#ACT II. soon there will be vengeance. then; freedom.

[n1ghtwarden]

the grand gates of far far away loom in the middle distance. astarion is at the tail end of describing their mission, should minthara accept it: " - so, long story short, we're going to need to kill the fairy godmother. " he seems to remember who he's speaking to, then, and adds: " i mean fairy godmother as in overgrown pixie, not as in. well. " he waves a hand vaguely. " you know. me. and shadowheart! she counts, doesn't she? i assume she's the only other faerie-adjacent being you know; you'll have killed the others. anyway, i would hire an assassin, but there could be a dead clown or two in it for you. " astarion doesn't want to pay an assassin. the potential for dead clowns is technically true, though.

truth be told, the night warden is only half listening - saddle-sore from a long journey upon a mount she is not familiar with; all for shadowheart and her craving for burger prince - whatever that was. if the food of faerûn's surface had served as a prelude, then minthara had little hope for anything better than bland, greasy swill. a sigh - the hard line of her shoulders dropping; exasperation pinching her features until she sours completely - astarion's voice a dreadful buzz in her ear --- much like that hellish music floating from beyond the gates of this lime-stone city, so aptly named far far away. surely it could not be an anthem - if it was, the night warden is not sure if she yet lives, or has somehow ended up in a circle of the hells.

" astarion, will you still your tongue before i slice it from your yapping mouth? " comes the irate growl; voice snapping as she glances sidelong, expression taut with disgust. " i take it you have been here before, given your generous description of the locale. why do you not work as a guide? if there is indeed a most delightful clown to draw and quarter, there may be silver in it for you. if not, you will end up on the wrong end of my sword; and the pleasure i will take in dismembering you will more than make up for any lack of clown in the area, little jester. "

[n1ghtwarden]

how often the night warden had imagined this - restless nights spent seeing the changeling twisting under her maces; the joy and satisfaction it would bring her to see orin squirm and scream, and only see the night warden's smile in the dark and taste the same fear that had paralyzed the night warden. minthara baenre now knows that she is not the huntress here, instead a cornered animal baring its teeth, ready to lunge. perhaps she has always been prey.

feet dig into the soft earth below her, a stale breath leaving her lungs as she watches the macabre display before her. orin, sticky and wet with its' blood, jaw hanging haphazardly; a gaping maw, a wound instead of a mouth. minthara baenre, daughter of menzoberranzan, will strike the image of a long dead sister from the changeling until the memory is ash. it is a weakness, is a hesitation ( the same hesitation that had spared minthara, and doomed her sister ) that she will not make. her body is an instrument, a tool that she wields that has never failed her in the way so many before have. there is no oath on her lips when she strikes this time; no battle cry - but silence, her focus sharp and narrowed down to every movement, the way the changeling grips at the ring upon her fingers as the night warden's arm curves, body following surer and swifter than an artist paints, and the blades of her mace meet the exposed flesh of orin's shoulder, shredding it. no, not flesh. meat. minthara baenre does not know if this thought is her own or if it is orin's - doesn't want to know. her jaw clenches, hard enough her teeth could crack, so focused on the blood that had never been a stranger to her until now that she does not see orin's arm move - and the knife buries itself into her side. minthara tries not to scream.

pain burns, white hot and worse than any flame; sharp in her side as the changeling twists its' knife deeper, the grin upon their face terrible and slick and gaping. for a moment, she is in the colony again. she never left it; and a cry of pain leaves her when the knife does, hand at her side to staunch the wound, coming away slick with her blood. an animal does not know when it is cornered. it will attack until it is dead, until there is nothing left but ash and bone; and a snarl contorts her expression into something monstrous. how like her.

" lu'dos xun? dos, rosin d'ilta tsak carva lu'quanthiss xuil ilta nautkhurzon vlos. " she hisses; throwing herself again - fury and terror rotting in the pit of her stomach, the only things that drive her these days - and minthara baenre, daughter of menzoberranzan, knows it will kill her. unfocused in her rage, she misses another hit - mace bouncing off the preserved skin the changeling has shielded herself with. fury burns hotter than any flame minthara has ever known; up her neck, to her brow - behind her eyes that are filled with mutiny; her arm raises, seemingly aiming at the crown of orin's skull, then drops - the head of her mace landing a blow squarely into orin's chest, hard enough to knock the wind from their lungs, send them staggering back - and minthara drops with it, two bodies hitting the dust and dirt - only one will ever return to it.

chest heaving, minthara moves blindingly fast; years of training taking over; muscle memory that could never be forgotten or replaced, mechanical as the fist of bane's automaton toys as her thighs brace against orin's sides, ignoring the pain in her own. minthara baenre has been sharpened into a terrible thing for centuries - made and shaped to kill, to conquer - she cannot do this alone. not here. not now. her pride had gotten her here, after all; but this - oh, she could make it easier. send bhaal's chosen cowering back to the dark where it belonged - leave them afraid, leave her knowing that the night warden was coming, and would bring nothing but blood.

" your Lord of Murder does not, and has never heard you. " the night warden's laughter is pitched; deep and low in her throat - her smile all teeth, slick and sharp as her elegant fingers reach to her belt, closing around the hilt of a delicate, wicked blade - gleaming cruelly in the silvery light of midday. " allow me to aid you in your prayer. perhaps he will hear you once there is meaning to your otherwise senseless cries. " minthara knows she could make this quick - could. but there would be no satisfaction in that - and the knife comes down, dagger piercing the pale flesh of the finger that bore orin's ring - the secret to its quick appearances and disappearances. the night warden is not merciful enough to make this clean and quick, no - and gritting her teeth, she begins to saw at the flesh; ripping and grinding it against the dull edge of her blade in her search for bone, for tendons and nerves she will sever - orin will scream; has to. must.

A hiss of pain as the mace peeled away a patch of its skin before a bark of a laugh pushed through obsidian mouth. The tickle of Minthara's hatred turned to a blazing fire, searing its spiteful design into their flesh. Orin could FEEL how Minthara despised her so ( sister, oh sister, what have we become ??? ) and it burned and burned as patches of crimson appeared on its skin. Does seeing the blood make the pain lessen, Minthara ??? Does it undo what has been done time and time again ??? Visions of Vespera tsking in dissaproval blurred with the visage of Minthara's UNENDING HATRED and Orin could do nothing but laugh. A harsh bark, a cornered dog with NOTHING BUT THEIR BITE left to conceal just how afraid and broken it was. Minthara was the same, a mutt who was not wanted at home, a pup whose loneliness had morphed and contorted into something like a weapon. Can the teeth penetrate the thick layer of dirmus they've had to adapt to hide how broken they both were ???

A swing towards Minthara once again bounced off the armor with a pathetic clink, the teeth of the bitch of Bhaal failed to get beneath the UNFALLIBLE PROTECTION the gem of Menzoberranzan had adapted. Orin just LAUGHED AGAIN, aware of just how pathetic they both were. Dagger clutched tight in hand laid against the ground which Orin had been brutally beaten into. How far she had fallen, groveling in the dirt as Minthara had once been. Images played out of her FRIGHTENED FACE as Orin had skinned and chopped at the meat of the men who had accompanied her to Moonrise. How easy it had been to mold her into what Orin required then, so vulnerable so AFRAID. Minthara was NOT afraid anymore ( she was, she was afraid but was hiding it SO WELL beneath that mask of fury and hatred ), she was the one with the power here. The once thrall had dug its nails into the changeling's CLUTCHED FISTS and pried what it had taken from Minthara in that colony. But Orin's blood was still beneath its nails, her mark was so apparent on you, Minthara and you cannot escape it.

Teeth clenched to the point the ivory bone whined at the strain, jaw ached and burned. With a bit more effort Orin could fracture her own jaw, mouth would hang open and the maw would hang precariously open. Minthara did not require such an OBVIOUS VULNERABILITY to know just where to strike. Memories of a hand cut clean off in Orin's much smaller grip as she played with her OWN MOTHER'S LIMB as Helena Anchev bled out before the young changeling. She had cried out for Bhaal as the sticky crimson pooled on the floor, she had PLEAD FOR ANOTHER CHANCE. But Orin paid her no mind, it had a newfound sense of FREEDOM WITHIN THEIR CHEST. A levity from a weight which the young child had never noticed. But there was still MUCH weighing on Orin, crushing and grinding on their shoulders. And Minthara was right, Bhaal never did a THING to relieve Orin's burden.

Orin shifted a foot to press against the soil before it leapt back to their feet, dagger stabbing into Minthara's side. Finding the skin at last, the changeling used the wound's opening to steady itself once more. The changeling twisted the dagger for good measure before yanking the blade out and SHOVING THE DROW BACK. Orin shifted its weight before reaching for the ring again ( Helena's ring, one it had plucked from her hand once the rot began to set in ), prepared to take their leave.

" My mother DID NOT DESERVE the Dreadlord's blessing, " it spat out, words coated in venom. " She was NOT WORTHY, broken, foolishly misguided. Bhaal CHOSE ME, has blessed me. Her prayers were rejected because they were filled with her rot, a carrion unable to move a muscle, sinews all chewed up by the FLIES AND MAGGOTS. I am the living one, I am the one with blood RUSHING THROUGH MY VEINS, sticky and sweet and the very crimson Bhaal chose !!! " He would heed Orin's cry, he would. He would grant her prayer in place of Helena's, in place of Orin's sister's.

[n1ghtwarden]

a song wish wrote about minth: "basement" by gemini syndrome

silence is what greets the night warden when wish opens his mouth to sing what minthara can only assume is akin to the yowl of a magic allergy stricken gremishka that is about to splatter its innards against a wall. she has not the grace or the kindness to hide the fact she cannot hear him - expression blank; impassive as she watches him and the others make merry they had yet to earn. ugh - and her eyes roll back in irritation, expression pinching as though she's tasted something sour. her secret to achieving such temporary bliss in the evening hours? moss.

[n1ghtwarden]

Politely and quietly slides her armour to her, cleaned and neatly laid out on a cushion, tied up with a bow for some reason? and misty steps away to the other end of the campsite.

trained ears pick up even the slightest of sounds - centuries spent training in the comforting shadows of the underdark and the glowing lights of menzoberranzan where failure to be aware of one's surroundings resulted in a quick - or, perhaps, slow - end. the rule applies within the baubles and coloured canvases of camp, as well; as well meaning as many of her newfound compatriots pretend to be, minthara has seen tighter knit squadrons and bands fall to lesser squabbles and slights in the blink of an eye. even with the weight of the world upon them, there were always knives lurking in the dark, here; too - and if they were to fall, the night warden would rather she be the last to remain standing.

the spawn's footfalls reach her easily - silver head turning as her expression pinches with displeasure, words falling out as quick and harsh as any order. " i can hear you - " he's vanished. thin mouth pulls to the side; puckering as though she's tasted something sour before her eyes fall to his gift - the night warden had not even noticed her armour missing; torn between admonishing herself for her own lapse, or admitting that the spawn may have some talent when he is not parading and preening about.

such a neatly presented offering lies on the rug of her tent; a thin brow raises as she notes the bow, a snort leaving her at his folly - the care. the leather gleams; polished and oiled - gone are the viscera and stains of the day; all glorious medals she would earn again come first light.

her own steps are surer - hands behind her back as she saunters to his tent, lingering in shadow as she watches him fiddle with his books, his things - petty reminders of vanity he had no use for. " i suppose i should be thanking you, for performing a service i did not ask for. " comes her rough voice; soft and low, a hand briefly flicking upwards; fingers curling. she should be thanking him. should. " -- if you ever tire of laundering, astarion, and wish to gain skills beyond what you claim to possess, you know where to find me. " the night warden does not need to waste a spell stepping away - instead slipping to the shadows at the edges of their tents; back to her own sanctuary.

[josy57]

Philosophy 101 (reprise)

Philosophy 101

I.

It's now drawing to a close, This encore, this year as an echo I will depart again shortly and this time, it will be for good So this is a curtain call A bow so low my forehead grazes these old floorboards Their wood creaking untold secrets Splintering under the weight The compounded stampede of dozens of generations Layer after layer of teenage specters Hurrying down the hallways long after the bell has rung I watch them shuffle away Knowing I’ll soon join their fading ranks

This last month will unfold as a slow ritual Counting the steps of every flight of stairs Touching each wall, each yellowish stone Following the grooves in the bark of the chestnut tree in the courtyard Letting it memorize the swirling lines on my finger tips This place and I, united in shared remembering

II.

Yesterday I came back to your class For the sake of circularity So things can conclude as they began A page folding on itself in perfect Rorschach symmetry That day, the topic was freedom Whether such a thing even exists Whether man stands above Nature He alone, capable of choice Or whether we, like every other creature Are subject to the same cruel, unchanging rules Living on a tight leash A chain of causes and effects That, try as we might, we can never escape Are we tossed about in an uncertain flight By a thousand random happenings By our own misguided decisions? Or do we suffer to a precisely set tune As sure as water's boiling point Or the orbit of celestial bodies?

I jotted down your every word In a comfortably familiar frenzy But this time around, unlike I used to at seventeen I kept my mouth shut I did not raise my hand to offer my observations To remark that the question of free will can be rephrased thus: Is life drama or tragedy? Did we get a chance and failed? Was there a way out of the maze we missed? Or do we walk, from cradle to grave, in a trench so deep We never see the sky The hedges around us shifting Giving only the illusion of diverging paths?

III.

