#“the horrors are indescribable but you have got to serve” is something she knows and understands

[kelokez]

quick doodle of wet rat jinx

[mst3kproject]

Dracula vs Frankenstein (1971)

 I’ve been meaning to get to this one for a while.  It was directed by Al Adamson and stars Lon Chaney Jr. from Indestructible Man in his last and worst film.  Also featuring appearances by Greydon Clark (director of Angel’s Revenge), Forest J. Ackerman (the comic book guy from Future War), and Jim Davis (the grandpa from The Day Time Ended, not the guy who invented Garfield), and generally being one of the shoddiest and most confusing movies I’ve ever sat through, it is a mystery to me why Joel chose Carnival Magic and just left Dracula vs Frankenstein sitting there.  Maybe it was the widescreen thing.

It’s hard to say what the hell is going on in this movie but I’ll give it a try.  Under the cover of a carnival freak show, mad Dr. D’Ray is decapitating nubile young women and then sewing their heads back on, because… uh… because.  One night, his work is interrupted by none other than Count Dracula!  The Count reveals that he knows D’Ray’s secret – D’Ray is really the last surviving member of the Frankenstein family, and Dracula has recovered the body of the original Frankenstein’s Monster and wants D’Ray to help him bring it to life, because… uh… because.  Meanwhile, a woman named Judith Fontaine is looking for her sister, Joannie, who was last seen on the beach near Dr. D’Ray’s Creature Emporium.  Judith and her boyfriend Mike eventually find their way into D’Ray’s lair, and the doctor and his various deformed assistants (obviously he has deformed assistants) are all killed as the couple attempt to escape again.  What Judith and Mike don’t know is that they’re not safe yet.  They still have Dracula to deal with!

That outline actually only represents a fraction of the madness in Dracula vs Frankenstein.  There’s a rapey biker gang and a bunch of noticeably over-age hippies who seem to think they’re in a very different movie.  There’s D’Ray’s hunchback Groton and his pet puppy, and Grazbo the Angry Midget. There’s the stunningly unhelpful detective who’s supposed to be looking for Joannie.  D’Ray brings the Frankenstein Monster back to life with the help of a magical comet.  The idea that creatures like Dracula and the Frankenstein Monster actually exist is treated as obvious and commonplace, and the climactic fight between the two is over who gets to feel up Judith.  It’s a mess.

The reason Dracula vs Frankenstein is such a mishmash of incongruous ideas, at least according to El Santo of 1000 Misspent Hours, is that Adamson filmed for a while, then ran out of money and had to set the project aside while he raised more.  During this intermission, he got a bunch of new ideas, and had to shoehorn them in with what he’d already shot to turn his original sex-drugs-and-rock-n-roll film into a monster-versus-monster piece.  It should therefore surprise nobody if the results are about as graceful as a giraffe on roller skates.

The two title monsters are astonishingly shitty. Frankenstein’s Monster looks like the Pillsbury Dough Boy gone horribly wrong.  He looks like his head got stepped on and they couldn’t afford to fix it. The first time you see him, when Dracula digs him out of a cemetery, you can barely tell you’re supposed to be looking at something’s face – it looks like a mass of home-made play-dough that’s been left out in the sun.  He has claws for some reason.  That sequence of similes still doesn’t do justice to just how absolutely terrible he looks, and yet, shockingly, he’s less stupid than Dracula.

Oh, god, this movie’s Dracula.  His face is slathered in Observer makeup (though his hands aren’t, probably because it would have gotten all over everything) and he wears bright red lipstick and fake fangs that don’t allow him to fully close his mouth.  His vinyl cape almost definitely came from Party City. His voice echoes like he’s talking into an empty garbage can, even when he’s sitting in the back seat of a car. He has an incredibly funky goatee and a ring that shoots fire.  Everything he says and does is deeply, self-consciously dramatic and it all comes to an absurd crescendo in the series of priceless faces he makes as he turns to dust in the sun.

On a scale of absurd theatricality, Dr. D’Ray is only shortly behind him.  The mad doctor dresses like Colonel Sanders, has some classic evil facial hair, and spends much of his screen time monologuing… but nothing he says ever makes a lick of sense. The stuff that comes out of his mouth is literally indescribable so I’m going to have to give you some examples:

Rambling in his lab, D’Ray describes his work as follows: “human blood is the essence from which future illusion may be created, but the secret is not to have the blood at rest.  No, the circulatory system must experience a traumatic shock, one that is inconceivable to the human mind.  The idea of trauma is not a new one, but I am sure I am the first such experimenter to incorporate the horror of an actual decapitation into later rejuvenation of a human body!”  This is evidently supposed to be a justification for the sewing-heads-back-on thing – it ‘activates’ the blood and allows D’Ray to make his ‘serum’.  He then injects that ‘serum’ into Groton, who transforms into an axe-wielding maniac.  Later, Dracula claims that the same ‘serum’ would have made him invincible.  I, uh… what?

Sorry, I was talking about D’Ray’s monologuing.  When describing his Creature Emporium, D’Ray informs some guests, “the greatest mysteries in the world are not mysteries at all, unless we take time to become familiar with them.”  Isn’t that the opposite of how mysteries work?  It’s easy to believe in, say, the Loch Ness Monster, until you familiarize yourself with the history of the ‘evidence’ and realize that it’s almost all complete bullshit.

When Dracula shows up, D’Ray declares, “I am too old and too sick to be interested or surprised by anything, but when a man comes into my house and casts no reflection on my mirror, and on his hand wears the unholy crest of Dracula, there is no scientific answer to anything.  Now, what is on your mind, Count Dracula?” Honestly, this nonsense is spoken with such conviction that you almost don’t notice that the end of the sentence has nothing to do with the beginning.

The movie has two things that might qualify as a ‘special effect’.  One is Dracula’s zappy fire ring.  It’s crummy, but you can tell what they’re going for.  The other is the ‘comet’ that is instrumental in giving life to the Frankenstein Monster.  This is represented by a slow pan past a flickering light bulb against a black background.  Even having just heard Dracula talking about the importance of the comet, it took me a minute to figure out what I was supposedly seeing – it’s that bad.  This might be halfway forgivable if the comet were somehow important to the plot… if the Monster, for example, had to complete some mission before it sets or something.  But it’s totally gratuitous.  They could have taken that out, avoided a distractingly awful effect, and made the movie a little bit shorter!

As for meaning anything… Dracula vs Frankenstein does not, and indeed seems to go out of its way to avoid it.  The events that unfold are remarkably meaningless.  Judith finds her sister Joannie, who is not dead but neither is she alive, and then the story just forgets about Joannie and gives her no resolution.  Hippie girl Samantha is saved from being raped by her angry ex and his biker gang, but then she, too, is entirely forgotten.  D’Ray and his henchmen die in a series of contrived accidents that serve no purpose but getting them out of the way so that Dracula and the Monster can fight uninterrupted.  This is particularly anticlimactic because so far, D’Ray has been presented as our main baddie.  Dracula disintegrates Mike with his magic ring and then the movie rushes to its climax without giving either Judith or the audience time to deal with it.  Dracula, the movie’s actual main baddie, just turns to dust in the sun.

There are a couple of moments that are probably supposed to be social commentary, but they have nothing to do with the meandering main plot. One is the scene where a hippie guy says to his girlfriend, “let’s get ready for the big protest tonight.”  She asks, “what are we protesting this time?” and he shrugs and replies, “I dunno, but I bet it’s fun.”  Later we see this protest, which does seem to have a major ‘party’ component and features some very unspecific placards being waved.  In another sequence there’s a druggie bar with the walls covered in graffiti that say things like POT and SOCIETY SUCKS.

Boy, I bet Adamson was really proud of sticking it to those angry young people.

Dracula vs Frankenstein is mesmerizingly bad.  Usually the best bad movies are the kind where you can follow the story a bit, so you aren’t wasting time wondering what the hell is going on instead of appreciating the nonsense dialogue and unconvincing effects.  Dracula vs Frankenstein is a singular exception.  You never have any idea what anybody’s doing and yet somehow it doesn’t matter… the movie gives up on making sense very early, and just forges merrily ahead, dragging you along behind it.  What’s actually happening never matters enough to distract.  I honestly don’t know if this is a point in the movie’s favour or not… but it would have made a hell of an MST3K episode.

[gospelofsam]

OLYMPUS BOUND

OO2.

NEWSFLASH: IT GOT WORSE

           Aspen didn’t even remember falling asleep.

           Well, for the record, it wasn’t often that he even got out of bed, so this oddity didn’t necessarily mean anything. Still, he would have remembered falling into the Dream Space, a subsection of Erebus Hypnos frequented whenever he needed to contact Aspen. Figures. The old daemon never stopped by, even to say a quick hello.

These random visits were far and in between, not that Aspen cared very much. Hypnos could stay far away from him for all it mattered.

           He stood idle in the field of opium, unable to move and unable to speak.

Great. Just lovely.

This was the only thing he hated about this place. Unless he was addressed by name, it was like his lips were sewn shut. If the situation had been some practical joke set up by his patron, Aspen didn’t find it very funny. He despised not being able to speak.

Hypnos, of course, relished in seeing his prodigy angry. He was cruel in that way. The two had an unspoken respect for one another, a fact the young McCarthy would never be quick to admit.

“Power Rangers?” Hypnos materialized at Aspen’s feet, his black wings lifting to reveal the daemon’s ruby eyes.

Aspen looked down at himself, muttering a curse in Ancient Greek. Here he was, in front of the god he served in his sleeps best – a pair of Power Ranger pajama bottoms with a matching tee shirt. His day couldn’t get any worse, he was sure of it.

Upon realizing he couldn’t respond to his comment, Hypnos yawned out his prodigies name, leaning back on his elbows.

           Once he could speak again, Aspen ran his deft fingers through his mess of midnight hair, ridding it of any tangles it may have acquired. “What do you want?”

All around him, dreams and memories swirled in and out of existence, vanishing into the poppies at their feet. He caught a glimpse of a girl blowing out her birthday candles. A small smile curved his lips at the sight.

