#✩ ❛ edward / when he became a man ‚ he put away childish things .

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

Ex-Moonie recounts his life as a follower of the Rev. Moon

Chicago Tribune March 1979

By Michael Hirsley

One week, he was a Yale University graduate with a bachelor of arts degree in psychology and philosophy, considering graduate school and beginning summer vacation in Berkeley, Calif.

The next week, he was on a farm with his new friends, jumping and pumping his arms up and down while chanting, “Choo-choo-choo-choo,” like a “choo-choo” train in a sort of rural Romper Room gone wrong.

After four weeks, he called his parents to assure them he was doing well. Within six months, his new California friends had become his only family.

He turned over to them his earnings from selling flowers, then from washing dishes, while settling for peanut butter sandwiches as nourishment, and four hours for sleep. Once, he sneaked away and bought himself a glass of milk and a cookie. After he finished them, his shame was instant. He threw up.

Why would a 22-year-old man with a college education begin acting like a child, pliantly follow orders and work for next to nothing, and be unable to eat a cookie in solitude without feeling like a traitor?

He met them that first week in Berkeley. A man who had been kind enough to direct him to a hotel invited him to dinner. There, he met the group.

“They didn't say anything about being a religious group. They were friendly and paid incredible attention to everything I told them about myself,” Edwards says. ‘‘I liked the atmosphere better than social hours in college.”

But still, it is disquieting to imagine that someone like Christopher Edwards — who still fits the Ivy League image in a vested suit, and still looks like a college student as he sips a cup of coffee in a Chicago hotel room — “gave” his soul temporarily to a cult.

His credentials are non-radical, middle-of-the-road: Son of a doctor, member of an upper middle class family, spent summers traveling in this country and in Europe... Was he really the typical college graduate he seemed to be when he became a Moonie?

“What’s typical?” he asks. “One of the last memories I have of college is sitting with a friend and watching (on television) the last troops leave Vietnam. I was somewhat disillusioned with the war and our society.”

He said his peers in the Moonies included many white, middle-class, college-educated men and women in their early 20s.

“There are people who are more susceptible to a religious group like this, people coming out of college, a little disillusioned, looking for a loving community,” he says. “But I really fight the notion that something has to be wrong with you to get involved in a group like this. I think only an extremely selfish, narrow-minded person would not be susceptible.”

He accepted the group’s invitation to go to the farm in California for the weekend. Once there, he ignored guards at the front gate, the silly “choo-choo” game and the fact that “someone followed me everywhere I went, even to the bathroom.”

Edwards admits he found those things “silly and embarrassing, and very odd, but they seemed harmless. I thought theirs was a simplicity that could be trusted.”

And, he concedes, that as a psychology student, “part of my motivation for staying was pure curiosity. Their tactics attracted me.”

His early days with the group consisted of repetitive exercises and lectures in which “you were praised for following directions and accepting repetitive boring speeches without questioning them,” he says. “I felt confident that I couldn’t be manipulated, but I was.”

Those childish games and dogmatic speeches were exercises to break down resistance to brainwashing, he says. “I was put in a hypnotic state,” he says. “I was in a trance.”

For nearly four months, his parents — Dr. Charles Edwards. a surgeon, and his wife, Betty, of Montclair, N. J. — were blissfully unaware of what was happening to their son. It wasn’t unusual to hear little from him when he was traveling on his vacation.

Even a letter, in which he described to them his work with a Creative Community Project in Oakland, caused them no anxiety until they saw the project name again in a newspaper article.

“It was about a meeting for parents who had lost their children to cults. It indicated that Christopher’s project was part of the Rev. Sun Myung Moon’s Unification Church, the Moonies,” Dr. Edwards said in a phone conversation from his New Jersey office. “We were shocked.”

The Edwards attended the meeting, and were shocked anew. “It was supposed to be a one-hour meeting, from 3 p.m. to 4 p.m.,” Dr. Edwards recalled. “It lasted until 8 p.m. There were over 500 parents there.” Unification Church membership is estimated at 80,000.  [There were never more than about 10,000 core members in the US and many of those were imported from Japan and Europe. If everyone who ever had any connection with the UC was counted the number of 30,000 might have been reached decades ago.]

After the meeting, the Edwards’ contacted Ted Patrick, the controversial “deprogrammer” who assists parents in kidnapping their children from the Moonies.

“Patrick had a three-and-a-half month waiting list,” Dr. Edwards said. While he waited for Patrick’s call, he read everything he could about the Moonies.

In January of 1976, Dr. Edwards met with Patrick to plot Christopher’s kidnaping.

The doctor closed his practice for three weeks. He flew to California, found his son after considerable searching, and said he just wanted to be sure Christopher was all right.

“I met him in a coffee shop were he worked,” Dr. Edwards said. “I saw all these kids there walking around with passive looks and mechanical movements. I thought they were in a trance, and I have had some training in hypnosis.

“I didn't say anything against the cult, and I was invited to lunch the next day. I watched recruiting techniques used on me. They looked me in the eye and spoke lovingly, flatteringly, and made me feel important.

The next day, Patrick and assistants helped Dr. Edwards pull his son out of a car and away from a fellow group member.

Dr. Edwards said the weeks of deprogramming that followed — including plane fares for five deprogrammers and assistants and a detective after the family received threatening phone calls and suffered two break-ins at their home — cost “tens of thousands of dollars.”

Christopher Edwards now lectures on cults, and has written a book about his experiences, entitled, “Crazy for God.”

“Its just coincidental that my book is coming out just when Guyana and Jonestown are making us worry about cults,” Edwards says.

“The People’s Temple suicides in Jonestown and thereafter; and an “informal” congressional hearing on cult worship last month; are heightening public anxiety about cults.

Edwards’ book provides fuel for such concern, citing mechanical movements, glassy eyes, and loss of intelligence and initiative as changes which cult members undergo hypnosis.

In one small section, where Edwards expresses hope that “a psychological test will one day emerge to verify these changes,” the book provides a scary glimpse at the potential for “psycho-war” between cults and deprogrammers.

“I fought against the deprogrammers for quite a while, and I told them I would die for my cult friends and leaders,” Edwards says “That still worries me a great deal.”

__________________________________

Crazy for God: The nightmare of cult life by Christopher Edwards

The Social Organization of Recruitment in the Unification Church PDF  
 by David Frank Taylor, M.A., July 1978, Sociology

Moonwebs by Josh Freed (the book was made into a movie)

__________________________________

Unification Church’s deceptive recruiting tactics - Part 1

4:00 Ford Greene “At the outset there is never a disclosure: 1) We are the Unification Church
 2) We believe that Rev. Moon is the second coming of Christ
 3) We believe that you are dominated by Satan 
4) The way for you to become free from Satan is by being unconditionally obedient to Moon because he is the only human being who has ever conquered and defeated Satan.”

1:30 Allen Tate Wood
“…The purpose of getting there is to get them off to a training center, run them through a training regimen of 7, 21 or 40 days. When that is complete that person is going to be on a bus for the next seven years, working 16 hours a day. They are not up front about that.”

Unification Church’s deceptive recruiting tactics - Part 2 5:00 Ford Greene:
 “The pitch that is always made is a pitch to conscience, is a pitch to a person’s highest, most moral inner yearnings and the ultimate result is enslavement.”

__________________________________

Ford Greene on Sun Myung Moon and the Unification Church

Allen Tate Wood (was also interviewed by News Center 4) LINK to a webpage of interviews with Allen Tate Wood

[girlheirarchive-blog]

have some tags or something

[bisexual-inuyasha]

Xingese Gold

Prompts: pining/hands/nature. “Please just hate me already.”

Wrap your arms and hold me still

I don't wanna think about what I will

Speak in tones that I can't hear

And tell me how no one knows anything in here

-- Jade Bird “What Am I Here For”

A young boy with black hair and dark eyes sat in his mother’s field. His face was serious, mouth twisted into a frown. He was a very stern child, hair pulled severely back into a bun.

For most kids his age, the object of their concentration would be something colorful and loud. Or maybe even ants crawling along the dirt or the dried out carcass of a worm. For this child, scrawny and tired, it was the flowers. His fingers--nimble, gentle, fleeting like tiny birds--brushed over the golden strands. Petals remained safely caged behind spindly stamen. His pants were soaked at the knees, his bare feet covered in broken grass and mud. 

His mother had taught him about these flowers. It couldn’t have been more than a month ago, after a similar heavy bout of rains. The lesson came after the worst news in his young life. She had died only a few days later, protecting him from one of his brothers from another clan. Forty one siblings would be easier to kill than forty two. He’d written the name down in a book, tucked that book into his shirt, and watched his mother be buried in the only silk his clan could muster. It had not been a good season.

She had called these flowers Xingese gold. According to her, they were the only flowers of their kind in all the world. Other places had yellow, red and white. But only the Yao clan from Xing had golden spider lilies. They were proof, she’d said, that he was meant to ascend to the throne. Only the Emperor could wear gold, after all.

He glanced around the field and  rocked back on the balls of his feet to get a better look. When he was sure the coast was clear, he plucked a flower and tucked it into the middle pages.

The list of the names in the book grew longer as more and more clans fell to assassination attempts. His mother’s children, his half-siblings, resented and revered him as their downfall and their only possible salvation. For many years, he had no true friends.

And then Lan Fan found him, visiting the now overgrown field, plucking Xingese gold. And she swore, for the price of a single flower, she would protect him. Her hands were clean and her clothes neat when he took him to the humble house she lived in. Her grandfather’s face was hard. His lessons were harder. But his kindness reminded Ling of a childhood wrapped and buried in silk. And with the old man’s guidance, and Lan Fan’s friendship, Ling’s body hardened into a weapon.

His personality sharpened like a knife, quick and cutting and so unassuming.

But it was his instincts that set him apart. He lived with his finger on the pulse, twisting around the existence of others like a hesitant snake. Curious and fleeting, never lingering long, taking only what he needed.

And this is how Ling Yao became a teenager who crossed the desert, determined to find the key to immortality. 

**Amestris, before the end of the world.**

Ling lay on hot tiles, tapping his toes against the burning roof. He was waiting for the right time to drop through the open window. This golden haired alchemist was well known around this country for his search for the philosopher’s stone. The philosopher’s stone was well known for being the only alchemical way to achieve immortality. If Ling believed in fate, he’d almost think they were meant to find each other. 

That wouldn’t do right now.

Ed had all the cards. Every scrap of information Ling wanted existed behind those golden eyes. Whatever Ed didn’t know about the philosopher’s stone, he knew how to find. Ling sensed that maybe, this stone and Ed’s life, were intrinsically linked. Linked in a way far more certain than fate.

Al left the room. The metal man had taken to leaving when he could tell Ed needed to rest. It was less lonely for him to spend those hours exploring the city. Or at least that was the reason Al gave. But it didn’t take the dragon’s pulse to see that Edward Elric was thinning out.

Not physically. His body was fit as ever, though no taller for having increased his intake. But Edward himself seemed more and more distant. Al may be afraid of disappearing inside his armor, but Ed was disappearing into himself. The golden hair alchemist was becoming lost in a maze of problems and responsibilities that seemed to grow new walls and corridors every day. Ling had his own knots to untangle. He couldn’t help lead Edward out of his.

“I wasn’t sure I’d get the chance to talk with you.” Ling slid through the window, grinning. 

“You don’t have to do that, you know.” Ed’s metal arm was over his eyes. Ling had noticed he did this when he was too warm. The metal had to be cool against his skin.

“Do what? You can’t even see me.” Ling sidled down onto the couch. Ed’s bed was clear across the room. He could have sworn the set up was different when the boys had first settled into this room, but he wouldn’t complain. “Lan Fan and Fu want me to stay hidden for a couple of days, until Bradley loses interest.”

“What, did you get bored?” Ed snickered. “Or did they just run out of food?”

Ling patted his tummy forlornly. “Do you mean to say you have food? I do feel a little faint, now that you mention it.” He went limp, feigning unconsciousness. His stomach growled for good effect.

 Ed’s footsteps padded on the hardwood floors. The metal clunk of his foot was muffled by the sock he wore over it, but it was still an unusual gait. Distinct, and comforting. It had been a signal to Ling that he was safe, since Gluttony. Since he’d listened for those footsteps in the dark, and the blood. Ling opened his eyes and stared at the moonlit ceiling. Just the thought of Gluttony made him feel slimy. Filled his nose with the scent of blood. Suddenly his appetite was gone.

He still accepted the bowl of scallion chicken soup when Ed handed it to him and took a large spoonful. “Cold.”

“Yeah, well, that is what an icebox does.” Ed pulled his hand through his hair. “Still good though.” 

Ling took another large spoonful. His stomach clenched. He put the food down. He tried not to look revolted but Ed was watching him all the same. “Good, but maybe not what I’m hungry for tonight.” 

“Hm.” Ed tapped his fingers against his chair. His mouth was tense, body full of restless energy. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “Do you ever think about how we’re just… kids?”

Ling waited for the horror to cross Ed’s face at what would usually be a difficult confession, but tonight seemed to be a night of honesty. 

“I haven’t been a kid since before I met Lan Fan. I don’t contemplate those kinds of things much any more.” Ling leaned forward to rest his chin on his hand. Ed was still in his black tanktop and work pants. He’d taken to sleeping in them more often than not. “What makes your mind so heavy today?”

Ed didn’t answer for a long moment. Outside, Ling could hear the never sleeping cars of Amestris trotting along the cobble streets. Ling followed the line where Ed’s hair met his jawline. It looked so different outside of the braid.

“I saw Al’s body. It’s just. So young.” Ed stood, pacing. Ling listened to the pad-thunk-scrape-pad-thunk of Ed’s steps. “We’re all so young. I can see it in the Colonel’s eyes when he gives me orders. I can feel it when Riza talks to me and there’s all this… this sorrow. Like she’s stealing something from me. Something I’ll never get back. And some part of me knows she’s right.”

Ling could taste the metallic stain of blood on his tongue. His fingernails still had some of Gluttony stuck in the beds. When he closed his eyes, he could still see Envy’s souls calling out to him, begging him to free them. “I’m tired, Ed. Have you been sleeping?” 

Ed’s eyes narrowed. His arms crossed. In a small, miffed voice he admitted that no, he hadn’t really been sleeping. “Don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“You’re too young to be contemplating loss of youth.” Ling grinned. It was full of too many teeth. “Come on, lighten up Ed. You probably just need a nap.”

“I don’t want to nap. I just. Want to feel like I’m going somewhere.” Ed flopped back into his seat. Ling’s response seemed to have deflated him. “I’m just trying to get back to where I was before I lost Al’s body. But what do I do then? Most people spend this time figuring that out, but I’ve just determined I don’t want to stay a State Alchemist.”

“That’s a good start.” Link chuckled, and despite his best effort, it was not as lighthearted as he usually managed. “Being able to decide you don’t want to do something is a luxury some of us don’t have.”

This was an unusual visit. Since Ling and Ed’s day spent in the belly of Gluttony, Ling had gone to see Ed whenever the sun went down and the smell of blood filled his nose. Usually, Ed gave away his leftovers and they snarked back and forth at each other until Ling fell asleep on the couch. The next morning, Ling would sneak away through the window he snuck in from.

Ling’s chest felt tight. The room was too hot. He didn’t want to think about lost childhood, lost time. He didn’t want to think about fate and choosing his destiny. Ed’s problems weren’t his problems. Ed was upset he hadn’t been utilizing his time choosing what to do after he inevitably succeeded in his goal of finding Al’s body.

If Ling didn’t succeed in becoming emperor, all of his clan's people would die. And whoever became emperor could kill a lot more than that. His success depended on a goal so outlandish that most people dismissed it as a childish fantasy. Success meant a long life of being more responsible for more people than he could count in ten lifetimes. 

A heavy touch landed on his shoulder. Ed must have been talking to him, but he hadn’t heard anything at all. 

“Are you ok, Ling?” Ed’s earlier anxiety was replaced by worry. Now that Ling had been pulled out from his thoughts, he could feel Ed’s other hand on his knee. Anchors to the present. 

Ling smiled. He opened his mouth to assure Ed he was fine and maybe he’d take a nap since Ed wouldn’t, but Ed was already shaking his head.

“You don’t have to do that.” Ed let go of Ling’s shoulder and leaned back against the couch. He laid his head back, staring up at the window Ling came in. “I don’t have anyone I can actually talk to either, you know. Everyone expects something of me.”