You don't say it, but I have an inkling what side you favor And so I’m curious what you think How you make sense of my presence here How you fill in the blanks In your attempt to unravel the strings of consequences That led me right back to where you first met me Part of the answer is that I love this place That in many ways, I was born here It was where my life first became something I actually wanted to live I emerged from the mire, a soot-black mass of clay And slowly took form Like a flipbook of evolution A fish out of water, growing lungs, legs And painstakingly becoming human Learning to stand, to pile each vertebra like a game of Jenga And see the horizon

Yes, these corridors, these classrooms That's where I discovered the great loves that shaped me Language, poetry, and him Because, of course, the truth is that he had a hand in it In my second coming I returned, not searching for myself but for a ghostly closeness to him Whichever spin you’d like to put on it He was my fate, the gravitational force pulling me in

I know you would not approve You never did like him But following your logic, you cannot blame me It'd be ironic for you to throw the first stone After explaining that a pebble thinks itself free Only because it doesn't know who cast it Pathetic as it is, it was all written from the start There is no alternative version of that story In which we pass each other by without a hitch Without some part of me getting caught and torn clean off The ripping sounding like a great gust of wind I love him and it's enmeshed in everything In the grief I feel at the thought of leaving once more No one in this world knows the extent of it How long I've carried it with me, How marrow-deep it runs But this place does It knew and held both him and me Enclosed together Two chambers in the same beating heart

You'd probably laugh at all my pretty excuses You explained that every action, even the seemingly gratuitous Is only us acting out some forgotten trauma Some imprint left on an impressionable mind So early the slate was wiped clean but the mark remained You'd most likely say that this fluttering in my chest Is just me trembling in the aftershock Of something from childhood that shook a screw loose Those insane recurring thoughts, merely its rattling in my brain And you’re likely not wrong It fits neatly, doesn’t it? The girl whom no one loved Choosing a boy who won’t ever look at her Because of the familiar dynamics The safe, distant yearning Or because of the mad thought That changing his mind would shift the whole world

IV.

Still, even if it did not come down To a simple game of mechanics If it wasn't ordained or predetermined It would still mean something That you and I stand here again That I have passed my disease along I can see it Kind as you are, it permeates our clumsy exchanges As we watch each other, you peer into me Trying, through the cloudy film of today Through the tarnishing of the last ten years To catch the gaze of the stubborn, bright, smart-mouthed girl Who once sat in the front row You wade against the current, And see the past, alive, squirming silver Strikingly vivid in the murky stream of present consciousness If I could speak plainly and turn the tables on you That’s the answer I would give That’s what I would teach A lesson like a curse Those who cannot seize the day Strive to recapture the eve Groping blindly for what couldn’t be grasped Closure or justice or vengeance Those who did not live the first time around are bound to return.

@lexiklecksi  @distilled-prose

[wolkoshka]

AN: UM. SO. I thought I’d just...stop after the first chapter, but I managed to write not just the second, but 2/3 of the third as well. I’m motivated by the Ubbe’s beautiful face (and abs) I guess. My intense boi.

A synopsis, baby: Dhayl, older sister of Tanaruz, has come a long way to seek vengeance on the Vikings that tore her family away from her arms and left her city to burn, especially on the Viking she’d captured in the name Ubbe Lothbrok, but soon realizes she got more than she bargained for and is tossed into a life she had not expected.

Warnings: M for Mature. NSFW/Smut. Violence/Gore. Fluff/Slow-burn. Word count will definitely exceed over 1k.

Ubbe X OC.

Part I

CHAPTER II

                                                   Viking Sage

           Dhayl moaned awake, her vision drowsily settling on the night sky.

           A pause.

           Nightfall. How long was she out? At that thought, she immediately straightened, though it pained her to do so, and turned over to regard the Viking king.

           He sat faced away with one knee folded, his eyes studying his surroundings. Two things she noticed. One, he was unbound but still chained, and two, her dagger was missing. She made the connection well enough. He couldn’t escape—an impossibility catered by her—but he was more able than before. If before meant still knocking her out with his entire body detained. Curse it.

           “Where is my dagger, Viking?” Warm blood trickled over her eye, and she gasped, touching her temple.

           His head did not move, but his eyes shifted in her direction. So blue. Too blue. Even night could not cover them. As she soothingly wiped at her wound, she realized, after a few moments in silence, that he did not answer her question.

           She came to her feet. “Where is it?”

           “My brother, when young, was sent out into the wilderness to become a man. More a warrior than man. He killed a large bear with none to aid him, earning himself the nickname Ironside.”

           “I don’t care for your brother.”

           “My father did that to him, but he did not do that to me—he was too busy exiling himself—and so I did that to myself. I’ve haunted the most dangerous predators and worn their pelts in return.”

           “I will not ask again.”

           “Now,” he continued as though she had not been speaking this entire time. “Danger surrounds us, wild animals ready to tear us apart. But there’s one wondrous factor that plays in in the hunt these animals prepare for us—they will attack, but they will not attack one stronger than them.”

           She knew what he meant by that: he was the stronger one. All beasts knew to be wary in his presence, for he’d butchered and taken out the best of them. Her? Well, she had trouble hunting even small rabbits. More due to her soft heart than her sheer talent in slaughtering an innocent. This Viking king was no innocent.

           “Yes, you speak true—only if they are not ravenous. They will not kill you, not at first. But when they see you are not fighting back…now, that, knows a different tale. I will not release you. I, too, spoke true when I meant to cut you. I could leave you to the beasts and have them at you without lifting a dagger in your direction, Budlungr. And perhaps I should get busy doing so.”

           A rough sound. Everything about this man seemed coarse, all the way to the lines etching his face, even the streak of blue runic inscriptions inking down the side of his face. “Release me and I will not only help you but also allow you free passage out of my land.”

           She laughed, but it was mirthless. “After what I have done to you? You’ve struck down those with lesser transgressions. Give me my dagger.”

           Twigs snapped in the near distance, diverting her attention for the briefest moment. Her heart picked up speed. Howls and wild growls drew close, and from behind woodland trees, drew even closer the large silhouettes of hazardous fiends. Though her eyes had gotten used to the dark, the canopy of branches shadowing the woods from the silvery moon aided little her inspection. She wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

           As if reading her thoughts, the Viking offered, “You couldn’t have gotten too far. As I have said, the sun is different in this part of the world. I give you a choice, release me and I will help you fight them off. Don’t, and we both die. But you will not risk the latter, won’t you? This is as close as you come to getting answers. As close as you come to finding your sister. You are so desperate that you did not even light fire, something that would have kept these beasts at bay, solely because your whereabouts could be tracked from the sky.”

           Dhayl clenched and unclenched her fist, considering his words at great length. She weighed her options, calculated the negatives as she did the positives, and at last thought best to survive. At least for the time being. She’d set him free. For now. But he was right in one regard: this, he, was as close as she got to finding Tanaruz. She couldn’t allow her weeks of preparation to go to waste.

           When the snarls neared, she acted quickly. Counting her steps from the tree, she traced her way to a spot, an act that had the Viking inclining his head in interest. On the tenth step, she stopped and dug deep the soil. When her fingers met iron, she unearthed the keys and backtracked to him.

           He furrowed his brows before arching them in nonchalance. He didn’t care. But he should. The chains were not ordinary; they were forged in Damascus with a special kind of iron that could not be broken or melted. The only way to unchain him was with the keys in her hand, and she had buried them in the hopes that even when she was captured and killed for her acts, he would remain where he was, never to know freedom, only ever to know misery. None to find him, he would sooner rot where he sat than taste hope.

           She had accounted for the rain that removed all traces of his kidnapping after she’d knocked him out; accounted for the chains to shackle him into eternity; accounted for her interrogation to inspire words from him true. Accounted for all but his resilience. He had knocked her out, stolen hours from her day, and now she was to never repeat that mistake again.

           He was lethal. She knew that, but witnessing it first-hand was different.

           “My dagger first.”

           He regarded her briefly, before shuffling his legs and kicking her weapon in her direction. She clasped it, rounding on him and clicking open his chains. They fell away in heavy clanks.

           Dhayl kept her dagger ready for any foul play as the Viking came to his feet, his height towering hers, the bulk of his form rippling. Suddenly, the howls stopped. The silhouettes disappeared. Even crickets stopped chirping. Her eyes narrowed before they widened. Foolish Dhayl.

           She had made the biggest mistake of all as the true meaning of his words now rang in her ear: they will attack, but they will not attack one stronger than them. Correct in his words, the wild animals dared not advance, because at least they were intelligent enough to surmise they would not survive the ordeal. Now, here she stood, facing the wildest of the wildest beasts—Ubbe Lothbrok. She was in his terrain, his hunting ground. God, he was merely bidding his time.

           Who would account for her?

           She would fight, she then thought. She had to. For Tanaruz. For her family. She would spill Viking blood and take that with her into the Afterlife.

           He squared his shoulders, but did not pounce. “Lower your weapon.”

           She positioned herself. “Never.”

           “I am Viking, yes, but even Vikings know honour.”

           “I don’t believe you.”

           He tilted his head a notch back to stare up at the sky, sniffed—and then pounced. Dhayl leaped out of the way, her boot sliding against the still wet soil. She straightened herself in time as he came for her again, and she raised her dagger high enough to slit his throat.

           He ducked, his long braid whipping, and wrapped his arms around her waist, plummeting them both to the ground. The collision knocked the burning breath out of her lungs, his mass weighing on her causing even more damage. In her momentary unconscious state, he made quick work of her hold on her dagger, tossing it away, and shifted his weight on his elbow, his free hand coming to rest on her cheek.

           A slight smack against them, meant to nudge, brought her out of the world of disorientation. She blinked, finding Norse blues gazing down at her. For the second time, she lost her breath, and it was neither in cause of his weight or some catastrophic impact. Perhaps she was still disoriented. Yes, that was it.

           Another light smack.

           She blinked anew, breathing heavy, bringing in air into her deflated lungs. Her mind cleared, as did her vision. “What?” she hissed.

           He released a rough sound, nodding then.

           Making sure he hadn’t killed her?

           She slapped his hand away from her face and, with full-force, pushed at him, disrupting the weight on his elbow. He tumbled onto his back with a grunt, and for the shortest second, Dhayl thought he permitted the act. It mattered little. Grabbing his wrists, she locked them above his head, and placed her knees over his shoulders, evidently encaging him. He had nowhere to go. He bared his teeth, but not in anger. Or frustration. Just…simply, perhaps out of habit. She arched a brow down at him.

           Something swam in his eyes, something this dark night could not blanket, and it provoked a reaction from her. A reaction she herself had not anticipated. Her cheeks…reddened? No!

           A sliver of a shine from the corner of her eye caught her attention. The second she looked at it, the Viking did too, before their eyes came back to each other.

           It was her dagger.

           One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three hear— Now!

           Dhayl abruptly leapt off him—but he tripped her ankle before she could make a run for it. Air, for the third time, escaped her, and she cursed. He was already on his feet. Gathering her wits about her, she ran at him, wishing to topple him, distort his balance, anything, but what she did not expect was him scooping her up mid-way onto his shoulder, and with such ease and agility, it should have been impossible.

           She screamed despite herself. “Release me!”

           He did not.

           Instead, he crouched and slid her dagger in his boot. The bastard! That was hers!

           “You will pay for this!”

           “I have no doubt of that,” rang his voice with a lilt of mockery.

           She worked her jaw, and swore a silent oath to herself.

           Blood rushed to her head, her ears. Her open wound at her temple. Before he properly began walking through the woods, the rushing blood slowly but surely began seeping out, leaving an unseen trail of red in the darkness. The act brought drowsiness back into her system, and though she tried to fight it, as she tried to fight the Viking’s grip on her legs, she succumbed into the awaiting hands of unconsciousness.

           Within a heartbeat, she was dead out.

 ---

           To the warm, delicious smell of food and crackling firewood, Dhayl awoke. A cocooning softness and broad daylight enveloped her as she cracked her lids open. For a moment, a long moment, she remained cradled so, sighing, knowing nothing, acknowledging nothing. This was a little bit of heaven she had been estranged from for years. Silence, but a comfortable one where no danger lurked in the near distance. Safety. Wait.

           Danger. Ubbe.

           At that word and name, the momentary illusion broke away and her little heaven turned into pure hell. She jerked upright, for a second losing all sense of self as her stitched temple hammered with fervour and her vision blackened. No, no, I can’t be here, she thought, trying to find the floor with her tapping feet—that were bare, she now realized.

           When she refocused, she was inside a bedchamber, sitting on a bed of thick, soft pelts, wearing nothing but a linen nightgown. Nightgown! Where were her boots? Her clothes? Who undressed her?

           Hugging her chest, she jumped down the bed and onto a flooring of more pelts and plush carpets. Carpets that, upon quick inspection, resembled that of the Mediterranean households. Couldn’t be. Shaking her head, she noted instead that she was alone in the bedchamber and that she should escape before anyone took notice of her wakefulness.

           There were curtains and beads separating her room from a larger one, and she drew them aside, her nerves on a spike. She stepped out, letting the materials fall into place. It was both a kitchen and living space with food being prepared in a cauldron by the hearth. There was another room opposite the kitchen, perhaps leading to a washroom, she didn’t know, but she approached the cauldron and inhaled the meal being prepared.

           It was hot, steamy, and…sublime. Her stomach rumbled, her heart yearned, but she swallowed her hunger and turned around—only to come face to face with a servant girl emerging from the opposite room. She carried a cup of water in her hands.

           “Don’t move,” Dhayl hastily let out, reaching for the knife resting on the table with fresh meat and vegetables. The servant girl’s grasp on the cup wobbled, her eyes wide.

           “I-I was only brought here to prepare food. P-Please.”

           “I don’t care, don’t speak. Don’t move and don’t speak. Yes.” Dhayl’s eyes lowered on the girl’s boots. “Give them to me.”

           The girl’s eyes followed hers, and she nodded, though with hesitation. “They are yours.”

           Slipping out of them, she tossed them to her. Dhayl wore them, knife still slanted in her direction, and felt her toes curl. They were a bit small but they would do. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m going to leave and you’re going to stay, is that understood? Don’t follow me.”

           The girl nodded anew.

           Keeping her back to the door, she walked to it, her eyes on the servant, before breaking into a run and bursting out of the house—and right into a group of talking men. She gasped aloud.

The one in the middle, with his pelted back and thoroughly braided hair to her, stiffened and tilted his head sideways.