Ten. She was turning ten – it was an age Aspen never had the chance to reach. At least, not how he wanted to reach it. When in doubt, blame the gods for your troubles. In Aspen’s case, it was the gods’ fault.

“What do you think I want, boy?”

A couple of things came to mind, but nothing he dared to say out loud.

Erebus wasn’t Olympia. If Hypnos got pissed and decided to smite Aspen here and now, there wouldn’t be a second chance. No do over for him. He wouldn’t go to Elysium, either. With his absolutely rotten luck, he’d end up a servant in Hades’ palace in the depths of the Underworld.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

Aspen grunted, motioning for the daemon to continue his spiel, whatever it was about. With a snap of the gods lanky, boney fingers, Aspen’s usually hazel eyes flashed an odd pink color, plunging the immortal teen deeper into the world of dreams.

#

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to what he was seeing.

His body ached in ways he couldn’t even begin to describe. Once he’d managed to get to his feet, ignoring the protest of his pounding headache, Aspen analyzed his surroundings.

Where the hell did the old bastard send me?, he thought, kicking aside bits of rubble as he traveled down the crumbling corridor.

The walls were made of marble and might’ve been beautiful once. Etched into the marble were inscriptions, though he couldn’t read them and wouldn’t bother trying. Whatever it was Hypnos wanted him to see, it was definitely not some stupid wall messages. There was a fork in the path in front of him, each hall as dark and unassuming as the next.

For once he’d like an easy route to the main objective. Was that so much to ask?

Hall one looked nice enough, as the marbling on the walls continued into it.

Could be a trap, said the little voice in the back of Aspen’s mind. As much as he wanted to argue with himself here, his conscious was right. Even if this was some dream, he knew better than anyone that dreams could still hurt you, whether it be in a mental sense or physical. So, he focused his attention to the remaining two halls, both decrepit and neglected in their own right.

He wanted to run away, find his way back to wherever Hypnos was hiding and beg him to send him back to Olympia. Olympia was clean, tidy, and well taken care of. Olympia wasn’t a broken-down temple that looked like it was about to cave in on itself.

That wasn’t an option, though. He had a task to complete, whether or not he actually wanted to do it.

Aspen lifted his palm, the pinkish red light his sigil gave off illuminating the temple walls. Great. It was even more horrendous now than it was in total darkness.

He swept his hand into each of the corridors, letting the light from his tattoo do most of the heavy lifting. If need be, he’d summon the poplar branch he used as a weapon every so often, but for now he was safe. He wasn’t in any real danger.

There was a break in the third hall’s stonework. Aspen, still being groggy from the nap he still denied he ever took, turned on his heels and trekked down the second hall. In it were ( go figure ) more wall writings. These, though, pulsed with a yellow light. The pacing of the flashes seemed familiar, but why he wasn’t sure.

The tile was cold on his bare feet. A few more seconds standing here would mean game over for his toes, so Aspen continued his unwanted journey through the temple, making a mental note to talk to Cato or Cora about the light and it’s spacing. They’d know what it meant.

           After what felt like millennia of walking – Aspen was never too sure considering time passed oddly as an immortal – the hall led into an atrium where a casket sat alone.

From what he could see, the coffin was elegantly dressed, wrapped in a golden shroud. It reminded him briefly off the funeral pyres they burned on Olympia whenever another prodigy fell outside of  the training grounds boundaries. But if there was one thing Aspen learned from the horror movies Lilith had forced him to watch, it was to never approach a coffin. Death was more his sister’s forte anyhow. Aspen, on the other hand, hated the dead. They could stay dead for all he cared.

A voice resonated from the other side of the atrium. Considering he wasn’t looking for a fight right now, Aspen ducked behind a larger piece of debris, peeking over its rocky surface in order to see what was going on in front of him.

           From the opposite end of the atrium emerged a sickly-looking woman, her strawberry blonde hair falling down her back in waves. She would have been pretty if it weren’t for her sunken in face and hollow, dead looking eyes. She placed her hands upon the coffin, confusing Aspen even more. Why in Zeus’ name was she was near that thing, much less touching it?

It wasn’t an open casket, so the idea that this was some sort of funeral or mourning session was out of the question. But what the stuck out the most about the woman’s appearance wasn’t how anemic she looked; it was the obvious hourglass that seemed to be burned into the pale skin of her forehead.

           The coffin then pulsed with the same light as the writing outside, her odd forehead tattoo reacting in the same way. Just like that, her appearance shifted before Aspen’s eyes. What once remained of the sickly woman he once saw was replaced with one of indescribable beauty. She had the same wavy blonde hair and striking green eyes, but her figure was more filled out, and for a moment he found himself staring.

“The plan is almost complete, Father,” the girl muttered, drawing her hand back from the coffin’s cold exterior.

Father? Aspen’s eyebrows knitted together, and he took her distraction as a chance to move closer and get a better view of what was happening. Stealth had never been his strong suit, but he had to risk it. If this is what Hypnos was so interested in, then there has to be some reasoning behind it.

Aspen stalked forward, careful not to fall into the woman’s line of sight. “The Olympians are oblivious; Aaron has made sure that none of our moves have been traced back to Mount Othrys.”

           Aspen couldn’t help but stare at the sigil branded into her skin. Every time she spoke it seemed to hum and, as far as he could tell, was channeling some sort of energy from the coffin. Why did he have to be the one to analyze the situation? There were several other prodigies he could rattle off from the top of his head that could easily piece this situation together. He was clueless.

This temple didn’t ring any obvious bells, and yet Aspen felt as though he should know it. He peeked over the side of the pillar, catching the gaze of something or someone on the other side of the room. His breath caught in his throat, causing him to screw his eyes shut.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

What was he supposed to do now? He was done for, caught. As footsteps neared the pillar he called his base of operations, Aspen shot a quick prayer to Hypnos. The sleep daemon was stubborn as a mule, and he was unsure if he’d actually answer.

Just as someone took ahold of his wrist, Aspen’s body disappeared, leaving behind nothing but a pile of poppy petals.

           He woke with a start, sweat beading his forehead. It felt real. He knew what he saw was real and there was no denying that it was. It took a moment for Aspen to recollect what had happened in that temple.

He was there, and yet it still felt as though he experienced through someone else’s eyes; all up until that woman – whatever her name was – grabbed his wrist. Taking a look around his chambers, Aspen pushed himself out of bed, for once wanting to leave the comfort of his mattress.

If there was one thing he hated more than the visits from his patron, it was reporting his dreams to the Olympian Council. He wasn’t left with much of a choice now. Some unknown force was plotting against the Pantheon. He wasn’t losing another family to something he had no control over. Not again.

 #

           The Hall of the Olympian Council looked over Olympia with an almost imposing look about it. Similar to the temple he’d seen in the Dream Space, the palace was made of a mix of ivory and marble, held together by towering pillars sculpted to resemble beautiful women. To the naked eye, they were just that and nothing more. To those who resided in Olympia, they were more. Much more. There were nine in total, each pillar representing a different Muse, goddesses of the arts and science. While the others seemed to fancy the Muses’ sculptures, Aspen chose not to regard them. Right now, he meant business and had no desire to get caught up in a two-hour long song and dance about some ‘amazing’ Greek hero.

           The sounds of his own footsteps bounced off the marble walls of the temple. Mixed with his breathing, it happened to be the only sound present as he made his way towards the main atrium. Aspen got a sense of déjà vu travelling down the pristine corridors. He imagined this was what Greece looked like back in its glory days before the Romans took over. Immaculate and oddly ethereal. Of course, this was only his sense of imagination filling in the blanks, but he couldn’t help but wonder. Compared to the rest of Olympia, The Olympian Council was so…shockingly different. It looked out of place next to the Renaissance era villas and the Medieval towers that made up Olympus’s profile. The different architectures were weird for sure, but it worked in ways that it shouldn’t have anywhere else. Maybe used Mount Othrys looked this way, too. He doubted it, but the thought was somewhat comforting. It brought a sense of hope to the decrepit temple. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hoped that no-one would be roaming the halls and Aspen could just leave. Maybe he could just put what he saw off until tomorrow or put it to rest completely. Another comforting thought. Aspen rarely got what he wanted. Two bodies rounded the corner of the corridor, their shadows being the indication of their presence. He had the temptation to run and stay out of sight. If they were Olympian prodigies that might have been the smartest idea. Those folks weren’t exactly keen on sharing space with the lesser prodigies, even the nicest of them.

           Before he could duck behind yet another pillar – another thing he’d been doing a lot recently – the two aforementioned bodies showed themselves. Aspen, in all of his confidence, froze like a deer in headlights. Before him stood by Audra Noelani and her right hand, Alistair Knowles. Despite sharing Olympian blood, the two couldn’t look any more different. Audra was olive skinned; her usual braided hair thrown up into the messiest of ponytails. As for Alistair, he stood with gloved hands folded behind his back, his face stone cold. Gods, those silver eyes terrified Aspen. They weren’t even gray – just pure silver. “State your business, McCarthy,” Should he bow? By status, Audra was the future queen, which made bowing seem like a good idea. Then again, Aspen was an overall asshole. Audra could shove those lucky shells of hers up her ass for all he cared.

           Add being referred to by his last name to list of things Aspen hated. “I didn’t realize there was some kind of invisible sign-up sheet for meeting with the pantheon.” Beside her, Alistair raised his shoulders which, for him, was the same as laughing. Audra took pleasure in ordering her ‘subjects’ around. He didn’t follow her orders like a lost puppy, unlike the rest of the prodigies. He had some independence, surprisingly.

           They are busy, Alistair signed, obviously referring to the Olympians. It wasn’t very often they all met to converse, but everyone took it pretty seriously when they did. What do you need, A-S-P-E-N? Signing was pretty straightforward. You didn’t necessarily need to say a person’s name, as it was pretty obvious who you were addressing. Alistair, however, did so as a sign of respect. Maybe a thank you for talking the time to actually learn ASL so they could communicate. Aspen’s gaze flickered to the golden doors that towered above them. He’d only been in the Great Hall only a few times on important runs for Hypnos, but it never ceased to amaze him.