“I expect something from you, too.” Ling leaned back beside Ed. Their shoulders bumped into each other on the couch, skin against skin. The smell of blood receded. Ling’s stomach growled again.

“No, you want something from me. That’s not the same as expecting something of me.”

Ling turned to look at the alchemist, surprised. “Explain.”

“Winry expects me to keep her and Al safe, to keep all my promises and then return home. Al, of course, expects me to get his body back. And I will. I want to. He should expect it of me. The Colonel and Hawkeye expect me to be an amazing alchemist, but they also expect me to be ok. Compared to all of that…” Ed sighed. “Compared to that, telling you about the philosopher’s stone is just a conversation. Just me telling you about Alchemy and my research.”

“So you’re saying you would have told me about the philosopher’s stone without me blowing up Gluttony’s head?”

Ed scoffed. “Don’t pretend you didn’t feel like a badass.”

“I was terrified. I'd like to see you stick your whole arm in that thing’s mouth.” They both laughed. Though truly, Ling was terrified of Gluttony. And Envy. All of the Homunculi who had too many souls. He thought Ed probably was, too.

“Well, you certainly looked confident. And fast, too. You’ll have to teach me some moves. Maybe I'll finally beat Al in a fight.”

They didn’t talk for so long that Ling drifted into sleep. His side pressed against Ed’s. Their legs touched hip to knee. Ling could feel the jutting edge of the automail through Ed’s jeans.  To his surprise, Ed’s head leaned into his, stirring him. Ling turned to see if Ed was asleep and was greeted with a face full of golden hair.

Ling moved carefully. Ed was fast asleep. He didn’t even seem to notice Ling’s arm move to circle around his shoulders. 

The memory of the dark, and the blood, and the souls crying out dimmed. Quieter, until Ling could almost convince himself those monsters had just been a bad dream. He ran his fingers through Ed’s hair and considered.

They’d grown closer, since their run in with Gluttony and the desperate run from Father’s base below Central. Since his introduction to Ling, both Envy and Wrath had been relentless in hunting him down. And still, he came here. Still, he waited out the nights with an anchor that told him the darkness was safe.

“You know, I’m going to use that stone eventually.” Ling kept his voice low. He didn’t actually want to confess anything to Ed. Not while the shorter man was sleeping so soundly. “No matter how it was made, I can’t let all my people die.”

Ed didn’t stir. Ling hummed. A thought twisted through his chest. “It would probably be better if you hated me now instead of later. But I just can’t bring myself to warn you. I’m a selfish, selfish man.”

Ling drifted off again eventually. It was hard to sleep on the couch without ending up awkwardly wrapped around Ed or falling off onto the hard wood.

When he woke in the morning, he was surprised to find Ed still leaning on his shoulder, fast asleep. The sun flooded the window and suddenly Ling was back in Xing, in his mother’s field. Strands of gold spilled between his fingertips.

“Xingese gold…” Ling murmured.

“What?” Ed yawned and sat up. “God, your breath stinks.”

Ling snorted. “You’re one to talk.”

Ling’s face burned. Every time he’d done this before, Ed had slept in his own bed. They’d come dangerously close to cuddling. With Ling’s increasing dependency on his visits with Ed, he wasn’t sure how to interpret the new developments. 

“What’s Xingese gold?” Ed stood and stretched. 

Ling smiled, remembering his mother sitting among the flowers. He pulled his book from his pocket. “I’ll show you.” 

The flower was faded and fragile. Ling didn’t dare move the flower off the paper. “Only my clan in Xing can grow this specific shade. My mother called it Xingese gold.”

“That’s… random.” Ed shrugged. 

“Just a dream, that’s all.” Ling stretched his grin wide again. “Though, your hair is the exact same shade.”

Ed’s cheeks tinged pink. “Hey, about last night…”

“No one has to know Edward Elric thought I looked cool when I fought the homunculus.” Ling patted Ed’s head, a motion he knew the short alchemist would hate. Ed fumed, but didn’t shout like Ling expected.

“Just so you know, Ling. If you accept that stone, I’ll fight it out of you.” Ed turned, picking up a new set of clothes for the day. “And if it kills you, it won’t make it to Xing to rule with your body.”

The anxiety in Ling’s chest burst. Fear, anger, worry splashed around his insides, coating his thoughts with an existential dread. Ed had heard him last night. Had heard him and rejected hating him.

Ling climbed into the window. 

Edward didn’t look back to see him leave.

Besides, no matter how Ling felt about what Ed had said, they both knew he’d be back when the darkness came.

[welllpthisishappening]

Welllp These Are Books: the April 2021 Edition

I did not read Romeo and Juliet this month. I read a bunch of other books. Like, a bunch. More than one series. Because Big Bang burnout is real and grown adults missing their deadlines is a real good way to stress me out. So, I read a bunch. Good books, very bad books, books that caused limbs to flail. For positive and not-so-positive reasons. Naturally, all those reasons must be shared. Under the cut with occasionally long and rant-prone reviews, as well as spoilers. Beware of spoilers under the cut. Please keep telling me what to read, internet. My library wish list is almost comically long now.

GIVE ME ALL THE WORLD BUILDING AND SNARK AND FIGHTING! WITH MAGIC! AND SWORDS! IT’S MY FAVORITE THING IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD!

Shades of Magic Series by V.E. Schwab

Kell is one of the last Antari—magicians with a rare, coveted ability to travel between parallel Londons; Red, Grey, White, and, once upon a time, Black. After an exchange goes awry, Kell escapes to Grey London and runs into Delilah Bard, a cut-purse with lofty aspirations. Now perilous magic is afoot, and treachery lurks at every turn. To save all of the worlds, they'll first need to stay alive.

— Picture it, approximately twelve forty-seven am. My husband is asleep. I am reading. The second book in this series ends. And I say, right out loud, at what might now be twelve forty-eight am, HOLY SHIT IT JUST ENDED. Justin thought we were under attack. No man has ever snapped awake quicker. He was not pleased. At least not in the same way that I was about these books. Which I goddamn LOVED. Loved. The world building. The magic. The banter. Rhy and Kell’s relationship. Once more. RHY AND KELL’S RELATIONSHIP. Which I might have cared about more than the romance??? Maybe??? I cannot get over how good this world building was. I know people have quips with it, and that’s fair. I saw the “twist” coming in the first book, and I think trying to preserve that left some plot holes that are understandably frustrating. Because Lilah definitely needed depth perception to fight as well as she did. Also did Schwab really refer to her as a cross dresser in her author’s note? Yikes. She wore a dude’s jacket, like—c’mon V.E. Other than that though. I loved it. Also shout out to @peglegsjones for suggesting this one in my 2020 post and call out to me for taking so long to read it.

Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo

Ketterdam: a bustling hub of international trade where anything can be had for the right price—and no one knows that better than criminal prodigy Kaz Brekker. Kaz is offered a chance at a deadly heist that could make him rich beyond his wildest dreams. But he can't pull it off alone. . . . A convict with a thirst for revenge. A sharpshooter who can't walk away from a wager. A runaway with a privileged past. A spy known as the Wraith. A Heartrender using her magic to survive the slums.  A thief with a gift for unlikely escapes.   Six dangerous outcasts. One impossible heist. Kaz's crew is the only thing that might stand between the world and destruction—if they don't kill each other first.

— I’ve talked about how little I cared about anything that happened in Shadow and Bone before, but I kept seeing gifs of the Crows in the Netflix show and my brain was like: huh, I could like them. So, after some help from the very helpful internet, I’m happy to report I do in fact like them. At one point, I slunk into the couch. Like that’s how overcome with emotion I was. Kaz ripped a dude’s eye out! For Inej! Matthias loved Nina’s laugh! I would like to hug Jesper. Seriously, this hit all my high points and world building and banter and I lol’ed at “scheming face.” I would like my hold to come through faster on the sequel.

THEY DID NOT CALL INTERMISSION HALFTIME AND MY COLLEGE EXPERIENCE WAS WAY DIFFERENT THAN THESE KIDS

The Off Campus Series by Elle Kennedy

Hannah Wells has finally found someone who turns her on. But while she might be confident in every other area of her life, she’s carting around a full set of baggage when it comes to sex and seduction. If she wants to get her crush’s attention, she’ll have to step out of her comfort zone and make him take notice…even if it means tutoring the annoying, childish, cocky captain of the hockey team in exchange for a pretend date. All Garrett Graham has ever wanted is to play professional hockey after graduation, but his plummeting GPA is threatening everything he’s worked so hard for. If helping a sarcastic brunette make another guy jealous will help him secure his position on the team, he’s all for it. But when one unexpected kiss leads to the wildest sex of both their lives, it doesn’t take long for Garrett to realize that pretend isn’t going to cut it. Now he just has to convince Hannah that the man she wants looks a lot like him.

— The first book in this series was free on Amazon. So, I read it. And really liked it??? It was so chock full of cliches and badly written tropes and Garrett probably should have accepted that Hannah didn’t want to go out at the start, but like—he was cute? And as we all know I am TRASH™ for stories set in the same verse, so, like, I just kept reading these trashy college hockey books. Trashy is a compliment here. God, these kids had so much sex. So much. An incredible amount, really. I once had a guy tell me he was physically attracted to me, but not emotionally attracted to me in college. Like, that was my college experience. The first and second books were the best, I think. I didn’t really like Dean that much.

MAYBE IT WAS BECAUSE HE WAS A RABBI???

The Intimacy Experiement by Rosie Danan

Naomi Grant has built her life around going against the grain. After the sex-positive start-up she cofounded becomes an international sensation, she wants to extend her educational platform to live lecturing. Unfortunately, despite her long list of qualifications, higher ed won't hire her. Ethan Cohen has recently received two honors: LA Mag nominated him as one of the city's hottest bachelors and he became rabbi of his own synagogue. Low on both funds and congregants, the executive board of Ethan's new shul hired him with the hopes that his nontraditional background will attract more millennials to the faith. They've given him three months to turn things around or else they'll close the doors of his synagogue for good. Naomi and Ethan join forces to host a buzzy seminar series on Modern Intimacy, the perfect solution to their problems--until they discover a new one--their growing attraction to each other. They've built the syllabus for love's latest experiment, but neither of them expected they'd be the ones putting it to the test.

— Ok, I know that sounds bad. Again, I’m a creature of predictable habit and this was the sequel to The Roommate, which I absolutely LOVED last year. But where as the relationship in that one was kind of swoony, this one was...I don’t know, really. Everyone was a well-rounded character and the plot was good, but there was this semi-invisible something that made it difficult for me to get fully on board with the whole story. Honestly, it might be because he was a religious figure?? Also, they got together real quick. Like zero to sixty in twenty-six seconds flat.

I KNOW IT’S BAD, IT WAS BAD AND YET—I CANNOT STOP READING IT???

Too Wild to Tame by Tessa Bailey

Sometimes you just can't resist playing with fire . . . By day, Aaron Clarkson suits up, shakes hands, and acts the perfect gentleman. But at night, behind bedroom doors, the tie comes off and the real Aaron comes out to play. Mixing business with pleasure got him fired, so Aaron knows that if he wants to work for the country's most powerful senator, he'll have to keep his eye on the prize. That's easier said than done when he meets the senator's daughter, who's wild, gorgeous, and 100 percent trouble. Grace Pendleton is the black sheep of her conservative family. Yet while Aaron's presence reminds her of a past she'd rather forget, something in his eyes keeps drawing her in. Maybe it's the way his voice turns her molten. Or maybe it's because deep down inside, the ultra-smooth, polished Aaron Clarkson might be more than even Grace can handle . . .

— Last month I read the first book in this series and it was absolutely ridiculous. This one even more so. The Clarksons are still on the road trip (sans one sibling because she fell in love in a week in the first book) and Aaron was, like, not a root’able character? Very Edward Cullen I’M A BAD GUY, BELLA vibes and his relationship with Grace was so strange. Super rushed again, obvs. Meeting in the woods is weird enough. Professing love forty-eight hours later is decidedly unbelievable. Also there was a kidnapping involved? I totally put a hold on the next book in the series.

COME UP WITH DIFFERENT TRAUMA, I DARE YOU! OR NO TRAUMA. WHAT A CONCEPT!!

The Trouble With Hating You by Sajni Patel

Liya Thakkar is a successful biochemical engineer, takeout enthusiast, and happily single woman. The moment she realizes her parents' latest dinner party is a setup with the man they want her to marry, she's out the back door in a flash. Imagine her surprise when the same guy shows up at her office a week later -- the new lawyer hired to save her struggling company. What's not surprising: he's not too thrilled to see her either after that humiliating fiasco.

Jay Shah looks good on paper...and off. Especially if you like that whole gorgeous, charming lawyer-in-a-good-suit thing. He's also infuriating. As their witty office banter turns into late-night chats, Liya starts to think he might be the one man who truly accepts her. But falling for each other means exposing their painful pasts. Will Liya keep running, or will she finally give love a real chance?

— I had such high hopes for this one. Which is on me, I guess. Because I didn’t hate this one, but it was...not great. Maybe I’m just getting old and crotchety but I am BEGGING romance writers to come up with different trauma for their female protagonists. Not every woman has to have been assaulted to rationalize their current personality. Doesn’t have to happen. Like, ok, yes it does happen. Far more than it should. But that’s an entirely different story, and I am so tired of female characters getting absolutely destroyed by their past only to have that be their defining characteristic for so much of the book. Until a nice man they were initially mean to shows up and he’s UNDERSTANDING and he CARES and it’s just, bleh. It’s bleh. Tired and predictable and I’m over it.

IN WHICH I SHOULD HAVE LOOKED AT THE COVER

Much Ado About You by Samantha Young

At thirty-three-years old Evangeline Starling’s life in Chicago is missing that special something. And when she’s passed over for promotion at work, Evie realizes she needs to make a change. Some time away to regain perspective might be just the thing. In a burst of impulsivity, she plans a holiday in a quaint English village. The holiday package comes with a temporary position at Much Ado About Books, the bookstore located beneath her rental apartment. There’s no better dream vacation for the bookish Evie, a life-long Shakespeare lover. Not only is Evie swept up in running the delightful store as soon as she arrives, she’s drawn into the lives, loves and drama of the friendly villagers. Including Roane Robson, the charismatic and sexy farmer who tempts Evie every day with his friendly flirtations. Evie is determined to keep him at bay because a holiday romance can only end in heartbreak, right? But Evie can’t deny their connection and longs to trust in her handsome farmer that their whirlwind romance could turn in to the forever kind of love.

— Ok, so I had had this book on hold for so long that I genuinely forgot about it and forgot who it was written by. Samantha Young wrote that one book that I called the worst book I had ever read. Only I did not realize that when I started reading this one. So, you see how this sets us up for disaster. Because this book was a disaster. Everyone was goddamn annoying. And whiny. Shit, everyone whined. About everything. Also, the actual writing was atrocious. I am not usually one to be like “men can’t write,” but at one point I told both @shireness-says and @optomisticgirl that this book must have been secretly written by a man because no woman writing it would be so obsessed with pointing out where her cellulite was. Like, what??? Also the first sex scene? Oh my God, I laughed. Guffawed. The so-called love interest literally asked: “Are we going to have sex now?” And then they just did. It was so bad. Also there was a dog? Who went everywhere with the so-called love interest. And they just never explained that? I thought it was going to be part of some crushing and depressing backstory. Nah, he was just there.

HOLY SHIT THIS WAS SO DUMB I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS WAS A BOOK! A BOOK MEANT FOR YOUNG ADULTS! WHAT IS YOUNG ADULT???

The Queen’s Secret by Melissa de la Cruz

Lilac's birthright makes her the Queen of Renovia, and a forced marriage made her the Queen of Montrice. But being a ruler does not mean making the rules. For Lilac, taking the throne means giving up the opportunity to be with love of her life, the kingdom's assassin, Caledon Holt. Worse, Cale is forced to leave the castle when a horrific set of magical attacks threatens Lilac's sovereignty. Now Cal eand Lilac will have to battle dark forces separately, even though being together is the only thing that's ever saved them.