           Her honey-coloured eyes clashed with familiar icy blues. Ubbe.

           In response and out of habit, her own head tilted in recognition of his face. Then, she pointed the knife at him. The men around him laughed in amusement, some even whistled.

           “A slave with enough wits to strike her master?” one jeered. “I want her warming my bed, Ubbe.”

           Dhayl was so taken aback by his words that she remained paralyzed in place for a many heartbeats. Slave. He’d just said slave. Tears welled in her eyes, stinging them, scalding them in the wintery chill of the morning.

           “I’m not a slave,” she spoke evenly, quietly. “I’m no one’s slave. I’m not a slave!” she then screamed. “I will never be one! With what right!”

           Calm. Calm, Dhayl. Don’t give in to fear. Don’t give in to mania.

           Ubbe turned fully around, regarding her still with his head tilted. “She is from the Mediterranean, but now she is in Viking land. Frankly, you are what I say you are.”

           “I spit on that.”

            Ubbe started, his head moving a notch back, as though he did not expect to hear such intense rebuttal of his words. His eyes steeled thereafter.

            His men also straightened a little at her statement, as though she was ludicrous to even be raising her head in level with Ubbe’s. He was their king, yes, but he was not hers.

           “You offered me safe passage from your lands,” she reminded him. “I want it.”

            “Hm. Now you want it.” The Viking ran his tongue over his teeth that seemed a bit too sharp, and entertained the ground for a moment before arresting her in place. “But when I offered, you laughed. You did not believe. And now, having lost, you point a flimsy knife in my way. I do not know you, but you are adamant on seeing me dead. If I’m not mistaken, that is treason.”

           Her grip on the knife began to shake. She tilted her chin up. Be brave. “Will you kill me? Punish me? Enslave me, as your people have done mine? Does memory serve you so little?”

           He clasped his hands in a kingly manner before his body, eyeing yet once more the ground. His men regarded him in silence, their eyes shifting from him to her, her to him. He cared not to answer her questions; they mattered not to him.

          “Punish her first by cutting off that tongue of hers. Then enslave her, doing with her life as you wish. Only when old age comes to her, take a blade to her throat and slit it open. That should teach her something,” one of his men offered, eyes burning with indignation.

          “Perhaps you should come here and do that yourself and I can take the liberty of shutting your mouth for you, heathen,” Dhayl retorted before she could stop herself.

          “You dare—!” he started.

           There was rich laughter, full of amusement, fully regaled. Her eyes found Ubbe, his head still downcast, chuckling.

           “My men,” he swiftly turned on his heels, roughly patting their shoulders, “my good advisors. You are dismissed. Go and drink.”

           “Ubbe…” one countered.

           He didn’t have to speak; something authoritative shifted the very air, and their dissents stifled out. With begrudging nods, they obeyed, dispersing in every direction. He then came to her, not at all minding her outstretched knife.

           “Put that away, you’re embarrassing yourself,” he muttered close to her, his hand snaking around her nape and turning her towards the door.

           “What—!” she sputtered, trying to but failing to stop him.

           They entered the house with a loud bang, her being ushered in at the forefront, with Ubbe following close behind. “Your knife,” he gruffly voiced to the servant girl, gripping it out of Dhayl’s fingers and throwing it point-forth on the table. It fastened with a sharp, swift clank. “Don’t lose it next time.”

           “Y-Yes.”

           “Food?”

           “Ready.”

           “Serve us then leave.”

           “Yes.”

            Unceremoniously planting her down on one of the chairs by the table, he went to the hearth, feeding it more logs. He stayed there poking at the embers until the fire blazed with ferocity. She had been too immersed in her rather peculiar examination of the Viking that she had failed to register the act of the girl having already served her and taken her leave. Without her shoes.

           Only when the Viking settled himself opposite her, making for the wooden spoon, did he raise his head from his meal and regard in incredulity. His hand lamely gestured at her bowl of soup. “Eat,” he roughly initiated, having failed to understand her pause.

          She suddenly blinked at him, snapping out of her reverie. Her eyes fell on her food, the act hiding the evident reddening of her face. What was the matter with her?

           With a tentative swallow, she plopped her spoon in and gathered soup. When she ate, the warmth and taste of it filling her mouth and coating her tongue, Dhayl couldn’t help but silently start to sob. She wished to gain a better grip of herself but failed rather miserably. She inched her head lower and palmed her forehead to then hide better her tears.

           The Viking took no notice that throughout the remainder of their meal, she couldn’t stop her silent tears. She couldn’t have. The meal reminded her of home, of her mother, her father, her sister. Home, something she hadn’t known for a long, long time. Everything she’d wanted but hadn’t got, it was all in here, in this small bowl of soup.

           When they were finished, she made a mental note to give back the servant girl her boots.

           Sniffling, she wiped her tear-stained cheeks with the backs of her hands, and lifted her head to meet the Viking’s gaze. He slid the bowl aside and leaned forward, his arms propped on the table, his scent, wild and smoky, filling her nostrils.

           His eyes, ever intense in their colour, considered her face, her puffed cheeks, her reddened lips from her biting of them to stop the escaping of sobs, and came away with…nothing. If he noticed anything amiss in her demeanour, he did not say it, did not show it. In the quiet of the cabin, he watched her.

           Then, “How is your head?”

            “G-Good,” she croaked. Then quickly cleared her throat. How embarrassing. “Good. How is yours?”

            A rough sound, then the shrugging of broad shoulders. “Better.”

            She nodded.

            Silence.

            “Why am I here?” she asked. “Why am I alive? Why are you feeding me? Clothing me, even when I’d really like my old attire back? Why have you mended my wound, allowed me rest? What do you hope to gain? I have nothing to give you.”

            “No,” he disagreed. “You have much to give me, if you proof yourself useful.”

            “Why ever would I do that?”

            Gazing into his eyes for such a long period of time was a feat she thought she could not undertake, but the more she stared, the more entranced she became.  Perhaps a trick of his?

            “I want you to tell me how long it has been since you were last in the Mediterranean.”

            Dhayl frowned, not diverting her attention from him. Somehow, her heart began to pick up speed. “I wouldn’t know,” she whispered. “I lost count after the third year.”

            Ubbe blinked. “It does not take long to reach our shores. Not even on foot.”

            “No, it doesn’t.” She licked her lips, glancing down at the table and playing with the end of her wooden spoon. “I fell sick a lot. Recovering was no easy feat. I…I came upon a people that were rather…not nice. Um.” The discomfort was clear in her tone, so she moved on. “I had some of my belongings stolen from me, more than once, hence I lost my way quite a few times. Nearly died. A lot.” She stopped the fidgeting of her spoon. “I don’t know the nature of your questions, but, yes, there were some inconveniences I had to overcome before I landed on Anglo-Saxon soils. Are you content?”

            “No. Tell about the chains you used on me. My blacksmiths are all in awe.”

             Ah. “A special kind. Made only in Damascus.”

            Ubbe covered more of the space between them as he leaned further in, brows twisting. “By the Silk Road?”

            She smiled. “Yes. Traders rest there before venturing either across the Mediterranean or through the many Khanates to China.”

             “Khanates? Where is that?”

             “Not where, but who. They are clans found in the heart of the Silk Road. Beautiful people with wonderful crafts regarding science, astrology, medicine, mathematics. The list goes on. The trade is strong there.”

           Deftly nodding, he took hold of the knife and pointed it at her, but not in a threatening manner. He was merely toying with it for his own comfort, it appeared. She wondered if he knew he even reached for it. “You were going to leave me to my death even if I had answered your questions in the woods, is that not correct?”

           Dhayl arched a sturdy brow at him. “Perhaps. I don’t harbour warm feelings towards you.”

           “Hm.”

           She then frowned, catching onto what he said. “What do you mean if you had answered my questions? Did you…not answer my questions?”

          “In due time. Now, have you been there, among these Khanates?”

           She chose to indulge him. “I truly have.”

           “How so?”

           Remembering hurt, and her mood grew solemn. “My father was a merchant. His craft lay in steel. As a little girl, I used to accompany him in his travels.”

           “And you remember your travels well?”

           “Yes. Why would I forget? They were the best times of my life.”

           “Hm. Does he trade still?”

           “No, he rests peacefully in his grave after the pillaging of my home by your people. As does my mother. As do my friends. Are you done?”

           Ubbe fell silent. The knife in his hand stopped twisting. “I want you to know that it has been many years since my people established trade with yours in the Mediterranean. Our routes have also extended to the Kieven Rus. Nothing is as it was in the past.”

            Dhayl sat shocked, her jaw slacked open. “No.” She shook her head. “Why would my people… After what your people have done… No, you are lying. We would never.”

            “Look around you. Do you not feel as though you have not walked these carpets before? Tasted these spices? Your Emir conceded. There is contract between us. You have been gone a very long time from your home.”

             Bile rose to choke her. Her world shifted from under her very feet. Understanding evaded her. Everything she had been burning for, was now snuffed out under a functioning contract. What of all the dead? Would they not be avenged? Or would they be forgotten, rendered nameless, as though they’ve never been, just so trade could flourish?

             Was she terrible for abhorring such thought?

             Would there be no justice for the slaughtered, the defiled, the enslaved?

             “I want you to understand the contract conditions the act of trading back the people we have taken from your lands,” the Viking said. “It is a new age, wanderer. And you are not a slave here, but you have acted upon independent attempts to take the life of a Viking king. That is unlawful in any land. I can enslave, punish, or prosecute you accordingly.”

            “So our Emir bribed his people back.” The bile in her throat only thickened.

             “Call it however you might. We have learned much from your people, as you have from ours. Raiding is our way. But with trade, there is no need for such battle.”

             Yes. She understood that all too well.

            “I saw your eyes in the woods…when I asked about Tanaruz. You know something. Was she traded back?”

            “No.”

            She shut her eyes. “Tell me,” she whispered.

            Ubbe nodded, his gaze burning blue holes in hers. “My uncle, Floki, and his wife, Helga, adopted her after our raid in the Mediterranean. Helga loved her, but Tanaruz abhorred her all the same. She escaped many times, was caught all the same—until our next raid, when she killed Helga then killed herself.”

           Dhayl released a horrified gasp, her hands immediately covering her face. She hadn’t noticed it, but she had already begun crying at the mention of her name. For a long moment, she sat there sobbing, her heart incapable of accepting the reality painted before her. Tanaruz would never… Her little sister was good… She would never.

          But the fear she must have felt, the horror that came with being alone, so alone, that the only way out in her little mind was through death and only death, tormented her musings. Her baby sister killed herself. At that, she sobbed harder. Her baby sister killed herself!

          A wail tore from her lungs. “She was a child,” she said, rising to shaky legs. “She was a child!” she screamed. “She was a child! What is wrong with you people? Why would you take— How could you—!” She screeched in her fury, in her mourning, in her love, and toppled everything on the table to the ground.

         Ubbe remained seated, not a reaction from him. That infuriated her further. “Out!” She pointed at the door. “Get out! Get out! Get out! I want you out! I hate you! All of you!”

         He gradually came to his feet. Dhayl fumed, glaring at him. Then, with all her might, she flipped the table over. It crashed onto the floor. “Fine. No out for you.”

         At the animalistic growl in her words, the Viking offered her his first reaction—intrigue.

        Cruel.

        “You are a cruel people.”

        “No less than your people.”

        “Don’t you dare. As far as I can see, my people did not kill yours.”

         “No, but they have done so others. Your Emir even dines on human flesh. But that is the way of the world, wanderer. We just don’t hide it.”

         “Is that the Viking honour you so fondly spoke of earlier?”

         “It goes beyond honour, beyond loyalty. It is our way.”

          “Your way has children kill themselves.”

          Ubbe was silent. She had struck a sensitive nerve. “That is true. Our way has killed even our own broods. It is most unfortunate; I cannot take back what was done. I cannot undo the past. But I know Helga loved her. I know her to be of the best people. She was a good woman. In the time she spent her life here, not once did harm befall your sister. She was fed, clothed, but mostly loved. In her honour, for you, I offer to the gods a sacrifice tonight. There shall be blood, and there shall be fire. Mourn her well tonight, and then bury her.”

         Dhayl was too stricken with overwhelming emotions at his words, at the meaning behind them, all confounding, all heart-wrenching, that she remained where she stood even as he bypassed her and exited through the door.

[back-and-totheleft]

Natural Born Opponents

Oliver Stone's Natural Born Killers has been linked to more violence than any other movie. But when John Grisham learned that a friend of his had become the latest victim of one such copycat killing, the best-selling novelist and lawyer decided to hold Stone accountable. [...]

Hollywood's dark tradition of inspiring reckless and criminal behavior includes one presidential-assassination attempt (John Hinckley's shooting of Ronald Reagan, linked to Taxi Driver), outbreaks of gang violence and/or murder (Colors, New Jack City, Menace II Society), and the murder and mutilation of a prostitute (The Silence of the Lambs). Two years after its theatrical release, though, Natural Born Killers remains in a class by itself, having been linked to more copycat killings than any film ever made. To its creator, the incidents merely confirm the film's vision of America as a society that glamorizes violence. But critics of Natural Born Killers observe that in the film, unlike in real life, violence occurs in a moral void. Mickey and Mallory, the hallucinogenic-drug-ingesting thrill riders portrayed by Woody Harrelson and Juliette Lewis, are not, in the end, forced to reckon with justice as, say, Bonnie and Clyde are. They grow world-famous as their murder toll climbs. Arrested by corrupt and pathological cops, they break out of prison like heroes and ride away happy as the closing credits crawl.

Indeed, the closest precedent for Natural Born Killers, in the gleefulness of its characters as they conduct violent acts, and the relative freedom they enjoy in the end, is A Clockwork Orange. Upon its release in 1971, critics wrote admiringly of its violence as a social statement. [...]

"What do I want from Stone?" Simpson says in his office near the Amite courtroom. "If he's found negligent, you're looking at $20 to $30 million."" [...]

