#(hi forgotten elegy people)

[the-adventures-of-dave]

do you have a name we can refer to you by? (tbh I’ve mostly been referring to you as Dave also)

Honestly I think most people in online cat circles refer to me as Dave 😂 Elsewhere online I go by Wren!

[exactlycleverpirate]

Wild Theories About Rafayel

Spoilers under the cut.

So, I've been contemplating how the various deceptions Rafayel has experienced occured and how that connects in his story over all. He or his story references being deceived at least 3 times: in Anecdote 3, in the Myth, and in Your Fragrance.

Anecdote 3:

"The young boy sits alone in the middle of the coral reef, softly humming “Siren's Ballad.” Waves lap the shores, staining it dark red. The color blends almost seamlessly with the bloody setting sun in the distance. Those who deceived him have long since sailed away on their massive ships, laughing all the while. “Siren's Ballad” isn't a song of revenge. It's an elegy sung for Lemuria.”

Myth:

Amund: “I believe in Your Quintessence. Her method of acquiring the heart wasn’t forgotten, was it? If that island sparked the beginning of our demise, then everything should end there. The Lemurians cannot be deceived again!”

MC: “The Lemurian tales I’ve read said the God of the Sea died long ago… I’m sorry, you must refer to it as a “slumber.” How can there still be a God of the Sea?” Rafayel: “Does Your Highness know why he perished? His heart was stolen by humans.”

Your Fragrance:

“It must be an allergic reaction. This isn’t perfume. How dare they use such underhanded methods to trap me…” “Who gave you the perfume?” “Are you trying to run away again?” “I’m not going anywhere. You’re gonna lock me up again… You’re with them, I just know it. Don’t think I’m unaware of what you’re about to do. (MC name), I won’t fall for it again. Not this time.”

They all seem to be connected to you somehow, but not enough so to make him hate you or lose trust in you, as he is still willing to be incredibly vulnerable with you (Ebb and Flow), give up his life for you (Myth chapter 8-9), deeply love you, and want to be with you for the rest of his life.

So my thoughts are that MC has been used as bait against Rafayel in at least 2 lives. There seem to be events that reoccur in their different reincarnations, such as Rafayel meeting MC when they are young/children and vowing to find MC again. He gives her the blue fish, the Emissary of the Ocean, in both current and Myth lives as well.

So going with this idea of reoccurring events, I think on their first life, which I believe was the Island of Songs life, there was likely a vow made as children. But then as adults, I think there were a group of humans (or perhaps just one in particular) who decided to use her as bait to trap the God of the Sea and plunder Lemuria's riches while he was weak. She is unaware of any of this. She is offered to him as a sacrifice (think Bride of Habaek (manhwa)), essentially becomes something like a temple maiden trapped on an island. What she doesn't know is that those who sent her there are using her as a honey trap.

And it works. She and Rafayel fall in love and bind themselves to each other. Now, I haven't decided yet whether I think the humans knew he would go so far as to give her his heart or whether they just got lucky there. But the end result is, Rafayel is trapped when he is weak, Lemuria is plundered, and I believe they then go into hiding in the deep, becoming the stuff of myth and legend.

MC, meanwhile, is seen as the betrayer by the Lemurians, though not necessarily Rafayel, not completely at least. They curse her and turn her into a Sea Witch (Fragrant Dream). But eventually Rafayel finds her and saves her at the cost of his own life.

Now fast-forward to current day Rafayel. He has once again made a vow with her when they were children. And I think he is deceived by the same person/people as before, be they gods, reincarnations or some other immortal. And I think now that they are behind Ever Corp, Onychinus and related organizations. (I also like the idea that Astra from Zayne's Myth is somehow a part of all this.) So, they use MC as a lure, to draw him away from Lemuria, since even as a child, he is their protector. They once again plunder Lemuria, this time nearly wiping it out.

Meanwhile, I think they know MC has a Sea God’s heart, and were experimenting on her to find a way to use it. Hence the Aether core and what not.

Sometime in the far future, they will use what they learn from it to remake Earth into Philos, with a fake core that keeps all humanity immortal, except those sacrificed to it. Eventually, MC's immortal heart is essentially connected to the core like a battery, to drain, die, recharge the core, then be reborn to do it again. Essentially making all human life on Philos leaches off of Rafayel's immortality, draining him as well and eventually condemning him to eternal slumber if he does not reclaim it from her.

What do you think? Wild and crazy? Has some merit? What are your own theories? Let me know in the comments or PM me!

[glubandeepspace]

my current understanding of raf lore in regards to mc's part in it is basically ↓

they met as kids once when he ran away from home to explore (Nightly Stroll), but then he went back home n mc got taken in by those culty people

(Forgotten Sea) they reunite as fellows in more fucked roles. raf initially chose her as follower for convenience (probably didnt instant recognize) but then as they realize more abt each other they become friends in an arranged marriage adjacent situation that ends up actually wrong to the sea somehow. but i mean the tome is weird abt what it says abt how he should treat a follower and he himself also claims "tis a human fantasy" for lemurians to fall for who theyre bound to. yet he fell n all.

more theory territory bc again the end of forgotten sea is vague—during the ceremony, his awakening doesnt work bc the sea could tell he isnt more devoted to it than he is to mc, and the sea demands him to choose between her n lemuria (not that the sea would destroy its own people, but the flame lemuria needs was already dying, and rafayel's proper awakening couldve saved it but now it needs a sacrifice). it's such a last minute twist / confirmation of fears and mc makes him sacrifice her (or he kills her bc the sea compells him). this brings forth the new flame.

but rafayel dies a lot later as Forgotten Sea says, because... the incident with sea witch mc (Fragrant Dream) and the implied mc of Siren's Song (idk what order these would be). but the thing abt sea witch is—she may have been cursed as punishment by the sea, and raf didnt agree with this, turned her back human at the cost of a lot of effort n his life. he basically died for mc 1-2 times total for all the above, no matter what order. but he probably knew he'd die for sea witch (i doubt the sea offed him). so hes not above dying for mc except

"a rumor" "the god of the sea had lied to the deep sea for his beloved" (Forgotten Sea) im believing this rumor and that the lie was sometjing like.. that he'd take back the heart he gifted mc (which already irked the sea, hence flickering flame during Forgotten Sea kiss that happened right after the gifting) (it sounded like a metaphorical gifting at first but ig not) (maybe halfway. somethingsometjing magic). bc he doesnt want to kill her, especially after he already tried killing her once, and he doesnt trust everything the sea expects. he resents the prophecies or whatever. he thinks he can save lemuria in his own way

lemuria that btw fell to ruin specifically bc of his absence from it when Siren Song mc took his tail & scales (thats why he sung the elegy as he perished alongside her)

plus, you know, other humans

he gets reborn (who knows how again) into what we can call linkon raf, whos focused still on avenging his people and likely finding a way to revive lemuria while protecting its remains—a way that doesnt depend on what's now mc's heart, but she is a backup choice he may consider (though the sea wishes she were the first choice) (but like very to the very back of his brain, the last choice even, esp since he actively protects her actually) (where the fence between his thoughts and the sea's are)

probably something to do with the aether core ironically part of her heart will be what helps lemuria

somewhere in all this was also an mc who lived on an island alone ? (forgot where from!) and also an mc who might fr get her heart carved by some teen lemurian that's either a new raf somehow or someone connected (mentioned in an mc dream i also forgot which myth from, but probably forgotten sea? dream abt abysswalker-like era though) and i need to reread abysswalker before going on even longer for its mentions of tome stuff etc

[kara-knuckles]

As much as I liked the Darknights bits in Episode 13, on the whole I found it pretty frustrating, because it kinda devalued every storyline from Episode 12.

Amiya once again gets an arc about generational Sarkaz bullshit. The Revenant is barely mentioned, despite being a really damn big deal.

What about the Dukes? Last chapter has shown that they are willing to become more involved in the conflict, and now that their forces barely avoided getting hit by The Shard, surely we will get more from them? Nah, the Duke of Windermere probably holds the record for the shortest amount of time it took an established character to die, the biggest impact her forces did was GTFO-ing for the sake of Siege's arc, and the most the other Dukes managed was finally lifting their asses and telling us to tune again in half a year for Episode 14, where they maybe will do something. Maybe. Probably.

Speaking of Siege, remember all the introspection she did in 12? Morgan's realization that they aren't some heroes of legend? Who cares! Let's go full superhero comic, complete with hyper aggressive fighting, deep wound in a polluted area with no consequences, being given a convenient banner to rally people around, and even returning a fallen friend we knew for a week and mourned deeply!

…Baird who? Her buddy Delphine doesn't even get a line connecting her to Glasgow, let alone actually include her with the group in the archives. Nice CG with the real heroes, though!

Last time we saw Paprika she was with Manfred, one of our main antagonists. Will we learn more about him? Will it have some kind of effect on her? LOL. LMAO, even.

Remember all the soul searching Damazti did? How the climax of the chapter was their death? Forget it, we got not one, but two of them, complete with reset personalities!

Obviously, this means we don't get more insight from them about Golding, and Heidi is long forgotten by the narrative, but look! Lettou's arc is hitting rock bottom, perhaps he can spare some thoughts for his old friend he drove to suicide? Maybe even do some elegy about how it ties into Gaul's fate? Nope! His catalyst is actually some rando with a dementia (which I loved on a thematic level, but, you know *gestures at the list*).

Even Ines, who frankly barely did anything in 12, got her injured state completely ignored in favour of telling us Hoederer got a haircut, so that she could do some acrobatics atop a flying skeleton a few days later. But hey! They actually acknowledged her big moment of jumping from the airship, now that's a progress!

[mx-myth]

Writing Patterns

Thank you to @omgpurplefattie for the tag (or the equivalent thereof, lol)! I'll put the first sentences of my last ten ao3 works (in order of most recent posting to least recent) and see if I can tell any patterns. Because I want to I'll also put the last sentences because I know there are some patterns there.

01. i think want is in the shape of you (my can't have nice things fanghua post-canon piece)

He’s not supposed to be warm. 

In the dark, Li Lianhua admits to himself the words he can’t say yet: Fang Xiaobao, I want you.

02. only for you (dom4dom fanghua smut)

He curls his fingers in the hair at the back of his neck.

“Only for you,” He says as their lips meet, “Only for you, Lianhua.”

03. and they were underwater scientists (liansanjiao as underwater seahorse researchers)

Fang Duobing sighs.

“Come on, let’s go home.”

04. fool me thrice (liansanjiao modern au hilarious miscommunication on who's dating who)

Fang Duobing surfaces beside him and shakes the water out of his hair like a dog.

His love for their little life overflows, and he really couldn’t be happy without them.

05. wake (fdb starts wearing his hair like llh used to)

He starts wearing his hair like Li Lianhua’s.

“Do you see it now?” Di Feisheng whispers back, “Fang Xiaobao, you’re precious.”

06. got me riding that edge (swallow me down) (the liansanjiao fic I wrote because I learned what snowballing was)

Di Feisheng is going to be the death of him.

He gets a pillow to the face for his troubles.

07. five scenes with a cat (in which llh misses fdb and acquires a cat)

Li Lianhua is not worried.

And, because he can’t help himself, he says, teasingly, “You wouldn’t happen to know where my cat went, do you?”

08. let me too (my ultimate voyeur!llh fic)

Later he will remember how he’d bitten down into the flesh of his chest to muffle his whines.

“Okay fine, yes, you can watch again! Just stop talking about it!”

09. elegy sound (my ghost!llh fic)

When he wakes there is no sun.

“You said,” He says, smiling, “That if I could bring people back to life you’d take my family name. I think you and A-Fei should both be Li now.”

10. dress me up how you like it (fdb wears a dress and liansanjiao fuck horny about it)

By the time the package comes, three weeks and five days later, Fang Duobing has completely forgotten about the bet.

When he wakes up the next morning he has a splitting headache and no memories of the previous night, and from where he’s lying on top of Di Feisheng he can see Li Lianhua stumble through the door.

