#☆cloistered from the fallen world: ic☆

[latibulater]

YOUNG 20S TRIANA x SIRENA drabble

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Triana ducked out of the party smiling. It was still snowing outside, and she stuck her tongue out to catch a few icy flakes. She left the sounds and warmth of her father's New York home behind her as she began to walk around the block. It was nice to be back in town and seeing her family and friends. The Venture twins hadn't been able to make it tonight, citing "living goo" as their reason, but it was for the best. Their opposing temperaments made tornadoes of social scenes, and for Jefferson's 60th birthday that would have majorly sucked. As much as her dad and step-father liked the two young men, Triana knew they were delighted with how smoothly the evening went.

"Woah!"

She slipped on the ice. Her feet skittered under her and her arms pinwheeled through the air. Snapping her fingers, Triana floated upright before settling on two flat feet. After brushing herself off, she noticed the bright light. Down the side street on her left, was a glowing white sign of a lightning bolt over a microphone. No letters or numbers. The crunch of snow no longer filling her ears, the sound of EDM filtered down the alley and drew her in. As Triana got closer, the shadows pulled back and revealed about a dozen people on the stoop, standing and smoking under the slowly falling snow. Most of them wore dark colors and flashy jewelry accompanied by heavy makeup and styled-hair. It was exactly her kind of crowd.

Triana slipped by the small cloisters and showed her necromancing license at the door. It wasn't a driver's license, but it was state-certified and listed her birthdate. The bouncer opened the door for her without issue. Inside was another world. The heat shocked her skin and made her shiver. If she had just exited a winter wonderland, this was a dancer's dream. As she entered there was a sign informing of three dance floors above the ground floor bar, each with a different DJ. The stomping from upstairs reverberated down the walls to the foundation and shook up through her shoes. She grinned widely enough it threatened to split the healing cut over her lip. Just a souvenir from her last dust-up.

She quickly made her way up, taking in each floor's different music style. It was all similar enough that Triana was going to get a drink and then figure it out, but spotted a strange flutter. Heart stopping in her throat, she looked closer with a mumbled spell. A woman with gills on her neck and a cocktail dress of a thousand shimmering sequins danced near the center of the floor. The necromancer's dark eyes followed the line of the white dress up to the lady's collarbone and around the curve of her full-toothed, energetic smile. Triana swept through the crowd, the grinding couples shuffling over a step to clear a path. She blinked, and the spell expired. Triana gasped as she lost sight of the be-gilled woman.

Without a beacon, she lost momentum, and with that, Triana was canned in by the crowd. She kept moving forward but was spun out to the ebbs of the beat. Pushed to the wall, Triana wiped the sweat off her brow. That sucked. Maybe it was time to get that drink now. She turned around to the stairwell and came nose-to-nose with reflective eyes. They sparkled a new color as the strobe lights flashed. Triana lost her composure, staring into the oddly shaped pupils framed by thick, fake eyelashes.

"On the hunt?"

The heavy Brooklyn accent woke up the working part of her brain, breaking the spell she had fallen under so suddenly. Triana inched closer and looked down. She met those hypnotic, strange eyes. "I was," she answered. "Want to help?" The gills on the lady's neck fluttered again as she bit her painted lower lip, showing off her pearly sharps.

"What's the catch of the day?"

This close, Triana could see the outline of powdered scales over bare, brown shoulders. "Fish?" She asked, hooking one finger around the marine-woman's shoulder strap. With a delicate pull, Triana walked backward till her own head bumped the wall, letting herself be crowded in. The lady laughed deep in her chest, and it hummed between them.

"No," she said, drawing Triana in for a kiss. "Shark."

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The Halloween Moon

In “The Halloween Moon,” Welcome to Nightvale co-creator Joseph Fink brings his superb, unmatchable gift for balancing the weird and the real to a spooky middle-grades novel that echoes such classics as Neil Gaiman’s Coraline.

https://www.harpercollins.com/products/the-halloween-moon-joseph-fink

If you’re a stranger to Fink’s work, the thing you need to know is that Nightvale and his other projects manage to walk the tightrope between weird, creepypasta-style humor and real pathos, in a gloriously disorienting, reeling storytelling style.

https://memex.craphound.com/2015/10/20/the-welcome-to-night-vale-novel-dances-a-tightrope-between-weird-humor-and-real-pathos/

The Halloween Moon tells the sale of Esther Gold, a 13 year old who loves Halloween more than anything, and organizes her whole year around it. But this year, her parents have decreed that she is too old for trick-or-treating, a transition she is absolutely unwilling to make.

Rather than heed her parents, Esther hatches a plan to drag her reluctant, Halloween-hating best friend, Augustin, out on a rule-breaking trick-or-treat, engineering a ruse to fool all the adults in their life.

But something is wrong, this Halloween night. As the full moon rises and Esther and Augustin begin their rounds of the best trick-or-treat houses, they notice a distinct absence of kids, and no one is opening their doors.

The world, it seems, has fallen asleep, and the familiar landscapes of their neighborhood now stretch and warp in nightmarish ways. Everywhere they go, they find slumbering kids and adults.

But not all the world is asleep. There’s the two creepy gents — brothers? — who pilot a pair of shambling, converted ice-cream trucks: one filled with razor-studded apples, the other with pumpkins that explode into walls of flames.

And then there are the mysterious children (?) in rotting costumes, who make eerie, insectile clicking noises in place of speech.

There’s Mr Gabler, the dentist-neighbor who earned Esther’s undying mistrust by dispensing toothbrushes instead of candy at Halloween.

For a dentist, Mr Gabler’s pretty combat-ready, performing extraordinary feats of home defense as they run from the monsters that stalk the night, periodically quipping, “I wasn’t always a dentist.”

Finally, there’s Sasha, a cloistered girl with an overprotective mother who is also Esther’s tormentor, bullying her with antisemitic tropes that she barely understands, even as Sasha herself is subjected to racist bullying by other kids.

This is the setup for a wild chase through the endless Hallowe’en night, a night that has been claimed by the haughty Queen of Halloween, who has managed to pinch off a bubble of our world to turn into her eternal domain.

Our heroes must traverse dreamlands, do battle with monsters, confront their loved ones in their own slumbering fantasies and try to awaken them to reality, and confront their own failures and tensions in a fast-moving, surreal-but-consequential adventure.

If you love Nightvale (and you should), you know that dream-logic can be haunting, and sweet, and full of tension and meaning, despite its fuzzy edges and changing rules.

Fink’s middle-grades debut brings that same weird and glorious spookiness to a new kind of audience and a new kind of narrative — short, self-contained, punchy and very, very satisfying. It is certified, grade-A monster kid stuff.

[the-fae-folk]

Story Masterpost

Hey! This took a while to make. But here, as promised, is my story masterpost. I’ve organized some things so you can find them easier, though I’ll admit that “Beauty, Secrets, and Magic” is just the stuff I couldn’t really sort into a smaller category. Of the Fae Unaware Directions Come Running Water Distant Wars Wishes of the Sea In Order To See You Must... An Offer Those who say... Respect is Due An Exchange Cage Come to Us Ancient Wars The Age of Iron What are you? Immortal Hidden Among You First Music The Distant Days Count them with Letters Flower Wars Eyes? The Lost Ones We Fade Believing in Death Prices to pay Dance with the whole World Dreaming Lure *Click* Giants Asleep Fears of Darkness Bigger Problems Listen to the Giants Sweet Faerie Wine The Largest and Tiniest Decay and Dreaming Eyes and Earth Walking Mountains Battle Standard Gnaall Fictitious Dichotomy Faltering Heartbeats Among You Pixie Wings Unable to Perish Bridge trolls What is Fairy Ring? Terrible Wars Beautiful Dreams Kisses in the Night The Will of Trees Make no Mistake Have you Eaten? Beauty and Fashion Can you Calculate the Mind of the Fae The First Skies Do Fae Children Age at the Same Rate? A Dark Memory Black Dwarfs and Dark Futures The Conversation Vows of Love Ship of the Skies Reaching Hands The Little Folk The Prophet of Silvamune Damhán Alla Feasting Lost in the Deep Woods A way out? Faerie Dance Thrice Said is True Fools rush in The Deep Woods Welcome to the Deep Woods Places We Know Silence No Journey Will-o-the-Wisp Where are the Deep Woods? A Dreaming Memory Running Who Knows the Path? Unknown Footsteps Who Speaks? Go Home Whispers in the Mist Mossy Glades Old Gate An Echo of Footsteps Follow Me Tragic Ending The Way Forward is Still Barred Don’t Follow the Wisps Postern Never Know Waterfall When you Go Out Gold-Eyed Beast The Nightmare Step Lightly Bones Alone Golden Eyed Beast In Hiding Forget what comes Something Powerful Standstill Death Beware the Beast The Encounter Companion in the Cold Slumbering The Hunt Begins Again Well of Dreaming Light Screams in the Night Where is the Gold-Eyed Beast? Fear Something has Changed …3 …2 …1 The Crown of Shadow 7 Broken Mirrors Seven Seven Shattered Mirrors Places of Faerie A Faraway Place You The Places Between Distant Wars Buried beneath the Sand Wandering Blind The Lake A Flowered Ocean Exist? Or Not? Life’s Flow Door without a way Time Never Passes Here Only the Stories Remain Cracking Ice Fractal Prison Enough? All that remains is Dust Devastation of Dark Fire More of the Flowered Ocean Cliffs of Illithia and the Naiuruin Forests Beware the Wisps Stardew Deep Furnace Lanterns Lanterns On the River’s Edge The White Hound Do the Fae have Animals? An Old Lantern Lost Letters The Lament Fragment Silent Screams The Wait Together A Near Forgotten Letter Letter from a Brownie Tell a Story Lured Away From the Sea and Shore Warnings Never Free Don’t Stop Eat Not The Rule of Names Defiance Pretend Not To See Swamp Water Trust Me Do not Take Do Not I Seek A Warning

8 Tales at the Hearth’s Edge The Hill A tale of Three Gifts She and He A Chance Meeting The War  (Coincidence?) The Girl and the Road Silver Charity A Tale of Autumn Strange Beings The One Who Grieves The Lady The Librarians Not Quite Human Dark Eyed Forge Fires Together the Light She danced upon the Earth Crows for Eyes Wings Aeon Circling A Laughing God Sssssss... Broken Tomb She danced in the Snow The Dragon in the Well What Became of Her... The Prisoner in the Dark She Knows Adventure A Firebird Imprisoned The Child Mine Spoken Before The Descent The Courts of Season The Autumn Days Great Sorrow In the darkest days of Winter The Winter Remains Awakening of Spring End of Summer Wine and Summertime Blustering Winds The Lord of Autumn The Winter Queen Frost The Autumn Court Winter Masque A Cold Truth The Winter Court Nearly Time The End of Winter The Lord of Springtime The Court of Spring Spring’s Song Lovers of Springtime Light after the Rain The Time you Need The Story of the One Who Grieves Nobody Answered ... It Comes Closer Before the Silver Blossoms A West Wind It is Time The End of Spring Other Courts A Courtly Vision A Constellation of Myth Court of Ashes Hosts of Myrkvatn Aiolion Tribes Court of Dawn Castle inside a Raindrop Order The Rivers of Athu The Sidhe The Valley of Ga’Maldor Empire of the Seven Blossoms Canyons of Mür ‘gra Crowns Long Ago Legends Key to Destiny The Second Key The Third Key Three KEYS? About the Cave Crown of Sunlight New Moon Summer’s End What do the Crowns look like? Court of Shadows Autumn to Winter Songs Seek Listen Unknown Follow A Dark Call Burning / Why is it burning? Forgotten Prisoner Chains Come to the Faeries Thorns and Dreaming I Dreamed I Walked Fernweh Stories Told Poetry Bluest Sky Blue Red Yellow Orange Loving Winter Fire and Bone Requiem of a Love Song Eye See You Green Sleep among the Bluebells Song of Stars Night Companion Dancing in the Forest Moon Waters Memory in Sepia Lilies Scream. Cry. Silence. Drifting Faerie Ring Count Them Carefully Fairy Ring Dance Other Tales The Pied Piper Apples for Eternity The Dam Is anyone there? Call to the Sea Warmth Midas Grove of Shadows Resting Place All Hallows Evening Tale The Great Tree Sister of Mine Wit and Words Bread and Circuses Forest and Sea in Sorrow Reflection of the Heart Part 1 The Boy, The Troll, and the Bridge Between Them. The Raven and the Stone Crow Houses and Homes Beauty, Secrets, and Magic Seed Rain Brings Life Such Dreams If Wishes The Ancient Magic Beginning or Ending? Dive Into Silent Unknowns Eternity Like Leaves Imagine you walk across the sand Power of the Moonlight Enchanted Trap Rage Confusion Gifts of Stone Longing for Other Selves Darkened Waves Hunt of the Owl Not You Forgotten. Fairy Tales Curse Ravens Come Look Sun Stars Autumn Reflections Drift Gold beneath Grey Union Incomparable Names Life’s Road Fire in the Heart A sort of Balance Beauty of a Rose Not what they seem Glamour Humanity’s Treasures Compliments Infinity Why must you reject happiness? A Sounding of Silence Winds of Change The Blessing of Indifference In Tears we Grow Beauty A Raindrop The Trouble With Masks Lunar Eclipse Fly Ahead Be Ready Ugliness and Beauty The Secret of Bridges Morning? Wasting Time Widdershins Equilibrium Snail at Home Is it enough? Seven Poisons A Nexus of Roads Silence with us In the Face of Silence Cycle of Burning A Sky full of Joy Cloistered Grove Choices Fly Butterfly Fly Blooming in Adversity Distant Endless Moors Sweet Berries A Dreaming Once Met Seas of Black Sky Heaven’s Peaks Together upon the Road Written in the Stars Stolen Wishes Anew Blooming to the Music Sing A New World Song of Stone Love is... Water to the Soul Eyes will Watch Sometimes its nice Explore Change in the Air Drowning in the Dark The Song Plays On Furnace of Creation A Gemstone Found Upon A Hill Have you? Sometimes the Tree Dies Hold my hand A Simple Magic Of Course New Fallen Snow Seedlings Sleeping Wheel Still Sleeping Snowdrops Enjoy the Spring Cloying Beauty Soft Silence Mystery of the Rose Just Be When We were Here Last Ship Swift River Broken Painful Awakenings The Story of a Butterfly Such Beauty Play On Strawberry Mother and Child Strange Places Beyond Black Suns The Shallow Sea A Foundation of Nothing Awake in the Darkness Endless Darkness Absolutus Infinitus Twilight to Dawn The Burning Light Ruins, Somewhere Quotes from the Writer Alpha Beta Gamma Delta Epsilon Zeta Eta Theta Iota Kappa Lambda Mu Nu Xi Omicron The Journey The Lonely Tree Consider the Stars First City Only the Future Left What makes a Monster? A Secret Place Not Far Off

[forallyourikemensengokuneeds]

Secret santa present

Title: Carving a Tradition

Fandom: IkeSen

Suitor: Masamune

To: @selenecrawford

From: @darkmindsthinktwistedthoughts

A/N: Happy Holidays my dear. I how you have a time as rewarding and joyful as this tale.