— Remember last month when I was like: can’t wait for my hold to come through on this sequel so I know what happens? What an idiot. THIS BOOK WAS SO DUMB I CANNOT BELIEVE IT WAS A BOOK. As always in my rage-induced rants, no apologies for spoilers because seriously do NOT read this, but Lilac (legit, that was her name) married some other dude but just kept fucking Cale??? Like she had a secret door? So he could come in and they could fuck?? I just—oh my God. So, all these things kept happening. Magic and bad stuff and horses were killed. Lilac’s mother was the absolute WORST. Honestly the most worthless character who at one point was like “well, my story is over, guess it’s time to leave,” and then just left?? Forced Lilac into a marriage of alliance and no love and then everything evil was defeated in point two four seconds. It happened so fast I wasn’t even sure it happened. So, then I’m like, ok, how are Lilac and Cale going to end up together? Because this is YA and that’s how it’s supposed to work. Only her being married and that marriage requiring an heir is something of a rather large hurdle. Don’t worry! Remember when Lilac and Cale were fucking? Everyone totally knew. Including the king Lilac is married to. Who is somehow like...ok with this? And tells Cale that Lilac is pregnant. ISN’T THAT WONDERFUL! Sure, because now they can lie and claim its the king’s heir. ONLY IT’S CALE’S KID! AND CALE IS COOL WITH THIS! His entire internal monologue during this is about how he realizes he might not ever be able to tell his kid he’s their father, but he’ll be around and that’s good. Wait, what??? But there’s more! Not only is Lilac having Cale’s kid, but the king she’s married to is in love with one of Cale’s spy associates. So the king and the spy are going to go hang out (and presumably have their own kids) at one castle and Lilac and Cale are going to go to another. Lilac and the king never get divorced or annulled or whatever. Everyone stays as is and married as is and—they all live happily ever after? This was presented as a good ending, I swear. What the shit, guys, seriously.

[the-lonely-tree-original]

Green With Envy (FMA Oneshot)

Just kind of thought about what would happen when Roy got a new alchemist under his belt and...

When all is said and done, Edward Elric doesn’t want much. He wants a good life, that’s true. He wants to go to sleep in a warm bed and be able to put food on the table and have other necessary comforts, of course. There was that obvious desire not so long ago to get his and his brother’s bodies back, but he had succeeded. By all accounts, he should be perfectly content for at least the next couple of months, still running off of that dream-come-true high.

But he isn’t.

How could he be when that was happening right before his eyes?

It had been childish to curl his lip at the new Major, to refuse to shake his hand, but how could he pretend? Was he supposed to lie and act like everything was fine when it wasn’t? Is that something that he should just be able to do?

Try as he might, Ed couldn’t stop the hurt that clawed at his heart when he saw him, greeted by the team like an old friend.

The new Major is kind. He’s all smiles and laughter and Ed even saw him give his coat once to a civilian who’d been caught in a storm. He should be happy that the military is finally accepting people who aren’t complete bastards.

But he isn’t.

And he hates him.

Major Braddock was one of the many new recruits hired by Fuhrer Grumman after the fight with father. He’s young - not younger than Ed, of course, but young enough to not have started a family yet. He probably just got out of school.

So really, Ed should have nothing against this 20-something-year-old boy who only wants to secure his future in a steady job, but he does. Because he was assigned to them. Mustang’s unit. Right after Ed had resigned from duty.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad if Braddock was older. If he didn’t have a little brother just like Ed. Because, for all of their differences in appearances, it did nothing to stop the feeling that he was being replaced.

He watched Braddock’s exchange with his team (his old team), feeling like a band was tightening around his chest. Alphonse - sweet, genius Alphonse - noticed the way his hands were clenching into fists and teeth were digging into lips and guided him away with a soft, flesh hand on his back.

When they got to their room, Ed looked at the final resignation documents on his desk, lying so innocently on the carved wood. He’d have to go in tomorrow, or else some time soon, and turn them in. Back then, before they’d gotten their bodies back, Ed and Al had talked about what they would be doing after. Resignation had seemed so simple. They’d hated the military, so why would they stay?

He’d never thought it would be this hard

***

He walked up the steps of central command alone. His brother was meeting up with the doctor to check in with his physical prowess, and Al had gotten bored of his pestering, so he told Ed to make himself busy. Obliviously, he phrased it better, but the message was all the same: give me space. So here he was, marching awkwardly up the steps while trying to pretend he didn’t feel like the building was going to eat him alive.

Seeing the team should be happy. It really should. But what if he’s inside?

Ed clutched the papers tight to his chest, using them as some sort of stress-reliever. How would Mustang react when he saw the crumpled up sheets? Would he joke about Ed’s penmanship as usual? Or would he accept it with a nod and send him on his way? Just the bare minimum of acknowledgement before sending him off to the rest of his life. Without them.

It was irrational, Ed knew, to feel like this. It wasn’t like he was useful to Mustang anymore. Without alchemy, he was a dog without fangs. Their whole relationship was founded upon using each other and now he was nothing more than a broken toy.

He needed a new toy. A shining gold star to add to his resume when climbing up the ranks. With Ed he only had a desperate kid who defected not even five years into the job. He knew it wasn’t fair to Mustang, who’d shown on countless occasions that he cared deeply about those who worked under him. It wasn’t fair to label him as some heartless, power hungry bastard that only cared about his own gains.

But.

But it was the only thing that could ease the pain he was feeling.

“It’s the Fullmetal Alchemist!”

“Edward Elric!”

Ed smiled abashedly. After the whole father fiasco, Ed had become somewhat of a celebrity in the military ranks. Those who were there seemed to go out of the way to make him feel a little more welcome, smiling at him when he walked down the halls and occasionally going out of their way to get him coffee or something like that. Even those who weren’t looked at him somewhat in awe, not quite understanding the treatment he was getting since the event was kept on the down low, but also trying to fit in with the crowd.

Even Mustang’s team treated him differently. It just wasn’t the good different. Walking into their office proved as much.

He was still greeted warmly by Hawkeye, addressed as “Chief” by Breda and Havoc, saluted by Falman and Fuery - that much was true. But it was different. Hawkeye didn’t linger to ask him about his day, instead going straight to Mustang’s office to announce his arrival. Havoc didn’t playfully rough up his hair or Breda make fun of his height. Even the more resigned members of Team Mustang seemed to be holding back more than usual.

It was like an invisible force was driving them apart. Home isn’t supposed to be a place, it’s supposed to be a people, and this small home he’d made felt unfamiliar and cold. There was a distance there that there wasn’t before.

“Edward, the General will see you shortly.” Ed nodded politely at Riza’s words, surprising himself by nodding at all. There used to be a time when he would just barge into Mustang’s office, completely uncaring of the audience in the room. Now it felt wrong to even knock.

“What’s with that look on your face, Chief? You about to fight a homunculus or something?” Breda’s joke fell flat. Ed would probably prefer that right about now. At least then he’d only have to worry about himself.

The door to the office opened. “Or something,” Ed murmured. Joyous laughter came tumbling out of the room alongside a pair of boot-clad feet. Accompanying it, was the rare, genuine chuckling he only heard once in a blue moon. Ed could never make him laugh like that, but a new, unfamiliar recruit could. Right there, a stone slammed into his stomach because how else could he explain the lack of air and the agonizing pain and the-

“Edward, you wanted to see me?” Ed should be happy, Mustang’s talking to him in the same tone as always. But he called me Edward. He’s always called me Fullmetal.

“Y-yeah. I’m here to finalize my resignation.”

Mustang looked down at the papers in his hands, eyes harding into obsidian pools. “Ahhh, yes, I can take those from you.”

Ed handed over the forms, not oblivious to the way the whole team was silent at his statement. Were they waiting for something to happen or what?

“Step inside for a moment Ed-” he bit his cheek “-I just want to make sure everything’s correct.”

He sat down silently and waited for Mustang to finish examining his papers. From the tensing of his shoulders, Ed could tell the other man felt just as out of place as himself. After a few minutes, the General shuffled the papers and piled them into a neat stack.

“Everything checks out.” There was a long silence in which the two stared at each other, searching for something but not knowing what. After a while, though, it all became too much and Ed stood to leave, only stopping because of Mustang’s voice calling out to him. “Anything the matter, Ed? You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“I’m fine.” You aren’t, but it’s nothing he needs to trouble himself with.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.” No, you don’t even know why you’re feeling this way.

The other man sighed, before relaxing back into his seat. “Okay, if you say so. Visit us soon, okay?” Ed nodded and began walking towards the door. “I’ll miss you.”

Those three words were what did it. He didn’t cry, per say (after going through so much it just became hard to cry), but there was something lodged in his throat causing him to choke. He heard Mustang’s chair push back - he was probably getting up out of concern more than anything - and felt the man’s presence hover behind him, unsure of what to do.

“Edward?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the door was closed, which meant that no one else would see him break down. It was a weird train of thought to be having at the moment, but he’d been feeling so detached lately that it wasn’t that much of a surprise to him.

“Edward,” Mustang repeated.

“Fullmetal.”

“What?”

“You used to call me Fullmetal.”

“...Oh… of course… Fullmetal, what’s wrong?” The way he acted like that mistake was nothing… and to him it probably was, but...

With a clogged throat, Ed said, “I’m going to miss you too, you know… but it feels like I already missed my chance to say goodbye.”

Even without looking at the man, he could see the confusion on his face. “What do you mean?” he asked. The confusion was evident in his voice as well.

“You just- it just-” Ed paused, trying to get his words straight. “It just isn’t the same anymore, whenever I talk to you. Or the team. It feels like I’ve lost whatever connection I had.” He finally looked up at Mustang. The man was silent, only looking at him with very sad eyes. “And, with Barddock here, I feel replaced.”

That snapped Mustang out of whatever trance he’d been in, obsidian eyes dark with anger, arms latching onto his shoulders. “You listen to me, Fullmetal. No one, and I repeat, no one, can ever replace you. If you actually think that then you’re a lot dumber than I thought. Because, for the four years I’ve known you, I’ve never met anyone so brave, noble, and kind.”

Ed chuckled, eyes watering a bit at the praise. “Are you sure that you’re not talking about yourself, Bastard.”

Mustang didn’t laugh. “I want you to know that you’re the most remarkable person I’ve met. I will never forget how much you changed this country - you changed me - I could never replace you. I’m sorry that you feel this way - that I’ve made you feel this way. I was under the impression that you wanted nothing to do with the military once you and your brother got your bodies back, but I see now that the way I was going about doing so was wrong.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Being called Fullmetal is just as big a part of your identity as being called Ed. Furthermore, the bonds you made here run much deeper than work associate, and it was cruel of me to distance myself as both your friend and your-” He cut off abruptly, pulling Ed into a hug. “And I’m sorry. I must have influenced the behavior of the team, and for that, I am sorry as well.” Squeezing gently, he said, “We all care about you so much, kid. And you have no idea how much they’d beat themselves up if they knew we made you feel this way. If you’re going to take one thing away from this, Fullmetal, please remember that you are irreplaceable in our eyes, okay?”

Ed nodded against his shoulder, returning the hug even tighter than the Flame Colonel. Smiling, he said, “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Mustang shifted in order to flatten his hair - when it got messed up, he didn’t know, but the action was so soothing and caring that Ed was finally able to let go of a few of his tears. The sound he let out was a choked sob, but it was a lot happier than before.

“Just because you’re no longer part of our team on paper, does not make that true. We still want you to visit us and talk to us and tell us about your day. We still want to be a part of your life and watch you grow up. You are, and always will be, part of our family.”

~El Fin~

[lunavadash-creates]

Lost and Found

Finally, I decided to write something in English. It wasn’t easy, but I hope that you will enjoy this little prologue. This story begins only because of the support I received from an amazing author. @storytimefromthecreed pushed me through my doubts and insecurities. And the biggest hug for Baccano, who check this story, helped me and also pushed me to do this. Thank you both! So now - enjoy. 

Also - sometimes I’m so damn stupid stupid so I accidentally deleted this story Now I have to post it again ;.;

 Warnings: mention of death, Assassin’s Creed Black Flag spoiler  

                                                    Prologue

The memory of the promise she made back then was still burning inside her as she slowly approached his house. It looked the same as the day she left it; absurdly big and weirdly symmetric, but… something was wrong, she could feel something dark and heavy crawling inside her guts making her feel uneasy. The whole surrounding of the house was full of armoured guards in unfamiliar outfits. She frowned and made a few steps back, hiding behind a corner. She walked from the port up here and her legs were already numb, she wasn’t in a position to start a fight with those men when her body was weakened, even if she wanted her answers right now. She was fully aware that time was moving differently when she was out but it couldn’t be that long, right?

Not too happy she decided to leave the mansion for now and found the information in a different way, starting from learning what year it was. She, of course, couldn’t ask a random person, it would be strange and suspicious but finding an abandoned newspaper wasn’t really hard. Not in a city like this. The hard part was seeing the date. March 1756. For a second, she felt dizziness, but the thought that she disappeared for twenty years was overwhelming. For her, it was like two or three years tops! And yet here she was, surrounded but unknown people, in a city that didn’t seem to be friendly to her anymore. She looked around finally noticing all the details of her surroundings, especially people that were looking at her with strange expressions. Her clothes were standing out, but what could she expect? In was two whole decades, of course, that fashion changed during this time! She really had no idea that so much time passed like in a blink of an eye. After a short while of insecurity, she decided to find another place, a calm spot where she would be safe enough to wait until the nightfall. With legs hurting and her conscience uneasy it was hard to wait those few hours, but she was taught patience and now she finally could use that skill. This once.

She found a little café where she used to sit in with her friends, at least this one place looked like time’s influence had missed it. She even ordered the same thing as twenty years ago, a cup of tea and a blueberry muffin. She sat at the table and again a little sigh escaped her lips, her thoughts were spinning like crazy around every memory connected to this place. It was so hard to believe that she missed… everything. When she rose her glaze from the tea, she saw that table in the corner, it was occupied at the moment, but she remembered the first time she came here. She sat next to the window and that little, adorable boy decided to sit on her knees despite his father warning. But that child was just so cute, she immediately fell in love with him. On that day he was like five years old and she was able to see him growing for some time. But how old he was when she left? Eight maybe, nine? Something like that. She hugged him and gave him a little pearl she had found during her travel. She hugged her best friend and his wife, then promised him that one day she will be back, hopefully very soon.  

She was so happy for them and the thought that they might be… no. It couldn’t be true. They probably moved somewhere when situation here became dangerous. That had to be it. Soon she will find them all, and they will be laughing at her stupid insecurity. With a better mood, she finished her muffin and tea it was evening. She left the café to get ready.

When it was finally dark, she made her move, getting closer to the manor, she found a lonely guard, standing in the darkness. He looked tired and hangover, but it meant he was vulnerable. A good target to begin with. She took a gold coin from her pocket and stepped closer.

‘Freeze! No trespassing’ the guard shouted, pointing his gun at her. She slowly rose her hands, making sure that the man could see the coin glistened under the moonlight.

‘I only have a few questions. You will not regret answering them’ she ensured the man, who looked at her suspiciously, never putting his gun down. But he didn’t really stop her from closing the distance between them.

‘What happened to the previous owner of this manor? What happened to that family’

‘Dead. I heard that almost the whole family had been murdered.’

‘Almost? There were children, what happened to them?’ she asked much more hesitantly that she would like to. She couldn’t let her feeling betray her but… hearing his words were so excruciating.

‘I know for sure that boy was taken. He came here a few years ago before departed for the New World. That’s all I know, so that lovely coin of yours should definitely stay with me now’ the smirk on his face was terrible and disgusting, making her sick at the sight. She reached out her hand to the man and dropped the gold coin, but before the man could catch it, she stabbed him in the throat. His body collapsed on the ground with blood leaving his veins, his eyes still in shock as he didn’t even have time to make a sound. She quickly moved his body to hid it in the nearby bush, it would give her a little bit more time to explore the mansion. She denied to believe that her best friend was dead, she had to see this with her own two eyes, so what other choice did she have?