Patterns:

First sentences are usually a sensation, an action, or an emotion

Likewise they also tend to set up a central feature of the fic or at least some exposition

Last sentences usually summarise the whole of the fic neatly to tie it off

They also are either sweet or humorous

I was actually surprised that it turned out that I had written - much less posted - enough mlc fics that they'd be this entire post. I thought for sure I was going to get down to the temeraire laurence/napoleon fic that I posted *checks* September of 2022 but nope.

I'm not sure who's done this already, but here we go: @kingsandbastardz @nutcasewithaknife @wuxia-vanlifer @zishuge @tiny-breadcrumbs. If anyone else wants to do it to you're welcome to!

[theinsatiables]

Present Imperfect

Aftersun opens with a home movie, a daughter filming her father. Sophie (Frankie Corio) has just turned eleven. Calum (Paul Mescal), who will turn thirty-one by the end of the film, is dancing. “These are my moves,” he smiles, and you can almost hear her eyes roll. “When you were eleven,” she asks, zooming in on his face, “what did you think you’d be doing now?” He looks down and the frame freezes. So this is to be an elegy.

It is the story of a parent who will die—who has died. This is a spoiler only insofar as knowing that the mother will die could ruin the experience of watching Tokyo Story, which is to say only insofar as the death of a parent is a surprise. It is, of course. But you knew it was coming. And then it did, and now you know. This temporality, from future to present perfect, eliding the unspeakable present imperfect and future perfect—“is dying,” “will have died”—gives force to Aftersun’s otherwise delicate narrative. It is a reminiscence haunted by dread, which might be a good definition of grief.

Calum and Sophie are on vacation in Turkey. We can guess, given the presence of a consumer camera that shoots on digital video and, later, the most natural-looking performance of the Macarena you’ve seen since Janet Reno was attorney general, that it’s about 1997 or 1998. It is eventually made clear that adult Sophie (Celia Rowlson-Hall), a millennial with a baby of her own, is watching these old tapes—fleeting documents of what she and her dad were like, Calum’s sly humor, Sophie’s antic energy—and remembering or imagining what happened outside the frame. Aftersun could be understood as the art project that she makes as she sits with her memories and recordings and tries to piece together a portrait of her father. Calum, meanwhile, turns out to have been reminiscing while still on vacation, watching the tapes each night like dailies, holding fast to the experience while it’s fresh in his mind.

Clips from the home movies punctuate the film, the pale, watery light of digital video testifying to their cinematic factuality. In between, on celluloid, the languorous days of vacation: father and daughter laze by the pool, play billiards, go to a mud bath and a sauna, visit a rug merchant, tease each other, swim, apply sunscreen during the day and toner at night. Looking back on her younger self, a child on the cusp of adolescence with an adored father whose fallibility she is beginning to grasp, adult Sophie sees a perceptive, sensitive girl approaching a loss she is still struggling to understand.

Adult Sophie, or perhaps the director, Charlotte Wells. Wells also happens to be a Scottish thirtysomething whose father died when she was young. In interviews she has said that Aftersun is not strictly factual but “emotionally autobiographical.” This idea should be familiar to anyone who has ever recounted a story whose details they’ve forgotten.

For a film with only the barest exposition, which dedicates its oblique framing and patient editing to the careful construction of feeling, Aftersun is dense with meaning and unspoken narrative. Calum and Sophie arrive in Turkey, take a tour bus to a tacky resort peopled by other British tourists, explore the local environs, and grow closer and further apart. He and Sophie’s mom, who has primary custody back in Scotland, are on friendly terms, but Calum, who moved to London, is a restless young man, given to a third beer with dinner, standing on the hotel balcony late at night smoking a cigarette, looking at the sky, and dancing.

The vacation is clearly a special occasion, not least because it must have cost dearly for Calum, whose current job is “this new thing going on with Keith.” On the first night in their room, they discover that there is only one small bed. Calum dutifully calls down for a cot, ceding the mattress to his daughter. The next morning they are awakened by the ringing sounds of construction: the hotel is being renovated in the off-season. Yet this flat disappointment—the deflating indignities of poverty, even while on vacation—intensifies the sense of freedom, the delight of time alone with a parent, the need to enjoy a rare luxury.

But outlining the film’s plot feels like a graver betrayal than spoiling the end. Works of grief are typically described as “raw,” as if the creator had simply ripped off a limb. Aftersun is fragile, as befits a film with the title of a poetry collection. Each scene delicately brushes its meaning like layers of paint: by the pool on the morning after their arrival, Calum rubs sunscreen into Sophie’s back, apologizing for the resort’s limitations while trying to pick up on the last conversation they had together, a conversation she glancingly remembers. Underneath their dialogue, the shrill ping of hammers. This is the awkward rhythm of reuniting with the noncustodial parent, who is nonetheless determined to care for you, scored by the impingement of money, obligation, and the adult world.

Orbiting the story of a parent’s mortality is that of a child’s maturity. Sophie, who will start at a secondary school in the fall, takes alternately tentative and bold steps toward adulthood, and therefore away from her father. “Why don’t you go over and introduce yourself?” Calum asks her, indicating two children who must be around eight and six years old. “Dad, no, they’re like kids,” Sophie scoffs. Instead, she invites two teenage boys to join them in a game of pool, confidently breaking the rack herself. Where Calum largely confines his attention to Sophie, she is drawn to these long-limbed adolescents, who swan about in yellow bracelets that mark them as the privileged few with access to the all-inclusive experience—“You can get as much as you want of anything,” says a girl with a pierced ear, inadvertently advertising the adolescent fantasy of adulthood. (Sophie is also, mysteriously, briefly captivated by a bright pink swizzle stick in the shape of a woman’s naked body.) And always in the film’s background, swarms of paragliders—a risky adult pastime she is not allowed to try—flit about like dragonflies.

Wells sees everything with equanimity: Sophie getting affectionately teased by the big kids, recalling the episode of The Simpsons where Lisa befriends a group of oceanside teens and feels cool for once; or swimming with ease in the ocean with her dad but finding herself in over her head when the older kids start making out with each other in the pool. The role calls for the sensitivity of the budding artist, the impishness of childhood, the yearning of adolescence, security and sudden insecurity, the unspoken intimacy of parent and child. Corio is marvelous.

Mescal no less so. His handsome, charming Calum can’t be mawkish, awash in self-pity, because he is struggling mightily to keep Sophie from seeing his demons. She evinces some anxiety on his behalf, noting with a tremble in one of her video diaries that he has gone on “some scuba diving thing” despite not having a diving license. “He’ll be fine. Yeah. He’ll be fine, I’m sure,” she reassures herself. We get a child’s glimpses of his recklessness: crossing the street in front of a bus or balancing precariously on the balcony railing. For the first half of the movie, he sports an arm cast—from an accident he doesn’t remember—in which he fumbles to light his cigarettes.

But he is a doting father, protective and thoughtful, negotiating Sophie’s desire for independence with his responsibility to keep her safe. He indulges her in an intimate, grown-up rapport; they start their trip sharing a private joke at an English tour guide’s expense, Sophie laughing richly at her father’s impersonation. Calum practices tai chi, occasionally to Sophie’s embarrassment, but he is good at it, just as he is good at dancing. In one scene his movements rhyme with those of a fan in the corner of the room, which twists and blows cool air in time with him.

“If you let it rest on an object for a wee while it gets the lighting right,” Calum observes early on as he tries out the camcorder, and Aftersun seems to abide by this premise. The eccentric compositions—people and props placed about the frame in seemingly random order—are held until a balance reveals itself. Gregory Oke’s cinematography is complemented by Blair McClendon’s elliptical editing so that individual scenes have the aura of memory, an experience broken down to its elements: Sophie, Calum, ocean. Hand, face, cotton ball. Boat, mountain, shore. Through a toilet stall keyhole, a glimpse of the arm of an older girl as she mimes jerking someone off while telling her friend about a recent escapade with a boy. Experimental techniques are used less in a spirit of inquiry for its own sake than for their effect. Wells plays with a mostly shallow depth of field to highlight presences on the rim of Sophie’s awareness, pulling focus from Sophie to the arm of Michael, the boy playing arcade games with her, as he brushes her own, Calum in the deep background ordering at the bar.

At the furthest edge of Sophie’s awareness is a nagging anxiety, formed right at the seam of her maturity and Calum’s mortality. On one of their last nights in Turkey, she volunteers the two of them to sing REM’s “Losing My Religion,” a shared enthusiasm, at a resort karaoke show. Calum, drunker, perhaps, than he intended, and dwelling on his private miseries, refuses to go onstage. Sophie, in a mortifying and triumphant display, presses on alone in several long takes that showcase Corio’s tremendous performance as her anxiety gives way to disbelief and finally disappointment and sadness, mixed in with a brave insistence on finishing the song. Afterward, Sophie decides to spend her evening with the teens, and has her first kiss with clumsy Michael.

Calum, chastened and ashamed, gets drunker, stumbles down to the shore, and walks into the sea. The camera looks out at the dark water for several agonizing moments. He does not return. It is Aftersun’s first explicit acknowledgment of what has otherwise only been suggested, but it is also not Calum’s death. The film has been told to this point from Sophie’s perspective, and she wouldn’t have seen Calum’s lonely descent. It is, rather, the manifestation of her terror, a nightmare illustrated with the almost pure archetype of a parent vanishing into darkness.

After her kiss, Sophie returns to their hotel room to find herself locked out. Hours later, when the concierge wakes up to let her back into the room, we are as shocked and relieved as she is to find Calum passed out on her bed. With the quick elasticity of a child’s mind, she incorporates this news and the story returns to its gentler course. The next morning, Calum apologizes at the mud bath, and they wash each other’s backs. The camera pans over the water as eddies of mud and silt curl away under the sun. She was being silly after all, no need to worry.

The final scenes, following the introduction of a haunted adult Sophie in Brooklyn, signify much harder, abruptly jostling what has otherwise been cradled. Father and daughter’s joyful last day on vacation, dancing together at a supper club, Calum at his most handsome and charming, are intercut with a metaphorical vision of his death, sweaty, drunk, and high, dancing in a strobing nightclub, as adult Sophie screams soundlessly, desperate to get his attention.

At my mom’s wake, I asked an old family friend who had also lost his mom unexpectedly, many years before, if it ever got less painful. “Eh,” he said. This was comforting. My mother’s books and sunhats, her collection of sea glass and stacks of notepads are arrayed about my home, and I have taken to using her preferred sunscreen, Olay Complete. Letting any of it go is unthinkable. Wells knows the solace of holding onto grief. 

A cliché about maturity is that you learn to appreciate your parents more fully, as nonidealized people, as human beings who struggled also, who don’t know the answers, who have been plodding along all this time, just like you. This is half true. You also come to see them as fragile, weakened by struggles you don’t yet, or might never, know. Then one day you see their lives entire, a complete form that will fall away behind you—that has fallen away behind you. 

-Daniel Drake

[grandhotelabyss]

You know what, though, about that last post on Sontag and Paglia: since writing it, I've had what they call a download.

There's an expression: "be careful what you get good at." When I was a kid, back in the monoculture, we all went to see the now-forgotten Oscar-bait Richard Dreyfuss vehicle, Mr. Holland's Opus, about an ambitious composer who takes a high-school teaching job, never writes his masterpiece, and discovers in age that his life-long pedagogy and its inspiring effect on his students has been his real chef-d'œuvre. In middle school, my friend Dan and I, who had begun to collaborate on our own comic books, were horrified by this movie. We were ambitious artists! Is this what adulthood would do to us?

The movie's tagline, borrowed from John Lennon, evocative of its resigned melancholy to the missed opportunities and failed utopias of the 1960s, is, "Life is what happens to you / While you're busy making other plans." But my life's not that different now. Sam Worthington and I were plotting outside the local riverfront arthouse theater last night—there was a Lynch revival; I was there to see Mulholland Dr. for the first time in a theater since, well, the first time, just a month after 9/11, though the film's elegy for America wasn't as evident then as it is now—to start a new art movement and save the culture, wildfire smoke from Canada smothering the city (unreal city) on the other side of the Mississippi.

