting scarce, but humanity is too afraid to venture beyond to try and find either more needed items or a cure.

Insert the first two of the three total main characters, who want to avenge their mom, whom they lost to the "flu shot". They are siblings, originally brother-and-sister, but I am open to changing the gender of the siblings. They have a strong enough will to sacrifice themselves in an attempt to save the rest of society in The Dome, and they each have a special weapon that they use especially well (Guns and Crossbow). They venture out pretty early on in my story, braving the hellish desert of Arizona almost immediately.

After a week or two of expeditionary adventures, they're both genuinely surprised to find out that those inhabiting The Dome are not the only people left alive when they stumble across another boy around the same age fighting off a hoard of zombies.

They jump in to help this boy, and after a bit of conversation, manage to convince him to aid in the search for resources or the cure. He also has a specialty weapon, which is knife-throwing, axes, and sharp metal, pointy things.

I have an idea for the brother and the boy found a little later on to have a romantic relationship, and for the siblings to be extremely close, but not so much that it's a toxic duo.

(They all die at the end, by the way.)

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

ONTO WHY I TYPED OUT THIS WHOLE FUCKING STORY PLOT AT 4AM!:

Like I said in the beginning, I attempted this book using OCs. I've tried writing and re-writing it for YEARS (I'm supposed to be a Senior, but I dropped out in September-), but it never works out. I hate that, because I am so proud of this idea, but the fact that I constantly fail to execute it is completely fucking insane to me.

So, that being said, since OCs are out of the question, I wanted to know what characters you all thought would be good substitutes.

(Preferably anime characters, but musicals and maybe other lesser-known people would be alright, too!)

My main thoughts as to what anime would give A+ characters to incorporate into this are:

- Haikyuu!!

- My Hero Academia

- Devilman: Crybaby

- Voltron: Legendary Defenders (I know it technically doesn't count as anime, but it's the art-style concept.)

- Yarichin Bitch Club

- BJ Alex (I know it's a Manhwa, but it's just the idea seems like it could possibly fit?)

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡◇♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

That being said! Any suggestions you all have character-wise would be greatly appreciated!! I would also like to hear suggestions, feedback, or criticism on the plot, setting, or anything else you might see that could use some improving.

(Also, like I mentioned in the very start of this post, I am absurdly new to Tumblr, so I think it might be easier for you to get a hold of me through Instagram. My username is @trans.himbo.)

Thanks again for reading this clusterfuck of a post!!!

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

- Leo-Helix Jeremy A.

#writing #author #oc #storytelling #story ideas #someone help #anime-insert #anime #manhwa #zombie #post apocalyptic #disease outbreaks #fanfic #book #angst #open to anyone #accepting criticism

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justkeeptrekkin · 5 years

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Not making this too specific because there's a lot of fun directions it could go, but here's a fic I've been dying for: Ineffable Husbands at a gay club and one of them gets REALLY jealous of all the attention the other's getting from the patrons

Anon, you’ve inadvertently triggered my very niche interest in the 1980s Manchester music scene. This is so so long... apologies for that. This is also very relevant to another anonymous ask I got about dancing/letting loose, so I’m screen-shotting it here- anon, I hope you see this!

***

The year is 1984. Margaret Thatcher has won her landslide victory, and the miners’ strike has started sweeping the United Kingdom. Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners (LGSM) is beginning to make its mark in the papers. Madonna has taken over all radio stations worth listening to. Manchester United and Brighton drew 2-2 in the FA Cup, and the CD is now available in all good music stores.

Aziraphale is in Manchester. The North is currently filled with civil unrest due to the current political situation. Crime is rising, jobs are dwindling, people are scared for their futures. Aziraphale doesn’t often venture to The North, but when he does, it’s because something’s either gone terribly wrong or terribly well. For example, the Industrial Revolution (which had been both good and bad).

Crowley is in Manchester, too. He is in Manchester’s coolest club, The Haçienda. Nowadays, rather shockingly, Manchester is the place to be. It’s where New Order and The Smiths come to play. It’s the epicenter of British sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll. It’s Crowley’s creation, and for the first time since the city’s inception, he’d been- in his own words- ‘more than happy to come and check up on it and see how it’s doing’.

The two of them run into each other one night, on a busy street outside The Haçienda.

It’s eleven-thirty in the evening when Aziraphale turns a corner and walks directly into his best friend, whom he hasn’t seen since 1975. At first, he doesn’t recognise him for the lack of handle-bar moustache, begins apologising profusely. But the apology fades away on his tongue as he takes a step back and sees Crowley, giant Ray-Bans hiding most of his face. A black suit that’s too large for him- shoulders padded. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The ankles of his trousers rolled up too, and slacks without socks. And a painfully loud red and black Hawaiian shirt.

Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up above his considerable sunglasses. “Aziraphale?”

“Crowley! Fancy running into you here.” Aziraphale brushes off his cream, swede, double-breasted suit jacket. “What are you doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Crowley spends a moment trying to re-roll his sleeves. Ever the perfectionist, he isn’t happy with how purposefully dishevelled he looks, and shrugs off his jacket, trying again. As he faffs, he continues, “This is my city. And it’s only just started getting really interesting. What are you doing here? What’s an angel doing in Manchester of all places?”

“Well. All this Thatcher business.”

“Oh,” Crowley nods. “Yes. Her. Coming to try and tidy up after her, are we?”

“Sort of. Lots of unhappy people, thought I’d try and perform a miracle or two.”

“Fair enough- except- except, doesn’t really answer my question,” Crowley drawls, stepping closer, sliding his hands into the pockets of his loose trousers.

The streets of Manchester are filled with party goers. Music from The Haçienda booms out, cigarette smoke pouring through the half open doorway. The bouncer eyes them suspiciously.

Aziraphale feels transfixed on the spot, Crowley’s gaze fixed on him and an amused smile playing on his lips.

“What’s an angel doing in Manchester at 11:30 on a Saturday night?”

Aziraphale stares. That hair. Some sort of miracle has gone into that hair, the way it’s been swept back and sprayed to an inch of its life to keep its hold. There’s so much volume to it, so much life that it looks like it might leap right off Crowley’s head and run away. But what’s more distracting is the way Crowley begins to pace around him, the way he always seems to do. Like he’s orbiting Aziraphale- the sun around a sunflower. And Aziraphale turns to watch him.

“It’s- you’re right, it’s not my preferred thing to be doing,” Aziraphale begins, feeling very thoroughly watched. Crowley is looking at him like he’s enjoying himself, as if he’s impressed. “I’d much rather be reading my book back home, but I’m actually here to lend some support.”

“Support?” Crowley repeats, smile still there, brows raised in interest.

Aziraphale glances at him as he continues to circle. People pass them by on the street without a second glance. The bouncer, however, looks like he’s about to shoo them away from the outside of the club.

“Support,” he emphasises. How is he forgetting his words so easily tonight? Crowley doesn’t always have this mind-numbing effect on him, but when he does, it’s awfully embarrassing. “I’m here to support the Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners. They’re having a party to gather allies in the gay club here. Just down the road.”

Crowley stops at that. And if he’d looked impressed before, now he looks positively elated, smile huge and brows flying to his hairline. “You what? LGSM- that was you?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says quietly. Smiling to himself, feeling pleased. And quite frankly, flourishing a little under Crowley’s smile. “Two subjugated parties, coming together for a common cause. Equality.”

“And riots.”

Crowley smirks. Aziraphale frowns at him.

“Peaceful protest,” Aziraphale amends.

Crowley bows his head in concession. “Of course,” he says insincerely.

“Anyway,” Aziraphale says, before Crowley can begin lecturing him. “I’m heading over there now, just to show my face. It would be very rude not to, as they had invited me. Although…”

Aziraphale swallows. Looks about the dark, lamplit streets around him and sees the people stumble along, beers in hand, empty bottles of Lambrini rolling down the pavements. People chanting football anthems as they run through the deserted roads. The red-brick, converted factory buildings illuminated by club lights.

“You’re lost, aren’t you?”

“No,” Aziraphale asserts. Then, after being stared at for a few moments, “Yes.”

Crowley snorts. “Well, there’s only one good gay club that I know of round these parts, go there quite a lot myself.”

That brings his attention right back to Crowley’s Ray-Bans. “You do?”

Crowley shrugs enthusiastically. “Yeah, why not? Good fun.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Absolutely.”

“Ah- good. Well…”

“You don’t strike me as the type to go to clubs often.”

“And you’d be right.”

“So, let me get this straight- you live in Soho, gay centre of London, and haven’t been to a gay club?”

“Not knowingly, no. You’ll have to show me the ropes.”

Crowley looks at him. He looks at him with an intensity that makes Aziraphale’s neck shiver strangely, and not altogether unpleasantly. And then he sniffs, looks away, begin walking away from the club their hanging outside of. Their steps falling easily in sync, as if they haven’t been apart for more than five minutes.

“You know it’ll be loud.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you probably won’t like the music.”

“Well, I’ll judge that for myself.”

“And people will try and flirt with you. Even in…” Crowley looks him up and down. “That.”

Aziraphale glares at Crowley and side-steps a little as they walk, brushing off his jacket again defensively. Looks down at his outfit- he’s sporting a very soft, very comfortable turtle neck. And some well-fitted trousers, thank you very much. Aziraphale has never seen Miami Vice, but he has seen posters and he knows that Crowley has taken the vast majority of his fashion inspiration from the show (at least he’s now emerged from his Saturday Night Fever phase). Aziraphale thinks he has rather better standards.

“What’s wrong with this?”

“You look like a Philosophy teacher.”

“And- excuse me, what is wrong with that?”

“You’re going to a gay club.”

“Well, my lesbian and gay friends don’t seem to take issue with my fashion choices.”

This is not, distinctly, true. They had tried to give him a makeover last week, and it had ended up with him looking like a lost member of Adam and the Ants.

“Alright, well, how about this.”

Crowley snaps his fingers- and then Aziraphale’s in a white silk shirt, buttons undone to his clavicle, the collar turned up and sleeves rolled up. White trousers- oh, Lord, no, they’re white jeans. And, well.

A little snug, at that.

“Good God,” he remarks.

“There. Suits you.”

“White jeans, Crowley. I mean, really, I think I can be classier than that.”

Crowley links arms with him and grins eagerly. Aziraphale’s back straightens and he returns his smile, a little giddily.

“Tonight, we aren’t doing classy, angel.”

***

Three hours and several cocktails later, and Aziraphale has found himself dancing something that isn’t a gavotte.

Some song about ‘needing a hero’ is playing, very upbeat and jovial it is, too. He’s dancing with the LGSM crew, glass half empty in one hand. It’s hot in here- he’s sweating horribly. And it’s incredibly loud. He doesn’t know what anyone’s saying, but they’re all having an excellent time. Cigarette smoke lingers in the air. And there are men in shorts so absurdly tiny that he doesn’t know how they keep everything in. The outfits get far more outrageous than that, too- people in full leather, people in full feathers, people in full glitter.

Gay clubs are fantastic, Aziraphale has decided.

He’s several drinks in, and Crowley has gone to the bar to buy a round for them all. Meanwhile, Aziraphale is jumping around with reckless abandon, knowing that, sooner or later, Crowley will come back. Crowley will come back and look at him in that way he does that Aziraphale doesn’t understand but makes his heart jump- a look that’s intense, yet soft, frustrated yet affectionate.

Aziraphale will do almost anything to see him look at him like that.

In the loud of the club, he hand signals something to his friends- something very inarticulate and nonsensical that’s meant to convey ‘I’m going to go look for my age-old friend Crowley, whom I have associated myself with for roughly six thousand years even though it’s technically against the rules, but I do it anyway because he’s probably the only person in this universe who understands me. Also I’m going to go help him with the drinks.’ And so he steps further into the crowd of the club- he’s lucky he’s drunk enough that he isn’t bothered by the sheer number of people- stepping on the sticky floor to find his friend.

And there.

There is Crowley, two cosmopolitans in hand. Being chatted up by a stranger.

A very large, lumberjack looking man leering at him. He has even more hair on his head than Crowley does, piled on top of it like a rodent. And then there’s the huge beard and the frankly alarmingly hairy chest, poking out of layers of denim. Crowley stares at the stranger with slightly raised eyebrows and pursed lips, listening to whatever pick-up line he’s being given with a look of heavy judgement.

And at first, Aziraphale doesn’t know what to do.

There’s no reason to be jealous, of course. Because, they aren’t together. In the coupley sense, anyway. Are they?

No we aren’t, we can’t be, he thinks. Aziraphale would know if they were. And they’d probably see each other more often if they were, rather than parting ways every decade or so only to accidentally run into each other.

But he thinks about him all the time. All the damn time. He’s the only person in this universe that he misses, really truly misses. And Aziraphale knows beyond doubt that what he’s feeling right now is jealousy- a burning, horrible possessiveness that makes his stomach churn and his chest ache. A furnace inside him that makes him square his shoulders and march over to Crowley through the sea of sweaty bodies. He knows it’s jealousy- which is not good news at all, for an angel.

Bad bad, very bad indeed. Not heavenly. Problem is, I think I love him, and there’s not much to be done about that, Aziraphale thinks to himself. Lord, I’m very drunk.

The song about needing a hero continues, its fast rhythm giving him momentum as he approaches the enormous man and an unintimidated Crowley. And then, Aziraphale hesitates. Because, he really shouldn’t be interrupting this, if Crowley enjoys this sort of thing- and he’s said he does like gay clubs, so by proxy he probably also likes the attention from other men. Which means that Aziraphale has absolutely no room to disturb that enjoyment, even if it hurts him.

And so Aziraphale stands and watches, heart breaking a little in the middle of the dance floor as Crowley smirks at the lumberjack man. Lumberjack man leans a hand on the bar and continues talking. Leans in to say something in Crowley’s ear.

Aziraphale burns.

He watches helplessly as Crowley’s smirk becomes a grimace, and he begins searching the crowd. The disco lights catch his Ray-Bans, flash a bright green. And then he seems to spot Aziraphale, because his face softens in relief, his body slumping so he almost pours the cosmopolitans down his shirt. Aziraphale watches his lips as he mouths something to him.

Help? Please?

That’s all it takes. Aziraphale doesn’t question the fact that Crowley could easily miracle himself out of this awkward situation. If it crosses his mind that actually, Crowley may want Aziraphale to come save him, it’s quickly dashed away. Yes, that thought is considered for all of point-five of a second, before being locked away and buried somewhere deep in his mind.

Aziraphale rocks up to the bar. Crowley smiles at him, extends an arm to Aziraphale and gives him one of the drinks. Then, he snakes said arm around his waist.

Oh, golly, he thinks in sudden alarm.

The song changes to something about ‘spinning me right round.’ Not that Aziraphale’s attention is on the music right now- no, it’s on Crowley, who’s wrapped himself around Aziraphale and is leaning against him sinuously.

“Sorry, love, this is my boyfriend,” Crowley shouts over the music to the disgruntled looking stranger. “Go bother some other twink.”

Aziraphale has absolutely no idea what that last part means, but it does make him laugh nervously. Crowley looks at him seriously, raises his eyebrows at him over his sunglasses. From this close, he can see the slits of his snake eyes.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says out loud- one step behind Crowley’s thought-process, as drunk as he is.

He wraps an arm around Crowley’s slim waist, and gives lumberjack his best intimidating stare. Straightening to his full height and tilting his chin imperiously. Lumberjack waves a dismissive hand at them and moves onto his next conquest.

The two of them hover at the bar for a long moment, annoying the rest of the club-goers who are trying to get to the front to make their orders. They stand there, arms around each other, both of them seemingly frozen in surprise at what has just occurred. And, apparently, not knowing what to do next.

Crowley is the first to untangle himself. His cosmopolitan sloshes down Aziraphale’s shirt, and he instantly miracles it better, without a care in the world who can see. He stands back a little- not very far. There isn’t enough room to stand that far apart. And he looks him dead on. Purses his lips, as if nervous. As if trying to figure out what to say.

Then he dips his head to Aziraphale’s ear to speak. The closeness of it-

Lord, the closeness of it. The heat of Crowley’s breath against his ear is something else. It freezes him on the spot.

“Fancy a dance, angel?”

Crowley leans back again. He looks tense and relaxed all at once. Lips parted, as if dazed. Cheeks red from the heat of the club. A sheen of sweat on his brow, shoulders creeping up to his ears.

Aziraphale nods. And then Crowley beams a sharkish grin at him- something far more apprehensive than it is happy or confident- and takes his hand.

He takes his hand, and Aziraphale lets him take him to the dance floor.

They dance. They dance to the song about spinning right round, to a song about being together in electric dreams, and then something by the wonderful Mr Bowie. Because yes, even Aziraphale knows David Bowie. And if he notices the LGSM gang waving and leering at him, making rude hand gestures and mouthing words of encouragement at him from across the room, he ignores them as best he can. Rather, he waves a shooing hand at them when Crowley’s back is turned. They’ve heard him talk about Crowley too many times for them not to put two-and-two together, apparently.

How mortifying.

That doesn’t stop them from having the most enormous fun. Crowley is absolutely delighted by the fact that Aziraphale can dance something other than the gavotte. Within the first three minutes he’s laughing uncontrollably, grinning like an idiot with how amusing it apparently is to see Aziraphale dance. When Crowley dives in to talk in Aziraphale’s ear again- a hand on his arm-

A hand on his arm-

He tells Aziraphale that he dances like a granddad. Aziraphale shouts something about Crowley being very rude and mean to him- he doesn’t remember the exact words, he’s too tipsy- and Crowley just smiles wider. They dance and shout and Crowley sings lyrics at the top of his lungs like his life depends on it, with utter dedication that makes Aziraphale’s heart swell. They continue to drink and laugh and let the night take them somewhere they haven’t experienced together before. With every song, with every terrible dance move that he shares with Crowley, he feels some weight lift of his shoulders.

And then something with a heavy beat starts playing. Something that stops the crowd from jumping and flailing. It takes too long for Aziraphale to notice, drunkenly swaying on the spot with a dazed smile pulling at his lips. And then he sees the way Crowley is standing stock still, arms awkwardly at his sides like he’s forcing them to stay there. Lips pressed together and eyes scanning the room.

Aziraphale doesn’t think about taking his hands in his, he just does it. Crowley’s eyes snap up to him, lips parting in soft surprise.

The music plays.

‘You’re out of touch, I’m out of time- but I’m out of my head when you’re not around…’

They move closer. And then they move even closer. And Aziraphale holds Crowley’s hand, holds his waist like he’s leading him in a waltz. And Crowley looks at him with brows pulled together, Adam’s apple bouncing as he swallows. And they shuffle terribly awkwardly, as if they’ve both forgotten how to use their mortal bodies, forgotten what legs are. And Aziraphale supposes he should feel embarrassed, that this should feel strange. To hold his best friend like this and stare into his eyes like he has no intention of ever leaving this moment. And in a way, it does feel strange.

But more than that, it feels wonderful.

And if the song changes to something faster again, neither one notices. If the club starts to get quieter, people going home, neither one cares. And if the world really is going to end someday soon, with fire and flame and the armies of Heaven and Hell using Earth as its battle ground, neither one will leave each other’s side.

The year is 1984, and although they’re both too afraid to say it out loud, they know that they belong together.

#fic prompt #my writing #ineffable husbands #good omens #aziraphale #crowley #anon

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chiseler · 3 years

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Stolen Faces

Cinema is an art of faces, almost a religion of faces: on screen they loom above us, vast as a mother’s face must appear to an infant. We can get lost in them. The deepest thrill the movies offer may be the opportunity to gaze at human faces longer and with more unabashed, lover-like intimacy than real life regularly allows. Most often, of course, we gaze at beautiful faces, though cinema has its share of beloved gargoyles, mugs with “character” rather than symmetry. But the uncanny power of faces onscreen also anchors films about disfigurement and facial transformations, about masks and scars and plastic surgery. These stories summon all the fears and taboos, desires and unresolved questions swirling around the human face. Do faces reveal or conceal a person’s true nature? Can changing someone’s face change their soul?

Deformity is a staple of horror films, of course, from classics such as Phantom of the Opera and The Raven (in which the hideously afflicted man played by Boris Karloff muses, “Maybe if a man looks ugly, he does ugly things”) to surgical shockers such as Eyes Without a Face. But plot twists involving faces that are damaged or corrected, masked or changed, turn up with surprising frequency in film noir as well, where they are related to themes of identity theft, amnesia, desperate attempts to shed the past or recover the past. One of the grim proverbs of noir is that you can’t escape yourself. There are no fresh starts, no second chances. But noir also demonstrates the instability of identity, the way character can be corrupted, and stories about facial transformations harbor a nebulous fear that there is in the end no fixed self. If noir is pessimistic about the possibility of change, it is at the same time haunted by fear of change—fear of looking in the mirror and seeing a stranger.

The Truth of Masks

Two films about men who literally lose their faces take the full measure of the resulting ostracism and crushing isolation—and what men will do to escape it. Hiroshi Teshigahara’s The Face of Another (Tanin no Kao, 1966) is based on a Kobo Abe novel about a scientist named Okuyama who has been literally defaced by a chemical accident. We never see what he used to look like; he spends half the film swaddled in bandages like Claude Rains in The Invisible Man, ferocious black eyes glinting through slits. Obsessed with people’s reactions to his appearance, he lashes out bitterly, insisting that all his social ties have been severed, including his conjugal ties with his wife. She tries to convince him that it’s all in his head and that her feelings haven’t changed, but her revulsion when he makes an abrupt sexual advance convinces him that she’s lying.

Okuyama believes that a life-like mask will restore his relationship with his wife and his connection to society. He has evidently not seen The Face Behind the Mask (1941), a terrific B noir in which Peter Lorre stars as Johnny Szabo, who is hideously scarred in a fire. This tragedy and the ensuing cruelty of strangers transform him from a sweet, Chaplin-esque immigrant to a bitter criminal mastermind, even after he dons a powder-white mask that gives him a sad, creepy ghost of his former face—more Lorre than Lorre. The mask is merely a flimsy patch on the horrible visage that spiritually scars Johnny, and though it enables him to marry a sweet and loving (and perhaps near-sighted) woman, it can’t reverse the corrosion of his character.

The doctor who makes a far more sophisticated mask for Okuyama does so because the project fascinates him as a psychological and philosophical experiment. He speculates about what the world would be like if everyone wore a mask: morality would not exist, he argues, since people would feel no responsibility for the actions of their alternate identities. (His theory seems to be borne out by the consequences of internet anonymity.) Unlike the one Johnny Szabo wears, here the mask bears no resemblance to Okuyama’s original looks, and the doctor believes the new face will change his patient’s personality, turning him into someone else.

When the mask is fitted, it turns out to be the face of Tatsuya Nakadai, one of the most striking and plastic pans in cinema history. With only a little help from a fake mole, dark glasses, and a bizarre fringe of beard, Nakadai succeeds in making his own features look eerily synthetic, as though they don’t belong to him. Sitting in a crowded beer hall on his first masked outing in public, he creates a palpable sense of unease, keeping his features unnaturally still as though unsure of their mobility, touching his skin gingerly to explore its alien surface. As he gradually grows more comfortable and revels in the freedom of his new face, the doctor tells him, “It’s not the beer that’s made you drunk, it’s the mask.”