The question I have as I re-emerge from the Byerses's trailer—appreciating for a moment the simple pleasure of walking—is this: Would Ben and Sarah have done what they're accused of doing without the influence of Natural Bom Killers?

Oliver Stone, of course, has his own answers. In a response to Grisham published in L.A. Weekly, the director declares that his accuser "is on the age-old hunt for witches to explain society's ills . . . ignoring Shakespeare, who reminds us that artists do not invent nature but merely hold it up to a mirror." Follow Grisham's logic, he suggests, and look where it leads. "Has your father been brutalized? Sue Oedipus and call Hamlet as a witness. Do you hate your mother? Blame Medea and Joan Crawford. Has your lawyer-husband been unfaithful? Slap a summons on Grisham since, after all, he wrote The Firm."

Grisham, observes Stone, says that both Sarah and Ben had had serious drug problems and received psychiatric treatment. If they watched Natural Bom Killers "at the crucial moment when the carefully twisted springs of their psyches finally uncoiled," the film is hardly to blame for that. Parents and schools are more accountable; so is television, with images of violence far more pervasive than those of one two-hour film. Even so, Stone writes, "an elementary principle of our civilization is that people are responsible for their own actions."

Two of the country's best-known First Amendment lawyers agree with Stone, and find Grisham's legal reasoning dubious at best. "I'm kind of surprised by Grisham," muses Martin Garbus, who has represented Andrei Sakharov and Peter Matthiessen. "We all believe words have some meaning . . . but product liability? That's silly. The whole point of product liability is that you have to show a causal effect. With breast implants—or with cigarettes . . . we've seen over the years how hard it is to prove causal effect. When you get into the area of what triggers a person's mind, you get into the realm of fairy tales. . . . When I was a kid, I was terrified by Fantasia and by Bambi, when the mother deer was killed. Those moments are etched in my mind. But I didn't go out and murder anyone because of it."

Even if such an effect could be shown, says Floyd Abrams, who has represented The New York Times since the Pentagon Papers, "the notion that because one crazed person reacts to a book or movie by doing something illegal the moviemaker or writer should be liable is at war with the First Amendment." So, says Abrams, is Grisham's whole notion of a film as a product. "[Grisham's] books, modest from a literary perspective, are not like breast implants. They are fully protected First Amendment speech, and the notion of judging them from some almost undefinable negligence standards is very troubling."

Oliver Stone, presented with Grisham's indictment, responds in turn from Los Angeles. "If Grisham were the author of delightful bedtime stories, I could perhaps understand his perspective on my work. However, given the fact that his work is all built around the committing of heinous crimes (murder, the rape of a young child, suicide), his attacks on me seem more than disingenuous. The fact is, Mr. Grisham has become a very rich man off a body of work which utilizes violent crime as a foundation for mass entertainment.

"For example, his book (soon to be a major motion picture) A Time to Kill has as its protagonist a man who murders with clear premeditation two young racists who raped his 10-year-old daughter (a rape which Mr. Grisham writes about in horrifyingly graphic detail). The man's lawyer wins his freedom for these murders of vengeance. Mr. Grisham invites his readers to cheer the man's release, although he is unequivocally guilty of murder.

"Thus, one may presume that, according to Mr. Grisham's logic, the next time a 'righteous' revenge murder takes place (or, for that matter, the rape of a child) he will be happy to assume liability if it can be shown that the offender had read or seen A Time to Kill."

Point to Mr. Stone, though it seems, to this moderator, that Grisham presents his violence within a moral order. His protagonist in A Time to Kill is found not guilty by reason of insanity, but only after a lengthy trial that shows all the checks and balances of the law at work. Natural Born Killers has no moral frame.

Stone, of course, disagrees.

"Natural Born Killers is an in-your-face satire of a moral order turned upside down," he declares. "It's a wake-up call to a schizophrenic country and culture which decries violence but just can't get enough of it. Viewers are bombarded day in and day out by tabloid trash shows, entertainment and news programs which convert tragedy into soap opera, replete with weepy musical sound tracks and reportage that drips with fake emotion. ... So much for the 'moral order' that Natural Bom Killers is accused of upsetting."

Stone's response is persuasive, and set against it, Grisham's argument pales. Establishing cause and effect between screen violence and real-life violence seems all but impossible to do in any clear, definable way; even if it were possible, allowing courts to draw lines between acceptable and unacceptable art would not only subvert the First Amendment but be a fine prescription for Fascism.

-Michael Schnayerson, "Natural Born Opponents," Vanity Fair, July 1996 [not available online]

[n1ghtwarden]

minthara knows the bonds of war - she knows the bonds of blood more so; a web that binds; chokes. necessary, forged in fire - tested by time and battle after battle. those, of course, were far stronger than any family bonds - kin turn against kin as easily as water flows, as a spider weaves. the night warden knows not what the assortment of souls before has gone through to reach this blighted land alive; only that their own bonds have been forged in the same heat as her own had. friendship; rare and true, and a retort forms on her lips, faltering at the defensiveness - the steel in arlis' words, in her look. the night warden knows that expression, and had worn it often enough in her raiding days - no word or hand would ever be raised against her own men. and for once, minthara falls silent - watching, listening to arlis speak, and an uncomfortable sensation gnaws at her as the other continues - settling within her like a weight. the expression of a martyr looking at a blade - the tortured awaiting execution. it burns in her, expression hardening as storm clouds gather, darkening her as she brews.

" i do not need your pity. " she spits, agitated; expression pinching with irritation. the night warden does not enjoy the way arlis looks upon her now; as though she is wounded, bleeding out into the salted earth of the shadow cursed lands. a part of her knows that she is; a map of scars across her body that will never heal - the lone survivor, and she did not even possess the strength to claw and fight her way from the colony. " continue to look at me with it -" red eyes narrow, her jaw set as she takes in the other woman - the way she reaches for her; and minthara stiffens, teeth bared in warning, lips curling into a snarl. " - and i will pluck your eyes out from your skull. unlike your bard, i do not have spares to give you. " the night warden remembers how arlis had looked at her before; eyes narrowed, suspicious - she had preferred the fear. that, she knew as intimately as the dance of battle. this is a weakness; an insult, her eyes burning with a cold fury. what she does not notice is the way her vision blurs and burns - a shaky breath leaving her as she blinks; once, twice -- lips twisting into a thin, hard line as she looks away; then back again.

arlis has been lucky - all things considered. luck, being relative - tadpole aside, absolute aside. she had always been protected from the call of the absolute; had never lost herself to its crushing will. more than that: she had not lost any of the others here, weak as the night warden knows them to be; shackled by fears and petty desires. they all have that same will to live - the same, perhaps, can be said of her. how is it that they have survived, and her own had not? minthara baenre, lost daughter of menzoberranzan, knows that the blame lies solely with her. she will believe this until the day she is cold in the ground.

another step back; grateful for the distance she creates, and minthara's chest heaves with a slow, deliberate breath. brave, foolish girl - the same as she. her jaw clicks, slides; the noise of her teeth grinding loud within her skull. " you will have to gain the strength to do so, should you seek to be useful in our campaign. " ours. the word tastes strange within her mouth; unable to quite speak it aloud. " and if you cannot gain it, you will take it. if we are to survive this, there must be not a moment of doubt or fear; or ketheric will find it and strike us down before we even manage to wield a blade against him. "

@beregosts ha ha hi.

𝐔𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐃𝐋𝐘, 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐘, she feels a sudden defensiveness stir within her at mention of the others. arlis isn't certain when, or really even how, but they are more than just the odd assortment of acquaintances cobbled together amidst horror now. they are her friends, undeniably, and there is a frightening swell of care behind her ribs when she thinks, speaks, of each of them. minthara is allowed her skepticism, but is matched with a coolness of tone that reveals her protectiveness. ❛ they are far more than you give them credit for and they are far stronger than i suspect you could imagine. ❜ of course, how could the drow before her know the sharp arc of lae'zel's steel or the way the very air seems to crack and shift around gale's hands, how could she measure the enormity of karlach's spirit or comprehend the strength of wyll's without having seen it herself? for that, arlis' next words do not bear the same ice. ❛ give it time & you'll see. ❜

something changes in minthara's face then, seems to ripple through every inch of lean form. delicate features harden, reveal more than arlis suspects the drow desires to share. it startles her. it feels like looking upon something she isn't meant to see, hasn't been given permission to witness, and for a brief moment her gaze drops as minthara composes herself, rebuilds and repairs her defenses. ❛ i'm sorry, minthara, ❜ a hand briefly, momentarily extends to comfort, but retreats before she continues gently, ❛ i didn't know. ❜

the sickly sweet rot has faded from her tongue now, the grave dust cleared from her lungs, but even now the memories of moonrise and the drowning death within set her heart to beat faster. ❛ i'd have torn those towers apart with my own hands, had i the strength, ❜ her jaw works silently, ❛ some places have been witness to too much to be saved. it should be erased, made to be forgotten.❜

[n1ghtwarden]

falling back into the easy sway of their bodies, two animals that have already found their limits, who have no desire to strain themselves when they can lay back into the familiar comfort of each others bodies. where they'd once shared a spark of heat in the bone-chilled shadowland, their frost bitten hearts, like blowing a warm breathe onto cold fingertips and savoring that warmth, now they share their compressed chests. collapsing in on themselves like a dwarf star, the beginning of a black hole. 

wanting to say, tell me how you crossed the threshold of that temple, an object of desire made manifest. tell me how you stepped across the marble, it matters to me, what you're thinking now.

hand to mouth, a sip of his wine, sating his desire to press lips to skin. not wanting to kiss her snarling mouth, the jaw full of sharp teeth, but to her hands, the thinness of her wrists, the sweet slope of her too tense shoulders. a remembrance done in flesh and blood, a present tense caring to hide himself in.

his lips over hers and his smile like the first ray of the sun at the break of day. 

there had been mercy in the darkness of the shadowlands - a realm that had not been bleached and blighted by the sun; but something darker. stranger. the night warden finds no such mercy on the road to the gate - her eyes are pained, sensitive; skin now heavily freckled - another mark of shame, another reminder that she is so far from home; and will never return. the night, at least, provides relief - temporary. welcoming. it is almost a pity, then, that the wizard does not grant her the lenience that the stars and shadows always had.

her eyes are burning, blurred - they often are these days; squinting up in the light that streams in from the haphazardly tied flap of her tent, keenly aware of gale against her, the memory of him; and that she did not have the sense to turn him away after they had finished. a weakness of both the mind and the heart; and the wizard had repaid her with distracted hands that could not hope to replicate her own regimented fingers.

head turns sidelong, burying into the warmth of his neck and away from the offending sun - it does little to alleviate the pain in her eyes; a soft sound of displeasure as she feels gale shift against her - waking, moving when she has not yet given him leave to.

" wizard. " an edge of admonishment in her voice with no heat; a blade the night warden sheathes for the time being; half-lidded eyes watching him warily as he moves; sluggish, unworried - far too comfortable for someone who is caught in her web ( there is another thought, barely simmering in the haze she has found herself in - gale is not so much tangled in her web as she is tangled in him ); but she allows him this - the privilege of not turning him away when she is satiated; the ability to touch her, and come away unscathed.

his lips are soft against the tender underside of her wrists, ghosting over bone and veins - an act of tenderness so sweet it may as well have been violence; red, red eyes fluttering shut at the sensation against the palms of her hands, her calloused fingertips as she hums in approval, fingers combing through his greying hair. wizard, she calls him - as if she does not know his name. as if she has not sighed it into his mouth and whispered it against his neck, his ear under the cover of darkness. his lips to her shoulders, her collarbones - no longer guarded or sharp as she ought to have been. no longer a blade, but a woman; raw and real. an exposed nerve, painful to the touch - ugly in some lights. her hand in his hair, slipping down to cradle the back of his neck and as with all things, the night warden holds on too tightly.

a part of her wishes to speak - to tell him that this silence suits him, that his deference does, too; sharp jabs to his underbelly where he is vulnerable. but the wizard ( no. her wizard. ) has yet to bring a blade to her back or a spell to her skin - and a moment is a moment that will be gone too quickly with the morning light; better left savoured, and kept for herself. instead, she curls into him - closer when she presses against his chest; when her leg, lithe and long, drapes over the curve of his hip. her body, always primed and ready for a battle she knows is imminent, melts into him - relaxes when she heaves a shuddering sigh.

his lips continue - the burn and drag of his beard against her sensitive skin; shuddering under the touch, leaning into him - looking up into the darkness of gale's eyes, the dawn of his smile, her own fingers tracing the lines of the netherese orb that curls down his cheek, cupping his jaw when he kisses her, all wanting; gentle. a gentleness she is still unused to, angling his head when they part so that she does not have to see the part of him that belongs to another, when she has marked him all the same - when he is hers, entirely.

" if your mind has not been muddied by those scrolls you consume - " a kiss to his jaw, her lips lazily trailing kisses up to his ear, nipping there. " - when you come to me tonight, ensure that you secure my tent properly. " another kiss - another mark of ruin; and when the night warden speaks, the venom she has laced herself with is nowhere to be found. all talk. " if you cannot obey, i will ensure that you do; and you will find no pleasure - nor the promise of it. "

looking at him now, hazy in the morning light that spills into her - no, their - tent, the night warden thinks that she might not mind the light all that much after all, if it brought gale to her like this.

[viir-banalras]

Share Three Songs That Remind You of Your OC(s)

I was tagged by @drellvhen to post three songs that fit with my OC, but considering I’m self-indulgent and love talking about my children I’m going to do Sa’lyn and Farilis like usual. Anyone can do this! I’m not sure who to tag, but if you do it tag me!! I’m always looking for music recs just ask anyone.