(All of the above is why I placed a little allusion to the film—Mr. Holland's Opus, alas, not Mulholland Dr.—in my novel-in-progress Major Arcana, by the way. Please don't run out and see this weepy old movie on my account—I myself haven't seen it in over 25 years—but if you've already watched it, you might revisit MA, Part One, Chapter 8.)

Now teaching has been fine for me, actually. I can see why other artists and writers find that it misleads them, takes them away from their real work, but it doesn't affect me that way, first, because it keeps me close to the arts of reading and interpretation as practical and performed arts, and second, because it introduces me to some 50 to 100 new people a year. Both of these, I believe, can only improve me as a writer, and my fictional characters' bitter remarks about their own students, especially when these characters are frustrated artists like Simon Magnus or Alice Nicchio-Strand, should never be mistaken for my views.

Criticism, though, is my "be careful what you get good at." A comparative book-length belletristic essay on Sontag and Paglia—it's a good idea, let's face it, one of those good ideas whose obviousness makes it better than something more flashily counterintuitive would be. Why on earth hasn't this been written yet? And look, I'll write it if somebody pays me; I'm not proud. But Anna K needs to write a book before she dies, as I believe Dasha was just telling her, so let her write it. Because I don't really want to do it. I was on a podcast recently—it hasn't come out yet; I'll let you know; not Red Scare—and the host asked me if I wanted to write a nonfiction book, and I said, truthfully, no, not really.

Sontag herself offers a cautionary tale here: the supreme critic as frustrated artist, berating everyone at the end of her days that they shouldn't bother with her essays, that her novels are all that really matter. I myself have never read even one of her novels. (Mea culpa, maestra—I will read at least The Volcano Lover this very summer.) And I understand this because I myself on bad days want to make people sign an affidavit that they've read each of my novels twice before they're allowed to read my criticism! And my criticism, such as it is, I want to say, is just a series of poems, not judgments as such, not pronouncements but moods, occasions for certain styles of thought. "You took my sadness out of context," I want to say when people treat my negative verdicts too seriously, as if I wanted to outlaw this or that way of writing. This is insane on my part, I know, and don't worry, I'm much nicer in real life than Sontag was.

Paglia, on the other hand, holds an ideal of scholarship qua scholarship that neither Sontag or I quite did or do. Paglia's father was a professor, remember, while Sontag and I hail from the true suburban lower middle class, "Lower Slobbovia" as she called it, quoting a comic strip: the kingdom of bêtise. We, Susan and I, are more lowbrow by origin than Camille, which is why we're so much more uneasy than she is with popular culture, but also equally uneasy in academe. Sontag wasn't, as Sigrid Nunez once clarified, a snob—how could she have been?—only an elitist, which, in art, is fair.

(I dedicate that observation to anyone who wants to say I shouldn't write about two lesbians; there are infinite microscopic ridges and hollows to every smooth-seeming facet of "identity," whatever that even is, and as much as I might miss something about their gender or sexuality—and then again, you know, I might not; I was raised in a lesbian-run beauty shop—a lesbian writer to the manner born is equally liable to miss something about their class, ethnicity, or religion. Nobody can say everything, but everybody has some part of everything to say.)

Anyway, my download was this. I've been saying to myself that 2023 is the year I relax my critical clench, unlearn my Arnoldianism, so to speak, as Sontag never quite unlearned hers; and I've been saying to myself, too, that when Major Arcana is finished—which it almost is for me if not for you; it's 50 chapters long, so you'll be reading it until next March—I would write a play. I've wanted to write a play in the abstract, on principle, as it were: I had no ideas for a play. Now I do.

(I should stop looking, ever, at Twitter, but today they're talking about what a bad play Hamlet is—not even a pseudo-political moral objection this time, though the prince is toxic, I'm sure, just about what a "mess" it is. My goal, then, is to write a play as bad as Hamlet.)

Anna K can write the prose treatise on Sontag and Paglia, but I'm writing their tragicomedy, under new names, of course: in the guise, in fact, of wholly new characters, characters in a dream, a dream of siege and sickness and spectacle, a Platonic dialogue on love in which these intellectuals' daemons—Walter Benjamin and Walter Pater, Simone Weil and Emily Dickinson—dance and duel. I call it Saturn Dreaming of Mars. I destine its completion for the end of the year. I plant my flag; I stake my claim; you heard it here first.

[fabioperes]

I went to the POOREST place in America (Owsley County, Kentucky - Booneville) In light of JD Vance being chosen for Donald Trump's running mate in the 2024 election, I thought that this was the perfect time to release this video. Vance grew up in the heart of Appalachia in southeastern Kentucky, in a little hollow called Jackson. In this video I don't go to Jackson, but I do travel to Appalachia and in fact travel to what appears to be the poorest county in the United States - a place called Owsley County, Kentucky. Booneville (named after Daniel Boone) is the seat of Owsley County. JD Vance will soon be a household name and he may even end up being the Vice President of the United States. Vance started out with extremely humble and impoverished beginnings. In his book 'Hillbilly Elegy', he wrote about his upbringing and described in great detail life in a poor Appalachian 'holler' as well as the plight of many of the poor and forgotten people that live therewithin. Booneville isn't a hollow, but it is a poor little Appalachian town and will naturally share many of the characteristics that Vance wrote about in his book. I wanted to give you all an inside look into the region share my experience with you. Drugs, poverty, hardship exist in this region - in ever-increasing amounts, but so too do strong family values, love of country, natural beauty, a unique and fascinating culture, the roots of bluegrass music, etc. It's a place that very few ever get to, not for lack of opportunity, but it doesn't exactly rank very highly on most folks' travel bucket list. But I was extremely interested in the area so I took a road trip and went to see it for myself. I'm glad I did. I hope you all enjoy the video! #kentucky #jdvance #appalachia #poverty If you enjoyed this video please don't forget to LIKE, COMMENT and SUBSCRIBE! Also, if you'd like to go the extra mile in supporting me, you can do so by checking me out on Patreon or Buy Me A Coffee. Links below: SUPPORT me on Patreon: https://ift.tt/3VcY8y9 SUPPORT me on Buy me a Coffee: https://ift.tt/mLxcM4s via YouTube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_6VeG9PBXcc

[wcrpconfessionbooth]

Hi there! In response to another anons ask about FE's plot for TimberClan: from what I've gathered, as someone being in the roleplay, there is nothing about FORCING them to change their name once it all blows over! Even then, TimberClan's naming system is based on what the player themselves want for their character (i.e, suuper lenient, i'm bad at explaining but FE's about section for Timberclan explains it well haha)

On top of that, FE has a system to handling if a player DOES want their cat to leave for whatever reason! They're generous in rewarding character slots as well, so you wouldn't be cat-less haha. As you put it before wonderfully: If a plot of a roleplay isn't working, there is nothing wrong with leaving <3

No hate to the anon sending those asks of course! This is from what I've seen personally being in the group, and this plot isn't everyones' cup of tea even if it's short-term ! It's a matter of preference and mods are always happy to fix and change things per suggestion of its members ❤️

Hey anon,

Firstly, I want to thank you for reaching out so cordially. I apologize for the delay on my part, this came into the inbox right as I went to hop off the interwebs for the night. I think the naming being ''forced'' on cats might've been the conclusion because that's a traditionally done thing as opposed to something stated outright. But, I'm glad to hear that's not actually in the plans, genuinely!

I would maybe advise on having a mini announcement in Timberclan aimed at the colony just to clarify the things that are spoken here? That way people can have the concerns and frustrations heard. Or even offering an in server anonymous feedback place? I'm not certain if that's something FE offers at all! But, as weird as it is, I do think it helps people feel a little less afraid to talk.

I do wonder if some of the roleplayers who lack another cat are worried about having a character who going to leave, but the most important thing here is to talk with staff about this. If you already know for sure, that this would result in your cat leaving- what better way to plan together then to have that communication open.

I will say the anon does say their friend enjoys being apart of Forgotten Elegy, it's just the current Timberclan / Colony plot line that seems to be causing issues. Though, it most certainly is a manner of preference! I just wonder if this was something that players were aware of beforehand? If a plotline is going to go dark enough that the term 'xenophobia' is used, I do think that should be written on the tin before you open the can of worms.

I'll restate it here, If you are not having fun with a roleplay- you can leave! And, usually, staff are open to working with you. And, If you don't feel comfortable reaching out to staff for any reason, then usually a that's a sign the environment isn't for you, too.

Mod Water

[thenatvral]

KIP BERMAN OF THE NATVRAL

You are a great storyteller; your lyrics and music are a perfect medium for conveying those tales. Is there a line between fiction and non-fiction, autobiography, and off-limits topics that you adhere to when conceptualising and writing?

Thank you, that’s really cool of you to say. Most everything I write comes from my life, though I’m not sure what that really means – as it’s not just my experiences, but people I’ve known and tried to know a bit better by looking out their eyes.

One thing I’ve noticed with my solo music is that sometimes I come at an idea I’ve written about a while back, but it seems the model has shifted their pose, or the light has changed. Some of my new songs “check in” on older songs – “Carolina” is one such song. Its’ subject is, more or less, the same as “The Tenure Itch.” That older song was fixated on the more prurient elements, the dynamics of power and sex. If it seemed a bit judgemental, it’s not exactly covering its eyes or averting it’s gaze either. It’s a bit of a “peeping tom” of a tune, looking through other people’s windows. But in “Carolina” I want to know “what happens after? Are you alright? Am I?” Maybe its concern still isn’t entirely noble, and that’s fine. But something has changed with what I’m after. Same goes with “Stephanie Don’t Live Here Anymore.” It could be another telling of “A Teenager in Love” – an old PAINS song. But where that one romanticized this uncompromising and ultimately destructive devotion to ideals and absolutes, “Stephanie…” is more cautionary. It’s thinking about my place – and culpability - in all that mess. It’s less an anthem (or elegy) for doomed youth and more a “hey kids, be careful.”

It doesn’t seem like anything needs to be off limits, but I do change some names to avert angry ghosts and awkward texts.

Every artist has their own methodology and approach when conceiving a tune, converting it from a concept and turning it into a tangible form. Can you talk us through your approach?

I have no idea starting out – or at least, I’ve never been able to write a song with intention “about” something. I do admire people like Billy Bragg, Pete Seeger, Joan Baez, or anyone that can. Me, I just pick up my guitar and sing while I strum. If it’s memorable, I’ll remember it. If I remember it after a while I’ll start giving it form, writing it down and building it out. But if I’ve forgotten it, I trust it’s forgettable.

Your latest release was one born out of an all too familiar time of lockdown and the global pandemic. This in its own right must have been a powerful and unfolding story to immerse yourself in and be stimulated creatively in ways that up until that time would have seemed improbable and unimaginable?

You know, it’s a hard time to talk about. Not because it was such a tragedy that it couldn’t even be spoken of. Nor because it was somehow “not so bad” or trivial—it certainly wasn’t. But it’s almost impossible to talk about those times ‘cuz we were all there. It’s like working in a family business, then asking your brother or mother “how was work?” No one wants to go there because everybody was there. And besides, this record isn’t about that time, it just came out of that time.

But the abrupt shift in the rhythms of how I was living opened me up. All day I was just trying to sustain a kind of mundane normalcy for my two kids who had just turned 4 years old and 18 months when it all started. It was whatever the opposite of what people think “ideal artistic circumstances” might be, certainly not the stuff of writers’ retreats or communing with babbling brooks or whatever. And I was far from remarkable in any of this, as my partner was working from home so tremendously hard – seemingly around the clock and still finding time to be with us in important ways. And of course it wasn’t just us, everyone out there was doing all they could just to get to the next day, intact- many without the privilege of taking shelter. Without school, their friends, or even playgrounds, I just did my best to make sure my children had routines, washed their hands, and had someone to use as a makeshift jungle gym (me).

When they went to bed at night I was exhausted – mentally especially, as there seemed no end in sight. I bet they were too. Every day was going to be like the one before. But in the moments when I could go to the basement and play my guitar a bit, I was doing a lot of cover songs, and singing everything from Margo Guryan and The Stones to Third Eye Blind and Galaxie 500. Some songs came naturally enough, others surprised me – but I felt I could try all sorts of things. And in my own music I was writing—and there were loads of songs that never made it on the record – it felt like the feelings and the desires weren’t so confined to (my own) expectation.