           Dream. The sign for dream was pretty accurate. Aspen’s index hovered a few centimeters above his forehead, then he pulled away from it, flexing the finger as he did so. Cato seemed to understand what he meant, but Audra was the exact opposite. She looked between the two boys, a look of pure confusion on her face. Figures. Unlike everyone else in the Council of Nike, she’d never cared to learn ASL. Aspen translated for her sake, annoyed and exhausted all at once. All he wanted to do was recount his vision to whichever god was present that day and then leave. In and out, but no. His life was never that simple, was it? Audra waved off the future daemon of sleep, pushing past him to go do gods know what. Cato followed suit, placing a hand on his shoulder in apology. What was he even apologizing for? It wasn’t his fault that Audra wasn’t aware of when to lay off. Aspen waited for the two to leave before pushing the door open, straining his shoulder in the process. He ignored the pain and instead focused on the matter at hand. Twelve thrones surrounded a central fire. Even from where he stood twenty feet away from the pit, Aspen could still feel the residual heat that came with each flicker of the ceremonial flame. They had a smaller version down in the dining pavilion, but nothing as elegant or intimidating as this one. Compared to it and the rest of the divine furnishings, he felt like an ant exploring a garden. “Young man… I see Hypnos is still using you as his personal errand boy?” boomed a voice from above, causing Aspen to move his attention from the globe that sat on a wooden table, to the throne of Zeus. He cleared his throat and brushed his hair out of his face. Mouthing off to Hypnos was one thing, but no-one back talked the King of the Heavens. Zeus was creative with his punishments. Just ask Prometheus.

           Aspen strained his neck to look up at the gray-haired god. “Yes, your grace.” It took everything in his power not to yawn or show just how tired he actually was. Sure, he was still in his pajamas, but no-one (well, except for Audra and Alistair) dressed to impress anymore. You kind of lose your motivation after a couple of decades. Zeus motioned for him to go on. His hands trembled as he recounted the subtle horrors of Mount Othrys.

[olympicoath]

CHAPTER  TWO  : NEWSFLASH  :  IT  GETS  WORSE

Aspen didn’t even remember falling asleep.

           Well, for the record, it wasn’t often that he even got out of bed, so this oddity didn’t necessarily mean anything. Still, he would have remembered falling into the Dream Space, a subsection of Erebus Hypnos frequented whenever he needed to contact Aspen. Figures. The old daemon never stopped by, even to say a quick hello.

These random visits were far and in between, not that Aspen cared very much. Hypnos could stay far away from him for all it mattered.

           He stood idle in the field of opium, unable to move and unable to speak.

Great. Just lovely.

This was the only thing he hated about this place. Unless he was addressed by name, it was like his lips were sewn shut. If the situation had been some practical joke set up by his patron, Aspen didn’t find it very funny. He despised not being able to speak.

Hypnos, of course, relished in seeing his prodigy angry. He was cruel in that way. The two had an unspoken respect for one another, a fact the young McCarthy would never be quick to admit.

“Power Rangers?” Hypnos materialized at Aspen’s feet, his black wings lifting to reveal the daemon’s ruby eyes.

Aspen looked down at himself, muttering a curse in Ancient Greek. Here he was, in front of the god he served in his sleeps best – a pair of Power Ranger pajama bottoms with a matching tee shirt. His day couldn’t get any worse, he was sure of it.

Upon realizing he couldn’t respond to his comment, Hypnos yawned out his prodigies name, leaning back on his elbows.

           Once he could speak again, Aspen ran his deft fingers through his mess of midnight hair, ridding it of any tangles it may have acquired. “What do you want?”

All around him, dreams and memories swirled in and out of existence, vanishing into the poppies at their feet. He caught a glimpse of a girl blowing out her birthday candles. A small smile curved his lips at the sight.

Ten. She was turning ten – it was an age Aspen never had the chance to reach. At least, not how he wanted to reach it. When in doubt, blame the gods for your troubles. In Aspen’s case, it was the gods’ fault.

“What do you think I want, boy?”

A couple of things came to mind, but nothing he dared to say out loud.

Erebus wasn’t Olympia. If Hypnos got pissed and decided to smite Aspen here and now, there wouldn’t be a second chance. No do over for him. He wouldn’t go to Elysium, either. With his absolutely rotten luck, he’d end up a servant in Hades’ palace in the depths of the Underworld.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

Aspen grunted, motioning for the daemon to continue his spiel, whatever it was about. With a snap of the gods lanky, boney fingers, Aspen’s usually hazel eyes flashed an odd pink color, plunging the immortal teen deeper into the world of dreams.

#

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to what he was seeing.

His body ached in ways he couldn’t even begin to describe. Once he’d managed to get to his feet, ignoring the protest of his pounding headache, Aspen analyzed his surroundings.

Where the hell did the old bastard send me?, he thought, kicking aside bits of rubble as he traveled down the crumbling corridor.

The walls were made of marble and might’ve been beautiful once. Etched into the marble were inscriptions, though he couldn’t read them and wouldn’t bother trying. Whatever it was Hypnos wanted him to see, it was definitely not some stupid wall messages. There was a fork in the path in front of him, each hall as dark and unassuming as the next.

For once he’d like an easy route to the main objective. Was that so much to ask?

Hall one looked nice enough, as the marbling on the walls continued into it.

Could be a trap, said the little voice in the back of Aspen’s mind. As much as he wanted to argue with himself here, his conscious was right. Even if this was some dream, he knew better than anyone that dreams could still hurt you, whether it be in a mental sense or physical. So, he focused his attention to the remaining two halls, both decrepit and neglected in their own right.

He wanted to run away, find his way back to wherever Hypnos was hiding and beg him to send him back to Olympia. Olympia was clean, tidy, and well taken care of. Olympia wasn’t a broken-down temple that looked like it was about to cave in on itself.

That wasn’t an option, though. He had a task to complete, whether or not he actually wanted to do it.

Aspen lifted his palm, the pinkish red light his sigil gave off illuminating the temple walls. Great. It was even more horrendous now than it was in total darkness.

He swept his hand into each of the corridors, letting the light from his tattoo do most of the heavy lifting. If need be, he’d summon the poplar branch he used as a weapon every so often, but for now he was safe. He wasn’t in any real danger.

There was a break in the third hall’s stonework. Aspen, still being groggy from the nap he still denied he ever took, turned on his heels and trekked down the second hall. In it were ( go figure ) more wall writings. These, though, pulsed with a yellow light. The pacing of the flashes seemed familiar, but why he wasn’t sure.

The tile was cold on his bare feet. A few more seconds standing here would mean game over for his toes, so Aspen continued his unwanted journey through the temple, making a mental note to talk to Alistair or Cora about the light and it’s spacing. They’d know what it meant.

           After what felt like millennia of walking – Aspen was never too sure considering time passed oddly as an immortal – the hall led into an atrium where a casket sat alone.

From what he could see, the coffin was elegantly dressed, wrapped in a golden shroud. It reminded him briefly off the funeral pyres they burned on Olympia whenever another prodigy fell outside of  the training grounds boundaries. But if there was one thing Aspen learned from the horror movies Lilith had forced him to watch, it was to never approach a coffin. Death was more his sister’s forte anyhow. Aspen, on the other hand, hated the dead. They could stay dead for all he cared.

A voice resonated from the other side of the atrium. Considering he wasn’t looking for a fight right now, Aspen ducked behind a larger piece of debris, peeking over its rocky surface in order to see what was going on in front of him.

           From the opposite end of the atrium emerged a sickly-looking woman, her strawberry blonde hair falling down her back in waves. She would have been pretty if it weren’t for her sunken in face and hollow, dead looking eyes. She placed her hands upon the coffin, confusing Aspen even more. Why in Zeus’ name was she was near that thing, much less touching it?

It wasn’t an open casket, so the idea that this was some sort of funeral or mourning session was out of the question. But what the stuck out the most about the woman’s appearance wasn’t how anemic she looked; it was the obvious hourglass that seemed to be burned into the pale skin of her forehead.

           The coffin then pulsed with the same light as the writing outside, her odd forehead tattoo reacting in the same way. Just like that, her appearance shifted before Aspen’s eyes. What once remained of the sickly woman he once saw was replaced with one of indescribable beauty. She had the same wavy blonde hair and striking green eyes, but her figure was more filled out, and for a moment he found himself staring.

“The plan is almost complete, Father,” the girl muttered, drawing her hand back from the coffin’s cold exterior.

Father? Aspen’s eyebrows knitted together, and he took her distraction as a chance to move closer and get a better view of what was happening. Stealth had never been his strong suit, but he had to risk it. If this is what Hypnos was so interested in, then there has to be some reasoning behind it.

Aspen stalked forward, careful not to fall into the woman’s line of sight. “The Olympians are oblivious; Aaron has made sure that none of our moves have been traced back to Mount Othrys.”

           Aspen couldn’t help but stare at the sigil branded into her skin. Every time she spoke it seemed to hum and, as far as he could tell, was channeling some sort of energy from the coffin. Why did he have to be the one to analyze the situation? There were several other prodigies he could rattle off from the top of his head that could easily piece this situation together. He was clueless.

This temple didn’t ring any obvious bells, and yet Aspen felt as though he should know it. He peeked over the side of the pillar, catching the gaze of something or someone on the other side of the room. His breath caught in his throat, causing him to screw his eyes shut.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

What was he supposed to do now? He was done for, caught. As footsteps neared the pillar he called his base of operations, Aspen shot a quick prayer to Hypnos. The sleep daemon was stubborn as a mule, and he was unsure if he’d actually answer.

Just as someone took ahold of his wrist, Aspen’s body disappeared, leaving behind nothing but a pile of poppy petals.

           He woke with a start, sweat beading his forehead. It felt real. He knew what he saw was real and there was no denying that it was. It took a moment for Aspen to recollect what had happened in that temple.

He was there, and yet it still felt as though he experienced through someone else’s eyes; all up until that woman – whatever her name was – grabbed his wrist. Taking a look around his chambers, Aspen pushed himself out of bed, for once wanting to leave the comfort of his mattress.