Breaking in was hard, there were a lot of armoured guards surrounding the mansion like it contained some kind of hidden treasure. And who knows, maybe there was something so valuable that needed to be protected at all cost. They looked like mercenaries so probably whatever was hidden inside was worth paying for protection. She frowned, hiding beside a pillar, waiting for the nearest guard to move away before she jumped inside through the open window. The room was filled up with darkness but it didn’t stop her from investigating the house. She was here a few times and still remembered the way to his room like it was craved in her brain. Up the stairs, turn right, second door on the left. But before she managed to make the first step, she seen the proof that man she killed and hid in a bush indeed told her the truth. This place wasn’t safe anymore, it was a lost cause and her best friend was dead. A huge Templar symbol was hung on the wall in front of the entrance like a trophy. Proof that this place belonged to them and no one could question their dominance. She felt sick on that thought and controlled by a silly rage she just ripped that stupid sign and tossed it across the hall, wanted it to disappeared from her sight. The sound of ripped material alarmed a guard who quickly came back to the room only to see a woman who shouldn’t be here. He was as heavily armoured as the rest, who were surrounding this place. Orders he got were clear – kill every person who tries to break in and so he intended to do. He attacked the startled woman without hesitation or mercy and soon she was forced to save herself by dropping a smoke bomb. Running for her life as fast as she could on legs that weren’t used to the effort like this anymore. Unfortunately, the detonation of the bomb created more commotion, so now quite a lot of people knew of her presence. She swore silently under her breath, it didn’t go as planned, not at all.

Soon all those people, guards, templars, some kind of a freaking gang of mercenaries, started to look for her, an intruder who might want to interrupt their plan. They were looking for a reckless assassin, who broke into the templar base in the middle of the night, created a commotion and just run away like it was all a childish play. She was angry at herself for this stupid rage but right now it was already too late to change it. Besides, every cloud has a silver lining, the same men who were looking for her were the one who kept the information she needed. And now, after killing bunch of templar’s dogs, she was finally sure – Haytham Kenway was still alive, living in New World far across the globe and now it was up to her to find him at all costs, to keep a promise made almost two decades ago.

Even though it was dangerous for her to wander around the city right now, she still decided to pay a visit to the local cemetery, to find a certain grave, before she will leave for the New World. Holding blue flowers in hands, she searched the area for a few hours until she finally found the one she was looking for. She crouched next to the grave, placing flowers, gladioluses, on the ground and released a great deep sigh.

‘I’m so sorry Edward that it took me so long to came back. I’m so sorry that I wasn’t there to save you’ she said silently. It hurt so badly and her heart was painfully clenched as she was looking at elegant letters forming into a name of Edward James Kenway. Died on 3rd of December 1735. Only a few weeks after she left. Hot tears started to pour down her cheeks as she held back a sob for a few moments. Soon it became unbearable and she started crying, hiding face in her hands. Edward was dead and she felt guilty and alone, he didn’t deserve a fate like this. He was supposed to finally settle down and live happily! Not be dead, lying in a cold grave! And children, he had children who were supposed to grow up with amazing father, surrounded by love and prosperity.

‘I promise you, Edward, once again. I will find your son and I will take care of him. Protect him like I couldn’t do with you. This time I will not fail you, my dearest’ she said determined and then she finally stood up. Her gaze was focused on the river and soon she was on her way again.  

A few weeks later a man knocked on Haytham’s office door before he walked in. He looked scared, a piercing glaze of Haytham Kenway made him look away and shuddered a little. But he had a task, information, he needed to provide at once and the possible consequences of not fulfilling the order were severe.

‘My apologies Master Kenway. We got in information from London about a female assassin who is looking for you. She barged into your house, killed a few of our men to gain information about your whereabouts and now we are worried that soon she will be here. What should we do, what are the orders?’

Haytham rose an eyebrow and moved papers in front of him before he straightened on his seat. A silent sigh escaped his mouth. He couldn’t really consider this situation as a problem because of one assassin? Against whole Templar Order? Against him?

‘What do you think Master Cormac? Should I be worried about my well-being?’ he asked calmly, but he knew better than that, that he was safe, having next to him ruthless assassin hunter. Shay rose from the couch and stretched a little bit.

‘No. She’s a deadwoman if she thinks she can get to us. No assassin can stop the order’ and with a smirk, he departed with the man. Looks like soon another hunt will begin.

[darling-i-read-it]

Bare Feet and Dresses

Edward Bloom x reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: none I don’t think

Author’s Note: Mark Renton and Edward Bloom in one day? Imagine not accepting Ewans range bro. Jokes aside, I freaking loved writing this as I always do with Ewans characters and Edward is just MY BABY

Requested: by @ateliefloresdaprimavera I know I'm lte, but I'm here! bIG fISH IS SUCH A BEAUTIFUL FILM!!!OMG!!! can you imagine if Edward saw YN when they were both little kids and from the first time he says that he'll marry her when he's older?!!!!!!!!!!!!!1

Summary: the request!

Genre: FLUFFFFFF

Song:

(not my gif) (look at him bro.)

As it turned out, Edward knew who his soulmate was from the time he was all of 7 years old. He remembered it vividly, her pretty dress that was swaying in the sunlight and the light wind of summer air. You reminded him of the sky when it was filled with clouds. Filled with vibrant color and mysterious photos to dephier.

He met you when you were running down the street, trying to catch a small red ball that had fallen out of the yard of your suburban home. He was in his own lawn, trousers stained green from the grass that he was laying on. Your ball had come to roll right past his feet when he had just sat up. There was a moment of fate there. When he looked back at it he knew it.

He had been looking at the sky for 20 some minutes and if he hadn’t thought, just then, that he should get up, he never would have been your ball roll past his feet and therefore, never would have met you. You came just after it, hair whipping behind you. He knew what was happening very quickly and got up, running after it. His dress shoes hit the ground hard but he was faster than you. He got there just before it fell into another lawn, lost forever in a grumpy grown ups lawn.

You slowed to a halt beside him, catching your breath. There was a smile on your face immediately, a cheeky 7 year old smile. You threw your arms around him. He swears to this day that he had never known anything as clearly as he knew he would marry you right then.

“Thank you mister! My names Y/N and you’ve helped me get my play ball. That's very nice of you.” Your voice was childish and so was his when he spoke back.

“My names Edward Bloom. I’m very glad to meet you Y/N.” Your eyes sparkled in a way he had never seen before. It made his stomach fill with butterflies. He handed the ball back but you didn’t leave, your feet rocking back and forth as you thought of what to say next. You knew you should have just ran away after saying thank you, back to your yard all the way down the street, but something told you not to.

“Would you like to play with me Edward?” He nodded eagerly.

“I would love to play with you!”

You walked back down the street where you had come from, passing his house to yours. Your hair was tucked in a way that he loved and the way you walked was entrancing. His eyes followed you everywhere you went. On went a typical kid conversation, skipping the small talk to stories about fairies you have seen in your yard and the horses that crossed the street to his house.

When he had to leave that night, he knew he would return. There was something about you and the way your dress pooled at your feet.

“I’m going to marry you one day Y/N,” he had said when he was on the sidewalk, ready to go home. You giggled and brushed a piece of hair out of your face.

“Oh Edward Bloom.”

You hadn’t said yes but you had wanted to. You liked to tease him, even as a child. He walked back to his house with a blush on his cheeks and a new purpose to his life. He would have stayed there forever if he was allowed to but he was just a kid then.

He grew up though.

Just like you did.

You ended up moving out of your house when you were the young age of 10 years old, just 3 years after Ed had first told you that he wanted to marry you. He had repeated it since then, over and over and it was like a mantra when you parted. A promise that you held dear to your heart.

Your parents joked about the crush the two of you had on one another but they could never understand the severity of the feelings that two 10 year olds could share. He had been your first kiss and your first boyfriend but he was also your first love. You understood what love was better than anyone in that small neighborhood.

You wanted nothing less than to leave your best friend and move away. It was devastating. When you told him he broke down crying, promising that he would always want to marry you and that you would always be his best friend. Soulmates couldn’t be parted like this though. Into the both of your teen years you had dated other people, while never really forgetting one another.

You, even at the age of 21, knew for a fact that was no puppy love. That was love in its purest form, no fighting and no worries. You had had boyfriends since but none that would ever compare to the absent Edward Bloom from your youth.

You sat on the porch of a friends house. She had just moved into a small little town that you really liked, even if it was your first time there. Your dress was blowing in the wind underneath you so you held it down with a hand, looking at the houses in front of you. The town was pastel and filled with wonder. You thought about maybe moving there as well, working at a downtown shop and being a happy single girl there.

You wore no shoes on your feet as you stood up, walking through the small grass lawn. When you moved when you were 10 you moved into the harsh city. You hated it there, the crowds and pollution filled companies. You hadn’t been to a place like this since you were 10.

You brushed a piece of hair behind your ear as the wind blew and looked down the street. You were surprised to find a bouncing ball rolling your way. You looked for the child it belonged to and scooped it into your arms. You thought about your childhood Edward as you did so, fingers brushing the harsh leather. You looked down the street again and a little girl came running to you, smiling in relief.

“Thank you! You’ve got my ball!” You handed it back to her.

“Of course.” Your voice was soft and loving. She reminded you of yourself. She gave you a nod and turned.

“Mr.Bloom I got the ball!”

You looked up at the man that was waiting in the lawn for her. His hair was swept back carefully but it had messy spots, presumably from playing around. You felt your heart stop. Grown as he was, you knew the man before you.

His had momentarily stopped as well. He had just been passing through this town on his newest grand adventure. He had been playing with some neighborhood kids harmlessly, never imagining this.

“Edward Bloom.” There was no question in your voice as you spoke aloud but he nodded anyway.

“My Y/N.” Your fast walk to him became a run and then you were jumping into his arms, relishing in the feel of him again. The comfort he was able to give you hadn’t changed over the years. While the two of you were a little more worn and torn, your souls had barely differed.

The little girl watched you, giggling but you didn’t care. He put you back down but didn’t let go of you, afraid you might leave again. You put your hands on his face, feeling him under your hands again. There was little that would have made you happier.

“You’re here. I can’t believe you’re here!” you exclaimed with a bubbling laugh. His favorite sound.

“I was just passing through but decided to stop...fate yet again,” he promised. Your thoughts flashed to a few minutes before at your love for the town you had only just entered.

“I knew there was something amazing waiting around the corner in this place.”

You studied his face, taking in his features.

“You grew up but didn’t change at all. Still the most gorgeous creature on the planet,” he whispered. You flushed and kissed his cheek, something you had done many times when you were a kid.

“And my handsome Edward, you’ve only gotten taller.” His hand brushed your hair and he leaned forward, kissing you lightly.

There was something slow about it, like you had the world before you, like your childlike wonder had never ceased. When he pulled away you placed a head on his chest. He hugged you tightly. The little girl had gone to play with her friends again, ignoring the obvious love. You heard your friend call you and pulled away hesitantly. You couldn’t lose him again.

“Where are you going?”

“Everywhere.” You laughed, looking at your friend and giving her a wave to leave. She screamed your name again, ignoring your gesture. You turned to him.

“You got any room for one more?” He nodded.

“For you? Of course.”

“I’ll be back. I have to get my things. Don’t leave. Don’t go anywhere, you understand?” He nodded and you kissed him once more, running back to the house, your bare feet relishing in the grass as you returned.

“Y/N!” Edward called. You turned, hair swinging around as you did so.

“Will you marry me now?!”

Your smile was bright enough to light the universe for decades.

“Yes Edward Bloom!”

You turned and disappeared inside the house to get your things, leaving a blushing and extatic Edward in your wake.

[quatschmachen]

Icicles

.A small fic set in the 80′s; probably like 1984 ish.

Edward visits Étienne.

PG

Étienne was wearing too many layers.

Sure it was winter and probably cold but no one should be wearing a fully zipped up jacket, toque and scarf ensemble inside the airport, Edward thought.

“Why are you dressed for an arctic expedition?” Edward asked his friend.

Étienne’s voice was muffled by the scarf, “Because I have a slight cold.”

“This is overkill.” Edward teased, “Do you need my jacket as well?”

“Non.” Étienne sneezed then added, “not yet.”

They were heading away from the airport in a taxi, Étienne apparently not patient enough to wait for a bus.

Edward had packed light, he had managed to establish a Drawer for his Montreal clothes at Étienne’s, an accomplishment he tried not to think about too hard (but which, if he could admit to himself, he was delighted over). He had noticed in the brief interim that they had been outside that it was not that cold, and he figured it was probably just an Étienne thing that the man was dressed in so many layers.

It was only when Edward won the fight of paying the entire cab fare that he felt something was off with the other man.

This was confirmed as they entered Étienne’s place, and the man was refusing to de-layer his clothes.

“Étienne, it’s hot as Hades here, and you’re trying to put on another sweater – alright what’s going on – did you get a shitty tattoo? Do you have scarlet fever?” Edward huffed feeling very annoyed at his friend, his hands reaching out to bat the sweater away.

It was like unwrapping a wriggling child, dodging, and weaving away from him, as Edward firmly grabbed one end of the scarf and unwound it from his friend’s face.

Étienne’s eyes were red, his nose was red and dripping, his cheeks flushed, and he looked as if he had just crawled out of the frosty pits of Niflheim.

“Jesus Christ you look like shit.”

“Thank you Eddy I appreciate the commentary.”  Edward realized Étienne sounded weird because his nose was plugged. Étienne grabbed the scarf and rewrapped it around his face. He did however concede in removing his jacket.

“So uh can I assume we’re not going to the club tonight?”

“Excuse me? Obviously we still are, you flew out to have a good time and I’m-” Étienne had to pause to hack a lung out, “am going to show you a good time!” he did a dramatic arm flourish, over tilted, banged into the wall, cried out in pain, and then nobly righted himself, attempting a more subdued ‘we are totally going out and getting dick’ pose.

“No we’re not.” Edward said firmly as he finished taking off his boots, “We are going to stay in.”

“Eddy!! Even if I don’t go out you should go out, you didn’t come all this way to just sit on my couch and watch TV.” Étienne protested as the other man gently guided him to the couch.

Giving his friend a Look, Edward said darkly, “Do you think I fly my ass all the way out to your beautiful city to see some guy’s cock?”

“Well, you always complain that you can’t really do the same stuff in Edmonton so, yeah. I guess. You come here to get tail and I don’t blame you. Nor do I want to hold you back. And I don’t want you to get sick!”

Edward was busy firmly tucking a blanket around Étienne, ensuring that max cozy was achieved.

Étienne was still fussing, and unthinkingly, Edward leant forward and gave the other man a small kiss on the forehead to calm him down. It immediately worked.

“I’m not worried about that. Anyways. Just so you know. I happen to haul myself these many miles to see you. Since you are, you know… my friend. Now I am going to make you a hot drink, and then get take-out, ok? Wong’s is still open, yeah?”

Étienne nodded.

“And if you move from the couch for any reason other than going to bed or peeing, I will look not happily upon that.”

“Ok maudit mardeux.”

XXX

When Edward returned with take-out (he had gotten a lot, with the plan that the leftovers would tide them over for a couple days), he was happy to see that Étienne was still on the couch, the mug of hot tea in his hands, still slowly sipping.

“Eddy,” Étienne turned a plaintive look to the man, looking at the giant bags of take-out, “I’m suffering… can you get me some tissues?”

“Sure, sorry for not getting you them before I left.” Setting the take-out on the coffee table, Edward went in search of the tissues. He also figured the other man would want a personal garbage, and while he was at it, he also grabbed two bowls and cutlery.

Returning, Edward immediately worried as the other man was crying.

Étienne had moved out of his blanket fortress, one of the take-out bags were open, and before him was a round Styrofoam container, lid off, gently steaming.

“How did you know?”  he asked quietly. Soft teary eyes looked at Edward; a look that could almost be classified as tender.

Edward looked at Étienne in confusion. “Know what?”

“That I love hot and spicy soup when sick.”

“Because you once wrote me five pages of a letter dedicated to Wong’s hot and spicy soup and how it cured you of the bubonic plague, Étienne.”

“I… I don’t remember that.”

“Judging from your spelling I think you were still high off soup or something,” Edward paused as he watched his friend happily slurp the soup, “However I greatly enjoyed reading it… even if it didn’t quite make sense, especially that weird part where you tried to rhyme in iambic pentameter.”

“I have no fucking memory of this. You’re bullshitting me right? Iambic pentameter? You’re gonna have to show me this letter.”

“Only if you promise not to destroy it,” Edward teased. “Plus, hold on let me see if I can remember.” Edward sat down beside the other man, setting down the items, and then moving to help himself to the food. “Shall I travel the world for a potion? Nay, for the cure exists in Montreal. Dew of the gods in comparison pales. For yea the cure is at Wong’s; Hot and Spicy.”

“Oh my god that’s not even good,” Étienne choked slightly, and then coughed, “That last part isn’t even proper iambic pentameter.”

Edward shrugged, “Hey, you at least tried. I nearly hurt myself laughing, and I mmmmmmaaaaybe hung that up on my fridge to look at for a solid week.”