Abe’s novel contains a scene in which the protagonist goes to an exhibit of Noh masks, highly stylized crystallizations of stock characters and emotions. In Noh, as in other traditional forms of theater that use masks, the actor is present on stage but vanishes into another physical being—men play women, young men play old men, gods, and ghosts. In cinema, actors impersonate other characters using their own faces—usually without even the heavy layer of makeup worn on western stages. Movie actors are pretending to be people they’re not, yet if we judge their performances good it means we believe what we see in their faces. When an actor’s real face plays the part of a mask, like Lorre’s or Nakadai’s, this strange inversion—the real impersonating the artificial—has a uniquely disconcerting effect.

At the heart of this disturbing film lurks a horror that changing the skin can indeed change the soul. Okuyama tries to hold onto his identity, insisting, “I am who I am, I can’t change,” but the doctor insists he is “a new man,” with “no records, no past.” In covering his scar tissue with a smooth, artificial skin he eradicates his own experience, and with it his humanity. The doctor turns out to be right when he predicts that the mask will have a mind of its own. Suddenly endowed with sleek good looks, Okuyama buys flashy suits and sets out to seduce his own wife. When he succeeds easily, he is outraged, only to have her reveal that she knew who he was all along. After she leaves him in disgust he descends into madness and random violence. He has become the opposite of the Invisible Man: a visible shell with nothing inside

Okuyama’s story is interwoven with a subplot about a radiation-scarred girl from Nagasaki, whose social isolation drives her to incest and suicide. Lovely from one side, repellent from the other, she looks very much like the protagonist of A Woman’s Face. Ingrid Bergman starred in the Swedish original, but Joan Crawford is ideally cast in the 1941 Hollywood remake directed by George Cukor. Half beautiful and half grotesque, half hard-boiled and half vulnerable, Anna Holm spells out what was usually inchoate in Crawford’s paradoxical presence. A childhood fire has left her with a gnarled scar on one side of her face, like a black diseased root growing across her cheek and distorting her eye and mouth. Crawford makes us feel Anna’s agonizing humiliation when people look at her, which spurs her compulsive mannerisms of turning her head aside, lifting her hand to her cheek, or pulling her hair down.

Also perfectly cast is Conrad Veidt as the elegant, sinister Torsten Baring. Veidt went from German Expressionist horror—playing the goth heartthrob Cesar in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and the grotesquely disfigured yet weirdly alluring hero of The Man Who Laughs—to an unexpected late-career run as a sexy leading man in cloak-and-dagger films such as The Spy in Black and Contraband. When Anna turns her head defiantly to reveal her scar, Torsten gazes at her with a gleam of excitement, even of perverse attraction. She is confused and touched by his kindness and gallantry, helplessly trying to hide her sensitivity beneath a tough façade. Her broken-up, uncertain expressions when he gives her flowers or kisses her hand count as some of the most delicate acting Crawford ever did. Anna assumes that Torsten, the penniless scion of a rich family, must want her to do some dirty work, and she turns out to be right, but he also genuinely appreciates the proud, bitter, lonely woman who faces down her miserable lot through sheer strength of will.

People are horrible to Anna, nastily mocking her wounded vanity and her attempts to look nice. “The world was against me,” she says, “All right, I’d be against it.” She has found the perfect outlet, blackmailing pretty women who commit adultery. In one of the film’s best scenes, the spoiled and kittenish wife she is threatening retaliates by shining a lamp in Anna’s face and laughing at her. Anna leaps at the woman and starts hitting her over and over, forehand and backhand, in an ecstasy of hatred. This savagely satisfying moment is derailed by the film’s first grossly contrived plot twist, as the encounter is interrupted by the woman’s husband, who happens to be a plastic surgeon specializing in correcting facial scars. He offers to operate on Anna, and once the bandages are removed, in a scene orchestrated for maximum suspense, an absurdly flawless face is revealed.

The doctor (Melvyn Douglas) calls her both his Galatea and his Frankenstein: he views her as his creation, but isn’t sure if she’s an ideal woman or an unholy monster, “a beautiful face with no heart.” Her dilemma is ultimately which man to please, whose approval to seek: the doctor who believes her character should be corrected now that her face is, or Torsten, who wants her to kill the young nephew who stands between him and the family estate. This overwrought turn is never plausible; it is always obvious that Anna is no child murderer. What is believable is her erotic thrall to Torsten, the first man who has ever shown an interest in her. Crawford is at her most unguarded in these moments of trembling desire; Cukor remarked on how “the nearer the camera, the more tender and yielding she became.” He speculated that the camera was her true lover.

Anna undergoes months of pain and uncertainty for the chance of being beautiful for Torsten, and there is a marvelous shot of her gazing at herself in a mirror as she prepares to surprise him with her new face, brimming with hard proud joy. But he winds up lamenting the surgery that has turned her into “a mere woman, soft and warm and full of love,” he sneers. “I thought you were something different—strong, exciting, not dull, mediocre, safe.” In this same speech, Torsten reveals himself as a cartoonish fascist megalomaniac, which fits in with the film’s slide into silly, flimsily scripted melodrama, but sadly obscures the radical spark of what he’s saying. Anna’s character is shaped by the way she looks, or rather by the way she is looked at by men; the disappointingly conventional ending sides with the man who equates flawless beauty with moral goodness, and against the one man who was able to see something fine—a “hard, shining brightness,” in a woman’s damaged and imperfect face.

A Stolen Face (1952) follows a similar premise, much less effectively, and reaches the opposite conclusion. Paul Henreid plays a plastic surgeon who operates on female criminals with disfiguring scars, convinced that once they look normal they will become contented law-abiding citizens. He gets carried away, however, sculpting one patient into a dead ringer for his lost love (Lizabeth Scott plays both the original and the copy) and marrying her. His attempt to play Pygmalion backfires, since the vulgar, mean-spirited and untrustworthy ex-con is unchanged by her new appearance: she is indeed “a beautiful face without a heart.” That is a succinct definition of the femme fatale, a type Lizabeth Scott often played and one that embodies a fascination with the deceptiveness of feminine beauty. In The Big Heat (1953), it is only when Debbie (Glora Grahame) has her pretty face rearranged by a pot of scalding coffee that she abandons her cynical self-interest to become an avenging angel, fearlessly punishing the corrupt who hide their greed behind a genteel façade. She has nothing left to lose; pulling a gun from her mink coat and plugging the woman she recognizes as her evil “sister,” the disfigured Debbie asserts her freedom: “I never felt better in my life.”

Blessings in Disguise

Sometimes, people are only too happy to lose their faces. Dr. Richard Talbot (Kent Smith), the protagonist of the superb, underappreciated drama Nora Prentiss (1947), sees the bright side when his face is horribly burned in a car crash. He has already faked his own death, sending another man’s corpse over a cliff in a burning car. In a neat bit of poetic irony, by crashing his own car he has completed the process of destroying his identity, and no longer needs to fear he’ll be recognized. Losing his face is a blessing in disguise—or rather, a blessing of disguise. But the disfigurement is also a visual representation of the corruption of his character: his face changes to reflect his downward metamorphosis with almost Dorian Gray-like precision.

Car crashes are a kind of refrain in the film. The doctor’s routine existence veers off course when a taxi knocks down a nightclub singer, Nora Prentiss (Anne Sheridan), across the street from his San Francisco office. Talk about a happy accident: the nice guy trapped in an ice-cold marriage to a rigid, nagging martinet suddenly has a gorgeous, good-humored young woman stretched out on his examining table. Nora may sing for a living, but her real vocation is dishing out wisecracks (her first words on coming to are, “There must be an easier way to get a taxi.”) When the doctor mentions a paper he’s writing on “ailments of the heart,” the canary, her eyelids dropping under the weight of knowingness, quips, “A paper? I could write a book.”

It’s hard to imagine a more sympathetic pair of adulterers, but the doctor is so daunted by the prospect of asking his wife for a divorce that it seems simpler to use the convenient death of a patient in his office to stage his own demise and flee to New York with Nora. It’s soon clear, though, that some part of him did die in San Francisco. Cooped up in a New York hotel room, terrified of going out lest someone spot him, the formerly gentle man becomes an irascible, rude, nervous wreck. When the faithful and incredibly patient Nora goes back to singing for Phil Dinardo (Robert Alda), the handsome nightclub owner who loves her, Talbot becomes hysterically jealous. Unshaven and hollow-eyed, he slaps Nora and almost kills Dinardo before fleeing the police and heading into that fiery crash. He becomes, as the film’s evocative French title has it, L’Amant sans Visage, “the lover without a face.”

When his bandages are removed, he is unrecognizable, wizened and scarred, his face a creased and calloused mask. His own wife doesn’t know him, and when Nora visits him in prison his damaged face, shot through a tight wire mesh, looks like something decaying, dissolving. He’s in prison because, in an even neater bit of irony, he has been charged with his own murder. He decides to take the rap, recognizing the justice of the mistake: he did kill Richard Talbot.

This same ironic plot twist appears in Strange Impersonation (1946), albeit less convincingly. This deliriously far-fetched tale, directed at a breakneck pace by Anthony Mann, stars Brenda Marshall as Nora Goodrich, a pretty scientist whose glasses signal that she is both brainy and emotionally myopic. She is harshly punished for caring more about work than marriage: her female lab assistant, who wants to steal Nora’s fiancé, tampers with an experiment so that it explodes, burning Nora’s face to a crisp. Embittered, she retreats from the world, and when another woman, who is trying to blackmail her over a car accident, falls from the window and is mistakenly identified as Nora, she seizes the opportunity to disappear, have plastic surgery that miraculously eliminates her scars, and return posing as the blackmailer, to seek revenge. She goes to work for her former fiancé, who strangely fails to recognize her voice or her striking resemblance to his lost love.

The plot plays out as, and turns out to be, a fever dream, but this last credibility stretcher is too common to dismiss as merely the flaw of one potboiler. Plots involving impersonation and identity theft rely not only on unrealistic visions of what plastic surgery can achieve, but on the assumption that people are deeply unobservant and tone-deaf in recognizing loved ones. A film that underlines this blindness with droll irony is The Scar (a.k.a. Hollow Triumph and The Man Who Murdered Himself, 1948), a convoluted but hugely entertaining little B noir in which Paul Henreid plays dual roles as a crook on the run and a psychologist who happens to look just like him. John Muller, pursued by hit men sent by a casino owner he robbed, stumbles across his doppelganger and decides to kill him and take his place. All he needs to do is give himself a facial scar to match the doctor’s. Only as he is dumping the body does he notice that he has put the scar on the wrong cheek—the consequence of an accidentally reversed photograph. But the irony quickly doubles back: Muller decides to brazen it out, and in fact no one notices that the doctor’s scar has apparently moved from one side of his face to the other—not even his lover. (Joan Bennett glides through this awkward part in a world-weary trance, giving a dry-martini reading to the script’s most famous lines: “It’s a bitter little world, full of sad surprises.”) The assumption that people pay little attention to the way others look or sound seems directly at odds with the power that faces and voices wield on film, and the intimate specificity with which we experience them. But noir stories often turn on how easily people are deceived, and how poorly they really know one another—or even themselves.

In The Long Wait (1954), perhaps the most extreme case of confused identity, a man with amnesia searches for a woman who has had plastic surgery. Not only does he not know what she looks like now, he can’t even remember what she used to look like. Since the movie is based on a Mickey Spillane story, he proceeds methodically by grabbing every woman he sees, in hopes that something will jog his memory. The film is fun in its pulpy, trashy way, provided you enjoy watching Anthony Quinn kiss women as though his aim were to throttle the life out of them. Quinn plays a man badly injured in a car wreck that erases both his memory and his fingerprints. This is lucky when he wanders into his old town and discovers he is wanted for a bank robbery—without fingerprints, they can’t arrest him. Figuring he must be innocent, he goes in search of the girlfriend who may or may not have grabbed the money and gone under the knife. It’s an intriguing premise, but the ultimate revelation of the right woman feels arbitrary, and the implications of all this confusion of identities are left resolutely unexamined. Nonetheless, there is something in the film’s searing, inarticulate desperation that glints like a shattered mirror.

Under the Knife

The promise of plastic surgery is a new and better self, the erasure of years and the traces of life. Taken to extremes, it is the opportunity to become a different person. Probably the best known plastic surgery noir is Dark Passage (1947), in which Humphrey Bogart plays Vincent Parry, who visits a back alley doctor after escaping from San Quentin. Parry was framed for killing his wife, so the face plastered across newspapers with the label of murderer has become a false face that betrays him. A friendly cabby who spots him recommends a surgeon who is he promises is “no quack.” Houseley Stevenson’s gleeful turn as the back-alley doctor is unforgettable, as he sharpens a straight razor while philosophizing about how all human life is rooted in fear of pain and death. He can’t resist scaring Parry, chortling over what he could do to a patient he didn’t like: make him look like a bulldog, or a monkey. But he reassures Parry that he’ll make him look good: “I’ll make you look as if you’ve lived.”

During the operation, Parry’s drugged consciousness becomes a kaleidoscope of faces, all the people who have threatened or helped him swirling around. His face is being re-shaped, as his life has already been shaped by others: the bad woman who framed him and the good woman who rescues and protects him, the small-time crook who menaces him and the kind cabby who helps him. Faceless for much of the movie, mute for part of it (he spends a long time in constraining bandages), Vincent Parry is among the most passive and cipher-like of noir protagonists. When the bandages finally come off after surgery, he looks like Humphrey Bogart, and the idea that this famously beat-up, lived-in face could be the creation of plastic surgery is perhaps the film’s biggest joke. But Vincent Parry remains an oddly blank, undefined character, and he seems unchanged by his new face and name. In a sense the doctor is right: he only looks as though he’s lived.

The fullest cinematic exploration of the problems inherent in trying to make a new life through plastic surgery is Seconds (1966), John Frankenheimer’s flesh-creeping sci-fi drama about a mysterious company that offers clients second lives. For a substantial fee, they will fake your death, make you over completely—including new fingerprints, teeth, and vocal cords—and create an entirely new identity for you. There is never a moment in the movie when this seems like a good idea. The Saul Bass credits, in which human features are stretched and distorted in extreme close-up, instills a horror of plasticity, and disorienting camera-work creates an immediate feeling of unease and dislocation, a physical discomfort at being in the wrong place.

Arthur, a businessman from Scarsdale, is the personification of disappointed middle age, afflicted by profound anomie that goes beyond a dull routine and a tired marriage. When the Company finishes its work—the process is shown in gruesome detail, to the extent that Frankenheimer’s cameraman fainted while shooting a real rhinoplasty—the formerly nondescript and greying Arthur looks like Rock Hudson, and has a new life as a playboy painter in Malibu. He’s told that he is free, “alone in the world, absolved of all responsibility.” He has “what every middle-aged man in America wants: freedom.”

At first, however, his life proves as empty and meaningless in this new setting as it was in the old; even when the Frankenstein scars have healed, he remains nervous and joyless as before. After he meets and falls for a beautiful blonde neighbor, who introduces him to a very 1960s California lifestyle, he begins to revel in youth and sensual freedom. Yet something is still not right; at a cocktail party he gets drunk and starts talking about his former existence—a taboo. He discovers that his lover, indeed almost everyone he knows, is an employee of the company or a fellow “reborn,” hired to create a fake life for him, and to keep him under surveillance. His “freedom” is a construct, tightly controlled.

Arthur rebels, making a forbidden trip to visit his wife, who of course does not recognize him. Talking to her about her supposedly deceased husband, for the first time he begins to understand himself: the depth of his alienation and confusion, the fact that he never really knew what he wanted, and so wanted the things he had been told he should want. Seconds is a scathing attack on the American ideal of a successful life, a portrait of how corporations sell fantasies of youth, beauty, happiness, love; buying into these commercial dreams, no one is really free to know what they want, or even who they are. Will Geer, as the folksy, sinister founder of the Company, talks wistfully about how he simply wanted to make people happy.

There is a deep sadness in the scenes where Arthur revisits his old home and confronts the failure of his attempt at rebirth—beautifully embodied by Rock Hudson in a performance suffused with the melancholy of a man who has spent his life hiding his real identity behind a mask. Yet Arthur still imagines that if he can have another new start, a third face and identity, he will get it right. Instead, he learns the macabre secret of how the Company goes about swapping out people’s identities. Seconds contrasts the surgical precision with which faces, bodies, and the trappings of life can be remade, and the impossibility of determining or predicting how or if the inner self will be changed. For that there are no charts or diagrams, and no knife that can cut deep enough.

by Imogen Sara Smith

#Imogen Sara Smith #The Chiseler #stolen faces #joan crawford #noir #secondrock hudson #lauren bacall

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faejilly · 4 years

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our souls inhabit

so this was originally supposed to be a small Snow White ficlet, (from the POV of the Prince), and it sort of... grew? It is now more of a general Malec Fairy Tale AU, with a sprinkling of my favorite dream tropes. Many thanks to @rutherinahobbit for making sure it’s vaguely coherent for the rest of you <3 The title’s from e.e. cummings’ if being mortised with a dream... as were the last five attempts at a title, because the whole poem’s kind of perfect, but I suppose now that I’m publishing we’re all stuck with this one.

His mother tries to kill him when she realizes what he is.

He runs.

Deep into the woods, where no one ever goes. Deeper still, lost and alone.

Until he finds a house, and in the house is a man, a man with green skin and horns, a man who doesn't flinch at the sight of Magnus' eyes. The man's name is Ragnor and he invites Magnus in, feeds him and tucks him into a bed in the attic, and for the first time in a long time Magnus sleeps without nightmares.

He dreams though. Meets a boy while he's sleeping, an absurdly pretty boy with pale skin and messy black hair, a boy who seems about the same age as him, whose eyes are like the shadows in the woods, brown and green and glinting with warmth like sunlight. He's sitting stiffly on a stump that looks exactly like the one Magnus was on when Ragnor found him.

Are you lost? Magnus asks, and the boy frowns.

I think that might be better than what I am.

Magnus can understand that. He's apparently half-monster, horrifying enough even his mother can't bear the sight of him.

I'm sorry, the boy offers, his eyes damp as if he's trying not to cry. My mother had to run away without me, to save my sister and the baby on the way, but at least I know she didn't want to leave me behind.

The boy's mouth doesn't move, and Magnus realizes neither of them are talking out loud, but they seem to know what they each mean despite that.

I'm sorry, too. Magnus sits on the stump next to the boy, and the boy leans in, just a little, 'til their shoulders press together. They neither of them 'say' anything else, just sit there as the sun shifts and the winds blow through the dream-forest around them.

Magnus wakes, and feels better than he has since he saw his eyes flicker into sight in the bucket of water he'd pulled up from the well the morning his world fell apart.

He grows there, in the house hiding in the woods, taught by Ragnor about what he is, and what he can do. He tries to stay alert, to watch out for that inevitable moment when the man grows tired of him, grows impatient, when the man finally says he's had enough.

It never happens. Ragnor makes him breakfast every morning, helps him brush the mud out of his clothes when he gets caught out in the rain, lingers with him in the garden after lunch, smiles at him over the edges of his books, and always answers every single question Magnus can come up with in the same steady tone of voice.

Ragnor seems to like him, and the night Magnus hugs him before he goes to bed, Ragnor just hugs him back, and pats him on the shoulder when he lets go.

"Sweet dreams," Ragnor says, and Magnus doesn't even try to hide the smile as he wraps himself up in his blankets that night.

Sometimes his dreams are still dark, memories and worries spiralling around each other. Sometimes they're sweet, newly discovered flowers or treats, impossible spells and improbable views, warm and comforting. Sometimes they're of the boy from the very first night, the prettiest boy Magnus has ever seen, much prettier than Magnus feels he could have imagined on his own. Not all the time, not any sort of consistent or expected schedule, but sometimes Magnus goes to sleep, and there he is.

Those are the best nights.

They don't talk much, not even the silent sort of words that form in dreams, but they find comfort in each other as they explore the dream-forest, finding a rabbit warren or a new fairy ring, a cold-sweet spring or a wide-open clearing, a mirror of the world Magnus is getting to know when he's awake. They always end the night at that same familiar stump where they first met, sharing shy smiles or small waves before the dream fades away.

It's nice to have a friend, even one that probably doesn't really exist.

He learns to hide his eyes, settles into the glamour Ragnor taught him, and his dream friend frowns, and asks why he changed them.

I like your eyes, they're pretty.

Magnus tries not to blush, manages a shrug. Most people think they're scary.

People are stupid.

Magnus laughs. Except for you?

The boy blushes, and shakes his head. Except for you.

They boy's barely a boy anymore, taller and ganglier, long arms and legs, hands hanging from his wrists like he's not sure what to do with them. Sometimes he looks at Magnus through half-closed eyes, his lashes thick and dark, and Magnus forgets how to breathe.

Magnus thinks he's the prettiest boy he's ever seen.

Then again, he hasn't spent much time around anyone besides Ragnor and his dream-friend in something like ten years. Ragnor gets visitors sometimes, old Warlocks or Fae stopping by for tea, but they don't usually have much to say to Magnus. They go to some of the towns near-by occasionally, shopping for supplies or seeing a show, but it's still usually just them, lingering in the cool green shadows of the woods.

Magnus wonders what he's missing, somewhere out there.

Tries not to wonder if maybe he could find the pretty boy, somewhere in the real world.

He talks to Ragnor about leaving, a little, about what he should do with his life, with his time.

He's got too much of it just to stay here, lingering and waiting for something to happen.

Magnus mentions that he's thinking of going on a trip to his dream-friend, finally, and the boy's eyes grow wide, and he shuffles his feet, and his mouth tightens just a little.

Magnus waits.

My name's Alexander.

Magnus blinks. That wasn't any of what he thought his friend was worried about. I'm Magnus, he answers, and the boy, Alexander, smiles at him, wide and delighted.

Maybe you'll find me out there somewhere, Magnus.

Magnus swallows, and shrugs, and lets himself hope. Maybe.

He doesn't.

He meets Werewolves and Vampires and Fae. He learns of the world beyond the woods, human kingdoms and cities, people and monsters and heroes. He goes looking for more people like him, like Alexander, like Ragnor, children lost and alone who don't have anyone else waiting for them, who don't yet know how to hide what they are, how to find people with whom they don't have to hide.

Sometimes he helps them settle where they are, with a friend or a partner, makes sure they know how to call him if ever they need his help.

Sometimes he brings them back to Ragnor, to warm tea and cool green shadows, lets them learn, just as he did, how to set their worries down, how to breathe. The house shifts, and every time he's there his room is the same, but there's another guest-room in the attic now, sometimes two, a place for someone else to rest and recover and learn.

Every time he's there he dreams, at least once, of his boy who isn't remotely just a boy anymore. Alexander's a young man now, tall and broad-shouldered, taller than Magnus, with a strong jaw and heavy eyebrows, but still there's that same soft light in his eyes every time he welcomes Magnus back home.

Magnus leaves again, and again.

Magnus meets Camille, who is beautiful and sharp and brilliant and forever. He loves her, and she loves him, and they dance and fight and fuck, they fall together and break apart over and over again.