--

The hall was perfect. It had taken a lot of work and the enlistment of almost half of the castle staff to pull it off but the main audience hall of Oshu Castle was finally looking a lot like a modern-day Christmas.

It was hard to locate the items she had in mind but thankfully she was going out with a guy who’s name not only opened doors but the ability to acquire and procure the things she wanted. Small paper lanterns had taken the place of fairy lights. Intricately cut paper became fine decorations attached to folded paper garlands in festive shades and was hung around the room, draped over the original ornamentation of the building.

The Lord of the castle was cloistered away in the kitchens working on variations of the dishes she had described to him as a traditional feast. This was something he had most looked forward too during their discussions on the holiday so it was no surprise when he announced Oshu would have its own winter festival and he was preparing a feast for everyone.

There was one item that she had had her heart set on. The focal point of the celebration as far as she was concerned. A tree. It had been a request that she entrusted to her friend Sasuke. Being from the future as well, she felt if anyone could find a tree closest to the one she desired, it would be him. A 10-foot-high spruce that apparently had a complicated scientific name making it sound like it had more of an education than she did was the result. Swathes of thin fabric clung to the branches along with paper cranes and tiny fans. Yes, today was going to be the day that she could reveal her creation to her boyfriend. Just one last finishing touch…

“Hey Kitten you got a minute I need you to try this dish for me!”

Balanced on a chair attempting to attach a star to the top of the tree the Princess stopped in her actions after hearing Masa drawing closer in the hallway.

“Masa? I told you, you couldn’t come in till I said so!” She called out as she adjusted herself to get down.

“I know that and I’m not coming in I was just going to open the door a little and get you to try this food.” After saying this the large sliding door began to move. She rushed towards them imagining that they would somehow open completely if she didn’t, but before she could take more than a few steps disaster struck. 20 lbs of furry chaos flew past her as it rocketed through the small gap in the doors making its way towards the biggest and most fun looking thing in the room.

“NO!”

A loud creaking announced the inevitable ground-shaking crash as the 10-foot tree was knocked flat to the ground as if it had been hit by a truck. The paper ornaments scattered to the four corners, which only served to entertain the Tiger cub more as he then took it as a fun idea to begin chasing them as if they were falling leaves in the garden.

The Princess’s cry had Masa cursing under his breath as he broke his word and pushed the doors open as wide as he could with one hand the other resting on the hilt of his sword as if he was waiting for an attacker to present themselves. His eye roamed the room not really taking in any of the decorations until it settled on the impudent kit mauling at something that looked very much like the things Mc had been making in her room. Balls of string, paper origami shapes…

“Shogetsu you bad cat get back here now!” He chastised the cub but it was all too late. The branches of the once decorated tree were crushed and broken on one side. The decorations were all in different variations of broken, unravelled and chewed. It was a disaster.

Mc moved in slow motion as she made her way to the fallen symbol. Her hand trembled a little as she picked up one of the fabric ornaments she had made especially. It had two small figures on it and one large cat. The text “Our first Christmas” was embroidered on it. She didn’t know if she wanted to laugh, scream or cry.

“Hey… Mc? Mc? I have been calling you for the last few minutes and you haven’t said a thing.” Masa placed his hand on her shoulder attempting to get her to look at him and when she did, he thought his heart was going to stop. Her eyes were glazed over, unfocused with unshed tears. The emotions flickering like a candle in the darkness were moving rapidly unable to settle on any one single reaction. “Kitten?”

“I’m sorry Masa. I just wanted to show you what a real Christmas looked like and I failed.” Her voice was small and weak. It hadn’t been her fault and yet she was taking all the blame. It was so like her. Her kind heart was one of the things he loved about her. Loved and hated. She could have stood to be a little more selfish at times. He would have given her everything. He still would give her everything. Wrapping her in his arms he watched as the tiger left the room oblivious to the aftermath of turmoil it had created.

“Come on Mc it’s not the end of the world. We can get another tree.”

“No, we can’t.” Her voice was muffled in his chest but he could still hear the stifled pain in it.

“Why not?” He pulled back a little so he could see her. He didn’t really understand why this was so important but it clearly was otherwise she wouldn’t be so upset. And if it was important to her then it was important to him too.

“Masa it’s Christmas Eve. There is no way we can get a new tree here from the same place we found this one in one night. It’s impossible. I mean it took 3 days to get this one here.” She sounded defeated and not at all like the girl he knew. Her shoulders were rounded as she slumped with her mood.

“Hey now.” He took his hand and tilted her chin to look at him. “Are you forgetting who your boyfriend is? You want a tree I’ll get you a tree. There is no such thing as impossible.”

“But—”

“No but’s. You just wait, Kitten. I’ll fix this.”

-

It was around noon in the castle by the time the real buzz started to hit a fever pitch. Everyone had been invited by Masa to attend the party and so naturally all members of staff were dressed up in their finery. They still insisted on helping with serving for rest of the guests but there was no doubt that the idea of dressing up had put them all in a festive mood.

The one person who had been the most excited now looked to be the most miserable. Mc had sat in her room attempting to make new decorations for a tree that no longer existed and glancing over at her fabric bauble. The tragic look on her face didn’t change or shift no matter how much time had passed. This was bad. An unhappy Princess meant an unhappy Masa and that was no one’s idea of fun.

It was about the eighth time she had tried to fold some paper when she finally gave up and stopped forcing herself to try to march on. Masa had been kind and sweet as always in his support of her but this was something different and she was not sure how he would manage to keep his word this time.

*Knock, knock*

“Kitten? It’s me.”

“I’m not very good company right now Masa. I have to prepare for the party as well.” She tried to brush off his visit to gain some time to prepare herself. She needed time to correct her mood before she saw anyone.

“Don’t worry bout any of that all you need to do is turn up. But I really need you right now Mc. I have to get you to check things for me so I can tell if I did a good job or not?” He sounded like a pleading child. But he also said he needed her. It was those words that had her moving automatically to greet him. Suppressing a groan, she got up from the floor and tottered to the door. Masa was standing on the other side as lively as ever.

“What am I checking?”

“Come with me I’ll show you.”

They walked in silence to the scene of the crime. Mc’s heart lurched at the memory. She knew it sounded silly to be so emotional over a tree for one day of the year but there was so little here that felt like her modern-day roots that she had become a little emotional.

“Ok now. I don’t really know what it was supposed to look like but I think I did it.” He said as he paused by the doors.

“What did you do?”

“The impossible.” There was a twinkle in his eye that she loved.

“Masa….”

“Hey don’t look at me like Yoshi does I didn’t do anything bad. Just open the door if you don’t believe me.” Masa grumbled whilst encouraging her to slide the door.

Inside was the same room now tidy and free from tiger attack signs. The decorations that hadn’t been broken were all being used to decorate the tables and raised seating. But that wasn’t what caught her eye. In the centre of the room where there had once been a majestic spruce there now stood a tree carved into shape made out of ice.

Her eyes followed the surface of it the limbs were all separate levels but also had incredible looking carved decorations on its surface. It sparkled in the lamp lights making it look as though it was covered in glittering stars.

“Masa… y-you did this?”

“Of course.” He said proudly puffing out his chest a little whilst still nervously checking her reactions. “Do you like it, Kitten?”

She turned to him and immediately dragged him into a tight embrace.

“Like it? Masa I love it! I had no idea you could carve like that.” Mc pointed at the ice sculpture. Her face was beaming a pure and natural smile. He felt like he could breathe again for the first time.

“Sure, it was just like carving that root vegetable for Halloween.” He shrugged trying to play it cool and hoping she would ignore the heat growing on his cheeks as he had a sudden thought about just how adorable she was.

“Why did you?”

“For you Kitten. I know you wanted to make this the best Christmas ever for me but I also wanted to be able to do something for you too. I realise Shogetsu playing with the tree was unplanned but I’m still a little happy he did that because now I can say I helped too.” He admitted his own small shameful truth a little happy to have it off his chest.

“Masa… you always help me. I was just trying to do the bits I could do because you were doing so much in the kitchen.”

“Well now, aren’t we a pair?”

“Sure are.”

“Do you like the tree Kitten?”

“Yes. I think everyone should have one.”

“Ha-ha that’s great but I don’t think I have enough ice to make that dream come true for you this year.” His laughter reverberated in the room, filling it with the first round of joy it would see for the night.

“It is missing something though.” Taking the ornament from her sleeve she placed it next to the ice tree. “There. Now it’s perfect.”

“Agreed.” Masa kissed her brow looking at the fabric ornament feeling his chest grow a little warmer. She was always cute but there were times she was so cute he genuinely thought he was going to overdose on her sweetness. “Merry Christmas Mc.”

“Merry Christmas Masa.”

--

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Any more As Yet Unread or HRH?

Here is the next part of HRH, anon.  

Kudos to @claryclark, @smashing-teacups, and @notevenjokingfic for not letting me quit on this thing, and for helping me find a voice with it again.

;nsfw under the cut

Part I: The Crown Equerry | Part II: An Accidental Queen | Part III: Just Claire | Part IV: Foal | Part V: A Deal | Part VI: Vibrations|Part VII: Magnolias| Part VIII: Schoolmates | Part IX: A Queen’s Speech | Part X: Rare | Part XI: Watched | Part XII: A Day’s Anticipation | Part XIII: The Location | Part XV: Motorcycle | Part XV: Cabin | Part XVI: Market

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)Part XVII: Stables

Folded against the warmth of Fraser’s leather jacket with her legs on either side of his hips, it was easy for Claire to pretend.  That they were not going home (to the Queen’s summer residence), that they were just out for another ride. That the rest of the world just existed as transient wax figures, melting and insignificant.  That their world existed solely in the cabin and that it waited for them just around the bend (the bed, the kitchen, the spot for two in front of the fireplace, the shower with the slightly mildewed curtain, the soft planks of the small deck off the rear of the structure).

They were a couple meant not to be seen, not to be heard, but just to exist together as one.  Claire indulged the fantasy as she closed her eyes, felt his fingers wind through hers when her grip slackened around his waist.

“Ye alright?” he asked, grip pulsing as he slowed to let another vehicle pass on the narrow road.  She turned her hand so they were palm to palm.  She pressed the very tip of her index finger to the thin, throbbing skin of his wrist.

“Better than just fine,” she said, attempting to sound strong, reassured, confident (and failing in actually being any of those things).

He lifted her hand, kissed the place where a fortune teller’s thumbs would divine a destiny for her if she were the kind of woman to frequent such a place, and then carefully situated it over his stomach.  “No’ much further.”

She closed her eyes, drawing herself to Fraser’s back as tightly as possible.  The nearness of home was precisely what she feared most.

Claire’s first glimpse of the palace’s exterior alone was as effective as a bucket of ice water sluicing down her spine.  The sensation jarred her out of the two and a half days of their cabin tryst and back to reality.  She tucked herself further into the warmth of his jacket as they came around a bend and through a grove of trees, trying not to count their remaining minutes of anonymity.

The motorcycle ground to a stop, kicking up an opaque earth-flavored plume of beige dust around them.  It was like the world knew they needed obscurity just a few moments longer.

With her cheek against his back, Claire concentrated on the indistinct perimeter of gravel and unkempt clover (it had overtaken the grass in a whimsical, fairytale kind of way).  After a series of heartbeats, long enough that Jamie wondered if he had imagined the whole thing (the weekend – their trip to the market, a car ride, cooking side by side, excavating the shape of her body from beneath bedsheets), Claire moved.

He reached for her waist to steady her as she threw one leg over the motorcycle. His hand fit there just as it had over and over again that weekend.  The pleasure and warmth of the touch, though, made her heart flutter and then morph into the ghost it would be until she could see him again.

“Tomorrow?” she inquired hopefully, letting a finger catch a curl just above his collar as her eyes darted around the stables.  All it would take was the attention of some well-meaning employee who had become a weekend straggler for the plume of dust to settle, for things to change. She was fully aware of this fact when she touched him (hand hesitating only momentarily), but Fraser could sense the conflict in her.  It dwelled in the oaky bite of her amber eyes, between the arches of her well-manicured eyebrows, in the tremor in her fingers as she touched his nape.  To be caught would mean there was no need to skulk around with one another, to make plans under the cover of a dusky dinner time after everyone had left for the evening.  Being caught would be freedom itself.