Étienne narrowed his eyes, “You better watch out Murphy, I’m sure we both have an arsenal of blackmail material in our decades of letters.”

“When did one’s life and feelings become blackmail material, Maisonneuve?” Edward quietly teased, his gaze focused to the news report on the television. The low murmur of the day’s events filling up the strange gap between them.

Étienne blew on the soup and then took a slurp. Slyly he asked, “So that letter where you drew images of your favourite buffalo can be shown to anyone?”

Edward quickly looked at Étienne, “That image was only for you ok – not for the world!”

“But it’s so cute, if I had had a refrigerator at the time it would have gone on that. Though I guess I have one now I can put it up.” Étienne paused, frowned, “Actually, Eddy, you haven’t really drawn anything for me in a while. Why did you stop?”

“Because…” Edward was surprised to find he did not have a ready answer. Life got busy? He got more self conscious? It was something that had simply fallen to the wayside without him noticing? He had grown up and decided drawing was a childish thing? “Huh. I guess I just stopped.”

His friend was wiggling, that wiggle he did when he had one of his brilliant ideas.

“’Tienne, what is it?”

“Since I am so sick, and dying, you should entertain me by drawing me a story!”

“A story?”

“Yeah! One about… buffalo.”

“Draw on what?”

“Oh uhm, let me get you-“

“Just tell me. You stay put… but can we eat first?”

“…Fine… but you are going to draw me a story.  Even if it’s in crayon, ok?”

“Yes sir,” Edward laughed, “So do I get any hot and spicy soup?”

XXXXX

“Once upon a time there was beautiful prairie, where the sound of the drums was the heartbeat of the land. Upon the prairie roamed the buffalo, strong majestic animals in whose footsteps sprung new life.”

As he drew the story, Edward narrated. The art items he found were pencil crayons and a pad of paper. The buffalo on the green grass was probably akin to a five year old’s drawing, but as he glanced over to his friend, who looked absolutely thrilled and despite suffering from a sort of plague, who was sparkling in happiness that this was even taking place, it was worth it.

“There was a very tiny calf, whose legs still wobbled.” Edward added little shaky lines to his badly drawn tiny calf, “who got separated from the herd.”

“Edward if this is going to be a sad story I want you to stop now.” Étienne interrupted.

“Shhh.” Edward settled in more, as he paused in his story telling to draw the next page. “This calf, whose name was Stardreamer, had gotten separated from the herd when following a butterfly to a small river. When Stardreamer realized he was no longer with his mother, he called and called, but got no reply.”

“Eddy…”

“Instead a wily old Magpie appeared, letting out  a cheeky laugh. Stardreamer attempted to hide, and stayed very still as the Magpie flew down and sat upon him.

<Fear not little one,> the Magpie said, as it began to pick ticks off the calf, <I am a friend.>”

As the story progressed, Edward found himself adding more twists and turns, and what was originally supposed to be only ten pages it became thirty. Étienne’s full rapt attention was addictive, and the man’s slightly wet eyes when Stardreamer reunited with the herd he found endearing.

The story of Stardreamer continued throughout the week as the two of them, instead of simply vegging out and watching movies, found themselves cooped up as the snow piled up outside. The only times Edward left was to get more food and to shovel the sidewalk (which apparently dumbfounded Étienne, who informed Edward that clearing the sidewalk was the city’s job, to which Edward rolled his eyes and asked if the people of Montreal were suddenly missing arms and shovels, which then lead to a heated debate of the role of the city when it came to snow, a debate which kept popping up).

As the week progressed, Étienne got better, his nose less plugged, his body less feverish.

As the week progressed however, Edward began to display the same symptoms of illness that Étienne had had. Something he attempted to hide from the other man… rather unsuccessfully.

He had taken himself to the washroom to blow his nose, only to bang his elbow on the wall when Étienne’s voice spoke up from the other side of the door separating them.

<Eddy, I’m so sorry, I never meant to invite you over and then give you the plague.>

Cursing and rubbing his elbow, Edward was silent a moment, then said, <I do not have the plague, it’s allergies.> This lie was quickly laid to rest as he started having a severe coughing attack. One severe enough that Étienne forced open the bathroom door to stride in and sit Edward down on the edge of the bath, gently rubbing the other man’s back as the coughing fit eventually passed.

As Edward struggled to breath, his nose and throat plugged up, his eyes red rimmed, Étienne shook his head. <Looks like it’s my turn to take care of you.>

Blowing his nose, Edward sniffled. Rubbing his forehead he managed to croak out, <I’m supposed to fly out.>

<Hmmmm, are you well enough to travel? Are you able to rebook?>

Edward was too busy coughing to respond.

<Will they even let you onto the airplane, Édouard?>

Edward shrugged, “I dunno.”

“If you insist on returning…” Étienne paused <I will simply have to travel with you. Make sure you don’t faint on the way.>

Looking over to his friend, his expression a mixture of surprised misery, Edward croaked, “You’d really do that?”

Raising one eyebrow, Étienne quietly responded <You are sick and my responsibility. I would be unable to rest at the thought of you travelling alone in such a condition.>

It was unclear whether it was the fever or something else that caused Edward’s cheeks to flush, as he looked away, his slumped shoulders relaxing, as he leant into the other man.

The only sound was his struggle to breathe, until finally he murmured, “I’ll rebook.”

[isidar-mithrim]

Features of the past

In the middle of the night, Teddy seeks the comfort offered by a surrogate of the Mirror of Erised. [Also on Ao3]

__________________________________

Features of the past

Teddy got out of bed as quietly as he could and walked out of the room on his tiptoes, heading for the stairs.

He felt a bit guilty for sneaking around in the middle of the night, but he’d been anticipating that moment since Harry had invited him to spend the weekend in London with them.

Obviously it wasn’t the only reason he had accepted the offer: he considered the Potters as his second family and Harry as the father he’d never had, the person who understood better than anyone what it meant growing up as an orphan. With him he’d ridden a broom for the first time, with him he’d done the first accidental magic that didn’t contemplate transforming his body, and it was Harry the first person Teddy wanted alongside his granny at every birthday, to fill a void that was sometimes quite hard to ignore.

That night was one of those times, and even if guilt creeped in again as he passed by Harry and Ginny’s bedroom, it was easy to set the uncomfortable feeling aside when he arrived in front of Sirius’s old room.

Teddy took a deep breath and opened the door with caution. It didn’t creak, and he entered the bedroom with relief, heading for the only magical photograph hanging on the wall, the one where four Hogwarts students laughed amused, hugging each other.

Teddy had somehow always known that his dad was a werewolf and that he’d been a great friend of Harry’s father and godfather, but it was in front of that photo that Harry had told him the true story of the Marauders, of their friendship, their talent, their jokes, their courage. It was there that he’d told him how the other Marauders had not only accepted his father as a werewolf, but they’d also found a way to embrace his curse, keeping him company during the transformations.

It was there that Harry’d explained to him why all the Marauders were gone.

Teddy looked at the picture from the guy on the right, short and plump. He knew that Peter Pettigrew hadn’t done right by his friends and that because of it Sirius had spent twelve years in Azkaban, but Harry’d also told him that Peter’d died to save his life, just like James and Sirius.

Teddy focused on Harry’s godfather: he had long black hair and a handsome face that vaguely reminded him of his granny when she was young, but Teddy always felt a little uncomfortable looking at him, because he reminded him that even godfathers can die, and the idea that anything could happen to Harry was simply unthinkable.

He cleared his mind of the thought and looked at James. He and Harry would have been practically identical if it weren’t for their eyes, and to Teddy it always felt as looking at a younger, light-hearted version of his godfather.

Only after observing those three boys for the umpteenth time he finally dared to lay his eyes on the figure at the left, the one of a young man a little shabby-looking, but happy and joyful.

Since Teddy had first seen that picture, he’d only been in Grimmauld Place during the day and just for brief stops, so he’d never managed to carve out more than a few minutes to look at him.

This time, though, he had all night ahead of him.

***

Harry was going down to get a glass of fresh water for Ginny – his wand stretched out to light up the halls – when he passed by the room where Teddy slept, the same one Hermione and Ginny had occupied during their first summer at Grimmauld Place. The door was way more open than he remembered leaving it, so he peered inside to make sure everything was okay – if he hadn’t just seen James peacefully asleep, he’d suspect his son had found again a way to climb over the bars of his cot and join Teddy.

The last thing he’d expected, though, was to find the bed empty.

“Homenum revelio” he said instantly, his stomach clenched in fear. Relief washed over him when he sensed four hearts beating at different rhythms from above. As he climbed the stairs with light steps, the beats became stronger, though one remained lighter than the others, suggesting it was farther off. When Harry walked past his own room, he turned off Ginny’s placid pulse and the faster-paced one of the baby they were expecting, then he did the same with James’ pulse, who was sleeping blissfully in the next room. Now that he’d isolated Teddy heartbeat, it became even clearer that it came from an higher floor, so Harry kept going, finally getting a pretty good idea of where he’d find him.

He entered Sirius’ room in silence. Teddy was sitting on the bed, his back facing the door, his hair sandy brown instead of blue as usual, the only moving image on the wall standing out in front of him.

“Hey” murmured Harry.

He had spoken in a low voice not to scare him, but Teddy jumped nonetheless, whirling towards him with wide eyes, and the shock at the sight cut Harry’s breath.

Before him stood Remus Lupin, with his tired but warm eyes, his sweet expression, his boyish traits. The body, however, was the body of a child.

Harry felt his eyes stinging and had to blink several times to keep his composure. He swallowed, unable to articulate meaningful words and wondering if Teddy had turned into his father on purpose, or if he had unconsciously copied the image in front of him.

Harry put the still lit wand on a dresser and went to sit next to him, wrapping an arm around shoulders to pull him into a tight hug.

Teddy leaned into Harry’s chest, clinging to him as if he was his lifeline, and Harry cradled him while letting his gaze wander on his father’s cheerful features. Soon Teddy’s tears began to wet his pajama shirt, but Harry didn’t care, and only when he felt his lips getting wet and salty he realised he was crying as well.

“It’s not fair” murmured Teddy after a while.

Harry squeezed him tightly one last time and then he let him go, lifting his chin to look him in the eyes – they were red, swollen, identical to Remus’.

“No, it’s not” he told him, wiping Teddy’s nose and face with a sleeve of his pajamas and resisting the urge to ask him to return to his usual appearance right away. “And I’m well aware that it’d be nice to stay here all night and watch them smile, trust me, I am, but… truth is, we could stay here a whole lifetime and it still wouldn’t be enough to get them back.”

Teddy looked down, but nodded slowly. “Do you… do you ever think what it would be like if… if they were still alive?”

Harry sighed. “More often than you think.”

“Really?”

“Really. You’ve no idea I much I’d like to tell them about the baby that’s coming, or to introduce them to James, or to tell them how much I love my godson, but… they wouldn’t want us to dwell on dreams and forget to live.”

Teddy’s eyes returned for a moment to the image of Remus before staring at the ground. Harry wasn’t sure Teddy was old enough to understand those words, but he knew that deep down he was reiterating them for his own benefit as well.

“I’m sorry I snuck up” whispered Teddy.

Harry shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

“No, no, I know I shouldn’t have, but… but I couldn’t sleep… I kept thinking… thinking that I wanted to see them, all smiling together…”

Teddy sighed and swung his feet, hung from the edge of the bed, his legs too short to touch the floor.

Harry felt a ache in his heart, and he knew he had to do something, anything. “I was thinking… Why don’t we make a deal?”

Teddy immediately looked up at him, curious. “A deal?”

“Yeah”nodded Harry, trying to smile with complicity. “A pact just between the two of us.”

Teddy looked at him with an open mouth and wide eyes. “Do you really mean it?”

“Of course I do” said Harry, and this time smiling wasn’t very hard. He raised his right little finger in the air, and Teddy took the invitation at once, intertwining his pinky with it.

Harry cleared his throat with gravitas. “I, Harry James Potter and Edward Remus Lupin solemnly swear that every time we will stop by Grimmauld Place we will come here to greet the Marauders, but that we will only do it together.”

“I swear!”Teddy echoed him, finally smiling as well.

“Well, that’s it, then” said Harry, content. “Now, why don’t you resume your usual appearance, so we can go back to sleep?”

Teddy nodded, serious. He shut his eyes, squinting, and a moment later his hair turned blue and his features returned childish again, keeping certain traits of Remus in the shape of the face and in the cut of the eyes.

“Harry…”

“Yes?”

“Once in a while, if I feel like it, can I get yours and James’ hair?”

Harry had to fight the lump in his throat before answering with a cracked voice.

“Of course, Teddy. Whenever you want.”

***

The next day, Teddy walked around London with a bunch of messy black hair and a pair of shiny emerald eyes.

____________________________________

Notes:

- That the spell ‘Homenum revelio’ functions by making feel the beat of the people nearby is an idea I borrowed from Foreat Castellum (GO CHECK HER STORIES!). It’s my addition that you can turn off some beats at will, so if you didn’t liked it that’s on me ;). Anyway, I like to think not everybody is capable of ‘turning off’ single pulses.

- Harry’s line about not forgetting to live to dwell on dreams is freely borrowed by Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (I’m sure you knew, but you know, disclaimer)

- If you liked this story, then you may like its companion piece, ‘What parents would want’ [on Ao3] ^^

[husheduphistory]

The Groundbreaking Brain of Phineas Gage

Those who knew Phineas well were astonished by his recent behavior. He was rude, outspoken, impatient, and unpredictable, traits that never would have described him only a few years earlier. What should have shocked them more was that he was even still around to exhibit these behaviors. The accident should have killed him in the blink of an eye.

In the fall of 1848 Phineas Gage was twenty-five years old and working as a blasting foreman tasked with preparing a railroad bed near Cavendish, Vermont. Gage had no formal schooling, but he developed an excellent reputation of being a savvy businessman armed with intelligence, precision, and a huge amount of energy. He was described as a very physically fit and healthy young man who almost never succumbed to any form of illness. When Gage went to work on September 13th of that year nothing seemed out of the ordinary despite the work being extremely dangerous. Setting up a bed for the new railroad required a large number of explosives and blasting away rock to make way for the new lines.  A large hole was bored into the rock and filled with explosive materials and a fuse. Once the explosives were in place inside the rock the rest of the hole was filled with sand or clay which was then tightly packed in with a long metal rod called a tamping iron in order to ensure the force of the blast was contained inside the rock. At approximately 4:30pm Gage was hard at work when a tamping rod clipped a rock that was armed with an explosive charge. The hit created a spark which ignited the explosives inside sending the metal tamping rod shooting through the air…and straight through Gage’s head.

Dr. Williams heard Gage’s claims that he had been shot through the head with an iron rod but he initially didn’t believe him. He was here, alive, speaking and joking, how could his story possibly be true? But, the horrifying tale was quickly proven accurate to Dr. Williams who recounted:

Gage hit the ground and probably had no idea what just happened to him. The tamping rod was1.25” in diameter, forty-three inches long, weighed thirteen pounds, and sailed clear through his left cheek, through his brain, and out the top of his skull landing eighty feet away from its victim. What was even more shocking than the accident was that Gage was not just alive, he was fully conscious and able to walk himself to an oxcart and request a ride into town to see a doctor. Once arriving at the practice of Dr. Edward H. Williams he even quipped, “Here is business enough for you.”

 “I first noticed the wound upon the head before I alighted from my carriage, the pulsations of the brain being very distinct. Mr. Gage, during the time I was examining this wound, was relating the manner in which he was injured to the bystanders. I did not believe Mr. Gage's statement at that time but thought he was deceived. Mr. Gage persisted in saying that the bar went through his head… Mr. G. got up and vomited; the effort of vomiting pressed out about half a teacupful of the brain, which fell upon the floor."

Later that evening the case of Phineas Gage was handed over to Dr. John Martyn Harlow who treated the wounds and continued to observe his new patient. According to Harlow’s later description, Gage remained fully conscious that night, was able to recount what happened, recalled the names of his coworkers, and even said he didn’t need to see any of his friends because he would be back to work in “a day or two.”