He returns to the house in the woods regularly, even when he's not carting someone who needs sanctuary in tow. He spends a year or five discussing books and plants and Ragnor's terrible taste in tea. He dreams of Alexander, with his sweet smile and the shadows in his beautiful eyes. He cannot help but be glad that, for as long as the two of them wander their woods, the tension he glimpses in Alexander's posture eases, and his eyes look a little lighter by the end of their visits than they do at the beginning. They smile at each other, here, no matter how tired they might be when they're awake.

Magnus talks about collecting ingredients for potions, about the house's garden and the way it's grown over the years. Alexander talks about archery, and the sound of rain against library windows, and training his new horse.

Magnus talks about traveling, about new sights with every dawn, new people over every drink at night. Alexander's smile seems sad, but he asks more questions, always more, and Magnus wonders where he's trapped, wonders at how carefully he never mentions the names of the people he knows, as if he's afraid, even here, that someone might overhear.

Magnus tries not to think too much about how many years have passed, how many times he's looked for Alexander out there in the world, how he's never found the slightest hint of him.

He meets Imasu, who is sweet but fleeting. George who dies too young. He meets more souls who might love him, but leave him for something more steady, more human. He goes back to the woods to nurse his heavy heart when it gets too much to bear, and Ragnor makes him tea, and his Alexander meets Magnus in the shadows of his dreams and smiles.

Magnus smiles back.

But the dreams aren't every night, and sometimes Magnus wonders what they mean to Alexander, how they fit into the life he lives in his own waking world.

I miss you, Magnus says, and Alexander only shrugs, half-agreement and half something else that Magnus doesn't understand. It's not regret, or hope, but it's not not either of those things either.

They wander their woods, which look much the same as they ever do, eternal and barely changing, just like them.

You always come back, Alexander says instead of good-bye, when the dream starts to fade around them.

I'll always be waiting, Magnus thinks he hears as he blinks awake, but he's not sure if it's real, or only wishful thinking.

Magnus' heart heals, and news from the world trickles even into these woods, and eventually Magnus leaves again. But he always comes back, to Ragnor's warm silences and Alexander's warmer eyes.

Sometimes Magnus asks Alexander if he'd like Magnus to stay, here in the woods where their dreams intersect, but Alexander always says no, shakes his head with a smile. You're never gone that long, and I like to hear about the world you see.

So different than the one he lives in, clearly.

How long since the last time you saw me? Magnus asks. Because he wandered almost twenty years this time, and he may be immortal but that's not nothing, even for him.

Maybe a week? Alexander answers. Why? How long was it for you?

Magnus shakes his head a little. A thousand times as long, perhaps.

Alexander goes still, so still it seems that even the trees could move faster than him, if they so decided, and he sighs out one long heavy breath. Oh. That explains a lot.

It does?

But Alexander doesn't explain. He just smiles again, something sad and sweet both at once, and leans in close enough to brush a kiss against Magnus' cheek.

Magnus blinks in surprise, but before he can even lift his hand to his cheek to feel the phantom warmth from Alexander's lips against his skin, he wakes up.

He gets a message from Catarina only a few days later, asking for his help with a squabble between some Vampires and Werewolves that could too easily escalate into a full-blown conflict, and he leaves the woods without getting to see Alexander again. Not that he's ever been able to control the dreams, or ever known when they're to be separated, but it aches more than usual this time, not getting to say good-bye.

He meets Camille again. She's still beautiful and brilliant but something in her eyes has gone brittle. He tries to be soft enough to soothe, but she just gets sharper, and when they drift apart again this time it's almost with relief.

Back and forth for years, for decades, the house, the world, Ragnor and Catarina and then Dot and Elias, Tessa and Zoe and on and on... Alexander in his dreams, now and then, though it's less often than it used to be, even when he lingers in the woods for years.

One night he finds Alexander at a make-shift archery range, pulling his bow back so far his arms tremble, blood on his hands from where he's let the string snap, let the fletching catch as his arrows fly free.

Alexander. Magnus lingers, a few steps back, magic sparking between his fingers, desperate to reach out and offer comfort.

Alexander chokes, the sound rough and sudden enough to make Magnus' throat ache in sympathy, to make his eye burn with the echoes of grief.

Magnus steps closer.

Alexander, he thinks.

Alexander drops his bow, turns, and Magnus wraps him in his arms.

Alexander's trembling, his breath hot and shivering against Magnus' neck, his fingers digging into Magnus' shoulder as he grips him tight.

My father's dead.

Oh, darling. Magnus hugs him tighter. Alexander has occasionally talked about his mother before, his sister, the baby he never got to meet. He wonders about them, hopes they're all right, somewhere out there. Alexander barely mentions his father, his jaw always tight and his eyes too bright, as if he doesn't know what to feel, what to say, and it's clear his father's death hasn't made that conflict any easier.

Magnus holds him, lets his magic free to heal the physical damage, at least, and Alexander doesn't cry.

Magnus feels hungover when he wakes up, but there's nothing he can do for either of them.

When he dreams again, Alexander acts like none of it ever happened, but there's a shadow in his eyes that no longer fades, even when he smiles his usual soft greeting at Magnus. He's hiding, Magnus knows, but he doesn't know how to help lift Alexander's burden. (Alexander clearly knows that Magnus knows, offering an embarrassed smile and a small shrug. Alexander doesn't know what to do, either.) Magnus does his best to provide a sanctuary, at least, and hopes it's enough, even when they're apart.

Magnus finds his father, entirely by accident. And then he flees him, this terrible Prince of Hell, this darkness that twists and turns and laughs, even as blood spills, even as magic burns innocent lives to ash.

His father follows.

Magnus banishes him. He's not sure if it worked, or if Asmodeus is humoring him, biding his time until he can try again. He considers isolating himself, exiling himself somewhere far away from anyone he needs to protect from the shadows of his father's gaze. But he can't quite make himself do it.

He can't bear to be so alone.

Magnus runs back to hide in his woods, to shelter in Ragnor's care and Alexander's comfort until he no longer wakes up screaming at the memories of hell in eyes that looked just like his own.

Alexander asks him about his magic, asks how old he is, asks how often he comes back to the woods.

Magnus tells him, and thinks they both feel better for it.

Alexander asks him about curses, and hexes, asks about the Fae and Vampires and Demons.

Finally figured me out, did you?

Magnus tries to make a joke of it, but Alexander won't let him flinch.

No, of course not.

Alexander pulls him close, his gaze steady and sincere in a way Magnus has never seen anyone else manage.

I've met evil, and you're the furthest thing from it.

Magnus swallows. He remembers when they met, how Alexander's family had to run away from something, how he couldn't go too. He remembers the grief and guilt in Alexander's eyes ever since his father's death. He thinks of the weight Alexander always seems to carry, even here, in the realm they share that doesn't quite exist.

You're in danger, aren't you? Magnus asks.

Alexander's eyes are sad as he shrugs. Isn't everyone?

Not like that, Magnus wants to lean in even closer, wants to let his fingertips touch Alexander's lips, wants to rest his palm against his cheek. No one should be in danger like that.

But shoulds don't change the world they live in, either of them, so Magnus tells him about blood-magic and hexes, curses and counter-curses, how to spot a Vampire, contain a Werewolf, how to tell when a Fae is dodging the truth even harder than usual, how to hide from a demon.

When he wakes he thinks about Alexander's questions, about curses and wards and the intent behind most magic spells, and he goes digging through Ragnor's library, adds to his list of things to look for the next time he goes out into the world.

Most wards are specific, this counter to that magic, and Alexander isn't a Warlock, he can't tell Magnus enough about whatever it is that he's afraid of for Magnus to know what sort of spell might be cast, which sort of shield might work.

He needs something else, something different. Something that can react to that intent rather than the spell itself?

Something that can dodge it, or move it to the side, or... reflect it?

Seelies are fond of mirror magic. Maybe he'll visit them and see what he can learn.

He wanders, and studies, and life goes on, as it always does.

He has a family now, one he chose rather than the one he'd been born of, and the world keeps growing, and changing, and shifting. Except for the house and Ragnor, who stay the same, cool and green and quiet. Except for Alexander, who welcomes Magnus back to his dreams every time he returns.

It takes a few decades, but he manages to figure out a spell, a protective ward linked to a necklace, a flat piece of silver, slightly curved, polished 'til it gleams like a mirror. He looks at it when he's done, and sighs. It's not as if he can take it into his dreams with him.

He finds the old stump, petrified almost as hard as stone now, the one where he'd met Ragnor, the mirror of the one where he met Alexander. He puts the necklace there, in the hollow between the roots, and hopes intent matters enough that it will help, wherever Alexander really is now.

(It doesn't seem to. He takes Alexander back to the stump in their next shared dream, and there's nothing there. He sighs, but then Alexander smiles at him, and he cannot help but smile back as they wander their way to a different clearing, close enough their hands almost touch with each step as they talk.)

He leaves again, feeling more aimless than usual without his research project, and loses track of time for a while. But only for a little while. He'll always come back home again, after all.

Until he tries to go back home, and Ragnor meets him at the edge of the woods, and says No.

Something about a prophecy, and Camille, and some poor young mortal and it's important that Magnus not interfere, and Magnus leaves and gets very drunk and refuses to cry into his beer.

For about a decade.

Maybe two?

He misses Ragnor, and his home, and most of all he misses his dreams, and Alexander, and now that it's too late it's painfully apparent that somewhere along the way he fell in love with a person who probably doesn't exist, and he doesn't know what to do about any of it.

Even in the state he's in, he hears about Camille, about how she made herself Queen of a human kingdom, about a Mirror she stole from the Seelie Queen, about vassals and servants, Vampires, Ghouls, Subjugates, and poor besieged Humans, all under her power.

About the rumors of a lost heir, still alive somewhere in the woods, and Magnus knows that's the one that Ragnor's protecting, and he still doesn't understand why he's here and not there, why Ragnor wouldn't let him help.

Until he feels a tug on his magic, and goes outside the Inn he's currently wallowing in to see Camille herself, looking half-dead rather than undead, her arm hanging like it's broken, her hair streaked with grey, her lips dark with old blood, her clothes torn and ragged and dirt-stained. She's trembling, her skin paper-thin and sallow, her knuckles too big for her fingers as they twist and grip in front of her. The taste of blood-magic and curses linger in the air around her, twisted into something sharp and bright and painful, and the distinctive shape of a scrying mirror is strapped to her back.

Help me, she begs, eyes dark and vicious, and he nods, and opens a portal, and sends her to the Seelie Queen.

He'll remember that last scream of rage and terror in his dreams for the rest of his life, as the Seelies claim her with their vines, powerful enough to bind even Camille at her strongest, never mind what she's become now. But she had murdered innocents, and there had been fear in her eyes but not regret, and he knows sometimes you can't escape the consequences of your actions.

He goes back inside and doesn't even pretend to sleep.

He considers going back to the woods, what used to be his woods, but there's a shiver in his chest where his heart used to be, and he knows if Ragnor sends him away again he won't survive, so he doesn't.

If no one tells him no again, he can still hold onto the hope that he'll see Alexander again some day. He has time, after all.

He just hopes Alexander does too.

He waits, hoping to hear what the rumors say, to see if this time he hears a whisper of what Ragnor was trying to protect, of the prophecy or the heir or the huntsman.

There's nothing.

Instead Catarina walks into his room entirely unannounced early one foggy morning, takes one look at him as he sits up in bed, clutching his blankets to his chest, and starts swearing, sharp and vicious under her breath.

Magnus blinks at her in surprise. She lifts one finger, wait, and turns around and leaves again.

Magnus considers the possibility he's started hallucinating from spending too much time by himself.

He gets himself up and shaved and dressed and goes down to the common room for breakfast.

Might as well be presentable if the hallucinations decide to talk to him next time.

Ragnor shows up while he's still lingering over his tea. His shoulders are hunched and his hair is a mess, and his glamour is thick enough Magnus can't see his horns, but his skin looks slightly green-tinged anyways.

There's an ache in Magnus' chest at the suggestion that Catarina ripped Ragnor a new one on Magnus' behalf, but he tries not to linger on it too much as he gets up and goes back to his room, listening for Ragnor's familiar steps following him up the stairs.

Of course he doesn't know what to say, even once they're back in his room with the door shut and a privacy ward raised, so he lets his hand rest on the back of his favorite armchair by the hearth, tries not to make the desperate grip he needs to keep himself steady too obvious, and waits.

Ragnor's mouth twists, and his hands spread wide, and Magnus realizes he's never once in all his centuries see the man look so hopeless. "Why didn't you, why did you disappear for so long?"

There's a spark of something that might be anger, somewhere beneath all the heart-break and loss and fear. "You told me to leave," Magnus makes himself say.

"Not like—" Ragnor starts, and he lifts his gaze from the toes of his boots and meets Magnus' eyes and his voice breaks off in his throat. "Oh."

Magnus waits again, but it's different now, a trembling sort of anticipation as he watches the expression on Ragnor's face shift, frustration to understanding to guilt.

"I didn't mean it like that." He swallows so hard that Magnus can see the shift down his throat, so hard his glamour flickers, green flashing across his skin, the shadow his horns cast visible against the wall. "I'm sorry."

Magnus closes his eyes, and feels himself sway, relief so heavy he can't hold himself upright. He barely hears the heavy tread of Ragnor's step forward before he feels Ragnor's arms around him, gripping him tight. "I'm sorry, please come home."

Magnus clings, and ignores the burning in his eyes, and nods.

When he finally lets go of Ragnor's shoulders, Ragnor won't meet his eyes, shifts sideways just a little, guilt heavy in the clenching of his jaw, in the thin tone of his voice when he starts talking. "I have to tell you something else."

Magnus snorts out something that might be a laugh, ignoring how damp it sounds from the tears still caught in his throat. "Cat came looking because you need my help with something, don't you?"

Ragnor's whole body sags with relief, and he nods.

Magnus gestures at the chairs, and collapses with a sigh into his favorite. "Start from the beginning, mon ami."

Ragnor snorts, and sighs, and leans forward, his elbows resting heavily on his thighs.

"You remember Idris?"

Magnus tilts his head, wondering how that's the beginning, but nods. "That's the country Camille took over. Are they recovering all right?"

Ragnor lifts his head, eyes wide and startled. "How did you know she was gone?"

Magnus feels his mouth twist, even as he flicks his fingers to the side to attempt to send the bitterness away. "She thought I'd help her get away."

"You didn—"

"Of course not." Magnus swallows, makes himself meet Ragnor's eyes. "I returned her and her stolen property to the Seelie Queen."

Ragnor shudders, but it looks more like relief than horror. "Hopefully we don't need to find her then."

Magnus swallows, something like dread crawling up his spine. "Why would anyone need to find Camille?"

Ragnor huffs out a breath, and Magnus realizes he still looks hopeless, helpless, lost in a way Magnus has never seen before. "Because I don't know how to break the curse she cast."

Magnus thinks of that taste in the air around Camille, blood and desperation, the weight of the mirror on her back, the rumors of the Seelie Queen's increasingly desperate attempts to get it back. "She used a Seelie artifact to cast a blood-curse?"

Ragnor shrugs. "We think so, but it's all tangled up in an old prophecy, and Raphael can't—"

Magnus holds up a hand. "Wait, stop. We're in the middle again."

Ragnor snorts. "And whose fault is that?"

"You're the one who's supposed to be explaining yourself."

Ragnor glares over his glasses, and Magnus feels his face ease into a smile more honest than any he's attempted in years.

It's good to have his best friend back.

Ragnor's attempted frown softens, as if he feels the same way, and he leans back in his chair and clears his throat. "Camille managed to weasel her way into Idris as some sort of royal advisor, used the mirror to fool some King into thinking she was Fae instead of Vampire, and set herself up as the power in the shadows for a generation or three."

Magnus grunts. That's longer than she usually sticks—longer than she used to stick to one game. "What was she trying to accomplish?"

"There's an old prophecy attached to Idris, the original's been lost for centuries, but it was something about a King under unnatural influence, and a gift of magic the likes of which the world had never seen before, would never see again, and..."

"She thought she could be the unnatural influence and snag the gift for herself?"

Ragnor shrugs.

"And even if nothing fancy happened, she'd become the sort of person who'd enjoy playing with mortals for a few hundred years." Magnus closes his eyes, remembers the first time he saw Camille, remembers dancing the night away, the bright sound of her laugh, the touch of her fingers against his skin. He makes himself open them again before he thinks too much about that final scream before he'd closed the portal between him and the Seelie Realm. "I wonder sometimes if the woman I fell in love with ever really existed, or if it was all one of her games..."

"Immortality wears on everyone, in different ways."

"I suppose," Magnus frowns, and tries not to swear. "Is that the prophecy that convinced you to banish me?"

"I didn't—" Ragnor stopped as Magnus lifted his eyebrows. "I just meant for you to contact me from a safer distance. There's a line in it that's generally thought to be about a Prince of Hell being forsworn, and the curse coming full circle, and..."

Magnus' mouth opens, then closes again. He is the only Warlock he knows whose father tried to claim him as an heir to hell itself. "You didn't want my magic close enough to screw up an already weird prophecy."

Ragnor grunts. "I apparently should have phrased it better."

Magnus rolls his eyes. "Clearly."

"You could have asked!" Ragnor snarls back.

Magnus grunts this time. "But that's not really part of your story, either?"

Ragnor looks like he's considering some sort of hex before he sighs and shrugs and starts talking again. "Robert Lightwood, King of Idris, had an affair. When he got caught out, he managed, presumably thanks to Camille's influence for the idea and some judicious encantos for the execution, to convince the Kingdom of Idris it was his wife's fault, and she fled the country ahead of treason charges."

Magnus stills, and remembers Alexander's mother.

Ragnor keeps talking, and it takes more effort than Magnus will ever admit to follow what he's saying.

"The Queen was pregnant with their third child, took their daughter with her when she ran, but Robert had already formally recognized their eldest as his heir, and she knew if she tried to take him too they'd never be able to get away..."

Magnus can't breathe, barely notices when Ragnor's voice cracks with what sounds like genuine grief, as if he knows them personally, as if it's not just a story, as if this is the important part, not just the background to whatever happens next.

"When." Magnus' voice sounds like he's dying, more of a croak of pain than words, and he makes himself swallow, makes himself try again. "When did she run."

"Twenty years ago." Ragnor stops, but Magnus is too deep in his own head to notice, not really, certainly can't tell what Ragnor is thinking, what he's feeling, what his voice or his face might be doing. There's a lengthy pause, and Magnus tries to think, because it can't be Alexander, that first dream was hundreds of years ago, not twenty, but their time never matched, and he'd tried not to think about it too much before, tried not to wonder if his dreams were with a mortal and someday he'd see Alexander aging, or if it was all some prolonged figment of his imagination and someday the illusion would grow too shallow, he'd be forced to realize they weren't true, but their times never matched, and if a week was twenty years than why couldn't twenty years be...

"Now that I know Camille's gone, though, I can send for them, she gave me her mother's necklace before she left so I could track them, no matter where they w—"

"Name." Magnus snaps, not even sure what Ragnor had been saying anymore. "I need a name."

"Whose?" Ragnor sounds honestly bewildered now, which in other circumstances might be interesting, Magnus isn't sure he's ever managed to bewilder Ragnor before, but at the moment he just needs to know his damn name. "Robert and Maryse? Isabelle? I don't know what she named her youngest, they were gone before the birth."

"The heir." Magnus is standing, he doesn't remember standing up, but he's glaring down at Ragnor, fists clenched at his sides. "He's the one you were protecting when you sent me away, wasn't he, what's his name?"

"Alec?"

Oh hells, damnation and gods and demons and... "Short for Alexander?"

"Well, yes, but." Ragnor starts to stand, hands outreached as if to touch, clearly able to tell that something is happening even if he doesn't know what. He's moving too slowly though, and Magnus grabs the lapels of his coat, pulls 'til Ragnor's on his feet, 'til they're face to face.

"Take me to him, now."

"But I haven't even told you the—"

"Now."

Ragnor nods.

He waits a beat, then gently lifts his hands, wraps them around Magnus' wrists. "I need room if I'm to make the portal, Magnus."

Magnus lets go, steps back, exhales something that feels like his soul itself might be trying to flee. He shakes his arms out, clenches and releases his hands. "Please," he whispers.

Ragnor makes the portal, and reaches back, and Magnus grabs his hand much too hard.

He stumbles into a familiar attic, ignores Catarina's startled hello, because there's Alexander, tucked into the same bed Magnus always used when he stayed here, eyelashes resting heavy against his cheeks, chest lifting ever so slowly beneath a quilt Magnus doesn't recognize.

I suppose Ragnor finally got new blankets in the last twenty years, he thinks rather helplessly, even as he steps forward and falls to his knees beside the bed. His hand reaches out, hovering over Alec's cheek, then his chest, but he's afraid this is real, afraid it isn't, and he doesn't know what he's seeing or why, or what to do.

"Alexander." Magnus shakes his head, ignores the ache in his chest and his throat and his head. His hand is trembling, he can't quite seem to keep it steady, and it bumps against the collar of Alec's shirt, opens it enough he sees the glint of a silver chain.

His breath hitches, and he can feel the tears overflowing his eyes and falling down his cheeks. He makes his hand move, just enough to open the collar a little further, to see the familiar curve of silver glinting where it's settled in the hollow of Alexander's throat. "You're real and you found it."

He starts to reach for the necklace itself, to touch the magic, to touch Alexander, when a familiar voice interrupts him. "What the fuck, Magnus."

Magnus turns, and can't help the grin he can feel beneath his tears. "He's real, Cat!"

"Most people are?"

"He found it!" Magnus turns back, and Catarina slaps his shoulder hard enough he almost falls over onto the bed.

"Stop that!" She tugs on the back of his shirt, trying to pull him away from the bed. "We haven't figured out how he's not dead, if you must know the truth, and I don't want you screwing up whatever..."

"It's the necklace." Magnus points. "I made it for him."

"You what?" Ragnor speaks up this time. "I never told you anything about him, and I certainly had no clue that Camille knew how to make a kairothanasia."

Magnus chokes on his next breath. "She did a what?"

Cat makes an almost identical choking sound. "You gave him something that stopped a curse without knowing what curse to stop?"

"I didn't even know it was Camille he was afraid of!"

"What." Ragnor's voice drops almost an octave, and he lifts both hands, palms out, in a very clear stop gesture. "Alec is stable, even if we're not entirely sure why, so I suggest we sit and try to start this conversation over again. From something resembling a beginning."

"Because that worked so well last time?" Magnus huffs out a breath as Ragnor and Catarina both glare at him. "It's not my fault, I didn't know he was real!"

"But you made him a real necklace that does impossible magic!" Catarina's voice rises higher than Magnus thinks he's ever heard it go before, and eyes and hands are both spread wider than looks comfortable. "What did you do?"

Ragnor grunts, and claps his hands, and the bench at the foot of the bed scrapes across the floor as it moves to settle beside the chair angled between the window for light and the chimney for warmth. "Sit."

They sit.

Ragnor summons the small table from his study, and Catarina summons some tea, and they both stare at Magnus.

"Every time I'm here," Magnus gestures broadly around them, both at the house and the woods outside, "I have these dreams where I'm wandering these woods, with..." Magnus trails off, and turns his head to look at the bed. "With him."

"He's not even thirty years old."