But no one was there to catch them, to disrupt her pre-packaged life and his mundane post-war subsistence.

Claire’s other hand curled around Fraser’s shoulder. She longed to feel his heartbeat under her cheek as she slept, to wake to his hulking form over her as he kissed the delicate, almost-avian swoop of her neck.

‘Come find us,’ she thought somewhat ruefully, able to picture completely the face of someone on her staff seeing her like this. ‘See us.  Have the bravery to open your bloody mouth. Tell everyone the queen’s shagging the Crown Equerry.’

“Tomorrow we can ride,” she supplied.  “Find a quiet corner of the grounds.”

A pause to ready him for a confession.

“I want to be with you more than just in secret, but we…”

Fraser’s affirmative sound was low, gravely in his throat before he turned to excavate her handbag from the depths of the motorcycle’s saddle bag.  Suddenly having no choice but to acknowledge the impending loss bubbling a quiet brew in her belly, Claire tightened her grip on him.  

‘Stay, stay, stay with me,’ she yearned to plea.  ‘Just come up there with me.  To my room, those halls.  They can’t say ‘no’ to me.  They won’t say ‘no’ to me.  You aren’t ready, and I know that.  You never will be ready, the people of this country will never be ready, so let’s do it.  Now.  Why wait?’

“This weekend,” Fraser began as he pushed an errant curl from the center of her forehead, “has been sae perfect, Claire.”

“I…”  

Her voice trailed, fading into the narrow plume of exhaust that was slithering out of the motorcycle’s tailpipe.  Words felt just as toxic, and she choked not on tears, but the thought of that world back there that they had only just started to construct.  

Jamie could not look at her just then, could not face her.  His eyes did not dart around the perimeter as hers had, but instead they found a spot alongside the building where the clover was growing wild.  He fixed his eyes there as his hand fell away.

“This was the best weekend of my life,” she whispered as a bookend to make her feelings clear (they could not be any clearer). She bent to touch his stubbled cheek with her lips one final time.

He made a sound, low and indistinct (certain, reciprocal).

‘Again with that noise,’ she thought. It was a white-hot tone originating from somewhere ancient, surely not from him. (But he didn’t need to say anything at all.)

His vocal cords were paralyzed, useless appendages for a beat, until he croaked, “Me too.”

The sun had begun its descent, the bottom curve just barely tucked beneath the line of the horizon.  The weekend was at its end, the summer-bloated sun finally giving way to the chill of nightfall.

It was time to go (to return to a place she did not belong, never belonged, but she would somehow remake in time – remake it to create a space shaped for him, shaped for her), so she bade him farewell in the only way she knew how.  It was the only way that would stop her from clearing the lump in her throat and asking him to take her upstairs.  She kissed him (hard, firm, fully).  The shape of his mouth, the taste of it, the responsiveness of it from that first night that felt like an occurrence centuries old just then were all memories.  She knew it (that mouth, his breath, what it did to her, what it did to him), but she wanted the memory to be fresh.  A breathless, aching, swollen reminder of it to carry with her on the short walk back to her cage. So he urged his lips apart, though but he did not kiss her back (could not kiss her back). His lips had died a slow death as they crossed the city limits, the realization dawning in him that this right here (born in the stables, tended on horseback, blooming in the cabin) was sacrosanct, cloistered, and perfect.  

And it would change.

Finally, he confirmed their plans with only the barest, whispered “tomorrow.”

Like a gymnast fallen off her apparatus (the tight line of a balance beam to walk, the unforgiving plane of the vault that threatened her, the uneven bars with a backwards and blind approach), she attempted her maneuver again.

A kiss to draw from Fraser the shine of the man that had pressed her against the wall of a cabin shower just ninety minutes earlier.

The man who looked up at her under a torrent of water, and declared with a blind authoritativeness, “You’re mine. I’m yours.”

The man who made her whimper until she wept with need.  

The man who took the mundane parts of a world it was easy for her to forget even existed (the unity in a simple pre-work chore of making a bed scented like their lovemaking, in shopping with a squeaky trolly for produce and tinned fruits, in filling of the tank on a vehicle as she dabbed a fresh coat of lipstick in the rearview mirror with the preternatural tingle of anticipation that in short order he would suck it clean off her mouth) and made it a technicolor dreamworld.

This time, his lips animated and molded to hers.  

He kissed her back.  

Long and hard; searing, but in no way final.

It ceased to be an exchange between lovers and instead became self preservation.  

Breathless, Claire was the one to pull away, lips heavy and bright with a swelling rush of blood. (A good victory, they both concluded.)

“Tomorrow,” he parroted, his voice firmer.  

Claire wiped her mouth with her sleeve, the glistening evidence of his kiss melting into a secret known only to the exceptionally discrete fibers of her blouse.

“I love you, Fraser.”

His hand fell from her hip to the curve of her bottom.  He smiled, tilting his head.  “And I love you.”

And with that, he watched her walk. Her smart trousers were a little worse for wear (creased, dusty) and her hair whipped free in the light breeze as she unbound it from her scarf. Though she was heading back towards the mottled brick and arched entryways of the castle that she had often described as her cage, she looked lighter somehow.  Like it was not a burden, but instead a challenge.

“Claire,” he called, not bothering to examine his surroundings yet again for company.

For only a second, she peeked at him over her shoulder and ruffled her hair with a roving hand.  She smiled, waved, blew him a kiss.  

Okay.  A look.  It was all he needed.  Yes, okay.

He nodded and watched her turn again.

As she neared the palace, he realized for the first time that while he had her Friday night through Sunday evening, he would be well and truly alone on Sunday night.  It gave him a sudden, sinking appreciation for the things that she had said she would never be able to give him.  

A Sunday dinner, a quiet discussion in bed about what the week ahead would hold.

Doing dishes side by side (he was an egalitarian sort, afterall, being raised by a father who did not mind “women’s work” and was the brother of a woman fiercely invested in equal sharing of a household’s day-to-day maintenance).

The radio would be turned low to a station that did not quite come in.  

To the crackling song, they would hum or sing, sway in time to a familiar rhythm.

Early in the evening, he would make love to her with his hands revealing all the hills and valleys and quiet lochs of her, the sounds that he could elicit with a touch, a caress, a kiss, a lick.  

The news would come on the radio.  

They would listen half-heartedly, playing naked with a deck of cards so fresh that they snapped and cracked when shuffled.

He would tell her everything.

(That he loved her.  That he was damaged, and how he came to be that way.  That something about her made him not see the world through a pinhole for the first time in a very long time.  That he was so glad that he could tell the world about them, about her - a woman so insightful and funny without meaning to be that it stole his breath.)

He would tell her everything.  

And without him asking (he never would), she would take it from him, bear it for not more than a moment on her narrow shoulders, and then let it go for the both of them.

And then he would make the paintbrush of her hips move in arcs across their shared bed linens again.  To create a piece of abstract art that only they could know. He would take her at his leisure, sinking his fingertips into the modeling clay of her hips and arse and covering the softest parts of her with his mouth again and again, just as he had that first time.

When it was time for them to grow their family, he would measure her belly with his hands and lips.  Rub her feet after a long afternoon.  He would perhaps take a second job.  He would insist on being in the room when she went into labor, to hold her hand and brush the curls from her forehead, to catch her eye and promise that it would be okay.

She was almost to the door of the palace in her wretched, wrecked pants.

He blinked.  

A searing burn and then an ache: They would not have those things.

He did not begrudge her it.  (Her life. Her birthright.)  He could not because he had known the weight of her title the moment he saw her turn around in the stables that night. He knew that it was unfair to resent a status that she could neither dispose of easily or help. But the depth with which the realization struck him – fast, hot, like a poker.  

Clearing his throat, he drove away well before he could see her cross the threshold of her cage.

In bed that night, simultaneously too hot and too cold (sweating, shivering), he tried to ignore the things that took him over.

The hollowness in his chest.

Their first night together when Claire mumbled in her sleep and fussed with the covers, a sheet slipping free from her form to expose the soft peak of a breast.  

The ridiculous amount of butter and jam she smeared on her toast, and the way she turned a spoon about her tea cup three times counterclockwise and once clockwise.  

The splitting apart of her face as he commented on the jam, the corners of her eyes wrinkling as one small hand offered him a bite.

The hardening of his cock, unbidden, at the thought of her whispering to him in the night about the ways that he made her ache, the confession that she had touched herself thinking of him before their weekend together.

The way she had marveled at the market over the mundanity of things like tinned peaches and stale, pre-packaged biscuits.

When he woke it was as though he had not slept at all.

He was living with a secret so broad, growing at all times, that it made him wonder if his body had seams.  A zip along his spine and at the back of his calves.  A line of snaps along the curve of his skull that he could open at his leisure to relieve the pressure.

By Monday morning, a cold shower and aspirin were not enough to staunch the bulbous ache growing in his head.  

He spent the day doing paperwork and waiting for someone to declare knowledge of his weekend activities.  

When finally asked (“what did ye get up to this weekend, boss?”), he made bland comments about some time at a family cabin.  

He wondered, tearing into a ham sandwich and apple at lunch, whether he felt somewhat like what a robber feels.  The knowledge of a heist, clandestine and forbidden, becoming a persistent niggling begging to break free. Wiping crumbs from the front of his shirt, he saw her.  

Mrs. Fitz.

With her watery eyes and toddling steps.  

He knew (just knew) what was in the note clutched in her pale fingers before he opened it.

Her writing.  The Queen’s writing.  Not Claire’s writing.

Been detained for now.  

Tuesday?

It is supposed to be a nice night.  

Perhaps a good night for a ride?

& always,

C.

He ran a finger along the clean line where the note had been folded.  Where her fingers had pressed down.  

Was she hesitating to meet? Had regret consumed her such that she had drifted?

Jamie cursed under his breath, closing the note again and nodding to Mrs. Fitz.  Meeting her swimming, faded denim eyes was surprisingly easy, though she did not have the glass face of her Queen. He could not tell what was clicking away behind her inscrutable, lined face.  He nodded.  She took back the note, an act that sent his heart teetering over the edge.

“Did she say when?”  His voice was coarse, somehow disembodied as he acknowledged the truth of their relationship to someone outside of it for the first time.

“Tuesday,” she said evenly, tucking the note into the hip pocket of her smartly-tailored and unseasonably thick wool jacket.

“Aye,” he ground out. “Tuesday.”

But Tuesday brought another visit from Mrs. Fitz.

A second note.  

This one signed much the same, though with an apology (“Duty calls and I am so very sorry, Fraser”).

And then her promise of Wednesday.

And when Wednesday came, she came with company.

An ambassador from a Canadian province or mayor of a Canadian city, he was not sure which, because the sound of his teeth grinding together transformed the introduction into  mere white noise.  He looked at her, shaking the man’s hand.  She was detached but for a flicker, a nod, the press of her palm against back just above the beltline as they inspected the Queen’s stables.

And then, she was proper as a nation could expect of its Queen.

“Colonel Fraser,” she started primly, flicking a stray bit of hay from the elbow of her riding jacket.  “I trust that we have a horse to accommodate our guest?”

“Aye, we do, ma’am.”

As he helped her into the saddle, his hand sculpted itself to the shape of her calf.  He smirked at the sharp intake of her breath, the quick dart of her eyes.  

“It’s no’ verra queenly to touch yer stable lad’s arse.”

“It was not your arse,” she hissed, wrestling the reins from his hand and fighting the urge to slap his hand away as it traveled over the back of her boot to her ankle.

“Ye’ve got a good fit for a saddle here, ma’am,” Fraser called a little too loudly, his eyes sparkling a little too brightly.

“James Fraser–”

“I’d take ye right here if we werena wi’ an uninvited guest.”  He reveled in the way her cheeks pinked a glorious, embarrassed rose color.

“Fraser.” She was only halfway annoyed, and he was sustained by the fact that he could recognize as much from her face, from the way she shifted slightly in the saddle.

The steed upon which the Queen’s guest was mounted came ambling over.

Giving a weak, two-fingered salute, Fraser bade her a pleasant ride, and retreated to his office.

It wasn’t until Thursday that she made good on the promise to visit.  It was late.  Well after the sinking of the sun and the warming up of a veritable orchestra of summertime insects, and long after any reasonable employee of the Crown had departed for the day.

It was the kind of visit that they had planned when they parted.  Alone and untethered to any sort of duty. At a distance, Claire paused to watch Fraser work. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows and a bead of sweat was coursing down his temple.  He looked roguish in a movie star way, a little too intense in his work and maybe a bit dangerous.

“You have not shaved this week, have you?” she finally asked, leaning against the gate of an empty stall.  “I thought as much when I saw you last night.”  

Jamie did not look to her, but his shoulders squared at the soft, conciliatory lilt of her attempt at banter.  

“Are you cross with me, Fraser?  Will you look at me so I can tell?” ��She paused (one one thousand, two one thousand, three–), and his head fell as he rested the pitchfork against the wall. “I know I said Monday, and it’s Thursday. So I could not blame you if–”

“Ye verra well could, though,” he interrupted as he pulled shut the feed room door and turned to her.   “Blame me that is.  It’s no’ like I didna ken that ye have duties when I took up wi’ ye.”

“You ‘took up’ with me?” she asked, incredulity sneaking into her voice like a teenager out past curfew.  

“Ye ken what I mean.”

“Are you very cross with me?”