 Gage may have anticipated bouncing back to work in a matter of days, but his plans were derailed when he developed an infection. Laying in a semi-comatose state, the doctors believed Gage’s luck ran out and this was the long-delayed end of their patient. From September 23rd to October 3rd Gage languished but then he suddenly began to improve. On October 7th he took his first steps out of bed and by the 11th his intellect began to re-emerge. Gage could remember the accident, the day and time it happened, and his coworkers. But, he now had difficulty with other functions like understanding size and calculating sums of money. While there were some obvious changes, most did not question them. After all, the man just survived a metal spike being launched through his head. By the end of the month Gage left medical care and went to his parent’s home in New Hampshire to continue his recovery.

Illustrations of the injuries suffered by Gage.

Gage amazed those around him by continuing to physically heal and improve, but the changes in his personality became more and more concerning. Before the accident the foreman was hard working, intelligent, and highly respected by his employers who considered him “the most efficient and capable foreman in their employ.” However, as time moved on deep transformations revealed themselves. In later observations by Dr. Harlow he noted that Gage:

 “Remembers passing and past events correctly, as well before as since the injury. Intellectual manifestations feeble, being exceedingly capricious and childish, but with a will as indomitable as ever; is particularly obstinate; will not yield to restraint when it conflicts with his desires.”

 “He is fitful, irreverent, indulging at times in the grossest profanity (which was not previously his custom), manifesting but little deference for his fellows, impatient of restraint or advice when it conflicts with his desires.... A child in his intellectual capacity and manifestations, he has the animal passions of a strong man.”

 By the middle of 1849 Gage was eager to get back to work but there was a problem, his personality changes were so severe that his former employers refused to hire him back. They were not the only ones seeing the massive shift in the man. His friends put it bluntly. The man appeared the same, but he was “no longer Gage.”

 Unwelcome at his former job Gage was forced to find other ways to support himself and he took on a variety of new professions, one of which was to simply show up. He took work at a livery stable in New Hampshire, but Gage also made appearances throughout New England where he promoted himself and his impossible survival. His most high-profile venue was none other than the Barnum American Museum in New York City. In 1852 Gage was given the opportunity to travel to Chile and work as a stagecoach driver while caring for horses. He remained in Chile until approximately 1859 when his health declined. He left the country and made the journey to San Francisco where his mother and sister relocated to at the same approximate time that he moved to South America. According to his mother, the sight of her son was grim and he was “…in a feeble condition, having failed very much since he left New Hampshire…Had many ill turns while in Valparaiso, especially during the last year, and suffered much from hardship and exposure."

An advertisement for Phineas Gage appearance shortly before his move to Chile.

 Once Gage recovered in San Francisco he was again eager to get back to work and he found employment on a farm, but his time there did not last long. In 1860 Gage began having seizures that rapidly grew in severity. On May 16th 1860 Gage went into violent convulsions and never recovered, he died at the age of 36 years old.

 Dr. Harlow had not treated Gage for many years but when he heard of his death in California he requested that the family send him his former patient’s skull. They obliged and sent Harlow not only Gage’s skull, but also the thing that made it so desirable. The tamping iron that went through his skull was Gage’s near constant companion for some years, it was even inscribed with its story:

 “This is the bar that was shot through the head of Mr Phinehas[sic] P. Gage at Cavendish Vermont Sept 14,[sic] 1848. He fully recovered from the injury & deposited this bar in the Museum of the Medical College of Harvard University.

Phinehas P. Gage  •   Lebanon Grafton Cy N–H  •   Jan 6 1850”

Gage pictured with the tamping rod that went through his head.

After studying the skull and iron Dr. Harlow donated both pieces to Harvard Medical School’s Warren Anatomical Museum where it remains today. The rest of Gage was originally buried in San Francisco’s Lone Mountain Cemetery but in 1940 his remains were moved to Cypress Lawn Memorial Park located in Colma, California.

Throughout his treatment of Gage, Dr. Harlow had suspicions about why his patient’s personality changed so drastically after his accident but the connection between personality and brain injury were still years away from being recognized. It took another decade until the experimental work of David Ferrier came to light describing how damage to the frontal cortex of the brain resulted in “a very decided alteration in the animal’s character and behavior.” Gage, who sustained extreme damage to up to 4% of the cerebral cortex and 1% of the white matter in the frontal lobe, became one of the earliest examples in medical history that the frontal cortex was involved in personality and behavior.  

 September 13th 1848 was a life changing day for Gage in ways that he never could have expected. It was the day he almost died, the day he became a legend, and a day that changed the early days of neuroscience. To this day the skull of Phineas Gage is still being studied and still giving insight into the connection between brain and behavior, a horrific workplace accident still making medical history 171 years later.

The skull of Phineas Gage and the tamping rod from his accident.

[ssaalexblake]

No but the aunts in caos are so brilliantly written like, Zelda’s entire aesthetic and self image is based around being a bad ass bitch, Zelda Spellman? She’ll kill you, she’ll threaten to do something horribly disfiguring to you and you buy it because you know she’d be willing to go through but... In actuality she’s not actually Good at doing it, despite her willingness to throw down at any given moment. 

Who is good at it? 

Hilda. 

Why? 

She has to be, actively Because she does Not look or seem like she will be willing to throw down at any moment.

Zelda very much is that bitch she wants you to think she is, she didn’t care about straight up beheading a dude and she was willing to work her way through whoever volunteered to be next, but like... She’s never Really had to be that person who is good at petty revenge. 

She was the popular older sister in school with the cool brother Edward (like, probably, she talks about him like he’s an older sibling), she's the Super Devout child of night, she displays herself in ways that align perfectly with the ideal in that culture and actively revels in said culture, until she became a teacher she had quite clearly never been the proper target of actual childish bullying before. She threatens Shirley in response, talks big, but none of her own threats pan out (and tbh, buttoning her lip and eating her familiar's legs isn’t that harsh contextually, i mean, Nick literally staked the weird sisters’ feet to the ground and they’re still fans of him, so i really doubt a little lip buttoning is considered super awful), but Hilda’s ideas? They get Used and they are brutal. 

Hilda suggests to Zelda what to do her attempted tormentors, she stands over her and watches to make sure Zelda gets the magic right, too, implying Hilda’s experience and Zelda’s lack of it and that Zelda also acknowledges this fact. Hilda also tries to steer Zelda away from her more eclectic revenge methods to her own, Significantly scarier methods. She also manages to banish a vengeful ghost like it’s child’s play. 

Hilda says it in part one to the ghost kids, and when she says her harrowing at zelda’s hands was brutal (gonna assume there were Traditions involved here bc i’ve not seen evidence that zelda’s actually any good at that type of thing when thinking spontaneously), that she’s good at revenge, after all, she’s had the practice where Zelda hasn’t. 

Hilda’s not devout, Hilda attended Sabrina’s catholic baptism as a witness, was excommunicated for it and didn’t actually care for religious reasons (it was Inconvenient to not have access to the church when their lives went to hell, but that was about it), Hilda dresses and acts like a bubbly over-loving aunt from one of the Cutesy fairy tales, she does not fit in aesthetically or personality wise into that church, and people react to her because of this and she’s had to learn to be brutal and vindictive and like the type of person you would meet in Grimm’s fairy tales.  

Whereas Zelda is content to react to Shirley’s antagonizing with creative magic and threats, Hilda? Hilda straight up murders her. No mercy, no warning, no sympathy or empathy, she fucked with Zelda and will die. Hilda, also, immediately murders a dude who gets handsy with her even though it will pretty much, really, just result in her own death because of exactly who the man was. She stabs the fuck outta satan (so does Zelda tho), decides to perform an exorcism b/c why not right???? Manipulates the shit outta the weird sisters when they have Ambrose, is ruthless enough to just set a demon on those witch hunters and therefore be the Only one present in the entire area unharmed by the hunters at all and like, more badass stuff i’m sure I’ve forgotten. 

But honestly, i think the Most indicative thing as to what utter Steel Hilda is that... She’s the one Sabrina actually listens to. Sabrina who has inherited Zelda’s inherent sense of extra-ness and stubbornness, who has every ounce of her biological father’s arrogance and pride and pretty much blithely ignores every directive Zelda emphatically tells her (Like, sometimes Zelda Is being extra and gotta say it, occasionally petty, but equal so to the times she is not, either way, Sabrina does not listen), but... Sabrina seems obedient to Hilda, more worried about her wrath than with any other character on the show, arguably even Satan, sometimes (Before she realises exactly what getting on his bad side can mean, anyway). 

And i think that is Incredibly telling to the subtle power dynamics in the family, when Hilda puts her foot down, Sabrina is more likely to actually fall in line and examine her actions. Sabrina is weary of crossing that line in ways she is not even slightly with Zelda, and it is So So So So telling. 

I just think this genuinely makes Zelda and Hilda a nuanced display of sisterhood and parenthood than most like, Actual parents on TV. Normally you’re given the hardass parent and and friend parent and that’s it, that’d be the dynamic. But Hilda and Zelda function as both elements simultaneously, frankly making them better parents than most parents on TV too, tbh, even if at the start you think you’re being fed this usual dynamic, the show slowly shows you Zelda’s soft edges and Hilda’s hard as steel edges, while simultaneously giving you the reasons for them to have such characteristics. 

and like, i Still can’t believe that the most nuanced character writing i watch at the moment is on the trashy satanic soap opera whose plot i can pretty much guess totally accurately as i go along @ other shows care about character work pls 

[gingergcnius]

Edward Nygma, the man who talks to animals

All it takes, is a pet day

If you asked what animal they would keep at home, they would say a dog, or a cat. Because normally cats and dogs are home animals. They are great company, even when some bitch around and chew your only shoes, leaving you embarrassed at work. Sure you need to take out your dog every day and night for a walk so your house won't smell like a morgue full of dead bodies. But normally, these two would be the acceptable human pets. Jim did not like cats so much, but was fond of dogs. They could be trained for so many things, and no matter what people said he believed they were smart. He always wanted a golden or a husky, but when he went to the army he forgot all of that. And when he became a detective, he had no time to look after a dog.

Every week, they had pet day. People who had a pet would bring them over, which helped some officers a lot, bringing their mood back up which meant people doing their jobs better. The best thing that happened to them so far was Harvey laughing uncontrollably to am officer chasing their dog. It was good to see this every week event brought a smile to his friend's face. Everyone knew who to go to, if they lost their dog. For some reason, they would always end up at somewhere.

In the lab. Nobody knows, but every week some officers would to go Edward to collect their dogs from them. He was surprisingly good with animals. Cats who scratched their owners climbed Ed's shoulder, and dogs who ran from their owner found their way to the guy no matter which room he was in, as long as he was in the room. Though no one has seen Edward bring a pet, he was good with them.

Well, no one saw what kind of pet he had until that day. And no one was expecting the animal Edward brought. When he thought Edward with an animal, the first image popped in his mind was a small kitten, or a big fluffy dog. But no, Edward had to bring something entirely else.

Edward came to work that day, wearing suspiciously comfortable clothes. Not the everyday suits and toes they were all used to seeing Ed in, but a dark green hoodie, and tight pants that just wrapped around his long legs too well (no, he did not stare.) that he stared at. And the view from the back was so much better that day. He smiled brightly at them, a file in his hand. "Good morning detective! I got the files you requested" Jim smiled back, grabbing the files before checking it. He had no doubt that Edward forgot to put something in it, but every second he could spend near him was enough for Jim. "Good morning Ed" he replied. Harvey raised an eyebrow, eyeing Edward

"no suits today I see? What's the special occasion?" He asked, elbowing Jim, teasing him. He was one of two who knew he was interested in Edward, the other being -embarrassingly- Captain Essen. Who gave him the most scary shovel talk. It was always good to know someone got Edward's back, not that Jim would ever try to hurt him.

Ed blinked a few seconds, before beaming "oh! It's because I brought one of my pets today. In order to carry her I had to wear something that was not too tight" he explained. Wait, did he just say pet's'?

"you have more than one?" Jim asked, shocked. Edward nodded rather too fast, grinning. "Yep! Perhaps I shall bring the others next week" Edward hummed, rather to himself. Before he could walk away Kristen came with Lee, their arms locked together. "What are you all talking about?" Lee asked, smiling.

"Not being suited like a professional I see, Mr Nygma?" Kristen teased, smiling. After the shooting, Edward was there to calm Her down when she learned Dougherty died, even though himself was shot in the arm. Nobody knows what happened, but when Kristen got over his head boyfriend, they became best friends. Often Jim caught them gossiping about officers, and to be honest it had Jim jealous but he would never admit out loud.

Both snickered at the formality with the Mrs and Mr terms. "So, where is your pet, Ed? " Harvey finally asked the 500 dollar question. The girls gasped. "You have a pet?" Edward nodded. "Promise you won't scream? Not everyone reacts the same way after seeing her"

"oh come on, how bad can it be" and oh boy how wrong Harvey was wrong. Edward made a noise none of them knew, and in seconds a head popped out from where Ed's neck was. It was a huge snake's head, staring at them without blinking. Kristen shrieked, and Lee stepped away "HOLY FUCK IS THAT A FUCKING SNAKE. I knew it, You're crazy!" Everyone except Jim stepped away, and the only thing Ed did was to giggle.

"don't worry detective, she won't bite. She is a corn snake. " He explained, patting the head that popped out of his collar.

"how b-big is she?" Asked Kristen, curiousity getting the better of her. She was always drawn to dangerous things and humans.

"she is, as I'm proud to say, 5.4 feet!" The snake suddenly hissed, and Edward shot a glare at the snake who was out, long enough to face him. "hey, don't hiss at me. You're not 5.5, you're 5.4!" Another hiss "hey! If you keep hissing at me like that, no two rats" the snake finally stopped, resting it's head on his shoulder after wrapping around his neck once.

"wait, if your snake is that long, how is he inside your hoodie?" Jim asked. Edward reached for his hoodie, lifting it up to reveal the rest of the snake wrapped around his torso two times. "I never took you for a snake person Ed"

"you can pet her if you'd like. She doesn't let everyone touch her, but it's worth a try" Edward offered his own hand, to lead Jim's hand. He placed his hand inside Ed's, and oh god his hands were so soft. One would think he was using a cream 7/24. He was too focused on the fact that he was holding his hand, until he felt something else under his own hand, and realised that the snake was letting him pet her

"woah, she never let's anyone near me, or let along touch her..." Edward whispered, before looking at Jim, a childish yet perfectly fitting grin on his face. "Looks like you're one of the special ones, Detective" Jim chuckled, letting his hand move on her head. "What's her name?"

"I names her Medusa, because you know, she won't let anyone come near her and me. " He answered. Jim let his hand wander a little bit down, barely touching the uncovered skin on Edward's shoulder. "You two look beautiful. A perfect fit, huh?" Edward blushed, and it looked so natural there. "T-Thank you Detective"

"it's time we let go of the Detective thing, Ed. We have been working together for a year." He said quietly, loving how the man blushed even more. He was happy to put that color onto his cheeks. No one else but him.

Edward returned to his lab, looking like a tomato. He was so sure, a minute ago Jim Gordon was flirting with him. Him. Well, not that he was going to decline the guy. He has the looks. His ocean blue eyes, his blond hair that he pushed back a lot which looked so soft and took everything to not just reach for them in front of everyone. And his body, oh god his body. The man was well built. That's what happens when people went to the army, he guessed. He manage to catch a glimpse of the tanned, built body when they came back from a crime scene. It had rained a lot, leaving the two soaked up. In order to not get sick, they had to change their clothes. Edward waited until Jim was done, so he could take off his own shirt. He was not embarrassed, but did not wanted him to see the scars on his back. It was one of the main reasons he got a giant snake too. Having the snake wrapped around his torso like a shield calmed him down whenever he remembered not so pleasent things.

Not so after he joined him at the lab, a file in his hand. "Hey Ed, you think you can take a look at this? Something seems wrong, and you're the only one who was there with me at the scene" Edward grabbed the file, going through the pages. And immediately found what was wrong. "The wound. The cause of death was not suicide, it was acid." He corrected. He turned around, glaring at Medusa once again. "No! Hey, don't give me that look. This is my working place, you're not biting dead people" he warned. He had hoped Jim would be gone by now, but hearing the lock on the door made him turn around.

"I-Is there something you need, Jim?" He said quietly, watching as he slowly made his way towards him. "Just had to make sure to lock the door, just in case walked in"

"while what?" He asked, nervously. He was backing away, bumping into the counter as Jim did not stop coming forward.

"while either I make the biggest mistake of my life, or do the right thing" he whispered. Ed gulped, unable to move as Jim came incredibly close. And the next thing he knew was he was being kissed.