Magnus laughs, a hollow sort of helplessness as he shrugs. "Our times never did seem to match. I'd be gone for twenty years, and he'd say his last dream was less than a week before."

"That's impossible."

"The first one was the very first night I was here." Catarina's face turns into a pained sort of grimace; they all know what first nights are like, when a young Warlock realizes what they might be, and Magnus barely stops himself from shrugging again. "You remember that stump you found me sitting on, Ragnor?"

"Only because you'd go back to visit it." Ragnor frowns. "Now that you mention it, it's where I met Maryse and her children when she was fleeing Idris, too, and it's where Raphael brought Alec when Camille ordered him killed after his father died, before he could be coronated properly himself."

Catarina puts her tea down with a quiet clink of porcelain. "Poor Raphael, he looked so disgusted watching me bespell that pig's heart to smell like human blood for him to take back to Camille as proof."

Magnus shudders in sympathy. That spell was messy, and would have required some of Alexander's blood put into the pig's heart to convince the rest of it to change to match. "It must have worked for awhile, Robert—" Magnus stops, swallows, remembers Alexander trembling as he clung to Magnus in a clearing in the middle of the woods. Remembers the news, much more recently, of the death of the King of Idris, of the Regent taking over, of Camille becoming Queen. "His father died a few years ago, didn't he?"

"He and his second wife, the poor woman. Carriage 'accident', or so the stories went." Ragnor clicks his tongue, echoing the porcelain as he puts his cup down next to Catarina's. "She had no idea what she was getting into, falling for a Lightwood."

Neither did I, apparently. Magnus swallows, and tries to figure out what to say next. "That stump was where I met Alexander, in that first dream. It's where I put the necklace, after I made it. I'm not sure why I did it, couldn't have told you while it was happening, I knew I couldn't take it into a dream, but I just... I wanted to help."

"What, exactly, was this help then?" Catarina leans forward.

"It's just a basic ward twisted into a bit of silver." Magnus had repeated and twisted it nine times to make it as powerful as the silver could bear, but that wasn't difficult, it just required patience and brute force. Rather a lot of it, perhaps, but he'd had the time and power to spare. Would have spared anything, he realizes, for Alexander. "I based the shape of the spell on a Seelie mirror though, so it would reflect any magic that carried an intent to harm, rather than trying to set up counters for specific spells."

Just, Catarina mouths at him, and shakes her head.

Ragnor whistles softly. "It wouldn't work on raw magic or accidental damage like a personal ward, but it's perfect for someone being targeted who can't work magic directly."

"Thank you." Magnus twists in his chair to look at Alexander again. "Was it though?"

"He's still alive," Catarina answers, her voice almost unbearably soft. "That's a miracle, considering."

"Are you sure about that?" Magnus can't stop himself, he stands, starts to move closer to the bed, to Alexander. "How did she even manage to make a kairothanasia?"

"Enough blood and intent, focused through that mirror?" Magnus hears Catarina stand up behind him. "Camille has more than enough of both."

"Had," Magnus corrects, and he walks the rest of the way toward the bed. He vaguely hears Ragnor telling Catarina about Camille as he kneels again, but he isn't really paying attention. If his necklace had worked, it should have reflected the curse back on Camille. But she hadn't been cursed to have never existed, hadn't had her blood erased all the way back before she'd been born, like she'd tried to do to Alexander. Magnus remembers every time they'd met, every rumour he'd heard of what she'd done when they were apart. She hadn't even been killed by it, not quite, no matter how damaged she'd been when she'd tried to ask Magnus for help.

But if her curse had worked, if the necklace had failed, Alexander would have never existed, and here he is, alive and breathing and one of the few constants of Magnus' life.

So it's something in-between. The kairothanasia's the strongest curse Magnus knows, and if Camille had powered it with enough blood, enough intent, if that mirror was as dangerous as it seemed, it would have been too much even for the necklace's protection to reflect in its entirety. But some of it...

Some of it had rebounded back on Camille, some of it was keeping Alexander asleep, but that couldn't be all of it, not a curse like that, not one that killed someone's past as well as their future.

Magnus reaches a hand out again, holds it above the necklace, and stretches, oh so gently, magic twisting from his fingers to brush against the wards he'd set. He hisses in pain as they spark back at him, and pulls his hand away, cradles it against his chest.

Well.

Fuck.

The curse is still there, tangled up in the necklace, resting so close to Alexander's heart that Magnus has to bite his lip and focus on the sting to make himself think rather than reach down and try and yank the necklace off Alexander's body. The wards are clearly strong enough to block the intent, but the spell still wants to complete itself. He narrows his eyes, thinks about the feel of those sparks, warm and lively, and wonders. It's powerful, potentially deadly, but it doesn't feel like blood-magic anymore, tastes like regular magic rather than a curse, as if the wards managed to twist it inside out, just like Magnus had wanted, but it was too big.

By the time it had finished twisting the curse, the blood magic and wards were knotted too tightly together to push it back out again?

"Time," Magnus whispers. The kairothanasia erases someone from time, and all the results from the deflection have only happened now. He has to let the spell do something to the rest of Alexander's lifetime or it'll just sit there, twisted around backwards and eating Alexander's future instead of his past.

Alexander's past.

Alexander's impossible past, full of dreams with Magnus from before he was born.

Maybe he needs to let the spell do something that has already happened, maybe he has to let it make Alec alive before he was born, even if only in dreams.

For that to work, he has to let this inside-out curse tie his and Alexander's lives together.

He's... not at all sure what that will do. Two souls, one life, half immortal, half mortal?

"Oh." Ragnor's voice is right there, and Magnus lifts his head to see Ragnor and Catarina standing just beyond his reach, holding hands and eyes bright with magic; they'd clearly been following along with his diagnostic. "If the kairothanasia makes it so someone was never alive, the counter means they're extra alive, doesn't it?"

"I think that to dispel it properly the spell will have to be set on both of them. Your life will be his, and his death will be yours." Catarina's voice is soft as she smiles at Magnus, her eyes sad as every year of her life lingers in them. "Your wards are powerful, but not enough to dispel that curse, not entirely."

"A gift of magic that has never been seen before, nor will again." Ragnor whispers. "Your wards combined with Camille's curse, Vampire blood and Warlock magic, both shaped by Seelie mirrors. It's the prophecy, Magnus."

"If it does what we think... He'll lose his family again." Magnus wants this, wants to save Alexander, wants to see a future that's not just in their dreams, but he doesn't know if Alexander does, and he can't ask.

Immortality wears on everyone, in different ways.

They may not become completely immortal, but they won't quite be mortal anymore, either.

"I've never seen him take that necklace off," Catarina counters. "I think you're his family, too."

Magnus can't speak, can't think, doesn't move.

"He'd want to live." Ragnor's voice is rough, and his free hand reaches out to grip Magnus' shoulder. "Even with your wards, the hit from that curse would have hurt, would have told him to give up, to let go, and he's still here, still breathing. At some level he had to have fought for that."

Magnus closes his eyes, swallows. Thinks of Alexander's smile, the steady weight of his gaze. Alexander never gives up, Magnus can't either. He reaches, twists his hands in the air before him, pulling his magic from the necklace, back into himself, making the inside-out curse come with.

He screams as the spell explodes, sunlight in his veins, burning beneath his skin, and he can feel the weight of it, the twenty-eight years of Alec's life over and throughout the centuries of his own, stretched thin and fragile but undeniably there, tangled together too tightly to ever be pulled apart again.

He blinks himself back to awareness. The room's dimmer than it was, his bones ache and his magic's almost entirely depleted; he feels raw and scraped out, and it's only when he tries to shift to ease the soreness in his muscles that he realizes he's lying down, that same new quilt he'd noticed earlier draped over him.

He turns his head, and forgets every bit of pain because there's Alexander, close enough to touch at last, lying on his side, his arm tucked under his head, his eyes just barely open, a glint of light catching beneath the dark shadow of his lashes.

"Magnus." Alexander's mouth curves into the barest hint of a smile, his voice low and mumbling, barely more force behind the words than an exhale of a breath. "Hoping I'd dream of you."

Magnus sighs, feels the tremble of his breath, hope bright and shivering in his chest, and turns himself slowly onto his side to mirror Alexander.

There's a hint of a frown between Alexander's brows as he watches, but he holds it in until Magnus settles to a stop.

"You look tired."

Magnus almost laughs, but he's afraid it'll hurt. "That's because we're both awake, darling."

Alexander's eyes widen, and his breath stutters, as if he's only now managed to pay enough attention to realize where they are. "You're rea—" His voice cracks as he tries to lift himself onto his elbow, and he slides back down onto the bed with a groan, making it clear he's at least as sore as Magnus is. "You're here. Now."

"Same place, same time." Magnus finally lets himself reach out, though his fingertips rest against the silver charm that he only notices now is solid black with tarnish, thick and set enough it doesn't even smudge at his touch, rather than touching Alexander himself. "You found it."

"When I was eight." Alexander's shoulders shift, and there's worry in his eyes. "The day I first dreamt of you."

Magnus' eyes slide close, open again as he shakes his head, fabric wrinkling beneath his temple with the movement.

"I think I made it almost forty years ago now, when I'd already known you for centuries." Magnus hums, thinks about the feel of the spell as it had tied them together. He can still feel it, a tug between his ribs that he knows will never go away again, that he knows is Alexander. "Our times match now."

Alexander's frown deepens, but he clearly isn't surprised, had already figured out how far off their histories were. "How?"

"Camille." Magnus swallows, tries again. "She tried to curse you so that, rather than just dying, you'd never existed at all."

"Magnus," Alexander breathes out, eyes wide with horror. "I'm so sorry."

Magnus has to turn his head into his pillow, not sure if he's blocking a laugh or tears. Alexander is clearly more concerned about what that would have meant to Magnus than what it meant about his own life. "It's too powerful a curse to be easily dispelled or reflected..."

"Magnus," Alexander repeats, but this time his voice is steady. He's waiting for Magnus to look at him, to finish saying it. "Please."

Magnus makes himself return that steady gaze. "The spell still had to affect time, not just the present, so it..." He chokes, gestures between them.

Magnus wonders when Alexander first suspected the nature of their impossible connection, wonders what it must have been like for Alexander to hear Magnus mention Camille, the Lightwood's personal devil, back when she'd just been a person, a lover, someone who danced through life, who knew how to laugh, who wasn't always cruel.

I'm sorry, he thinks, but he knows it wasn't his fault, that now isn't the time to try and unpick the tangled weave of their timelines.

"That's how the dreams." Alexander blinks, hums softly. "Never thought I'd be glad for something Camille started."

Magnus huffs out a startled laugh, then presses his hand to his chest with a groan. It hurts as much as he'd been afraid it would. "Our lives are tangled together for the future, too."

"But you're immortal."

"I was."

Alexander makes a soft pained noise, as if he'd been wounded.

"Just like you were mortal."

Alexander's eyes close, slowly this time, and stay that way as he exhales, long and shaky. Magnus waits, for what he's not entirely sure, fear or anger or regret. "Thank the gods," Alexander whispers.

"What?" Magnus' voice cracks up, louder than he'd intended.

Alexander smiles, and his eyes are damp when he opens them, but they're alight, joy and relief and something that Magnus suspects might be love. Magnus forgets how to think. "I thought you meant you were going to die because of me, not that I'd get to live with you."

"Oh." That's all Magnus can manage. They stare at each other, until Magnus realizes it's still getting darker, and it's difficult to see anything beyond the shape of Alexander's cheekbone, the faint glint of his eyes in what little light is left. He realizes he is sure of Alexander, of how he feels, of what he wants. Of everything Alexander never said, but showed him nonetheless, night after night of conversations and silences, shoulders pressed together as they perched on that same damnable, wonderful stump. "I love you, too."

Alexander smiles, wider and brighter than Magnus has ever seen before, and he has no idea what to do now that this is real. He reaches, and Alexander's lips are warm against the very tips of his fingers, and he feels that amazing smile soften beneath his touch.

"You're real," Magnus whispers, "and you're here, with me."

"You're real," Alexander agrees, "and you saved me."

"You first," Magnus says, and he's smiling like a loon, he's sure, as Alexander's hand wraps around his, fingers long and the skin just rough enough to catch, as he tugs Magnus' hand down out of the way and leans in even closer. Magnus closes his eyes, and Alexander's lips meet his at last, as gentle as a spring wind, soft and warm and sweet.

Magnus sighs as their mouths part, as every last bit of worry and stress seems to leave him, and no matter how much he wants to savor every moment of this, he's not sure he can stay awake for much longer.

"Sweet dreams," Alexander breathes against Magnus' mouth, and Magnus laughs again, blinks his eyes half open long enough to see Alexander, to answer with what they both know is true.

"How can they not be, with you in them?"

Alexander scoffs out a breath, amused and fond. "Our times match now, there may not be any more dreams."

"You've always been my favorite dream, Alexander."

Alexander kisses Magnus' forehead, the warm press of his lips lingering as he exhales. Magnus lets his eyes close, and his body settle.

I love you, he hears, and it doesn't matter if Alexander says it out loud, if he's imagining it, or dreaming it. He knows it's true.

#shadowhunters #malec #magnus bane #alec lightwood #ragnor fell #camille belcourt #my sh fic #jilly writes #snow white #fairy tales

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pitiless-achilles-wept · 4 years

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"The Hardest Thing in this World is to Live in It."

I wish I could be your good news

[Originally posted June 25, 2020]

Hi friends,

It's been a long time since I've written here, though with all that's going on in the world I was genuinely unsure if had been months, weeks, or days. Time dilates each day while the days somehow pile up into months. It's actually been about 6 weeks, during which time I had more scans that showed that my primary tumor is still growing.

It's really a stubborn bastard, isn't it? As before, the treatment I've been on has been relatively successful on the metastatic sites (no new locations, some regression in size overall), but the breast tumor itself just keeps getting improbably larger like...well, like a cancer.

On June 1st, the day after I got my most recent news, I posted on Twitter and Facebook to say this:

"Thank you to all of you for liking this and sending your messages of support, both privately and in public. It's hard sometimes to remember in the dual isolation of quarantine and illness that there are so many kind people in the world wishing me well: a bright light in dark times.

I'll post more about it when I'm able, but I am ok given the situation. My latest scans showed that my cancer is still growing-my 3rd failed line of treatment in 15 months. Good things: metastatic sites stable, no new ones, still approaches to try. But optimism is hard right now.

In my cancer group, we talk about "toxic positivity," the pressure to present news w/the best possible spin and be a model patient who determinedly soldiers on. I tend only to post when I can do that. Right now, going on feels impossible. I am so lonely and so tired.

It's not just cancer, though it's quite a burden to carry. Things are bad in the world. Worse than I'd ever imagined. And I am tired of having cancer. But I will never be done while I'm alive. There are burdens we can't put down. It's ok not to bear them cheerfully, for you too.

Addendum: I also feel (absurdly) like I let people down personally when I don't improve (a thing over which I have zero control). In addition to wanting to be better, I want to be your good news, to give us all something to celebrate. I know it's untrue, but it's compelling anyway."

So that's how I've been feeling. I've been wishing, over and over, that I could be your good news, could give you something positive in the midst of all this horror. The fact that I can't turns me quiet and exhausts me in a far more profound way than the ongoing side effects of chemo. I just had my 8th chemo treatment - my first was on January 30th - so that's been 6 months of chemo while working full-time. I didn't realize how burned out I truly was until I used some vacation days (which I had been rationing for hospital days and side effects) for an actual vacation.

It's all more than enough, in combination with all the events going on in the world, to weigh me down. Not only because I do feel, quite literally, weighed down by a tumor that is 8cm x 6.5cm (think of it as a large orange or small grapefruit), but because the heaviness of just continuing to live each day as the pandemic worsens across most of the U.S. and the prospect of ever resuming the still-good life that I was able to manage with cancer--full of things like travel, going to my job, seeing groups of friends, dating, and bars and restaurants--dwindles to almost nothing.

A year in quarantine is a terrible prospect for us all, but a year is longer in my foreshortened life than it is in most of yours. I've become unsure how to continue to live with that, to confront it every day and feel angry that nothing is seemingly ever getting better. I'm actually a fundamental optimist, despite it all, but sometimes enduring, surviving, and keeping on is overwhelming. I just want to be better. I just want not to be alone. I just want to go back to normal. I just want some good news. Preferably, I would like to be that good news.

The quotation in the title of this blog post is, as I know many of you will have recognized, a quotation from "Buffy." (Sidebar: I almost never used the long title when referring to the show, leading one of my UCLA undergrads to inquire once in class, "do you mean the Vampire Slayer?" and yes, UCLA student, yes I do.) I've begun rewatching (or re-re-re-watching? I don't even know at this point) my favorite season of the show, the sixth, which is many people's least favorite.

**SPOILERS** for a show that began airing in 1997 and a season that ran 19 years ago.

It's my favorite because it is an entire season about loss, deprivation, grief, and trauma. The quotation is the last thing that Buffy says to her sister before she takes the swan dive that leads to her death at the end of Season 5. Her death is meaningful, saving the world and preventing the apocalypse. Yet, at the start of Season 6, Buffy is brought back to life (and to a different network) by friends who claim it's because they believe she is in Hell but whose secondary motivations (their own inability to survive without her) are revealed over time. We soon learn that she was not in Hell (how could she be?) but Heaven (or a "heavenly dimension"). And like Milton's Satan and Marlowe's Mephistopheles, the deprivation that she knows, having been at peace, makes living each day painful.

As Buffy herself says in 6x03 "After Life" (to Spike, the only one she is able to go to for solace): "Everything here is bright and hard and violent...Everything I feel, everything I touch...this is Hell. Just getting through the next moment, and the one after that...knowing what I've lost ...They can never know. Never." Buffy becomes not the hero she has been for five seasons, but the anti-hero who is no longer able to be what her friends (and the viewers) demand of her: the same. She is profoundly changed, alienated from nearly everyone by the fundamentally incommunicable nature of her pain.

I have never identified with a character more than when, a few episodes later in the beloved musical episode "Once More, With Feeling," she pummels the villains of the day while spouting cliches: "Where there's life--" PUNCH "--there's hope! Every day's--" KICK "--a gift! Wishes can--" JAB "come true! Whistle while--" PUNCH "you work...so hard..all day..to be like other girls. To fit in this glittering world." It's a perfect literalization of the metaphor for fighting depression. (Literalizing metaphors is something the show always did especially well from its very first episode: high school is hell.)

I feel like this now. Kicking and throwing punches and struggling to make it look effortless, which it most certainly is not, fighting to remain here because the other choices are not really choices. "The hardest thing in this world is to live in it." The line is thrown back at Buffy by her sister at the conclusion of this show-stopping number, only it is now invested with new meaning. We now have more of a sense of how profoundly difficult that can be. How much we must struggle. And Buffy does struggle and she does fail. And that's why many fans dislike the season.

But I see in her struggles and failures the resilience of someone who continues to fight to stay in the world not because it is good, but because it is enough. The hardest thing in this world is to live in it.

So what will I do now? It's looking very much like I will be having surgery, possibly as soon as within a few weeks. The sheer size of this tumor and its resistance to other treatments make removing it a better option than it has been in the past. There are more details, of course, but I will share them later when I'm not exhausted from chemo. In the meantime, I am going to watch more "Buffy," and so should you.

Be well and be kind.

Love, Bex

#my life as a cancer patient #treatment update #june 2020 #covid and cancer #quarantine life #clinical trials #metastatic breast cancer #mbc #stage 4 #buffy the vampire slayer #btvs #once more with feeling

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neuxue · 5 years

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Wheel of Time liveblogging: The Gathering Storm ch 44

Balefire: the solution to every problem! (Except those it causes)

Chapter 44: Scents Unknown

Huh, with a title like that I’d have expected a Perrin chapter, but we’re back with Rand. This is the Book of Rand and Egwene, it would seem. Which is fitting, given where we are in the story—this is the beginning of the end, and the Dragon and Amyrlin are taking their places, two of the greatest forces on the side of the Light. Of course those storylines parallel each other. In their own particular ways.

Oh wait we’re actually with Nynaeve, but Nynaeve is with Rand so it’s almost the same thing except she feels things like a functional person.

“Tarwin’s Gap,” Rand said, shaking his head. “No. The more I think about it, the more I realise that we don’t want to fight there. Lan is doing me a favour. If I can coordinate an assault alongside his own, I can gain great advantage. But I don’t want to distract my armies with the Gap. It would be a waste of resources.”

He named you friend…

At the same time, this makes sense from a strategic point of view, if we accept that Rand is in fact heading straight for Shayol Ghul. Which comes with its own massive host of strategic…complications…but sure. Fine. I guess we’re doing this.

Does that mean next book is going to be mainly catching up all the other timelines? We’ve touched on a few of them this book but it’s mostly been focused on Rand and Egwene, so it does seem like there’s a fair bit of catching up to do before we’re ready to actually start in on Tarmon Gai’don.

He seemed so emotionless, but she had seen the beast get free and roar at her. It was coiled inside him, and if he didn’t let his emotions out soon, they would devour him from the inside.

Emotions are like dogs: you need to let them out at least twice a day so they can do their business and not wreck the house.

Not that I would know, given that I have neither emotions nor dogs.

(‘But Lia,’ you say, ‘you had an emotion just last chapter, on this very blog.’ Lies and slander).

Each day brought Lan one step closer to a fight he couldn’t win.

Are you sure about that? If there’s one character I’d bet on in that situation, against those odds, it would be Lan Mandragoran. In part because he doesn’t look at it as a fight to be won. It’s a fight he has to fight, but he has always expected it to claim his life; he’s not holding anything back, and he’s not looking for a way out, and he has nothing left to lose.

If Lan was going to fight an impossible battle, then she longed to be at his side. But she stayed. Light take Rand al’Thor, she stayed. What good would it do to help Lan, only to let the world fall into Shadow because of a stubborn sheepherder’s stubborn…stubbornness!

Ah Nynaeve. It’s a quiet sacrifice, but not a small one for her. She has almost the opposite problem to Rand: she cares so deeply about so many people. But she can’t just go where she wishes she could; she knows she can’t go to Lan any more than Rand can. It’s a strategic decision on her part as well, even as it hurts her to have to make it. But she’s right; helping Lan does nothing if the Dragon Reborn fails. And so they come to the same conclusion but from entirely different directions.

This, also, avoids the thing I hate most in fictional romance: when it gets in the way and causes problems by making characters do absurdly stupid things In The Name Of Love. I have many issues with the WoT romances, but on the whole that at least is not one of them. Characters are mostly able to put aside their pants feelings when needed, and I appreciate that. Instead, we mostly see the more…plot-positive sides of those relationships, in how they provide support or an anchor or a source of comfort and strength for those involved.

Well, except for Gawyn. But he’s not in this chapter (yet, anyway) so I don’t have to talk about him.

Don’t worry, Nynaeve; Lan is at least not alone. You did well. If Malkier is to die, it will die thoroughly and finally.

“We cannot let the enemy dictate our battlefield. The last thing we want to do is fight where they want us to, or where they expect us to.” He turned his eyes northward. “Yes, let them gather. They seek me, and I shall not deliver myself. Why fight at Tarwin’s Gap? It makes the best sense to jump most of our armies right to Shayol Ghul.”

Um.