“No, no’ cross wi’ ye, Claire.” It was only half of a lie, for ‘cross’ was different than ‘frustrated with all of this need for you that lives in my guts and makes it hard to breathe.’ Unabashed, he looked her up and down once, twice, three times.  His tongue darted out, inhabited with a mind not entirely its own, and he wet his lips. “More cross wi’ the world, yer majesty, for endeavorin’ to keep us parted.”

He bowed with an exaggerated depth. The gesture drew mad, barking laughter from the pit of her stomach and and she strode towards him.  She was up and into his arms before she could realize that he was closing the distance between them more quickly than her legs could carry her.  With a ragged breath, Fraser consumed anything else she could have wanted to say.  Wound tight around him (arms, legs), she first tasted the salt at the corner of his mouth.

“I wasna kiddin’ when I said it–”

“Here?” she breathed into his mouth as he backed them through one of the open gates into an empty stall.  

“Aye,” he confirmed, dropping to his knees and easing her onto her back. She was magnetic, undeniable and perfect.     Opening her mouth to lodge some mannerly protest that she did not truly mean, Fraser worked his fingers between fabric and flesh, over the plane of her stomach, and between her legs.  

“I want ye right here.”

She made a sound and fisted his shirt in her hands.

“And from the feel of ye, ye want me to take ye here just fine.”

The space between her brows melted.  In its place was a quiet, determined crease as she ground down against his fingers.  

“I have been wanting this…”  She sucked her lower lip into her mouth, sank her teeth into it only for a moment before continuing as a breathy, but somehow full-formed version of herself.  “Since Sunday night.”

He took it all in, because their three days apart seemed something like a premonition of a longer separation.  

His shirt went taut against his back as she gathered fistfuls of fabric and pulled him closer.

“I’ve wanted ye right here in the stables since ye came clambering in wi’ yer tight pants and pert wee arse.  Where I’ve wanted to have ye since I first saw ye that night.”  Shaking her head as if to say “talk less,” Claire whimpered and let his shirt free so she could reach for his belt.  Just as her fingers slipped the leather free from the buckle, he whispered, “Ye’re mine, ye ken that, aye?”

“And you are mine,” she managed, a bit breathless as his thick, sure ring finger sank into her.  

“Mine.  Mine alone, now and forever,” he continued, one hand going for the waistband of her riding pants and rolling them down.  After a breath and rather indelicate removal of her pants, he looked at her like she was sunlight and summertime itself. With a careful flick of her wrist, she finally freed him of his pants and took him in hand. It didn’t strike her to marvel at the fact that he had somehow toed off his shoes and only had to arch and kick to free his legs from his work pants.  All that mattered was the promised stretch of completion, the weight of him over her, a coarse whisper in her ear to make her moan and writhe.

The Lord’s name tumbled in vain from his lips as he looked down between them where they had both been bared.  Her hand moved again and he shook his head, taking her wrist and firmly holding it over her head, pressing it down into the straw “I mean to use ye hard, my Sassenach.”

“Do it,” she goaded him, smirking and curling her fingers around the thumb he had pressed into the palm of her hand. “Do it now, and don’t be gentle.”

Saying it twice was unnecessary, for he reached between them then and guided himself into her an easy, unyielding thrust. The sense memory of each time they had made love flooded back to her, and when he moved again she choked on her own breath and arched up into him.  

Without her needing to ask him to make good on his promise to use her hard, he did.  Thighs falling further open, she took in his frustration and gave him her own.  When he took her mouth, she sank her teeth into his lower lip and carved half-moons into his shoulder with her fingernails.

He possessed her then, body and soul.  He could see it in her eyes, the way her mouth started to form requests he was already well on his way to fulfill (harder, faster, more), but melted into the sound of her moan as he did the very things she was primed to beg him to do.

When he pulled out suddenly, the wet length of his cock against her thigh as he released her wrist, she started to ask what he was doing, but was interrupted by two firm fingers inside of her.  

“Come for me,” he implored roughly, his fingers searching and stroking her with no small amount of skill.  She was just about to unleash something more coarse than anything she had ever said (“then keep fucking me properly”) when Fraser stroked up, the pads of his fingertips beckoning her to rise (up, up, up).  Her eyes blistered with hot tears as she slapped her hands uselessly down into the straw alongside her thighs.  

Arching up towards him (into the sensation, accepting it with a clenched belly and slackened jaw), she wondered absently if they would always be like this.  As his thumb moved in an arc over her, his assault became twofold, and she concluded that fate had surely mapped out an entire eternity of this for them. He leaned into kiss her gasping, agape mouth, and felt the first tremoring promise of an orgasm ripple down her spine and into his hand.

“Claire,” he whispered, stricken at the sight of her only half-naked yet entirely undone and lovely as she could be. He drew everything she gave from her, and she gave it all. “I’ve missed ye so.”

Her insides had given way to contradiction.  A primal urge to beg him to stop.  A contradictory need to let him know he could never stop.  A desire to touch the planes of his shoulders as he coaxed her trembling body to completion.  A premonition that touching him would sear her hand, sending her into an abyss from which she surely could never return.

All she managed was a wilting plea: “please.”

He slid into her just as purposefully as he had at their first joining, but more gently, reverent somehow.  His thumb did not lose pace or rhythm, but she looked up at him almost desperately as he pressed forward, slid back, and started again.  

More.  Never stop.  I love you.

It was the work of four thrusts to finally finish her, and she felt him everywhere.  

(Rushing out of the pads of her fingers.  Swelling in her belly.  Shimmering up her spine.  Clouding her mind.  Burning behind her eyeballs and blinding her.  Pulsating between her legs. Simmering on her tongue.)

She clutched him, dragged him down, and sank her teeth into his shoulder to keep from screaming.  In the basest part of himself, he wanted her screams to bound off the walls and make his eardrums ache.  He wanted her nails to trace furrows into his already-scarred back.  

Mine.  Yours.  Together.

He spilled into her just as her high ebbed into delirious, taffy-thick stupor.  For her part, Claire cupped the back of his head as he finished and her forehead became the home for his as he bowed his head.  Shifting just enough so that he would not crush her, he fell onto her and heaved a contented sigh.  

“Job well done,” she mumbled after a not insignificant time time had passed with the melding of breath and slowing of hearts.  She kissed his temple, tasting salt and letting her eyes close.

“I work hard in yer stables, yer majesty.”

She chuckled, carding her fingers into his damp curls and not bothering to wonder how exactly she would make her way back up to the palace without looking like she had just been rogered six ways to Sunday in a pile of straw.

It could have been years that they laid there, skin drying and arousal fading, but it was closer to half an hour.  

“It is not entirely uncomfortable, this,” she mumbled, head indicating the pile of straw where they were sprawled out together.  

“It’s no’ just good for soakin’ up horse piss, though I suspect ye’ll be pickin’ bits out of your arse for a week.”  She laughed, deciding that she loved him even when he was unbridled of any sense of propriety and allowed himself to be crass.  Reaching between them, he groaned, “Insatiable.”

She hummed, shrugging noncommittally as she took him into her hand.

One could reasonably anticipate that this would be how HM Queen Claire would be caught with the Crown Equerry.  With their pants in a pile on the floor of the stables and the stable boy buried to the hilt inside of the Queen, there would be little for them to do other than deny what was plainly true.  But they would not be caught making love on the stable floor, nor would they be caught cleaning up and kissing before the Queen walked back to the palace for the night.  No one heard the Queen moan or beg, scream, or cry out.  No one heard the Crown Equerry staking his claim to the woman he loved, giving in to a second, lazy, fatigued round as HM Queen Claire wrapped her mouth around him.

No.  This would not be it – this moment, their reconnection, their bodies’ work to release the frustration of separation wrought by nothing more than circumstance.

But as James Fraser curled his fingers into his beloved’s curls, mumbled her name, and let all worldly thoughts fade, neither knew that they had precious few hours of privacy remaining.

Because their cover was about to be spectacularly blown.

[xpoetic-slothx-blog]

( Starter for @slashing-prices )

╰★╯

❝Shopkeeper of red / whose prices aren’t really cheap / it is very cruel.❞

Mitama spoke as she held up a caramel apple. When seeing that the cost is more than she’s willing to pay, the Onmyogi spouted out a haiku. Hopefully, through the art of poetry, Anna will consider lowering the price. 

╰★╯

[casography]

It was a quiet day on the TARDIS, just like every other day had been for the past few hundred years. The time machine's engines hummed softly in the background as the interior lights cast flickering shadows on the walls. The TARDIS herself longed for adventure every day, a longing that was ever present in the air around the Doctor. He sat in an old armchair, barely reading or comprehending the tome he held on his lap. It wasn't as if he hadn't read it over two hundred times already. The Time Lord felt every single day of his solitude in his bones, in his soul—if he still had one. He never forgot how many days he'd hidden on his cloud, far above the world he once protected. This particular day was number 90,982.

Even though he'd chosen this life after losing Amy and Rory, it wore on his mind. He could tell he wasn't nearly as sharp as before, forgetting simple maintenance procedures here and there or how many star formations existed in Axylon 8, a list he'd memorized and remembered since he was a boy on Gallifrey. He knew why though, and it wasn't old age. It was good old-fashioned, gut-wrenching grief. It had washed over him for centuries now, eroding everything that made him who he was. It was eating him alive, and he welcomed it with open arms. To cease to exist someday would be a mercy compared to every day he spent in a reality where she was no longer alive.

The TARDIS suddenly made a rather loud whirring sound, startling the Doctor out of his thoughts. "What is it, old girl?" he asked out of ancient habit before finally shaking his head and waving a dismissive hand. "Whatever it is, it's none of our concern. Not anymore." He sighed, absently flipping to another page without having fully read the previous one. “Vastra, if that’s you, I’m not in the mood for company today.”

There was silence, his fingers roved unseeing over the words on the page before him, then he saw the figure out of the corner of his eye before he heard him. Instead of being surprised again, the Doctor sighed sadly. "Oh no," he groaned, seemingly all the dread of the universe piled into those two words.

"I wouldn't have come unless it was an emergency," Castiel began, standing at the bottom of the steps that led up to the console. It had been years, centuries for the Doctor, since the two had even been in the same room. Chalk it up to conflicting schedules—a false excuse the Doctor liked to offhandedly use when he just wanted someone to go away. This was one of those times; Cas never brought good news.

"Even emergencies are none of my concern anymore, my friend," the Doctor stated with a sense of finality. Of course, Cas wasn't finished.

"Doctor, I have no other choice. The worst has happened—is happening-"

"There's always a choice, Castiel. There are always other people, other beings who can help. I'm surely not the only one," the Time Lord said with a scoff. He knew he wasn't Castiel's only choice. Angels had always been very influential cosmic beings, not just in religious settings.

"No, but you are the most...effective," Cas confessed.

The Doctor's nose slightly curled at that. "Oh, that's a beautiful adjective for an epitaph," he quipped, placing his book in the chair and standing to stretch. "'Here lies Dave. He was...effective.'"

Cas groaned with impatience. "You're purposefully avoiding my point, I—”

"You think?" The Doctor half-spat at his friend. "There's a reason I'm all the way up here, and it's not to make it easier for you to find me, flyboy." He slouched over to one of the control panels on the console, not actually doing anything with the buttons and levers except trying to look busy. Cas knew that trick though. "How's that war of yours going, by the way?"

Cas huffed. "It ended years ago. You know that."

"I do? We barely keep in touch, how would I?" He knew; he'd heard the day it ended. There'd been so much loss that nobody really won, according to reports. He'd heard extensively of Castiel's role in it all as well. The greater portion of an ancient heavenly host, demolished. As if he hadn’t done the same to his own people. He just truly did not want Cas to reach his point. “Oh, how we’ve all fallen, eh? One cloistered away on a cloud, one all but banned from his home, the other in the bloody ground—”

"Doctor," the angel began with new-found patience, a note of desperation apparent in his tone. He couldn't help but start to feel panicked; the truth was that he couldn't think of anyone else who could possibly help the kind of situation in which he and the Winchester's presently found themselves. "Please. We need you."

The Doctor let the silence after Cas's plea linger, only broken by a long sigh from the former. Cas began to hope that maybe he'd changed his mind, until his old friend spoke again, softly. "What part of 'I'm done' escapes your understanding?"

Cas sighed and shook his head in disappointment, but the Doctor turned toward him and continued. "You don't understand, you do not. I keep losing...things, people. And you said yourself once you lot don't process emotion the same as flesh and blood beings, so you can't fathom the...the sheer brutality of loss. Of that much loss, that magnitude, over and over, until there's nothing else." His volume built until he was yelling. "And you don't want anything else or anyone because you're just going to lose again. And the pain never recedes, it just builds and builds until you run to keep from gaining any more of it. I can't anymore, Castiel, I can't—" The Time Lord took his—her—glasses and cleaned them on his sleeve, his voice quieter and slightly shaking. "I just can't take it."

Castiel couldn't recall the Doctor needing glasses, let alone ever wearing any before. He put the thought aside, walking slowly towards the man as a flare of anger appeared in his eyes. "You don't think I know? I lost brothers and sisters in that 'war of mine' as you called it, too many to count. I obliterated many of them myself, and you think I don't understand? It doesn't take emotion to process something like that." Cas paused, thinking of his next words carefully. "I was human for a time. A short time, but I remember every single second." He let that sink in, the Doctor's eyebrows raising in surprise. "I felt everything, and I remember when the pain of all that I'd done hit me." Cas sighed. "There are no words to describe it." Silence. "Now...we might lose Dean. It would be my fault to an extent because I didn't stop him from making the exact same mistake I did during the war. Doctor...I beg of you..."

The Doctor silently looked down at the floor before turning back to the console. Cas was suddenly appalled, rage slowly building in his chest. "What happened to you?" he asked with mild disgust, a rhetorical question. "You've always ran...but you never hid like a coward." He turned to leave, the Doctor hanging his head and clutching the glasses in his hands. Too tightly.