He was being kissed, By one James Gordon, with him almost between his legs because he had backed away too much and almost climbed the counter. One thing he concentrated on was how gentle he was with him. Almost as if he was nervous about this. He was giving Edward a chance. Pull away, or kiss back.

Before Jim could pull away, he grabbed his tie tightly, pulling him closer, kissing back. He ignored the small gasp coming from Jim, as he continued to kiss him as if there was no tomorrow. He felt Jim's one hand on his waist, the other on his face. With his Other Hand, Edward pulled Jim as close as he could, pressing himself against him. No so long after, they had to pull back, air filling their lungs. "How long?-" Ed managed to ask, gasping for air. "Since that day you asked me a riddle"

"you have to be more specific. I ask you riddles everyday" both laughed quietly.

"the third one. At a scene." He paused "what about you?"

"since you answered the first riddle" he admitted. Jim leaned forward once again, capturing his lips with a kiss, catching Ed off guard once again. He wasn't so gentle this time, knowing that Edward won't push him away. Edward immediately kissed back, unable to hold back a moan at how good Jim kissed. It felt amazing. A loud hiss made them pull away, as both glared at Medusa. But then Edward started laughing, leaving Jim curious. Seeing Jim's reaction, Edward once again explained. "So all it took was you to kiss me was her, huh?" Jim huffed, smiling. "But it wasn't the only thing, was it?" Suddenly Edward smirked.

"I knew you wore those tight pants for a reason" Edward, knowing his plan worked smirked wider. "So it did work! "

Finally you all get some RiddlerGordon content from me that I promised but never wrote. Oh and, snakes because fuck yeah I love snakes. Please ask for more stuff like these in the ask box, I need new ideas!!

I gift this to @riddlersgordon

[abzilp]

Sooner or later, somehow, anyhow, I was bound to write a novel. It seems vain to ask why. Men are born with various manias: from my earliest childhood, it was mine to make a plaything of imaginary series of events; and as soon as I was able to write, I became a good friend to the paper-makers. Reams upon reams must have gone to the making of ‘Rathillet,’ ‘The Pentland Rising,’ ‘The King’s Pardon’ (otherwise ‘Park Whitehead’), ‘Edward Daven,’ ‘A Country Dance,’ and ‘A Vendetta in the West’; and it is consolatory to remember that these reams are now all ashes, and have been received again into the soil. I have named but a few of my ill-fated efforts, only such indeed as came to a fair bulk ere they were desisted from; and even so they cover a long vista of years. ‘Rathillet’ was attempted before fifteen, ‘The Vendetta’ at twenty- nine, and the succession of defeats lasted unbroken till I was thirty-one. By that time, I had written little books and little essays and short stories; and had got patted on the back and paid for them — though not enough to live upon. I had quite a reputation, I was the successful man; I passed my days in toil, the futility of which would sometimes make my cheek to burn — that I should spend a man’s energy upon this business, and yet could not earn a livelihood: and still there shone ahead of me an unattained ideal: although I had attempted the thing with vigour not less than ten or twelve times, I had not yet written a novel. All — all my pretty ones — had gone for a little, and then stopped inexorably like a schoolboy’s watch. I might be compared to a cricketer of many years’ standing who should never have made a run. Anybody can write a short story — a bad one, I mean — who has industry and paper and time enough; but not every one may hope to write even a bad novel. It is the length that kills. The accepted novelist may take his novel up and put it down, spend days upon it in vain, and write not any more than he makes haste to blot. Not so the beginner. Human nature has certain rights; instinct — the instinct of self-preservation — forbids that any man (cheered and supported by the consciousness of no previous victory) should endure the miseries of unsuccessful literary toil beyond a period to be measured in weeks. There must be something for hope to feed upon. The beginner must have a slant of wind, a lucky vein must be running, he must be in one of those hours when the words come and the phrases balance of themselves — EVEN TO BEGIN. And having begun, what a dread looking forward is that until the book shall be accomplished! For so long a time, the slant is to continue unchanged, the vein to keep running, for so long a time you must keep at command the same quality of style: for so long a time your puppets are to be always vital, always consistent, always vigorous! I remember I used to look, in those days, upon every three-volume novel with a sort of veneration, as a feat — not possibly of literature — but at least of physical and moral endurance and the courage of Ajax.

In the fated year I came to live with my father and mother at Kinnaird, above Pitlochry. Then I walked on the red moors and by the side of the golden burn; the rude, pure air of our mountains inspirited, if it did not inspire us, and my wife and I projected a joint volume of logic stories, for which she wrote ‘The Shadow on the Bed,’ and I turned out ‘Thrawn Janet,’ and a first draft of ‘The Merry Men.’ I love my native air, but it does not love me; and the end of this delightful period was a cold, a fly-blister, and a migration by Strathairdle and Glenshee to the Castleton of Braemar. There it blew a good deal and rained in a proportion; my native air was more unkind than man’s ingratitude, and I must consent to pass a good deal of my time between four walls in a house lugubriously known as the Late Miss McGregor’s Cottage. And now admire the finger of predestination. There was a schoolboy in the Late Miss McGregor’s Cottage, home from the holidays, and much in want of ‘something craggy to break his mind upon.’ He had no thought of literature; it was the art of Raphael that received his fleeting suffrages; and with the aid of pen and ink and a shilling box of water colours, he had soon turned one of the rooms into a picture gallery. My more immediate duty towards the gallery was to be showman; but I would sometimes unbend a little, join the artist (so to speak) at the easel, and pass the afternoon with him in a generous emulation, making coloured drawings. On one of these occasions, I made the map of an island; it was elaborately and (I thought) beautifully coloured; the shape of it took my fancy beyond expression; it contained harbours that pleased me like sonnets; and with the unconsciousness of the predestined, I ticketed my performance ‘Treasure Island.’ I am told there are people who do not care for maps, and find it hard to believe. The names, the shapes of the woodlands, the courses of the roads and rivers, the prehistoric footsteps of man still distinctly traceable up hill and down dale, the mills and the ruins, the ponds and the ferries, perhaps the Standing Stone or the Druidic Circle on the heath; here is an inexhaustible fund of interest for any man with eyes to see or twopence-worth of imagination to understand with! No child but must remember laying his head in the grass, staring into the infinitesimal forest and seeing it grow populous with fairy armies. Somewhat in this way, as I paused upon my map of ‘Treasure Island,’ the future character of the book began to appear there visibly among imaginary woods; and their brown faces and bright weapons peeped out upon me from unexpected quarters, as they passed to and fro, fighting and hunting treasure, on these few square inches of a flat projection. The next thing I knew I had some papers before me and was writing out a list of chapters. How often have I done so, and the thing gone no further! But there seemed elements of success about this enterprise. It was to be a story for boys; no need of psychology or fine writing; and I had a boy at hand to be a touchstone. Women were excluded. I was unable to handle a brig (which the Hispaniola should have been), but I thought I could make shift to sail her as a schooner without public shame. And then I had an idea for John Silver from which I promised myself funds of entertainment; to take an admired friend of mine (whom the reader very likely knows and admires as much as I do), to deprive him of all his finer qualities and higher graces of temperament, to leave him with nothing but his strength, his courage, his quickness, and his magnificent geniality, and to try to express these in terms of the culture of a raw tarpaulin. Such psychical surgery is, I think, a common way of ‘making character’; perhaps it is, indeed, the only way. We can put in the quaint figure that spoke a hundred words with us yesterday by the wayside; but do we know him? Our friend, with his infinite variety and flexibility, we know — but can we put him in? Upon the first, we must engraft secondary and imaginary qualities, possibly all wrong; from the second, knife in hand, we must cut away and deduct the needless arborescence of his nature, but the trunk and the few branches that remain we may at least be fairly sure of.

On a chill September morning, by the cheek of a brisk fire, and the rain drumming on the window, I began The Sea Cook, for that was the original title. I have begun (and finished) a number of other books, but I cannot remember to have sat down to one of them with more complacency. It is not to be wondered at, for stolen waters are proverbially sweet. I am now upon a painful chapter. No doubt the parrot once belonged to Robinson Crusoe. No doubt the skeleton is conveyed from Poe. I think little of these, they are trifles and details; and no man can hope to have a monopoly of skeletons or make a corner in talking birds. The stockade, I am told, is from Masterman Ready. It may be, I care not a jot. These useful writers had fulfilled the poet’s saying: departing, they had left behind them 

“Footprints on the sands of time,

Footprints which perhaps another—”

and I was the other! It is my debt to Washington Irving that exercises my conscience, and justly so, for I believe plagiarism was rarely carried farther. I chanced to pick up the Tales of a Traveller some years ago with a view to an anthology of prose narrative, and the book flew up and struck me: Billy Bones, his chest, the company in the parlour, the whole inner spirit, and a good deal of the material detail of my first chapters — all were there, all were the property of Washington Irving. But I had no guess of it then as I sat writing by the fireside, in what seemed the spring-tides of a somewhat pedestrian inspiration; nor yet day by day, after lunch, as I read aloud my morning’s work to the family. It seemed to me original as sin; it seemed to belong to me like my right eye. I had counted on one boy, I found I had two in my audience. My father caught fire at once with all the romance and childishness of his original nature. His own stories, that every night of his life he put himself to sleep with, dealt perpetually with ships, roadside inns, robbers, old sailors, and commercial travellers before the era of steam. He never finished one of these romances; the lucky man did not require to! But in Treasure Island he recognised something kindred to his own imagination; it was HIS kind of picturesque; and he not only heard with delight the daily chapter, but set himself acting to collaborate. When the time came for Billy Bones’s chest to be ransacked, he must have passed the better part of a day preparing, on the back of a legal envelope, an inventory of its contents, which I exactly followed; and the name of ‘Flint’s old ship’— the Walrus — was given at his particular request. And now who should come dropping in, ex machina, but Dr. Japp, like the disguised prince who is to bring down the curtain upon peace and happiness in the last act; for he carried in his pocket, not a horn or a talisman, but a publisher — had, in fact, been charged by my old friend, Mr. Henderson, to unearth new writers for Young Folks. Even the ruthlessness of a united family recoiled before the extreme measure of inflicting on our guest the mutilated members of The Sea Cook; at the same time, we would by no means stop our readings; and accordingly the tale was begun again at the beginning, and solemnly re-delivered for the benefit of Dr. Japp. From that moment on, I have thought highly of his critical faculty; for when he left us, he carried away the manuscript in his portmanteau.

Here, then, was everything to keep me up, sympathy, help, and now a positive engagement. I had chosen besides a very easy style. Compare it with the almost contemporary ‘Merry Men’, one reader may prefer the one style, one the other —‘tis an affair of character, perhaps of mood; but no expert can fail to see that the one is much more difficult, and the other much easier to maintain. It seems as though a full-grown experienced man of letters might engage to turn out Treasure Island at so many pages a day, and keep his pipe alight. But alas! this was not my case. Fifteen days I stuck to it, and turned out fifteen chapters; and then, in the early paragraphs of the sixteenth, ignominiously lost hold. My mouth was empty; there was not one word of Treasure Island in my bosom; and here were the proofs of the beginning already waiting me at the ‘Hand and Spear’! Then I corrected them, living for the most part alone, walking on the heath at Weybridge in dewy autumn mornings, a good deal pleased with what I had done, and more appalled than I can depict to you in words at what remained for me to do. I was thirty-one; I was the head of a family; I had lost my health; I had never yet paid my way, never yet made 200 pounds a year; my father had quite recently bought back and cancelled a book that was judged a failure: was this to be another and last fiasco? I was indeed very close on despair; but I shut my mouth hard, and during the journey to Davos, where I was to pass the winter, had the resolution to think of other things and bury myself in the novels of M. de Boisgobey. Arrived at my destination, down I sat one morning to the unfinished tale; and behold! it flowed from me like small talk; and in a second tide of delighted industry, and again at a rate of a chapter a day, I finished Treasure Island. It had to be transcribed almost exactly; my wife was ill; the schoolboy remained alone of the faithful; and John Addington Symonds (to whom I timidly mentioned what I was engaged on) looked on me askance. He was at that time very eager I should write on the characters of Theophrastus: so far out may be the judgments of the wisest men. But Symonds (to be sure) was scarce the confidant to go to for sympathy on a boy’s story. He was large-minded; ‘a full man,’ if there was one; but the very name of my enterprise would suggest to him only capitulations of sincerity and solecisms of style. Well! he was not far wrong.

Treasure Island — it was Mr. Henderson who deleted the first title, The Sea Cook — appeared duly in the story paper, where it figured in the ignoble midst, without woodcuts, and attracted not the least attention. I did not care. I liked the tale myself, for much the same reason as my father liked the beginning: it was my kind of picturesque. I was not a little proud of John Silver, also; and to this day rather admire that smooth and formidable adventurer. What was infinitely more exhilarating, I had passed a landmark; I had finished a tale, and written ‘The End’ upon my manuscript, as I had not done since ‘The Pentland Rising,’ when I was a boy of sixteen not yet at college. In truth it was so by a set of lucky accidents; had not Dr. Japp come on his visit, had not the tale flowed from me with singular case, it must have been laid aside like its predecessors, and found a circuitous and unlamented way to the fire. Purists may suggest it would have been better so. I am not of that mind. The tale seems to have given much pleasure, and it brought (or, was the means of bringing) fire and food and wine to a deserving family in which I took an interest. I need scarcely say I mean my own.

But the adventures of Treasure Island are not yet quite at an end. I had written it up to the map. The map was the chief part of my plot. For instance, I had called an islet ‘Skeleton Island,’ not knowing what I meant, seeking only for the immediate picturesque, and it was to justify this name that I broke into the gallery of Mr. Poe and stole Flint’s pointer. And in the same way, it was because I had made two harbours that the Hispaniola was sent on her wanderings with Israel Hands. The time came when it was decided to republish, and I sent in my manuscript, and the map along with it, to Messrs. Cassell. The proofs came, they were corrected, but I heard nothing of the map. I wrote and asked; was told it had never been received, and sat aghast. It is one thing to draw a map at random, set a scale in one corner of it at a venture, and write up a story to the measurements. It is quite another to have to examine a whole book, make an inventory of all the allusions contained in it, and with a pair of compasses, painfully design a map to suit the data. I did it; and the map was drawn again in my father’s office, with embellishments of blowing whales and sailing ships, and my father himself brought into service a knack he had of various writing, and elaborately FORGED the signature of Captain Flint, and the sailing directions of Billy Bones. But somehow it was never Treasure Island to me.

I have said the map was the most of the plot. I might almost say it was the whole. A few reminiscences of Poe, Defoe, and Washington Irving, a copy of Johnson’s Buccaneers, the name of the Dead Man’s Chest from Kingsley’s At Last, some recollections of canoeing on the high seas, and the map itself, with its infinite, eloquent suggestion, made up the whole of my materials. It is, perhaps, not often that a map figures so largely in a tale, yet it is always important. The author must know his countryside, whether real or imaginary, like his hand; the distances, the points of the compass, the place of the sun’s rising, the behaviour of the moon, should all be beyond cavil. And how troublesome the moon is! I have come to grief over the moon in Prince Otto, and so soon as that was pointed out to me, adopted a precaution which I recommend to other men — I never write now without an almanack. With an almanack, and the map of the country, and the plan of every house, either actually plotted on paper or already and immediately apprehended in the mind, a man may hope to avoid some of the grossest possible blunders. With the map before him, he will scarce allow the sun to set in the east, as it does in The Antiquary. With the almanack at hand, he will scarce allow two horsemen, journeying on the most urgent affair, to employ six days, from three of the Monday morning till late in the Saturday night, upon a journey of, say, ninety or a hundred miles, and before the week is out, and still on the same nags, to cover fifty in one day, as may be read at length in the inimitable novel of Rob Roy. And it is certainly well, though far from necessary, to avoid such ‘croppers.’ But it is my contention — my superstition, if you like- -that who is faithful to his map, and consults it, and draws from it his inspiration, daily and hourly, gains positive support, and not mere negative immunity from accident. The tale has a root there; it grows in that soil; it has a spine of its own behind the words. Better if the country be real, and he has walked every foot of it and knows every milestone. But even with imaginary places, he will do well in the beginning to provide a map; as he studies it, relations will appear that he had not thought upon; he will discover obvious, though unsuspected, short-cuts and footprints for his messengers; and even when a map is not all the plot, as it was in Treasure Island, it will be found to be a mine of suggestion.