Sorry, run that by me again? You can’t let your enemy dictate the battlefield, and you can’t fight where they expect you to, so you’re going to drop yourself right into the epicentre of the Shadow’s power? That makes sense…how, exactly?

Nynaeve’s still trying to convince him to move on Tarwin’s Gap instead, but it all touches too closely on strategy, and that’s…not going to work. It’s too easy for him to dismiss her arguments, to look at Lan’s possible death and a Trolloc invasion as just part of what must be done, as pieces on the gameboard that he can use. It’s too easy for him to retreat into emotionless analysis of the battlefield. You’re going to need to find a different angle of attack, though I’m still not sure what. But something that can appeal to who he was, to the few things he still cares about, as much as he cares about anything. To something he can’t actually let go, no matter how much he’s convinced himself otherwise.

“Rand,” Nynaeve said, her anger fading to horror. “Lan will die!”

“Then who am I to deny him that?” Rand said. “We all deserve the chance to find peace.”

Oh.

I…the worst part is, Lan would not even disagree. He has been functionally suicidal for…his entire adult life, at least, if not longer. His whole life has been wrapped up in his death, in the death of Malkier, in this war he knows he cannot win and has been bound away from by various means but to which he always, always returns in his thoughts. There is no peace for him until he can meet that destiny. He and Rand share that now, more than ever, but that doesn’t make them right.

(You fell off a roof knowing it would mean imprisonment rather than let go when he looked you in the eye and told you to, Rand. But now…now he understands that desire to just fall. To stop fighting and let gravity and destiny take you where they may, and to know the relief of finally letting it all end…)

He actually believed that! Or he was convincing himself to believe it, at least.

Some of both, really. In part it’s just that he can’t let himself hope, so he has resigned himself to death because that way he can let everything else go; if there’s nothing to save it doesn’t matter what he does. But some of it is just that he’s so tired and in so much pain and has been trying to do far too much for far too long, and just desperately wants it to be over. Prophecied hero jobs should at least come with some serious mental healthcare, is what I’m saying here.

“My duty is to kill the Dark One,” Rand said, as if to himself. “I kill him, then I die. That is all.”

Yeah that…still sounds like a terrible idea in approximately every way I can think of. What of balance? What of choice? What of the Pattern, because surely destroying the Dark One in this Age would break the cycle of the Ages past and to come. This is not the sort of series where killing a god is going to end well.

But it suits his current mindset perfectly. A focus so narrow that this looks like victory, a desperation for an ending, a loss of any sense of why, a willingness to let everything else be destroyed in the service of this one purpose. Ending the cycle forever rather than facing this battle again and again (because like his supposed enemy, he now just wants it all to be over). Destroying the Dark One, just as the Dark One plans to destroy the Pattern. It seems like at some point those come down to more or less the same thing. (A world without entropy is just stasis).

Is it really his own conviction? Or is it born of his strange link with Moridin? A path to an absolute ending, rather than one that preserves the endless cycle of time…’When you are victorious, it only leads to another battle. When he is victorious, all things will end’. Is it true reversed? When all things end, is the Dark One victorious? Even if that ending is brought about with his own destruction?

This should have been a place where farmers didn’t need to turn good lumber into quarterstaffs, nor watch strangers with eyes that expected attack.

But the storm is coming, and they must go north. There isn’t anywhere that can hope to remain truly untouched by what is to come, but that doesn’t stop Nynaeve from hating the thought. They need people like her, just as they need those who can accept that price in the name of victory. It’s a balance, of sorts. Someone has to care, and at least try to preserve what can be preserved, and spare pain where possible, and keep in mind that these are the people and the lives they are fighting for, so what good does it do if all of that is lost? Change is one thing, collateral damage is one thing, sacrifice is one thing. But to be willing to write off everything for a scorched-earth victory that leaves nothing behind to rebuild from is…beyond that. Because who does that victory serve, in the end? Except perhaps the one who wants the destruction of everything, that it can be remade in the image of chaos.

The Dragon is one with the land but the Dragon cares nothing for himself, is using himself up and just waiting to die and so why would he treat the land any differently, but to drag it behind him into this same all-consuming battle, with no hope of survival and nothing to save, to claim victory at the cost of everything?

(Self-care is realising that your wellbeing is literally linked to that of the entire world? Man, this hero business sucks).

Nynaeve is still not pleased with Cadsuane’s secrecy regarding her plan for Rand—she could learn something from Egwene, there—but is still trying to work out where Perrin might be.

Wait, she went back to the Two Rivers? That’s…the first time since EotW, and given how much that once meant to her, and how much it has shaped who she is, I’m kind of surprised we don’t get more than a throwaway line implying a visit. That seems like an important thing, for her. Even if it is just to realise how far she has come from Wisdom of Emond’s Field (and how much of that she still carries with her).

Wow, asking Rand? A character asking another character for information? I’m shocked.

Though to be perfectly honest it didn’t even really occur to me that that might be an easy way to find out. I suppose that says something about these characters and transparency.

Of course, it’s too much to hope that Rand would actually tell her.

“I am worried about him, Rand al’Thor,” she said. “He has a peaceful, unassuming nature—and always did let his friends push him around too much.”

There. Let Rand think about that.

“Unassuming,” Rand said musingly. “Yes, I suppose he is still that. But peaceful? Perrin is no longer too…peaceful.”

Wow okay yeah this is fine. That didn’t hurt unexpectedly or anything.

The way he says it so calmly, like it’s little more than discussing the weather, like the changes in his friend don’t affect him at all. He, who once tried to drive both Perrin and Mat and the rest away to avoid hurting them, and then tried to tell himself he wouldn’t use them, and then smiled like a boy when Perrin found him again in Lord of Chaos despite everything else that was happening and just wanted to talk of home. But now…nothing. No worry, no resignation, not even something like amusement or puzzlement or even self-hating satisfaction. Perrin has a beard now and also is no longer peaceful. Those two things carry approximately equal weight.

The Aiel learned, and adapted, quickly. Surprising, really.

Not at all surprising if you’ve been through the glass columns of Rhuidean. Their entire history is one of change, of adaptation, of becoming at every step something new, something further from what they once were, yet holding all the while to some core of identity to keep from being lost.

(‘Lia, you really cannot deny you have emotions when it comes to Rhuidean at least.’ JUST WATCH ME).

This particular crossroads hadn’t been important in years. If Verin or one of the other Brown sisters had been here, they’d likely have been able to explain exactly why.

TOO SOON.

Yes, go talk to Narishma. We haven’t seen nearly enough of him, given how promising his introduction was.

Also, where is Logain these days? I don’t think we’ve seen him since…Semirhage? Why is he not with this group?

“I was a cobbler’s son, Nynaeve Sedai. I know not the ways of lords and ladies.” He hesitated. “Besides, I’m not a Borderlander anymore.” The implication was clear. He would protect Rand, no matter what other allegiances tugged at him. A very Warder-like way of thought.

A Warder-like way of thought, maybe, but if so it’s one with a distinctly Lan-shaped exception.

Also, at least we’re finally dealing with that whole Borderlander situation. Even Narishma doesn’t get what could possibly have brought them here.

“A Borderlander’s place is guarding the Border,” Narishma said. “I was a cobbler’s son, and yet I was trained with the sword, spear, bow, axe and sling. Even before joining the Asha’man, I could best four of five trained southern soldiers in a duel. We live to defend. And yet they left. Now, of all times.”

SAME, NARISHMA. SAME. Seriously, how much of this current clusterfuck could have been avoided if the Borderland rulers—or at least their armies—had stayed put on the Blight like they’ve been doing for the past several centuries? They’d better have a good reason for this but I cannot for the life of me work out what it might be.

So the Borderlanders were told to bring no more than two hundred and instead they sent…one. Everything about this situation is just bizarre.

Hurin!

On second thought, delete that tone of excitement. Rand is not who he was when Hurin knew him and this seems unlikely to go well.

“Why, Lord Rand!” Hurin called, voice uneven. “It is you! Well, you’ve certainly come up in the world, I must say. Good to—”

Oh man wow that one line brings back such a strong memory of…everything about Rand in TGH. Rand when he was still young and uncertain and trying to find his way, Rand when all he wanted was to protect his friends, and counted Hurin as one of those simply because he was there and looked to Rand for help. Rand who tried to tell Hurin he was no lord, and when Hurin didn’t believe it, did his best to act the way he thought a good lord should. Rand when he joined the hunt because he just wanted to help Mat. Rand, afraid of his power but willing to use it for the sake of those he loved and cared for. Rand when he told Ingtar that to abandon Egwene would be to damn himself. Rand when he offered Ingtar redemption and then calmly defied Ishamael and—

It feels like a different character entirely, and this small reunion is such an effective way of forcing that contrast, by evoking the memory of who and what Rand was then and having to place that alongside who and what he is now.

Hurin still calls him ‘Lord Rand’. At one time, Rand was shocked at the title. Now…how long has it been since he’s been called anything but ‘Lord Dragon’? Now, ‘Lord Rand’ sounds almost informal, almost like an odd sort of endearment. Like an appeal to the person he was.

I think part of what makes this work is how…innocent Hurin’s greeting is. As if he doesn’t know everything that has changed since he last saw Rand—which he probably doesn’t. And so he comes into this scene with the assumption that Rand is the same as he was, which forces the reader to, just for a moment, share that perspective, or at least be jarred out of the present by it.

He cut off as he was raised from the ground.

Well that didn’t last long.

Though I can’t blame Rand for asking him a question only he would know the answer to, to verify his identity. And for treating him with uncertainty until then. After the disaster with Semirhage masquerading as Tuon, that’s only common sense really.

But once that’s been established…well, it would be far too much to expect of Rand, as he is now, to be friendly. To share a moment of simple reunion. Or, apparently, to even treat Hurin with anything resembling civility.

Nynaeve felt a stab of pity for the man. He was absolutely devoted to Rand.

Once, that would have meant something.

Poor Hurin. He was so good, and he didn’t ask for any of this, hasn’t done anything to deserve this, and now the man he came to idolise simply because that man was a good person to him is…well. Not.

And while someone like Nynaeve, who has been with Rand for some of the intervening time, at least has the context to understand what has changed and why, Hurin has none of that. He can’t know why Rand has suddenly become…this, or why his Lord Rand is so cold to him or any of it.

Anyway, it’s all incredibly effective use of basically an NPC to evoke a sense of…pain and loss and an even clearer, almost shocking moment of understanding just how much has changed, and what that means. Well done.

“Now that…that’s strange. Never smelled that before.”

“What?” Rand asked.

Probably just the Eau d’Indifference you’ve taken to wearing lately…

“I don’t know,” Hurin said. “The air…it smells like a lot of death, a lot of violence, only not. It’s darker. More terrible.”

A halo of darkness, a scent of violence and darkness, a ta’veren effect that twists things to the darker side of chance, a warp in the air around him…it’s been perceived and described a number of different ways at this point, but it is undeniably there. This aura of death and violence around him, this darkness, this… ‘death and betrayal. It is HIM.’ I think it’s quite likely this is, at least in large part, an effect of his touching the True Power.

Rand is not distracted by this revelation that he smells like death and violence—why would a hero be bothered about that, after all?—so we just get straight to business. Hurin’s here as a messenger to set up the real meeting, but oh wait nope Rand’s not quite done being disturbing.

“I no longer feel anger, Hurin,” Rand said. “It serves me no useful function.”

That’s…fine and normal.

Oh. They want to meet in Far Madding. Somehow I don’t think that suggestion is going to go over too well, for, oh, about a thousand different reasons.

“Well, last time you were in Far Madding, there was—”

Pain? Pain is the word you’re looking for, Hurin. Lots and lots of pain.

(Also a desire to help Lan, which he seems to have misplaced somewhere along the way, so maybe a trip to Far Madding’s Lost and Found could be of use, actually…)

“You’ll have to come inside the protection of the Guardian, you see, and—” Rand waved a curt hand, cutting off Hurin. A gateway opened immediately.

I have such a very bad feeling about this. He doesn’t even respond. Because that’s right, he doesn’t feel anger anymore. Why waste words arguing when he could be moving? But there’s no way in hell he’s about to walk into Far Madding, so…what exactly is he doing? And that’s where said bad feeling comes in.

(And when I say ‘bad feeling’ I mean…uh…feeling that this could go very badly but in a way that I am anticipating with something that is far closer to excitement than dread because as I’ve said, I like this Rand. Don’t judge me).

Rand stopped Tai’daishar, looking across the open meadow toward the ancient city of Far Madding.

Ah, yes, because Rand looking out on population centres has worked out so well in the recent past. This could go very, very wrong.

“They will know we’ve come,” Rand said softly, eyes narrowed. “They’ll have been waiting for it. They expect me to ride into their box.”

“Box?” Nynaeve asked hesitantly.

I get the feeling Nynaeve is also remembering watching Rand look out on a different city from afar. She’s clearly on edge here, afraid to say the wrong thing but also afraid of what Rand might be thinking, of what Rand could do.

“They want me where they can control me, but they don’t understand. Nobody controls me. Not anymore. I’ve had enough of boxes and prisons, of chains and ropes. Never again will I put myself into the power of another.”

Oh how Moridin would laugh, to look upon where the Fisher piece stands, and which side it currently serves. You can’t just…step out of your context like this, Rand. He sees it as being free, never realising that he is just binding himself more tightly and to all the wrong things, trapping himself, letting himself be manipulated into doing exactly what his enemy wants him to do and all the while believing it his choice. He’s trying to force control; a long time ago, he realised the futility of that, recognised that by accepting his fate and his role he could find some modicum of control. He told Mat, then, to stop running. But now…this is just another form of denial. He tells himself he accepts who he is and what he must do, but still he finds ways to fight it.

It doesn’t help that he has been imprisoned and caged too many times; how could he trust? How could he willingly walk into another’s power, when so many times before it has brought him pain? And yet he has to, somehow.

Is that what this is about? Is that, somehow, what the Borderlanders are trying to force, or test?

Still staring at the city, he reached to its place on his saddle and removed the statuette of a man holding aloft a globe.

No. Oh, no.

“Perhaps they need to be taught,” Rand said. “Given encouragement to do their duty and obey me.”

No no no.

(Yes? Maybe? I am a terrible person).

“Rand…” Nynaeve tried to think. She couldn’t let this happen again!

Oh, Nynaeve. How utterly terrifying it must be to watch this with that horrifying sense of déjà vu, and with the knowledge that if he decides to do it again there is absolutely nothing she can do to stop him. Because she’s seen him do it, she’s seen what he is now willing and able to do, she knows how far this could go and knows how close they are to that edge again, knows there is nothing truly holding him back. And yet she has to stop him, because this cannot be allowed to happen, this cannot happen again, and there is no one else here who stands a chance of talking him down.

The access key began to glow faintly. “They want to capture me,” he said softly. “Hold me. Beat me. They did it once in Far Madding already. They—”

“Rand!” Nynaeve said sharply.

He stopped, looking at her, seeing her as if for the first time.

“These are not slaves with their minds already burned away by Graendal. That is an entire city full of innocent people!”

It’s like watching him cross a line and believing it to truly be the last one, and then realising that no, he could still fall even further. Natrin’s Barrow was an atrocity but it could, just, fall under the category of ‘collateral damage’. This…these aren’t slaves to Compulsion, and they’re not even his enemy. These are his own allies, his own people, and here he stands calmly considering their destruction. Because while there apparently are still some lines he has yet to cross, he doesn’t see it that way, and so there’s nothing holding him back. And so this seems like a perfectly reasonable option—quick, effective, certain to make his point.

To see this through Nynaeve’s eyes, watching almost in slow motion as Rand stares at the city (again) and the access key begins to glow (again) and Rand is cold and unreachable (again) and she is desperate.

And somehow, because she is Nynaeve and because, perhaps, she has always felt so deeply and always worn her heart on her sleeve and never been able to make herself not care, because Rand knows this and has entrusted to her the duty of caring where he cannot…something in that manages to reach him. At least enough to get his attention.

She is his conscience, in a way. One last, tenuous check. Because she does still see those lines he has not yet crossed, those lines he is approaching all too quickly, those lines he no longer sees because in his mind he has already crossed the last and is now just in freefall.

What a position to be in, for her.

“I wouldn’t harm the people of the city,” Rand said, voice emotionless.

You say that like it’s obvious but at this current point, it really is anything but, Rand. And it’s not because he has any…aversion to it. It just wouldn’t serve his purpose.

(I have such a weakness for that in a character—that wholly amoral pragmatism that looks like moral limits purely because there are things that don’t make tactical or strategic senseThings that seem to be off the table because ‘even I would never do such a thing’ but really are just off the table in this particular situation because they bring no advantage).

(But it’s not how Rand should be).

“That army deserves the demonstration, not the city. A rain of fire upon them, perhaps. Or lightning to strike and bite.”

This from the man who despaired at having to strike some of his own at the gates of Cairhien, to keep the Shaido from reaching the gate. This from the man who all but wept, sitting in the rain and mud, after Callandor caused him to kill his own army and the Seanchan indiscriminately. This from the man who begged Lews Therin, when he was controlling the weaves, to take a few seconds from fighting Trollocs to put out the fires that were killing his soldiers. Hell, this from a man who didn’t even try violence to put down a rebellion. And now he speaks so calmly of what these allies of his ‘deserve’. As a ‘demonstration’.

“They have done nothing other than ask you to meet with them!” Nynaeve said.

She could not get through to him about Lan, not when strategy and Lan’s own choices were against her, but here…this is different and she knows it, and she desperately needs Rand to know it, and to understand. Or at least to listen to her, and to…trust that she understands something even if he doesn’t. He trusts her to feel for him, to dream on his behalf, to care on his behalf. And so he needs to trust her to do that now, trust her to act as a check on his power. To listen to her and hold back, not because he sees any reason to but because she does and he trusts her to feel the things he cannot, and therefore to know that this is something he should not do. It’s an odd sort of dynamic, but it could just work. Maybe.

Most of what she has going on her behalf here, I think, is that she’s not trying for persuasion or ‘reasoned arguments’ or manipulation of any sort. She’s literally just…begging him. She is desperate, and more empathetic than most could tolerate, and it’s just a raw, naked plea born of that desperation and empathy. Not just for those people, but for Rand himself; even if he refuses to acknowledge what this would do to him, she doesn’t.

That ter’angreal sat like a viper in his hand. Once, it had cleansed the Source.

Wow, that was…an unexpectedly impactful line. Okay. Uh. That came out of nowhere. Damn.

“Rand,” she said softly. “If you do this, there will be no turning back.”

“There’s already no turning back for me, Nynaeve,” he said, his eyes intense.

(Okay, fine, I admit it, I have emotions. Maybe one or two. At most four.)

A few things here. The first is the way Nynaeve’s words imply that it’s a simple fact that there is still a way back, as far as she sees it. She doesn’t even bother to make that point, because it doesn’t need to be made; she takes it as a given. Even after what he has done, he has not yet gone too far. There’s a certain…grace, almost, in how she gives him that implication without even thinking about it, without being asked for it. She does not for a moment think he is beyond forgiveness.

Yet.

And then, combined with Rand’s response, it makes the point I was dancing around earlier: she can still see gradations where all he sees is darkness; she can see lines he has not yet crossed, where all he sees is that last one behind him. She fears for him, because he is approaching the truly unforgivable, while he believes he already is.

The ‘freedom’ he has found is the belief that nothing matters now—that there is nothing left for him to hold on to, that he is already beyond forgiveness or redemption, that he can’t make it worse because he’s already crossed over the last line where those gradations matter, so there’s no point holding back because nothing makes a difference.

Except that morality is relative and Nynaeve does not see those lines the same way Rand does, and so Nynaeve is watching him move closer and closer to the edge of the cliff and is trying desperately to keep him from falling, while in Rand’s own view, he already has.

And so the fact that he believes himself past that point is itself what would enable him to truly cross it; it’s a terrifyingly sharp contrast in just two lines of these viewpoints, and of what it really means that Rand sees himself as beyond the point of turning back. That, almost more than what he’s actually done, is the truly frightening part, and I think this is where Nynaeve really sees that.

“My feet started on this path the moment Tam found me crying on that mountain.”

It’s the issue of agency versus destiny again; Rand is now in a place where not only does he think he’s crosssed all the lines and therefore is free to act as he may because he’s damned anyway, but he’s also in this weird place where, for all that he does consider himself damned by his actions, he almost absolves himself of all responsibility for them.

Or, no, that’s not quite it. He just…absolves himself of all agency and all self at all. He has the freedom to do anything he chooses, anything he deems necessary…and he also has no choice at all, no self he is allowed to claim. It’s a paradox and it makes my brain hurt but it also makes perfect sense, from where he’s standing. It’s like he looked at ‘shoulder all the responsibility’ and ‘take no responsibility’ and ‘find the freedom to act as you will’ and ‘chain yourself to destiny’ and somehow managed to find that one central place in the venn diagram of all those circles where it just maximises pain.

Also…the moment Tam found him crying on the mountain. Could that be what ‘stand on his grave and weep’ is about? I suppose it’s possible but that would feel a little…cheap, somehow, given that we’re only getting that line of the (Seanchan versions of the) prophecies now, and there’s so much else pointing at Dragonmount, but…maybe. Or maybe I was right earlier and this is a form of foreshadowing, which would be fitting.

“You don’t have to kill anyone today. Please.”

He turned to look back at the city. Slowly, mercifully, the access key stopped glowing.

A much more accurate use of ‘mercy’, all things considered.

She’s just…all she has is her desperation and the last threads of a connection to him and she’s pulling him back from the edge of a cliff he can’t even let himself see, and the fact that she manages it, that she manages somehow to reach him, is remarkable. She’s not trying to manipulate, here. She’s not even shouting at him or angry at him or scolding him. It’s just stripped-down desperate pleading, and from Nynaeve, the one he trusts to carry his dreams and his caring and to some extent his conscience, it reaches him.

Maybe because she so easily offered him the forgiveness he no longer lets himself seek. Without even saying as much—just by saying that this would make it impossible, thereby implying that as things stand, it is possible. He may not believe her, but perhaps that was enough to reach some part of him, still. Enough to make him go along with her, to let her hold on to that dream a little longer (to let himself, even if he cannot admit it?)

Anyway, the result is that Rand is now using his words rather than his balefire, to dictate his own terms. Terms that amount to ‘go to the Blight like you’re supposed to or else your great-great-great grandchildren will call you cowards’, but still.

Hurin stayed behind. He still looked shaken. His reunion with ‘Lord Rand’ had obviously been far from what he expected.

Poor Hurin. He did absolutely nothing to deserve this (except be Rand’s friend, once. And now he pays the price for that, as Rand always feared his friends would pay the price for his existence and friendship).

So much for that. We still don’t’ know why the Borderlanders are here, and here they still are, and it’s another negotiation or treaty or whatever you want to call it that he’s just…walking away from.

As Nynaeve climbed off of Moonlight and handed the reins to a ruddy-faced stable worker, Rand walked past her. “Look for a statue,” he said.

“What?” she asked with surprise.

He glanced back at her, stopping. “You asked where Perrin was. He’s camped with an army beneath the shade of an enormous fallen statue shaped like a sword stabbing the earth.”

‘Just look for the giant beacon of symbolism and you’ll find him’.