Sa’lyn Istimaethoriel Lavellan

Dark Times // The Weeknd ft. Ed Sheeran

Waking up, half past five Blood on pillow and one bruised eye Drunk too much, you know what I'm like But you should've seen the other guy This ain't the right time for you to fall in love with me Baby I'm just being honest And I know my lies could not make you believe We're running in circles that's why In my dark times I'll be going back to the street Promising everything I do not mean In my dark times, baby this is all I could be Don't think my mother could love me for me In my dark times, in my dark times

I really feel that this song represents Sa’lyn for who she is - she’s an assassin, and will put that before much of anything. While she does indulge on small, side romances and one night stands, she will never stay in one place - or with anyone - for too long. She doesn’t even believe it to be for the best, to her it’s just what it has to be.

Icarus // Bastille

Look who makes their own bed Lies right down within it And what will you have left? Out on the front doorstep Drinking from a paper cup You won't remember this Living beyond your years Acting out all their fears You feel it in your chest 

Sa’lyn was - and will always be - an Icarus. She’s meant to be a tragedy in the root of it all. Her constant desire for vengeance and to do what is right by her own judgement ends up being her downfall. She went to the Conclave to spy in the place of her sister, and it led her to becoming the Inquisitor; something she was not keen on becoming in the first place. That’s only the tip of the iceberg, considering he time of being Inquisitor is filled with similar decisions and all too familiar outcomes. She lets her own self be her downfall, and thus - Icarus.

float // EDEN

But I can float too, and I don't ask for much from you But maybe that's too much, too soon So I, keep rolling through the blackout No fires without some fallout Made peace out of the pieces Now I can't take it back now, no But I keep on track now up Yeah, that's all of it I gave up my youth for this 'cause I wanted it, and If you think that I need you then you're out of your head But I want you

So bring me down and drown me out I'll be waiting here when you're ready And I'll lay me down, unfinished now It hurts

So when you coming home? I could be what you need, girl If you want me to You know what they say, bruh That love gon' come back to you

So EDEN is shamelessly my favourite artist so ofc I gotta throw one of his songs in there- but for good reason. The lyrics aren’t so much the main focus as is the buildup and full out ambiance of the song. After the first in between the verses, it just has an very... rough beat, like a heart in a chest. To me, that screams Sa’lyn in her raw. The calm, but that honest thumping in her chest when she’s alone in her own thoughts. That everything she’s amounted will - in some fashion - come back to her. This is also my go to song for writing her in FiGG.

Farilis Istimaethoriel Lavellan

Crossfire, Part II // Stephen ft. Talib Kweli & KillaGraham

Walk by her in the path of righteousness I walk higher, toss liars In the pit of hell, caught in the crossfire Caught fire, from the big guns, these is not revolvers Violence only creates confusion, it ain't a problem solver Let's go, my skin is my dress code Just know, I need a personal Jesus I'm in Depeche Mode My best show is when the bullets hit the flesh slow This ain't a movie, dog, you know it when your chest explodes I'd trade my luck to know Why he's caught in the crossfire And I'm here waking up To the sun and the sound of birds Society's anxiety Deprived of all that we're blessed with We just can't get enough, no

One of the most critical factors for Farilis is the fact she has always been protected by Sa’lyn. She herself is very powerful and capable, but Sa’lyn projects her own fears onto Farilis. This is the only thing Farilis has really known since their father’s passing and her own self coming into her magic. She has been sheltered, and often wonders why when she is her own person with her own skills and capabilities. When Sa’lyn becomes Inquisitor, she explores her newfound freedom more now that her twin has turned her gaze elsewhere.

Broken Roots // Michl

Blank faces Here we are staring at these Blank pages How did the plans we drew Disappear in thin air? Now all that's left are Two blank faces I know we let gold fade to black Give me time enough to bring us back 'Cause I've been pouring my whole life in you Trying to resurrect the love we grew Yeah, we're both confused But I'll keep pouring my whole life into These broken roots

This song really does hit close to home. While I try not to involve a character’s romance too much into their own development, Solas leaving Farilis is a huge factor for her. For someone who never cast a second glance at most people, it was damn near gravitational for their romance to take the path that it did. She tries everything to salvage it (and who she was) afterwards, but to no avail. She does eventually find herself, and grows into someone she didn’t anticipate. Kind of a spark, if you will.

wrong // EDEN

But I could be more Isn't there more? Don't you dream of forgetting this? Have we forgotten what we want? Counting the wars and broken bones

Haven't we lost enough already? Isn't this more than what it's worth? Have we forgotten where we came from? Long way from laying in the dirt And if I can only dream of up from down there God, help me, I'll be gone Have I lost sight of everything I've worked for? Did I get this all wrong?

Another EDEN song? Of course! I reference these things like crazy! I love this guy! Point being - this song screams Farilis to me. The a capella just brings out the doubt that surrounds Farilis when her world is turned upside-down. She wants to know and do what’s best for her, Sa’lyn, and her people considering Solas’ intentions. Where she was once proud of herself, she has been humbled and understands that now she needs to find out who she wants to be.

[newstfionline]

What If America Hadn’t Done the Dumbest Things Imaginable After 9/11?

By Danny Sjursen, TomDispatch, November 29, 2017

“Of all manifestations of power, restraint impresses men most.”--Thucydides

You’ve heard the platitude that hindsight is 20/20. It’s true enough and, though I’ve been a regular skeptic about what policymakers used to call the Global War on Terror, it’s always easier to poke holes in the past than to say what you would have done. My conservative father was the first to ask me what exactly I would have suggested on September 12, 2001, and he’s pressed me to write this article for years. The supposed rub is this: under the pressure of that attack and the burden of presidential responsibility, even “liberals”--like me, I guess--would have made much the same decisions as George W. Bush and company.

Many readers may cringe at the thought, but former National Security Adviser and Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice has to be taken seriously when she suggests that anyone in the White House on 9/11 would inevitably have seen the world through the lens of the Bush administration. I’ve long argued that just about every Bush-era policy that followed 9/11 was an unqualified disaster. Nevertheless, it remains important to ponder the weight piled upon a president in the wake of unprecedented terror attacks. What would you have done? What follows is my best crack at that thorny question, 16 years after the fact, and with the accumulated experiences of combat tours in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Taking It Personally. 9/11 was an intimate affront to me. It hit home hard. I watched those towers in my hometown burn on televisions I could glimpse from my plebe (freshman) boxing class at West Point. My father worked across Church Street from Manhattan’s World Trade Center. Only hours later did I learn that he’d safely escaped on the last ferryboat to Staten Island. Two uncles--both New York City firemen--hopelessly dug for comrades in the rubble for weeks. Stephen, the elder of the two, identified the body of his best friend, Captain Marty Egan, just days after the attacks.

In blue-collar Staten Island neighborhoods like mine, everyone seemed to work for the city: cops, firemen, corrections officers, garbage men, transit workers. I knew several of each. My mother spent months attending wakes and funerals. Suddenly, tons of streets on the Island were being renamed for dead police and firefighters, some of whom I knew personally. Me, I continued to plod along through the typically trying life of a new cadet at West Point.

It’s embarrassing now to look back at my own immaturity. I listened in as senior cadets broke the news of war to girlfriends and fiancées, enviously hanging on every word. If only I, too, could live out the war drama I’d always longed for. Less than two years later, I found myself drunk with another uncle--and firefighter--in a New York pub on St. Patrick’s Day. This was back when an Army T-shirt or a fireman’s uniform meant a night of free drinks in that post-9/11 city. I watched the television screen covetously as President Bush delivered a final, 48-hour ultimatum to Iraqi leader Saddam Hussein. I inhaled, wished for a long war, and gazed at the young, attractive lead singer of the band performing in that pub. She was wearing a patron’s tied-up New York Fire Department uniform blouse with a matching cap cocked to the side. It was meant to be sexy and oh-so-paramilitary. It might seem unbelievable now, but that was still my--and largely our--world on March 17, 2003.

By the time I got my “chance” to join America’s war on terror, in October 2006, Baghdad was collapsing into chaos as civil war raged and U.S. deaths were topping 100 per month. This second lieutenant still hoped for glory, even as the war’s purpose was already slipping ever further away. I never found it (glory, that is). Not in Iraq or, years later, in Afghanistan. Sixteen years and two months on from 9/11, I’m a changed man, inhabiting a forever altered reality. Two wars, two marriages, and so many experiences later, the tragedy and the mistakes seem so obvious. Perhaps we should have known all along. But most didn’t.

How to Lose A War (Hint: Fight It!) From the beginning, the rhetoric, at least, was over the top. Three days after those towers tumbled, President George W. Bush framed the incredible scope of what he’d instantly taken to calling a “war.” As he told the crowd at a Washington national prayer service, “Our responsibility to history is already clear: to answer these attacks and rid the world of evil.” From the first, it seemed evident to the president: America’s target wasn’t anything as modest as the al-Qaeda terrorist network, but rather evil itself. Looking back, this was undoubtedly the original sin. Call something--in this case, the response to the acts of a small jihadist group--a “war” and sooner or later everyone begins acting like warriors.

Within 24 hours of the attacks, the potential target list was already expanding beyond Osama bin Laden and his modest set of followers. On September 12th, President Bush commanded his national counterterror coordinator, Richard Clarke, to “see if Saddam did this... look into Iraq, Saddam.” That night, Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld told the president and the entire cabinet, “You know, we’ve got to do Iraq... There just aren’t enough targets in Afghanistan... We need to bomb something else to prove that we’re, you know, big and strong...”

Nonetheless, Afghanistan--and its Taliban rulers--became the first military target. Bombs were dropped and commandos infiltrated. CIA spooks distributed briefcases of cash to allied warlords and eventually city after city fell. Sure, Osama bin Laden escaped and many of the Taliban’s foot soldiers simply faded away, but it was still one hell of a lightning campaign. Expected to be brief, it was given the bold name Operation Enduring Freedom and, to listen to the rhetoric of the day, it revolutionized warfare. Only it didn’t, of course. Instead, the focus was soon lost, other priorities (Iraq!) sucked the resources away, venal warlords reigned, an insurgency developed, and... and 16 years later, American troop levels are once again increasing there.

Over the days, the months, and then the years that followed, the boundaries of the Global War on Terror both hardened and expanded. In his January 2002 State of the Union address, President Bush ominously included Iraq, along with Iran and North Korea (though he left out “liberated” Afghanistan), in what he called “an axis of evil.” Who cared, by then, that none of those countries had had anything to do with the 9/11 attacks? In a flash the president conflated all three in the public mind, ultimately constructing a self-fulfilling prophecy. Saddam would be toppled and Iraq occupied 15 months later and, had it not been for the ensuing chaos, Iran and North Korea might have been next. Unsurprisingly, both countries intensified their bellicosity and grew all the more interested in nuclear weapons programs.

So much followed the 9/11 attacks that it’s no small thing to sum up: the Patriot Act, warrantless domestic wiretapping, Guantánamo, Abu Ghraib, a Taliban resurgence, an Iraqi civil war, drones as global assassins, the Arab Spring, the overthrow of Libyan autocrat Muammar Gaddafi and the collapse of his country, the Syrian bloodbath, the worst refugee crisis since World War II, and that’s just to begin a list.

In short, U.S. policies have left the Middle East in chaos: perhaps a million dead, Iran empowered, and radical Islamists resurgent. Meanwhile, this country has become a garrison state, forever at war, its military budget doubled, its populace seemingly indifferent, and its warrior caste shattered--physically and mentally. Sixteen years have passed and Washington is no closer to its goal (whatever that was). Retired general David Petraeus, our nation’s prodigal “hero,” has now ominously labeled the Afghan War (and by implication the rest of the war on terror) a “generational struggle.”

Few, to be honest, even remember the purpose of it all. Keep in mind that Army recruits today were perhaps two years old on 9/11.

Lost Opportunities. It didn’t have to be this way. Nothing about it was predetermined. Much of the necessary information--certainly the warning signs of what was going to happen that September 11th--were already there. If, that is, one cared to look. History is contingent, human beings have agency, and events result from innumerable individual decisions. The CIA, the FBI, and even the Bush administration knew (or should have known, anyway) that an attack of some sort was coming.

As the 9/11 commission report painfully detailed, none of those agencies collaborated in a meaningful way when it came to preventing that day’s attacks. Still, there were warnings ignored and voices in the dark. When Richard Clarke, counterterror czar and a Clinton administration holdover, requested through official channels to deliver an emergency briefing for Bush’s key foreign policy officials, it took four months just to arrange an audience with their deputies. Four more months elapsed before President Bush received a briefing titled, “Bin Laden determined to strike the U.S.” Unimpressed, Bush quickly responded to the briefer: “All right... you’ve covered your ass now.”

Barely more than a month later, the World Trade Center and the Pentagon were burning.

Whatever else it did, 9/11 presented the United States with an opportunity, a Robert Frost-like fork in a divergent path. And we Americans promptly took the road most traveled: militarism, war, vengeance--the easy wrong path. A broad war, waged against a noun, “terror,” a “global” conflict that, from its first moments, looked suspiciously binary: Western versus Islamic (despite Bush’s pleas to the contrary). In the process, al-Qaeda’s (and then ISIS’s) narratives were bolstered.

There was--there always is--another path. Imagine if President Bush and his foreign policy team had paused, taken a breath, and demonstrated some humility and restraint before plunging the country into what would indeed become a war or set of wars. There were certainly questions begging to be asked and answered that never received a proper hearing. Why did al-Qaeda attack us? Was there any merit in their grievances? How did bin Laden want us to respond and how could we have avoided just such a path? Finally, which were the best tools and tactics to respond with? Let’s consider these questions and imagine an alternative response.

Why They (Really) Hated Us. Americans and their government were inclined to accept the most simplistic explanation for the terror attacks of 9/11. As George W. Bush would assure us all, Osama bin Laden and al-Qaeda just “hate us for our freedoms.” The end.