In that earlier question you asked about how I would take “something I want to say” and put it in a song-- it’s pretty much opposite. I don’t know what I want to say. I “say stuff,” and the meaning only comes to me when I listen back to what I’ve said. I have to interpret my own music, and sometimes even my interpretations change. There’s some part of me that can only come out when there’s an absence of intention. If I watch my own pot, I never boil.

Recorded during the height of the pandemic, it is inevitable that those times and feelings would be impregnated on the album. Particularly as it was a global unknown for so many which for most involved a lot of soul searching, isolation, and inner exploration. Now on the other side of such times, what is your take on the music you made and its relation to then, now, and the future?

I’m surprised by it, listening to it now. How did I make a record like this? I could go back and listen to what I was doing just a few years before with PAINS— and not just the sounds or the instruments, but my voice. Why does it sound like this now? Why do I lean into it when I used to try to hide it, obscure it? Why do I record mostly live and loose, when I used to be meticulous in search of some ideal? It wasn’t the pandemic or lockdown - this was happening before. No one wants to hear some cliché about “when I became a parent everything changed, man.” That’s a lot of bull. But I do think it casts your identity in this entirely different perspective – not the hackneyed “mature, gaining perspective on life, man” singer-songwriter BS. It’s more like you become unafraid of yourself because now all your worries are for other people. It’s liberating, sort of.

Was there a desire to demarcate where Tethers ended and Summer of No Light began so as to keep them as separate entities or is the new album in your mind simply a continuation?

I was fortunate in that I wrote Summer of No Light before Tethers came out. I had recorded Tethers in 2019 and was set to release it in Spring 2020, but because of, you know… the record was shelved for well over a year. So I wrote these new songs with no sense of expectation or even dialog with how people may have received Tethers.

Some artists really get off on “answering their critics” or “telling the haters where to go,” and all that. But I think it’s a dangerous thing to be in dialog with anything other than your own heart, your own muse. Rarely does anyone get the chance of creating in a vacuum – but between the isolation of lockdown and the first record not being released, I was able to do just that.

Drawing parallels between this time and that of the climate crisis of 1816. Where do those lines intersect and where do they diverge in terms of how you see the past and the present and how those thoughts are reflected in Summer of No Light?

I know I may look a bit worse for wear, but I wasn’t actually alive for the one in 1816.

But I did find the story of Mary Godwin (later Shelley), her (then married to another) lover Percy Shelley, Lord Byron, and his lover (Mary’s half-sister) Claire Clairmont as debauched, barely-adults passing the time in a time of crisis by getting fucked up and fucking, while finding partial escape in writing to be… relatable— and also, not.

When I had just finished school, I was riding out a summer at a crumbling rental house in Portland, Oregon with some dubious characters, including one that – 20 years later – I’m now married to. For the record, she wasn’t all that dubious, then or now. I was working/napping in a library by day. The nights went on ’til dawn, but usually ended with being the first customers at the local bagel shop, possessing a now-unbelievable belief that no one “could tell” we’d been up all night. Unlike 1816, literary works of the stature of Frankenstein were not composed. I wrote a lot of songs that rhymed “night” with “alright.” More the stuff of Dracula, really. I was playing guitar in a band with my best friend that sounded like a not-so-good version of The Strokes. The less said about this time, the better. “Summer of Hell” might fill you in on the details. I do love the Stokes, though.

In 2020 I was taking shelter - and yes, I’m aware of the privilege to take shelter- as Mary did - and peering out the window at these lurking specters: covid, climate change, and the social upheaval happening all around as a suddenly vulnerable capitalism sputtered to a halt (though that silver lining was short-lived). And what was I even doing? Just trying to keep the ordinary things feel ordinary for my family and writing songs in my basement. They sounded less like The Strokes this time.

I still don’t know what any of it means. I felt pulled between the necessity of the present and a desire for anything else. I don’t think I was unique in that. On Earth, no one was having much fun. So, there I was, mourning the recent past and imagining an older one that offered some solace. And if I conflated other ‘summers of no light’ with the one of literary legend - it all made the present seem a bit more normal. We’d done this before, we’ll do it again- no doubt.

Having fronted Pains of Being Pure at Heart and most recently as a solo artist, how did your time with your precious outfits inform and shape your solo work and satisfy the creative urge you were seeking from it?

With PAINS there seemed to be too much need to have “stuff” to play music – pedal boards, certain amps—even a full group of 5 people. As The Natvral, I wanted to make music that only needed the song – just my voice and a guitar. Yeah, I’ll play with a band sometimes, and that’s a cool way to interpret the songs. But really, I can say “yes” to anything. I don’t want to poison this music with “stuff,” I just want to sing you a song, and as long as I have air in my lungs I can do that.

As the world is in an endless state of flux and in navigating all of life’s ever-evolving challenges, what has been the one constant or guiding principle that you have applied to your music and career?

“The best bands are just the best ideas.”

Having yourself been influenced by countless artists, and also having released a hefty body of work over the years, does your attention occasionally turn to thinking about how is it that you have influenced others and how your music has come to inspire fellow musicians and upcoming artists?

I’ll start with my old band - every once in a while, I see videos of kids in Indonesia, The Philippines – and even Japan either covering old PAINS songs or playing music that is part of the lineage of what we did. There’s a band called The Bunbury from Yogyakarta, Indonesia that’s great! Another called Morningwhim in Japan that’s cool too. It’s extremely heartening to think about a bunch of Americans like us in the 00’s and 10’s being inspired by bands mostly from the UK in the 80s or 90s and then that sound becoming most entrenched half-way around the world as its own distinct thing in this decade. There’s real community, a scene of DIY kids doing what they love just cuz. It feels so familiar, so relatable. Even though my bandmates in PAINS came from different backgrounds – I think too often there were people on the outside that saw the kind of music we loved as something that was only for “certain” kinds of people. It relieves me to see kids that have totally different experiences, language, culture and religion – can use jangly, noisy music to express something vital to them.

As for my new music, The Natvral? Maybe I can convince people to spend less on boutique guitar pedals and hand-wired amps, and more time just trying to make something cool out of what you already have? And you already have yourself. But it’s too early to think about that.

Performing live must surely be one of the most enjoyable moments of any release or tour and the last time Musicology had the pleasure of catching you live was at Rough Trade London during an in-store performance. Can you share with us a highly memorable gig you have played throughout your career and what made it so special?

With my old group, PAINS, I wrote the songs in my bedroom, and I simply wanted to impress Peggy, Alex, and Kurt and maybe play a show at Cake Shop with Crystal Stilts, My Teenage Stride, or Pants Yell– people we thought were cool. But when our first record came out, there started to be this feeling at the shows that went beyond how it felt playing to our 12 friends at Cake Shop.

Our show at Chorlton Irish Center in Manchester was one such gig, as was Primavera Sound in 2009 – our first festival and first time in Spain, a country that became so special to us and seemed to really embrace what we were about. But as the years passed, the more I tried to make our performances “good” the less that uncorrupted spirit happened. We could barely play when we started, but for some reason no one really noticed. When we eventually tried to do things like “tune” and “know what songs came next in the set,” it felt like we had made some inadvertent transgression against the shambolic gods of indiepop. It was almost as if we engendered some cosmic “tsk tsk” from Stephen Pastel, Comet Gain, or Amelia Fletcher.

That show you saw at Rough Trade, where there was no mic and just a borrowed acoustic, that’s the kind of thing that feels right to me. I just want people to hear the songs, and I don’t want anything material to get in the way.

Lastly, what does music give you that nothing else does?

When I play music I feel connected to myself and – sometimes - something beyond myself. Not aggrandized or special, mind you. But I feel this connection to something essential and enduring in what it means to be a person. Anywhere on earth, however far you want to go back - there was always someone like me singing a song of love, of loss, desire, frustration, or whimsical nonsense. They were bored, perhaps. And they could have been doing something more practical, sure. Maybe their parents said they ought to go to Hammurabi’s Coding Camp, or Solon the Lawgiver’s Law School. But for whatever reason, they didn’t. Their friends or family might have laughed or scoffed - but also, maybe asked to hear that one again. Every time that ever was a time is now mostly forgotten— and my time will be forgotten too. But it still happened. And, it meant something. Playing music means something. It is a gesture against the void.

Plus, it’s pretty fun

[flowercrown-bard]

for a prompt, if it catches your interest: jaskel reuniting after time apart?

It very much does catch my interest :D thank you!

And his heart is a bird

Jaskier's heart was a flighty one. That's what people always said. Just heart would jump from lover to lover like a bird leaping from one branch to the other.

Whenever Jaskier heard such rumors about himself, he'd laugh and wink and pray no one noticed how fake those things were. If Jaskier was a bird, perhaps he would be a parrot. Always mirroring what he saw, always saying what others expected of him.

He never said the truth to those rumourmongers. He never told them that his heard had already found its nest, where it wanted to stay for as long as it was allowed. His heart's resting place was by the side of a witcher. Curled up against him, when the nights got cold. Laughing and making jokes until Eskel forgot his fears and allowed himself to laugh as well. Dreaming, about all the things they would do together once they reunited for spring.

Because that's the thing. If Jaskier's heart was a bird, it was one that left for the south come winter. And Eskel - Eskel went north, where Jaskier was not allowed to follow. He hoped, prayed, dreamed that maybe one day, Eskel would invite him to join him in the mountains. Until then, Jaskier was forced to stay where it was warm and people liked him only for his birdlike song and colourful plumage.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

For spring, for the day when he would fly from the guided cage that was the court. For the day, when he could see Eskel again.

If Eskel even wanted to see him again. It was a nonsensical fear. Of that, Eskel had assured Jaskier many times. Yet it was a persistent one.

Because maybe Jaskier's heart was a cookoo. An imposter, who took up too much space and attention and resources. A distraction that would one day be the reason why those who cared about him didn't have enough space in their own nest anymore.

He couldn't be that for Eskel. He couldn't be the reason why life got even harder for him.

So Jaskier contented himself with waiting, instead of seeking out his witcher.

He would come.

If Eskel had spoken true and Jaskier really was no nuissance, then he'd come for him. And with him he would bring tales and days filled with laughter. All the days of spring and summer and autumn.

Winter too, if Jaskier had any say in it.

Because he was selfish and greedy like that. Because maybe his his heart was a magpie, always wanting more, never content with what it was given. Eskel was already giving him so much. And Jaskier's foolish, selfish heart wanted more, more, more. Above all, it wanted to steal Eskel's heart.

But that was one thing he could not take. Eskel's heart was too big. Jaskier could not claim it all for himself, when he knew how much love Eskel had to give for his brothers and friends and all the animals he cared for so sweetly.

Jaskier could not take this. So instead, he waited.

Ever so slowly, winter turned to spring.

And Jaskier waited. And he sang. Jigs and celebratory tunes turned into elegies and tragic ballads about all the terrible things Eskel had told him about. All the pain of the Path. All the loneliness Jaskier felt when Eskel got a little respite from the hardships and could get comfortable at his keep.

Maybe his heart was a mourning dove. Mourning the possibility of being abandoned and forgotten about, as he had been so many times before. Mourning the thought of Eskel being all on his own.

Eskel, who wanted nothing more than to help people. Eskel, who was so gentle and so hurt. Eskel, who -

Eskel, who pushed open the door to the tavern Jaskier was currently playing in.

Jaskier's heart fluttered and his fingers fumbled in the lute strings.

"Eskel!" He called out and flung himself into his Witcher's arms. Immediately, Eskel pulled him closer, cradling his head against his broad chest. Jaskier closed his eyes and felt the beating of Eskel's heart. "You came for me."

"You waited for me," Eskel replied softly, "my little nightingale."

A bird that sang when the night was darkest and coldest. Who gave comfort to those who were alone in the dark.

Jaskier's heart leaped - and just as he titled his head up to press his lips against Eskel's, he heard someone behind them shout, "Get a room, you love birds!"

Maybe. Maybe, Jaskier's heart was a bird. But if it was, then it wasn't one that sang alone.