It’s so…surprising, though. And yet it’s very, very Rand. To unexpectedly offer her this, something she asked for a while ago but now feels out of context, freely, because that’s how his sense of honour works.

It reminds me of that scene between him and Egwene in LoC when just about everything else goes straight to hell but then he answers her questions about Travelling, honestly and directly and with no other motive but that she asked and he knows the answer.

Add to that the fact that he didn’t tell Nynaeve this the first time she asked, and it’s as if he’s thanking her, in the only way he really can at this point, for holding him back. He can’t let himself feel, but he has delegated that to her and she’s doing it and this much, he can give her. Maybe it will help.

Mostly though, this just gets to me because it feels so like how Rand used to be, even for just a moment. Trusting. Helpful. She asked him a question and then all kinds of other things happened but he made a point of remembering it and giving her the answer. There are remnants, still, of who he was and they show up at these odd points and it’s…lovely and so very sad.

Ah. She sees it too.

“Why tell me?” she asked, walking alongside him across the yard of packed earth. She hadn’t expected him to give up the information—he had gotten into the habit of holding onto whatever he knew, even if that knowledge was meaningless.

“Because,” he said, striding toward the keep, voice growing almost too soft to hear. “I…have a debt to you for caring when I cannot.”

I’M FINE.

I could have saved myself some words by just turning the page, because Rand straight-up says what I was thinking, but me being pleased with myself is being crowded out by ‘dream on my behalf’ and ‘I have a debt to you for caring when I cannot’ and Rand still having that strange sense of honour and recognising exactly what he’s doing even if he can’t stop it and yet listening to Nynaeve and knowing how deep his debt to her runs because she does care, and it matters to him that she does, and he knows what he’s lost and what he’s become and I am completely okay with all of this. Totally fine. Entirely unaffected.

It hurts.

But in the best way.

There was a wet scent to the air, the smell of new rain, and she could feel that she’d missed a sprinkle. Not enough to clear the air or muddy the ground, but enough to leave wetted sections of stone in shaded corners.

I see what you did there. The Land is one with the Dragon, after all, and Nynaeve’s weather sense has long since moved into the realm of the symbolic.

I really like this particular example, though. Soft and barely enough to make a noticeable change, not enough to ‘clear the air’, but it’s something. Rand telling her where Perrin is, after he’s destroyed one fortress with balefire and nearly destroyed a city and still thinks he is beyond redemption and therefore beyond limits, is…a small step, and perhaps not even a step, but it’s something.

Also, for all that in my head Rand is linked with the wind because that’s what we start every book with, and it is itself linked to the notion of beginnings and endings and something pervasive and all-reaching, we do see Rand linked to rain as well at significant moments. Bringing rain to the Waste as he declared himself, and water to the fountains of Rhuidean before he leaves. Letting the rain fall on him as he recognises his failure outside of Ebou Dar. ‘I am the storm’. But here it’s not a storm, nothing dramatic, just a barely-noticeable fall of new rain.

Time to report to Cadsuane.

Cadsuane herself was speaking quietly to Min, whom she had all but appropriated in recent days. Min herself didn’t seem to mind, perhaps because it wasn’t easy to spend time with Rand these days. Nynaeve felt a stab of sympathy for the girl. Nynaeve only had to deal with Rand as a friend; all of this would be much harsher on the one who shared his heart.

And that Min of all people has reached that point, that even she who has stayed by Rand’s side through just about everything in the last several books is finding it painful to be near him, is telling.

Yet it’s Nynaeve who Rand relies on to care when he cannot. His friend, not his lover. It’s a different sort of bond, and a different sort of anchor, but in this case no less…strong, or valuable. Or maybe that’s just me projecting.

Cadsuane manages the sort of dismissive compliments only she can, and still doesn’t want to talk about her plans. Maybe she and Egwene should have a chat about the values of transparency.

“You’d hold this knowledge back, even if it means the lives of those you hold dear?”

Really, Cadsuane, one could ask you the same thing. But secrecy and evasion are hard habits to break.

“Did he take it well?” Nynaeve repeated flatly. “That depends. Does pulling out that blasted ter’angreal and threatening to rain down fire on the army strike you as ‘Taking it well’?”

Min paled. Cadsuane raised an eyebrow.

“I stopped him,” Nynaeve said. “But just barely. I don’t know. It…it might be getting to late to do anything to change him.”

And what it must cost her to admit that. Nynaeve, who will do anything and everything to protect those she loves, but how can she protect him from himself? And what can she do when it is the world that needs protecting from him? But it’s not in her nature to just give up, and to do so with Rand would mean ceasing to protect him, ceasing to try to Heal him, and she cares too much to do that, but what else can she do? She’s caught in a place where no matter what she tries, there will be pain for someone.

Meanwhile Corele puts way too much stock in prophecies. You’re missing a crucial piece, Corele: for prophecies and visions to work, the world has to exist.

“If Rand loses, there is no Pattern.”

As readers, we know that there is a Fourth Age, at least, from some of the epigraphs. But the point here is something I talked about recently—it’s not so much about whether Light will win against Shadow; it’s not about whether the world will survive or perish, but instead is about what it will take to get there, what it will cost, how they can possibly bring about that success from this point and what it will demand of them. How much farther they can fall and still have a chance of survival. What kind of survival that will be.

To the characters themselves, there is no guarantee. But I think this serves a secondary purpose as a sign to the reader that even if there seems to be evidence that everything will be okay—for a given value of ‘okay’—there is still so much at stake here, and it’s not a simple path. It’s not going to be easy, and it may not come without a price, and it’s not a simple guarantee.

It’s a focus not on the ‘what will happen’ but on the ‘how’, and it’s a reminder that whatever you think you know about how this ends, it is not so simple.

As far as Nynaeve is concerned, that adds up to needing to tell Cadsuane what she knows of Perrin’s location, even if she’s annoyed at Cadsuane’s secrecy. This is not the time to hold anything back. And yes, that could easily be said of Cadsuane as well, but the point is more that someone has to take the first step. Nynaeve can’t afford a power struggle with Cadsaune over information right now, not with the entire world at stake.

“In answer to your question earlier, child, Perrin actually isn’t important to our plans.”

“He isn’t?” Nynaeve asked. “But—”

Cadsuane raised a finger. “There are people with him who are vital. One in particular.”

TAM?

I’m not sure if that’s in capslock out of excitement or total dread but…let’s just go with both.

Because given Rand’s entire…*waves hands at everything*…it seems all but impossible for this to go well, which means it could go so, so badly, but on the other hand, TAM. AND RAND. IT’S BEEN TWELVE BOOKS.

I HAVE BEEN WANTING THIS REUNION FOR LITERAL YEARS.

But like this?

Next (TGS ch 45) Previous (TGS ch 43)

#few problems cannot be solved with duct tape or a sharp object #but in those cases arson is a good backup #Wheel of Time #neuxue liveblogs WoT #The Gathering Storm

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nephenees-lance · 6 years

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I headcanon that Anna has, in her ageless youth brought upon by the curse of “writers deciding a series with next to no continuity needed a recurring character”, lost more than a few marbles and that the idea of ‘Sister Annas’ is a blatant lie created by Anna herself; all the Annas share a single consciousness spread out through multiple bodies, all existing for the purposes of satisfying her lust for gold. This fits well with her mild-mannered shopkeep/tutorial character role transitioning into a money-crazy merchant in Awakening, and then into a voyeuristic, absurdly greedy lawful evil commander in Heroes. She clings to material wealth as a means of coping with her slowly encroaching loss of sanity, and post-NMotE her actions are primarily her playing 'the long game’ against the player themselves. NMotE was the first game to feature wireless communication-based DLC that Anna appeared in (she wasn’t in satellaview), and it was an eye-opening event for her as it revealed that there existed a world beyond her own that exhibited some degree of control over the universe of Fire Emblem. This is what prompted her to take steps over the next thousand years or so in order to be able to serve as the in-universe vendor for DLC in Awakening, and also where she started actively planning against the player. In order to expand her wealth (some of which she sends back to Jake, who she still loves), she presents herself as a recruitable unit in Awakening for the first time in the franchise in order to get closer to the player, and, upon realizing that the support system now included marriage, hastily made herself into a marriage option (which is why she can only S-support Robin). Fearing that she had overdone getting the player wrapped around her finger, she took a more background role in Fates (though she still capitalized off of it by being a DLC character) and disappeared completely from Echoes since she knew she wasn’t in Gaiden (though I wouldn’t rule out the possibility of her being the person who set the price of the season pass), only to return with a vengeance in Heroes. Her role in Heroes is the most interesting, to me at least, since the opening scene is her doing *something* to Breidablik, which I’ve chosen to interpret as her manually modifying it to require orbs (which cost real-world money to obtain in significant amounts) as a way for her to generate additional revenue. I know this isn’t how IntSys has meant for her character to be read, but I’d like to see FE16 bring this to its logical conclusion by making her into the 'man behind the man’ as a incredibly immoral war profiteer who goes out of her way to fuels the conflict within the game without anybody realizing it so they’d buy her wares and have her end up being the true final boss. And then she’d mellow out a bit for the sake of becoming a viable marriage option again or something.

#fire emblem #anna #confession

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nathjonesey-75 · 5 years

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The Thirty-Year Itch

When I was a young boy, I used to think that even twenty years was a lifetime – thirty was a millennium. When I turned thirty, I had the sinister feeling that I would have to grow up, start behaving maturely and that my young, green and careless days would be naturally terminated as instantaneously as my twenties.

As it happens, looking back for three decades – my thirties were possibly more enjoyable, along with the realisation that – as the meme suggests – “Don’t grow up, it’s a trap!” So, turning back the clock to the year of 1989; an unbelievably pivotal year, not only for its eventful happenings, good and bad; but for the long-term change for the world.

Globally, we had the start of crumbling dictatorships and old regimes as the “Iron Curtain” began to flake. Romania’s overthrowing of its communist president, Nicolae Ceausescu and overhaul of the old communist republic, the smoother Velvet Revolution in Czechoslovakia and even more famously – the majestically powerful opening of the Berlin Wall, ending one of the biggest divisions of the twentieth century, starting the reuniting of what we now know as Germany.

From the eyes of a naïve, small-town boy from Wales who had two passions – sport and music, this particular year was an eye-opening door to wowing, new worlds and understanding heartache in a cruel world. In the sporting sense, it should have been another year remembered for success and silverware for my teams Llanelli RFC and Liverpool FC. Tragically, the events in Sheffield on April 15th, 1989 would change the landscape of years to come for my Merseyside second home after the loss of ninety-six lives at Hillsborough. With only a month to go until the anniversary of that colossal tragedy, I’d only like to think of Liverpool as a city more solidified through its guts, grit and togetherness ever since.

Not only did the injustice, corruption and governmental evil epitomise the darker days of Thatcherite Britain and its inappropriate old guard of politicians and so-called leaders; but the legacy of loss and undermanagement in football changed how sport was facilitated, law was conducted – and how Liverpool and a city and as a football club – was both seen and run. Solidarity and deep doggedness from the Justice for the 96 team is something which I have grown, supported and seen – and wholeheartedly admired from Anne Williams, Margaret Aspinall and Trevor Hicks and all of their league of big, fighting hearts. Finally, some justice was seen two years ago – but did not replace those lost.

This would be something which also deeply personified but affected one of my first heroes, Sir Kenny Dalglish. As much as it makes me proud to see him acknowledged in being knighted for his compassionate work in the city’s communities as well as for the football club, his career as our manager was torn apart by this maelstrom, forcing him to resign less than two years later. Probably my most memorable flashback of the year was watching the horror unfold on my grandparents’ old television on that fateful day. If 1989 produced some vintage wines in the way of the aforementioned freedom around the world – this one was a poisonous drop.

On a more positive sporting note, while this was the height of passion in old Welsh rugby days – pre-Hillsborough’s standing areas meaning you could fit way, way over capacity in each stadium; I remember sitting as a ball boy in the Scarlets matches on frosty, cold nights with what must have been around 20,000 people watching derby matches in a stadium which only held 10,800 people. Possibly the link of two happenings as a ball boy was being interviewed by a New Zealand TV crew, as I was wearing an All Blacks jersey on the side of the pitch one evening – as a precursor to their tour in October 1989. Meeting the squad – one of the best teams (even to this day) I have ever seen, the day after they beat Llanelli 11-0 the previous day. Sir John Kirwan, the towering winger signed his autograph in my little old book with “Go For It”, leaving me open-mouthed, as if I’d met a god.

In culture, my most-watched movie (apart from Star Wars Episode 4: A New Hope) in cinemas was released in June 1989, among the most memorable of marketing campaigns I can remember as a child. Tim Burton’s Batman was something which I can honestly say – changed my life. I watched it four times in cinemas, then countless times when released on VHS later that year. The soundtrack by Prince, the score by Danny Elfman as well as the gothic darkness were elements with which I identified, more so than Spider-Man, after collecting tens of comics as a younger kid. It began a lifetime of slight obsession with the DC Comics character – which only petered out once Zac Snyder started making (and tarring) the Caped Crusader films with his green screen only style.

Furthermore to the Prince soundtrack, as it was a world of far fewer musical genres back then; I was a Hip-Hop child. It was a time of mullets, soft rock and heavy metal along the mainstream music world – so discovering Hip-Hop in ’87 was something which kept me a bit one-eyed (or eared) as far as music went. 1989, it can be argued – was the best vintage year for the genre. Before the USA’s absurdly possessive copyright laws came into effect, we heard a year of sublime releases. Genre-expanding, sample-tastic albums, using the essence of Hip-Hop’s DJ styles – cutting pieces of tracks into new grooves were extending this brand of music method with new sub-genre styles. After years of Gangster Rap and politically charged messages from bands such as Ice-T, NWA and Public Enemy, a new wave of artists with alternate points to make had arrived, as did a segway from the underground to commercial hip-hop via some huge hits (Tone Loc, Neneh Cherry and so on).

This week holds significance as the thirty-year anniversary of the release of one of my most influential albums. My copy of De La Soul’s “3 Feet High And Rising” became one of my school year’s most passed-around tapes. Along with this fresh piece of genius (which incidentally cost the band more money because of the samples used, than made them cash – and which they are currently battling with Tommy Boy Records for being finally released digitally), we were blessed with rap pearls such as Beastie Boys’ Paul’s Boutique, Young MC’s Stone Cold Rhymin’, Queen Latifah’s All Hail The Queen, 3rd Bass’s The Cactus Album….the list goes on. London’s Mixmaster supreme DJ Yoda even agrees with me on this!

Agreed, as DJ Yoda mentioned, there would definitely be some degree of personal nostalgia, vis-à-vis the albums which saw your personal growth and happy memories, but also the longevity of these album releases, as well as significance at the time. Latifah’s giant step for women in hip-hop, music’s expansion to new land and social equality through the softer messages of new types of rapping, following the domination of ‘Gangsta Rap’ and political bravery in the previous few years.

One massive encounter in connection with this brand of music – was seeing the DMC Technics DJ Mixing Championship for the first time, on the television. Despite it not becoming my selected style of mixing material years later, this is where it all started for me. Cutmaster Swift was the first non-American to win the title, but it was the imprint on my mind of analogue mixing brilliance which pushed me further into records – and what can be done with them.

At the time of this all happening, a new wave of music had begun. One of which I may have seen snippets on Top Of The Pops via certain tracks – in fact one which is now on my wall, after it was number 1 in the charts that year. L’il Louis’s French Kiss sounded like an excuse for “rudies” in a song to a fourteen-year-old heathen sheltered lad. After listening to Ice-T and especially Public Enemy’s Fight The Power – rebellion at the time for me was listening to lots of wise uprising, occasionally violent lyrics with lots of swearing and lots of putting White American policies to the ethical sword. It was five years later I caught the club-bug - and discovered House Music properly. But in 1989, it was blowing up as a scene. The effects of raves in Britain and the USA, not to mention the early stages of the club DJ superstar was catching headlines, being targeted by police and the tabloid press – with a late-eighties revamp of punk’s rebellious anti-establishment stance via electronic music and the drug Ecstasy. It was such a big year on so many levels.

Finally, in other news – let’s have a look at what quirky little differences or nuances our kids would be baffled by – or at least raising eyebrows towards. In 1989, Madonna released the highly-anticipated, then controversial “Like A Prayer” video (for depicting Jesus as a person of colour) via a Pepsi commercial when we only had four TV channels in Britain. Now, we anticipate when she will finally call it a day. It’s not as if the royalties dried up a few years ago, is it?

Adverts were good. I rest my case (click on link).

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DYkrvoI_oVE

Mullets and Shell Suits. *twitches uncontrollably*

*twitches uncontrollably again as Australia – proudly – announces mullets are back*

Dear Generations Y and Z, there is a reason these garments have not been worn for over twenty-five years. This is called ‘not being a chav or bogan’. I hope you can understand why it would be dangerous to revisit this abhorrent get-up.

To close – in 1989, Sir Tim Berners-Lee invented the World Wide Web, or what we now know as the Internet. You wouldn’t be reading this now without it.

Cheers.

#1989 #Thirty Year Itch #history #tragedy #Hip Hop #House Music #Liverpool FC #Hillsborough #DJ #Mixing #Technics #Bad Taste #Mullets #Shell Suits #Growing Up #Political Change #Freedom #Communism

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theashen-fox · 6 years

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Tropes (updated)

As suggested by the title, these are a list of tropes from the eponymous website, “TV Tropes” that would likely apply to Ash. I figure it would give a simpler and more accurate image of Ash and his general character. Bear in mind, I’ll likely be working on it, like many other things on this blog.

Absurdly Sharp Blade-Justified with his weapon. He designed it to withstand extreme heat to increase its cutting ability.

Abusive Parents-Uncle, rather, but in a rather unusual sense in that Pale did not hate Ash or Silver, and was stern but not unkind to them without reason, yet he trained them to fight against people, and taught them to kill people, not just defend themselves, then threatened to murder Silver when he tried to take Ash with him.

Aloof Ally-Despite being on a team, he still prefers to be by himself, unless he’s with people that he’s warmed up to.

And I’m the Queen of Sheba-Has a tendency to say things of this caliber, given his sarcastic attitude.

Ambiguous Disorder-Has several mannerisms consistent with PTSD (hyper-vigilance, paranoia, distrust), generalized anxiety disorder (constant and irrational worry, jumping to the worst possible conclusions, inability to relax), and even schizoid personality disorder (preference towards solitude, appearing cold or detached), though as mentioned in the trope, it is ambiguous.

Anti-Hero-Somewhere between Knight in Sour Armor and Pragmatic Hero. He wants to do the right thing, but is willing to do somewhat questionable things to get it done.

Archer Archetype-While more used to bladed weapons and hand-to-hand, he has skill with a bow. He also fits the other criteria of the archetype, i.e., analytical, cold, quiet, associated with wilderness, etc.

Awesomeness by Analysis-Capable of determining many things about people just by studying their faces.

Badass Bookworm

Berserk Button-If you insult his brother, or even something his brother taught him, you’d best hope he kills you, because if not, you’ll wish he had. Also, hurting the innocent—Faunus or human—is a good way to set him off. In addition, he doesn’t take kindly to being called ‘brother’ by the White Fang.

Bi The Way

Bishonen

Chaotic Good-This is his moral alignment, though downplayed somewhat in that he doesn’t break rules whenever an opportunity arises; only when he feels he needs to.

Children Forced To Kill/Child Soldier-As part of his upbringing by his uncle, he was trained to to murder people, usually in the form of bandits that tried to steal from him, his brother and the aforementioned uncle.

Combat Pragmatist-To a T. Being raised in the wild and constantly having to dodge wild animals, Grimm, bandits, and insane villagers made Ash realize that when one’s life is on the line, anything goes. Well, almost anything. He refuses to make use of living shields, and will never, ever send an ally into a dangerous situation alone without explaining just how deadly it is.

Conditioned to Accept Horror

Confusion Fu-A lot of his fighting style is based off of this, taking cues from ninjutsu, Jeet Kune Do, and other arts that make use of distraction.

Cunning Like A Fox-Well, yes.

Dark and Troubled Past-And how.

Deadpan Snarker-While he does it more for humorous purposes than to be offensive, he has a tendency to do this. Example referring to Sun and Neptune: “‘Junior Detectives’, huh? Well, I’m certainly glad you’re interrogating people about pancake massacres and beating people into submission for littering…which you set them up for. And I’m certainly happy that you’re able to notice a trash can out of place while a criminal mastermind and his mute sidekick sneak off with a load of valuable goods. By the way, a criminal mastermind and his mute sidekick just snuck off with a load of valuable goods.”

Defends Against His Own Kind-As far as the White Fang is concerned.

Determinator-Doesn’t care if he has to hurt others or himself; he’ll reach his goal so long as it doesn’t involve innocents dying.

Dirty Coward-Despises these. However, he will sometimes pretend to be one to trick an enemy into gloating, which he will then take advantage of.

Doublethink-This is Ash’s approach to explaining how his uncle Pale was to him: he was a loving guardian that made sure he and Silver were fed and kept safe, and he was also a cold, ruthless man who taught his brother and him to murder people.

Everyone Has Standards-Despite being a self-proclaimed “trickster” willing to used almost anything to his advantage in a battle, Ash refuses to insult his enemies’ deceased loved ones, or harm said loved ones if they aren’t involved in the conflicts. Even Adam Taurus, arguably the person he hates the absolute most in the world, will never receive an insult regarding dead loved ones. Likewise, he doesn’t like to kill, though he will if he feels there isn’t another choice.

Fatal Flaw-Guilt. When he is unable to help someone, or if he unwittingly causes someone to get hurt/killed, he is nigh-inconsolable, and as such, tends to try to compensate for his “wrongdoings” by taking unnecessary risks.

Foil-To Blake, and by extension, Yang and Ruby. Where Ruby still has a sister, Ash lost a brother; Yang is remarkably similar to Silver—in Ash’s eyes, at least—and Blake is a former member of the White Fang, born to privilege, and ran away from her family while Ash loathes the Fang, was raised by a simultaneously kind and loving guardian that nevertheless trained him and his brother to be killers.

Genius Sweet Tooth-Will often prefer to eat sweet foods.

Graceful Loser

Guile Hero

He Who Fights Monsters-A trope he’s aware of and tries to avoid at all costs.

Heroic Willpower-Will persist even through the worst odds.

Hurting Hero-And how.

Hypocrite-A tragic example. Ash frequently tells people not to beat themselves up over things “beyond their control”, but he does this quite often.

It’s All My Fault-Even after coming to terms with Silver’s death, he still feels this way. He also tends to view bad things that happen as a result of his mistakes as his fault.

Insufferable Genius-Makes use of his intellect, and acts rather trollish.

Jerk With A Heart of Gold-Despite being snarky, aloof, and somewhat hateful towards certain people, i.e., the White Fang, Ash is an overall well-intentioned person. He’ll gladly give up a chance to hurt/kill White Fang members to save noncombatants/allies, and even if an ally isn’t someone he’s fond of, he’ll stick with them to the end, as long as they do the same.

Katanas Are Just Better-See “Absurdly Sharp Blade.” However, also subverted somewhat. He acknowledges that katanas are not inherently superior to other weapons; it was just the weapon he was trained to use best.

Knife Nut-Tends to carry concealed knives wherever he goes.