Something about the guilelessness of that explanation, which was the commonplace one of that moment, never quite seemed right. Human motivations and actions are almost always more complex, more multifaceted, less simpleminded than that. While Bush boiled it all down to “Islamic” fundamentalism, even a cursory look at bin Laden’s written declaration of “war”--or as he called it, jihad--demonstrates that his actual focus was far more secular and less explicitly religious than was suggested at the time. Couched between Koranic verses, bin Laden listed three all-too-worldly grievances with America:

* The U.S. military had occupied bases in the vicinity of Saudi Arabia’s holy sites of Mecca and Medina. (Well... that had indeed been the case, at least since 1990, if not earlier.)

* U.S.-imposed sanctions on Iraq had caused the deaths of hundreds of thousands of Iraqi children. (This was, in fact, a reality that even Secretary of State Madeleine Albright awkwardly acknowledged.)

* America’s leaders had long favored Israeli interests to the detriment of Palestinian wellbeing or national aspirations. (A bit simplistic, but true enough. One could, in fact, stock several bookshelves with respected works substantiating bin Laden’s claim on this point.)

None of this faintly justified the mass murder of civilians in New York and Washington. Nonetheless, at that moment, an honest analysis of an adversary’s motives would have been prudent. It might have warned us of the political landscape that bin Laden was beckoning us--in his own bloody, apocalyptic fashion--to enter. In addition, as journalist Stephen Glain astutely observed, “By obscuring the real motives behind the attacks, Bush relieved the U.S. government of any responsibility for them.” This was a fatal error. While the overwhelming majority of Arabs and Muslims worldwide did not approve of bin Laden’s methods or his theology, much of his critique of Washington’s Middle Eastern policies was widely shared in the region.

Avoiding the Al-Qaeda Script. Al-Qaeda’s leadership knew this perfectly well and they dangled it (and their suicidal acts) as a kind of bait, yearning for the sort of conventional U.S. military response that they knew would further inflame the Greater Middle East. Even in 1996, when journalist Abdul Bari Atwan interviewed bin Laden, the Saudi militant had expressed the desire to “bring the Americans into a fight on Muslim soil.” Only then, bin Laden surmised, could al-Qaeda buttress its argument, win converts from the apathetic Muslim masses, and--hopefully--bankrupt the United States in the bargain.

Suppose, for a moment, that President Bush had taken the high road, a path of restraint focused on twin tracks. First, he might have addressed broadly-shared Arab grievances, pledging a more balanced approach to the question of Israel and Palestine in his still-fresh administration, tailoring Iraq’s sanctions to target Saddam and his cronies rather than innocent citizens, and vowing to review the necessity of military bases so close to Mecca and Medina (or even the necessity of so many of the American bases that littered the region). He could have followed that with lethal, precise, targeted action by America’s intelligence, law enforcement, and Special Operations forces to hunt down and kill or capture the men actually responsible for 9/11, al-Qaeda’s leadership.

This manhunt needed to be ferocious yet measured in order to avoid the very quagmires that, 16 years later, we all know so well. Allies and adversaries would have had to be consulted and cautioned. Remember that, although al-Qaeda was disciplined and effective, on September 12, 2001, it remained diminutive in size and utterly marginal in its regional support. Dismantling its networks and bringing the true criminals of that day to justice never required remaking distant societies or occupying fragile nation-states with conventional military forces.

And keep in mind that such thinking about the situation isn’t purely retrospective. Take the Nation magazine’s Jonathan Schell. That October, after the invasion of Afghanistan had begun, appearing on the Charlie Rose show he called for “police work” and “commando raids,” but not war. He then prophetically observed:

“I think the question doesn’t revolve so much around the justification for war but about its wisdom, and I know that’s the question for me. I know that, from my point of view, terrorism is chiefly a political issue and secondarily a police issue and then, only in a very minor way, can it be addressed by military means and I think that, on the contrary, the war we’re fighting now will tend to worsen our problems. The question I ask myself is, at the end of the day, do you have more terrorists or do you have fewer and I think... today, right now, it looks like there are going to be more.”

Of course, at the time, just about no one in this country was listening to such voices.

A prudent president might also have learned from his father. Just as George H.W. Bush had meticulously constructed a broad international coalition, including all-important Arab states, to dislodge Saddam Hussein’s military from Kuwait in the Persian Gulf War, George W. Bush could have harnessed widespread international sympathy after the 9/11 attacks to blaze a judicious path. A new, broad, U.N.-backed coalition, which ought to have included several Muslim-majority nations, could have shared intelligence, rooted out jihadis (who represented a serious threat to most secular Arab regimes), and ultimately discredited al-Qaeda, dismantling its networks and bringing bin Laden himself to justice.

The Right Tools. Global sympathy--Russian President Vladimir Putin was the first world leader to call George Bush after the attacks--is as rare as it is fleeting. So that moment represented a singular and singularly squandered opportunity. The United States could have led a massive international effort, emphasizing law enforcement, not warfare, and including increased humanitarian aid, U.N.-sponsored peacekeeping operations, and a commitment to live America’s purported values by scrupulously avoiding crimes like torture and civilian casualties. Of course, it wouldn’t have been perfect--complex operations seldom are--but sober strategy demanded a rigorous effort.

One more imperative for the new campaign against al-Qaeda would have been garnering broad support and a legal sanction from Congress and the American people. Two weeks after 9/11, President Bush vapidly suggested instead that this country’s citizens should respond by getting in airplanes again and “enjoy[ing] America’s great destination spots. Get down to Disney World in Florida.” Instead, he might have steeled the population for a tough fight and inspired a new era of public service. Think: John F. Kennedy. Think: “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.” Bush might have requested from Congress a narrow, targeted authorization for the use of military force rather than the rushed, expansive, open-ended sanction he actually demanded and received and that is still being used two administrations later to justify any acts against any group or country across the Greater Middle East and Africa.

He could have followed this with the presentation of a new National Service Act, rallying the young and incentivizing military or Peace Corps enlistment, infrastructure improvement, inner-city teaching, and various other kinds of public service. Imagine a new “Greatest Generation,” pulling together in a time of crisis. This, in retrospect, was a real opportunity. What a pity that it never came to pass.

It’s hard to know, of course, how such an alternate path might have played out, but honestly it would have been difficult to do worse. The U.S. remains stuck, spinning its wheels in regional conflicts and feeling no safer. The number of worldwide terrorist incidents has exploded since 2001. New Islamist groups were formed in response to U.S. actions and counteractions and they continue to spread without an end in sight.

I don’t know if there will be a next time, a chance to do it right. But should new threats emerge, more devastating attacks be endured, there simply has to be a better way, though the odds that President Donald Trump and his generals will find it are, honestly, next to nil.

Complex ideological threats sometimes demand counterintuitive responses. In such moments, hard as it may be to imagine, rational calculations should rise above the kneejerk emotional responses. True leaders step up and weather criticism in times of crisis. So next time, Americans would do well to set aside comforting illusions and take the world as it is, not as we imagine or wish it to be. The future may depend on it.

Major Danny Sjursen is a U.S. Army strategist and former history instructor at West Point. He served tours with reconnaissance units in Iraq and Afghanistan. He has written a memoir and critical analysis of the Iraq War, Ghost Riders of Baghdad: Soldiers, Civilians, and the Myth of the Surge.

[2700fstreet]

OPERA / 2017-2018

DON CARLO

OPEN REHEARSAL

Washington National Opera

Music by Giuseppe Verdi Libretto by Joseph Méry and Camille Du Locle Translated into Italian by Achille de Lauzières and Angelo Zanardini Based on Friedrich von Schiller’s dramatic work Don Carlos

So, What’s Going On?

Spain, the mid-sixteenth century.

Our hero, Don Carlo isn’t doing well. The infante (een-FAHN-teh, basically a Spanish word for “prince”) can’t get along with his father, King Filippo II (fee-LEEP-poh), and, to top it off, Carlo has no real royal responsibilities to keep him busy.

Oh, and did we mention he’s in love with his stepmother?

Filippo had promised Carlo a beautiful French bride named Elisabetta (eh-leez-ah-BEHT-tah), but, at the last minute, the king swept in and married her himself. Not cool. Nope, definitely not cool.

Enter Rodrigo (ro-DREE-goh), a nobleman and Carlo’s best friend. Rodrigo tries to cheer Carlo up by getting him involved in a political cause (nothing says “distraction” like a revolution). Spanish-occupied Flanders, (present-day Belgium) Rodrigo explains, is badly oppressed and needs a leader ASAP. Having a lot of free time on his hands, Carlo agrees to act as “savior” to the Flemish (i.e., the folks from Flanders). Got it so far?

But there’s a catch. He’ll need his stepmom’s permission.

Rodrigo fires Carlo up for a Flemish fight.

Take a listen… In one of opera’s most famous duets, Rodrigo and Don Carlo take a vow of friendship and promise to work together to achieve freedom for Flanders. Listen for the sounds of the brass instruments, symbolizing war and aggression, as well as royalty.

Back to the story…

Rodrigo arranges a meeting between Carlo and Elisabetta, telling the queen her heartbroken stepson needs a favor. But one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting, the Princess of Eboli (EHB-oh-lee), overhears and takes Carlo’s heartbreak completely out of context—she thinks Carlo might be in love with her.

At the meeting set up by Rodrigo, Carlo tells Elisabetta he’s dying of love.

In other palace news, the king is highly suspicious of Elisabetta’s relationship with Carlo. He summons Rodrigo and asks him to spy on Carlo and Elisabetta’s extracurricular activities. Rodrigo unwisely uses this moment to plead for Flanders, claiming the king is applying unnecessary force to maintain peace in the Flemish territories. Though slightly moved, Filippo warns Rodrigo his rebellious ways may get him into trouble with the Spanish Inquisition (…bet you weren’t expecting that).

Sometime later, Carlo receives a mysterious letter. Thinking Elisabetta wishes to see him, he waits for her in a romantic spot, and she promptly arrives wearing a veil for cover.

(Yeah, just kidding: It’s not really Elisabetta, but Eboli in disguise.)

Carlo whispers sweet nothings to “Elisabetta,” but when the mix-up comes to light, he tries to take back his professions of love. The damage is done, however—Eboli figures out Carlo’s words were meant for someone else…and that the “someone else” must be the queen.

Rodrigo rushes in. Believing Eboli will go straight to the king for revenge, he asks Carlo to hand over any incriminating evidence pertaining to Flanders.

Eboli plots vengeance against Carlo for (accidentally) playing with her heart.

But tensions between Filippo and Carlo are about to boil over anyway. At an auto-da-fé (an execution led by the Inquisition and overseen by the king), Carlo interrupts the ceremony by bringing some Flemish citizens before Filippo to call the king out and beg for royal mercy. Things get heated, and Carlo draws his sword. Horrified by this treasonous act, Filippo calls for someone to arrest his son. To everyone’s surprise, Rodrigo steps forward and leads Carlo to jail.

A private family feud is put on public display.

Take a listen… In his aria, “Ella giammai m’amò” (“She never loved me”), Filippo contemplates the sad state of his marriage. Listen for the sorrowful string music, which repeats incessantly as if to reflect Filippo’s relentless thoughts.

Filippo wants Carlo out of the way (like…completely out of the way), so the king appeals to the Grand Inquisitor to ask if the holy man will pardon Filippo for ordering Carlo’s execution. Convinced the uprising of the Protestant-leaning Flemish—and not Carlo—is the real threat to Spain and to the Catholic Church, the Inquisitor slyly suggests Filippo may be absolved if he hands over the traitorous Rodrigo in exchange. Yikes.

The Grand Inquisitor offers a terrible bargain: Religious blessing in exchange for Rodrigo’s demise.

Take a listen… In this intentionally frightening scene, the Grand Inquisitor’s deep and forceful voice, along with the quivering strings and percussion, remind the audience (and Filippo) that the church wields power in sixteenth-century Spain.

Suddenly, Elisabetta bursts in claiming she’s been robbed. She asks her husband to take action against the culprit, but Filippo quickly admits to the crime himself. He then confronts Elisabetta about a portrait of Carlo she keeps hidden in her stolen jewelry box. Elisabetta maintains her innocence, however. She may love Carlo, but she’s never been unfaithful.

And yet here’s a twist: Filippo has.

Filippo tries to shame Elisabetta.

While comforting the queen after Filippo’s accusation, Eboli confesses she’s been having an affair with the king and that jealousy (for both Carlo and Filippo) led her to steal Elisabetta’s box and throw some serious shade at the queen. Shocked, Elisabetta orders Eboli to head to a convent. Eboli searches for a way to make things right—and finds one. She stumbles onto Carlo’s death warrant and resolves to intervene before it’s too late.

Take a listen… Eboli curses her own vanity for inspiring her to betray her queen in the aria “O don fatale” (“Oh fatal gift”). Check out how the mezzo-soprano uses both high and low notes to convey her sense of frustration and despair in the musical sample below. Also: Listen for the outbursts from the trumpets, trombones, and horns at the opening. Can you tell things have gotten pretty serious?

But can Eboli alert Carlo in time? Can Rodrigo escape the watchful eye of the Inquisition? And, most importantly, will Elisabetta and Carlo be allowed to ride off into the Spanish sunset?

Who’s Who

(Italian version of the original Spanish names listed; English version names in parentheses)

Don Carlo (Don Carlos) infante of Spain (tenor—the highest male voice) Filippo (King Philip II) Carlo’s father and king of Spain (bass—the lowest male voice) Elisabetta (Elizabeth of Valois) queen of Spain (soprano—the highest female voice) The Princess of Eboli (known as “Eboli”) (mezzo-soprano—a middle-range female voice) Rodrigo marquis of Posa and Carlo’s friend (baritone—a middle-range male voice) The Grand Inquisitor (bass)

Good to Know

You’ve heard of the Spanish Inquisition before, right? No?

Okay, well, just in case you haven’t, you might want to keep in mind that the Spanish Inquisition was a Catholic branch of the Spanish government whose task was to find and “question” anyone who wasn’t loyal to the Catholic church, particularly Jews and Protestants. These “interviews” were often literal torture, as the Spanish monarchy was known to use the Inquisition as an excuse to enslave innocents in order to get free labor.