If there was one thing he hated more than the visits from his patron, it was reporting his dreams to the Olympian Council. He wasn’t left with much of a choice now. Some unknown force was plotting against the Pantheon. He wasn’t losing another family to something he had no control over. Not again.

 #

           The Hall of the Olympian Council looked over Olympia with an almost imposing look about it. Similar to the temple he’d seen in the Dream Space, the palace was made of a mix of ivory and marble, held together by towering pillars sculpted to resemble beautiful women. To the naked eye, they were just that and nothing more. To those who resided in Olympia, they were more. Much more. There were nine in total, each pillar representing a different Muse, goddesses of the arts and science. While the others seemed to fancy the Muses’ sculptures, Aspen chose not to regard them. Right now, he meant business and had no desire to get caught up in a two-hour long song and dance about some ‘amazing’ Greek hero.

           The sounds of his own footsteps bounced off the marble walls of the temple. Mixed with his breathing, it happened to be the only sound present as he made his way towards the main atrium. Aspen got a sense of déjà vu travelling down the pristine corridors. He imagined this was what Greece looked like back in its glory days before the Romans took over. Immaculate and oddly ethereal. Of course, this was only his sense of imagination filling in the blanks, but he couldn’t help but wonder. Compared to the rest of Olympia, The Olympian Council was so…shockingly different. It looked out of place next to the Renaissance era villas and the Medieval towers that made up Olympus’s profile. The different architectures were weird for sure, but it worked in ways that it shouldn’t have anywhere else. Maybe used Mount Othrys looked this way, too. He doubted it, but the thought was somewhat comforting. It brought a sense of hope to the decrepit temple. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hoped that no-one would be roaming the halls and Aspen could just leave. Maybe he could just put what he saw off until tomorrow or put it to rest completely. Another comforting thought. Aspen rarely got what he wanted. Two bodies rounded the corner of the corridor, their shadows being the indication of their presence. He had the temptation to run and stay out of sight. If they were Olympian prodigies that might have been the smartest idea. Those folks weren’t exactly keen on sharing space with the lesser prodigies, even the nicest of them.

           Before he could duck behind yet another pillar – another thing he’d been doing a lot recently – the two aforementioned bodies showed themselves. Aspen, in all of his confidence, froze like a deer in headlights. Before him stood by Audra Noelani and her right hand, Cato Knowles. Despite sharing Olympian blood, the two couldn’t look any more different. Audra was olive skinned; her usual braided hair thrown up into the messiest of ponytails. As for Cato, he stood with gloved hands folded behind his back, his face stone cold. Gods, those silver eyes terrified Aspen. They weren’t even gray – just pure silver. “State your business, McCarthy,” Should he bow? By status, Audra was the future queen, which made bowing seem like a good idea. Then again, Aspen was an overall asshole. Audra could shove those lucky shells of hers up her ass for all he cared.

           Add being referred to by his last name to list of things Aspen hated. “I didn’t realize there was some kind of invisible sign-up sheet for meeting with the pantheon.” Beside her, Alistair raised his shoulders which, for him, was the same as laughing. Audra took pleasure in ordering her ‘subjects’ around. He didn’t follow her orders like a lost puppy, unlike the rest of the prodigies. He had some independence, surprisingly.

           They are busy, Alistair signed, obviously referring to the Olympians. It wasn’t very often they all met to converse, but everyone took it pretty seriously when they did. What do you need, A-S-P-E-N? Signing was pretty straightforward. You didn’t necessarily need to say a person’s name, as it was pretty obvious who you were addressing. Alistair, however, did so as a sign of respect. Maybe a thank you for talking the time to actually learn ASL so they could communicate. Aspen’s gaze flickered to the golden doors that towered above them. He’d only been in the Great Hall only a few times on important runs for Hypnos, but it never ceased to amaze him.

           Dream. The sign for dream was pretty accurate. Aspen’s index hovered a few centimeters above his forehead, then he pulled away from it, flexing the finger as he did so. Alistair seemed to understand what he meant, but Audra was the exact opposite. She looked between the two boys, a look of pure confusion on her face. Figures. Unlike everyone else in the Council of Nike, she’d never cared to learn ASL. Aspen translated for her sake, annoyed and exhausted all at once. All he wanted to do was recount his vision to whichever god was present that day and then leave. In and out, but no. His life was never that simple, was it? Audra waved off the future daemon of sleep, pushing past him to go do gods know what. Alistair followed suit, placing a hand on his shoulder in apology. What was he even apologizing for? It wasn’t his fault that Audra wasn’t aware of when to lay off. Aspen waited for the two to leave before pushing the door open, straining his shoulder in the process. He ignored the pain and instead focused on the matter at hand. Twelve thrones surrounded a central fire. Even from where he stood twenty feet away from the pit, Aspen could still feel the residual heat that came with each flicker of the ceremonial flame. They had a smaller version down in the dining pavilion, but nothing as elegant or intimidating as this one. Compared to it and the rest of the divine furnishings, he felt like an ant exploring a garden. “Young man… I see Hypnos is still using you as his personal errand boy?” boomed a voice from above, causing Aspen to move his attention from the globe that sat on a wooden table, to the throne of Zeus. He cleared his throat and brushed his hair out of his face. Mouthing off to Hypnos was one thing, but no-one backtalked the King of the Heavens. Zeus was creative with his punishments. Just ask Prometheus.

           Aspen strained his neck to look up at the gray-haired god. “Yes, your grace.” It took everything in his power not to yawn or show just how tired he actually was. Sure, he was still in his pajamas, but no-one (well, except for Audra and Cato) dressed to impress anymore. You sort of lose your motivation after a couple of decades. Zeus motioned for him to go on. His hands trembled as he recounted the subtle horrors of Mount Othrys.

[howsermax]

Thoughts on Pet Sematary (2019)

So I saw Pet Sematary in theaters a few days back, and I’ve gotta say, I was deeply, deeply disappointed. While I love the 1989 film about as much as I love the book, with the screenplay for the film being one of the only good screenplays written by King himself, it was admittedly in dire need of an upgrade. From Louis Creed’s hilarious line delivery, to the obvious switching to a Chucky-style doll during certain scenes with Gage, to the cinematography, the problems with the 1989 version of the flick were only in execution. The story could have been kept entirely the same (with a more ambiguous, book accurate ending), and it could have been an amazing remake. But instead, we got a very disappointing film.

First, I’ll go over what I liked. The cinematography, while gray, was still pretty creative at times in terms of camera movement. All the actors do a pretty good job for the most part, however, Ellie only does a good job after she dies. The practical effects were all pretty amazing, even though Ellie could have used a little more rot. The score is also pretty memorable and interesting. Surprisingly, the movie makes a few changes to the source material I actually really welcome. For example, the Zelda storyline is changed up in a way where it makes more sense why Rachel’s feeling of disgust towards Zelda added to her guilt by making Zelda’s death directly involve Rachel’s reluctance to interact with her. The Zelda flashbacks also have very creative transitions. However, those are all the praises I can really sing for this movie.

The writing is the most noticeable flaw with this movie. The characters never once talk like real people, they simplify story concepts way too often (for example, Rachel’s feelings of guilt in the first place are barely explored), and the movie brings up it’s themes of coping with death and loss in the most amazingly ham-fisted and basic ways possible. After Ellie asks about what will happen when Church dies, Rachel and Louis share a conversation IN PRIVATE about whether or not they believe in the afterlife. The movie quite literally decides it’s going to directly tell the audience that the character who is a surgeon doesn’t believe in the afterlife. Keep in mind, this isn’t really written into any other aspects of his character. I really don’t think these writers passed Screenwriting 101.

But on the other hand, the movie also has a recurring tendency to forget to write about the themes of the story altogether. For example, Pascow is criminally underused in this movie. You may remember in the original movie, Pascow was extremely important, as he spent his screen time trying to stop Louis from trying to cross the barrier between life and death, so Louis can learn to accept death. However, Remake Pascow is the most vague, boring, cookie-cutter horror movie ghost you can imagine, complete with never explaining what he means, and not influencing the events around him. Pascow also doesn’t appear at all during the ending. The writers genuinely don’t understand the importance he serves to the themes of the story. But his underuse is the least of this movie’s problems.

Now, I don’t have a problem with just the concept of changing things from book/old movie to movie. It’s necessary at times, and this remake has some welcome changes up it’s sleeve. However, this movie is almost entirely full of unnecessary changes that make the movie worse in one way or another. The first one I want to talk about is the decision to have Ellie be killed on the road rather than Gage. This is something that was explicitly revealed in the trailer to anyone who remembers the original story, and what’s worse? They extensively spoke about this major plot point in the film industry press surrounding the movie before release. I get that the trailer thing is a topic for a separate nerd tirade, but I can’t describe how stupid it was of these producers to talk about such a big change pre-release. Even though it’s a remake, it’s kind of alienating to movie-goers who don’t know the classic Pet Sematary story somehow. The filmmakers extensively spoke about how they made the change so that the resurrected child could be bigger and more threatening, though I think they were too weak to give us the true depressing movie we came here to watch. Because I guess movie audiences are somehow more emotional than they were 30 years ago? Comparing this attitude to how they actually put the scene together, it looks more like they were trying to pull an ol’ switcharoo on the people who know the story. Which begs the question: WHY ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT IT IN PLACES WHERE POTENTIAL MOVIE VIEWERS CAN SEE IT??

Another huge issue I have with this movie is how fucking seriously it takes itself. The original had a very light sheen of comedy to it, think something similar to An American Werewolf in London. This is extremely prevalent in the scenes involving Pascow, where he casually stands around the afterlife, contrasting against everything and everyone as a walking corpse that nobody can see. The remake genuinely lacks all intentional comedy, which makes it really really hard to actually remember the experience, or care about it. It also ends up making certain parts of the movie unintentionally funny. For example, during the scene where Louis does his internet research on the Pet Sematary, he finds a fucking newspaper clipping about a literal fucking bison being implied to have been buried in and resurrected by the Pet Sematary. I subsequently chuckled out loud in the theater, as my mind was crossed with the mental image of a grieving child lugging an entire bison to the Pet Sematary, and struggling to find a place to bury it in the already cramped cemetery.