Know When to Fold ‘Em-Ash knows that there are times when he cannot beat an enemy/enemies. As such, he will surrender, though with dignity and without begging and groveling, unless he thinks he can trick his foes into approaching closer.

Martyr Without A Cause-Oh yes. See “Fatal Flaw”.

Never Accepted In His Hometown-Or “Homeland”, rather. The Faunus of Northern Anima hate him for his family’s betrayal and (rumored) attraction of Grimm during the Rights Revolution.

No-Holds-Barred Beatdown-Will give these if sufficiently enraged.

Thou Shalt Not Kill-Played with. Ash has killed, but he hates doing it, and he tries to avoid it when he can.

Tranquil Fury-When he glares at an enemy and refuses to respond to anything they say, that’s an almost sure sign that he is about to attack them and that he doesn’t give a damn what state he leaves them in, or if he leaves them alive at all.

Yakuza-After his brother died and he escaped his uncle, he was found by a group of bandits that were initially part of a Yakuza-esque group but were exiled for speaking out against their former boss. In exchange for helping them, Ash was promised that he would be given passage out of Anima and on a boat to Vale.

#wip

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redxdrifter-blog · 6 years

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{ Shimazu Toyohisa TV Tropes }

Absurdly Sharp Blade: His nodachi and wakizashi.

Anti-Hero: The Unscrupulous Hero. He revels in battle and is a Blood Knight, but he's an honorable person and is genuinely willing to help the elves, unlike Nobunaga.

Bearer of Bad News: Since he lived 18 years after Nobunaga's death, Toyohisa breaks the news rather harshly that everything that Nobunaga had striven for had collapsed and Toyohisa himself died in the last battle of a crumbling era.

Beat the Curse Out of Him: Toyohisa does some form of this to Joan by throwing her into a well while pounding her, as seen when her pyrokinetic powers fade and her madness subsides somewhat. Unusual in that Toyohisa had absolutely no wish to do that (he had honestly no way of knowing that would happen), and that he left her alone after that, because he believes there is no honor in killing a woman.

Berserk Button: Doing something dishonorable like killing innocents or raping prisoners. Dissing the Shimazu clan is a more comedic one.

BFS: That nodachi is almost as tall as he is.

Blood Knight: If his usual slasher smile wasn't already a dead giveaway, take note that his first kill on the battlefield was at age 14.

Brilliant, but Lazy: In terms of combat tactics, Toyohisa is right up there with Nobunaga. However when it comes to long term political strategies and conspiracies, many consider him an incapable idiot. However, Nobunaga believes it's not a matter of Toyohisa being incapable of such cunning, but rather he just decided not to bother trying in the first place and focus solely on combat. Nobunaga goes on to say that this was probably a trait he got from the rest of the Shimazu clan, as he states they had a lot of talent and potential in many fields of governing, but combat was always their top priority above all else.

Catchphrase: When going for the kill on someone in particular, often a commander of some kind, he'll demand that they "Leave [their] head here!" This is lampshaded by Olminu when she's discovered by them as she freaks out over the "'Leave your head here' Ghost".

Combat Pragmatist: Certainly not to the extent of Nobunaga; but in their duel, Hijikata states that, Toyohisa has no samurai honor since he keeps using hit-and-run tactics. Toyohisa rebukes his claim by stating that there is no such thing has honor in a true fight to the death, and that going all out against opponent, while using whatever resources or tactics at your disposal, is a sign of respect.

Contrasting Franchise Main Character: Toyohisa's outfit is prominently red, as opposed to Alucard's black one. While both are eager for a fight, Alucard has this tendency to play with his food while Toyohisa's good side is much less ambiguous. While Alucard is an Invincible Hero with New Powers as the Plot Demands, Toyohisa is a Badass Normalwho is usually outmatched.

Covered with Scars: Given how we're first introduced to Toyohisa and his near constant suicidal tendencies in fights, is it any wonder his body is riddled with battle scars? And after his bout with Hijikata Toshizō, his growing collection shows no signs of slowing down.

Expy: A Hot-Blooded and slightly dense young samurai in a red leather jacket brings to mind Sanada Yukimura from Sengoku Basara.

Fearless Fool: Much to the lament of his comrades. They are constantly vexed at how Toyohisa can be such a highly competent general and such a reckless battle idiot at the same time. Everyone develops their own pet theory behind his behavior with most his close allies believing he was raised like this, and with most enemies believing he is genuinely insane. In truth it's a little from column A, a little from column B, and a whole lot from column C.

Genre Savvy: Toyohisa surprisingly realizes that the Drifters propping themselves up as rulers is likely to end really badly (particularly since the Orte Empire they are overthrowing is, like them, human and it's unlikely that the Elves are going to be happy exchanging one set of human rulers for another).

Honor Before Reason: He'll show mercy to any enemy that discards their weapons and will never kill a girl. Unless they've done something like raping prisoners.

Humble Hero: A rare seinen version. It's clear to everyone around him that, Toyohisa has the talents and skill of a great general, but he himself has never, and probably will never, view himself this way. No matter his accomplishments he has always seen himself a "brat of the battlefield" unfit to be held in such high regards.

I Shall Taunt You: Olminu comments half-seriously that although he doesn't do it deliberately, Toyohisa is a genius at provoking his enemies into fits of rage and frustration, as Joan of Arc, Hijikata Toshizo and even the Greater-Scope Villain EASY found out the hard way.

Idiot Hero: Not that it stops him from being a scarily competent strategist when he wants to be.

Improbable Age: At only 30 (and, this being a seinen manga, that's acknowledged as pretty damn young), he's an odd choice for commanding La Résistance, compared to the much older Nobunaga... however, you have to remember that Toyohisa has been fighting wars since he was a teenager, and thus already has over 10 years of experience under his belt, which make his talents more believable.

Katanas Are Just Better: Toyohisa's katana can easily cleave through armour and even break the swords of the Orte Empire without losing its edge.

Loophole Abuse: When fighting a soldier of the Orte Empire, Toyohisa snaps that anyone who doesn't speak Japanese should die. Yoichi snidely asks if that means he's going to kill the two elf children, so Toyohisa promptly teaches them to say "Help me!" in Japanese.

Magnetic Hero: A seinen version of types 2 & 4 for demi-humans, with type 5 reserved for the OCT members and his fellow Drifters. It's shown early on that despite most people seeing him as a terrifying killing machine (which he definitely is on the battlefield), Toyohisa posses a natural talent in breaking down cultural barriers and turning almost anybody he meets into an ally (and even they are scared of him at times). The first example of this was when he convinced the elven serfs to kill the Orte knight for massacring their people despite not understanding Japanese. He gets along best with the Dwarves however since they both have similar traits thanks to both belonging to a warrior clan/race.

Morality Chain: He serves as one along with Yoichi for Nobunaga. And is slowly becoming one for Yoichi as well.

Not Afraid to Die: Toyohisa's main mindset, which borders dangerously close to that of a Death Seeker, what with his repeated use of suicidal attacks, remarks about wanting to die a glorious warrior's death, and his belief that his death would be used as fuel for his comrades to achieve more in their pursuits. This outlook on his own life has unnerved friend and foe alike. His companions are especially fearful of this, knowing that without him all their plans will fall apart, and are constantly trying to talk him out of this way of thinking.

Not So Different: Olminu thinks that the way he fights makes him no different from the Ends.

Off with His Head!: Likes to do this to his enemies in battle.

Pet the Dog: Toyohisa tells an elf not to kill an unarmed soldier.

Proud Warrior Race Guy: Toyohisa is extremely proud of his Shimazu lineage and any sort of dissing of the clan is a huge Berserk Button for him, though it's mostly Played for Laughs.

Pure Is Not Good: Oda calls him pure when he doesn't want Toyohisa to dirty his own hands, yet he's an Anti-HeroBlood Knight who loves cutting off his foes' heads.

Replacement Goldfish: Played with in Chapter 13, with Nobunaga hinting that he may see Toyohisa as a replacement for his lost son. He's quickly shot down by Toyohisa. So he promptly ribs him about being a replacement for his father instead. This pushes one of Toyohisa's many Berserk Buttons, leading to an improptu Big Ball of Violence Yoichi joins in for absolutely no reason.

Rousing Speech: Prone to giving one of these before each battle. Nobunaga mentions that one of Toyohisa's greatest talents is to be able to get people to willingly follow him onto the battlefield. A good example is when he gives an epicTired of Running speech to a bunch of desperate refugees and soldiers begging for the Drifter's help to stop the, Black King's genocidal army. Most of it involved him flat out challenging their resolve to fight for survival, the result of which gains him more manpower for the cause.

Samurai: He is a member of the Shimazu noble family, who fought in the Sengoku period's civil war.

Sheath Strike: Aram is on the receiving end of a brutal beatdown with Toyohisa's sheath.

Shirtless Scene: Barely three chapters in and the only things covering his torso are a few bandages.

Shut Up, Hannibal!: How does Toyohisa deal with the trolling garbage spewing from Rasputin's mouth? Why he just kills his soldiers and beats the crap out of his political pawns in front of him. That would shut most evil manipulative bastards up. Not that Toyo was really listening in the first place.

Sword and Gun: Toyohisa's weapons of choice are his katana and a flintlock firearm.

"Well Done, Son!" Guy: In a sense. He's not as obsessed about it as some other characters, but although his father is already dead Toyo is determined to make him proud by killing as many enemies as possible. It's hinted that this may stem from his dad being so pleased with him when he killed an enemy in his first battle.

Wouldn't Hit a Girl: He wouldn't kill one, as is his personal code, but he does kick Joan in the gut, then knock her out with a headbutt when she refuses to surrender.

#「 heart of a warrior (HC) 」#[ tv tropes ]#ayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

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semi-sketchy · 4 years

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what do you think of sonic unleashed?

It’s kinda varied and all over the place, honestly.

Firstly, I think the graphical design and style is among the best in the series. Sonic’s model is my favorite out of any we’ve had and he’s so well animated. Also the humans? Beautiful. They were all designed with such love and care, really fit their locales and most importantly, they look good next to Sonic. I am 100% okay with having humans in Sonic games, although they need to be stylized like that.

On top of the beautiful models, the cities and levels are just stunning. Once again, so much care was put into designing them. They feel so alive and heavily detailed. While games like Forces and Lost World have better graphics on a technical level, from an aesthetic appeal level, they can’t match Unleashed. Despite it being 10 years old, it still looks stunning. The environments are perfect in making you feel as if you really are going on a world adventure.

The soundtrack is also stupid good. Of course, it’s a Sonic game, they all have good music, except maybe Lost World so it’s to be expected. The orchestral version of Endless Possibilities is beautiful, Dear My Friend is touching, the stage themes fit nicely, and even though everyone was sick of that battle music by the end of the game, you have to admit, that was a jam.

If we’re gonna talk story, can I just say I really miss CGI cutscenes being used in the games? Colors was the last game to do that, but everyone remembers the intro to Unleashed and for good reason. The game wows you with visuals and incredible attention to detail. Although, this is some of Sonic’s best characterization in a game. Unleashed and Black Knight have a true Sonic, which I can’t say the “new” writers have a grasp on what made him tick. I don’t think I can put into words just how refreshing it is to have Sonic sound like Sonic and not some one-note hero who makes bad jokes.

I’m super positive about lots of things with the game, except the gameplay. Unleashed is a game I love hearing about, I love watching, but playing? Not so much. I’ve gone into some issues I have with the gameplay in a previous ask, but the short of it is I’ve never owned a PS3 or Xbox 360, meaning I’ve only played the Wii version. It has some improvements over the HD version, such as the final boss fight, absurdly long Werehog levels and Eggman Land, but so much was cut.

An entire day stage is missing, the boost bar is cut up into pieces that drive me mad, and they even removed a lot of combos you could do with the Werehog. Overall, I had a better time thinking of the game as a basic beat ‘em up with exploration. I enjoyed unlocking new combos and searching alleyways for collectables more than trying to keep track of Sonic’s stupidly high speed and platforming. Maybe if the boost wasn’t cut up I would have had more fun with it, but ultimately when I went back to play, I played the night stages. If I want to do the day stages, I’m playing the Unleashed Project mod for Generations where I can experience the HD version stages with good control.

Maybe my gameplay opinion would be different if I ever got the chance to play the HD version, I’d be completely down if they got a way to run it on Windows. I mean, it runs on the XBox One and most XBox One games can run on Windows with little modification, so... Sega, there’s a market.

#Anonymous #ask #sonic unleashed

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sfdfmoviereviews · 7 years

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Wachowskis Reviewed #3: V For Vendetta (2005)

The Wachowskis aren't directing this time, and so director James McTeigue gives us Evey (Natalie Portman), a citizen of a future fascist Britain who is saved from the state's finger men by the mysterious V (Hugo Weaving). As V works to single-handedly bring down the government in a campaign that will culminate on the 5th of November, Evey must decide whether his vengeful means are justified in this adaptation of the Alan Moore/David Lloyd comic.

Again, we have to ask whether this movie holds up. V for Vendetta was adapted from a comic that addressed a very specific political scenario from 1980s Britain, and itself addressed the actions of the Bush administration, and so the possibility exists that in 2017 it has lost what relevance it had. Fortunately this isn't the case. Adam Sutler's (John Hurt) regime is a fairly generic totalitarian state-albeit a fairly modern take on Orwell's notions of surveillance and media as control- and so V for Vendetta reads a both a traditional dystopia and a fight against tyranny.

Which is all well and good, except the ostensible struggle against the Sutler Regime is only garnish, fit to confer a plot and allow some cool action scenes. Because V is not a hero. He is obsessed with the titular vendetta, and frequently behaves absurdly. Most acutely, he tortures Evey for his own purposes. none of this is excused by his claim to be an idea more than a man. V for Vendetta is concerned far more with questions of violence and it's philosophical justification, and art and it's value, than it is with portraying simple tyranny.

As such, it’s core is not some action packed climax, nor a great speech, nor the sating of V’s vendetta. It is the story of Valerie (Natasha Wightman), of course. Here we see the principles of a totalitarian regime applied specifically. Here we see what all the rhetoric of control means for a person who for three years had roses and apologised to no one. And the result is not great despair but triumphant clarity, of love and truth and freedom and passion and worth, passed from Valerie to V to Evey, and so when Evey turns to a gun-wielding Eric Finch (Stephen Rea) and says “no”, the movie is done. All that follows is mere conclusion.

There's a refreshing classlessness to the portrayal of art here. The Quran, Maplethorpe, Cat Power, and Benny Hill antics are all given consideration, and shown to be great and worthy. There’s an interesting self-awareness on display, as our characters are constantly commenting on coincidences so remarkable that they cannot possibly be that, and yet must be. There’s an undercurrent of deliberate narrative- not so subtly exposited by Finch’s ominous soliloquy on his predictions for future events- through these people’s lives. This is very definitely a story, which is to say it is very definitely an idea, and ideas we are told are unkillable. This is the most explicit expression of the Wachowskis’ oeuvre of concept-as-genre-cinema.

There are a few creaky moments, notably a security guard threatening to "get Storm Saxon on your arse" as V assaults the BTN tower. While the sequence of V's torture of Evey is still effective, repeated watchings bring questions of exactly how he pulled it all off, and the functioning of the Sutler regime is similarly dubious. There’s a curious element to V’s antics now; either they work as intended, in which case they work, or they don’t in which case they enforce his absurdity.

Performances are generally good, Natalie Portman is great of course but so is Stephen Rea‘s turn as Eric Finch. Hugo Weaving returns from The Matrix and we’ll see Roger Allam again in Speed Racer.

Ostensibly a dystopian action thriller, V for Vendetta continues to be profoundly greater.

Tim

P.S I should note here that the wonderful Emily Asher-Perrin has also reviewed the Wachowski filmography with a focus on queer subtext. you can read it here. I mention this now as the V for Vendetta piece is something else.

#lily wachowski #lana wachowski #v for vendetta #wachowskis reviewed #hugo weaving #Natalie portman #john hurt #Stephen fry #ben miles #tim pigott-smith #james mcteigue #Stephen rea #Rupert graves #roger allam #Natasha wightman #tim #emily asher-perrin #alan moore #david lloyd

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dickie-gayson · 7 years

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Mori Shej; The Song

Dick was able to convince Jason to stay the night, and things go surprisingly well.

Characters: Jason Todd, Dick Grayson

Warning: Violence

Pairing: None

Genre: Uh...happiness? Fun? Platonic family fluff? Brotherly bonding time? I usually write angst and have no clue what to tag non-angsty stuff lmao

Words: 6k+

Other Parts: one, two

Also: I take prompts/requests

Notes: SORRY FOR THE WAIT! Things will be going non-canon for here on out timeline-wise. Also, this is just a little happy chapter before everything goes to shit.

It’s easier to read on FF or Ao3 tbh.

It hadn't taken much convincing on Dick's part to get Jason to stay the rest of the night. Truthfully, Jason didn't really want to leave. His anxiety and the lingering effects of the Pit, however, wanted him to hightail it out of there ASAP. It left the taste of ash on his tongue and his stomach twisting in knots. The desire for the comfort Dick offered warred with the completely rational (alright, maybe only slightly rational) fear that Bruce was going to kick the door in at any second. To be fair, Bruce had absolutely zero concept of privacy and personal boundaries when it came to others, particularly his 'children'.

That's how he found himself sprawled out on Dick's couch at five in the morning. He slept in fits and shifts. The nightmares chased away his rest and the unease at being in a place he wasn't absolutely sure was safe didn't help. By six, he was ready to leave. There was a stab of pain at the thought. He didn't want to leave, but he had to. He didn't want to be alone, but that was the only way he'd really feel safe, wasn't it? Damn, if that thought didn't hurt. That's who he is now, though. A broken and battered shell of a man, only comforted in his solitude but yearning for so much more. He battled back the thickness in his throat as he started to put on his boots. All he had to do was slip out the window, no need to wake Dick. For a moment, he wondered how Dick would react. Would he think this was all just a fever dream, a hallucination of what could be? Last night only proved that it wouldn't be the first time such a thing happened. Maybe he'd leave a note, just to reassure his brother.

As he searched for a blank sheet of paper and a pen in the mess that was Dick's table, Jaye started to wake up in the next room. He paused his rummaging once the sounds of her gurgling reached his ears. It only took a moment's contemplation to decide on going to get her. As much as staying made him nervous, he also wanted to take the chance to really see her. Plus, Dick needed this time to sleep. The guy looked like he was about to keel over from deprivation. So, he made his way to the room quietly. The site that greeted him was heartwarming, to say the least. Dick was passed out on his bed with Jaye sprawled across his chest. It seemed as if she wasn't awake just yet, only dreaming. He crinkled his nose at the sight of the puddle of drool forming on Dick's chest. Both of his hands cradled the baby as he slept soundly. She refused to let go of her father's shirt as she started to wriggle about. That seemed to wake Dick right up. He blinked dazedly while his hands automatically swept over Jaye, as if to make sure she was still there. Comforted by her presence, he sat up, still obviously tired, and prepared to start his morning routine.

Taking that as his cue, Jason stepped up and offered to watch her so Dick could get a little more sleep. Lord knows he needed it. It still completely baffled Jason how his brother was able to hold a full-time job as a cop, keep up his nighttime vigilante life, and take care of a baby. He would honestly start believing Dick was some sort of supernatural entity if it weren't for the fact that he could see the bags under the hero's eyes from across the room. If Dick didn't slow down, he was going to crash and that was going to be a monumental wreck that, surprisingly, Jason wasn't eager to witness. It took a bit of nagging to get his brother to actually hand her over and go back to sleep. Ordinarily, he'd have to get up for work in just a few short hours, but the unexpected arrival of his previously deceased brother was enough of an occasion to call off. That, in itself, was a miracle to Jason. Dick was only second behind Bruce in terms of being a workaholic. No doubt, the big man himself instilled those 'grind yourself into the dirt rather than take a break' work ethics into the vigilante. God, who let that man ever adopt a child to begin with?

Of course, Dick didn't fall back asleep before he absolutely overloaded Jason with every possible item the baby might ever need in the few hours they'd be separated, and then some. Jason almost physically wrestled the man back to his bed. Though, Dick's almost smothering paternal actions did bring a small grin to his lips once Dick closed his eyes. It was good to know the little girl had a father that really cared. Not that he doubted Dick's capacity to love or care for the child. He just knew how their particular lifestyle could be. Not to mention, Bruce wasn't exactly the best person to look to when it came to examples of paternal affection. Jason liked to assume Dick got it from Alfred. He wondered if they knew about the baby. She looked like a newborn, and given that she arrived in the week span Jason was gone, he wouldn't doubt that she was just over a month old. He frowned at the thought. If her mother was who he thought she was, then Jason was relatively certain Dick hadn't informed anyone of her existence, save the babysitter. He made a mental note to ask later. Then, he scrapped that note. It could be an emotional minefield and they were already dancing on thin ice to begin with.

Jason made his way back to the small living room and sat back down on the couch. All thoughts of escaping were gone as he held his niece carefully. She was so incredibly small in his arms. The scars crisscrossing his flesh made a stark, almost sickening contrast to her smooth, unmarred skin. There was an unfounded fear that he'd hurt her just by holding her. Jason knew he wouldn't, not on purpose. But that didn't stop the tendrils of doubt from curling their way through him. What if he lost control? What would he do? God, he didn't even want to imagine it.

He took a few deep breaths to steady himself and looked at Jaye. She blinked up at him with sleepy eyes. It was still so odd to him when he caught the baby's unmistakably Grayson eyes. No, not odd. Surreal was a better description. He was holding a mini-Dick Grayson. That's exactly how he'd describe the baby with absurdly blue eyes, deeply tanned skin, and curly black hair. The mother, and he's nearly positive it was Tarantula, deserved no connection to her. The date of Blockbusters murder, if he remembered correctly, corresponded eerily well with the time frame it'd take for the baby to be conceived. Once he was gone, he'd have to do a bit more research and pay her a very painful visit. If he was right, he would be hard pressed not to kill her. But, he wouldn't, only because Dick would blame himself. He knew Dick would blame himself and Jason was just not having that. He wouldn't be the one to add more trauma to the man's already fucked up psyche. However, he would absolutely drill it into her thick skull that she wouldn't ever come near Dick or Jaye again. Preferably with an actual drill. He'd have to see what he could get away with in the prison.

Jaye gurgled at him. Her pudgy little hands flailed a bit and hit him on his chest, breaking him from his reverie. It brought a smile to his lips. He cooed back at her, though he kept his voice low. Not only did he not want to disturb her father's sleep, but he really didn't want Dick hearing him doing baby talk. Jason wasn't embarrassed by his actions. It's just that he knew Dick would probably record it, send it to every hero in his contacts, which was every hero, and probably put it online to go viral. Okay, so he probably wouldn't go THAT far, given the general secrecy he seemed to have regarding the baby. Still, Dick was absurdly sentimental and would do probably start cooing at Jason himself or something equally dumb.

The small effort of her actions seemed to tire her out, which wasn't surprising, given her young age. She let out a quiet yawn and tried to squirm closer into his hold. He chuckled to himself and a foreign warmth filled his chest at the sight. This is his niece. Blood or not, it's his niece. And she didn't seem to hate him. It was an irrational fear of his, that she'd despise him even if she was too young to really form those sort of connections. But she wasn't screaming or fighting against his hold. If anything, she was fighting to get even closer to him. It was almost enough to make his heart skip a beat. He ran a finger over cheek softly and whispered to her.