[saucyminxbrainspill]

Broken Things - Chapter 2

A/N: This fic mingles both film and book canon, especially in the area of TIME (i.e. how long it takes to actually travel to & through certain regions during the dwarves’ Quest for Erebor). I vastly prefer the travel timeline in the books to the super-condensed “there’s always someone chasing us” version in the films.

Fandom: The Hobbit (book and films)

Setting: first part of the Quest for Erebor – The Lone Lands (somewhere between Bree and the Trollshaws)

Characters: Fili x fem!reader, Balin, Gandalf, Bilbo, Thorin, Kili, The Company

Chapter Warnings: mentions of grief, naked dwarf ogling, allusion to past trauma

RATING: PG-13 – angst, implied nudity

Word Count: 2835

Summary: Fili thinks he’s found his One in Y/N, a human linguist and healer accompanying Thorin’s Company on the Quest for Erebor. All he wants to do is find a way to confess his feelings and court her properly. But unbeknownst to him, Y/N carries hidden trauma from her past. Can Fili help her overcome her demons and win her heart?

Barely half a day’s ride beyond the village saw the end of tilled fields and farmsteads, and the beginning of woods and wild country. Y/N avoided Fili altogether, riding at the head of the column with Gandalf and Thorin, or in the rear with Bilbo and Bombur, but always several pony lengths removed from the blonde prince and his brother. At first the younger prince tried to tease the elder, wondering loudly and often – much to Fili’s chagrin - what might have happened to alienate their new friend: that is, until he noticed Fili’s sullen glare whenever he spoke her name. Soon, Kili’s chatter succumbed to his brother’s brooding silence, until finally there was no conversation between the princes at all. Eventually, Kili moved up the column in search of more amicable company.

This continued for the better part of a fortnight, while the Company rode on under fair May skies. Apart from the awkwardness between Y/N and Fili (a known fact that everyone tiptoed delicately around at all costs), it was a merry time. The dwarves told stories and jokes as the ponies ambled along, often at the expense of one or more of their fellows. And most evenings after supper had come and gone, they sat around the campfire and sang. Y/N loved these nights best.

Many of the lyrics featured bawdy or comic scenarios, drawing gales of laughter from the whole group. But sometimes late at night, when the smoke from their spent pipes hung over their heads like wisps of forgotten dreams, the melodies turned somber. When the singing shifted into Khuzdul, Y/N sat entranced. Although she understood only a word or two of the secret language, she felt the weight of the music. The deep hum of dwarven voices stirred something within her: age old sorrow and a loss so deep she could feel the ache in her bones.

“What does it mean?” she asked Balin one night after the conclusion of a particularly mournful dirge. He sighed heavily and gazed up at the sky for a long moment before answering.

“It is the Song of Burning: an elegy for the souls lost at the Battle of Azanulbizar. So many of our kin fell before the gates of Khazad-Dum that day. Those who lived were not enough to bury the dead. So we gathered the fallen onto a pyre and burned them, and the smoke of it darkened the sky for three days and nights.” He looked again at the dying fire, and Y/N saw the memory of other flames reflected in his gaze. His next words were so low, she almost missed them. “My father was a burned dwarf; as was Thorin’s younger brother, Frerin. Nearly all dwarrow suffer from that loss. It is likely we will never recover from it.”

Long moments passed in heavy silence as both stared into the embers. Finally Y/N dared to ask the question that had begun to burn her heart. “I would like to learn to understand it. Khuzdul, I mean. I have spent my whole life learning languages, but I know almost nothing of your speech or your people. Could you teach me?”

Balin looked up at her and frowned, studying her face intently. Y/N held her breath.

“We dwarrow guard our ancient tongue jealously and rarely teach it to outsiders, lass. This is no small thing you ask.”

Y/N had expected this, knowing how closely dwarves kept their secrets. She was prepared. She turned a neutral gaze on Balin then spoke the words she had rehearsed. “Among my people, dwarves are regarded as suspicious at best and vagabonds at worst. The elders of my village taught us that yours is a vulgar race, best suited to hard labor and lacking all gentility. I have been watching you all very closely these past few weeks on the road” - Well, one of you more than the others! - “and whether you wanted me to or not I have learned a thing or two about dwarrow.”

She leaned heavily on the last word, then paused to see what effect her speech had had on her audience. Balin levelled a cool gaze at her from beneath his snowy brows, his former vulnerability transformed into a stony mask.  She picked up a stick and began to poke at the fire, avoiding his eyes as she continued.

“Most of my family believe that dwarves are greedy, mean, and incapable of honest dealings. And while you certainly presented yourselves well when we met back in the Shire, these past weeks spent on the road together have revealed your true character.” Pause for effect!

She couldn’t keep the straight face any longer. Looking back up at Balin, she broke into a grin. “My family are all fools. It’s one of the reasons I chose to become a scholar. Traveling in your company for the past month, I have found Durin’s Folk to be kind, honest, and loyal to a fault.” She paused for a breath, decided not to mention the particular Durin who had cemented this impression on her, and then continued. “Despite the coarseness of your manners and your slightly off-color humor, you have treated me with greater respect than my own kin. You have shown honor of the highest quality. And hearing your stories and songs has left me no doubt as to the richness of your culture. Yours is a venerable, noble heritage unrivaled by anything my village elders can boast. My people know nothing. And for my own part, I could never condone the views of such small-minded clodpolls.”

She put on her best pleading face and launched into the finale. “Please, Balin: teach me your language, your history, your stories and songs. I want to tell the world how wrong they are about you. I have become very fond of you all, you know.” Her oration concluded, Y/N sat back and waited.

Balin remained so still that for a moment she wondered if she had gone too far with the insults. Then a smirk appeared on his face and he shook his head, chuckling. “You are a force to be reckoned with, lass. It has been long since I have had to match wits with the likes of you. ‘Venerable’, eh?” He chuckled again, more warmly.

“Aye. I cannot see what harm it could do. I’ll take it up with Thorin.” Then the old dwarf stood, bid her goodnight, and lumbered off in the direction of his bedroll, leaving her to begin the first watch in the company of her own thoughts.

Y/N couldn’t keep the grin off her face. Perhaps Gandalf had been right. Perhaps here, among these fierce, proud, stubborn, fascinating dwarves, she could trust and be trusted. And with trust, maybe friendship would follow. Maybe even . . .

Ghosts of the past flitted about the edges of her thoughts and she shoved them away, pivoting her focus with a speed born of long practice. She gave the fire a few good pokes, stirring it to life and adding more wood. As the flames licked greedily at the fresh log, she raised her head to scan the camp. Most of the Company had taken to their blankets for the night. But just at the edge of the firelight, Y/N caught the gleam of eyes watching her. She stiffened reflexively. Fili’s golden mane shone in the glow of the renewed blaze, even as his eyes snapped shut. She had caught him staring outright this time. She sighed heavily and tried to relax, but the whispers at the edge of her mind would not fully disperse.

Damn the past! Even without it, she had enough to worry about in the present.  

The following day dawned unseasonably hot, and by mid-morning the singing and laughing gave way to sweating and grumbling. Even Gandalf grew sullen (“Well,” said Bilbo testily, “more sullen than usual at any rate!”). By late afternoon, everyone’s neck was sunburned, everyone’s thighs chafed, and everyone’s tempers worn thin. After toiling up a particularly long and dusty ascent, Gloin, riding at the front with Gandalf, gave a shout. The party drew up at the crest of the hill and gazed down upon a welcome sight. A small green valley fell away below them, leafy tree tops stretching away down the slope and sunlight glinting on water at the bottom. The dwarves cheered, and raced down the rocky incline into the shade of the wood, Y/N and Bilbo – whose riding skills were a bit less accomplished - following somewhat slower behind under the watchful eyes of Gandalf and Thorin. By the time the stragglers caught up with the rest of the group, the ponies had been tied up in a circle and already half-unladen, and a campsite was quickly unfolding on the verge of a small, clear lake.

“I guess we make camp here tonight” Thorin rumbled dryly, but Y/N caught the hint of a smile that played upon his lips as he watched his nephews shedding their clothes and weapons in a mad dash to the water. Y/N smiled too. A swim sounded like the best thing in the world at that moment! But – she glanced up just in time to see Kili dive headfirst off an enormous boulder, his chiseled body cleaving the surface with a splash – she would have to wait her turn. While nobody who knew her could call Y/N a prude, the dwarves had shown a deep concern for her modesty and “reputation”, and out of respect and affection she refrained from challenging their peculiar sensibilities.

“I’ll go help Bombur get out the cooking gear” she sighed, angling her pony towards the center of the campsite. But it wasn’t long before Bombur too, in an uncharacteristic display of rowdiness, shed his layers and went roaring off the top of the rock himself, swamping his companions with a mighty wave. Y/N laughed heartily and watched the company members for a moment as they wrestled and splashed; especially the blonde prince as he lifted his brother bodily and threw him off the rock down upon the surface of the water with a resounding ‘SMACK!’ She winced in solidarity, then looked away, smirking to herself as she built up the fire. Just because she had to wait her turn didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the view!

Suddenly a shadow loomed over her. “My dear Y/N!” Gandalf’s voice interrupted her colorful thoughts.

“Hmm?” She raised her eyebrows and glanced up at him with an innocent smile. “Yes, my dear Gandalf?”

The wizard’s eyes glittered beneath his hat. “Why don’t you and Bilbo put your plant lore to good use and see if you can’t find something to add to our pot. Hmm?” He arched one tremendous eyebrow knowingly at her.

Y/N grinned wickedly. “Spoilsport!” she whispered loudly, then rose off her haunches and called to the hobbit, “Bilbo dear, Gandalf wants some vegetables for his stew. Would you care to accompany me?” Bilbo, looking uncomfortably hot and a little flustered himself (while he generally didn’t mind bathing amidst the dwarves, the sort of rough play currently churning up the lake made him more than a little anxious) hurried after her down the shore in search of wild greens and edible flora.

When they returned sometime later, arms full of wood sorrel, watercress, and mushrooms (Bilbo was especially proud of the large number of black morels he had found) the dwarves had finished their swim and set up a well-ordered camp. Y/N and Bilbo’s vegetables, combined with a quantity of dried meat, salt, and barley, promised a hearty supper, and everyone’s spirits felt lighter for it. Everyone, that is, except Y/N and Bilbo, whose sweat-damp clothes and burning skin now begged for a dip in the lake. The moment Bombur set the cauldron over the fire, Bilbo scurried off towards the water, now blessedly calm and free of dwarven gladiators. Trying not to look too eager, Y/N gathered her pack and set off down the shoreline away from the others, her mind already adrift on the crystal waters.

“Don’t wander too far, or we won’t be able to hear you and come rescue you if you drown!” Kili taunted her retreating form.

Without turning or breaking stride, she yelled back, “I’m not the one who needs to worry about drowning! Your back flip was a disgrace!” Kili frowned. “That dive was excellent! Where does she get off, telling me that-” Then his brain caught up with her words, and he flushed crimson and began inspecting his bow with single minded focus, pretending to ignore the jeers and whistles of the Company. Fili, however, found their exchange less than amusing. The words “drown” and “rescue” tugged at his heart, and he turned to Thorin where he sat on a log with Gandalf blowing smoke rings.

“Shouldn’t someone go with her?” he asked in what he hoped was a nonchalant tone of voice.  “I mean, at least within earshot?” Thorin raised a questioning eyebrow at his nephew, while Gandalf tried – and mostly failed - to disguise a chuckle as a cough.

“I think,”, Thorin began carefully, “that Y/N is perfectly capable of handling herself in broad daylight, sister-son.” It was true. The sun had lowered towards the tree line, but nowhere near set. Fili could hear Bofur snickering somewhere behind him, and his stinging pride urged him to take a swing at the cheeky Broadbeam. Instead, he nodded curtly to his uncle, who returned the gesture graciously, then went to sort out his bedroll.