The editing and scene pacing is legitimately the most stereotypical modern horror film schlock ever put to screen. Firstly, jumpscares are all over this film, and it’s not a look. From the Orinco trucks, to Zelda in the dumbwaiter, to Church, everything in the film is given a loud THUD effect to accompany it, and I was supplied with many Silent Hill: Revelation 3D pop-tart jumpscare flashbacks through it’s run-time. The placement of the THUDs at times felt like watching one of my Spooky Guys episodes. Again, back to Pascow being utterly useless in the story, he instead spends this film being relegated to “look at me, I’m vague and say 3 spooky sentences I repeat over and over and I’m in a modern horror film and that’s my whole character I’m scary I say stuff about ghosts and death”.

Now here’s the big one. The ending. The ending is genuinely the worst thing about the entire film. Here’s a basic summary from what I remember. So Louis buries his dead daughter and waits for her to come back as his family tries to contact him, while Gage is troubled by visions of Pascow (who does nothing of note through the whole story). Ellie comes back and catches on to the fact that she died, but Louis denies that and gives her a bath. Jud goes over and suspects that Louis has brought Ellie back from the grave, and Ellie gets mad about it and kills Jud. Rachel and Gage arrive back at the house after Louis stops returning their calls, and Rachel is greeted by an undead Ellie. Ellie thinks that Rachel doesn’t want her around anymore, and tries to kill her, Gage, and Louis. Rachel manages to allow Gage and Louis to escape, but she’s impaled and buried by Ellie. Louis puts Gage in the car and tells him to not open the door for anyone, not even Ellie. Louis faces off with Ellie in the Pet Sematary, before being killed by the now resurrected Rachel. Rachel and Ellie resurrect Louis, and for some reason unlike Ellie, Louis and Rachel are big dumb traditional zombies. At daybreak, they approach the car with a can of gasoline, having burned down Jud’s house. However, instead, they decide to unlock the car for Gage. I have a lot to say about this.

First off, this ending is fucking weak compared to the original ending. In the original film, the process of Louis killing Gage with the lethal injection is so indescribably heart-breaking. It’s actually a high point for the actor’s performance, and he definitely sells the sheer emotion of the scene. The remake’s ending definitely suffers from how frequently it fails to actually capture the emotion of the original story and film. With that, let’s just say, this movie is the prime example of why horror movies with dead protagonists fail so often. If you aren’t both careful and skilled, killing your protagonist can result in your protagonist’s character arc not being fulfilled or completed. The original Pet Sematary story has a very strong and compelling character arc for Louis. In the final scenes of the original film, after Louis has begrudgingly put down Church and Gage, and has burned Jud’s house down, he carries Rachel’s corpse with him. Pascow tries to get him to no longer try and cross the barrier between life and death, and that he needs to let go of those he loves. He needs to learn to cope with death, and understand that dead is better. Louis, however, doesn’t listen, and finds a reason to think it’ll be different this time: because she just died. Pascow realizes that Louis has failed to learn his lesson, and shouts an admittely hilarious “NOOOOOOO” as he fades away. Louis waits in his home after burying Rachel, and as she walks in, now decayed and deformed, Louis makes out with the walking corpse, before being killed by her. What works here is Louis has completed his character arc. Granted the character arc consists of failing to learn his lesson, but it’s a powerful arc no less. It drives home how much the movie is truly about being as grateful for death as we are for life, and how a life spent yearning for those who’ve passed to return is a life spent suffering. While the more ambiguous book ending is more favorable, the 1989 film version still drives home this theme extremely well.

Overall, very bad movie. Don’t waste your money on this. Save your money for Endgame, that looks good. Or if you’re a King fan, wait for It: Part 2. Just... please no more ‘80s jokes guys, it isn’t funny anymore.

[notanothervideogameblog]

Vesperia Fic: Ten Years Before I Came Back to Life

Summary: The dead don't have Marks. This is something Raven knows personally. He doesn't know what to think when he starts getting new ones. 

Notes: More of my platonic Soulmarks AU: this time from Raven’s POV.

Also on AO3

The dead don't have Soulmarks. It made sense. The dead couldn't be influenced by anyone and they couldn't grow or change through meeting someone. They couldn't meet anyone period, as they were buried in the ground with their skin as bare as when they'd first joined life.

This was the simple fact of life: dead were done with the world. That's why Damuron felt the entire world tilting on its axis when he woke up groggy from surgery, stumbled to the nearest mirror, and saw that his throat was bare.

Damuron had lived a pretty aimless life before he'd been forced to join the Imperial Knights by his father. Frankly, it wasn't the Knights themselves that had changed it all, but meeting Casey, the woman who'd eventually become his captain.

Casey was inspiring, to put it as simply as humanely possible. She had clear ideas about right and wrong and she followed them with conviction. She cared, both about people and the state of the world. Being around her, watching her and following her made it easy for Damuron to care too. Except he also cared about Casey, more than he should have.

Damuron knew that, as long as he felt the way he did, he couldn't show Casey the Mark that had appeared on his throat, the Mark that symbolised how much she'd changed his views on the future. It wouldn't have been fair or equal with her having feelings for someone else. Damuron had thought that he'd have time, that, once he got over Casey, he could approach her as a friend and tell her: "You've helped me become a better person. I can show you how."

Now it was too late for everything Damuron had planned. He might fall in love with someone else, but he'd never entirely get over Casey because of how traumatically he'd lost her. He'd never show her his Mark, because she was dead and because he was dead and because the Mark was now gone.

He tore off his bandages when he saw that Casey's Mark had vanished. It stung, the fabric clinging to his body with congealed or dried blood. Several of his wounds began bleeding again as he desperately tried to see his back in the mirror, peering over his bloodied right shoulder.

The Casey Brigade had been a completely indescribable experience to Damuron. They'd all been so different with different backgrounds and values but they'd all been brought together by their similar morals and their respect for their commanding officer. Damuron had known he could count on each of his squadmates to have his back and the Marks of all of his friends and allies together had clustered together on his back to form a wing of unwavering support.

His shoulder was bare.

It just figures that while he was hyperventilating over that became also the exact moment his eyes finally spotted his chest and he realized that the feeling of a weight in his chest wasn't just metaphysical. The stripped-away bandages had revealed something absolutely inhuman protruding out of his chest. Seeing it, barely comprehending, Damuron temporarily lost his mind from pure horror.

After the fit was over, Damuron was left lying down on his sickbed, chest full of scratch marks and the undersides of his nails crusty with blood. His arms had bruises from both the doctor and Commandant Alexei wrestling him down and his mind came bruised from what Alexei was saying to him.

These were desperate times, the Commandant told Damuron. There weren't many people that Alexei could trust and Damuron was the only survivor of his unit. Damuron's home town had become a casualty of war. Damuron really only had two choices here: get up and help Alexei or lie down and die.

Damuron had already died once and it had been painful in every single way imaginable. The thought of dying again left him feeling paralyzed with fear. So he made his choice.

In the end, Damuron didn't die, but he didn't live either. Instead, Schwann Oltorain stepped into Alexei's service, completely devoted simply because his life had nothing else in terms of content. Normal people woke up in the morning wondering what their agenda for the day would be, Schwann was only concerned for Alexei's agenda.

A dead man walking among the living, Schwann didn't have anything to offer to the people around him, nor did anyone have anything he wanted. In his darker moments Schwann admitted to himself that sometimes he feared that if he did connect with people, his skin would still remain blank, that he really was dead. He already thought that, and he didn't want to be proven correct.

Schwann always dressed in layers. There were multiple reasons for this. One was to hide the obvious slope of the blastia embedded in his chest. The other was that he just felt constantly cold.

The dead were cold. They had no body heat. Schwann remembered that his Marks had always felt warm with affection. Maybe the dead went cold because their Marks left them, taking their warmth away with them.

Schwann suspected he was cold in more ways than just physical. He didn't really know what it meant to want something anymore. When a spying-slash-assassination assignment to Dahngrest left him at the mercy of one surprisingly agreeable Don Whitehorse, Schwann really had no reason to agree or disagree when the man offered to spare his life and secrets in return for becoming a double agent.

Schwann still remembered what Damuron had felt when he'd died. It had been colder than any shivers he got these days. He'd rather not die, even when living was at best lukewarm.

Like Alexei, Whitehorse gave Schwann another name to use when working for him. Don's choice in names wasn't half as grandiose as Alexei's, but there was a boyish sense of humour to the man when he grinned widely at Schwann and named him after a different bird. Raven found himself returning the smile.

What Alexei and Whitehorse expected from their messenger bird varied greatly. Alexei wanted Schwann to be aloof, but not too distant, to set an example for the other Imperial Knights on proper conduct, and to defend Alexei's interests against the machinations of the council.

The Imperial Knights didn't have many long-serving knights left, and many of the newcomers were in awe of the Captain who was a hero of the Great War, so Schwann didn't need to do much to impress his subordinates. One recruit, a man closer to Schwann's own age rather than being a kid fresh out of school, had actually looked at Schwann with what looked suspiciously like moved tears in his eyes.

As for the council, sometimes Raven's abilities actually worked to Schwann's advantage when evidence needed to be dug up or traps planted.

Whitehorse, on the other hand, needed Raven mostly for what knowledge Schwann had of the Knights, which was, fairly enough, quite a lot. However, as time passed, Whitehorse also used Raven as a messenger, entrusting his agent with important messages and goods. Raven didn't think much about it as he ran these errands, until the Don once, after a yet another successful mission, clapped Raven on the back, nearly toppling the smaller man to the ground, and invited him to share drinks.

The evening was easy. The drinks were no mere aside for a debriefing, but simply there to be enjoyed between friends. Raven fell asleep that night feeling strangely warm.

The scheming in Zaphias made Alexei grow colder along the years. He grew more and more distant with Schwann as well, sending him off more often than having him in the capital. On the flipside, Raven and Whitehorse grew closer, their facade of a relationship becoming a genuine and trusting friendship, making Raven actually feel relieved that Don Whitehorse knew all of his deepest and darkest secrets, from his identity to the state of his body.