Now that you’re familiar with the Inquisition: Did you know King Philip II, his wife Elizabeth, his son Carlos, and the Princess of Eboli were also real? Philip II was a sixteenth-century Spanish monarch who did indeed marry a French woman (Elizabeth of Valois) whom he had initially intended for his son. Turns out Philip and Elizabeth actually had a reportedly happy marriage, and the love story between Elizabeth and her stepson was invented by writer Friedrich von Schiller in the eighteenth century and exploited by Verdi in the nineteenth century for maximum dramatic impact.

The Princess of Eboli was likewise a genuine attendant at court and the wife of King Philip’s right-hand man. Rodrigo, however, never actually existed; he’s more of an ideal representation of compassion and progressive thinking created by Schiller at a time when the Enlightenment ideals of reason and rationality swept across Europe.

And Carlos? Sadly the historical Carlos wasn’t quite the romantic hero he is in the opera. Rowdy, and unpredictable, the real-life Carlos was decidedly not in love with his stepmom. Yet, as in the opera, Carlos wasn’t given much power by his father and eventually grew fed up with life in Spain. The infante then demanded control over Flanders, which was being ruled by a brutal cardinal of the Catholic Inquisition.

Just like in the opera, Flanders was a place of political (and religious) unrest in the mid-sixteenth century. Absorbed into Spain’s considerable empire via a political marriage, Flanders was somewhat content to be ruled by Philip’s father, Charles V, who had been born in Flanders and was well respected there. Things changed when Philip assumed the throne, however: Philip was more Catholic than his father and the new king had no trouble sending clerical and military forces to keep the Protestant-friendly Flemish in line—often using violent methods of persuasion.

Philip ultimately deemed his son unfit to serve as ambassador to such an unstable region and had Carlos put in jail to prevent a political catastrophe (thanks, dad). Carlos died while under arrest, but the Flemish controversy continued, and uprisings followed soon after.

Check This Out…

Don Carlo features many melodies that repeat themselves to help the audience recall a particular scene or emotion from earlier in the story. Listen up for tunes that come back to haunt these characters again and again (especially the themes from Carlo and Rodrigo’s Act I duet, Carlo’s first lovesick solo, and the choir of horns that opens the opera).

Though Carlo is the title character, all the leading roles in the opera are given at least one aria (solo song) in which to express their feelings, and each character has their own unique musical and vocal style. Can you identify some of the ways in which Verdi gives each character his or her own spin? Is there a type of note (high, low, stretched out, cut short, etc.) or rhythm (slow, fast, galloping, etc.) that sticks out as being a specific character’s “signature sound”?

The finale of Don Carlo is notoriously open-ended, leaving much of the interpretation up to the performers and production team. Pay close attention during those final moments. What do you think the director and designers of this particular version wanted the audience to believe about the characters’ fates? Do you feel this explanation of the ending is correct? What do you think actually went down in the Spanish court?

Verdi wanted to immerse his audience in the culture and atmosphere of his operas. One of the ways he achieved this effect in Don Carlo was to include music that plays just off stage, giving the illusion of “surround sound” and extending the action of Don Carlo beyond the borders of the proscenium. Listen for the organ, church bells, brass band, choirs, and solo soprano voice coming from the wings of the theater. Do these help you feel like you’re at the heart of the story?

Think About This…

The dialogue between Filippo and the Grand Inquisitor—which was purposely added to the original story by Verdi and his librettists—includes some heavy musical clues regarding the evil subtext of the scene. In fact, Verdi uses ominous-sounding instruments to make it abundantly clear that some devilish plots are being hatched. What instruments stick out for you in this moment? What do you think Verdi’s position was regarding organized religion? What do you think he felt about monarchies like the one in Spain?

Eboli sings a song about a woman who hides her appearance and discovers a terrible secret. And…surprise! Later in the opera, the princess herself actually wears a veil and uncovers something about Don Carlo she wishes she hadn’t. Do you think the creators were making a specific point about disguises or about women who mask their identity?

Don Carlo is a mixture of big, crowded scenes for huge choruses and smaller, more intimate moments for four people or fewer. This contrast between public life and personal drama is something that continues to fascinate audiences in the twenty-first century. Can you name some recent films or TV shows in which the private struggles of a handful of characters are set against the backdrop of an overarching story that packs an epic and/or historical punch (hint: think The Crown or Game of Thrones minus the dragons)? Do they parallel Don Carlo in some way? Why do you think viewers are still drawn to these types of dramas?

Filippo, though tyrannical and misguided, is ultimately portrayed as a sad and lonely figure in the opera—thanks in large part to Verdi’s sympathetic music and also to the made-up love triangle between Filippo, his son, and his wife. Do you think Filippo’s desperate attempts to govern the lives of his family and his subjects are a response to his own feelings of helplessness? How do you think the other characters handle forces beyond their control (e.g., love, war, religious duty, honor, etc.)? Do you think anyone in the opera is more successful than Filippo at facing down these seemingly insurmountable challenges?

Take Action

As hinted above, the private actions in Don Carlo often have public consequences. Toward the end of the opera, Rodrigo, whose personal loyalties to the king and to Carlo are severely tested, ultimately chooses a path he feels will do the most good for the most people. In his beautiful final aria, he considers the type of legacy he wants to leave behind and asks that Carlo never forget him and never abandon the Flemish people. “Non ti scordar’” (“Do not forget”), he sings.

Take some time to think about how your own personal actions can affect public discourse or change. Research a group of people facing adversity like those in the Flemish territories mentioned in the opera (this could be a group you consider yourself a part of and/or strongly identify with, or it could also be a community you simply wish to help). Next, come up with a plan to spread the word and jumpstart a campaign to make a positive difference. Concerned for the people devastated by recent hurricanes, fires, and other natural disasters? Organize an afterschool meeting to educate your fellow students and to brainstorm fundraising ideas. Want to throw your support behind victims of abuse in a foreign nation? Set up a crowdsourced relief fund and ask family and friends to donate.

Want a wider audience for your social justice campaign? Use social media platforms like Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, or tumblr to get people talking about your cause and to post news and pictures of outreach events. If you decide to post, let us know by using the hashtag #donotforget.

Explore More

Go even deeper with the Don Carlo Extras.

–

Major support for WNO is provided by Jacqueline Badger Mars.

David M. Rubenstein is the Presenting Underwriter of WNO.

WNO acknowledges the longstanding generosity of Life Chairman Mrs. Eugene B. Casey.

WNO's Presenting Sponsor

Don Carlo is a production of the Clarice Smith Opera Series.

Additional support for Don Carlo is provided by The Dallas Morse Coors Foundation for the Performing Arts.

The Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program is made possible through the generous support of The Morris and Gwendolyn Cafritz Foundation, with additional funding provided by Judy and Billy Cox, Robert and Lynn Downing, Carl M. Freeman Foundation, Virginia McGehee Friend, Susan Carmel Lehrman, John & Mary Lee Malcolm, Michael F. and Noémi K. Neidorff and The Centene Charitable Foundation, Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey P. Pohanka,  Dr. Arthur and Mrs. Robin Sagoskin, Mr. Alan J. Savada and Mr. Will Stevenson, Dr. and Mrs. Guillermo Schultz, Mr. and Mrs. Michael R. Sonnenreich, Washington National Opera Council, and The Women’s Committee of Washington National Opera.

This performance is made possible by the Kimsey Endowment; The Morris and Gwendolyn Cafritz Foundation and the U.S. Department of Education.

Major support for educational programs at the Kennedy Center is provided by David M. Rubenstein through the Rubenstein Arts Access Program.

Kennedy Center education and related artistic programming is made possible through the generosity of the National Committee for the Performing Arts and the President's Advisory Committee on the Arts.

[kos-promo]

Full name: Catelyn Stark Years of age: 52 Title / Rank: Lady Stoneheart Face claim: Michelle Fairley

Biography

Catelen Stark (née Tully) is the eldest daughter of Lady Minisa Whent and Lord Hoster Tully. Catelyn is the oldest of her siblings, who are Lysa and Edmure Tully. During her youth, Catelyn spent her childhood in Riverrun, learning to be a lady as well as many other things. During this time, Catelyn befriended her father’s ward, Petyr Baelish. Peytr soon fell in love with Catelyn and sought her hand in marriage but Catelyn never had felt the same way.  Soon, Lady Catelyn was engaged to the heir of Winterfell, Brandon Stark. This sent Petyr into a rage and challenged Brandon, only to loose. His life should have been Brandon’s but Catelyn had begged her betrothed to spare his life. Petyr was soon banished from Riverrun and sent back to his home. Catelyn’s betrothal to Brandon Stark ended when he and his father were killed by Aerys II Targaryen, the spark that helped ignite the rebellion of Robert Baratheon, led by Brandon’s younger brother, Eddard Stark. During the rebellion, Catelyn’s father still wanted a Stark alliance so he arranged for Catelyn to marry Eddard Stark. After they married, Catelyn and Eddard had five children: Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran and Rickon. During the first year of Robert’s Rebellion, while Catelyn gave birth to Robb Stark, Eddard had a bastard born son who Catelyn helps raise in Winterfell. Even though she does this, Jon Snow is still a reminder of her husband’s single act of faithlessness and causes a lot of friction between the two.

After Cersei Lannister and her husband, King Robert, arrived in Winterfell and offered Eddard the position of the hand of the king, Bran Stark was left in a coma having apparently fallen from one of Winterfell’s keeps. Catelyn did not leave her son’s side for days. On the eighth night, an assassin had come for Bran but Catelyn had bested him and retrieved his dagger. Arriving in Kings Landing, Catelyn was informed by Petyr Baelish that the dagger belonged to Tyrion Lannister, the Queens brother. While travelling, Catelyn encounters the Lannister sibling and takes him to the Eyrie as her hostage. The capture of Tyrion Lannister does more harm than good as it acts as a catalyst for the War of Five Kings, or at least, the start of it. With Tyrion Lannister winning his freedom by convincing a sell-sword to compete for him, Robb Stark had marched south, with Eddard’s bannermen in response to his arrest and negotiations began with Walder Frey for an alliance, marrying Robb to one of his many daughters. Soon after a celebration of winning a the Battle of the Whispering Wood, Catelyn has received the news that her husband was beheaded at the command of King Joffery Baratheon, the newly crowned king. Filled with grief, Catelyn tries to persuade her son to negotiate peace, to bring his sisters home but his desire for war is cemented with Greatjon declaring Robb the first King in the North for three centuries. During the War of Five Kings, Robb betrayed his alliance and refused to marry Roslin Frey, which aggravated House Frey. In an attempt to keep the peace, Edmure Tully, her brother, was arranged to marry Roslin instead. During this wedding, things were strained and an attack had begun. While her son barely escaped with his life, his mother was not as fortunate. Raymund Frey had slit her throat and The Frey’s had dumped her lifeless, naked body into the Green Fork; the ultimate mockery of House Tully. After being dead for one day and night, her daughters dire wolf, Nymeria, had pulled her body from the river and ran when Lord Beric Dondarrion approached. The man had brought Catelyn back from the dead, but her wounds partially healed and she was unable to speak.

After the Treaty of peace from the kings and queens of Westeros, Catelyn was filled with a desire for vengeance for her family’s betrayal. She became known as Lady Stoneheart and while her son rules the North, she rules the Brotherhood without Banners, leading them in merciless kills to everyone she considers a Lannister collaborator, executing and pursuing them.

Flaws & Virtues

⚫ merciless, vengeful, angry ⚫ dedicated, committed, leader

Relationships

Robb Stark —  Robb has always been Catelyn’s favorite child and she will stop at nothing to make sure that her son is avenged.

Sansa Stark — Although she has missed her daughter, Catelyn worries that Sansa is more Lannister than Stark now.

Peytr Baelish — Knowing that he helped the Lannister’s does not do well or Lord Baelish. He is now among the men to suffer the wrath of Lady Stoneheart.

Gif Hunts: [x] Icons: [x]

[katybudgetbooks]

10 YA Books to Watch for in 2017

Caraval by Stephanie Garber (1/31): Whatever you've heard about Caraval, it doesn't compare to the reality. It's more than just a game or a performance. It's the closest you'll ever find to magic in this world . . . Welcome, welcome to Caraval—Stephanie Garber’s sweeping tale of two sisters who escape their ruthless father when they enter the dangerous intrigue of a legendary game. Scarlett has never left the tiny island where she and her beloved sister, Tella, live with their powerful, and cruel, father. Now Scarlett’s father has arranged a marriage for her, and Scarlett thinks her dreams of seeing Caraval, the far-away, once-a-year performance where the audience participates in the show, are over.But this year, Scarlett’s long-dreamt of invitation finally arrives. With the help of a mysterious sailor, Tella whisks Scarlett away to the show. Only, as soon as they arrive, Tella is kidnapped by Caraval’s mastermind organizer, Legend. It turns out that this season’s Caraval revolves around Tella, and whoever finds her first is the winner. Scarlett has been told that everything that happens during Caraval is only an elaborate performance. But she nevertheless becomes enmeshed in a game of love, heartbreak, and magic with the other players in the game. And whether Caraval is real or not, she must find Tella before the five nights of the game are over, a dangerous domino effect of consequences is set off, and her sister disappears forever.

Rise of Fire by Sophie Jordan (2/7): New York Times bestselling author Sophie Jordan’s romantic, sweeping fantasy Reign of Shadows continues in this suspenseful sequel, Rise of Fire.Luna and Fowler have escaped the kingdom of Relhok, but they haven’t escaped the darkness. When a battle against the dark dwellers mortally injures Fowler, Luna is faced with a choice: put their fate in the hands of mysterious strangers or risk losing Fowler forever.Desperate to keep the one bright part of her life alive, Luna accepts the help of soldiers from a nearby kingdom. Lagonia’s castle offers reprieve from the dangerous outside world—until the King discovers both Fowler and Luna’s true ties to Relhok and their influence over the throne.Now pawns in each kingdom’s political game, Luna and Fowler are more determined than ever to escape and build the life they’ve been dreaming of. But their own pasts have a tight hold on their hearts and their destinies. Luna must embrace the darkness and fire within her before she loses not only Fowler but the power she was destined to inherit.