Y/N floated on her back, letting her mind drift along with her body in the still waters of a secluded cove. The lake did not disappoint, embracing her chaffed and sunburned skin with waves of cool relief. She knew as soon as the sun dipped behind the trees the temperature would drop uncomfortably, but until that moment she planned to enjoy her swim to the fullest. She gazed up at the cerulean sky, pondering nothing in particular, except maybe how the cloudless blue expanse reminded her of Fili’s eyes . . . She blinked. Then she sighed. Damn it, Y/N! This will not do!

In the days since the market, she had kept her distance from the dwarven prince, unnerved by the intensity of . . . whatever had passed between them. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, trying to piece together how she felt. He was definitely handsome, with his leonine locks, breathtaking eyes, and adorable dimples, and he moved with purpose and certainty: attractive qualities in and of themselves. But she knew from both education and experience that beautiful forms often hide beastly souls. Her thoughts darkened, and she shoved the cloud away with a shiver that had nothing to do with the light evening breeze.

She closed her eyes.

Who are you, Fili? . . .

Not the past. It is dead, buried. It cannot hold me. This is the present. Now. You are here, now.

So, who are you? You are . . .

He was everything she had told Balin last night, and more. Laughter without cruelty. Bravery without bravado. Gracious. Competent. Strong of heart. You love your brother and uncle; will suffer hardship and danger for them. You exude inner light. So different from . . . Her mind reached the edge of an abyss she did not wish to gaze upon, and in retaliation all thoughts stopped. For a handful of heartbeats, she was completely blank. Then she inhaled deeply and repeated the words:

The sins of others do not define me.

The sins of others do not define YOU. The past is dead, buried. It cannot hold me. This is the present. Now. You are here now.

I am here now.

Now, not Then.

Now, not Later.

Now.

But who was he to her now? She had yet to decide. Ever since that unsettling day, despite her intense scrutiny, her instincts remained quiet. She did not sense danger from him, not even a glimmer of ill intent: no prickle at the back of her neck, no knots in her stomach, no urge to flee. On the contrary, she felt an inexplicable desire to get closer to him, to be seen by him. She even contemplated risking the unthinkable: letting her guard down.  

And then there was that whisper of something more: that something in his eyes which had lanced her heart and left her reeling, breathless and astonished.

When he looked at her . . . Elbereth preserve me, those eyes! . . .

Y/N’s heart sped up, and she felt a warmth under her skin that had nothing to do with sunburn or saddle sores. An upwelling of emotions cascaded over her, sweeping away her chronic fear. She remembered how her heart raced when he held her gaze; how her entire body tingled at his touch; how his eyes poured a torrent of questions and feelings into her, unlocking a corresponding flood in her own heart.

She snorted, remembering Kili’s recent jest.

“Who’s going to save you if you drown?” she murmured to the sky.

TAGLIST:

@justfollowtheroad @fizzyxcustard @middleearthpixie @lathalea @blairsanne @fandomfaery @fandomfaeryreads @luna-xial @luna-writes-stuff @i-did-not-mean-to @guardianofrivendell @theblogofdurin @midearthwritings @legolaslovely @laurfilijames @soyeahitsmiddleearth @krispypotato @shiinata-library @izuoyarmin @fortheloveofdurin @eilin-brillewin @filiandkili-sluts @spidergirla5 @tschrist1 @anitdot @brokennerdalert @witchylittlewolf @witchkingachilles

[exactlycleverpirate]

Trying to Make Sense of Rafayel's Timeline

This has been updated here.

Spoilers for basically everything below, except for the endings of he Myths, as I do not have those yet.

First, so notes:

See outline for three possible options for the timing of the pinky promise/rescue. 

As children, she rescued him when he was stranded on the beach and then Rafayel made a pinky promise with MC that “It's settled then. If you don't return I'll…I'll chase you to the ends of the Earth.” (Nightly Stroll and Main Story chapter 7)

Also 3 options for the slaughter of the Lemurians after Rafayel is deceived as a child.

As a boy, Rafayel sings the “Siren's Ballad” as an elegy for the slaughtered Lemurians as he sits on a coral reef alone surrounded by waves dyed red with their blood, watching ships sail away, carrying those who deceived him and slaughtered his people (Anecdote 3). (Could be that Rafayel trusted the wrong humans and revealed either the location of the Lemurians or that they were all vulnerable on Ebb Day) (Perhaps MC had an unwitting hand in this).

These two events may be back to back or occur at separate points in the timeline. Inclined to think the promise came first, then the deception, but could be that he was stranded because of the deception/slaughter, or these events occur separately.

Timeline:

On Earth, past life/lives:

First possible option for the pinky promise/rescue: Their first lives ever meeting each other, starting it all off. 

First possible option for the deception/slaughter: Immediately after their first encounter with each other.

Rafayel and MC are lovers.

MC cursed to be a Sea Witch in the Abyssal Rift and has forgotten Rafayel and being human. He gives up a scale, some of his blood, and his song in a shell to set her free. The potion she makes with these is a bitter scent reminiscent of fermented aquatic plants. She turns human and remembers him. He gets her to shore and then he turns into foam. (When she regains her memories, the voices that play are of current day Rafayel, from his date Your Fragrance. Possibly just because she is remembering this in a dream, rather than those being the actual memories she recovered at the time.) (Fragrant Dream)

Second option for pinky promise/rescue and/or deception/slaughter: Reunited in some reincarnation between the initial life and the current one.

Current life, on Earth:

2024 Rafayel born March 6th (or so he claims).

2026 MC born.

Rafayel was given a Whale Call by Lemurian adults when he was a child. He never had a chance to use it and buried it in a Lemurian city under the sea. (Was this in this life or a previous one?)

Third option for pinky promise/rescue and/or deception/slaughter: This timeline when they are children, likely before the Deepspace Tunnel and Chronorift Catastrophe in 2034

Rafayel's only living family on Earth is his Aunt Talia, also Lemurian. There are some other surviving Lemurians as well who are being hunted, tortured,  and harvested for their scales and blood. (Anecdote 3)

2034 Ruins of Lemuria were revealed near Linkon the same year that the Deepspace Tunnel appeared and the Chronorift Catastrophe occurred. MC (age 8) now has protocore shards in her heart, is adopted by Granny, and has little memory before this event (perhaps this is when she forgets Rafayel).

Rafayel is an Opera Singer in Verona going by the moniker “Mo”, hunting down and killing people, possibly as revenge for the destruction of Lemuria and slaughter of his people. He is in touch with Talia. He also recently attended a Seamoon Ceremony for another Lemurian, K, who dies and is returned to the sea (after having his scales and blood taken). It is suggested that Rafayel is trying to accomplish something to save the Lemurians, saying, “Not every Lemurian survivor can wait.” It appears the longer he takes to accomplish his goal, the more of the Lemurians die in the meanwhile. (Anecdote 3)

He is not painting. 

He is being investigated by a private detective named Louis.

Rafayel remembers the dying cries of his people.

Rafayel leaves Verona and moves to Linkon city. He has a picture of MC in his pocket. (Anecdote 3)

Rafayel uses a private investigator to find out MC is attending Linkon University. He takes a position as a special lecturer there. He sees MC again, talking to some of her classmates. He is confused that she doesn’t seem to know anything about Lemuria. (Anecdote 2)

Rafayel begins painting again.

Rafayel does not tolerate the PI getting too close to MC or taking pictures of her.

Describes his feelings for MC as akin to a spice, painful and addictive.

Indicates he is prepared to be with her for the rest of his life, but also wants to “settle the score”.

Rafayel believes she is being surrounded by dangerous entities, some of whom may possibly be trying to use her to trap him. This is part of why he doesn’t approach her at this time. He decides he can afford to take his time and make his moves carefully. 

Rafayel hires Thomas to be his agent. (Anecdote 1)

2048 MC (age 22) begins work as a Deepspace Hunter. MC and Rafayel are reunited, though MC does not remember Rafayel. Rafayel’s home is called Mo Art Studio.

Rafayel acquires a red Flamula from Lemuria the first time he reintroduces himself to MC. She gives it to him to take home.

When Rafayel attempts to abandon MC to drowning, there is a tail mark that appears above his heart, and he turns around and goes back to her. (Possibly an indication of the bond they forged when he saved her with his scale or made a vow with her).

Lemuria is described as being gone for thousands of years, yet Lemurians are still alive now. (Possibly they had gone into hiding and were revealed when Rafayel was deceived.) (Rafayel described himself as “a lost pearl that washed up on the beach” in Ebb and Flow.)

In “Nightly Stroll” date, Rafayel makes MC vow never to make him wait again, a vow that is blessed by a little blue fish, an Emissary of the Ocean.

In “Your Fragrance” date, Rafayel asks MC who gave her the catnip-like perfume (he says it smells familiar), suggesting she is working with someone, using underhanded methods to trap him. 

(This smell has a similar description to the perfume he gives her later that gives her the dream, as well as the smell of the potion that turns her human. “Bitter like fermented plants”.) 

“Are you trying to run away again? I'm not going anywhere. You're going to lock me up again. You're with them, I just know it. Don't think I'm unaware of what you're about to do. I won't fall for it again. Not this time.” 

(Order of events: Your Fragrance > Dangerously Close > Fragrant Dream)

In “Ebb and Flow” date, he reveals himself as a Lemurian to MC on Ebb Day. She promises to never hurt him.

This vulnerability suggests he has a remarkable amount of trust in MC, despite his bitterness at her forgetting him. 

Rafayel asks MC what she would do if this was all a trap he set up to kill her. This is what is happening in Rafayel’s myth story. Does Rafayel in this time period somehow know about that or is this just foreshadowing? 

In “Whalefall Lament” date, Rafayel takes MC to underwater ruins of Lemuria to dig up the Whale Call he buried there as a child. He describes his childhood as boring and closely guarded. He made many escape attempts when he was young, and was given the Whale Call as a means of protection, but he never had the opportunity to use it, as his escape attempts did not succeed again after this.

Philos (estimated 30,000 years after Earth’s destruction):

Myth takes place on Philos, likely sometime between Xavier and MC meeting for the first time (Xavier’s Anecdote 3) and Xavier's myth story. The oceans have been missing for 30,000 years (possibly because Earth was destroyed and Philos was made with a fake core holding separate tectonic plates together). 

Rafayel was bound to MC when the oceans still existed by giving her one of his scales (see Fragrant Dream for when this may have occurred). 

MC's heart keeps the people of Philos immortal (See Xavier’s Myth for the connection between MC’s heart, the people’s immortality, and Philos’ core) and she was “born from the depths of the earth”. MC remembers living on the Island of Songs in a hut by herself, surrounded by the ocean. (Was this in her first life or some subsequent life on Earth?)

Could Hat Island and the Island of Songs be the same place?

MC is gifted Rafayel when they are young and sets him free. Rafayel later implies he was only caught because he wanted to be.

Rafayel and MC are reunited as adults when she is attempting to escape the palace. They meet several times and grow close, though Rafayel is plotting with Amund.

Rafayel is mentioned as the second most important person to princess MC. The first visits her often. Who is this? Xavier? The King?

There are other Lemurians on Philos with Rafayel,  including Amund. They are killing human nobles, with the belief that by doing so, it will help restore The oceans and Lemurian.

Rafayel is referred to as the God of the Sea in the myth and it is implied that his heart has been stolen by MC. Possibly not literal.

Rafayel believes revenge is meaningless. Only wants to restore the oceans and Lemuria.

MC can use a Lemurian Beacon to summon Rafayel.

Rafayel and Amund take MC to the Island of Songs (now no longer an island), and she recognizes it. Rafayel has to decide whether to believe the legends and cut out MC’s heart in an effort to restore the oceans and Lemuria. Rafayel had previously indicated that the heart must be given willingly. (Don’t have the final 2 chapters of the Myth yet to know how this plays out).

On another note, I am now just sitting here thinking about how both Xavier and Rafayel have loved her for over 30,000 years. And Xavier has been alive through that whole time, possibly watching her die over and over again. *sobs*

Please let me know your thoughts, questions, corrections, insights, what have you. I'm sure i missed stuff or made mistakes. This will likely be updated when I can finish the myths.