It was when Schwann was trying to figure out if he could come up with an excuse to leave for Dahngrest, mere days after returning to Zaphias, that Schwann realized that he actually preferred Dahngrest to Zaphias a great deal. That was when the Mark appeared, a bright red that was so eye-catching and hot-blooded that it could stand for no one other than Don Whitehorse, right in the middle of Schwann's palm.

That, night when Schwann had made it back to his quarters, he spent nearly an hour going over every inch of his skin, looking for another Mark. If he was actually capable of still gaining new Marks, there had to be one from the person he'd done anything and everything for.

Finally, Schwann found a burgundy feather on the bottom of his right foot. Of course it'd be in the last place he looked, Schwann mused, scowling at the Mark. No wonder he felt so heavy so often, with this thing dragging him down.

It was really amazing how a Mark that controlled his life so much was in a place he couldn't even see himself without purposefully looking for it. Just as well, Schwann decided, as it wasn't like it changed anything. Schwann knew what his obligations were, what promises he'd made.

Promises were easy enough, but lying was another story. Both Axelei and Whitehorse required dishonesty from their agent, and Damuron had always been too sincere to lie convincingly. Neither was it a skill that either of the men he'd become had learned.

Schwann generally got away with not telling the truth by speaking as little as possible. Fewer words meant fewer lies he could get caught on. It all became easier when Schwann got a new lieutenant under his command; Leblanc would speak enough for both of them and be not only Schwann's sword, but his voice in Schwann's absence. It was an effective status quo.

It also helped that, as long as you were a trusted captain, you didn't need to offer people much more than an order to get them to comply. Explanations and lies were therefore unnecessary.

Raven and Schwann might have had different dispositions, but in many ways they were equal. Raven expressed the things Schwann kept suppressed, said all the things Schwann stayed silent on. He was as talkative as Schwann was quiet. Raven dodged any queries into his tall tales by simply speaking more. He mastered the act of affable chatter, so that no one would look too far into the things he said, so that no one would notice the inconsistencies.

Whether you're a terrible or good liar, it's always best to tell as much of the truth as possible, just to keep your stories straight. Raven's lies were a mixture of omitted facts, truths spoken in a sarcastic tone and outright fibbing. Still, it worked, because the point wasn't a matter of obscuring information as it was to keep people from looking for it to begin with.

No one really questioned Raven, even as they knew he was lying through his teeth. Because his dishonesty was out in the open, people thought they were on top of things, that they had him figured out.

It just figures that it wasn't the lies that were the dangerous part about who he was. It was always the promises.

Raven hadn't bothered to grow since he'd allowed Don Whitehorse to mean something to him. That was why, when the man died, to preserve order in the face of utter chaos, it felt like all warmth fled his body once more as the Mark on his palm grew cold with the absence of the person it stood for. Grief, felt through a Mark as dark as ever.

He couldn't remember the Mark on the sole of his foot ever being warm.

The weight of his obligation dragged him down when the Commandant's orders came to bring him the Princess for the next stage of his plan. The heavy weight of everything at Mount Temza made it all even harder to bear.

He was unexpectedly open then. Perhaps too much. He shouldn't care about these people, he knew, not with his promises to Alexei. To follow, to support, to see this all through.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, they reached Myorzo. Estelle looked just about as heavy as Raven felt then. There were many kinds of burdens and Raven doubted the rest of this group could lift Estelle's. It all seemed so impossible, finding a different path and changing how things would turn out.

Just as well. Raven wasn't too interested in alternative solutions. He couldn't be when he was already devoted to one course of action.

There was no reason for Raven to question what he was doing. Even so, he felt something akin to empathy over how listless Estelle was when he told her: "The Commandant requires your presence, your highness." He felt something slippery squirm in the bottom of his stomach with how readily she followed his lead, how she didn't keep insisting on how this was something she wanted to do regardless.

He would never begrudge her how she saw the good in everyone. But, it was sad to see her as bereft of hope as he was. But even that couldn't matter, because he had a job to do.

It became increasingly difficult to hang on to the concepts of duty and obligation when he changed into his knight's uniform. Travelling on the road was cumbersome; bathing opportunities were few and far between and it was usually already dark when they turned in for the night. Even if the Mark had been forming for a while, there was very little chance of it being noticed until now.

On top of Raven's foot rested a new feather-shaped Mark, the color a childish yellow.

Sluggishly, but still violently, Raven pulled his boots on, hiding the Mark as quickly as his shaking hands allowed. It didn't matter. It was too late. He was already dedicated. He would allow nothing to change his mind and it would change nothing if he did.

"So what if I wanted to stay?" Raven snapped at either himself or at the Mark, orange replacing purple as he changed outfits like he changed identities, bit by bit, trickling into the other as pieces got swapped. "It's not my choice to make."

He'd made his choice long ago, after all, and there was only one way out. He'd find it at the end of this one last sprint, he was sure.

The prison Alexei built for Estelle was nothing short of terrifying. Just being near it made Schwann's blastia ache in a way that made it hard to breathe. Regardless, he focused on the Commandant telling him of the trap he was planning for Duke.

It was easy to take on the task to face Duke for Alexei, to delay the biggest threat to his plans while Alexei buried him alive.

"I could just use the soldiers," Alexei said with only the slightest hint of coaxing to his voice. "I could still use you."

Schwann shook his head. "This is fine," he insisted. It was what he wanted.

He wanted it even more when it wasn't the Duke who showed up, but Yuri and his friends. It was perfect. He was done with the charade.

Schwann saw the disbelief on all their faces, and knew from just looking at them that they didn't want to fight. He felt the same turn in his innards as when he had when he'd noticed just how deep Estelle's despair ran.

'Don't despair,' he wanted to tell them but remained silent because Schwann wasn't the part of him that spoke. 'This is what I want.' Because, really, the one exit he'd seen, the one desire he held even stronger when he thought about yellow marring his skin and how he could never have what he really wanted.

If no other wish would be granted, then just this: he really wanted to die.

[junaeneous]

Blue Whale Challenge; PLEASE READ

TRIGGER WARNING; PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION 

I’m sure most of you already know about this challenge, emails are being sent from schools to parents, it’s all over the news. But, if for some reason, you still don’t know what’s going on, here’s a quick breakdown of what this sick, fucked up game is all about: 

The Blue Whale challenge is a 50-day course over which you are strictly monitored by a curator and are asked to do tasks that range from watching horror movies at an ungodly hour to physically hurting yourself. On the fiftieth day, to win you must take your own life. There’s no way out once you’ve started to play, because the curator will hold personal information against you, as well as the safety of your loved ones. 

Here’s the fucking irony people, it’s mental health month.

When I first heard about this challenge, I felt sick and disgusted and panicked because I have two younger brothers who are both extremely gullible and easily frightened, and they get super defensive when I ask to check their phones. I, myself, suffered from severe depression, I too, had suicidal thoughts and admittedly, I still have faint scars on my arms from nights that I could have spent talking to someone instead. 

So trust me when I say I get it. 

It’s not easy to admit that something’s wrong and you’re not okay. Believe me, I know. No one likes being vulnerable and controlled, even more so admitting it. But here’s the thing, every single day of my life, I’m thankful that my younger self chickened out at the last minute with all the reckless shit she tried to do, I am so, so, grateful that my friends watched over me and made sure I didn’t do anything out of impulse. I’m glad I was a coward, because if I’d gone through with it, I wouldn’t be here, typing this right now. 

Mental health, therefore, is my longest driving passion and holds an indescribable and unfathomable amount of importance to me. During the process of recovery, I made a promise to myself to make sure no one around me ever felt the way I did, because it’s horrible and drains you out excruciatingly slow until you’re convinced you have nothing to live for. 

So this is my message to anyone considering taking part in the challenge:

YOU MATTER.

I might get a little in depth here, but your presence matters. I’m not going to spout cliche quotes at you, I’m sure you’ve heard them before. Here’s what I am going to say: 

YOU ARE HERE FOR A REASON. 

Your existence is important, because you are a beautifully unique human being with thoughts, emotions, ideas and ramblings, and it’s understandable when you crash and burn, because you have a limit. And that’s okay sweetheart, feel your emotions, don’t repress them. Talk about it. The more you talk about it, the less of a deadly secret it becomes, and the weaker its influence. 

YOU ARE VALID. 

Your emotions are valid. Whatever you feel, it’s not an exaggeration or something that should be passed off as unimportant, it does matter, and it’s honestly fucking shitty that it’s impacting you and deterring you from your right to be happy. You do not have to submit to it. Believe me, there is a life beyond that cruel voice in your head, and it is a beautiful, beautiful life. 

YOU ARE WORTH SO MUCH MORE. 

While I was depressed, I convinced myself that it was my fault that my family was falling apart. I blamed myself for the abuse I went through, because “maybe if I wasn’t so pathetic she’d stop doing this to me” and “all I ever do is attract bad people, I don’t have anything left to live for.” I lost my temper at the ones I loved because I just wanted to be left alone with my sadness, I didn’t want to be helped. I looked for every way possible to punish myself for existing, because I believed I was not worthy. 

And that’s exactly what these sick bastards are trying to do to you. They are going to serve as a catalyst for the ending no one deserves, and I’ll be damned if I don’t at least try, in my own way, to act as a shield that’ll block them out. 

When you feel like there’s nothing left to live for, and you’ve exhausted all of your chances, remember that I believe in you, and I don’t know you, so my view is not biased. I’m waiting for you to succeed and live up to your full potential, and I am excited for you to fight through this and live the happy life you deserve. Whenever you feel down, I want you to close your eyes, take a deep breath and calm your mind. Turn it off. Think about puppies, turtles, Skittles, kittens...whatever distracts you. Get to a medium of peace. 

Then, imagine the life you want to live. And I want you to act as if it’s virtual reality with all of the 4D senses. Smell the bakeries in Paris as you sit with your cute little notebook. Hear the laughter of your friends, who love you and support you, as you ride a rollercoaster together. See the greenery around you as you sit in a park with your pet, your phone in your lap as you take in your environment and indulge in some zen time. Taste your wedding cake, or the next pizza you’ll be binge eating with your significant other as you argue over what T.V show to watch. Feel and truly with all of your heart, the excitement of achieving something you’ve been striving for, and the accomplishment and pride that follows. 