He cracked them.

And the sound woke him up. It cleared his head like the snap of fingers or a bucket of ice water turned over his head. Like a slap across the cheek from an angry young Scottish woman.

"For the record," he heard Cas begin, "no matter how much you deny it, humanity has always been and always will be your concern. Just like it is mine."

"Castiel, wait," the Doctor said, spinning back around and rushing down to the angel before he could depart.

"What?" Cas grumbled. He was done wasting his time.

"I can help you," the Time Lord said, Cas's face relaxing with relief, "but I'm going to need my team. More specifically, one...dearly departed friend."

Cas stared blankly shaking his head. "I don't understand."

"Ohh, yes you do," the Doctor encouraged him.

Castiel hesitated, his brow furrowed. "You need me to resurrect someone? I thought at one time you had several companions."

"I did," the Doctor verified.

A pause. "But you only need one back?"

"That's right. A very important one." "Important" somehow felt like a gross understatement.

Castiel sighed, resigned. If this was what it took to get the Doctor on board, it was worth whatever unwanted attention it attracted or however drained Cas would be later. "This is unorthodox but...okay. Which one?"

The Doctor smirked. "Oh, I think you know."

(More coming soon on ao3.)

[mezzopurrloin]

Mezzo Plays Final Fantasy X: Part 4

It's a nice day as the boat sets sail from Besaid.

But Tidus doesn't even know where they're going...

Thankfully, Wakka is here to fill us in. There's not really that much to do here, so Tidus checks out what's going on below deck.

This fellow is an aspiring merchant, but he doesn't have anything to sell yet and can only ask for donations. I decided to give him 100 gil.

Speaking of items, here's what we've got so far. Potions restore 200 HP, Hi-Potions 1000. Ethers restore 80 MP, Phoenix Down revives fallen allies, and Remedies can be used to cure negative conditions. We also have our spheres for the Sphere Grid, a leftover grenade from when Rikku was a party member, and a map of Spira.

It's very pretty, but not all that useful since you can't read anything.

Further below deck, Tidus finds the ship runs on chocobo power. These large birds are common to many Final Fantasy games, and are often used as mounts.

Tidus heads above deck and finds a huge crowd gathering around Yuna. Many of the people there mention that she's the daughter of Lord Braska.

Tidus can relate, since he knows it's tough when your father's a celebrity.

The crowd disperses, and Tidus and Yuna get to share a moment together. Yuna asks about Zanarkand, which surprises Tidus. It turns out she believes him because she's met one other person who claimed to be from Zanarkand: one of her father's guardians, a man named Jecht. Tidus can't believe it's the same Jecht, but the dates line up. Yuna first met Jecht about 10 years ago, the same time as his disappearance from Zanarkand. How'd he get here? Same way Tidus did, presumably.

This conversation is interrupted by something rocking the boat.

Yep, it's Sin.

The crew fires a pair of harpoons into Sin's fin, and it drags the ship along.

Remember these guys? Yep, they're back. Like before, they're just a distraction. What you really need to do is target Sin itself. It's too far away to hit with melee, so you need to use Wakka's ball and Lulu's magic. Also notice that we now have Kimahri available as a party member.

Look at how small the magic blast is compared to Sin. Really gives you a sense of this thing's scale.

After dealing 2000 damage to it, it tears the harpoon gun off the boat. Tidus is thrown overboard, and Wakka dives into the sea after him.

Cue another boss fight. This Sinspawn is accompanied by more Sinscales, and can use its tentacles to drain HP from you.

It can also spin its tentacles like a blender, dealing damage with a vortex.

I used Wakka's Dark Attack skill to blind it, reducing its accuracy. After that, the fight became much easier.

A few more hits and it was done for.

"When Sin attacked Zanarkand that day, I woke up in Spira. I kept hoping it would work in reverse, too. I was just fooling myself. Maybe it was that day...on the sea, under the burning sun. I started to give up hope. I was in a foreign world, I wasn't going home. This was my new reality, and I was stuck in it for good."

Welcome to Kilika Port... or what's left of it, anyway.

The people are relieved to know that a summoner is nearby. Yuna prepares for the ceremony, but Tidus is of course more confused.

Lulu provides some exposition. If the souls of the dead are allowed to linger in this world, their envy and hatred of the living eventually corrupts them into fiends. Remember all the fiends we've been fighting? Yeah, that's why they're around.

Tidus doesn't quite understand, but he watches the ceremony anyway.

Yeah, Yuna can walk on water for this. It's never really explained or brought up again.

These little things are called pyreflies, and they seem to be pieces of souls. They also appear whenever a fiend dies.

"I wished there would never be a next time. No more people being killed by Sin. No more sendings for Yuna. Everyone stood there watching her. It was strange, and somehow... horrifying. I never wanted to see it again."

Yuna gives Lulu a hug after she finishes.

The group decides to spend the night at the local inn, which was spared the devastation.

Follow your dreams, kid.

Anyway, after waking up, Tidus meets up with Wakka again.

Tidus asks if this is really the right time.

Wakka: "Something wrong with enjoying blitzball?"

Tidus: "Is this really the time?"

Wakka: "This is the only time! The players fight with all their strength; the fans cheer for their favorite team. They forget pain, suffering... Only the game matters! That's why blitz has been around for so long. Least that's what I think."

We also gained some S.Lvls from that fight with Sin. Everyone who participates in the fight gains AP, even if it's only for one turn. Kimahri's Sphere Grid position is unique; rather than having a path of his own, he starts in the center and can go down many different paths. I plan to send him down Lulu's since we could always use another magic user, but that's not happening quite yet.

Anyway, to get to the temple, the group needs to cross a deep forest first. Tidus finds Yuna and the others waiting for him.

The other party members are surprised at this proposal, but go along with it for now since they're heading to the same place.

By using Lancet on specific fiends, Kimahri can learn abilities from them.

These are used as his Ronso Rage Overdrive.

Not too impressive right now, but we'll get some better ones later.

This plant monster is known as Ochu, Lord of the Wood, and the Crusaders recommend staying away from it. I decided to follow their suggestion and find another way around.

Overkill bonuses are a thing. By dealing an excessive amount of damage on the final blow, you earn extra AP. This is pretty handy, especially when you know fiends' weaknesses.

Everyone got some more S.Lvls from the trip through the Kilika Woods, and a few learned some new abilities. Wakka got Silence Attack, which prevents the enemy from spellcasting. Yuna learned the NulBlaze, NulFrost, NulShock, and NulTide spells. Each provides the party with a shield that will nullify one attack from the respective element.

There's a long staircase on the way to the temple. High Summoner Ohalland was once a great blitzball player, and he used to train here. The Aurochs decide to have a race up the steps in his honor.

Well, so much for that. Yeah, it turns out there's another Sinspawn here. It hides within its shell and sticks its tentacles out through the ground.

After defeating the tentacles, it comes forth to fight in earnest.

I decided to bring in some heavy artillery. It's time to try out Yvonne's second Overdrive, Energy Blast.

Lasers! This finished off the boss no problem, and even got an overkill bonus.

Wakka: "You handled yourself pretty well. You got talent."

"That moment when Wakka told me I had talent in battle... I think that was when I started seriously considering becoming a guardian."

They pause a bit later on the steps, and Wakka asks if they have any fiends in Zanarkand. Tidus says that they do, but it's generally a big deal when one appears. Then he asks why Wakka is suddenly believing him about that. Wakka thinks that maybe people taken by Sin don't die, but instead get sent back in time, maybe even a thousand years back.

Lulu has some objections to this theory, and takes the time to remind everyone that no, Chappu really is dead. No one can replace him, or Jecht, or Braska for that matter.

"Wakka, Lulu, and Wakka's brother Chappu. Something had happened between them a long time ago. I was sure of it. Well, whatever it was, it was none of my business, that's for sure. Best not to go there."

Eventually, they reach Kilika Temple.

Looks like a rival team has been praying here too, even though they claim not to need to. Tidus is put off by their harsh mannerisms, since they remind him of Jecht.

Wakka prays at the statue of Lord Ohalland, and Tidus decides to join him. Then, the group is met by another summoner.

Dona here looks down on Yuna for needing four guardians, when she only has one. Yuna responds by saying that she trusts all of her guardians with her life, and she is honored by them.

The group moves toward the Cloister of Trials, but then Kimahri pushes Tidus off the elevator, since he's technically not a guardian yet. Then Dona's guardian Barthello pushes him back on anyway, and Tidus decides the only thing to do is head inside.

The theme of this temple is fire. Kilika Spheres are used to ignite obstacles in your path, but you can't walk through the fire either so you need to remove the sphere before proceeding.

This wall of flames is powered by multiple spheres, and you need to disconnect all of its sources in order to cross. Once you do, you can find a hidden treasure in the pit by using a Destruction Sphere.

This armlet is for Kimahri, and improves fire, ice, and lightning resistance.

Tidus meets with the other guardians outside the chamber of the fayth, but none are too pleased to see him. Only Yuna can enter the chamber, so Tidus takes the time to ask what a fayth is.

Lulu: "Now they live forever, trapped in statues. But when a summoner beckons, the souls of the fayth emerge once again. That's what we call an aeon."

Yuna returns from the chamber, having been granted a new aeon.

His canon name is Ifrit, but I went with Amon on a suggestion from Caliburn. I am taking suggestions for future aeons' names as well, so if you have any, please let me know!

"There was something I didn't tell anyone else that day. That song we heard there, in the temple... I knew it from my childhood. It was proof that Spira and Zanarkand were connected somehow. At least to me it was. Maybe that's why, suddenly, I felt like...I just wanted to go home. I tried to say something, to tell them. But the words wouldn't come."

Remember how I said the Hymn of the Fayth had plot importance?

After obtaining the aeon, the team has to head back through the Kilika Woods.

I decided to meet up with this forest's so-called 'Lord' and show him who's boss. Besides, we have a new aeon to test out now.

Amon is our fire-type aeon, perfect for dealing with highly flammable plant fiends.

He can only cast fire magic, and his special is Meteor Strike, which chucks a blazing meteor to deal damage.

And of course, I can't get away without showing his Overdrive.

He opens with tossing two fireballs to create a blazing pillar.

Then a big fireball comes from his mouth, trapping the foe in a sphere of flames.

He finishes off by tearing out a chunk of the ground and throwing it into the fireball, causing a massive explosion.

This did some pretty respectable damage, but it wasn't quite enough, and the Ochu defeated Amon.

No worries, though. Fallen aeons can be revived at save points or after a set amount of battles, and the team was able to finish off the fiend.

It's back off to Kilika Port, setting out for our next destination.

[tree-choose-pot]

‘Just being’ in the eastern mountains

Would I like to camp again in the autumn in the US’ southeastern mountains?  Um, YES PLEASE!

I still don’t know the Blue Ridge mtns from the Appalachian mtns from the Smokey mtns, but at this point I don’t care.  We stayed in paradise, at Harvest Host’s Tantivy Lavender Farm (photo above, AND this farm had the sweetest donkeys and slightly annoying dogs), and now we’re at Rocky Knob National Park on the Blue Ridge Parkway.   We’ve had a steady rain for 24 hours, and we’re without hook-ups, which means no TV, no movies, no charging of ipads, no electric keyboard.  We also have barely a cell signal, so really the phone and computer growing cobwebs in the corner.  It’s not that cold so we did go out for a walk (which included blackberry cobbler and ice cream) and had a fire under Bill’s make-shift rain cover.  

But we stayed in and “played” more than any other day in recent memory.  We really had a fantastic day.  It was one of those ‘no-agenda’ days that, if you don’t have kids, you want to last forever; but if you do have kids you hope the hours between 1300-1700 will just magically disappear.  I sat and played with Anina’s hair while she drew.  Benji and I did 3 Hidden Picture double page spreads.  Bill turned our new TV’s box into an impressive dollhouse for A and racetrack for B.  We read books, played games, beaded necklaces, made Wisconsin popcorn, did only 20 mins of iPad, took baths.  Bill’s been reading about Civil War history and challenged himself to starting a fire in the pouring rain “like those soldiers had to do to survive!”  We felt like we were living in an enchanted forest as we roasted stale marshmallows amidst the engulfing fog.  Just perfection.  

Why did we need a new TV?  Because bouncing through the New York roads in a travel trailer is apparently too much for a TV, and ours busted right down the middle of the screen.  My pampered chef pot’s glass lid has also fallen victim to rough and bumpy travel trailer life.  The humans on this trip are holding up rather well, as thanks to masks and limiting our social interaction, we’ve had no colds or stomach bugs for 6 months.  I think our GI track and immune system are still getting a little bit of a workout due to all our different water sources and playing in the dirt a lot. 

My mental state is starting to reach a point of ‘just being,’ instead of always ‘doing.’  For years I have suffered from a constant sense of feeling overwhelmed by everything we should be/could be doing: The internet has too much information to ever feel like I’m done searching, the kids are growing up too fast, other families have routines and schedules all figured out, my professional peers are way more accomplished, I could totally get up earlier and get myself back in shape.   

On this trip, all these things are still true, but some basic things have grabbed my attention out of necessity (trip planning, having and organizing essential food and supplies, having good books and some ‘homeschooling’ supplies/plans, safety and health, staying in touch with people, safeguarding memories) and a lot of the other junk just seems to have faded or is less accessible/intrusive.  We always wonder how people living without our modern conveniences and comforts could be as happy as they often are reported to be.. the cloister nuns, the poor of third world countries, Americans living ‘off the grid’ in some way.  I don’t know if survival and ‘just being’ = true happiness, but I’m learning firsthand that less can be more.  It is a lesson I hope continues to soak into my soul.  This is the only way it will live on when I enter the next chapter of life which most likely will include a job, a whole entire house and yard, 2 kids in school, a social network, and a husband probably still testing his abilities to survive as a civil war hero.