[hoodoo12]

Elegy (1/6)

What follows is a story of Miss Argentina and Beetlejuice and how their own personal issues keep them locked in their own private hells. Contains smut and angst. It was done as a rp between @clairjohnson and myself. NSFW. Beetlejuice/Miss Argentina. Beej is a combination of movie and musical; Miss Argentina has contains hcs (such as her name and circumstances). Also contains minor mentions of OC Dante’s Inferno employees.  (Tagging people who have asked in the past. If you’d like to be tagged, hmu. If you’d like to be untagged, hmu.   @turtlepated @thewolfisapartofmysoul @beetlewise-and-pennyjuice @janitor-boy @beejiesbitch @angelicspaceprince) Enjoy!

He’d married, been murdered, vanquished the evil that was Juno – he wasn’t looking forward to seeing her again anytime soon – said some weird heartfelt goodbyes to people he just terrorized, and was carried off by his clones in the smallest, most subdued mosh pit style ever, for an exit that was worthy of some kind of award, just for the theatrics of it. 

The second he was through the swirling mists of the doorway that separated the living from the Netherworld, he turned on his own clones and attacked them remorselessly, using claws and teeth to tear them apart, growling like he’d lost his mind and spitting like he was rabid. 

None of the clones attempted to fight back or escape. They were part of him, and he was so fucking angry – it made him angrier that they just took their destruction passively, his destruction, a destruction of self that made his hands drip with gore, his mouth taste like clotted blood, and his clothing, the tuxedo conjured specifically for something positive in his fucking waste of a life, a deeper color. 

He hated this fucking suit. 

He was too exhausted by the end of his rampage to flick it away, however. Stepping over the piles of meat that had been clones, he wiped his hands down his front and winced as they brushed over the new ventilation that goddamn teenager graced him with. He kicked the door to the waiting room hard enough that it bounced off the interior wall of purgatory, startling the assholes sitting around waiting for their stupid numbers to be called.

---

It had been another slow day in the waiting room. Not that Miss Argentina had any way to count “days” – time had little meaning in death – but her job was as uneventful now as it had been several hundred new arrivals ago. Staring down at her clipboard Maria crossed out the name of the last soul she’d sent back to meet their case worker. Juno was surprisingly absent at the moment, but the receptionist wasn’t too concerned. Her boss was a work-alcoholic and honestly, what else did Juno have to do? She’d be back soon. 

In a practiced motion, one she’d done a million times, Maria stood and slid open the dividing screen to the waiting room. 

“Number 5,678 Mr. Hen – “ 

The rest of the name caught in her throat when the door to the left of her was blown open, rattling on hinges that threatened to give. A split second of panic washed over her, an emotion really only needed for the living, before she saw who it was.

Betelgeuse. 

“Mr. Hendrix,” she finished, moving her gaze from the fuming poltergeist to the sorry looking dead man standing up from his seat. “Your caseworker is waiting for you – please step through those doors.” 

Maria placed her clipboard back on the desk then leaned out the window a little further, giving the older, bloodied man a deeper once over. “Back so soon, Mr. Betelgeuse? Should I pull you a number?”

"Fuck this place and fuck the numbers!" he spit, literally spit, making the ghost sitting nearest in his line of fire wipe his face as he hoisted himself up – some kind of heart attack took him, no doubt, from the lack of obvious trauma and the effort he took to get out of the molded plastic chair – and hurried as fast as he could out of range. 

He could take that chair and beat down every wall in this place. He could tear apart every single soul in this forsaken pit. He could bypass the eons of fucking waiting and just march right down the hall to the Lost Souls' Room –

– scary thing was, that option held some real fucking appeal at the moment. 

Beetlejuice glared at each and every dead person cowering in place. Fucking losers. Just like the fucking Maitlands, but worse, because they followed the goddamn directions in the fucking Handbook and were now stuck here. 

But what did that say about him? the voice in the crate in the back of his mind whispered. You tried, and you still ended up right.here.with.them. 

Beetlejuice grabbed the side of his head, mindless of the residual tackiness on his hand, and gave his hair a yank. Sometimes that dislodged the voice enough to make it shut up. 

His gaze fell on the beauty queen behind the partition. He couldn't tell if she was politely waiting for his tantrum to subside, or if she was being indifferently patient, having seen it all before.

Maria wondered, absently, where all the blood had come from. She noticed the gaping hole in his chest and assumed it might all be his – but it was always hard to tell with Betelgeuse. His brand of “bio-exorcising” wasn’t the cleanest. However, based on his outfit, she doubted his day job was what sent him back here. The fool had tried to get married again. 

Fixing him with a cool, pleasant smile, Maria yanked a number from the ticket dispenser and held it up. “I’ll just pull one for you, then. You know the rules – no number, no getting to see Juno.” 

The beauty queen leaned further out of the window and rested her chin in the palm of her hand – her clipboard and list forgotten for the moment. Red tuxedo – a classic for him. How many times had she seen him in it? She could remember at least four, and she guessed he’d worn it twice as many times before she’d crossed over. Betelgeuse never told her how old he was, but after working with him for over three decades, it was clear he had a few hundred years under his belt. 

When was he going to stop pulling this stunt? It never worked. Always ended up with him down in the waiting room – back here with her. Maria bristled, both angry and jealous that he got to leave this hell and go gallivanting top side as he pleased. Her smile tightened and she narrowed her eyes at him. 

“You never invite me to your weddings,” Maria said casually, lifting the hand from her chin to examine the ruby manicure. “Any good plans for your honeymoon?” 

She flicked her gaze up to catch his reaction.

The bitterness and pure rage inside him managed to ratchet up another notch with the receptionist's detached apathy to his situation as she offered the ticket out to him.

Anyone else, and he'd have taken that hand off at the wrist; he could feel his teeth lengthen in anticipation of it. As it were, he snatched the paper away with enough force to tear it. He crumpled it in his fist and shoved it into a pocket without looking at it, casting his glance around the room again at all the lesser assholes who were pointedly trying not to look at him and become the focus of his ire. 

Maria's words, her barbed little query spoken in her light accent, just poured salt into the gaping hole in his chest. 

"Fuck you," he roared. His voice cracked.

Maria was used to seeing Betelgeuse angry. She was also used to seeing him happy – manically so. The man had a way of taking emotions to the extreme. She was not, however, used to hearing the crack in his voice. The next biting remark died on her tongue and she peered up from her nails, her brow furrowing. 

“Oh, don’t look so upset.” She tutted, but there was less sarcasm behind it. “You have all the time in the world to try again, don’t you? It’s not like you’re stuck here (like she was). Not for long, anyway.” 

Had this time been different from his other attempts? The pain in his expression suggested so. If he kept this up she may just bring him around back to avoid disturbing the waiting ghosts. Maria didn’t like bending the rules, but for the good of her job she’d bend them. That’s what she told herself at least. For the job.

try again 

not like you're stuck here 

Her words meant to comfort stung, jamming themselves like smaller spears into his chest. She was partially right. It wasn't like he was stuck here, so long as he could convince some dumb sucker to fulfill the terms of the contract. Finding the right dumb sucker was what took the time and energy. 

That led to the whole "try again" debacle. What was the point? He'd never succeed; despite the seemingly impressive power he had in the upper world, it was useless. He was useless, like everything was smoke and mirrors and the one being fooled was him. 

He realized he had his fists clenched so hard he was shaking. The ghosts surrounding him in the mismatched furniture, patiently waiting their turn, still did their damnedest to pretend they heard and saw nothing. 

"No one is like me!" he'd shrieked in the Maitlands' faces. 

The stupid deads sitting here proved it. He had half a mind to grab the nearest one and rip him apart like he'd treated his clones, just to continue to give his rage an outlet, but on top of everything else he didn't want to deal with the consequences of that. Maria was still watching him, as if she expected him to do something of the sort, like she was steeling herself to have to intervene and de-escalate him, even though he knew it wasn't anywhere near part of her job.

The shaking of his fists drew her gaze down – would he really be so brash as to tear through the souls waiting? Not that he could actually kill anyone, but it would make them have to get a new place in line . . . and the paperwork involved would be a headache. 

Maria lifted her Miss Argentina sash over her head and draped it on the back of her chair. Quietly, but quickly, she moved around her desk and out the side door that led to the waiting room. Like approaching a wild animal you didn’t want to startle, Maria crept forward. Delicately, she placed her fingers on the side of his arm to get his attention, keeping her back straight and her expression calm. 

“How about you come wait in the back, Mr. Betelgeuse.” 

Her voice was smooth. She had started adding in the “Mr.” when he’d gone rogue and stopped working for Juno. The days of familiarity, of her calling him “Beej”, were long gone. Maria still kept a certain level of fondness for the poltergeist, though she’d never admit it aloud.

The roots of his hair were probably the color of this fucking suit. 

When Maria physically approached and laid a manicured hand on his arm, he almost spun on her. When the pressure on his arm increased, aided by her nails digging in so hard he could feel them through the layers of fabric, he forced himself to relent. 

"Fine," he agreed bitterly.

She’d felt him tense at her touch, and Maria briefly considered she’d made a grave mistake approaching him, until his muscles relaxed – slightly – under her fingers. Thank goodness. 

Keeping her hand on his arm the receptionist guided him to the office door. She peered out to catch the relief on the newly dead faces before shutting it behind her. 

“Take a seat.” She gestured to the chair next to her desk and sat back down on her own. She wanted to stay disinterested, wanted to keep things professional, but she couldn’t.

“So.” Maria pulled some papers together and tapped them on her desk until they were even. “Is most of that blood yours? I haven’t seen you looking so . . . out of sorts in quite some time.”

 The beauty queen looked at him from the corner of her eye, pretending to keep most of her attention on the work in front of her.

He sat where indicated, in the hard straight back chair beside her desk. If he wanted, he could look up and see the filing cabinets, the paths in the rug worn through to the subfloor underneath, the endless stacks of paper, and the hallway where the caseworker's offices were. 

He didn't want to. He could walk through the place blindfolded. Nothing changed in the Netherworld; it was all slog and dismay. And they thought he was crazy for wanting back out?! 

A cigarette appeared in his hand. Sticking it between his lips he glanced up at her question and statement. 

"Yeah. The blood's mine. First from that goddamn teenager and second – " He broke off there and used lighting the cigarette as an excuse not to finish and admit he'd torn apart his own clones in a fit of rage. " – never mind. Nothing matters. It's the same shit for eternity."

Maria watched, with pointed interest, as he brought the cigarette up to his mouth. Well, at least the blood was his. Less mess for Juno to clean up later. 

“Thanks.” She drawled sardonically, bringing her own cigarette into existence. “I’d love one.” 

As she took a drag, Maria let his remark sit in silence for a few moments, unsure of how to respond. Most of the dead seemed to be having an on-going crisis – and if Beej had been feeling the same, he’d never let on. 

“You’ve always been one for the dramatics. But never nihilism.” She paused, “ – also, did you just say teenager? You know what – I don’t want to know.” 

She threw her hand up at that, waving the question off. He was a scumbag, to be sure, but the thought of him being that scummy was not an idea she wanted to entertain.

He'd have felt bad about not offering her a smoke if he was in a different state of mind. As it were, it didn't even register until she pointed it out. Even then he couldn't quite bring himself to care. It was easy, however, to fill in the blanks she left out. 

"It was a fuckin' green card thing," he growled. "Most teens – especially gothy ones who think their existence is the worst of anyone, ever – are dumb as shit. Easy to manipulate. Except this one was too damn clever for her own good. She used – " 

It was on the tip of his tongue to admit his naked, desperate desire to be accepted was used effectively against him, but that made sour bile rise in the back of his throat and he had to swallow it down again. 

" – ugly art to impale me," he corrected after only a brief hesitation. He took a deep drag, and was dismayed to see that some smoke drifted out the hole in his chest. That kid must've punctured a lung. He sighed as he pulled at his shirt to try and cover it. 

From the corner of his eye he watched her watch him. He didn't want her pity. He didn't know what he wanted, but he knew he didn't want her pity.

Maria felt herself relax at his growled response – pleased to hear he was still a normal scumbag of the con-man variety. She couldn’t hide the twitch of her lips into a smile when he admitted how he kicked the bucket this time around. She’d seen a lot of dumb ways to die, but ugly art was a first. Chuckling through a drag, she eyed the smoke coming out of his chest, causing her lips to curl even further upward. 