TL;DR: GIVE YOURSELF THE LIFE THAT THEY ARE TRYING TO TAKE AWAY FROM YOU. 

YOU GOT THIS, BUDDY. 

YOU. GOT. THIS. 

[kohimiruku]

Kizuna: Genji Shimada X Reader

Soulmate AU where soulmates can feel each others’ pain.

Reader is female

TW (TRIGGER WARNING): Blood, slight gore, swearing

Ever since as a child, you felt the pain.

It started with some short, quick jabs to your sides and arms. Your parents would say that your soulmate is a fighter (that’s a good thing or a bad thing is up to you). It felt like the usual discipline from your parents but even that couldn’t yield to the pain your soulmate is receiving.

When you were learning at high school, the pain only grew so much worse.

It was utter torture. It was like your soulmate was trying to make your life a living hell. At some hours of the day you felt nothing, but at night, it was indescribable. Some points you even felt pain inside you, which utterly humiliated you.

So when you got back from school, kicking your shoes off, you ran at the wall next to you repeatedly.

“This is-” You panted, taking a step back. “what you-” a grunt came out as you hit the wall. “get-” you were already seeing stars. “for. Messing. With. My life. You-” and as you collided with the wall for the umpteenth time, you collapsed.

“You fuck boy.”

A broken wall and bruises that you regretted later, you were sure your soulmate got your warning.

And you were right about your warning.

During your college years, you felt minimal pain. Well, besides some of the not safe for work pain. But nonetheless, it seemed your soulmate had gotten the message.

Still, you wondered: why was your soulmate a fuckboy? How did they develop this lifestyle? Did they not care about the soulmate system, better yet, their soulmate? It was a low-blow to your self-esteem. Still, even if they lived that kind of lifestyle, you wanted to know more about them. Sure, the topic of them having too many sexual partners will be awkward, but still... You wanted to know why they’re like this.

“Yo, (Name)! Get your head in the game!” Mariah told you.

You brought your senses back to the volleyball match. Your school had the first two sets while the opposing team had one. It was your turn to serve.

As you spun the ball between your hands, words of encouragement were voiced by your teammates. Tossing the ball into the air, you ran forward and jumped, retracting your dominant arm to spike.

Nobody warned you about the indescribable pain that seared throughout your entire body.

You dropped down on the floor, your wails reaching out across the gymnasium. The press, the crowd, and your teammates’ worried cries faded out of existence.

You woke up in a hospital bed. The generic white blinding you instantly.

Hearing the heartbeat monitor, you sat upright, groaning at the pain.

Wait.

You felt no pain.

You breathed in and out patting your body for anything wrong until a hand stopped you. Your eyes landed on your coach, who’s eyes were glossy.

“Easy there, champ. I’m here.” She comforted you, hand placed at your back. Letting out some last breaths, you had to ask the million dollar question,

“What happened at the match?”

She smiled sheepishly. “We won despite what happened. The girls were all worried about you.” You sighed at that.

“But-” She said, voice stern. “when you were about to spike, your soulmate somehow got into some deep territory and...” She trailed off, taking a handheld mirror from the bedside table. “In the price of that...”

You gasped in horror. The once (color) hair that you had was a pure white.

“Wh-what...?”

“Marie-Antoinette Syndrome, the doctor called it. Said that when a person was subjected to too much stress, this happens.” She gestured to your hair.

You set the mirror down, still having the trouble to believe all of this. “Then how come I...”

“Can’t feel pain? They said it was a side-effect. Something about the nervous system or something.”

And just like your self-esteem, your heart shattered into a million pieces.

You no longer felt pain. How could you sense your soulmate?

After a few, hard years, you’ve finally convinced yourself that you don’t need a soulmate.

Your teammates were disheartened by the fact that you were quitting volleyball. You said it wasn’t a problem (it wasn’t a problem when they won Olympic gold for it without you. Nope. Not one bit). Volleyball just didn’t have the rush you felt before the incident.

And the doctor was right; you literally can’t feel pain. No matter how much you slammed your body against the wall, you felt nothing. The bruises that you’ve gotten were just ink ready to be washed out.

And then there’s the problem with your hair. The color just made passersby think that you’re an old woman using nanotech to make yourself look young. The assumptions hurt, but what can you do? It was whatever that your soulmate did, or whatever did to your soulmate was the cause of your misfortune.

Right now, you didn’t care when the mugger bunched your collar in his fist. You’ve earned a cut on your upper lip and your left temple; both bleeding profusely. Not like they mattered anyway. You didn’t even realized they were there in the first place.

“This chick ain’t worth jack, bro. Let’s just get out of here.” His companion, interluded, tapping the one choking you.

“The only ones truly worthless are you two,” You croaked out. “picking on a helpless woman out in the street. What do you gain from this besides a slight hint of guilt?”

He choked on his breath, drawing his free arm back. “You bitch...!”

You didn’t even close your eyes. It’s not like it would matter anyway and that was the cold, hard truth.

“What do you gain from this, I wonder?” A metallic, male voice rang out. Before you could look, the sound of metal ringing and soon your captor was lying lifeless on the ground in his own blood. What appeared to be ninja stars were lodged inside his throat.

“Oh shit-” The other one didn’t respond as fast. Flashes of green and more metal ringing was all that it took for him to fall lifelessly down on the pavement.

The man... Omnic... that saved you sheathed a small sword behind him. He was decked in armor, though it didn’t cover the brown-ish spots you were seeing. Green lights were on his chest, shoulders, and his helmet. Another, much longer sword was strapped to his back as a tattered, dark cloth was lazily thrown on his shoulder. Suddenly, three small tubes on each of his shoulder pads popped up and released steam.

“Are you... one of Efi’s?” You said before you could think it over.

He turned to you, the green of his visor shined the dim alleyway. “If you are referring to the child-genius... no. I am not.”

“Ah...” You breathed out. “Well, thank you, ninja. Have a nice night.”

Before you could leave, the ninja called out to you. “Wait! Oba-san-I mean-ma’am, it isn’t safe for you to go out alone. Let me at least accompany you.”

Your eyebrows twitched. You turned to the ninja, pupils dilated and nose flaring. “I’m 30, you jackass.” You barked, the ninja flinching at your response. “I’m like this ‘cause of my soulmate being fucked over or some shit.” Your expression relaxed as you looked down. “Haven’t gotten my life straight ever since.” You muttered the last one under your breath.

You didn’t even hear his footfalls as he stood close to you, a metal hand being placed on your shoulder. “I’m deeply sorry. For what I said and about your soulmate.”

You gently removed his hand but made no move to release it. “Don’t be, ninja boy. Whatever fucked up my soulmate... I hope they recover.”

He also made no move to remove his hand, instead staring (or at least you thought) through his helmet. “It’s Genji.”

“Pardon?”

“My name. It’s Genji.” He finished, taking to your side. “Now, where is your home?”

“It’s not the fanciest of places, but it’s still home.” You said wistfully, removing your coat and placing it on the coat rack. Genji, as a guest, only walked where you walked, ever being a well-mannered person.

“It’s simple. It looks lovely, (Name).” He spoke next to you as you searched your kitchen cabinets for a medical kit.

You closed the bottom cabinets. “Go lean against that counter, I’ll just be here.”

You didn’t hear his footsteps but you hoped he complied. Once seeing the kit, you stretched as tall as you could, your fingers grazing the box.

“I can help with-”

“No no. I got this.” You mustered out. Just when you finally got it, gravity was a bitch to you as the kit landed on your head.

The sound of Genji wincing in pain was the only thing audible to your ears. You obviously didn’t felt it but the fact that Genji sounded he was in pain only made your insides lurch.

“(Name)...” Genji trailed off. Forgetting the kit, you walked towards Genji, said ninja backing off until the small of his back hit the counter behind him.

“What...” You sighed, breath fanning on his mask. “happened to you, Genji?”

A matter of minutes past. The both of you never uttered a single word. You waited with bated breath, eager to know how Genji became this.

Finally, he sighed, which sounded weird from his mechanical voice. “As long as you tell me what happened to you.”

And thus started the long, detailed explanation of his past: he was a fuck boy as you knew it. He belonged to a yakuza group in Japan by the Shimada name. His older brother and he used to be close, real close. Then some shitty stuff happened and his own brother tried to murder him for the clan. At least that’s what you understood.

“(Name), by no means did I meant for that to happen. If only I knew about you sooner, I wouldn’t have crossed swords with my-”

“Shut-” You cut him off, placing a finger on where his mouth should be. “-your mouth and let me tell my side. It wasn’t pretty, you know. I’ve endured all the pain you went through, even the times when we were teenagers.”

His shoulders steamed stronger this time.

“And to your information, I was in an important volleyball match where my team could make or break to the Nationals but nope!” You backed off, dramatically raising your arms in the air. “Somebody had to go and get themselves killed, leaving me in a coma for I don’t know how long, and leaving me with this hair and the loss of feeling pain!”

Your voice started out strong, but now it was already strained and cracked. Tears started rolling down your cheeks as you wrapped your arms around yourself. “I’ve lost everything, even my motivation to continue anything.”

Another wave of silence washed through the both of you. Genji raised his hand, but decided against it.

“(Name)...” He started. “I truly am sorry for what happened to you. If I could go back and fix everything, I would but-” He stopped, looking elsewhere but you. “-it seems you no longer desire my presence. I... will take my leave.”

And just like that, he made his way to the front door. He didn’t even spare you a second glance.

You stretched out your arm to grab his. “Wait.”

He turned back to you but he didn’t respond verbally.

“I... still need time to get over what you did. In the meantime though... I could help with what burden you’re carrying.” You said finally.

Genji finally turned his whole body to face you, his hand slowly sliding off but you grabbed it. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Yeah, well you’re stuck with me for the rest of our stupid lives.” You replied back, smirking slightly. “Besides, having a cyborg ninja as a soulmate sounds pretty awesome.”

His free hand latched onto yours and his joined ones. “Then we have much to discuss, (Name).”