"Mírate... "

If Jason was being perfectly honest, he was in total awe of the little girl. It still baffled him that she shared his name. Yeah, he went over it almost obsessively in his head. But could you blame him? This was the first real familial connection he could recall having. Willis, Catherine, Sheila, even Bruce...they all left aching, painful feelings in his chest. But Jaye? He felt a sort of pride, a happiness when he thought of her.

"Mi preciosa sobrinita."

If asked how long he watched the infant sleep, Jason wouldn't be able to even begin to guess. He never thought it'd be relaxing to watch a baby sleep, but it really was. It wasn't until the child started squirming and whining that he realized he also dozed off. Jason blinked away the grogginess as he made soft shushing noises to try and calm her. With a glance at the clock, he noticed he nodded off for about an hour. It frightened him to realize that. Any number of things could have happened as he slept. She could have easily fallen from his grip as he sat on the couch. Even the idea of dropping her had him tightening his hold on Jaye just a bit more.

Maybe he was overreacting a little, but he couldn't help it. So much had gone wrong in his life, well, lives, but this right here? This was good so far. It numbed some of the hurt that raged inside him; quieted the hissing of the Pit. It anchored him in the present and reminded him that maybe, just maybe, things didn't have to be so bad. So, he feared he'd lose it, lose her, and be left to fight the black of his own pain by himself. He was fucking terrified to be alone again, with the monster lurking beneath his skin. It almost felt inevitable. Fate had a way of being a total bitch to him, and he wasn't talking about Nabu.

He stood and made his way to the kitchen to make the little girl a bottle. It seemed about time for her to eat. Using only one hand to navigate the kitchen was a hassle, but it was one he could handle. Sure, he could put her in her bassinet or in the baby swing, but he didn't want to, as silly as that sounded. He liked holding her. Aside from just enjoying the feeling of being an uncle in general, she kept him tied to reality. Feeling her curled in his arms made it harder for the fog of the Pit to get a hold of him. The fear of losing control was very real. But the threat felt lesser with Jaye here to keep him grounded.

Jason hummed quietly as he made the bottle. His mind drifted to the man in the next room and a heavy feeling settled in his gut. It was only a matter of time before Dick wanted to talk about what happened to him. Jason wasn't sure how to address it. The wounds, while years old, still felt so fresh and raw. Then there was the matter of morality. There was no way in hell Dick would ever agree with his view on killing scumbags like Blockbuster and Tarantula. They'd be lucky to walk away from that conversation with minimal bruising. And then there was Bruce. Fuck, he didn't even know where to even begin with that. It all made him feel a bit sick. It felt like the sand in the hourglass was slipping by faster and faster. It was only a matter of time before this comfort he's found was torn away. He'd probably be the one ripping it to shreds because what else did he know to do but self-destruct? His heart clenched at the viperous imaginings racing through his head.

A heavy sigh left him as he tried to chase the invasive thoughts away. He gently held the bottle for Jaye to eat and just watched her for a moment. Then, he turned to look around the tiny kitchen in contemplation. One way he liked to keep his mind busy was keeping his hands busy. It just so happened that one of his favorite ways to do that was to cook. Jason had really gotten into the culinary arts when he lived at the manor with Alfred. He cut off that train of thought almost immediately. Alfie was one of the very few, if not the only person he truly missed. There was no green haze connected to the elderly man. But he hit his emotional quota for the week and really didn't want to get into any more breakdowns, if at all possible. Instead, he decided to busy himself with rifling through Dick's cabinets.

It was a bit awkward as he angled himself to keep the bottle propped with his chin to free a hand, but he managed. With each door opened and closed, Jason let out a disgruntled sound. How Dick was still alive with this sort of living, he wasn't entirely certain. Now, Jason wasn't a paragon of healthy eating himself. He loved chili dogs and greasy burgers just as much as the next guy and you'd have to fistfight him for the last six slices of pizza, but this was just appalling. Jason stared into the almost desolate fridge with a mixture of horror and sadness. It shouldn't be a surprise, given Dick's overall work schedule and all those takeout menus, but still. He let out a sigh as he shifted himself back to a comfortable posture. The cabinets were basically bare, save a few items. One cabinet was completely dedicated to baby food of various types and age ranges. That was the only thing he had a surplus of.

"Bebé pájaro, how is your dad still running around? Nobody can live off of forty-eight types of spices, a box of Crocky Crunch, and half a bottle of Sriracha. You need to tell him he's nuts. Just let him know it. Say, 'Papi, estás loco!' "

Jaye gave her uncle a sort of huff in response to his words. He smiled softly at the baby before he continued trying to figure out what the hell to do about food. There was a box of opened pancake mix that he was fairly certain was still good in one of the cabinets. That'd have to do for now. First and foremost, however, he'd have to get Jaye settled. She needed to be burped and her diaper changed. Then, he could focus on cooking. It didn't take much time to get that all done and without incident, thankfully. So far, she seemed like a pretty calm baby. Dick certainly lucked out in that department. Jason could remember the screams of colic babies and babies born with addictions from a careless parent all too well. Soon enough, people will learn they won't get away with that shit with the Red Hood around.

When Dick woke up, it was to a feeling of wrongness. His hands immediately sought out his daughter, who should be sleeping safely on his chest. He nearly had a heart attack when he realized she wasn't there. The memories of last night seemed more like a dream than anything. Dick leaped from his bed with wide, worried eyes. Then, the soft sound of music burrowed through his onsetting panic. Accompanying the sound was the scent of pancakes. He swallowed down his fear as well as his desire for those dreams to have been real. It could very well be Donna, who was the only one that knew about Jaye and had been coming by to help when she could. The lingering memories of his brother visiting him like the ghost of Christmas past still weighed heavy on his mind, daring him to get his hopes up. He crept toward the commotion with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety twisting in his gut. As much as he loved Donna, he would be crushed if it was her this time.

One thing Dick was not expecting to walk into was Jason in the kitchen, baby cradled in one arm and wielding a spatula in his free hand. Music could be heard emanating from somewhere near Jason. If Dick had to guess, he'd say it came from the man's phone. A grin was steadily creeping up his lips as he crept closer. Just over the music, Dick could hear Jason singing along.

"Que tengo que hacer? Pa que vuelvas conmigo. Vamos a dejar el pasado atrás."

If Dick's eyes weren't tricking him, then Jason was most definitely dancing in place as well. It took all his willpower not to start laughing at the sight. His heart felt ready to burst and tears pricked his eyes. The realization that this was actually happening, Jason was really back and here was nearly overwhelming. So much had gone wrong the past year. It almost made him want to give up time and time again, but he was glad he didn't. Otherwise, Dick would miss the sight of the little brother he was sure he lost forever dancing and singing to his daughter as he made breakfast. Dick took a moment to marvel at the fact that Jason was able to cook and flip the food with no trouble, despite the baby taking up an arm. After another moment of watching, he stepped closer.

"Here, let me take her off your hands."

Now, he was certain Jay would deny it until his second death, but Dick is absolutely positive he just let out a rather unmanly yelp. Jason shifted away from his grasp and whacked at his hands with the spatula.

"Nope. Shouldn't you be asleep for the next, oh I don't know, ten hours or so? You're sleep deprived."

Dick rolled his eyes, though he fought down a small grin.

"Dymaxion cycle, though I just fucked it up."

At that, Jason snorted and mimicked his eye roll. It wouldn't be too hard for Dick to fall back into his odd sleeping pattern, if one could truly call it that. It worked most effectively for his lifestyle, so he couldn't complain. Adopting sleep cycles other than the monophasic wasn't unusual for his family or other heroes for that matter. It just worked out better for them in the end, what with their hectic schedules and 'jobs'.

"What a surprise. And watch your mouth, virgin ears are present."

He quirked a brow at Jason with an amused look on his face. The affection for Jaye was just rolling off his brother in waves. It was heartwarming, really. If he had his phone on him, Dick would definitely be recording this, or taking pictures at least. He wanted a way to look back at this moment and know it wasn't all in his head. All those fever dreams and forays with scare gas have made it difficult to trust his own perception of reality. Not to mention his own fragile mental state from recent events didn't exactly give him confidence in himself. The thoughts were brushed away with a small grin

"Jaye's too young to remember any of this let alone comprehend what we're saying."

Jason gave him a flat, deadpan look at that.

"I was talking about me, pendejo."

Dick couldn't help but laugh. It was good to know he didn't lose his sense of humor after all this time.

"Oh, please, you've got like the third dirtiest mouth I've heard."

If there was one word to describe Jason's expression, it'd be affronted. He looked like Dick just personally insulted everything he held dear.

"Third dirtiest? Now that's just hurtful, Dickhead. I need to up my game."

Knowing Jason and his stubborn nature, he would absolutely start using much more colorful vocabulary, if for no other reason than to prove Dick wrong. He couldn't help but laugh under his breath at Jason's antics. It felt so good to just stand here, joking around like nothing changed even though everything had changed. They both knew it, could feel the fragile peace hanging by a thread. One wrong word would shatter it. So, Dick danced around his words carefully, not willing to be the one that drops the other shoe. If he had to play this balancing act to keep his brother here, then so be it.

"Pfft, I don't know Jay, an angry Roy is pretty mouthy. And have you met Rose? God, we could buy a new Batjet with the money from the swear jar from her alone."

He got a dry sort of scoff in response.

"Didn't get the pleasure of meeting her. I was a little busy taking a dirt nap."

Just like that, the fragile balance teetered off the side. Dick went quiet and the grin slipped from his face. The hero couldn't help but marvel at just how quickly he managed to fuck things up. One sentence. He couldn't make it one damn sentence without saying the wrong thing. He averted his gaze from Jason, who had gone almost eerily still. The tension in the atmosphere spiked as the two remained silent. The music continued to play in the background, an almost laughable contrast to the current ambiance.

It was as if neither of them knew how to handle the situation, which wasn't far from the truth. The reminder of Jason's death, even if only meant as a joke, still twisted something in Dick's heart. He clenched his fists in an effort to keep his tumultuous emotions in check. It seemed like everything left him raw and ready to shatter as of late. Dick hated that. He hated how deeply they left their claws in him. Hated how much they affected him, twisted and broke him. Just looking at Jason now felt like it made the cracks in his armor spiderweb.

He hadn't meant to bring it up. The conversation just got comfy and he got carried away with his words. How often did he let his emotions guide his mouth? Too much, he figured. It was something others mentioned to him; how his heart led him despite his best efforts to remain objective. Dick sighed and turned his gaze back to Jason, ready to apologize for the carelessness of his words. Before he could get a word in, Jason was handing the baby to him.

"Make yourself useful, Dickface. I need to finish these."

He took his daughter without hesitation, though the shame still weighed heavy on him. Fuck, he couldn't do anything right anymore, could he? Dick gave a soft, somber grin to the baby girl as he made his way to his small, shitty table.

"You have fun with tío, čhavi?"

What he got in response were a sleepy blink and a wide yawn. He chuckled quietly. Well, he got one thing right, so far. Jaye would never be a mistake to him, even if the memory of her mother made him feel queasy. The thought of Catalina made his stomach churn violently and lit his nerves on fire. The thought of that night, what she did, what he almost did under her manipulation, usually left him trembling on the verge of a panic attack. So much had gone wrong that night, so much, but God, if he wasn't grateful for his daughter. It still hurt to look at her sometimes, if he was being completely honest. That, in itself, was enough to drive home the self-loathing he felt. How could he see her and feel pain and terror? This is his daughter. He should never feel those things when looking at her.

"Stop it."

His attention was drawn back to Jason as a paper plate with about six pancakes on it was shoved toward him.

"Stop what?"

Dick was genuinely confused. Jason just shot him a look as he sat down heavily at the small table. He was a little surprised the chair didn't snap like a pile of twigs under Jason. His little brother wasn't so little anymore. The fact that he outgrew Dick by a few inches and easily a good amount of weight was almost startling. Last he remembered, Jason was just a small, scrappy kid with not enough meat on his bones. Now here he is, almost eye-level with Bruce and looking as if he crush someone underfoot. He made a vague hand gesture at Dick.

"That. The brooding and shit. I can feel you angsting from over here. Feels like I just walked into Hot Topic on a Friday afternoon."

That successfully drew a slightly startled laugh from Dick. Jaye squirmed at the sudden and unexpected movement. It took a few moments for Dick to catch his breath. Meanwhile, Jason just smirked smugly, pleased with having diffused the situation. After he calmed his breathing a bit, Dick looked over his brother with a growing grin.

"You'd know. You look like you could be the poster child for that place. I'm surprised they got clothes to fit you, Edge Lord."

Jason gave an exaggerated stretch to further show off his 'outfit', which was really just his Red Hood uniform sans the armored pieces. Then, he turned his attention to the cooling pancakes as he spoke.

"It was tricky. I had to cut some things up and sew them together, but that's fine. I make 'homeless zombie' look good. Even got the cashier's number."

Dick let out a breathy chuckle and shook his head slightly.

"You hear this, Jaye? Your uncle is so goofy. When did you get so funny, Little Wing?"

If only Dick knew how that old nickname affected Jason. It was there, in the slight twitch of his hand and the way he swallowed as if suddenly caught by a wave of emotion. He could see it, but he wasn't sure whether it was a good or bad reaction. That contemplation was pushed to the background once Jason flashed him a somewhat forced cheeky grin.

"Learned it from the Grim Reaper. Funny guy, though he's got terrible bedside manners, let me tell you."

There was a running theme in his commentary, Dick could tell. He let out a low, theatrical groan. He was fairly certain this was Jason's method of coping with the horrors he went through. If that was the case, then Dick could play along, even if it made him minutely uncomfortable to joke about. Whatever it took to help Jay and keep him close. Dick wasn't there for him before, this was the least he could do.

"Oh god, this is gonna be a thing with you now, isn't it? Death jokes for every situation."

That shit-eating grin only widened at Dick's reaction.

"Absolutely! It'll be like Hall Mark but morbid."

Dick snorted at the idea. He could really see Jason running with the idea. Now he was half-expecting to receive a 'Merry Deathday' card or something on April 27. If he really got such a thing, he wasn't entirely certain how he'd react. He sighed in a theatrical manner, as if put upon by the turn of conversation.

"I guess everybody needs a gimmick in this business."

His melodramatic words played into this little game Jason had going on. It earned him a somewhat pleased smirk.

"You got it, Dickface. Yours is shitty fashion choices and even worse puns. Mine's reminding everyone I died once through fantastic jokes and zippy one-liners. By the way, did you know I died once?"

If he groaned any harder, Dick was pretty sure his lungs would burst. No matter how many years passed, nobody would ever let him live down his 'Discowing' or 'mullet' faze.

"Jesus Christ, I haven't had enough coffee yet for this. Or whiskey. Whiskey sounds good right about now."

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the coffin today."

"My title as the Funny Robin is being threatened. I can't believe this."

"You're damn right Wing-Ding. Viva la revolución, bitch."

Try as he might, Dick could suppress the laughter that shook his body at that. Jason faired no better as he silently laughed behind his hand, as if embarrassed to be caught doing so. As the conversation petered out, their attention was turned to their food. The silence as they ate was much more amicable than before. The underlying current of unease was still there, but it was hidden behind the warmth of their banter. It wouldn't last, they both knew it. Peace never lasted with them. That didn't mean they couldn't enjoy the lingering happiness while it was there. They've learned to take what they could get while they could get it. Moments like this were fleeting and far between with their lifestyle and clashing personalities.

It wasn't until after Dick had settled Jaye into her swing and sat back down that the tentative calm was broken.

"So..."

The look on Jason's face was methodically blank, which was a giant warning sign that whatever he was about to bring up wasn't going to be good. Dick mentally prepared himself, though he had a gut feeling this was going to suck. Their family wasn't known for having the ability to handle emotions well. There were far too many of those popping up the past two days. It's what he got for bottling things up, he supposed. That didn't make talking about what was bothering him any easier. He gave Jason his attention with a similarly blank mask and waited for him to continue.

"Alright, shit, no good way to ask so I'm just gonna come out with it. Is Tarantula the mother?"

Even though Dick had been expecting the question at some point, it still left him feeling sort of nauseous. He attempted to keep just how much it affected him hidden. The slight narrowing of Jason's eyes let him know he wasn't entirely successful. He cleared his throat in an effort to rid himself of the slight choking sensation that kept his words captive. One slow breath later and Dick found himself ready to talk.

"Yeah, she...she's Jaye's mom."

That was the first time Dick ever admitted it out loud and it felt just as horrible as he expected. It felt wrong to say it. The distaste must have been evident on his face because Jason sneered slightly.

"No, she's her mother, her genetic donor. She ain't her mom. There's a big fuckin' difference. She'll never be Jaye's mom."

The words were more comforting than Dick would have thought possible. He closed his eyes for a moment and just breathed deeply. That was something he needed to hear but didn't realize it. Jason was right. She may have given birth to his daughter, but she would never be a part of her life. Not if he had any say in it.

"Right. You're right. Thanks."

He was glad Jason politely ignored the slight tremor in his voice. Dick couldn't wait for the day he could talk about her and this whole situation without feeling like he was cracking apart. The fact that he felt so damn weak, even after almost a year, grated on his nerves. He was drawn out of his inner turmoil by his brother's voice. The sharp look he was getting had Dick feeling as if Jason knew where his thoughts were heading. Ordinarily, he'd tease Dick about being right, but not this time.

"Nothin' to thank me for. Just stating the facts. "

Sometimes, in situations such as a this, Dick was reminded that Jason saw quite a lot on the streets and knew how to deal with certain victims, victims like him (and wasn't that something that pained him to admit), better than anyone else in the family.

"If she tries to come within a hundred yards of Jaye, I'll break her fucking legs."

And then at other times, he was reminded just how blunt his baby brother was. Dick gave him a small, somewhat amused grin. Sure, Dick might not condone excessive violence in every situation, but he found himself hard pressed to be upset by the mental imagery the words brought him. If such an opportunity arose, the hero couldn't say with any degree of confidence that he'd even try to stop Jason from doing exactly as he said. After all, they've done worse to lesser criminals.

"What do you know, it looks like I'll be out sick that day and won't be able to stop you. Crazy, huh?"

Jason gave a low, rough chuckle. There was a look, that look, in his eyes again. It was something less than stable and bordering on feral. Dick wasn't sure what it meant, but something in his gut told him that he wouldn't like it if he knew. It reminded Dick of the night Jason attacked him. Nothing good could come from that look. He saw the very same expression and light elsewhere. In the face of those he arrested. In the ones that crossed the line. Somewhere between death and the Lazarus Pit, Jason changed and Dick feared it was for the worse. It made him uneasy to see the look of a killer on the face of his little brother. Maybe it was foolishly naive to blatantly deny the obvious, especially after what Jason had done to him, but Dick refused to believe Jason could take a life.

While he was busy trying to analyze the shift in his brother's persona, Jason seemed to be struggling with some sort of internal battle. That vicious, shark-like expression looked as if it were being forcefully pushed down. He could see the younger man's grip tightening on the silverware. That unnatural green hue seemed stuck between flaring up and fading away. This must be what Jason meant about having Lazarus episodes. It was worrying. More than that, it was upsetting. Upsetting because Dick felt so helpless, so useless. He had no idea how to make it better. All he wanted to do was drive away that which tormented Jay, but he couldn't. So, since Dick couldn't beat the demons lurking Jason's brain away, he did the next best thing.

He flicked a bit of pancake at Jason's head. Because he was so caught up with his own issues, the morsel of food managed to nail him right between the eyes. Dick looked on in amusement as Jason blinked in surprise, successfully distracted from the mess in his head. Then, those blue-green eyes narrowed at the unspoken challenge.

"Sorry, little bro, you looked like you were thinking too hard. Didn't want you to hurt yourself."

He gave Jason a crooked grin as he spoke. It looked as if Jay were trying to fight down his own little smirk.

"Oh, it's so on Dickface."

He had to duck out of the way from a chunk of flying pancake, only to get hit by a follow-up piece. Dick had to give it to him, Jason had some great aim. Breakfast quickly devolved into the two adults flinging their food back and forth as if they were seven years old again. Their laughter grew louder as they got more extravagant in their maneuvers. Flipping about as they were was completely unnecessary in a food fight, but they were nothing if not competitive. Not only were they trying to land more hits than the other, but they were trying to do so in the most complicated and impressive manner possible.

Somehow, that ended up with them wrestling across the floor and knocking over what sparse possessions Dick owned. The old, battered table cracked and then collapsed after Jason tackled Dick through it. Jaye was startled awake by the loud 'BANG' and let out a wail of fear. The two men immediately ceased their rough-housing and rushed to calm the upset infant. Their overprotective natures were very obvious in the way they hovered and coddled her. Jason looked over the wreckage with an almost sheepish expression.

"Uh...sorry."

Dick just looked over the mess and snorted. He was far too happy at the moment to care about a broken table. Hell, this was the happiest he's been in months. Nothing short of a catastrophe was going to bring him down from here.

"It's fine Little Wing, I needed a new table anyway. Hold her while I clean it up?"

Though it was phrased as a question, he left little choice as he pushed Jaye into Jason's arms. His brother floundered for a moment, having wanted to decline and help fix the mess he made. Dick wanted him to hold his niece. Jason seemed happiest with the little girl in his arms. He'd do damn near anything to make sure Jason stayed happy.

His daughter remained crying and squirming while Jason did his best to soothe the frantic baby. His efforts were fruitless as she continued crying. She seemed set in her fit, now that she was startled awake. The slightly lost look on Jason's face as he dealt with the inconsolable child was priceless.

"Shh, shh it's okay Jaye. Daddy and tío are sorry. We didn't mean to scare you. Dick, what uh..what was that song you were singing to her before? She likes that, right?"

It was clear Jason was uncomfortable bringing up that night, but he was desperate to calm his niece down. Dick looked up and tried to smother his soft grin. Then, he momentarily abandoned his clean up duty to take a seat on the couch, making sure to grab her pacifier on the way, and motioned for Jason to do the same.

"Yep, she likes it. It's called Mori Shej, a Romani lullaby-"

Jason let out a disgruntled sound as took the pacifier and he rocked her gently.

"Yeah yeah, skip the history lesson. She's gonna scream her lungs out."

Dick's lips twitched slightly as he watched his brother try to calm his daughter. The sheer volume of joy and affection he felt threatened to overwhelm him.

"Alright, jeez. It starts out like this. Buter káj egy berseszki szán. Móri drágo piko séj..."

The way Jason stumbled over the foreign words as he tried to sing his niece to sleep was downright adorable, not that Dick would ever say that to his face. He liked his jaw unbroken, thank you very much. The little girl sniffled and tried to squirm her way closer to her uncle as his deep voice rumbled out her favored lullaby.

"Buter káj egy berseszki szán. Móri drágo piko séj..."

#Jason Todd #Jaybird #Red Hood #Dick Grayson #Dickiebird #Nightwing #Baby Jaye #Mori Shej verse #My writing #Fic #wow i took forever to update and this is what i have to offer #im so sorry

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