As good as it was to have him talking, the anger radiating off him was still obvious. She could practically feel it on her skin. Whenever he got out of hand Juno was usually around to deal with him – but not this time. She was still surprisingly absent. Fortunately, Maria had worked here long enough to know what her boss’s trump card was. 

“Juno’s been away from the office today.” she started, putting out her cigarette in the glass tray on her desk. “And you look like you’re in the need of a distraction after . . . your little accident.” 

The receptionist spun her chair to face him, one slender bare leg crossed over the other, and raised a brow at the bloodied ghost. 

“How does a drink or two at Dante’s sound? On Juno’s tab, of course.” 

She smiled, scarlet lips parting to show off her straight white smile. In many ways the two were opposites. Beej was unapologetically himself, moss and all, while Miss Argentina went to great lengths to appear perfect. Even though she had let some of that anxiety go in death, bad habits were hard to break. 

“I’ll join you – if you don’t mind. I could use some time out of the office.”

In an effort to appear disinterested in the state of both his clothing and the new hole he was going to have to figure out how to close, Beetlejuice kept his eyes on the paperwork she'd straightened. A kid's profile, from the looks of it. One perk about working as Juno's assistant way back when was helping the kids when they came through –

He glanced up sharply when Maria mentioned Dante's. Actually suggesting it, and accompanying him to it. He would've thought that the beauty queen would pretend that place never existed, although he knew she must have been both scouted and offered a job there. 

"On Juno's tab? A drink or five sounds great." 

Some time that old hag was going to show up again, slathered in Sandworm spit and gastric juices, and he'd much rather not be found here if possible. He stood up abruptly, making the wooden chair squeal against the floor. 

"Fine. I'll let you take me out."

“Only drinks, Mr. Betelgeuse. I’m not paying for any other services.” 

Miss Argentina hadn’t had a chance to be out in quite some time. With an eternity stretching out in front of you, there was little rush to do much of anything other than your assigned job. Peering down at her burgundy gown, she also realized she hadn’t changed her outfit in years – wearing the same dress to two different parties used to be a mortifying thought when she was alive. 

How things change. The beauty queen stood, and with a few moments of concentration, changed into a red cocktail dress. Her French curled hair now in tight waves around her shoulders. It felt nice. A little like being alive, even. Even if it was just to go out and watch this man get drunk off his ass. But she understood his desire to live again – didn’t all ghosts wish they could be top side? He was certainly the most tenacious about getting there. 

“All right, ready when you are,” she said while smoothing down her new outfit. She turned from the older man and started towards the office exit, throwing a ‘are you coming?’ glance over her shoulder at him.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from her hands smoothing down the fabric of her choice of dress. With his cigarette still caught between two fingers, he ran his thumb over his lower lip, thinking about the differences between the dead and the breathers changing clothing – the breathers had to take it off and put it back on, versus simply willing a new outfit into existence. 

Of course the dead could be titillatingly mundane, if they chose. It was too bad this was the never-closed office, and there was a waiting room full of ghosts on the other side of the glass partition –  

At her invitation and with a sigh, Beetlejuice stepped off the road that daydream was headed. He'd lost the chance with her a long time ago. 

He flicked his still lit cigarette into the ether and decided if she was going to be dolled up, it wouldn't be right for him to accompany her in what he was wearing. Between one step towards the door and the next, his blood-soaked tux became his favorite striped suit. He left the hole in his torso under his shirt. 

"Lead the way, muñeca." tbc . . .

[babycharmander]

I KNOW IT'S TWO DAYS LATE NOW BUT I'M DOING ONE MORE I DON'T CARE!! I wanted to recommend some fics! But I'm gonna specifically be recommending some that I haven't seen anyone recommend yet, so here we go!

Fic title: Las Memorias by abelrunner (@wee-chlo) What it's about: A fic showing some snippets of Héctor's afterlife as he's slowly forgotten, and also a bit post-movie. What I like the most about it: This was a much older fic in the fandom and one that introduced a headcanon I quite liked--that the dead can feel when someone who remembers them is forgotten. It's also got a very nice, brief look at Héctor's afterlife and the friends he made in Shantytown. The OCs in it are good too! Favorite scene: It's SO HARD to say for this fic because there's so many good ones. But there's one specific moment in the fic where each of Héctor's family members says something (I won't spoil it because it's a great moment) and it about destroyed me. Why other people should read it: If you want a really good oneshot about Héctor's afterlife and also some really good moments with his family, you should definitely read this. Other thoughts: This one influenced some of my own headcanons, haha. It's good!

Fic title: Elegy by @dogbearinggifts What it's about: An AU where Imelda is cursed and sent to the Land of the Dead, where she encounters a recently-dead Ernesto as well as Héctor, and... things play out from there. What I like the most about it: Living!Imelda interacting with dead!Héctor was really cool. It's also just an overall very cool way of showing how the story could have gone. Favorite scene: The scene where Imelda and Héctor realize what really happened. Why other people should read it: If you want to read a really fascinating AU and see some really well-written interaction between Imelda and Héctor.

Fic Title: For Whom the Bell Tolls by @im-fairly-whitty What it's about: Ernesto decides to settle some unfinished business in the Land of the Living post-movie. What I like the most about it: This is one of the first fics I recall that dealt with Ernesto's character development post-movie, and it does a pretty good job of it. Favorite scene: Héctor and Ernesto's conversation. I don't want to spoil it--it needs to be read. Why other people should read it: If you want to read something Ernesto-centric, this is a really good one!

Fic Title: Ojos Que No Ven by @endless-existential-crisis What it's about: Post-movie, Miguel dies in a tragic accident, and is taken care of by his dead family. What I like the most about it: In spite of its tragic premise, it's an incredibly sweet fic. There's a lot of really wonderful moments between Miguel and his family, though also a lot of sad ones too. Very well written overall. Favorite scene: Héctor and Miguel singing together! Why other people should read it: If you want some angst and h/c and Miguel interacting with the dead Riveras post-movie, this is a great fic. Other thoughts: It is currently unfinished, but what's there is still very much worth reading! Fic title: Recuérdame (Remember Me) by Xandynz What it's about: A universe alteration in which Miguel does NOT get cursed, but instead discovers Héctor is his real great-great-grandfather, and begins to unravel the mystery. What I like the most about it: THE STYLE IS SO COOL OH MY GOSH!!! If you've read Ernesto de la Cruz VS The Court of Public Opinion (which by the way is also an absolutely fantastic must-read fic), it's kinda like that, but with even MORE variety in the types of formats it uses. The story unfolds through a variety of formats--Reddit posts, news articles, text messages, and so on. It's SO COOL. (I think this type of fic is called an "epistolary"?) Favorite scene: I don't know that I could choose just one--every chapter is a surprise with how the story unfolds. Why other people should read it: It's a really cool UA (where, while Miguel avoids going to the LotD, things DON'T end tragically for Héctor) and seriously the style is so cool it really needs to be read. Other thoughts: This one is unfinished! I have no idea if it will continue, but it's still worth reading!

Fic title: Who Tells Your Story by @papergardener What it's about: Post-movie (pre-epilogue), while Héctor and Imelda are still in the middle of reconciling, the media is hounding Héctor and writing up a lot of sketchy articles about his past in the Land of the Dead. Imelda has a lot of questions, and Héctor is not the best at answering them. What I like the most about it: This is SUCH a detailed look at Héctor's afterlife--all the original characters have so much depth, and the historic details are really, really cool. A lot of research really went into this fic and it shows. It also covers some really heavy topics in a very respectful way. Also the way it's presented--we often see the tabloid articles and hear Héctor's shoddy explanations before we see the flashbacks, leaving both the reader AND Imelda wondering about things before they’re really revealed, so there's a lot of "OHHH" moments, as well as "OH... OH NO!!!!" moments throughout the fic. Favorite scene: Oh gosh it's really hard to say. I like the flashback with Héctor and Maris (the second part of it specifically), but I also like the moment where Héctor evades the press and mulls over how he's going to talk to Imelda about things (and winds up talking to a goat alebrije at one point, haha). Why other people should read it: If you're okay with reading some really heavy angst and dark subject matter, and/or you want a really really detailed look at Héctor's past, and/or Héctor and Imelda trying to navigate their relationship around all the post-movie chaos, you should probably check out this one! Other thoughts: HEED THE TAGS AND WARNINGS!! Also, fic is not finished yet, but you should still absolutely read it!

Fic title: Bitter Sweet Symphony by @tomato-bitch What it's about: Pre-movie, Héctor attempts to confront Ernesto and things go... poorly. Long story short, Héctor winds up as Ernesto's personal assistant, and it's... not the most enjoyable job, to be sure. What I like the most about this fic: This is such a different premise, and it's very well written. It's honestly kindof a nightmarish situation (being stuck in a massively stressful job that you have zero training for), but you really, really want to see Héctor succeed (and get some sleep, please get some sleep man). There's also a lot of really really good OCs in this one! And also Héctor essentially gets assigned a pigeon alebrije assistant and she's great. Favorite scene: Aaah this one's hard to say but I really like the scene where Héctor gets to go to the staff party. Other thoughts: Fic is still in-progress, but still absolutely worth reading!

Aaand that's all I've got for now! There's others I could recommend but I am Tired. @__@; But I wanted to highlight some fics I really like that I didn't see get recommended on Saturday, so... here we are!

OKAY I'M DONE NOW! Thanks again to everyone who participated in the event on Saturday!

[calicostorms]

-Vega chuckles-

Yes, we’re considered as one of the outbreaks. Though doesn’t that give you a sense of freedom? True, it’s different than mine. I was inside the containment ward while you were outside it my dear warden. 

And yet you seem relieved to be free of that even if this wasn’t what you thought would happen. A break from the monotonous dealings of what is expected of you.

You should never feel shame for what your preferences are. I can only imagine the buffet of feelings that could satisfy you, to fill your hunger. I can sample them, let them linger on my tongue but most will never satiate my hunger. 

Perhaps one day I will get to see you indulge in your secret pleasures and be well fed.

I can’t provide those feelings with who we have now but I hope the bitterness of his feelings isn’t too off putting on your tongue.

Many things have kept me from Aria. Projects and prison are a few examples. It’s easier to be there since I find demons have a better understanding that when we coalesce we have no choice in what kind of demon we become and what our energy source is. Though there certainly are those who spend enough time in Elegy to begin to look down on certain demons. 

But I must admit humans are fascinating to me, but only from a distance. There's more than one reason I keep myself cloak from them. Observation is key for both my amusement and to feed.

What was it like to observe me in that prison darling? 

 -Vega reaches to run his fingers through their hair, keeping it hovered in case they do not want to be touched and pull away-

-Vega 🚩 

I wouldn't say I'm relieved, given the company but I will admit it's a welcome break from the expectations of the Department, rigid as they are. Speaking in your mind like this, is freeing, in a way I'd nearly forgotten.

Not feeling shame about your feeding preference is easy for you to say though, isn't it? As a specialized demon, you're not exactly able to choose those preferences like I am. Savoring frustration or anger is...unsavory, to most people on Elegy.

The bitterness of his emotions is offputting, I'll admit, but it's been...growing on me- to my discomfort. There's a sweetness to it on the back of your tongue if it lingers long enough, like you'd said.

I guess the whole prison thing would keep you from Aria, that makes sense. Aria's beautiful, but I miss Elegy if I stay away very long- and as an inchoate I need to feed here more often than you do.

Humans are the same as demons, barring the fact that they're not weaved of magic. They have their own lives, their own concerns. Most of my human colleagues avoided me. Not on purpose on their part, but I think being a demon is something that disquiets them. I did have a few human charges, though, and found observing their life progress comforting.

Observing you was...interesting. I found you intriguing, and usually visiting you was a welcome change to the monotony of Department life. I can't say I agreed with you, but you never failed to make your arguments compelling.

-warden hesitates, then leans to press their head against his hand in silent assent-

You might not be able to feed on them, but you could feel my emotions, back in the Department prison. You hardly need to ask whether you held my interest, Vega.