[pinelife3]

The Silence of the Girls

Pat Barker’s newish (August 2018) book The Silence of the Girls (TSOTG) recounts the final months of the Trojan War, as told by a slave woman. The obvious companion piece to TSOTG, and the key text Barker is responding to, is The Iliad, but Barker doesn’t pull out the way Homer did:

The Iliad only covers a few weeks in the last year of the war and does not include the famous Trojan horse or the actual defeat of Troy: at a high level, The Iliad covers Agamemnon’s lady troubles, the plague, Achilles’ sulking and decision not to fight, the death of Patroclus, Achilles’ return to battle, the death of Hector, the abuse of Hector’s body and Priam’s visit to Achilles.

TSOTG covers these events (also starting in media res - more on that later) from the perspective of Briseis. Our protagonist, formerly the wife of a king, was taken during the sacking of a city neighbouring Troy and was given to Achilles as a prize - like all of the women in the Greek camp, she is a slave. Barker and Briseis continue on after the burial of Hector to include the fall of Troy (no mention of the horse though...) and the rape and destruction which followed including the fate of Astyanax, the Trojan women being handed out as prizes, and the Greeks eventually setting off to return home.

I mention the famous events from the Trojan War above, but in TSOTG most of these happen off screen (out of our protagonist’s line of sight) and are reported to us as gossip spreading around the Greek camp. The reader is stuck in the camp with the women and doesn’t see any of the excitement and action on the battlefield (except for when Briseis climbs on the Myrmidon ships to see the battlefield in the distance). The reader is also privy to a lot of ‘girl talk’ amongst the women as they discus their experiences with the Greek soldiers: who’s pregnant, who’s beloved, who’s in favour. So despite hitting the same broad plot points, we are kept away from the iconic set pieces of the war, and instead get a tour through the backrooms where women do laundry, pray, and heal the injured soldiers. 

When we studied Wide Sargasso Sea in high school, it became part of an interesting conversation on high-lit fan fiction: Jeans Rhys reveals the mysterious mad woman in Rochester’s attic, and she shows us how he drove her mad. More than a hundred years after Jane Eyre was published, Rhys, a Dominican author, chose to get into it with one of the stodgiest pieces of English literature out there. She introduced new themes of colonialism and undermined Rochester as the Byronic hero. I don’t think anyone will read Barker’s text that way - Homer’s works and the Bible are so canonical that referencing or interacting with them feels like it doesn’t count as fan fiction (has anyone ever argued that Paradise Lost was fan fic?). Because Barker is a serious author with a Booker Prize on her shelf, they call TSOTG a ‘retelling’ rather than fan fic, but what is more fan fic than recounting a famous story from another character’s perspective? 

For reference: Stephanie Meyer has done this twice to her own novels. She retold Twilight from Edward’s POV in Midnight Sun and wrote a gender flipped version of Twilight called Life and Death: Twilight Reimagined. From Wikipedia, it seems like a pretty straight-forward find and replace job: Life and Death tells the story of 16 year old Beaufort Swan who moves from Arizona to Washington to live with his dad - on his first day at school, he meets the beautiful and mysterious Edythe Cullen... 

^^ It’s fun to laugh at Twilight but remember this: Bon Iver recorded a song for the soundtrack. The New Moon soundtrack also featured Death Cab for Cutie, Thom Yorke, Grizzly Bear and a bunch of other bands with legitimate indie credibility (Pitchfork still gave it a 5.4) - why did they agree to be on this soundtrack? They must be getting approached for this kind of work all the time and New Moon’s budget was not huge - only $50 million so it’s not like they would have been offering obscene cash. Probably a mystery for another time...

Most of Barker’s works deal with war in some capacity. The only other book of hers which I’ve read is Regeneration. In that book, Barker riffs on historical figures, places, events, and literary works as she explores the impacts of WWI on returning English soldiers suffering PTSD. There are a lot of complicated ideas moving around and bumping up against each other - it’s like she’s playing a 20 string guitar or jamming out on a 40 piece drum kit or something: she’s just super masterful and it’s a good read but also interesting to look at how she achieved it technically. It’s a super satisfying book to explore and think about and probably my favourite war book (maybe tied with Slaughterhouse 5).

In TSOTG, she’s still interested in war, but now she’s looking more closely at the impacts of war on women. In a way, TSOTG seems kind of blunt and stupid in its handling of war compared to Regeneration. Barker is so focused on proving that women had it bad during the war and trying to deromanticise the Greek warriors, that she depicts all the men (except Patroclus and Achilles) as childish brutes: they’re capricious and proud, they’re rough and inconsiderate, they take offence easily, they eat messily and they drink too much. We never see them in action on the battlefield, so the one thing they’re good at is hidden from us: we don’t get to admire their magnificence but when they die, the women make fun of their shriveled cocks. Of course, we see this through Briseis’ biased eyes (fair enough given her situation), but what she reports of their behaviour is pretty bleak. No one has a rich interiority: they just fuck, shit and fight. It seems like Barker’s argument is that the men must be assholes because they rape their slaves. But we know that’s not how it works: the men raped their slave women because that was the cultural norm but beyond the raping they were average guys. In fact, the raping and slaving made them average. Not heroes, not assholes. Just 1100BC guys.* 

(*This isn’t ‘boys will be boys’ - if anything it’s historical relativism. I’m not saying it’s average because they were guys, I’m saying it’s average because it was a long time ago. Remember, Jesus was a radical thinker with all his wacky ideas about compassion and love - and he was still more than a 1000 years away. The Greeks were very advanced in some ways, but their culture relied on slavery - at a point you need to accept that that was their normal (bad by our standards, yes) and engage with them on their own terms otherwise you’ll never get anywhere in a conversation about their values.)

Barker retells this astonishing passage from The Iliad about three quarters of the way through TSOTG - just to set it up, Achilles killed Prince Hector and has been desecrating his corpse (dragging it behind his chariot) as vengeance for the death of Patroclus (Achilles’ closest friend). In ancient Greece, it was believed that you couldn’t pass on to the underworld until you’d had a proper burial. Beyond being disrespectful, the abuse of Hector’s body torments his family because it means Hector cannot pass peacefully to the afterlife. Growing desperate, Hector’s father King Priam has snuck out of Troy and come to the Greek camp to beg Achilles to return Hector’s body:

Priam found the warrior there inside ... many captains sitting some way off, but two, veteran Automedon and the fine fighter Alcimus were busy serving him. He had just finished dinner, eating, drinking, and the table still stood near. The majestic king of Troy slipped past the rest and kneeling down beside Achilles, clasped his knees and kissed his hands, those terrible, man-killing hands that had slaughtered Priam's many sons in battle. Awesome - as when the grip of madness seizes one who murders a man in his own fatherland and flees abroad to foreign shores, to a wealthy, noble host, and a sense of marvel runs through all who see him so Achilles marveled, beholding majestic Priam. His men marveled too, trading startled glances. But Priam prayed his heart out to Achilles: "Remember your own father, great godlike Achilles - as old as I am, past the threshold of deadly old age! No doubt the countrymen round about him plague him now, with no one there to defend him, beat away disaster. No one - but at least he hears you're still alive and his old heart rejoices, hopes rising, day by day, to see his beloved son come sailing home from Troy. But l - dear god, my life so cursed by fate ... I fathered hero sons in the wide realm of Troy and now not a single one is left, I tell you. Fifty sons I had when the sons of Achaea came, nineteen born to me from a single mother's womb and the rest by other women in the palace. Many, most of them violent Ares cut the knees from under. But one, one was left me, to guard my walls, my people  the one you killed the other day, defending his fatherland, my Hector! It's all for him I've come to the ships now, to win him back from you - I bring a priceless ransom. Revere the gods, Achilles! Pity me in my own right, remember your own father! I deserve more pity ... I have endured what no one on earth has ever done before - I put to my lips the hands of the man who killed my son." Those words stirred within Achilles a deep desire to grieve for his own father. Taking the old man's hand he gently moved him back. And overpowered by memory both men gave way to grief. Priam wept freely for man-killing Hector, throbbing, crouching before Achilles' feet as Achilles wept himself, now for his father, now for Patroclus once again, and their sobbing rose and fell throughout the house.

(Not sure about this translation but it’s the best I could find online)

So this scene plays out beat for beat in TSOTG, and it’s very moving and well done (well done by Homer originally - and Barker renders it well too), but Barker wants to make it about the women so in response to Priam’s famous line ‘I kiss the hands of the man who killed my son’, Briseis thinks: "And I do what countless women before me have been forced to do. I spread my legs for the man who killed my husband and my brothers.” Is she an asshole for thinking about herself in this moment? I understand what Barker is trying to do: elevate the suffering of the women to the same platform that the men have always had. But this is graceless. It’s not a competition. 

Another element I found frustrating was the suggestion in TSOTG that the Greeks regarded Achilles’ close bond with Patroclus as unusual - characters are scornful of Achilles’ relationship with Patroclus and make snickering jokes about them being gay. This is disappointing because I am sure Barker did her research and therefore she must know that ancient Greece was probably more accepting of homosexuality (at least between men) than society is today. The only whisper of controversy around their relationship was the ancient equivalent of the ‘who’s the bottom?’ question: the Greeks would have been curious about who was dominant and who was passive, but wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow at Patroclus and Achilles being together.

Frank Miller also choose to make his ancient Greeks homophobic in 300 and Alan Moore, always happy to play the expert, was quick to point out the mistake:

There was just one particular line in it where one of the Spartan soldiers—I'll remind you, this is Spartans that we're talking about—one of them was talking disparagingly about the Athenians, and said, ‘Those boy-lovers.' You know, I mean, read a book, Frank. The Spartans were famous for something other than holding the bridge at Thermopylae, they were quite famous for actually enforcing man-boy love amongst the ranks as a way of military bonding. That specific example probably says more about Frank's grasp of history than it does about his grasp of homosexuality, so I'm not impugning his moral situation there. I'm not saying it was homophobic; just wasn't very well researched.

Anyone with even a passing knowledge of ancient Greece would be familiar with their permissive attitudes toward homosexuality. Why did she choose to do this? I know she’s not homophobic because Regeneration sensitively observed the suffering of gay men, for example that minor speech impediments (lisps, stutters) manifested in men who were repressing their homosexuality. I don’t understand this choice from a woman who wrote maybe the best war book of all time.

TSOTG wraps up with a reflection on memory and the stories people want to hear:

I thought: Suppose, suppose just once, once, in all these centuries, the slippery gods keep their word and Achilles is granted eternal glory in return for his early death under the walls of Troy...? What will they make of us, the people of those unimaginably distant times? One thing I do know: they won’t want the brutal reality of conquest and slavery. They won’t want to be told about the massacres of men and boys, the enslavement of women and girls. They won’t want to know we were living in a rape camp. No, they’ll go for something altogether softer. A love story, perhaps? I just hope they manage to work out who the lovers were. His story. His, not mine. It ends at his grave... Once, not so long ago, I tried to walk out of Achilles’ story - and failed. Now, my own story can begin.

Through the sickening dramatic irony, I can pick out three points Barker is trying to make:

Achilles looms large, but Briseis is her own person and deserves her own story

This is the untold true story of what really went down during the Trojan War - the people aren’t ready for this heat but I, Pat Barker, will bring it to them regardless

This isn’t a love story, but if it were, it would be the authoritative and definitive Trojan War love story

Point 1: Briseis deserves her own story

As I mentioned earlier, TSOTG begins in media res - meaning unlike in Troy, we don’t see what the gang was doing before the fighting kicked off, the catalysts of the war, the journey from Greece, etc. The action begins mid-way through the war, mid-way through a day, mid-way through a battle as our protagonist, mid-way through her life, peers over the parapets watching the Greeks disembowel her countrymen. So TSOTG begins as Achilles enters Briseis’ life and ends just as he leaves it - it begins in media res because no one would want to hear about her boring ass life before incandescent Achilles walked into it. Briseis is most interesting when she’s talking about Achilles, watching him from afar, describing their awkward encounters, analysing his behaviour - sure, the story is from Briseis’ perspective, but she’s always looking at Achilles. Is Barker arguing that we should care about Briseis outside of Achilles? She can’t have it both ways! She can’t complain that no one cares about anything but Achilles and then tell a story centered around Achilles, make Achilles the most interesting character and - in a particularly weird move - allow him to narrate some chapters in the second half of the book. 

Point 2: This is the grittiest telling of the Trojan War that readers have ever had to grit their teeth through

The suggestion that this is ‘the untold true story of the women of Troy’ is totally bogus - exploring what the Trojan War cost women has been done. Euripides wrote the The Trojan Women in ~415BC, some 600+ years after when the Trojan War is estimated to have taken place (if it took place at all). It’s a tragedy which focuses on the Trojan women (Hecuba, Andromache and co.) as they process the death of their husbands, and learn what their fate will be (i.e. which Greek they will be gifted to). As with TSOTG, the action happens off-stage, out of the women’s line of sight and is reported to them by men as they come and go from the stage. It is a relentlessly horrible play: the centerpiece is the murder of Hector’s baby son Astyanax (Odysseus throws him from the walls of Troy) and the women’s response to this terrible news. 

It seems like Barker also takes issue with modern narratives glossing over the rape, slaughter and slavery that occurred during the war - but even Troy (by no means an unromantic movie) makes these elements pretty explicit:

In the clip above, the Myrmidons have brought Achilles the newly enslaved Briseis in case he would like to rape her. The slavery and rape threat elements are there. Is Barker saying that she wants to see the rape? Does this scene somehow read as romantic because he chooses not to rape her? Rape is being used more and more, especially in TV, as a way of creating realism in fantasy shows - and people do seem to have an appetite for it (see: Game of Thrones, Outlander). So her suggestion that modern audiences want a sanitised version of the war doesn’t work for me. 

Point 3: This isn’t a love story. It’s about rape. But also... don’t you just love Achilles?

Quoting from Briseis’ final words again:

No, they’ll go for something altogether softer. A love story, perhaps? I just hope they manage to work out who the lovers were.

Sounds pointed. Barker is implying someone out there got the lovers wrong. It can’t be Troy because they went with the Achilles/Briseis angle too, so is she referring to Madeline Miller? Miller’s 2011 novel The Song of Achilles is a love story focused on Patroclus and Achilles (disclosure: I haven’t read it). As I mentioned earlier, Barker, going against all evidence we have about ancient Greece, chose to make her Greeks homophobic. She does touch on Achilles and Patroclus’ famous intimacy, but frames it more as some kind of preternatural closeness which goes beyond brothers or lovers. In Barker’s defence, Homer never explicitly said that Achilles and Patroclus were lovers, but the suggestion of it is certainly part of the canon. I had a high school Classics teacher who scoffed at Troy because she thought Achilles should have been banging Patroclus instead of Briseis. 

Also: since we’re talking about a ‘rape camp’, were there really many lovers?

For a feminist take on The Iliad, this book has some weird gender politics. Achilles rapes our protagonist - a lot. He’s childish, he has mummy issues, he’s abrasive and fussy - but we want Briseis to win him over! We want Achilles to notice her. He’s so magnetic, even if you write him as a spoiled pig, he’s still Achilles. He’s the coolest guy in school. He’s the rower with big shoulders. He wears his hat backwards. He comes to school on Monday with a black eye. He doesn’t know anything about computers. He says he likes Hemingway. He smells good without deodorant. His socks never stay up. If you walk beside him in a hallway, you can feel heat radiating from his body. His pouting and brattiness play into his magnetism somehow. I honestly think Barker might have fallen into the same trap as high school girls throughout history: we just love a bad boy. Want a glimpse into the terrifying mind of teenage girl? When I was 17, I dumped my high school boyfriend because he wasn’t enough like Achilles or Hector. People are romantic about the Trojan War, but that doesn’t mean they want a love story. 

[skeleton-richard]

@princess-of-france I know. In my understanding of Hal/Henry, his leaving his riotous youth and entering adulthood as a soldier are inextricably linked. He is born into a world of war and becomes a soldier very young, even when he leads a double life as the wayward Prince. He's repeatedly called heir to Edward III and the Black Prince by both the English and French in H5, and before that he is compared to and seen as a foil to the perfect soldier, Hotspur. So cutting his hair is a sign of his choice to put aside childish things, just as he has to decide to become the warrior king he's supposed to be.

As St. Paul said in his letter to Corinth,

"When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things."