Mabry Mill on the Blue Ridge Parkway in Virginia

The simple life.  Home (and everything we need) is where we park it!  It is not without its challenges and problems though.  

[scifigeneration]

New York 2140: A novelist's vision of a drowned city that still never sleeps

by Robert Kopp

Earth’s climate system is replete with potential surprises, and the climate science community tends to be conservative when projecting future changes. The world also suffers from a creative deficit in imagining the human response to climate change – a deficit that fiction is well-suited to help alleviate.

One focus of my research is on sea-level change, both in the past and in the future. In his new work of climate fiction, “New York 2140,” author Kim Stanley Robinson supposes that climate scientists like me will be surprised by how quickly the world’s ice sheets will shrink and sea levels will rise. His novel explores how civilization might nonetheless muddle through to remake this reshaped world.

In Robinson’s future, the First Pulse of Antarctic and Greenland ice sheet collapse in the 2050s led to 10 feet of global sea-level rise in the course of a decade. The First Pulse and the food crisis of the 2070s served as focusing events, leading the world to take greenhouse gas reductions more seriously. Electricity generation shifted to renewables; container ships were replaced with fleets of wind-powered clippers; lighter-than-air airships replaced airplanes.

Yet these efforts were not enough to avoid a Second Pulse at the end of the 21st century, driven first by melting at the Aurora Basin in East Antarctica but then cascading around the world’s ice sheets, leading to a further 40 feet of sea-level rise.

Current science suggests the speed of sea-level rise in Robinson’s future is implausible. The United Nations’ Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC)’s 2013 report estimated that, under a future with high greenhouse gas emissions, global average sea level would likely rise by between about 1.5 and three feet over the course of this century. My research group’s projections generally agree with the IPCC’s assessment. But the IPCC assessed only what is “likely”; our group’s work also suggests that sea-level rise as high as about eight feet by 2100 and 18 feet by 2150 is physically plausible, though extremely unlikely.

To understand how much sea levels will rise in the decades ahead, scientists study the mechanics of the land, ice, air and water in Greenland and Antarctica. NASA, CC BY

But there’s a lot we don’t know about the behavior of ice sheets, particularly those – like the West Antarctic and parts of the East Antarctic including the Aurora Basin – that sit on ground that is below sea level. For example, warm water can attack submarine ice from beneath. If the ground underneath the ice sheet is sloping the wrong way, deepening toward the continent’s interior, the water’s advance will set up a self-sustaining cycle that exposes a growing cross-section of ice to erosion.

In addition, ice sheets can form unstable ice cliffs at their margins. A recent study that incorporated the collapse of ice cliffs found that, under a future of high emissions, it may be significantly easier to get to eight feet by 2100 and 18 feet by 2150 than previously thought. Still, even that study could not produce Robinson’s 50 feet until after 2200.

Venice on the Hudson

Robinson’s novel, however, is not a scientific projection: It is an exploration of human resilience in the face of extreme pressure. There are four basic ways coastal communities can respond to sea-level rise: suffering damage, developing protective infrastructure, finding ways of accommodating flooding and retreating from the coast. Robinson’s New Yorkers engage in all four – and Robinson’s vision of accommodation is profoundly richer than in the imaginings of adaptation strategies developed by national, state and local governments.

Despite the environmental apocalypse, life carries on in a flooded New York that has remade itself as a super-Venice. (See Climate Central’s Surging Seas maps to explore what Manhattan would look like with 10 meters (33 feet) or 20 meters (66 feet) of sea-level rise.) The submerged streets of Lower Manhattan have turned into canals, crisscrossed by pedestrian high lines. Vaporettos have replaced taxis. Skyscrapers whose bases have fallen beneath the waves are protected by nanodiamond coatings and powered by solar microgrids.

Hurricane Sandy as precursor? In the climate fiction novel ‘New York 2140’ New Yorkers adapt to sea-level rise by converting streets into canals. ruanon/flickr, CC BY-SA

Retreat has occurred mainly from the intertidal zone of Midtown Manhattan, where the forces of the daily tidal cycle wreak havoc on structural integrity. On the dry land surrounding the Cloisters, far uptown, carbon nanomaterials originally intended for space elevators allow new buildings on the shrunken island to reach hundreds of stories upward.

Technological progress focused on improving lives rather than accommodating the changed world has apparently slowed to a crawl – in some ways, not much has changed from today. Airships are steered by chatty but rule-bound AIs, and communications take place by tablet, with celebrities broadcasting live feeds of real-world adventures through the cloud.

Though this slow pace of progress may be literary license taken to make the world more relatable, it may also be a fair projection: If environmental crises consume the world’s R&D budget, there may be little left for innovations without a survival benefit.

Meanwhile, financial capitalism proceeds much as it did in the early 21st century, periodically growing and imploding bubbles and receiving government bailouts. As in most of Robinson’s works, the limits of the capitalist system serve as a motif: The book culminates in a democratic-socialist fantasy of an alternative political response to a bursting financial bubble that seems more rooted in 2008 than 2140.

Creative rethinking

In the real world, when climate change first entered the mainstream of civic discourse in the late 1980s, policy discussion focused almost entirely on limiting greenhouse gas emissions. While the world has made some progress, reflected in the United Nations’ Paris Agreement and in the recent near-stability of global carbon dioxide emissions, the pace has been slow. The planet is increasingly feeling the effects of climate change, and so adapting to these effects has become a growing part of both scientific research and public discourse.

But most work on climate change adaptation has focused on near-term, marginal changes: for instance, making communities more resilient in the face of ever more common weather extremes, or installing pumps and elevating infrastructure to deal with the rapid growth of minor “nuisance” flooding along the shore.

Climate change and sea-level projections usually end by 2100, and on that timescale, two to three feet of global sea-level rise is far more likely than Robinson’s 50 feet. But the world will not end in 2100, and many of the public works built today will still be around a century from now. In New Jersey, for example, many of the electric grid’s switching stations that flooded in 2012 during Superstorm Sandy were sited more than a century earlier, during the age of Thomas Alva Edison.

So climate fiction can play a critical role in the face of the large-scale experiment we humans are conducting with the world’s climate system: inspiring creative rethinks of the designs and technologies needed to reshape how we relate to our environment.

Science tells us that, by reshaping our global energy and agricultural systems, we can avoid the magnitude of planetary change that Robinson depicts. But to make those changes and to adapt to the changes we don’t avoid, the world’s best minds need to focus, not on new apps or financial innovations, but on the civilizational challenges at hand.

Works like Robinson’s – starkly beautiful and fundamentally optimistic visions of technological and social change in the face of some of the worst devastation we might bring upon ourselves – can inspire that focus in a way that myopic discussions of the near term or grim, apocalyptic tales cannot.

Robert Kopp is a Professor of Department of Earth & Planetary Sciences, and Director, Coastal Climate Risk & Resilience Initiative at Rutgers University.

This article was originally published on The Conversation. 

[tardisgirlepic]

Ch. 2: “The Empress of Mars” Analysis Doctor Who S10.9: Friday, Odin & the Doctor; Missy’s 2 Faces; Etc.

Apologies for getting these 3 chapters for “The Empress of Mars” out after the airing of “The Eaters of Light.”  I post first on Archive Of Our Own, which I did before the 10th episode.  With photos, it takes more time to post here.

If you missed the 1st chapter, check it out Ch. 1: Fastballs, Mars-Not-Mars, Rassilon References, Etc.

NOTE:

TPEW = “The Pyramid at the End of the World” TRODM = “The Return of Doctor Mysterio” THORS = “The Husbands of River Song” CAL = Charlotte Abigail Lux, the little girl from the Library TOS = The Original Series of Star Trek TNG = Star Trek: The Next Generation

Norse Mythology & Vikings Have a Big Role

Roman and Egyptian mythology aren’t the only mythological references in “The Empress of Mars.” Norse Mythology, for example, has a huge role in the episode, as well as other Viking references.

Egil & Eagle

At NASA, we see a sign “EGIL” in front of the Doctor in the image below, which refers to Egill Skallagrímsson (Anglicized as Egil Skallagrimsson).  The Doctor, The Ghost, is associated here with Egil.  At first we see the sign without the Doctor.

According to Wikipedia, Egil “was a Viking-Age poet, warrior and farmer. He is also the protagonist of the eponymous Egil's Saga. Egil's Saga historically narrates a period from approximately 850 to 1000 CE and is believed to have been written between 1220 and 1240 CE.”

Egill was born in Iceland, the son of Skalla-Grímr Kveldúlfsson and Bera Yngvarsdóttir, and the grandson of Kveld-Úlfr ("Night Wolf"). His ancestor, Hallbjorn, was Norwegian-Sami.

Here’s another wolf reference, where the Doctor-mirror is the grandson of a metaphorical wolf.

When Grímr arrived in Iceland, he settled at Borg, the place where his father's coffin landed. Grímr was a respected chieftain and mortal enemy of King Harald Fairhair of Norway.

OK, the term “Borg” automatically conjures thoughts of several Star Trek: TNG episodes where alien cyborgs known as the Borg show up to assimilate people, turning them into Borg and absorbing them into the collective. They first show up in the episode “Q Who?”  Um… I never thought about this before, but wow, just change Q to Doctor!  Captain Picard gets converted to a Borg in “The Best of Both Worlds.”  Part 1 was the finale to Season 3, while Part 2 was the premiere of Season 4.

Egill composed his first poem at the age of three years. He exhibited berserk behaviour, and this, together with the description of his large and unattractive head, has led to the theory that he might have suffered from Paget's disease. As professor Byock explains in his Scientific American article, Paget's disease causes a thickening of the bones and may lead eventually to blindness. The poetry of Egill contains clues to Paget's disease, and this is the first application of science, with the exclusion of archaeology, to the Icelandic sagas.

Here’s a reference to blindness.

Egil had a very bloody history.  At times, he was marked for death, but his epic poetry, fit for kings, saved him. So words saved him, just like they have saved the Doctor time and time again.

“Egil” is another overloaded word, as its homophone is “eagle.”  The Doctor is either a bird, being a proxy of Zeus, or Zeus, himself. Zeus’s Roman equivalent is Jupiter. In Norse mythology, Odin is the chief god.  He’s not a one-to-one correspondence, though, to Zeus and Jupiter, like the typical Greek and Roman gods are to each other.  Odin, among other things, is also a god of war like Mars.  He’s a tyrannical leader who is not concerned with justice, and this sounds like Morbius, who may be the possessed Doctor. 

Odin, too, was a shape-shifter and turned himself into an eagle.  It’s one of his many disguises.

Valkyrie Has Multiple Meanings

The Martian probe Valkyrie, while probing the Martian ice caps, is named for multiple references.

Operation Valkyrie & “Let’s Kill Hitler”

Operation Valkyrie was a German plan during WWII to assassinate Hitler, take control of German cities, disarm the SS, and arrest the Nazi leadership.  Although the participants made lengthy preparations, the plot failed.  Of course, this also refers to the 11th Doctor episode “Let’s Kill Hitler,” where River was engineered to kill the Doctor.  Of course, that lengthy plot failed, too, at least for the time being.

In “The Lie of the Land,” we saw the Doctor involved in a totalitarian government with the Truth logo, which looked like it could be a type of Nazi logo with an SS (mirrored Ss). Interestingly, Daleks were created as symbols of the Nazis.

Valkyries of Norse Mythology

In Norse mythology, valkyries are female figures who decide the fate of those who die in battle. 

According to Wikipedia:

Selecting among half of those who die in battle (the other half go to the goddess Freyja's afterlife field Fólkvangr), the valkyries bring their chosen to the afterlife hall of the slain, Valhalla, ruled over by the god Odin. There, the deceased warriors become einherjar (Old Norse "single (or once) fighters"). When the einherjar are not preparing for the events of Ragnarök, the valkyries bear them mead. Valkyries also appear as lovers of heroes and other mortals, where they are sometimes described as the daughters of royalty, sometimes accompanied by ravens and sometimes connected to swans or horses.

Ravens and horses are certainly significant.  In fact, ravens are indirectly referenced at least 4 times in the current story.  We’ll examine more about the raven in a few minutes.  And we’ll look at them in more depth in regards to Clara and the Doctor in the next chapter.

Valkyries today tend to be romanticized in a way, but in heathen times, they were more sinister and sound like they have a connection to the 12 Monks.  According to Norse-Mythology.org:

The meaning of their name, “choosers of the slain,” refers not only to their choosing who gains admittance to Valhalla, but also to their choosing who dies in battle and using malicious magic to ensure that their preferences in this regard are brought to fruition. Examples of valkyries deciding who lives and who dies abound in the Eddas and sagas. The valkyries’ gruesome side is illustrated most vividly in the Darraðarljóð, a poem contained within Njal’s Saga. Here, twelve valkyries are seen prior to the Battle of Clontarf, sitting at a loom and weaving the tragic destiny of the warriors (an activity highly reminiscent of the Norns). They use intestines for their thread, severed heads for weights, and swords and arrows for beaters, all the while chanting their intentions with ominous delight. The Saga of the Volsungs compares beholding a valkyrie to “staring into a flame.”

The Norns sound very similar to the 3 Fates, which we examined in my analysis in TPEW, where I likened the Monks to weaving a tapestry and compared them to the 3 Fates who weave destinies.  It seems likely then that the 12 Monks may symbolize the 12 Valkyries, who are weaving the tragic destiny to come.