Just Another Girl by Elizabeth Eulberg (3/28):  Hope knows there's only one thing coming between her and her longtime crush: his girlfriend, Parker. She has to sit on the sidelines and watch as the perfect girl gets the perfect boy . . . because that's how the universe works, even though it's so completely wrong. Parker doesn't feel perfect. She knows if everyone knew the truth about her, they'd never be able to get past it. So she keeps quiet. She focuses on making it through the day with her secret safe . . . even as this becomes harder and harder to do. And Hope isn't making it any easier. . . . In Just Another Girl, Elizabeth Eulberg astutely and affectingly shows us how battle lines get drawn between girls -- and how difficult it then becomes to see or understand the girl standing on the other side of the divide. You think you have an enemy. But she's just another girl.

Royce Rolls by Margaret Stohl (4/4):  Sixteen-year-old Bentley Royce seems to have it all: an actual Bentley, tuition to a fancy private school, lavish vacations, and everything else that comes along with being an LA starlet. But after five seasons on her family's reality show, Rolling with the Royces, and a lifetime of dealing with her narcissistic sister, Porsche, media-obsessed mother, Mercedes, and somewhat clueless brother, Maybach, Bentley wants out. Luckily for her, without a hook for season six, cancellation is looming and freedom is nigh. With their lifestyle on the brink, however, Bentley's family starts to crumble, and one thing becomes startlingly clear--without the show, there is no family. And since Bentley loves her family, she has to do the unthinkable--save the show. But when her future brother-in-law's car goes over a cliff with both Bentley and her sister's fiancé inside—on the day of the big made-for-TV wedding, no less—things get real. Really real. Like, not reality show real. Told in a tongue-in-cheek voice that takes a swipe at all things Hollywood, Royce Rolls is a laugh-out-loud funny romp with an LA noir twist about what it means to grow up with the cameras rolling and what really happens behind the scenes.

The Adjustment by Suzanne Young (4/18):  How do you go back to a life you can’t remember? Find out in this follow up to the New York Times bestselling The Program and The Treatment. Tatum Masterson never went through The Program. She never had her memory stripped, never had to fight to remain herself. But when Weston, her longtime boyfriend and love of her life, was taken by handlers, she hoped he’d remember her somehow—that their love would be strong enough. It wasn’t. Like all returners, Weston came back a blank canvas. The years he and Tatum spent together were forgotten, as well as the week when he mysteriously disappeared before The Program came for him. Regardless of his memory loss, Tatum fights to get Weston to remember her. And just as they start to build a new love, they hear about the Adjustment—a new therapy that implants memories from a donor. Despite the risks, Tatum and Weston agree to go through the process. Tatum donates her memories from their time together. But the problem with memories is that they are all a matter of perspective. So although Weston can now remember dating Tatum, his emotions don’t match the experiences. And this discrepancy is slowly starting to unravel him, worse than anything The Program could have done. And as the truth of their life together becomes clear, Tatum will have to decide if she loves Weston enough to let him go, or to continue to live the lie they’d build together. Prepare for your Adjustment.

Kill All Happies by Rachel Cohn (5/2):  Last Call at Happies! Tonight, 8 P.M. Senior Class Only! Please with the Shhhh…. This is it. Graduation. And Vic Navarro is throwing the most epic party Rancho Soldado has ever seen. She's going to pull off the most memorable good-bye ever for her best friends, give Happies—the kitschy restaurant that is her desert town's claim to fame—a proper send-off into bankruptcy, and oh yes, hook up with her delicious crush, Jake Zavala-Kim. She only needs to keep the whole thing a secret so that her archnemesis, Miss Ann Thrope, Rancho Soldado's nightmare Town Councilwoman and high school Economics teacher, doesn't get Vic tossed in jail. With the music thumping, alcohol flowing, bodies mashing, and Thrope nowhere to be seen, Vic's party is a raging success. That is, until Happies fans start arriving in droves to say good-bye, and storm the deserted theme park behind the restaurant. Suddenly what was a small graduation bash is more like Coachella on steroids with a side of RASmatazz pie. The night is so not going as planned. And maybe that's the best plan of all.

Prisoner of War by Michael Spradlin (6/27):  Survive the war. Outlast the enemy. Stay alive. That's what Henry Forrest has to do. When he lies about his age to join the Marines, Henry never imagines he'll face anything worse than his own father's cruelty. But his unit is shipped off to the Philippines, where the heat is unbearable, the conditions are brutal, and Henry's dreams of careless adventuring are completely dashed. Then the Japanese invade the islands, and US forces there surrender. As a prisoner of war, Henry faces one horror after another. Yet among his fellow captives, he finds kindness, respect, even brotherhood. A glimmer of light in the darkness. And he'll need to hold tight to the hope they offer if he wants to win the fight for his country, his freedom . . . and his life. Michael P. Spradlin's latest novel tenderly explores the harsh realities of the Bataan Death March and captivity on the Pacific front during World War II.

Because You Love to Hate Me edited by Amerile (7/11):  Leave it to the heroes to save the world--villains just want to rule the world. In this unique YA anthology, thirteen acclaimed, bestselling authors team up with thirteen influential BookTubers to reimagine fairy tales from the oft-misunderstood villains' points of view. These fractured, unconventional spins on classics like "Medusa," Sherlock Holmes, and "Jack and the Beanstalk" provide a behind-the-curtain look at villains' acts of vengeance, defiance, and rage--and the pain, heartbreak, and sorrow that spurned them on. No fairy tale will ever seem quite the same again! Featuring writing from . . . Authors: Renée Ahdieh, Ameriie, Soman Chainani, Susan Dennard, Sarah Enni, Marissa Meyer, Cindy Pon, Victoria Schwab, Samantha Shannon, Adam Silvera, Andrew Smith, April Genevieve Tucholke, and Nicola Yoon BookTubers: Benjamin Alderson (Benjaminoftomes), Sasha Alsberg (abookutopia), Whitney Atkinson (WhittyNovels), Tina Burke (ChristinaReadsYA blog and TheLushables), Catriona Feeney (LittleBookOwl), Jesse George (JessetheReader), Zoë Herdt (readbyzoe), Samantha Lane (Thoughts on Tomes), Sophia Lee (thebookbasement), Raeleen Lemay (padfootandprongs07), Regan Perusse (PeruseProject), Christine Riccio (polandbananasBOOKS), and Steph Sinclair & Kat Kennedy (Cuddlebuggery blog and channel).

In Some Other Life by Jessica Brody (8/29):  Kennedy Rhodes turns down an acceptance to an elite private school, instead choosing to stay at her high school and jump at the opportunity to date the boy of her dreams. Three years later, Kennedy walks in on that same boyfriend cheating with her best friend and wishes she had made a different choice. But when Kennedy hits her head and wakes up in the version of her life where she chose to attend the private school, she finds that maybe it's not as perfect of a world as she once thought.

Throne of Glass 6 by Sarah J. Maas (9/5): No details yet available.

[n1ghtwarden]

curiosity is a dangerous thing; the night warden had, after all, lost better soldiers than astarion to it - she'd lost herself to it, too. it had been curiosity, after all, that had lead her down the path to moonrise and into the bowls of a mindflayer colony. curiosity and pride had stripped her of her titles, her name - and every certainty that her life had ever held. how pathetic of her; weak, too. she deserved what had happened there; held fast within walls of flesh and bone and blood - a fitting punishment for the moment of weakness that had destroyed her to the marrow. minthara baenre, servant and blade, knows who she had been - knows who she was supposed to become; and now? the absence of it, the shape it had occupied - it consumes her.

"i am many things, astarion - a fool is not one of them. call me that again and i will take your tongue. " how cold her anger is - burning bright within her eyes as she stares at astarion - brows furrowed into a scowl that twists her features. can one be foolish without being a fool? it's as clear a warning as she can give; voice harsh, grating - and she feels the worm within her mind wriggle with desire - the warm pulse of authority rippling through her mind and reaching, swift and sure, towards astarion. it's a futile thing with the orb, and perhaps it is unwanted - but old habits die hard; and minthara's walls remain up, retreating into herself where the pale elf cannot reach her despite his constant, useless prattling. " do you speak so much to relieve yourself of the desire to think; or is it just to torture all who have the misfortune of being around you? you would have made a fine questioner in moonrise for you certainly do not need a mind-flayer worm to break the mind of whoever was so unfortunate enough as to be your charge. "

the silence that falls after is a heavy thing - her expression still stormy; pinched with the displeasure that so often clouded her features as the night warden continued to look at him - examining, calculating. none of them are truly free, as much as astarion may like to pretend otherwise - and his bravado may fool others, but it does not fool minthara. menzoberranzan had taught her much - how to cut a throat cleanly, carefully - how to poison untraceably; how to lie and cheat and claw her way up - most importantly, it had taught the night warden never to trust another; and how to read those in close quarters. with another withering glance - minthara makes a small noise of displeasure, turning away again to diligently unpack her belongings - trinkets from the underdark; reminders from home - an odd reverence in the way she handles them, these last pieces of herself.

" yes. they are. i do not think that you would be so bold if i cared enough to start digging in your past. i am sure that i would find many bodies there. "

" why, curiosity of course. " he replies less then eloquently, shoulders shrugging. " everyone here has a tale, i don't figure you any different." a brief pause in his dialogue as he eyes minthara in ernest. " aren't we all fools now and again? i hardly find it worth it to punish yourself too severely. " astarion relays with an air of sincerity that surprises even himself. " but i am not one to judge an individual's past or present, call me many things but a hypocrite? never. " palm falls over his chest to echo the statement, and for some reason the action brings to light the extent of the fatigue that is currently riddling his every foostep. even with newfound freedom, he must pursue another means to an end. whether that was the completion of this supposed ritual that brands his very form or something else entirely, he does not know. there was much he did not know, actually but astarion hides this well enough with a falsified sense of bravado that never made anyone look too closely and that's how he preferred it. " but i won't pry, everyone's allowed their secrets, yes? "

[operateens]

Nabucco at the Met, an Opera Teen’s Review

By: Emma F., National Opera Teens Advisory Committee 

Nabucco, one of Verdi’s lesser known operas, is often considered confusing and overwhelming. However, the Metropolitan Opera’s performance of Nabucco was not only easily understood but also emotional and powerful.

In Act I, the scene is set: the Israelites are in the Temple of Solomon, lamenting their future as Nabucco the Babylonian king is destroying their city. The Metropolitan Opera’s chorus presents an opening number that is as once delicate and powerful. While John Napier’s set is impressive, it mirrors the somber mood of the scene quite nicely.

After this first scene, Ismael and Fenena, (the daughter of Nabucco, now prisoner of the Israelites) are left alone, and their love for eachother is revealed to the audience. Adam Diegel is a convincing Ismael, and Nancy Fabiola Herrera’s Fenena is passionate and heroic. This sweet moment is short-lived, however, as Abigaille, Fenena’s jealous sister, soon enters. Tatiana Melnychenko is an extremely powerful Abigaille. She attempts to bargain with Ismael, offering him and his people freedom if he returns her love. Ismael refuses, and the Israelites return. Soon, Nabucco and some of his soldiers enter the Temple. Andreane Neofitou’s costumes clearly show the differences between the Israelites and the Babylonians, which represents the divide between them. Zaccaria, the High Priest, confronts Nabucco, threatening to stab his daughter. But, Ismael defends Fenena, and delivers her to her father. Because of this, he is reviled. Nabucco then orders the temple burned. The stage is engulfed in flames. This image stays in the mind and sets the scene for the dark things that are about to occur in the following acts.

As Act II begins, Napier’s magnificent set spins, and now we are in Babylon. While the set for Israel was made up of mostly beiges, this set is black, with a golden idol in the middle of the palace. Again, there are clear differences between the Israelites and the Babylonians. In this scene, Abigaille has found a document that proves that she is not the daughter of Nabucco, but of a slave. She swears vengeance upon Nabucco and Fenena in a moving aria. While the aria begins with her being upset, she soon shows her sensitive side, and sings about her love for Ismael. The story continues with the characters fighting for control of the throne, and at the end of the act, Nabucco enters, surprising all, as he had been previously thought to be dead. He declares that he is not only king, but god, as he has defeated Baal and the god of the Israelites. A bolt of lightning hits him, however, knocking the crown from his head and rendering him insane. Howard Harrison’s lights illustrate this with strobe lights. Afterwards, the stage is lit in red. This is an intense way to end yet another act.

In the third act, Abigaille has become leader. Together with the singing, the acting is superb and both the score and the libretto emphasize a vulnerability in Nabucco that hasn’t been seen before. While Nabucco was originally seen as a ruthless tyrant, he now is a relatable, caring father. The second scene in this act contains one of the most iconic choral pieces in all of opera: Va Pensiero. In this song, the Israelites are singing of their lost homelands. The chorus’s rendition is passionate and heartfelt.

In the final act, Nabucco awakens in his cell to hear Fenena being led to execution. Helpless, he prays to the god of the Israelites for forgiveness. When guards come to check on him, he convinces them that he is well again, and goes to regain his throne. Meanwhile, in the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Israelites are about to be executed. Nabucco arrives, and orders the statue of Baal destroyed, but by some miracle, it falls by itself. Abigaille then enters, having taken poison. As she dies, she also prays to the god of the Israelites to pardon her.

While many operas end in division, this one is very unique, and ends in a unification of two peoples, even though they were so divided in the beginning. The Met’s stunning production illustrated this transition extremely well, and all of the aspects of the show made it into a more understandable, enjoyable performance.