[readbookywooks]

The Sensualists

GRIGORY and Smerdyakov ran into the room after Dmitri. They had been struggling with him in the passage, refusing to admit him, acting on instructions given them by Fyodor Pavlovitch some days before. Taking advantage of the fact that Dmitri stopped a moment on entering the room to look about him, Grigory ran round the table, closed the double doors on the opposite side of the room leading to the inner apartments, and stood before the closed doors, stretching wide his arms, prepared to defend the entrance, so to speak, with the last drop of his blood. Seeing this, Dmitri uttered a scream rather than a shout and rushed at Grigory. "Then she's there! She's hidden there! Out of the way, scoundrel!" He tried to pull Grigory away, but the old servant pushed him back. Beside himself with fury, Dmitri struck out, and hit Grigory with all his might. The old man fell like a log, and Dmitri, leaping over him, broke in the door. Smerdyakov remained pale and trembling at the other end of the room, huddling close to Fyodor Pavlovitch. "She's here!" shouted Dmitri. "I saw her turn towards the house just now, but I couldn't catch her. Where is she? Where is she?" That shout, "She's here!" produced an indescribable effect on Fyodor Pavlovitch. All his terror left him. "Hold him! Hold him!" he cried, and dashed after Dmitri. Meanwhile Grigory had got up from the floor, but still seemed stunned. Ivan and Alyosha ran after their father. In the third room something was heard to fall on the floor with a ringing crash: it was a large glass vase -not an expensive one - on a marble pedestal which Dmitri had upset as he ran past it. "At him!" shouted the old man. "Help!" Ivan and Alyosha caught the old man and were forcibly bringing him back. "Why do you run after him? He'll murder you outright," Ivan cried wrathfully at his father. "Ivan! Alyosha! She must be here. Grushenka's here. He said he saw her himself, running." He was choking. He was not expecting Grushenka at the time, and the sudden news that she was here made him beside himself. He was trembling all over. He seemed frantic. "But you've seen for yourself that she hasn't come," cried Ivan. "But she may have come by that other entrance." "You know that entrance is locked, and you have the key." Dmitri suddenly reappeared in the drawing-room. He had, of course, found the other entrance locked, and the key actually was in Fyodor Pavlovitch's pocket. The windows of all rooms were also closed, so Grushenka could not have come in anywhere nor have run out anywhere. "Hold him!" shrieked Fyodor Pavlovitch, as soon as he saw him again. "He's been stealing money in my bedroom." And tearing himself from Ivan he rushed again at Dmitri. But Dmitri threw up both hands and suddenly clutched the old man by the two tufts of hair that remained on his temples, tugged at them, and flung him with a crash on the floor. He kicked him two or three times with his heel in the face. The old man moaned shrilly. Ivan, though not so strong as Dmitri, threw his arms round him, and with all his might pulled him away. Alyosha helped him with his slender strength, holding Dmitri in front. "Madman! You've killed him!" cried Ivan. "Serve him right!" shouted Dmitri breathlessly. "If I haven't killed him, I'll come again and kill him. You can't protect him!" "Dmitri! Go away at once!" cried Alyosha commandingly. "Alexey! You tell me. It's only you I can believe; was she here just now, or not? I saw her myself creeping this way by the fence from the lane. I shouted, she ran away." "I swear she's not been here, and no one expected her." "But I saw her.... So she must... I'll find out at once where she is.... Good-bye, Alexey! Not a word to Aesop about the money now. But go to Katerina Ivanovna at once and be sure to say, 'He sends his compliments to you!' Compliments, his compliments! just compliments and farewell! Describe the scene to her." Meanwhile Ivan and Grigory had raised the old man and seated him in an arm-chair. His face was covered with blood, but he was conscious and listened greedily to Dmitri's cries. He was still fancying that Grushenka really was somewhere in the house. Dmitri looked at him with hatred as he went out. "I don't repent shedding your blood!" he cried. "Beware, old man, beware of your dream, for I have my dream, too. I curse you, and disown you altogether." He ran out of the room. "She's here. She must be here. Smerdyakov! Smerdyakov!" the old man wheezed, scarcely audibly, beckoning to him with his finger. "No, she's not here, you old lunatic!" Ivan shouted at him angrily. "Here, he's fainting? Water! A towel! Make haste, Smerdyakov!" Smerdyakov ran for water. At last they got the old man undressed, and put him to bed. They wrapped a wet towel round his head. Exhausted by the brandy, by his violent emotion, and the blows he had received, he shut his eyes and fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. Ivan and Alyosha went back to the drawing-room. Smerdyakov removed the fragments of the broken vase, while Grigory stood by the table looking gloomily at the floor. "Shouldn't you put a wet bandage on your head and go to bed, too?" Alyosha said to him. "We'll look after him. My brother gave you a terrible blow - on the head." "He's insulted me!" Grigory articulated gloomily and distinctly. "He's 'insulted' his father, not only you," observed Ivan with a forced smile. "I used to wash him in his tub. He's insulted me," repeated Grigory. "Damn it all, if I hadn't pulled him away perhaps he'd have murdered him. It wouldn't take much to do for Aesop, would it?" whispered Ivan to Alyosha. "God forbid!" cried Alyosha. "Why should He forbid?" Ivan went on in the same whisper, with a malignant grimace. "One reptile will devour the other. And serve them both right, too." Alyosha shuddered. "Of course I won't let him be murdered as I didn't just now. Stay here, Alyosha, I'll go for a turn in the yard. My head's begun to ache." Alyosha went to his father's bedroom and sat by his bedside behind the screen for about an hour. The old man suddenly opened his eyes and gazed for a long while at Alyosha, evidently remembering and meditating. All at once his face betrayed extraordinary excitement. "Alyosha," he whispered apprehensively, "where's Ivan?" "In the yard. He's got a headache. He's on the watch." "Give me that looking-glass. It stands over there. Give it me." Alyosha gave him a little round folding looking-glass which stood on the chest of drawers. The old man looked at himself in it; his nose was considerably swollen, and on the left side of his forehead there was a rather large crimson bruise. "What does Ivan say? Alyosha, my dear, my only son, I'm afraid of Ivan. I'm more afraid of Ivan than the other. You're the only one I'm not afraid of...." "Don't be afraid of Ivan either. He is angry, but he'll defend you." "Alyosha, and what of the other? He's run to Grushenka. My angel, tell me the truth, was she here just now or not?" "No one has seen her. It was a mistake. She has not been here." "You know Mitya wants to marry her, to marry her." "She won't marry him." "She won't. She won't. She won't. She won't on any account!" The old man fairly fluttered with joy, as though nothing more comforting could have been said to him. In his delight he seized Alyosha's hand and pressed it warmly to his heart. Tears positively glittered in his eyes. "That image of the Mother of God of which I was telling you just now," he said. "Take it home and keep it for yourself. And I'll let you go back to the monastery.... I was joking this morning, don't be angry with me. My head aches, Alyosha.... Alyosha, comfort my heart. Be an angel and tell me the truth!" "You're still asking whether she has been here or not?" Alyosha said sorrowfully. "No, no, no. I believe you. I'll tell you what it is: you go to Grushenka yourself, or see her somehow; make haste and ask her; see for yourself, which she means to choose, him or me. Eh? What? Can you?" "If I see her I'll ask her," Alyosha muttered, embarrassed. "No, she won't tell you," the old man interrupted, "she's a rogue. She'll begin kissing you and say that it's you she wants. She's a deceitful, shameless hussy. You mustn't go to her, you mustn't!" "No father, and it wouldn't be suitable, it wouldn't be right at all." "Where was he sending you just now? He shouted 'Go' as he ran away." "For money? To ask her for money?" "No. Not for money." "He's no money; not a farthing. I'll settle down for the night, and think things over, and you can go. Perhaps you'll meet her.... Only be sure to come to me to-morrow in the morning. Be sure to. I have a word to say to you to-morrow. Will you come?" "When you come, pretend you've come of your own accord to ask after me. Don't tell anyone I told you to. Don't say a word to Ivan." "Very well." "Good-bye, my angel. You stood up for me, just now. I shall never forget it. I've a word to say to you to-morrow - but I must think about it." "And how do you feel now?" "I shall get up to-morrow and go out, perfectly well, perfectly well!" Crossing the yard Alyosha found Ivan sitting on the bench at the gateway. He was sitting writing something in pencil in his notebook. Alyosha told Ivan that their father had waked up, was conscious, and had let him go back to sleep at the monastery. "Alyosha, I should be very glad to meet you to-morrow morning," said Ivan cordially, standing up. His cordiality was a complete surprise to Alyosha. "I shall be at the Hohlakovs' to-morrow," answered Alyosha, "I may be at Katerina Ivanovna's, too, if I don't find her now." "But you're going to her now, anyway? For that 'compliments and farewell,'" said Ivan smiling. Alyosha was disconcerted. "I think I quite understand his exclamations just now, and part of what went before. Dmitri has asked you to go to her and say that he- well, in fact - takes his leave of her?" "Brother, how will all this horror end between father and Dmitri?" exclaimed Alyosha. "One can't tell for certain. Perhaps in nothing: it may all fizzle out. That woman is a beast. In any case we must keep the old man indoors and not let Dmitri in the house." "Brother, let me ask one thing more: has any man a right to look at other men and decide which is worthy to live?" "Why bring in the question of worth? The matter is most often decided in men's hearts on other grounds much more natural. And as for rights - who has not the right to wish?" "Not for another man's death?" "What even if for another man's death? Why lie to oneself since all men live so and perhaps cannot help living so. Are you referring to what I said just now - that one reptile will devour the other? In that case let me ask you, do you think me like Dmitri capable of shedding Aesop's blood, murdering him, eh?" "What are you saying, Ivan? Such an idea never crossed my mind. I don't think Dmitri is capable of it, either." "Thanks, if only for that," smiled Ivan. "Be sure, I should always defend him. But in my wishes I reserve myself full latitude in this case. Good-bye till to-morrow. Don't condemn me, and don't look on me as a villain," he added with a smile. They shook hands warmly as they had never done before. Alyosha felt that his brother had taken the first step towards him, and that he had certainly done this with some definite motive.