Valhalla & the Cloister Wraiths

Valhalla is a the hall where the dead are deemed worthy of dwelling with Odin, and it’s located on Asgard, which brings in the references to the Doctor and River picnicking on Asgard. This picnic entry in River’s diary came up in “Silence in the Library,” as well as “The Husbands of River Song.”

Wolves guard Valhalla’s gates, and eagles fly above it.

According to Norse-Mythology.org:

Odin presides over Valhalla, the most prestigious of the dwelling-places of the dead. After every battle, he and his helping-spirits, the valkyries (“choosers of the fallen”), comb the field and take their pick of half of the slain warriors to carry back to Valhalla. (Freya then claims the remaining half.)

According to Norse-Mythology.org:

The dead who reside in Valhalla, the einherjar, live a life that would have been the envy of any Viking warrior. All day long, they fight one another, doing countless valorous deeds along the way. But every evening, all their wounds are healed, and they are restored to full health. They surely work up quite an appetite from all those battles, and their dinners don’t disappoint. Their meat comes from the boar Saehrimnir (Old Norse Sæhrímnir, whose meaning is unknown), who comes back to life every time he is slaughtered and butchered. For their drink they have mead that comes from the udder of the goat Heidrun (Old Norse Heiðrun, whose meaning is unknown). They thereby enjoy an endless supply of their exceptionally fine food and drink. They are waited on by the beautiful Valkyries.

But the einherjar won’t live this charmed life forever. Valhalla’s battle-honed residents are there by the will of Odin, who collects them for the perfectly selfish purpose of having them come to his aid in his fated struggle against the wolf Fenrir during Ragnarök – a battle in which Odin and the einherjar are doomed to die.

From what we’ve seen in “Hell Bent,” the Cloister Wraiths are, at least in one way, like the dead who reside in Valhalla.  As the Doctor said, they are the dead manning the battlements.  We may be experiencing the unreality of the symbolic Valhalla right now.  The relative calm before the Ragnarök storm.

The Ice Queen Mirroring a Valkyrie or Odin

The Ice Queen, Iraxxa, decided who died and who lived, especially when it came to Colonel Godsacre. (God’s acre actually means “a churchyard or a cemetery, especially one adjacent to a church.”)  Therefore, Iraxxa is mirroring a Valkyrie or even Odin, given her position of leader of the hive. 

Odin, Ravens & the Valkyries

According to Wikipedia,

In Germanic mythology, Odin is a widely revered god.  In Norse mythology, from which stems most of the information about the god, Odin is associated with healing, death, royalty, the gallows, knowledge, battle, sorcery, poetry, frenzy, and the runic alphabet, and is the husband of the goddess Frigg. In wider Germanic mythology and paganism, Odin was known in Old English as Wōden, in Old Saxon as Wōdan, and in Old High German as Wuotan or Wōtan, all stemming from the reconstructed Proto-Germanic theonym wōđanaz.

BTW, WOTAN is a reference to a 1st Doctor story called “The War Machines.”  According to the TARDIS Wikia, “WOTAN was one of the first artificial intelligences created on Earth by Professor Brett. Its name stood for Will Operating Thought ANalogue.”  It goes on to say, “Deciding to conquer the world, WOTAN ordered the construction of mobile, armed computers which were designated War Machines. These were constructed in locations across London.”

Anyway, according to WizardRealm.com:

Odin (or, depending upon the dialect Woden or Wotan) was the Father of all the Gods and men.  Odhinn is pictured either wearing a winged helm or a floppy hat, and a blue-grey cloak. He can travel to any realm within the 9 Nordic worlds.  His two ravens, Huginn and Munin (Thought and Memory) fly over the world daily and return to tell him everything that has happened in Midgard.  He is a God of magick, wisdom, wit, and learning. He too is a psychopomp; a chooser of those slain in battle.  In later times, he was associated with war and bloodshed from the Viking perspective, although in earlier times, no such association was present.

Interestingly, Odin has ravens.  And this is another example of how “The Empress of Mars” has quite a few indirect references to ravens.  Because Clara is associated with a raven, it brings up a reference to her, too. However, there are very pointed Clara references, which we’ll examine in the next chapter.

Being the god of magic, wisdom, wit, and learning, Odin has a lot in common with Merlin.  Odin actually disguises himself as an old man and travels Midgard (Earth) looking for heroes for the coming of Ragnarök.

According to WizardRealm.com:

If anything, the wars fought by Odhinn exist strictly upon the Mental plane of awareness; appropriate for that of such a mentally polarized God.  He is both the shaper of Wyrd and the bender of Orlog; again, a task only possible through the power of Mental thought and impress.  It is he who sacrifices an eye at the well of Mimir to gain inner wisdom, and later hangs himself upon the World Tree Yggdrasil to gain the knowledge and power of the Runes.  All of his actions are related to knowledge, wisdom, and the dissemination of ideas and concepts to help Mankind.  Because there is duality in all logic and wisdom, he is seen as being duplicitous; this is illusory and it is through his actions that the best outcomes are conceived and derived.  Just as a point of curiosity:  in no other pantheon is the head Deity also the God of Thought and Logic.  It's interesting to note that the Norse/Teutonic peoples also set such a great importance upon brainwork and logic.  The day Wednesday (Wodensdaeg) is named for him.

It’s really interesting that Odin’s wars are fought on the “Mental plane of awareness.”  This corresponds to the Doctor being a creature of pure thought through the Great Work.  This also corresponds to him being a mirror of CAL, who is also a being of pure thought in a mental plane of awareness.

Odin & the Doctor

In “The Girl Who Died,” the Doctor pretended to be Odin when the Vikings took him and Clara captive. We then saw another extraterrestrial claiming to be Odin, shown below.  His helmet is obviously symbolic in some ways of a bird.  Are the wings those of an eagle or a raven?  There are symbolic feathers on the top of the helmet, too, but that’s where the similarities to a bird end.  

The crest looks more like something a Roman soldier would wear on his helmet.  And then there’s the weird part covering his forehead that looks like 2 eyes and a nose.  Is the representation supposed to be 2 faces in One?  The symbolic eyes are empty, perhaps, representing The Ghost.  Odin is a dark mirror of the Doctor, and it seems to me from the symbolism that Odin represents the possessed Doctor, who has an augmented eye.  That could be a reference to the Eye of Harmony.

The Doctor actually does more than just pretend to be Odin in this episode.  Like Odin in mythology, the Doctor decides life and death here. He assumes Odin’s role.  Ashildr dies, and the Doctor literally brings her back to life, another signal of the coming of Ragnarök.  Clara represents a valkyrie, the Doctor’s helping spirit. 

But this isn’t all. Extraterrestrial (ET) Odin in “The Girl Who Died” has a connection to the “Robot of Sherwood.”  The sheriff’s boar emblem looks very much like ET Odin’s helmet when placed behind someone’s head.  Check out this image below of the arrow bearer in this perfectly centered camera shot where the emblem of the boar’s ears (yellow arrow) now looks like the wings on Odin’s helmet.

In fact, the sheriff looks a lot like Odin without the helmet.

Interestingly, we have seen a character in TRODM, Lucy Fletcher, whose name means arrow maker or to furnish (an arrow) with a feather.  Through all the mirrors we’ve examined, she connects to Amy, who connects to River.  Susan connects to River, too.  And River may connect to Missy.  We know Missy has been controlling the Doctor through Clara, and she’s running a con game now. 

Who’s Behind Controlling the TARDIS?

Check out the image below in the darkened TARDIS when Nardole goes to get some gear to help Bill after she falls into the pit.  The bookcase is lit, which is very abnormal.  And it’s only one bookcase in particular.  This indicates it’s River.

In fact, interestingly, Missy has 2 faces when we first see her at the end of “The Empress of Mars.”  The blue arrow points to her face that looks like it’s inside the TARDIS, while the yellow arrow points to her other face.  The TARDIS symbolizes the Doctor’s wife and the Doctor’s mind.

The Doctor is being controlled by his wife is what part of the subtext is pointing to.  We saw in “The Lie of the Land” analysis that with the 2nd Doctor story “The Mind Robber,” where the Master was the author who controlled things in the same way River controlled things in “The Angels Take Manhattan” with her novel.  We know River is one of the architects of the rescue plan.

Friday Has a Norse Connection

Of course, the name Friday comes from Robinson Crusoe.  However, given the plot along with Friday’s name, appearance, and references, there are other allusions intended, too, making Friday a brilliant name with overloaded meanings.

Friday & Odin

“Friday,” as the actual day of the week, is named after Odin’s wife.  In Old English, her name is Frīge, so it’s "Frīge's day."  Other spellings, according to Wikipedia, are Frigg (Old Norse), Frija (Old High German), and Frea (Langobardic).

So the character Friday automatically has a connection to Odin and can represent Odin’s wife.  However, there’s more. 

Like Friday, Odin has one eye.

In fact, according to Norse-Mythology.org:

Odin’s quest for wisdom is never-ending, and he is willing to pay any price, it seems, for the understanding of life’s mysteries that he craves more than anything else. On one occasion, he hanged himself, wounded himself with his spear, and fasted from food and drink for nine days and nights in order to discover the runes.

On another occasion, he ventured to Mimir’s Well – which is surely none other than the Well of Urd – amongst the roots of the world-tree Yggdrasil. There dwelt Mimir, a shadowy being whose knowledge of all things was practically unparalleled among the inhabitants of the cosmos. He achieved this status largely by taking his water from the well, whose waters impart this cosmic knowledge.

When Odin arrived, he asked Mimir for a drink from the water. The well’s guardian, knowing the value of such a draught, refused unless the seeker offered an eye in return. Odin – whether straightaway or after anguished deliberation, we can only wonder – gouged out one of his eyes and dropped it into the well. Having made the necessary sacrifice, Mimir dipped his horn into the well and offered the now-one-eyed god a drink.

Odin’s story of trading an eye for a different type of perception and knowledge meshes with the concepts of the Eye of Harmony and the Matrix.  We’ve examined how the Matrix gives the gift of prophecy.

ENGIN: Yes. Trillions of electrochemical cells in a continuous matrix. The cells are the repository of departed Time Lords. At the moment of death, an electrical scan is made of the brain pattern and these millions of impulses are immediately transferred to the DOCTOR: Shush. I understand the theory. What's the function?

ENGIN: Well, to monitor life in the Capitol. We use all this combined knowledge and experience to predict future developments.

And the Eye of Harmony from TRODM clearly has to do with the Matrix.  The Eye, as the 8th Doctor said in the movie, is his.

DOCTOR: Lee, this is my Tardis. This is my Eye and I'm in my own body. The Master has run out of all his lives. Now he plans to steal mine. That's the truth!

Anyway, in Friday’s case, because he defers to Iraxxa, he symbolically could represent Odin in disguise as an old man.  After all, he did tell the Doctor:

DOCTOR: Why have you really come back? FRIDAY: (sigh) I am old and tired and spent.

The reversed roles of the queen and Friday could also possibly be explained through the gender change.

Friday & The Vikings

After the Doctor and Bill discuss the Ice Warrior, Bill mentions a movie and an eye gouging when Friday is present, tying the movie to Friday.

DOCTOR: Yes. The indigenous species. An ancient reptilian race. They built themselves a sort of bio-mechanical armour for protection. The creature within is at one with its carapace. The Ice Warriors. They could build a city under the sand, yet drench the snows of Mars with innocent blood. They could slaughter whole civilisations, yet weep at the crushing of a flower. BILL: Like The Vikings. DOCTOR: Yes. Yes, very much. BILL: Yeah, Kirk Douglas and Tony Curtis. Oh, the theme tune is amazing! There's this brilliant bit where his eye gets gouged out (Friday stops and Bill notices the missing eye.)

Friday’s missing eye resembles that of Kirk Douglas’ character in the 1958 movie The Vikings. 

Wikipedia says

The King of Northumbria is killed during a Viking raid led by the fearsome Ragnar (Ernest Borgnine). Because the king had died childless, his cousin Aella (Frank Thring) takes the throne. The king's widow, however, is pregnant with what she knows is Ragnar's child because he had raped her during that fateful raid, and to protect the infant from her cousin-in-law's ambitions, she sends him off to Italy. By a twist of fate, the ship is intercepted by the Vikings, who are unaware of the child's kinship, and enslave him.

BTW, the queen sends the child with the monks.

Many years later, we see that the boy has grown into a young man named Erik (Tony Curtis), who is still a slave.  After some events take place, Erik in retaliation orders his falcon to attack Einar (Kirk Douglas), Ragnar's legitimate son and heir.  The falcon gouges out Einar’s left eye. 

The enmity between the half brothers is exacerbated when they both fall in love with the same woman, Princess Morgana, who is to marry King Aella but gets captured in a raid.  In a way, this is like the 11th and 12th Doctors with River. BTW, I forgot to mention this, but the Doctor in Missy’s execution scene in “Extremis” and in the scenes in “The Lie of the Land” wears an old raggedy coat, which would represent the 11th Doctor.  In fact, the 11th Doctor’s theme music does play in the latter episode.

Anyway, at one point Aella captures Ragnar and, according to Wikipedia, “orders the Viking leader bound and thrown into a pit filled with starved wolves. To give Ragnar a Viking's death (so that he can enter Valhalla), Erik, who is granted the honour of forcing him into the pit, cuts the prisoner's bonds and gives him his sword. Laughing, Ragnar jumps to his death. In response to Erik's "treason", Aella cuts off his left hand, puts him back on his ship and casts him adrift.”

(Amy cuts off Rorybot’s hands in “The Girl Who Waited.”  Rorybot is sentient.  So is this movie scene significant to the story?)

In the end, Erik and Einar fight for Morgana, and Erik mortally wounds Einar. Wikipedia says, “Echoing the scene with Ragnar, Erik gives Einar a sword, so that he too can enter Valhalla. In the final scene, Einar is given a Viking funeral: his body is placed on a longship, which is set on fire by flaming arrows.”

Friday not only represents Einar with his eye gouged out, but also Erik, as a servant.

Erik is a hybrid, half-Northumbrian and half-Viking, mirroring the hybrid nature of the Doctor.

Also, it’s interesting that Erik and Einar are half brothers because I’ve wondered for quite some time if the Master and Doctor were brothers (as was originally planned in Classic Who) or half brothers.  The idea that the Doctor has a half brother has come up in the subtext before. In fact, it most likely relates to Castor and Pollux, which we’ll look at below.

The idea of Valhalla and a Viking funeral for the Doctor is important for several reasons.  The first is that Rory gave the Doctor a Viking funeral in “The Impossible Astronaut” after River killed him.  (Interestingly, though, there is a hidden face of the Doctor’s in the reflection in River’s helmet.  Things didn’t quite happen the way they appeared.)

The ideas of Valhalla and a Viking funeral lead to redemption for the Doctor and his fate. We’ll look at this more in the next chapter when we examine the Victorians.

The First Time We See Friday

The first time we see Friday, something curious takes place.  The Ice Warrior comes toward the Doctor in a threatening manner.  However, the Doctor diffuses the situation with an Ice Warrior greeting. 

DOCTOR: I know your people of old. I was once an Honorary Guardian of the Tythonian Hive.

(A rifle bolt is moved.)

However, we then hear Godsacre’s voice, and he says and does something curious.

GODSACRE: Don't move. I'll sort this beggar out.

(A red-coat with white pith helmet is pointing what ought to be a Martini-Henry breech loading rifle at them.)

DOCTOR: No, no, no, no! You don't understand. This creature is no threat. He may look like a monster to you

(A rifle shot at the Doctor's feet makes him jump back.)

GODSACRE: I wasn't talking to you. Are you all right, Friday?

The Doctor is portrayed as the monster here, not Friday.  To make that clear, the Doctor even says, “He may look like a monster to you…”

This really is interesting behavior, especially since the Doctor looks human here in this altered reality.  What does he really look like?

Friday, the Doctor & Shakespeare’s Henry V

Since the Doctor is metaphorically Shakespeare, it seems as though there may be another connection with both the Doctor, Friday, and Henry V. Since they can be a symbol of Odin, walking through Midgard in disguise, they could also symbolically be King Henry V, who disguises himself as a commoner and walks around camp, where nobody recognizes him as the king.

Actually, we already saw this type of thing with Queen Liz 10 in “The Beast Below,” where she walked around with her mask on, not wanting to be recognized. Therefore, we should expect that something like this is happening now.

If the Doctor has been possessed, mind controlled, or some other type of usurpation, then there is a disguise of sorts going on.

Castor & Pollux: The Master/Missy & the Doctor?

Are the Master/Missy and the Doctor mirrors of Castor and Pollux from Greek and Roman mythology? The references have come up in the subtext before, and it seems appropriate to consider this since the plan in Classic Who was to have the Master and the Doctor be brothers. However, once Roger Delgado, the 1st Master, died in a car crash, the plans never came to fruition. In fact, the 3rd Doctor, Jon Pertwee, who was good friends with Delgado, left DW because of Delgado’s death.

Anyway, there are multiple versions of the Castor and Pollux myth, where they could be brothers or half brothers, depending on the version.  Since The Vikings refers to half brothers, I’ll concentrate on that version.

Castor and Pollux were twin brothers, together known as the Dioscuri or Dioskouroi.  According to Wikipedia:

Their mother was Leda, but they had different fathers; Castor was the mortal son of Tyndareus, the king of Sparta, while Pollux was the divine son of Zeus, who seduced Leda in the guise of a swan. Though accounts of their birth are varied, they are sometimes said to have been born from an egg, along with their twin sisters or half-sisters Helen of Troy and Clytemnestra.

In Latin the twins are also known as the Gemini or Castores. When Castor was killed, Pollux asked Zeus to let him share his own immortality with his twin to keep them together, and they were transformed into the constellation Gemini. The pair were regarded as the patrons of sailors, to whom they appeared as St. Elmo's fire, and were also associated with horsemanship.

There was a common belief that one child would live among the gods, while the other was among the dead. That���s interesting since the Doctor is associated in multiple ways with ghosts.

Anyway, here’s yet another reference to Zeus.  We know the Doctor has been cast as either a proxy to Zeus or Zeus, himself.  However, there are multiple versions of the Doctor. Is one the father and one the son while a third is a ghost?  Like in the Trinity?

We also see other important references.  We know horses are important.  Sailors could also possibly refer to space and time travelers.  And the topic of eggs comes up a lot.  For example, we saw the moon as an egg in “Kill the Moon.” Missy, too, mentioned that Nardole looks like and egg in “The Lie of the Land”:

MISSY: You haven't been to see me in six months. No-one has! Not even that bald bloke who looks like an egg.

However, eggs also come up in other episodes, like the 9th Doctor episode, “The End of the World,” which we looked at in the analysis of “The Lie of the Land.”  And there’s an indirect reference to eggs in “The Empress of Mars” where the Doctor mentions “Tythonian Hive” when he meets Friday.

DOCTOR: By the moons, I honour thee. I'm the Doctor. What is your name? (The Ice Warrior growls. He has one eye missing and a scrape across the helmet nose guard.) DOCTOR: I know your people of old. I was once an Honorary Guardian of the Tythonian Hive. (A rifle bolt is moved.)

The Tythonian Hive reference, BTW, makes no sense when relating it to Ice Warriors.  The term refers to the 4th Doctor episode “The Creature from the Pit.”  However, there are other important pieces of information in that episode.  For example, it also refers to a pit, which Bill happens to fall into in “The Empress of Mars.” 

“The Creature from the Pit,” the Egg & the Y symbol

I had never seen “The Creature from the Pit” before, so I was surprised when I watched it that there were no hives or references to Ice Warriors.  I haven’t seen this happen before with a reference that didn’t make sense, but obviously, we are supposed to get other things out of that reference.

When it comes to this episode, many things don’t make sense.  There is a giant structure that looks like a flat wall, but the Doctor calls it an egg and eggshell and says it’s alive:

ADRASTA: Yes. My huntsman heard you say that the shell was alive. DOCTOR: Alive and screaming in pain. ADRASTA: The shell? Then why can no one hear it? DOCTOR: Because it can only be detected on very low frequency wavelengths. ADRASTA: What's the shell screaming about? DOCTOR: Ah. More to the point, for whom is it screaming? Its mummy? By the pyramids, imagine the size of its mummy.

Not only is it an egg, but here’s something once again that is looking possibly for it’s mummy, like “The Empty Child.”  Also, it’s screaming but can’t be heard like the Star Whale in “The Beast Below.” Both the Empty Child and the Star Whale are metaphors for the Doctor.

Nardole is associated with an egg, just like the Doctor is with the moon as an egg concept.  And Nardole is an unactualized mirror for the Doctor.  The egg also symbolizes going back to the beginning.  This meshes with other things we’ve examined like how the universe was only 23 million years old in “The Pilot.”  Also, the Doctor’s timeline is going backwards, and we see that in the opening credits.

In “The Creature from the Pit,” there’s also a pit, of course, with a creature in it.  The Doctor actually jumps into the pit, like the 10th Doctor jumped into the pit in “The Satan Pit.”  Both find gigantic creatures.  Bill falls into the pit in “The Empress of Mars” and finds a gigantic hive and the sinister Captain Catchlove.

However, the 4th Doctor calls the creature a giant brain.  Um… this doesn’t make sense, either.

Here’s what the TARDIS Wikia says

The Tythonians were massive, blob-like organisms, sometimes hundreds of feet long. They were glowing green and had an outer membrane that was deeply creased. They had no true limbs, but had two large pseudopods. One pseudopod was shaped like the letter Y, while the other was simply a large tube. They had no vocal cords and communicated with the aid of Tythonian communicators. Tythonians could live for forty thousand years.  

The Y shape refers to a plague of deaths.  The humanoids throw people down into the pit for the creature to eat.

While this all is important, I also see the whole pit and creature reference important, which refer back to “The Satan Pit” and the war for freedom from slavery.  The 4th Doctor does help free the creature in the pit, who actually doesn’t eat people.

Therefore, this episode is hugely symbolic of what is happening in Season 10; however, not by the Tythonian Hive reference.

Living Underground As a Theme

Not only do the Ice Warriors live underground, but the Silurians do too, as we saw in the 11th Doctor episodes “The Hungry Earth” and “Cold Blood.”  In the 1st Dalek story, “The Daleks,” the Daleks also live underground.  The creature in “The Creature from the Pit” and the Beast in “The Satan Pit” also live underground. 

In all these cases, it’s not really by choice.  They are forced to live underground because conditions on the surface are problematic, or the creatures are imprisoned underground.

It’s interesting that on Gallifrey everything looks dead, as far as the landscape is concerned.  The Doctor and Master talked about how it used to be beautiful with grass, trees, etc.  While people live in the doomed city, where do they get their food from?  Of course, we are only seeing a small portion of the planet, but it still makes me wonder.

Skaro looks much the same.

Tunnels & The Thing

Interestingly, Bill mentions the movie The Thing, tunnels, and how the Doctor would like the movie because everyone dies.  The latter seems really odd for the Doctor we know, unless we consider the Doctor as the mirror to alternate-Donna in “Turn Left.”  Both have to die, along with the parallel world. The Master, Morbius, the Valeyard, and some others would also like to see everyone die.

BILL: (walking away) Oh, it's like the underground tunnels in The Thing. DOCTOR: The what? BILL: It's a movie. You'd like that one too. Everybody dies.

There are several movie versions of The Thing.  In the 1982 version, the setting is in Antarctica, which fits the Ice Warriors.  Where is the ice for the Ice Warriors anyway?  The setting is reminiscent of “The Planet of the Ood” and the large brain found on the ice. Also, it also is the setting of “The Seeds of Doom,” another 4th Doctor usurpation story that we looked at.

The creature from a crashed spaceship can perfectly duplicate other beings, like “The Zygon Invasion” and “The Zygon Inversion.”  This creates a very similar situation that we saw in “Midnight,” where at first Skye got possessed and people freaked out.  The being then possessed the Doctor, and they freaked out even more. It was mob mentality and a witchhunt, just like the movie.  And they turned on each other.

This also brings in the idea of “Love & Monsters,” the 10th Doctor episode where Victor Kennedy/The Abzorbaloff, absorbs people into his body.

Here are more themes that are being repeated.

The Next Chapter

In the next chapter, we’ll examine the Victorians and how Clara fits in in multiple ways, along with the ravens.  I’ll show you what I call collective symbolism vs. individual symbolism.

Go to next chapter => Ch. 3: Clara, Ravens, Victoria(ns), Oh My!

[xpoetic-slothx-blog]

troubadontcha replied to your post: ’ your ideas are so beautiful and original, i love...

the mountain man……

╰★╯

❝Would you prefer the term ‘mountain boy’? It doesn’t flow as smoothly.❞

╰★╯

[xpoetic-slothx-blog]

( @ouran0strum )

╰★╯

❝Who would have thought archery was this difficult?❞

Mitama half-assed her attempt to use a bow and arrow correctly. Ever since becoming a priestess, her father has begun to demand her to learn how to use a weapon. She choose this, but now has her regrets. 

She was ready to throw it down and sneak away to nap. But then she spotted a certain thief. Her star-pupil eyes shined as an idea occurred: why not have Nina teach her how? Soon enough, the pink-haired girl was waving down the blonde.

❝An outlaw by night/ Is the exact one I need/ To teach me this art.❞

╰★╯

[xpoetic-slothx-blog]

’ your ideas are so beautiful and original, i love them. ’

compliment sentence starters.▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄

╰★╯

Mitama paused for a moment, glancing over to Kisaragi. Did she hear him right? The compliment seemingly came out of nowhere. It no doubt put a large grin on her face though. She can tell he meant every word of it.

❝The mountain man says/ Sweet sayings that make me smile/ My heart leaps with joy.❞

❝I cannot express my thanks. You are a dear friend, truly.❞

╰★╯

[xpoetic-slothx-blog]

▤ = falling asleep on them .

send one for my muse’s reaction to your muse —▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄

▤ = falling asleep on them 

╰★╯

How ironic. Isn’t it usually her job to be the one to fall asleep first? It’s sort of humorous that it’s Dwyer instead. Her star-pupil hues gazed at his sleeping figure for a few moments, remaining absolutely still in order not to wake the male.

❝Goodnight and sweet dreams/ Dutiful butler who serves/ Who deserves a break.❞

Mitama’s lips curved into a grin as she closed her own eyes. It wouldn’t hurt to catch a quick nap either. Might as well be Dwyer’s snoozing buddy for the time being.

╰★╯

[xpoetic-slothx-blog]

♬ = singing to them

send one for my muse’s reaction to your muse —▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄

♬ = singing to them

╰★╯

What a disaster. Yes, these two are artists when it came to craftsmanship with one’s hands, but there was only one who can create with their voice. 

Mitama is in utter awe at Shigure’s voice. He sang like a literal angel! He must have inherited that skill due to being Azura’s son. The priestess, on the other hand, is mediocre in singing. The pink-haired girl really didn’t practice doing such a thing all that often. It required too much energy for her liking. Staying in pitch and such. What a shame that the bluenette had to hear her off-key so often. 

❝A difficult time/ I am having with singing/ I am quite lacking.❞

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